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A Rest on the Bank

Chapter 16

The group exited Merry Hollow somewhere southeast of where they first had entered; the forest continued in a crooked line southward, but Balaam wanted to avoid it at all cost, driving the kids along the hot, grassy downs instead. On the soft, heathery downs, and under the protective watch of Balaam, the children welcomed its warm embrace. Over the rolling downs, across knee-high fescue, crownbeard and sage; chickadees and warblers zipped on the wind; mockingbirds flit from the high grass; a rafter of turkey surveyed the hillside; and fourteen white-tail chased through the hilly dock. 

Balaam told the children the Cherokee legends about Uktena, the serpent who fills men with honor upon his defeat; Spearfinger, who lures children away into the night; Tsul ‘Kalu, who searched for a bride to share his power; the Nunnehi who lived long ago, and how Weegan and the Nunnehibroke apart when the fate of the world was at stake. 

As they went, the uneven ground tripped them often, but they welcomed the sensation of tumbling into sweet buttercup and clover; so much so that they started falling on purpose. This was the sweet part of the journey that all five remembered fondly. They chased each other and spun in circles, laughing at the glory of the mountain, dancing with the insects, cooing with the birds, and racing after rabbits; they found their mirth hidden in the downs. 

Presently, the parallel forest turned southeastward and they saw a large body of water on the horizon. As they crested a large hill, they saw the water went on for a considerable distance southward. West of them, they made out the small indentation of Fool’s Pass between the mountains and recognized where they would have been if they had listened to Balaam at the cave entrance. 

Balaam turned them southeast toward the southern tip of the lake. After an hour, they fell upon her; a broad, river basin, three miles across at it widest. Before them, and running the southern breadth, a meadow sprouted big, juicy yellow marigolds up to the water’s edge and into the first few inches of its chilly, clear water, before subsiding under small loose pebbles. The water was still as ice and clear as glass; a stone could be seen falling to her center at one-hundred-fifty feet below; sunshine bounced off its mirror-edge and lit the grassy downs on yellow-golden fire. At the southern most tip of the lake, the basin narrowed into a thin rushing river. It was here that Balaam guided them.

The river mouth was only a few feet across, but before attempting the crossing, the party stopped at the lake’s edge; much to their delight. The three helped Esther off of Balaam’s back and placed her in the shallows on a pebbled bank. She carefully removed the tourniquet and let the water clean out the wound. The cold water stung, but its wonderful, chilly embrace numbed the pain. 

The rest of the party, disgusting and stained by the hot hollow and hag’s fight, waded out into a deeper part of the lake and submerged themselves, scrubbing and shuffling about to get the clean water in every nook and cranny. Its icy touch soothed their faces, arms, legs, and aching feet; they floated on their backs and laughed at the sky. 

With the right sunlight on the lake, the eye could see underwater for hundreds of feet in every direction, even to its cavernous bottom. Bluegills and bream skirted through bladderworts and pondweed. Rainbow trout and brookies hovered, nearly motionless, along the river outlet, sifting rocks and waiting for an insect to hit the water. Fat bass and cats surveyed the roots and algae for easy prey. Common snapping turtles and sliders skated the current like fighter pilots, spinning and turning on a dime. One hundred geese dive-bombed into the water, snatching up bream, and daintily drifting along the bay, while mallards patrolled the bank for minnows and shiners.

Esther leaned forward in the shallow water and stuck her face into the world below; the yellow marigolds stretched far and wide into the water and surrounded her hands and face in bright yellow beauty. She plucked one wading underneath the water and brought it to the surface. The thing smelled extraordinary, like she was in a nursery surrounded by thousands of flowers.

After a long bath, Herbert squatted on the bank, between a grove of cattails and arrowheads, where he had let his faerie-friend rest. She was awake now, dusting off her delicate, translucent wings. Herbert sat on a large stone and held out his palm for her to climb onto. She shimmered in the sunlight, unfolding and stretching her wings in its hot rays, before fluttering them like a dragonfly. The pocket hadn’t been the most comfortable place to rest, but it did the job.

“My name is Herbert,” he said.

The green faerie Noya wasn’t able to speak for humans to hear, but she seemed to understand him fine. She bowed and smiled at him. 

“We’ve traveled far while you rested,” said Herbert. “We aren’t anywhere near the cave now. Do you have a home or family waiting for you?”

The faerie frowned and shook her head; she spread her delicate arms wide over her, making a big oval. Then she tapped her toe and wagged her finger like a schoolteacher. She outstretched her palms and shrugged. 

“Well, until you find them, you can stay with me,” Herbert offered. “I’ll look after you since you looked after us.” 

The green faerie smiled and fluttered to his shoulder. Unbeknownst to Herbert, Laurel’s are the sweetest, albeit mischievous, of the fae-folk; and they will stop at nothing to make sure young people are safe and protected. So, staying with the Dolor party was ideal for her. She nudged her wavy, red hair between the crook in his neck and leaned against him. The two dallied in the sunshine, watching Balaam swim, Marian play in the pebbles, Esther laying in the marigolds, and Aaron searching for salamanders. Herbert told Noya all about their hope to find Atagahi and their journey so far; how the storm had almost swept him off the mountain pass; Spearfinger almost kidnapped Esther in Merry-Hollow; and the Uktena’s cave that she had saved them from. She smiled and loved every moment of the little boy’s retelling.

“Starlight,” Herbert said. “I’ll call you Starlight.” 

The faerie smiled and closed her eyes, content.

Like a beehive’s symphony, a buzzing and whirring sound slowly stirred from a murmur to a dreary drone across the lake. The bathing group heard the soft vibration on the wind and looked about for the cause, but it wasn’t until Esther noticed the black floating specks over the water that they realized the sound was coming from them. 

Noya was instantly alert, recognizing the sound. She dropped off Herbert’s shoulder and feverishly began collecting sticks, mud, and slices of hay from the earth. In a frantic few seconds, she had concocted a make-shift bow out of the items and an arrow was on the string with an arrowhead tip made from a small slice of slate. 

She flew to Herbert’s shoulder and from there, aimed the bow outward, ready and ferocious. He was impressed and confused by her actions. As she twisted her body back and forth, he saw what she was aiming at. 

Over the wide, vibrant lake, the specks of black were slowly taking shape; they were fae-folk like Noya, but very different from her. Their wings were dull, brown and creamy; they wore short, tight grass clothing over their maroon skin; their hair was long, straight and dark and their eyes golden and red. And as they approached, their appearance grew menacing rather than welcoming. The dizzying, dazzling armada swept upward over the bay and circled around the children. In a few seconds each of the Dolor party had six male and female faeries surrounding them, armed with blow-darts and slingshots. 

The bizarre arrangement gave the children an instinctual comical response, seeing such delicate, fine creatures fearsome and armed to the teeth. But their reaction deflated appropriately at the look of these creatures’ eyes; they were not sweet, fine, or delicate—they were warriors and quite angry. 

The foremost fae-folk bade some sort of military salute, but neither the children nor Balaam understood. When they failed to respond, the armada braced themselves in unison and pulled their weapons congruently.

Abruptly, Noya dropped her bow and took to the air above, holding her delicate, green hands up and shining her orange translucent wings brightly. Recognizing Marian as leader of the group, she was waiting respectfully for her to respond to the faeries. But when Marian had failed to understand the Rock Clan’s war-welcome, she knew she must intervene or watch the children be slaughtered. 

Noya, fluttering in the air, bowed her head and twisted her wrist like a French Captain’s parley. By her red hair and rosy cheeks, the Rock faeries recognized her as a Laurel and one they had driven out of their lands only a fortnight ago. The faeries went back in forth in their unknown language above the gaping group. To the children it sounded like cicadas and chickadees singing in the sunshine, but the song came fast, exclamatory, and violent. 

Noya, or Starlight as Herbert called her, seemed to be apologizing for their intrusion and explaining their need to find Atagahi. After only mere seconds of spastic dialogue, the angry maroon-skinned faeries seemed to acquiesce and disarmed their weapons. 

“Yunwi Tsunsdi”, muttered Balaam aside to the children. “They are usually kind like your Laurel friend, here. But not all are so playful, as you can see. Best be moving on.” 

“Where do we go, now?” Marian asked, squeezing her hair free of fresh, clean water. 

“We are going to the Fountain of Youth.” Balaam declared, and caught Marian’s smirk. 

“Is it much longer then?” She asked.

“Time is a hard thing to determine when you are complaining and going the wrong way,” Balaam responded. “And I should know, I have one of you sitting on my back for the rest of the way—and you best be sure whatever direction we go, I’ll be annoyed.” He turned his long face and winked at Esther. “But I think if we have found the fae-folk, then the end should be near.”

“Esther—” Marian began, looking at her sister’s damaged leg, and doubting again the decision to keep moving forward. The cut looked hideous and infected.

“—Marian,” Esther interrupted her sister’s thoughts. “I’m okay. And I forgive you. So forgive yourself, and let’s get going.” 

In all honesty, Esther wasn’t doing too good. After the other three helped back onto the Donkey, she examined her foot; the bleeding had stopped, but the veins on her calf shone through her skin, purple and splayed upward like spiderwebs. It stung when she glanced at it, so she pulled the tourniquet tighter and told herself not to look; nevertheless, her stomach felt weak, and her deep thoughts continued to frighten her. 

Picking up their belongings, the group made for the river crossing. The Rock faeries hovered stationary at the bay until long after the party was out of sight. They found the River Pactolus was much deeper than Weeper’s Run, but not as wide or turbulent. They had the idea of throwing their shoes and Marian’s backpack across the river so as to keep them dry; and as soon as they did, they had the terrible realization that many travelers similarly find themselves in; that now, there was no turning back. They must cross the Pactolus if for no other reason than to rescue their belongings. 

Balaam dropped into the river and it came up to Esther’s waist. The others dove in and came out about twenty-feet south of where they had entered. They traipsed up the rocky bay and found their tossed shoes and effects in the disheveled moss. Pulling dirty socks over wet skin is never pleasant, and they soon discovered makes for a terrible hike. 

On this side of the lake, the meadow was stark and bland; gray and brown. There were few trees and fewer green grass; much of the earth had been torn up and thrown about, revealing dark, red clay and long, thick rows of dirt like unwieldy crops. Esther lay her head on Balaam’s mane and closed her eyes, listening to the cackle of distant woodpeckers and swifts and the buzzing flies under Balaam’s nose. She missed running ahead and finding the next part of the path, but the calm repetition of Balaam’s lifting and dipping back lulled her. It reminded her of riding on her father’s shoulders when she was smaller. He would gallop around the living-room and make her feel like a real cowgirl. She never imagined herself one day riding a Donkey through an enchanted forest. She opened her eyes when she felt Balaam suddenly stop.

The group was still on the bank, yet much farther north of the Pactolus crossing; now, they could only see the thick foresting trees of Merry Hollow on the far side. The group had stopped after noticing the remains of an enormous mudslide smeared across the earth; it traveled through the valley until meeting the tree-line five hundred yards east. From the shoreline, they could see the forest open into a wide path; trees, ripped up by the roots, were left to the sides in broken, smashed rubble, like an upended highway of felled maples, walnuts, and oaks. The path carried on past the horizon; it told them the story of something clearly monstrous coming from the water and ripping the forest to shreds.

With steely glares and clenched teeth they followed Balaam as he turned east and followed the path across the valley; he seemed tense to them and explained that animals usually never crossed the Pactolus unless under extreme conditions. 

They called it the Dead Valley, because only the dying came here as a last resort. Some deer that had been hit with an arrow, or a skunk that had been struck by an automobile, or perhaps a bear that had been shot. And afterward, none came out of the Valleyquite the same. When the children pressed him about it, he explained that those who returned from the Dead Valley wouldn’t look at you the same way anymore; their eyes glinted, they walked slower, and their cheeks always upturned. You’d think it was a nice sight, but how would you feel if you thought your mother or brother was going insane and couldn’t talk to you, look at you, or love you the same way anymore. 

And what’s worse, most of the animals who had returned would eventually leave their dens and hollows, somehow, yet mysteriously, finding one another. Most lived isolated in a sort of coven on the far side of the Southern Marsh. The other Animals created rumors that those who had returned were possessed by a foreign spirit—the spirit of Atagahi—and were no longer the same Animal. 

If you were to ask a friend or relative who had visited Atagahi what it is like across the Dead Valley, they would reply, “What was it like!” And their eyes would shimmer at the sun and you could never get a straight answer out of them. They would start describing colors or wings, but nothing sensical. 

And yet no matter how dangerous, off-putting, or mysterious it all seemed, any animal that was about to face death would gladly take it over the alternative. Those who could make the journey would make their way to the crossing of the Pactolus—and all the other Animals recognized that distinct look in the eye of the dying; they knew they were going to the Dead Valley. Those making the trip would cross the Pactolus and crawl across it to find whatever it was they were hoping for. But no healthy animal would dare cross the Dead Valley without being deemed a fool or a devil.

“I guess that makes me pretty much a fool, then,” said Balaam. “But people have been calling me that all my life. So I may as well cross the Dead Valley and see what all the fuss is about anyway.” Regardless of his mettle, the children saw he was visibly shaken with each of his heavy hoof-steps.

The sun was yawning behind them. It cast a crimson sky that met the pale blue overhead, and a bald eagle hovered a mile and a half above. 

They followed the wet, upturned landscape and noted strange shapes inside of the muddy trail, filled with water. There was a large pickle-shaped puddle, nearly three-feet wide. Just beyond it, there were four four-inch oval-puddles beside a seven-inch oval-puddle. Altogether they gave the impression of a watery, frowning clown with five eyeballs. The shape repeated itself down the trail on the opposite side, and then back again on the initial side. The trail was littered with the oval and oblong pickle-puddles. They seemed familiar to the children, but they could not place where they had seen this strange indentation.

Eventually, the group came upon the tree-line and stopped in its sheer magnificent awe. What they had seen from the shoreline, had not prepared them for the apparent, yet unbelievable, power necessary to open such a highway of trees. 

The forest had been cleared into a glen by an unimaginable, massive force; trees and bushes lay everywhere, uprooted and thrown to the side; wide, round root-balls, four times as high as all of them, lay on their sides, stretching their gangling fingers into the sky. Their trees were felled in the forest with hundreds of others, leaving the woods ravaged. Birds perched in nearby silence, and they were the only living thing in sight, besides the scurrying insect or squirming worm. 

On the children ventured, under the waning sun, gangling arms of red cedar, high creamy glances of trees-of-heaven, and long narrow shadows of poplar. They traveled for nearly an hour through the forest, their path carved out by whatever monstrous thing came before them, until they approached a full-grown sugar-berry that had been pulled from its roots and left in the middle of the glen. 

The group looked it over, trying to find a way around large enough for Esther to cross on Balaam’s back, when they heard a sound like splashing water that shook the ground. If it weren’t for the mild-earthquakes, the children would have thought someone was swimming. 

The group found an opening under a snapped branch laying against a large boulder it had fallen on. Aaron ducked underneath and held the smaller branches out of the way for Balaam and Esther to pass beneath. The rest followed after and gathered on the far side of the sugar-berry. They stood together and immediately held hands, stopping again to stare in awe. 

The mountains billowed in blue, foggy brilliance, rolling down the horizon into green, blundering hills broken up by silver, jagged ridges and white, cascading falls. Here, the forest had naturally cleared into a glade, lined by ash trees, water oaks, and pines, and filled with crimson clover, blowing ryegrass, hopping rabbits, dancing elk and deer, bumbling bears, flitting honeybees, scampering groundhogs, and thousands of waterfowl. 

On the far side of the glade, a freshwater spring boiled into a purple lake. Along its shore were rock statues of men, women, unicorns, pegasi, faeries, piasi, urayuli, bakwas, and pukwudgies. 

At the front, a spout spurt the spring water into a small fountain that dribbled and trickled all over a silver dish and back into the amethyst lake. Sparrows bathed in the sprinkling water and fluttered about, joyfully. The children had found it; there was no denying it. Atagahi, the Fountain of Youth, sparkled before them. Each of them, in their own way, felt wonderful satisfaction for having made the journey. The problem was, they weren’t alone. 

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