neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Let’s hope not, Bikies.” She was scampering along the edge of the stream, an eye out for edible crustaceans. “I ain’t sure I could sing any more verses o’ that bloody cub song o’ yours, no matter ‘aw strong its magic.”

As they climbed higher, the last of the paperbark trees gave way wholly to evergreens. These in turn grew stunted, becoming no more man bushes, until at last there was only hearty low scrub and grasses eking out a living amongst the wind-scoured boulders and scree.

Streams like molten quartz cascaded in musical falls down steps of schist and gneiss, while strange insects buzzed busily about the vegetation that invariably gathered at the base of each water drop. The blue of the sky was deeper here, the gray of the rocks more brilliant, and always they walked in the shadows of recent encounters. Curiosity and Gragelouth drove them on.

As the days passed, Duncan began to wonder if they would cross the top of the world and start down the other side. Rumor was a powerful bait, but it was not irresistible. Old doubts never put entirely to rest began to trouble him as they crossed ridge upon ridge, climbing ever higher. Whenever he felt assured, Squill was always there to put fresh doubts in his mind.

Snaugenhutt swerved to go around a large dark-brown bush when the growth, with unexpected alacrity, rose up on two legs, extended an absurdly small head on the end of a long, curved neck, and stepped out of their way. The travelers regarded it with astonishment.

“What are you?” Buncan asked as they halted.

Bright blue eyes blinked. An enormous feathered body balanced deftly on the pillarlike legs. Clawed, splayed feet looked strong enough to rip the guts out of any presumptuous attacker. For such a formidable body to terminate in so tiny a head was unavoidably comical. The creature was all out of balance, Buncan thought. It looked like a runaway adjective.

“Wot the ‘ell are you?” Neena asked with typical otterish subtlety.

“I’m a moa,” the giant flightless bird explained politely. “Who are you? Not many visitors up this way.”

“Your kind is new to us.” Gragelouth eyed the bird with the same sort of look he would have bestowed on a gold coin that had suddenly gone transparent. “Not in all my travels have I ever seen anything quite like you, though you are clearly kin to the tribe of ostrich.”

“There aren’t a lot of us,” the bird explained.

“No moa, huh?” Neena ignored the glare Buncan threw her. “Sorry, Bunkles. Couldn’t resist.”

“You should learn to.”

“I’m used to jokes.” The moa had a melancholy voice. “All of us who survive up here are. The world has left us behind.” A huge wiagtip indicated the surrounding, snow-clad peaks. “This is the Country of the Recently Forgotten.”

“As opposed to the Land of the Often Overlooked.” Gragelouth ventured a thin smile. “I have traveled that region, but not this one.”

“Here dwell creatures who have surrendered the future to others. Myself included.” It let out a heartrending whistle. Buncan was instantly sympathetic, and even the hardened otters were moved. How could one not feel sorry for something Nature had designed to look like a bad joke?

“I didn’t mean to make fun of you,” Neena said when that whistle of lamentation had finally perished among the side canyons. “Well, actually I did, but right now I rather wish I ‘adn’t.”

“That’s all right. I expect to be extinct any day now anyway. In the meantime, it’s nice to meet others, any others. I haven’t seen another moa for nearly a year. No, not many of us left. For all I know, I might be the last of my kind. There are a lot of lasts up here, living out their tribal heritage. Before long, only our memories will be left.”

“Well, ain’t this the cheery interlude,” Squill grumbled.

Gragelouth studied the absurd bird. “I don’t suppose that you have in your considerable wanderings heard anything of a Grand Veritable?”

Long eyelashes fluttered. “Oh, that old thing. Yes, I know of it. I even know where it is.”

Buncan felt a surge of relief and elation. Maybe they weren’t going to have to hike to the top of the world after all. Their quest had a destination.

If the flightless bird could be believed, the Grand Veritable was more than mere rumor.

“Well, what is it, what is it like?” The excited merchant fought to control himself. Which, in Gragelouth’s case, did not require much effort.

“What does it do?” Neena prompted the moa eagerly. The tiny head dipped to one side. “I wouldn’t know about that. When you’re facing imminent extinction, you don’t really have much interest in peripherals. You’d have to ask the Guardian.”

A catch, Buncan thought suddenly. As Mudge was so fond of saying, there was always a catch. Though he had to admit he wasn’t really surprised. If anything as fabulous as the Grand Veritable actually existed, it was only natural to expect it to have some kind of guardian.

Well, they’d overcome whirlwinds and bandits and inside-out rivers and a pit bull-bull. “What’s this Guardian like?” “Not too big?” Gragelouth essayed a hopeful smile. “Willing, perhaps, to let us have a look?”

“I wouldn’t think so.” The moa was unencouraging. “He’s very testy.”

“Is he also one of the Recently Forgotten?” Buncan inquired.

The moa nodded. “Personally, I’d like to see him become one of the Completely Forgotten. Him and all his tribe.” Feathers riffled as the bird gave a visible shudder. “He’s bad company. You don’t want to provoke him.”

“If we were foolish enough to want to,” said Gragelouth slowly, “how might we go about it?”

The moa let out a regretful whistle, like the lowest note of a pipe organ. Turning, it gestured with both beak and wing. “Continue on your present course. Before long you will come to a branching of this stream. Follow the branch. Though it appears to run straight into a sheer mountainside, track it upward. The Veritable is housed in a cave that is also home to the Guardian. You can confront him if you wish, but I wouldn’t try it. He’d probably eat me.”

“Eat you!” Gragelouth gaped at the moa. “The Guardian is one of the cold-blooded?” “No, he’s as intelligent as you or I. But we of the Recently Forgotten retain ancient instincts and habits that have been largely abandoned by the rest of the world. Oh, he’ll think about it before he eats you. Maybe even have a moment of regret. But he’s not called the Guardian for nothing. He’s up there to keep the Veritable away from inquiring minds. Been doing so for as long as the Verita-ble’s been there, I imagine.”

“ ‘Ow did this wonder get ‘ere?” Neena wanted to know. “In a shower o’ stars, or via some sorceral sublimation?”

The moa shrugged. Feathers went everywhere. “I have no idea. I’m not into necromancy. Some say it arrived on a pillar of blue flame, others that is was delivered in the beak of the Maker herself. The story I personally give the most credence to says that it just fell out of a stormy sky one day and bounced a couple of times before coming to rest in a puddle of muddy water. When some Wise-Ones-Who-Shall-Go-Unnamed found out what it could do, they stuck it in the cave and assigned a Guardian to it. Successive Guardians have kept watch over it ever since.” A huge wing rose and fell.

“Like I said, it doesn’t much interest me. When you’re on the verge of extinction, little things like Guardians don’t bother you. Obviously you feel otherwise. I wish you luck.”

Buncan smiled sympathetically. “We wish you luck as well.”

“And I,” Snaugenhutt rumbled. “I know what it is to be alone and abandoned.”

“Not by Nature, you don’t.” The moa turned and strode OS downstream, singing softly to itself. They watched until it had disappeared.