Jean Rabe - The Silver Stair

"Nothing." He rocked back on his heels, frustrated. The elf could not sense the body in the mound nor in any mound he had approached on his previous trips, but he was certain there were bodies here. It was a burial place.

He simply could not sense the spirits of the dead.

"I have to know. I must." Gair had hoped his nearness to the dead in this place would help him to contact spirits. He'd certainly had no luck trying to contact spirits from inside his tent. "It seems it won't be tonight. Maybe not ever."

Reluctantly he rose and carefully inspected the ground, brushing at his boot prints to conceal them. He retraced his steps, covering all of his tracks, and stood at the edge of the clearing, staring at the circle and realizing that if anyone happened by, he would know the snow on the graves had been disturbed.

"One more try." He knew he should leave, told himself that he shouldn't stay here one minute longer and risk discovery, but he was here, and the dead were here. Who else would come to visit them on such a cold winter night? Winter, he mused, a season of death. It was appropriate that he was here at this time of year. "Besides," he whispered, "It would be for the good of the settlement if I can learn about these people, whose descendants almost certainly attacked us."

He knelt at the most recent mound, a small grave at the edge of the clearing, a child's grave, by the size of it. The elf splayed his fingers over the snow, above where he guessed the body's heart was in life. Again he concentrated on his heartbeat, let his senses drift into the frigid, hard-packed earth, sensing the husks of insects, stones, twigs, bones. Bones! He let out a long breath and tried futilely to dig his fingertips into the earth. He sensed the bones of someone who had lived on this island!

His mind was feeling them, not imagining them, guessing their length-indeed it was a child, a child who had lived to be perhaps ten or twelve. Bones were covered by flesh and muscle partially eaten away. Long hair was braided with beads and shells. Young… recently dead. Of what? Disease? Disease that perhaps Goldmoon or he could have cured? An accident? His senses revealed no broken bones. So young. So very few years on Krynn. Beads and shells and braids… a clue to these people.

He felt sadness for… her. Somehow he knew the child had been female, but he felt a twinge of pleasure at the same time. A smile played along his lips. He had sensed no spirit, but he had sensed something , and that was a minor victory of sorts. Perhaps if he kept at it, he thought, if he came back here again, worked longer and harder. Perhaps then he might finally be rewarded.

"Find the door," he whispered. "Find the door and open it." From that door he would reach the spirits he was seeking to talk to.

"Jasper says I don't take enough chances." He stifled a laugh. "I will take a chance with this, and I will speak to Goldmoon again. I have to make her understand."

He tried to smooth the snow back into place as he pulled his mind away from the child's grave. Perhaps he needed to concentrate on the recently dead. That could be the answer. Perhaps their spirits were closer to their bodies and to this world, and perhaps that would make them more receptive to his senses.

"What lies in wait for us after life?" he whispered. He continued staring at the graves for the better part of an hour, lost in his thoughts and oblivious to the cold. "What is all of this for… life? You struggle to better yourself, to help others, to gain some measure of status. For what? In the end, someone will bury you and forget you. Is that all there is? With the gods gone, is there not even a promise of redemption? Certainly Riverwind's spirit exists. And if Riverwind's spirit exists, so must others. But what existence?" His eyes locked onto the child's grave. "Is whatever follows life better than life itself? Or is it some hellish shadow of life? When we die, what awaits us?"

Carefully Gair retraced his steps. Several minutes later he was on the path that led back to the settlement. He walked slowly, still lost in thought. Only when he heard voices as he approached the settlement's campfires did he stop thinking about spirits, and then only to think about finding Goldmoon.

He, Goldmoon, and Jasper arrived on Schallsea Island a little more than six months ago, carrying nothing with them except blankets and a few treasured possessions. Since that time, Goldmoon's followers in Abanasinia had made the trip here, bringing building supplies, tents, seeds for future gardens, and more. From three blankets on the ground around a single campfire, the area around the Silver Stair had grown into a thriving tent town that most certainly would grow even larger come spring.

Nearly a hundred tents and lean-tos stretched east of the Silver Stair toward the cliffs that overlooked the Straits of Schallsea. Some were elaborate, with trinkets hanging on the outside that jangled pleasantly in the wind, or with names and home towns painted on the exterior canvas. In the light of the day, the multihued tents looked quite cheery. The elf imagined that from above, the camp looked rather like a big patchwork quilt. It would be getting bigger, he knew.

The number of Goldmoon's followers continued to increase as word of the settlement spread throughout the southwest part of Ansalon. Many of those who came here were single individuals, wanting to make a difference in the world by learning Goldmoon's mystical healing powers or her philosophy. Others were families who had come to be near the famed Hero of the Lance and who hoped to find inspiration in a world absent of gods. Some were curiosity-seekers, intrigued by the Citadel of Light Goldmoon intended to build, or mystified by the Silver Stair. Finally there were the townsfolk who came out to visit, many of whom ended up staying to join the community. The latest addition was a miller named Roeland, who had sold his shop to join the ragtag community.

Dozens upon dozens of pilgrims, as they were calling themselves, were living in the port town, where the accommodations were better. This had resulted in the building spurt and in the "no vacancy" signs in nearly every inn's window. Iryl Songbrook was doing her best to house as many newcomers as possible in her hostel, some of whom had spent every coin they owned for passage to Schallsea Island. They made monthly pilgrimages to the stair and to visit with Goldmoon. Iryl herself conducted most of the tours.

And then there were the settlement builders. Heavy hide tents ringed by stacks of crates stood at the far edge of Gair's vision. These belonged to the dwarves, who came a few weeks ago and who, under Jasper's instructions, were beginning construction on the citadel. A few of the dwarves sat around a campfire. They appeared to be drinking.

Gair stood and took it all in, listening to the musical notes of someone's wind chimes. There were a few small perimeter fires to help the sentries see and to warn away any wolves. Toward the center of the tent town, a large cookfire still burned. Someone was eating late-venison, the elf's nose told him. He slipped in past the first row of tents. To his far right, a Solamnic knight walked with one of the settlement's sentries. More knights were expected soon, and more soldiers as well.

To the east, the Silver Stair rose above everything. He stared at the mystical creation. Someone was walking down it, though Gair was too far away to see who it was. Goldmoon? He wanted to talk to her. Gair edged closer, staying concealed by the shadows of the tents. No, it was not Goldmoon. It was the Solamnic lieutenant named Willum, his plate mail reflecting the shimmering of the steps. Jasper stood at the base of the stairs, waiting for Willum. The dwarf had climbed the Celestial Ladder a half-dozen times since their arrival.