Hannah was looking forward to meeting Alen with growing anticipation. ‘Sounds intriguing. Did you ever ask him where they came from?’
‘I did and he told me he once worked in education and public health. I don’t know if that explains anything, but that was all he’d tell me.’
‘All right, regardless, go back to Mr- to Alen. Tell me about him. Why do you think he will know how to get me home?’ Hannah had already realised the strange tapestry rolled out on Steven’s floor at 147 Tenth Street must have been responsible for her improbable arrival on the hilltop outside Praga. Why was a different matter entirely.
‘On that you have to trust me,’ Hoyt said matter-of-factly. ‘If there is anyone in Praga who can get you back to Denvercolorado, it’s Alen Jasper. The breadth of his knowledge is colossal. I have yet to find something he doesn’t know or can’t speak to first hand – it’s as if he’s somehow lived everywhere and experienced everything. He will deny it, but I have seen him work actual magic. Only mild spells, mind you, playful tricks he learned as a child.’
Hannah had heard and challenged the notion of magic so many times since the trio began travelling together that she didn’t even bother to argue with Hoyt this time. He spoke of impossibilities with such nonchalance that Hannah thought perhaps the word meant something slightly different in Eldarn – although given the uncommon way she had arrived in Southport, by way of Steven’s living room, the strength of her initial disbelief was beginning to wane. ‘When is the last time you saw him?’ she asked.
‘It must be fifteen, maybe seventeen Twinmoons ago. Churn and I haven’t been this far north in a while. Things along the south coast were good for us for a long time and we decided to stay on there.’
‘Does Alen not travel to Southport?’
‘I have never known him to be anywhere but Middle Fork.’ Hoyt stopped suddenly and turned to face Churn. ‘I’ve never thought of it before, but it’s true. I have never known Alen to leave Middle Fork. I wonder why.’
‘Is it much further now?’
‘No,’ he said, signing briefly to Churn, who nodded and answered with a turn of his wrist. ‘Maybe two or three days. It depends on the weather.’
Hannah had seen nothing in Praga so far that made her feel confident anyone here had the means, mystical or otherwise, to send her back to Colorado. The land, people and culture were so archaic, almost mediaeval; it would almost have to be something supernatural to get her back to a reality she recognised, something able to manipulate the gears, locks and switches of this impossible place and all its impossible characteristics.
What had happened still staggered her, still made her shake her head in disbelief and pinch herself and cry out, ‘Wake up, silly. This isn’t real.’ Yet here she was, slogging through thick mud, undoubtedly alive, undoubtedly awake, undoubtedly lucid, travelling through a fantasy land that shouldn’t exist but did, in search of the one man who might be able to offer both an explanation and help.
The road wound its way over gently rolling hills, always heading north and Hannah imagined herself taking in her surroundings as the first settlers might have as they rolled into Virginia or Massachusetts. The landscape was green, the torrid green she had seen in films of rain forests or jungles. The grasses and rushes of the meadows, cloaked in a humid mist, gave way to the foliage of the forest underbrush, dense in spite of the interwoven canopy of leaves and vines. Shafts of sunlight intermittently broke through and lit the brush beneath the towering trees.
It was beautiful, and pristine. The endless green was dotted with patches of the grey-white fog. Stuffed far too full to rain, the clouds came to rest for a moment on the soft meadow grass, where Hannah imagined they dissipated into ten thousand miles of dew. And everywhere she looked, the land itself cried out that this place was alive and this place was dangerous.
Hannah wiped rain and tears from her cheeks and stared north along the muddy path, wishing she could find something familiar, anything, that might help her feel it was wise to maintain hope. Although her eyes rested for a moment on the mud-splattered mangy dog trotting past them, the sight of a stray wolfhound wandering along the road did not register as curious with the anxious young foreigner.
THE NORTHERN SLOPES
Eight days after sketching their rudimentary map inside Garec’s saddlebags, the company faced their first snowstorm, which began as a light dusting. The delicate snowfall reminded Steven of winter mornings waiting at the bus stop or playing with friends in the schoolyard. He welcomed the first flakes as a momentary trip home; as it coloured his hair and newly grown whiskers white, he mentally tallied how long he and Mark had been gone and the number of shopping days left to Christmas. He imagined his family would be struggling to maintain any semblance of normality or holiday spirit; he had no idea if they would be able to celebrate despite his unexplained absence. His mother would worry most, but she would also be the one making the greatest effort to help the others relax and enjoy the season. He saw her in his mind’s eye, apron-clad and scurrying from the kitchen to the living room, her face modulating between despair and encouragement as she carried tray after tray of home-baked cookies and pastries back and forth. ‘Remember that time when-’ she would call above the din each time she crossed the threshold, hoping to start up another two-minute conversation to keep everyone’s mind off where Steven had gone, or if he were even still alive. That’s how she would handle it. She would pass the holidays in two-minute increments as the oven roared on at 375 degrees for three weeks without pause, its insulated aluminium maw the one-way entrance to her own personal hell. He wished he could get some word to her that he was fine – well, granted, he was fleeing an occupation army and an array of homicidal demons, heading for the most dangerous place in Eldarn, but right now, here in the falling snow, he was fine. He wiped the flakes and tears from his eyelashes, gripped the hickory staff and continued trudging towards the tree line.
They had spent days working their way north, using the mountains’ physical characteristics in place of a compass, assigning nicknames for easy memory. Over the first two days they had moved between Flat Nose and Kneecap while always keeping the southern face of Turtleneck directly in front of them. Passing through a valley the friends called Broad Belly, they had climbed Dog Tooth to the tree line before turning east towards Chubby Rump.
Each night they had camped within the tree line. Winter was fast approaching, so each day without snow was a bonus. Sallax was a wellspring of determination, pushing them onwards. No one knew when the first storms would blow down from Falkan, and a sense of urgency permeated each day.
Their first night in the mountains had taught them a valuable lesson; exposure to the altitude and elements had already sapped their strength and left them dangerously vulnerable. Now Sallax and Gilmour demanded they move into the relative protection of the forest each night before darkness made the footing uncertain.
Mark taught them how to cross a glacier, and how to remain vigilant for crevasses and areas of thin ice unsupported from below. Their progress had been slow but steady: in eight days they had navigated three high-altitude passes and two long valleys.
Reaching the highest point of their fourth mountain pass, Steven peered south. He felt encouraged by the distance they had covered, until he looked ahead. Even making adjustments to their map he was beginning to feel certain the Blackstone range would stretch ahead for ever.
‘Eight days to get this far,’ he muttered as he closed his coat against the wind. ‘We have at least another twenty – and that’s just what I can see from up here.’