V. 

he edges of En-dor grew vaster than any other forest of the known world. Its domain spanned the length of many powerful kingdoms. Mountains converged here, wherein in Janissia where they were few, and apart. Here the sun filtered down less harshly. This was a land in which to hide away.

Two fugitives travelled down the mountains on the road to En-dor. There was no road now, except those made by the animal inhabitants of that strange land. After a half day of careful descent the two travellers came to a stop below the mountain, in a grassy patch where they allowed the donkeys to graze.

The travellers sat, heaving long breaths of exhaustion. The donkeys nibbled on the grass, then flopped on their sides and felt the coolness of the ground. The travellers drank from their pouch-skins.

“There will be water this far down,” said Erlandus to Annavis, pointing between the trees. There was still much slope to travel down.

Already Erlandus noticed how Annavis’s spirits brightened at the place they had come to. He wondered again what kind of life lay ahead for them. Sleep was uneasy for him, and on the mountains in the night the land was beset with strange mists and howls—the kinds of things that in open countryside would be discomfiting, but in En-dor you learned to sleep through them. As if to reward them for their sleeplessness, En-dor was less frightening now.

Still, Erlandus felt, the place put a tingle at the back of his neck.

Trees grew for their own survival—branches bowed almost to the floor of the forest. Some tangled their branches with a neighboring tree, creating a bridge for the scurrying squirrels to scamper across. As far as the eye could see: oak, maple, ash, cedar, and willow.

Janissia had its share of sturdy oaks, but more common was the cypress, straight and unfriendly—or the laurel, scraggly and tough. The Janissian genteel forests, well spaced and kempt, were planted only as lumber yards. Janissian mountains were populated by spruce, which had the wonderful effect of making you feel safe far above while allowing enough view to see everything below.

Nearly night for the first time in the land of their new home, the travellers curled on the soft grass.

The howling that haunted him these many nights began again.

rlandus had fashioned a bow for himself along the road. He knew as well as Pellorin had taught him. He’d never been as capable or as patient, but that was learned now from necessity. He also knew, from his own training, how to make and work traps to catch smaller animals. This he’d begun to do again the following morning, sitting and repairing the frame of a trap he’d made many miles ago.

Annavis was less worried about the howlers. She was much more worried about bears.

“There are so many animals here we’ve never heard of,” she said. “Are you a good enough hunter to kill something as big as a bear, do you think?”

“With the right weapon, perhaps,” said Erlandus. “But there are other better options for clothing. Deerskin, mainly.”

“I mean for its flesh,” said Annavis. “I will be ready to begin my art again. I will want ingredients.”

“Witchery?” said Erlandus.

“Medicine,” corrected Annavis.

Erlandus set the repaired trap down. It would be some time before he would dare kill a bear. Annavis didn’t understand that sort of thing. She seemed to think nature was at her fingertips, or that it could be subdued through simple hunting tricks. With nature, you took what was given by chance, or you were left with an empty stomach. During his days of desperation in the desert, Erlandus had caught whatever he could. It was less skill and more a sense of giving in to whatever was at hand. One did not wish to eat snakes or lizards by choice.

The howling was closer to them each night as they travelled further into the wood. It accompanied them to sleep each night, echoing through the ravines and hollows.

Erlandus ventured further with his traps, and found several brooks that converged into a shallow creek. He caught enough fish that they ate fresh every day. It was the wilderness, but it was so far very generous.

They took up the cart and crossed the creek. It was necessary to pull the cart with ropes up the opposite embankment. There was a wonderful view between the trees here—a shimmering glow of sunlight between the branches, and flora whose seeds were lifted gently up by the breeze.

They came upon a strange sight—rounded stones that seemed to have been set with purpose. It was the strangest sight they had yet seen on their travels.

Tomb-like, thought Erlandus.

But there were no signs of hammering or chiseling in their features. It was here that they left behind the cart, leading the donkeys further up with all the supplies they needed. Erlandus would return for the rest later.

“There’s no mistaking,” said Annavis. “That spot put a chill in me, as the howling did you these past nights.”

“Yes,” Erlandus agreed.

The day was half past, and they came to a beautiful spot between three hills, one with an elm that grew at an angle out of the side of its hill. You could clearly hear a creek, a big one, rushing along its course beyond. Cedars gave forth their wonderful aroma, and where they formed together the ground was clean and beautiful.

“More trees, more creeks—or perhaps is that a river?” said Erlandus. “But this place is more friendly. Familiar. And you know, I think in all of my life, this place is the happiest. Only the house where my children were born was happier.”

Annavis said nothing but looked askance at him, amused at his tragicomic dirge.

“Why, are you not as entranced as I am now? You were when we first came here,” protested Erlandus.

“I am,” she said. “But not so childish.”

“Childish, yes, I don’t deny it. Or reject it. A child can love this place. It is like a little world unto itself, natural and well-shaped. A nursery for the soul,” he said.

“We’ve barely reached the heart of this place,” said Annavis. “Do you really wish we would stop barely a week inwards, to set up shop and home?”

“What could we not find later, first establishing ourselves here?” he said.

“At the first lovely grove? There are countless more. Be quiet now and let’s continue,” said Annavis, reaching and taking the reins of both donkeys.

Before crossing the big stream they saw more of the tomb-like stones, set in perfect formation to face the place they had just left.

“You have never borne a child,” said Erlandus to Annavis after the howling had died out. He’d meant to pose it as a question, but there was little need.

“No,” she answered.

VI.

meadow led them into a mire. Erlandus used the donkeys to trample the long grasses into a path. They discussed turning back to find another way, but it was crossed soon enough. They trudged, mud-splattered, to where the water had pooled and settled into clarity, and they washed.

Along the bank they saw a snake-like animal, with fiery-orange scaly skin, crawling on four legs with a thin trailing tail. It was larger in thickness than any lizard. It seemed to keep its eyes closed and had tendrils drooping from its chin. They watched as it slipped into the water and it poked its head above the surface and shot quickly across in their direction.

“Let’s get to high ground before dark,” Annavis insisted.

The sky converged— a palatial wall of gray clouds hovered over them. They felt the cold drift that was a storm’s preamble. Erlandus looked on each side of their path for a sufficient shelter until the heavy patter of raindrops was all around them. This quickly turned to a downpour, and they were forced to take refuge on the tomb-like stones. Erlandus chose a pair of them that nestled under an elm whose canopy covered them safely. The donkeys were content to stand between the stones.

It was evening now. They saw something coming their way, dark among the trees. They were taken aback to see that it was someone, rather, who approached, draped in a long cloak with a broad-brimmed hat that sagged heavily from the rain. He did not see them but approached at a brisk pace as with some unknown purpose. When at last he saw Erlandus and Annavis he stopped on the path.

“Who are you?” he shouted. From beneath he looked upon the couple in their tattered clothes. Crowded at their feet was an assortment of bundles: pans, clothes, a trap, sticks, and hopeless weapons—a bow and short sword.

The man, with a beard long enough to reach his knees, responded anxiously.

“We have reason to inquire the same of you,” he said loudly. “Will you be peaceful with us? We would share our spot with you, if only we knew you were a friend.”

“I am no friend,” said the stranger stiffly. He turned to the woman: beautiful, her bare shoulders drenched, eyes piercing and angry. He recognized her kind.

“You must leave. I will return in one hour. You will not follow me, and you will not spy on me. Or you will be shamed.”

Erlandus looked to Annavis, but she kept her eyes on the stranger.

“Why, in infernal blazes?” shouted Erlandus. “Don’t you see our miserable state? What harm do we pose to you? You mean to tell us this rock is yours, solely? There are a hundred others around here.”

“I say only that you should leave this place,” said the stranger. He turned abruptly back down the path, and they saw the drooping brim of his hat disappear.

“Higher up,” Annavis whispered. “We must see from higher up.”

“I will find that man,” said Erlandus with steel in his voice.

“So we will,” she said. “But higher up.”

It was deep dusk now. They took their beasts and left. They found an aperture on a hill, and could see the tomb-stones where they’d met the stranger.

The howling began. Closer and closer. Enough sky filtered through that they made out the shapes of the people, trudging between the trees, their cries visceral and mournful. Men, women, and children passed, unnoticing. The stranger laid himself on the stone. His cries ceased as he sank into his tomb, and his body evaporated.

“My heart is moved by their pain,” said Annavis.

“It is a field of the dead,” said Erlandus. “Souls deposited here for some reason. I have never heard of such a thing. They are not Janissian, that much I can tell.”

They witnessed this scene almost every night. One day, after they’d made an open-air house in a comfortable meadow. There were no tombs near them. He’d made sure to find a place away from them.

Annavis asked Erlandus to try and meet the Ilgan before they returned to their tombs.

So one morning Erlandus went up the creekside and thought, perhaps, with an open view he might see one of the Ilgan, as they had begun to call them. It was the native Janissian word for screamer, one that Annavis in her dialect was more familiar with.

VII.

rlandus repeated this ritual every day for a year, going a bit further and staying away from Annavis for longer periods at a time. She for her part had become busy with gathering her medicines. There were new ones that she tested, and sometimes was happy with. Others she forced Erlandus to try, and he was ill for days and would vomit. But then, she had other mixtures that helped common illnesses, and he was lost without her knowledge.

They argued.

Erlandus had not yet found an Ilgan in the daytime. Why, Erlandus argued, had she not tried herself? Why indeed did she wish to meet them?

The donkeys were impervious to the squabbling and were happier and freer than ever before. One day the older donkey ventured into the deep creek water and the younger one returned to the small hut without him. Erlandus, seeing Annavis out of the house, went to fetch him, lest something happen to the beast.

“Stay here,” he instructed the other donkey, tying it to a post. He might have taken it with him, to call the other animal, but hoped not to disturb Annavis too much with both creatures gone.

He spotted the loose donkey, comically floating down in the rushing water. It had no doubt enjoyed the water’s sensation so much that it had curled its legs up in comfort, and was swept away by the ambling pace of the water, braying with delight. Erlandus sped along the creekside, ready to rush in when the water passed over a shallower part.

It never came. Erlandus jumped in, carried along after the donkey. When he was able to touch the floor of the creek he would move himself more quickly forward. Here and there the donkey’s head would come in and pass from view. Now the water was so deep, and the rushing waters lessened, that he swam back to the embankment and looked. The donkey was visible, downstream from him, already ashore and nipping at some reeds. He made his way over and caught it by its bridle.

“Foolish ass, see where you’ve led us?” said Erlandus. “It’ll take the rest of the day to get back.”

Erlandus led the donkey from the creek and began to make the journey upcreek. Next they came to a well-kept trail. Here Erlandus and the beast paused. He considered that perhaps there were other inhabitants of En-dor besides themselves and the Ilgan. Down the path was indeed a dwelling, beautifully constructed. A central fire pit, whose surrounding stonework raised it up several feet. The houses were also stone— not the stark granite of the tomb-rocks, but cut and chiseled and multi-colored. The houses were not large, but they were of human size. They could not have been the work of a people who were so terrible, for the whole village was planted as perfectly as was the capital city.

A human child peeked out from behind a tree.

“Hello, little one,” said Erlandus, squatting so that his beard brushed the clean ground.

Adults began to show themselves now. There was a man, not so unlike himself, who was holding forth in speech to a younger couple who sat on a bench. A woman pinned clothes to a clothesline. They were well-dressed and well kempt. They were so unlike the terrifying figures of the Ilgan that Erlandus’s heart was relieved to find people who were normal, for it had been more than a year since he had seen anyone except Annavis and the donkeys. And the Ilgan.

The child pointed him to the village.

“Ah, yes, very friendly,” Erlandus affirmed what he thought the boy might mean. “And do I dare venture to say something to them?”

As if to reply, the boy, perhaps five years old, darted into the village and disappeared.

Erlandus, with the donkey in tow, walked to greet the older man and the couple.

“...and so approacheth the man with his beast,” the man was telling his audience of two.

“And so I have,” said Erlandus to him. “But have I been so worthy a subject that you’ve talked only of me since I stood at the edge of the path?”

They looked to him, interested, as if he’d been there all along as a fellow conversant.

“Of course not,” said the man. “We’ve known about you and your wife since you arrived almost a year ago. Why it took you so long to get around to stopping by, we can’t tell.”

“Or why you’re so badly dressed,” said the female of the couple.

“Surely, if I’d known,” said Erlandus, “we’d have been here to, as you say, stop by. Except we’ve been living under the impression that we were the only inhabitants of En-dor, except for the Ilgan.”

“The whom?” asked the male of the couple.

“Pardon,” said Erlandus. “I use the name my wife has given them. She calls them simply the screamers. We know no other apt description. Surely you’ve seen them.”

“Certainly,” said the old man. “At least, I think I know of whom you speak. But I must insist you not call them anything.”

“Why so?” asked Erlandus.

“Because without us they do not exist.”

Erlandus opened his mouth to ask how this could be.

“And that, travelling man, is why we have been speaking of you,” interrupted the female of the couple. “Your arrival has caused great commotion.”

She spoke in a slow, annoying manner. She had a small nose, which was considered ‘cute’ by some. She was dressed in a light blue dress embroidered with flower-patterns. Her companion—husband or betrothed—was dressed in well-sewn deerskin trousers, and wore a gray cloth shirt and deerskin vest over it. He was thin and handsome, and was certainly unlike any Janissian in feature. The older man was the father of one of these two, he guessed.

“I am ignorant of this phenomenon, so you must explain,” Erlandus replied. “Sure as the sun, what I have witnessed of those people—”

“They are not people,” the older villager interrupted. “But I will explain.”

“Please, first tell me this,” Erlandus said. “In the course of my travelling I have waylaid my true purpose. That is to say, I am as lost here as anywhere I’ve been on this earth. I have not seen other people, certainly not such as yourselves, for more than a year. Besides Annavis, I have seen no one, except the Ilgan, whom you affirm are ghosts. Please, tell me who you are, your names, and a little of how you came to be in this strange place?”

The young man beside his betrothed laughed.

“He wants to hear answers upon answers, all at once! Calm yourself, travelling man. Perhaps you should give your donkey a drink from that well.”

“N—no, he’s had enough water from the creek,” said Erlandus.

This caused all three villagers to laugh.

“You must tell me who you are!” Erlandus insisted.

“First you must tell us who you are,” said the older man.

Other villagers gathered with them and listened as Erlandus told his story. He was truthful to every detail, from the time of his banishment to the present reason he found himself washed downstream. The villagers were much nicer now, and did not discomfit Erlandus with too many other questions.

Erlandus was drawn into conversations that had nothing to do with himself, and was at ease. When evening came they lit the central fire and there was general, unforced merriment. There was dancing, with one fellow happily strumming tunes on a lyre.

One villager told a tale so complex that he forgot his main thread and diverted entirely into a secondary tale which was much more humorous. This caused so much merriment that even Erlandus did not hear the nightly screams, which still rent the forest air.

Finally, the village elder took the hands of the young couple in his and wed them together. It dawned on Erlandus that he’d stumbled into a wedding celebration. He approached the newlyweds and offered the reins of his donkey.

“I also have known the joy of this celebration,” he said. “It seemed accidental that I was washed downriver, but your kindness and joyfulness has swelled my heart with gratitude.”

The newlyweds embraced Erlandus but protested that he must keep his animal.

“I will take this dandelion that has caught in his mane,” said the young woman, appeasing Erlandus’s generosity. She put the flower in her belt.

When the wedding gifts were given, Erlandus felt that he was as much a recipient as the married couple. They gave him clothes, tools and materials, and cooked foods, and he was sent with a guide back to his house, guiding not one but three pack animals.

“A wonderful evening, wouldn’t you agree?,” said the older villager, who by chance happened to be his guide.

“How can I repay such kindness?” said Erlandus. “You’ve set my heart at rest. I will tell Annavis all that I’ve seen!”

“You must not,” said the villager. “Instead, comfort her. Give her all that we’ve given you, and let that be enough. For, if you do tell her about the village, or who gave you these goods, you will not be received into the village again. Will you promise to never tell her?”

“Yes, if I must,” said Erlandus. “Will you at least tell me the secret of the Ilgan?”

“You must. And I will, soon. But do not let that trouble you overmuch. Be well and live your life, keep our secret, and we will meet again. Goodbye, friend.”

Annavis was as grateful as he was to receive the gifts. His reasons for keeping them secret, however, soon disturbed her, and Erlandus secretly cursed the village elder’s admonition. Why should he keep secret a reason that was secret even to himself?

They argued, day and night.

Erlandus, being tempted to reveal the existence of the villagers to Annavis, fled out on the forest path. He knew she had followed him many times, and now he was determined that she should do so again. If she saw the village with her own eyes, he could still say he had kept to his promise. This, he knew in his heart, was untrue, but he hoped equally for forgiveness from the villagers. Why should they not welcome both husband and wife?

A faint shower drizzled the forest path as the sun shone. Erlandus stopped at his fish traps at the river. He was astonished, and gratified, to see the young man whose wedding he’d witnessed.

“Erlandus!” said the young man. He was reclining against a tree, a straw in his mouth. There was a fishing pole leaning by him with three fish neatly hung.

Erlandus stalled for a proper greeting. “Young lad!” he said. “I’ve been looking for you!”

“And I for you,” said the young man. “You must call me by my proper name, though. It’s been long enough.”

“Well, what’s your name?”

“Perrin.”

“I wish to speak with your elder,” said Erlandus.

“He’s away. I’m to lead the village now,” said Perrin. “You are troubled. I can see that plainly. What ails you?”

Erlandus explained how all had transpired with the secret. Perrin nodded acknowledgingly.

“I must be able to tell her,” said Erlandus finally.

“You must not,” said Perrin.

“But life is miserable!”

“Not in all respects. You’ve improved your house tremendously. Quite handsome, in fact. I’ve seen it from across the river several times. The donkeys seem happy with a bigger house of their own.”

Erlandus hung his head. It was true. Life was easier in almost every way.

“But I’m being coy, friend Erlandus,” Perrin continued. “None of those improvements can help you as much as domestic peace. I will make an allowance. I will tell you why you must not tell Annavis our secret, if it helps you steady your resolve. But you must ask of your own accord.”

“Humbly I ask,” said Erlandus.

When at last Perrin told Erlandus the reason, the general knelt in utter defeat and wept.

Erlandus returned to Annavis in their house. There were many despairing nights until, with brief gentleness, she reached out her hand to him.