Alan Garner - The Moon of Gomrath

“Move not a sinew of your sinews, nor a vein of your veins, nor a hair of your heads, or I shall send down of slender oaken darts enough to sew you to the earth.”

Instinctively Colin and Susan looked up. Before them a very old silver birch threw its trunk in an arch across the path, and among the branches stood a slight figure, man-like, yet not four feet high. He wore a white tunic, and his skin was wind-brown. The locks of his hair lay close to his head like tongues of silver fire: and his eyes – were the eyes of a goat. They held a light that was mirrored from nothing in the wood, and in his hand was a deeply-curved bow.

At first, Colin and Susan stood, unable to speak, then the tension of the last few minutes broke in Colin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “You nearly hit us with that thing!”

“Oh, the Donas! Oh, the holy Mothan! It is himself that can speak to elves!”

Colin and Susan started at the sound of this rich voice that welled with laughter. They turned, and saw another small, but stockier, figure standing on the path behind them, his red hair glowing darkly in the last light. They had rarely seen such an ugly face. It was big-lipped, gap-toothed, warted, potato-nosed, shaggily thatched and bearded, the skin tanned like brambles at New Year. The left eye was covered with a black patch, but the right eye had the life of two in it. He was unmistakably a dwarf. He came forward and clapped Colin on the shoulder, and Colin rocked under the blow.

“And it is I, Uthecar Hornskin, that love you for it! Hey now! Will his mightiness come down out of yon tree and speak with his friends?” The white figure in the tree did not move: he seemed not to hear what was said. “I am thinking there is more need of elf-shot in other parts of the wood this night than here! I see Albanac coming, and he in no quiet mood!”

The dwarf looked down the path beyond Colin and Susan. They could not see far in the dark, but they heard the faint sound of hoofs pounding towards them. Nearer and louder they grew, and then out of the night came a black horse, wild-eyed and sweating, and halted in a spray of sand. Its rider, a tall man, himself clothed in black, called up into the tree. “My lord Atlendor! We have found it, but it is free of the wood to the south, and moving too fast for me. Ermid son of Erbin, Riogan son of Moren, and Anwas the Winged, with half their cantrefs, have it in sight, but they are not enough. Hurry!” His straight hair hung black upon his shoulders, gold glinted at his ear, and his eyes were like burning ice. A deep-crowned, wide-brimmed hat was on his head, and about his shoulders was a cloak fastened with a silver buckle.

“I go. Albanac shall teach my will to these folk.” The elf ran lightly along the birch trunk and disappeared into the crown. There was a rush of white in the surrounding trees, like swirling snow, and a noise like wind in the branches.

For some time nobody spoke. The dwarf gave the impression that he was enjoying the situation and was happy to let others make the next move; the man called Albanac looked at the children; and Colin and Susan were recovering from their surprise, and taking in the fact that they were back in the world of Magic – by accident, it seemed; and now that they were back, they remembered that this was a world of deep shadows as well as of enchantment.

They had been walking into it ever since they reached the quarry. If they could have recognised this atmosphere for what it was, the successive shocks of elf, dwarf, and rider would not have been so breathless.

“I think now,” said Albanac, “that the matter is out of Cadellin’s hands.”

“What do you mean?” said Colin. “And what’s all this about?”

“As for what I mean, that will take some telling, and what it is about is the same thing. And the place for it all is Fundindelve, so let us go together.”

“Is there not more urgent business in the wood this night?” said Uthecar.

“Nothing that we can do,” said Albanac. “The speed and the eyes of elves are the only hope, and I fear they will not be enough.”

He dismounted from his horse, and walked with the children and the dwarf back along the path. But after a little while, Susan noticed that they were not making for the Holywell.

“Wouldn’t it be quicker that way?” she said, pointing to their left.

“It would be,” said Albanac, “but this way the path is broader, which is a good thing this night.”

They came to a wide expanse of stone and sand which spilled down the face of the Edge. This was Stormy Point, a place of fine views in daylight, but now it was friendless. From here they crossed over the rocks to Saddlebole, which was a spur of the hill jutting into the plain, and half-way along this stood a tall boulder.

“Will you open the gates, Susan?” said Albanac.

“But I can’t,” said Susan. “I’ve tried often enough.”

“Colin,” said Albanac, “will you put your right hand to the rock, and say the word ‘Emalagra’?”

“What, like this?”

“Yes.”

“Emalagra?”

“Again.”

“Emalagra! Emalagra! ”

Nothing happened. Colin stood back, looking foolish.

“Now Susan,” said Albanac.

Susan stepped up to the boulder, and put her right hand against it.

“Emalagra. See? It’s no good. I’ve tried every—”

A crack appeared in the rock; it grew wider, revealing a pair of iron gates, and beyond these a tunnel lit by a blue light.

“Will you open the gates?” said Albanac.

Susan stretched out her hand, and touched the iron gates. They swung open.

“Quickly now,” said Uthecar. “It is a healthier night within than without.”

He hurried the children through the gates, and the rock closed after them the moment they were all inside.

“Why did they open? They wouldn’t before,” said Susan.

“Because you spoke the word, and for another reason that we shall talk about,” said Albanac.

They went with Albanac down the paths of Fundindelve. Tunnel entered cave, and cave gave way to tunnel: caves, and tunnels, each different and the same: there seemed to be no end.

As they went deeper the blue light grew pale and strong, and by this the children knew that they were nearing the Cave of the Sleepers, for whose sake the old dwarf-mine of Fundindelve had been charged with the greatest magic of an age, and its guardian was Cadellin Silverbrow. Here in this cave, waiting through the centuries for the day when Cadellin should rouse him from his enchanted sleep to fight the last battle of the world, lay a king, surrounded by his knights, each with his milk-white mare.

The children looked about them, at the cold flames, now white in the core of the magic, flickering over the silver armour, at the horses, and the men, and listened to the muted, echoing murmur of their breathing, the beating of the heart of Fundindelve.

From the Cave of the Sleepers the way led uphill, by more tunnels, by stark, high-arching bridges over unknown depths, along narrow paths in the roofs of caves, across vaulted plains of sand, to the furthest caverns of the mine. And finally they came to a small cave close behind the Holywell that the wizard used for his quarters. In it were a few chairs, a long table, and a bed of skins.

“Where’s Cadellin?” said Susan.

“He will be with the lios-alfar, the elves,” said Albanac. “Many of them are ill of the smoke-sickness: but until he comes, rest you here. There is doubtless much you would know.”

“There certainly is!” said Colin. “Who was that shooting arrows at us?”

“The elf-lord, Atlendor son of Naf: he needs your help.”

“ Needs our help? ” said Colin. “He went a funny way about getting it!”