Something splashed into the dank water only a few feet from the trail, stirring the cool, heavy mist that engulfed the landscape. Jahrra yelped and instinctively pulled on Phrym’s reins, the disturbing thoughts resonating in her head quickly drowned out by the sound of her pounding heart. Phrym quickened his pace and made a few discontented noises of nervousness, but as Jahrra shakily coaxed him back to a slower pace, she noticed that the sound had been caused by a turtle taking cover under the water.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, laughing nervously as she released it. She reached down and patted Phrym.
“It’s alright boy. It was only a turtle.”
Phrym nickered and snorted, seeming satisfied with Jahrra’s explanation. She encouraged him onward, and soon they were moving at a steady pace once again.
As they journeyed deeper into the swamp, Jahrra tried hard to be positive and not think about what might be watching her from the thick brush beyond the trail. She especially tried not to think about the legendary witch that may or may not live in the Belloughs, but the chilly woods conjured up memories of campfire ghost stories that kept the fear fresh.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried desperately to repeat the words of meditation that Viornen had taught her, but all she could hear was Kaihmen’s voice echoing in her head, “The witch came from the far east, fleeing from the Crimson King. It is said that she double-crossed the evil king and is now hiding out in fear of him . . .”
Jahrra shuddered. The idea of someone double-crossing the Crimson King terrified her; he sounded bad enough as it was without being angry. I’m just being paranoid, she told herself, there’s no one in this swamp except maybe some frogs and leeches. But no matter how hard she tried, Jahrra couldn’t get her mind off of the terror that had settled inside of her like heavy silt settling in a riverbed. Her hands were clammy and she could feel sweat trickling down her back, despite the cold.
Phrym nickered lightly, and Jahrra pulled him to a stop, hoping to recover her bearings and calm her mind. They’d been walking for about a half hour, and so far Jahrra hadn’t seen anything to make her feel so nervous. She blinked and looked around at the surrounding scenery to distract herself. The swamp was tangled with a variety of plants ranging from tiny, almost luminescent toadstools of multiple colors, to the giant, dominating oaks that choked out everything else but the dark poison ivy that wrapped tightly around their trunks. The moss that hung from the twisting branches looked like thick, matted hair and was a dark, dry olive color.
Jahrra pulled her eyes from the thick canopy and glanced down at the path she and Phrym were following. The black tendril of soil stretched thinly above the bank of the wetlands before disappearing into the obscure, thick fog in the immediate distance. After several minutes, Jahrra took a deep breath and decided it was time to move on.
Regardless of the quiet atmosphere and the fact that nothing horrible had happened after an hour of walking, Jahrra still couldn’t settle down. Phrym jerked back his head at the screech of a bird followed by a vigorous flapping of wings, and Jahrra had to take a few breaths to calm her racing heart. This was the first thing she’d heard since entering the swamp besides Phrym’s horsey comments and the retreating turtle.
Phrym came to a stop once again and Jahrra took a few more deep breaths, the taste of the cool, mossy air calming her nerves a bit. The fog was thicker now; a result, Jahrra thought, of some dark, evil magic brewing in the hidden corners of the Belloughs. They had to be close now, she could feel it.
Jahrra shuddered and swallowed thickly. The Belloughs of the Black Swamp. Her stomach took another plunge at the very thought of the name.
“Phrym, you have to make sure I stay focused,” she whispered nervously down to her strangely calm semequin.
Phrym merely turned his ears back towards her and kept on walking carefully past the brown ferns and oily green liverworts. A few minutes later the trail began to decline into the chill air of the belly of the swamp. The atmosphere not only grew colder and mistier, but darker as well, as if a premature twilight had begun to set in. It’s only because of the cover of the oaks; they’re growing closer together here, Jahrra told herself, trying really hard not to let the heavy atmosphere smother her.
A loud, sudden CRACK cut through the silence when Phrym stepped on a dead branch.
“Whoa!” Jahrra shouted, her entire body tensing out of instinct.
Phrym tossed his head and started to canter.
“Stop Phrym, slow down!” Jahrra pleaded as she pulled back on the reins which were easily slipping through her sweaty palms. She was trying hard not to panic and give in to her raw nerves as the cool air caressed her hot face. Phrym slowed after a few dozen yards and Jahrra slumped limply up against his strong neck.
“It’s alright, Phrym, you only spooked yourself!” she breathed nervously, a little more loudly than she ought to.
She scratched his neck once more and his nervous snorting gradually calmed. But Phrym wasn’t paying attention to her. He was standing stark still; his ears cocked forward, his stance tense. Jahrra froze. She was afraid to look up, but she forced herself to. She hadn’t noticed the tall hills closing in on either side of them. She suddenly felt like a panicked insect rushing into a funnel spider’s trap.
Jahrra blinked through Phrym’s tangled mane, her blood freezing as she recognized the scene before her. The parallel rows of hills met up not too far ahead, forming the unmistakable crook of the Belloughs. She had made it, and she was still alive and in one piece.
Well, here goes.
Jahrra drew on every ounce of courage she possessed as she gently led Phrym down into the Belloughs of the Black Swamp.
-Chapter Twenty-One-
The Witch of the Wreing
Phrym released a small snort, his breath steaming in the chill air, letting Jahrra know in his own way that he was beginning to have second thoughts about this venture. Jahrra ignored him and surveyed the surrounding scenery, her senses on high alert. She squinted through the dense, gray mist, her heart thudding erratically when she realized the dark blotches against the base of the hills were caves.
Jahrra tightened her fingers around Phrym’s reins, her knuckles growing white from the pressure, and tried to stop her mind from imagining what might live in those dark caverns. The cavern entrances themselves made her think of gaping, black mouths crying out in pain, and the ropes of moss clinging and streaming from their edges like the bedraggled beards of men long dead. The very thought sent chills down her spine, and she knew if a witch did live in this dank swamp, she would most definitely reside here.
Jahrra took a deep breath, inhaling the unpleasant scents of sulfur, stale dampness and old ashes. It was eerily quiet here, even more so than the stretch of swamp they had already passed. Nevertheless, Jahrra thought that if she strained her ears enough she might hear the strange whispering of a magical language or the black words of a terrible spell.
After surveying nervously for several minutes, Jahrra looked down at Phrym, trying to gauge his judgment. The semequin must have found the place safe enough after all, for he continued to look straight ahead, almost in curiosity. Strange, she thought, how can he be so calm while I’m ready to turn and bolt?