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thirty-one

An Isle Like None Other

W ith Skye as her wings, Heather was conveyed through lush forest wilds, across bogs, marshes and over endless rolling hills of verdant green. Their destination, the locale where the earth split asunder into a raging sea.

The Isle of Clouds.

Skye settled onto the steep slope, the soil a mass of loose sediment beneath their feet. Within the overcast heavens, dark masses billowed and rolled as if they were ocean waves, casting the landscape into ominous bleak, shades of gray.

They may as well be standing on the edge of the world, thought Heather.

She shuddered against the strange, chilling, abrasive wind at odds with the remainder of the continent currently sweltering in the heat and humidity of summer.

The air almost felt alive. Sentient. As if it were the rushing breath of some great being. It brushed across her skin, its icy fingers pushing and pulling her hair, forcing it to strike her face like a whip. Her dress molded to her body as a powerful gust thrust her backwards.

On she trudged to the cliff’s edge, frightened one false step would send her plummeting into the thrashing waters of the abyss below.

She could have sworn there was a hint of a melody hidden in the whisper of rustling air.

Her ears strained to grasp the sound over the pounding surf.

The soil beneath her feet shifted, lifted, and dissipated into a rippling swirl.

The shadows of sky twisted with the tumultuous ocean crashing into the cliff. Heather fought to keep her bearings as the heavens and sea collided in a murky haze. Saltwater spray leapt over the cliff’s brink, splattering both she and Skye.

It was fitting that this was where the divine spirits walked among mortals.

Skye held out his hand, guiding them as they approached the land’s edge, his chin firmly tucked to his chest against the gusts.

His white hair whirled wildly, as he drew his wings taunt against his back, protecting them from the violence of nature.

The falling rain intensified, pummeling down, penetrating Skye’s shield- his magick benign against that of a god. What hell was Skye leading her into?

Standing close enough to peer over the edge, Heather spotted wave after wave building upon each other, increasing in size until they matched the height of a castle wall. The churning sea morphed… shifting into a stampede of galloping Pegasus crashing forward as if she and Skye were a bullseye.

They charged with no hint of halting. The great swell was going to drown everything in its path.

Heather thought to shield her eyes, but the celestial aquatic beasts clashed with the cliff-side, their teeth gnashing- their figures rising from the ocean surface, sliding from the cliffside in a roll, before becoming airborne on aquatic wings. Water, earth and air merging into one.

Sea spray pelted Heather with cold. The gust howled like a beast. Heather trembled from the deep, bitter chill. Skye squeezed her hand briefly, offering renewed hope.

“Spirits of the Divine… we humbly seek your guidance.” Heather’s hoarse voice cracked as she yelled in opposition to the thunderous wind.

Without warning, the air went still.

Waves ceased to roll.

The earth was rendered silent.

Swirling hair fell limp on their heads and the rain stalled mid fall. Rolling clouds froze above. Heather wiped water droplets from her eyes, peering out into the newly placid ocean, fearing what was to come.

A translucent apparition formed from the mists, reaching skyward- taller than the faerie tree she now called home. A being formidable and cold enough to sink a nation. The figure siphoned air, pulling the very breath from Heather’s lungs.

Before billowing it forth from its innermost being.

Never before had she felt as small and insignificant as in this moment.

Not even after the mushroom pottage. Heather lowered into a deep curtsy, her head down, as Skye bowed in reverence.

For they were in the presence of a deity vaster than the sky.

Heather fought to draw air.

“Who are you to call on the divine, mortal?” Its voice was a hiss, a sharp sweep of frigid wind. Heather swallowed roughly, gathering her courage. She and Skye straightened to their full height.

“A mortal prepared to bare their ears,” Heather replied. She stroked the silk of her wish ribbon, wishing to be anywhere but here.

The figure bent at the hips, towering above, the air seeping from their profile.

The sky darkened, becoming night.

“Ah, but do you hearken the loam’s cries? The birds’ distressing squalls across the shores of Emerald? The blood of a village weeps into the stone. The earth trembles. Do you feel it? Do you listen? Do you sense the ill at all, mortal?”

Heather didn’t know what to make of the questions. She certainly felt the wrath of the flooding. But she dare not voice it.

“He stirs from slumber and terra and heavens will reap their revolt against him. But we would rather flood this land than bend a knee.”

Heather sought Skye’s hand, needing a tether to ground her. This entity could whisk her away without warning. The bard was living proof.

Who were they speaking of? Who was this ‘him’? Heather was at a loss. It wasn’t the human king. This spirit could squash her former ruler like a fly. It must be someone formidable, for this being to be frightened. Heather trembled.

A gust of wind fell from the spirit’s lips, the bluster nearly knocking Heather and Skye backwards. They clung to each other, endeavoring to stand firm.

“You hear nothing.” The words were a hiss. “What is it you possibly wish to learn from me?” the form sneered.

“We seek the source of the rains in the human realm.” She posed the question cautiously, as to not insult the spirit. However certain, she was conversing with one of the beings at fault.

“You should ask that of your mortal ruler.” The figure inhaled, readying to send another blast of air their way.

But Heather cried, “Is there anything we can do to halt the flooding of the earth?” There must be a bit of truth to the theories of the spirits seeking retribution against the king, she realized.

The spirit paused. All of nature and the skies above seemingly holding its breath.

“We sent our messenger,” hissed the heavenly being.

“The bard?” asked Heather.

“The very one.” The apparition confirmed.

“Is there anything that can be done?”

“Restore the Standing Stones, and the rain will grant you a reprieve,” replied the shadow.

The figure twisted into a whirlwind, dissipating into sea and sky- their corporeal form evaporating. The heavens reopened, and water drops pummeled Heather and Skye once more.

Skin tickling, jade magick traced Heather’s back and silhouette. A feathery weight fell upon her shoulders as the forest green cloak she favored wrapped her in its warmth.

“Thank you,” she murmured before turning to face Skye, her eyes full of concern, “We must go to Sarsen at once.”

Sarsen was the heart of the mortal lands.

The furthest village from the coast on all sides of the Isle.

Once a bustling epicenter of trade now lay in crumbled ashes.

Acres of blackened, scorched soil stretched on the horizon.

Not a speck of green life graced the hillside.

Death cloaked the earth in silence. Divine fury unleashed itself in powerful gales.

Rain and icy hail pelted Heather’s skin.

Onward they flew, trailing King Willem’s highway. Slate gray, rounded stone, sourced from the river by the king’s guard, guided their flight to a depression in the loam. Where the road suddenly turned into rubble before descending into a pond of rainwater.

And from its depths emerged five columns of opalescent light, clawing its way through the waters, grasping the heavens. Heather blinked, eyes narrowed against the assault. Surging, iridescent beams with the brilliance of lightning and gemstones nearly blinded her.

Skye hovered above the swirling waters. With wide eyes, he gaped at the landscape. Pulling Heather close, and except for his fluttering wings, he was as frozen as stone.

Something was terribly wrong.

With a groan, the land shuddered, rippling the flooded sinkhole. Energy broke the earth with a shuddering vibration like a plundering beast.

She hadn’t journeyed to Sarsen before the Stones lay in their ruin. She knew they were great slabs of tall rock on a hill, the gray, rough veneer whittled by the elements. Myth had never mentioned a pond.

Grays slab islands of stone arose from the flooded land, the five remnants of the monoliths. They were the length of two humans, foot to shoulder on end. Looking like they weighed a ton, the king’s men must have required a team of horses to topple them.

“Have they always appeared as such?” asked Heather. From her vantage point, cracks and craters marked their stone veneer. They eerily looked skeletal. A chill ran down her spine.

Skye swallowed audibly, shaking his head. He fluttered over to a stretch of rock, an island of stone in a sea of rainwater, lowering to its surface.

“What is the source of that light?” she pulled the hood of her cloak lower, shielding her sight.

A great quake rattled the earth once more, hurling Heather from her feet. Throwing her hands up, she broke her fall.