A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 19 (Part 2 of 2)

The Willowwood did not last for much longer.  As the trees thinned, Imlon saw what he thought to be a misshapen dead trunk.  Passing by, however, he could see the sculptor’s work.  The old, gnarled bark had been whittled into a fearsome woodland guardian, leering at the marsh through inch-long slits, eyes bleeding moss.

“And that,” said Menentor, “Is the end of Haruyen.”

The first few miles of the marsh were not as oppressive as Imlon thought the rest might be.  The river broadened and flowed sluggishly, great fronds of reeds clustering on either bank.  Looking from side to side, he was not certain where the waterway ended and the land began.  There was a faint smell of sodden mulch, but not the miasma he had feared.

“Do you believe the legend, Ilus?”

Imlon jumped.  Any sound in the marsh other than the constant humming of insect wings seemed a disturbance.  “What legend?”

“About how this place came to be?”

Imlon pondered for a moment.  “No.”

“I think it is more than possible,” said Menentor, “No marsh in the world comes close to being so large.  Over two hundred miles, west to east.  That’s not a natural size, not for a marsh as wet as this.”

“But arcana is more likely?”

“No less.  An arcanus may have created the marsh and seen it spread naturally.”

“Let me understand you,” said Imlon.  “You believe that ancient arcani willed the marsh into existence...”

“And the desert, on the northern side of Anthornadia.”

“And the desert, as a defence for their homeland?”

“Oh, you sound so cynical!” said Menentor.  “I don’t know, I’m only a pathfinder.  But have you seen an arcanus at work?”

“Only once,” said Imlon, recalling the fire and thunder at the Continent Theatre.  “It was impressive, altering a landscape?  I’m not convinced of that.”

“Nor am I.  But I sometimes I take travellers to Anthornadia.  You see strange things there, in the land of the arcani.  I like to ask most of my patrons whether they believe the legend.”

“I’m in the minority, I should think.”

Menentor’s easy conversation slipped for a moment.  “You are.  Not many discount it as readily you do.”

“I don’t discount it,” said Imlon.  “I am not inclined to believe it.  I have no evidence.”

“You sound like a book-learner.”

Imlon felt as though a hidden hand had been clapped over his mouth.  Centius and Ilus were supposedly in the wool trade.

They arrived at a small village on the water’s edge.  Perhaps there was some farming that could be done on this land, thought Imlon, but the appearance of travellers seemed of more interest to the villagers than the day’s labour.  Figures on the bank in pallid clothes and with more pallid faces watched them go past.  After guiding the canoes into a boathouse and exchanging a word with the owner, Menentor led them away from the village along a rutted path.  Moisture seeped into Imlon’s boots, between the layers of his clothing, into his hair.  Even the sunlight felt damp.

That night they stopped at another village.  The inn served watered-down ale and thin pottage.  Imlon thought of the thick, meaty stews of the Birchwood as he ate, but imagination didn’t improve the tasteless gruel.

After finishing his meal, he stepped outside to observe the new star.  It was in the Viper, as it ever was, continually blocked by wisp-like cloud.