The Sixth

There is a tree in a high country. It stands alone on the bare land. At dawn the tourmaline light of the sun shines wanly upon its pale branches from the beckoning east. The mist in the dales retreats, leaving behind the morning dew on the heather. The whispering grey of the noonday sky fades, replaced by an inky darkness which crawls from the horizon. By the light of the stars, the tree waits. Its roots speak haltingly to the ancient loam, and dance with the youthful stones. Deep beneath the tree, brittle murmuring drifts through rough-hewn passages, rippling unheard against earthen walls, and cresting against the dark basalt in the deep places of this meandering land. The tree waits, alone in this high country, its gnarled bark grimacing at the onslaught of millennia of cold rains.

*

Far away, a woman casts her eyes to the sky. She sees a slumbering light there, breathing deeply in the frigid air. Her fire is warm, but looking upon the distant light, she is cold. She moves closer to the flames, prodding them into flaring light with a short branch. Huddling beneath her furs, she does not look up again. She stares into the seething embers and thinks of summer.

She has strange dreams. Dreams of deep water, honeyed labyrinths, and cold fire.

When she wakes it is warm. The sun is high in the sky, and the birds sing languidly in the copse of trees standing watch above her. She curses and stands, striking her camp furiously and striding into the shade of the silver wood. She walks among the alder and birch, feeling the familiar fragrance of the trees at the edge of her awareness. Her thoughts linger on another scent. It is cloyingly, sickeningly sweet. It is old, and wherever she goes it finds its way into her nose. When she smells it she remembers the dark tunnels, and the damp prayers scrawled in stone. She does not make it very far that day.

*

It is winter, and a light snow drifts down, settling slowly onto the grass and thistles. It is bitterly cold. The woman at the head of the procession brushes the flakes from her eyebrows. Behind her the procession marches, bundled in layers of furs. There is no wind, and the brightly colored banners on the poles of the standard bearers hang limp, proud sigils hidden from view. The leader stops at the crest of a hill, searching the land before her. The clasp on her cloak marks her as a queen. Her face is stained with the bright blue of the woad, and she wields a broad-headed spear as a walking stick. A younger woman comes up to stand beside her. The two queens do not speak, and do not look at one another. They stand together, searching the horizon.

*

In the north, pack ice drifts slowly apart at the onset of summer. The snow-blind villagers huddle at the edge of their caves, waiting for the cold to recede. That night there is an omen in the air, and the villagers retreat inside to huddle together, their heartbeats quickening with terror. When the sun ends the long night, they are walking south, never to return.

On the banks of a mighty river, a rage takes hold of a young man. He stares at his reflection in the water, and the ripples look back at him. He knows they have meaning, but he cannot see past the rage.

There is a city with gleaming towers. In its streets and in the ears of its people the calls for war echo feverishly. The carrion crows carry those shouts from the silent battlefields.

A man looks into a crackling fire. He sees images in the flames and hears voices in the crackle of the blaze. He hears a voice he does not understand, and through the flames it comes to fill his mind. When the voice is quiet he seizes his blade, and presses it to his throat.

Far beneath the ocean, in the stygian dark where the fitful dreams of the earth bubble forth in opaline clouds, something stirs. The sightless slimy things that cling to the warmth of the vents can feel it. The leviathans that plumb the depths and inspire the nightmares of seafaring men feel it. Worm and whale alike flee, seeking the farthest corners of the sunlit world.

*

The woman has reached the edge of the wood. She sets out onto the desolate moorland with grim purpose. When she huddles in a hollow that night, she sings a soft tune to herself. She is glad she cannot remember the words.

She dreams of the tree again, and the sepulchral passages beneath it. It feels even more real than the last time. She is close.

*

An old man tells stories to the fruit of a harvest moon. The twilight gathers in the golden leaves of the trees, and the warmth gathers in the hearts of the listeners. He tells of a hawk-nosed woman with fierce yellow eyes. She is the Harrier, the greatest huntress who ever lived. He tells how she loses her right arm in a great battle and takes up her axe in her left hand. He tells of a great mother. A wise queen who is as loved by her people as she is feared by her enemies. He tells how after she has reigned for 40 years and her hair has turned silver she takes up her spear in defense of her land. He tells of her daughter, the priestess. He tells how she lifts the spirits of her people with songs and quiet words. He tells how the gods favor her with their gifts.

More people have gathered around the old man, and someone lights a fire. The smell of food is lifted by the crisp air to the noses of the listeners. A renewing death is everywhere, bringing life to weary souls. The old man begins to tell another story.

*

The two queens stand before the tree. The procession has come to an expectant halt behind them. At length three more women join them from their places of honor in the column of tired pilgrims. The five monarchs stand together in the long shadow of the tree. Each of them has shed blood, great rivers of it, to stand here. They stand tall, but despair weighs heavily on them. One of their number is not here. Without her they cannot hope to succeed, but they must try anyway.

A man breaks from the remnants of the procession below and begins to climb the hill. One of the women sees him and catches his eye. She shakes her head. He hesitates for a moment, and then begins to walk down the hill, tears welling in his eyes. The hawk-nosed queen turns away, looking back to her fellows. They share a silent moment together and approach the tree.

*

The woman stands before the tree. She can no longer tell if she is dreaming. She touches an old root, and the sweet, honeyed smell fills her nostrils. She leans against the tree trunk and searches for the light in the sky. The light is cold, and the tree is cold. She cannot remember summer.

*

The moonlight pools in silver crowns on the heads of the dancers in the clearing. Their laughter drifts over to the old man and his stories.

His stories are softer now. He tells of a terrible storm. Inside a longhouse on a cliff the queen tells stories by the light of small fires. The ocean and sky rage against the walls, but they never drown out the voice of the queen. There has always been a storm in her voice, in her eyes. He tells of the stories he learned at the feet of the queen. The listeners laugh, not even he is that old. He tells the story of the raider queen. She leads her marauders to faraway kingdoms and returns with their blood and their treasure. She is wreathed in glory.

The dancers have wandered away into the soft dark of the huts and the trees. The sounds and thoughts of the night are in the minds of the people. It is the time for forbidden things. A quiet child asks the old man for another story. His brow furrows, his whitening eyes peering out from beneath caterpillar eyebrows. There are those that do not like him to tell this story, but he is old and pays little heed to them. The young girl’s eyes remind him of something. Like a glimpse of the sun beyond black storm clouds. Or maybe the smell of smoke in the dry summer air. He is old, and he cannot remember. He does remember this story.

*

One by one the legendary rulers disappear beneath the tree in the high country. They are together, but they have never felt more alone. The blood in their memories paints the rough-hewn walls. By that vermillion light they feel their way forward. Downward.

The duty they have been called here to fulfill is older than the gods. Older even than the tree. When the beating heart of world first heaved forth fire onto the primordial stone their fates were written. The fear they feel now is the fear of the youngest, wide-eyed stewards of the land. It is a fear no man could bear.

*

There is a leaden silence beneath the tree. The woman cannot even hear her own heartbeat. Is she really here?

She is here.

*

The old man tells of a sleeping darkness. It is older than the tallest oak trees and the beasts of the wood. It is older than the stone beneath the mountains. No one knows where it came from. It is and it was and it always will be. Long ago when evil was born in the heart of man it felt the darkness and was afraid. The demons of Hel think on the day when the darkness shall wake and their icy hearts begin to crack and shatter.

In a time not so long ago, there was another queen. She was a sage and a seer. Her hands called forth the rain. Her voice spoke to the souls of all the things that grew and lived in the world, and some things that did not. Her eyes saw the light of the future and her ears heard the hymns of the distant stars.

One night in her dreams she stumbled upon a darkness that blotted out the light of the future and drowned out the songs of the heavens. When she awoke, she felt a terror that forever changed her. She turned her eyes away from the future and began to peer into the space between the stars, and to listen to the silence there. She found souls in that space. She spoke to them, and they spoke to her. She called to them, and they came.

*

It is no longer silent beneath the tree. The woman can hear voices speaking to her, hands reaching for her, images racing past her eyes. She hears a mirthful laugh, ringing out like a chime in the breeze. She sees a crown of wildflowers on a noble face. She sees that same face stained with tears and blood. She feels a heart broken by betrayal. She feels a hand on her face.

She hears a sharp whistle. The twang of a bowstring. She sees a pair of eyes glowing in the darkness. She feels a swift death.

A prayer. A kiss on the cheek. A soft lullaby. A quiet grace. The wind in her hair, the salt spray on her face. Cries of agony. Cheers. A weariness that no sleep can cure. A wisp of hair. Hundreds upon hundreds of sunrises.

A promise.

*

The procession stands in the soft snow. Some eyes flicker hesitantly to others, some never leave the tree. One man holds a banner in his hands. On it is stitched a noble bird of prey. He tries to place the banner into the hole in his heart. It does not fit.

He is the first to begin the long journey home.

*

She feels warm stone beneath her feet. She is not dreaming, she is here. The voices, the visions, the feelings have all faded. Now she can sense memories. They are a part of her, but they are not her own.

A woman stands defiantly before a formless noise. It speaks in patterns of light and moves against time. The woman has a duty, and she knows what she must do. The noise grows larger. The woman sees past the noise and is a part of it. Something is wrong. Colors shriek and wail in the night sky. Questing fingers reach out. The queen calls out to her long-forgotten gods but they do not answer. She was wrong, but she will not fail. She sings the hymns of the brightest stars in the night sky and she drowns out the noise. The colors grow quiet.

She feels a new memory. A young girl wakes from a dream far away and remembers the queen and the shrieking colors. She does not know what they mean.

She stands on the dark basalt deep below the earth. She remembers her own dream. The sweet smell, the deep ocean, and the tree.

She is the sixth.

She is here.