The Weirdstone of Brisingamen (15 page)

“
What
?” cried Susan. “But that's only a rabbit-hole!”

“If it were the eye of a needle, we should still have to pass through it to gain the upper world. But do not despair: we
are not the first to come this way, though I think we shall be the last. My father travelled the Earldelving seven times, and he was an ample dwarf by our reckoning.

“Now we must make ready. Take note of what I say, for this is the last chance of speech until we come to safety, and there will be no room for error.”

Under Fenodyree's instructions, Colin and Susan took off their knapsacks – a complicated manoeuvre in that space – and fastened them by the strap to one ankle. Susan's pack held Durathror's cloak, and Colin was still carrying the lemonade bottle: this he discarded. Fenodyree advised him to put away his lamp, for, he said, hands would be needed more than eyes.

He bade Durathror take off his sword.

“Keep her ever before you,” he said, “and so neither Dyrnwyn nor the son of Gondemar will be lost.”

And he unbuckled his own sword and pushed it into the opening.

Durathror stood alone in the silence of the underworld. He took the empty bottle that Colin had thrown down, and set it upright in the middle of the floor. A wry smile touched his lips as he looked at it. And shortly afterwards the cave was empty, save for this one monument to wild endeavour.

Both the children had the greatest difficulty in entering the tunnel. For the first yard or so it sloped downwards, and then turned uphill, not sharply, but enough to cause acute discomfort at the bend. Sand choked the entrance, though even when that was behind them the tunnel was so heavily silted that it was almost beyond the children to move at all. They lay full length, walls, floor, and roof fitting them like a second skin. Their heads were turned to one side, for in any other position the roof pressed their mouths into the sand and they could not breathe. The only way to advance was to pull with the fingertips and to push with the toes, since it was impossible to flex their legs at all, and any bending of the elbows threatened to jam the arms helplessly under the body.

The tunnel was unlike any they had met in the Earldelving, for, although it was not straight, it did not branch. This factor, and the plugging of the tunnel by four bodies, meant that the leader was the only one to be able to breathe at all well.

They became unbearably hot. Sand lodged in every fold of skin, and worked into mouth, nose, and ears.

Colin found that he had to rest more and more frequently. He thought of the hundreds of feet of rock above and of the miles of rock below, and of himself wedged into a nine-inch gap between.

“I'm a living fossil! Suppose I stick here: that'll make archaeologists sit up!”

Ahead, Fenodyree was battling with a fresh difficulty. He had reached a spot where the tunnel bent abruptly under upon itself like a hairpin, and teasing Widowmaker's rigid blade through the angle, at arm's length, was no simple task. Strained nerves and muscles are not an aid to fine judgement. He succeeded, but it was some time before he was in any condition to follow his sword. Fenodyree was coming to the end of his last reserve of strength.

Susan felt the obstacle with dismay. It was not possible! But where was Fenodyree? He must have found a way round, so perhaps, like most hazards underground, it was easier than it looked. Anyway, lying there thinking about it would not do much good, so she tucked in her head, and jack-knifed round into the lower level. It was unpleasant, especially when her heels scraped the roof, but her weight carried her down, and it was soon over.

Colin was an inch taller than his sister, and that was disastrous. His heels jammed against the roof: he could move neither up nor down, and the rock lip dug into his shins until he cried out with pain. But he could not move.

Durathror, coming up behind, took in the situation at once.

“Can you hear?” he shouted at Colin's ankles.

“Yes.”

The reply was barely audible.

“Try – to – turn – to – your – side! Then – to your belly! I – shall – guide – your – feet! Are – you – ready?”

“Yes.”

Durathror's sword jutted beside Colin's feet, and although it was in its scabbard, matters would not be improved if it became entangled with Colin's wildly jerking legs.

Colin screwed himself round in the tunnel. It was really not possible, but desperation tipped the scales; and once he was on his stomach, his knees bending with the tunnel, there was just enough play for Durathror to force Colin's legs round the angle, and from then on Colin was better off than any of the others, because they were now lying on their backs, and in that position movement was even more exhausting and unpleasant.

Fenodyree jerked his way along with renewed vigour, for this bend was the last great hazard, according to his lore. Imagine, then, his horror when his sword splashed in water. He twisted his head all ways. He could not see; but his hands brought him bad news. The tunnel dipped, and was flooded to the roof. This had not been so in his father's time; so much for the elder days!

The end of the tunnel was not yet. How far did the water lie? Inches? Yards? He would have to squirm along, holding
his breath (and he was panting uncontrollably at the start!) in the hope that he would come to air. Retreat would be impossible, as it was now. And that decided him. Better a quick road to forgetfulness than a lingering one. But it called for nerves of steel to edge forward into the water, and, at the last, under.

This moment was to be endured three times more as Susan, Colin, and Durathror made the choice that was no choice. But once they grappled with the terror it did not last: for the water had collected in a shallow, U-shaped bend, not two yards long, and they all emerged on the other side before their lungs were drained of air. They cried or laughed, each according to his nature, but the sound in all cases was the same.

Not much later the floor began to drop away from the roof, and it was possible to crawl on hands and knees. The children wrestled with the sodden webbing of their packs and talked rapidly and loudly of the perils they had faced, and said how good it was to move freely again.

“Taken all in all,” said Fenodyree, “the Earldelving has not used us ill: I had feared it would be more cruel. From here we shall be in little danger, provided that we respect the smaller risks.”

They now pressed on with all speed, for there could be scarcely an hour of daylight left, and the prospect of having to
spend the night in wet clothes, with mud for a bed, was in no way appealing.

After a time, Susan thought she saw a faint grey blur ahead of them past Fenodyree's shoulder. She switched off the lamp.

“Here, Sue! What are you playing at?”

“Look! Daylight!”

It was: and soon they had reached it. They were at the end of the tunnel, and at the bottom of a shaft. The converging lines of its gleaming, wet sides mounted to a tiny square of blue, a whole world away.

“We've not got to climb up this shaft, have we?” said Colin.

“Nay,” laughed Fenodyree, “we shall be in dire straits ere I ask
that
of you! Our way is easier by far.”

He raked about with his feet behind the pile of rubbish at the bottom of the shaft.

“It is somewhere … ah, I have it!”

He dragged to one side a mass of decaying branches to reveal a hole in the floor.

“Here is the exit from the Earldelving: once through here, we cannot return.”

It was a sloping continuation of the shaft, though only half its breadth, and it was cut through stiff clay that glistened without ledge or fissure.

“It is a pleasant ride,” said Fenodyree, seating himself on
the edge, and grinning at Susan. He peered down between his feet, nodded, and let go. A faint splash marked the end of his glissade, and his voice sounded cheerily a long way below.

Susan lowered herself into the hole with extreme caution, but the edge crumbled beneath her hand, and yet again she disappeared from view like a bullet from a gun. She careered over the greasy surface, faster and faster, and landed waist-deep in a mixture of water and mud that broke her fall, but had little else to recommend it.

“Oh!”

“If you put your hand out to your left,” said Fenodyree close behind her, “you will find a corner of rock: pull yourself out with that. Good. Now feel your way round to the tunnel. We shall soon be out of here.”

The tunnel was flooded to a depth of three feet, and was sticky with clay, but it was high, and not long. At its end rose a shaft that offered few difficulties, for it was composed of a series of inclined pitches, connected by wide shelves, so that it was more like scrambling up a giant stairway than climbing a shaft. Only the last dozen feet were at all dangerous: here the rock was vertical, but the holds were many, and the top was gained without trouble. From there a short passage led into a circular cave – and daylight; real, accessible daylight. A tree trunk resting against the wall took Fenodyree, with the others packed behind him, up into a gully that overlooked the cave:
the gully became a ravine and above was open sky; cold, crisp, dry air filled their lungs.

The side of the ravine was scored with holes and ledges, and children and dwarfs almost fell over each other as they swarmed up the last monotony of stone, out of the eternal, stagnant silences, into light, and life, and wide horizons. Then there was grass beneath them, and a wind upon their cheeks.

B
eyond the ravine wound the elf-road, and the dwarfs lost no time in hustling Colin and Susan on to it, but once there they permitted themselves to relax, for as long as they remained on the road, said Durathror, they would be hidden from searching eyes.

They made a bizarre picture in their all-over coats of red mud, encrusted with yellow sand that spared only their more pliable features, and these were daubed with red, as if they were in warpaint. But none of that mattered now as they stepped out for Fundindelve, and their aching limbs only sweetened the prospect of rest. After all they had undergone in the barren caves, this scene of beauty, the waning light among the scented pines, was almost unreal.

“It's like a dream,” said Susan: “just like a dream. I can even imagine there's music all around us!”

“So can I!” said Colin. “It's like a harp. What can it be?”

“A harp,” said Fenodyree, smiling. “See, on Goldenstone, a stromkarl plays.”

They had come to a junction in the path, and to their
right stood a boulder, with nothing golden about it that the children could see: it was like any outcrop of weathered, grey sandstone, except that it had been crudely worked to an oblong shape by men long dead, and few now can tell its purpose.

On top of the stone sat a young man, plucking the strings of a harp. He was less than three feet high; his skin lustrous as a pearl; his hair rippling to his waist in green sea-waves. And the sad melody ran beneath his fingers like water over pebbles.

When summer in winter shall come
Then shall be danger of war.
A crow shall sit at the top of a headless cross,
And drink of the noble's gentle blood so free.
Between nine and thirteen all sorrow shall be done.
A wolf from the east shall right eagerly come
To a hill within the forest height.
Beside a headless cross of stone,
There shall the eagle die.

“Why do you sing the old prophecies?” said Durathror. “Are they now to be fulfilled?”

“Who knows? I do but sing of the summer that has come in winter. Does your road lead to Fundindelve?”

All the while the stromkarl was speaking, his hands plucked the silver strings, and the tone of his bell-like voice against the background of music was a song. He looked at neither the children nor the dwarfs once the whole time, but concentrated on his harp, or gazed out towards the hills.

“It does indeed,” said Fenodyree, “and we take with us the weirdstone of Brisingamen!”

“I am glad,” said the stromkarl. “But you will not go to Fundindelve.”

“What do you say? How shall we not?”

“The hooded one sits by Holywell, and the Shape-shifter watches the gates: and to them are gathering the morthbrood. The svart-alfar will be there at sunset, and with the night are coming others. No birds will fly, save the eyes of the Morrigan. It will be dark within the hour; see to it that you are not under the sky at that time.”

“Our swords will be ever at your command for this!” said Durathror. “You have done more than guard our lives.”

The stromkarl lowered his head.

“My people will aid you where they may: fare you well!”

And he jumped down on the other side of Goldenstone, and they did not see him again.

“It never crossed my mind that this would be their course,” said Fenodyree, “obvious though it was. Oh, I am not wise in judgement as a dwarf should be!”

“Nay,” said Durathror, “your wits have served us nobly this day. But what is there for us now?”

“I do not know.”

“Can we get to the farm before dark?” said Colin.

“This is a
good
plan!” Fenodyree smote his hands together. “With luck, the morthbrood will not hear of your part in this until the svart-alfar come, and they may be late if they are still searching for us in West Mine. We should reach the farm, but whether it will be shelter for the night I cannot be certain.”

“What of the stone?” said Durathror.

“We must find Cadellin,” said Fenodyree. “In his hands it will be secure, and he can wield its might for our safekeeping.”

“Why, then, give me the stone! He shall have it ere you can reach the farm!”

“Do you see those?” said Fenodyree, pointing across the fields.

“I see; but what of it? Rooks flock homeward daily at this hour, and in greater numbers than are flying there.”