Mary-Cade Mandus - Skin Deep

Although tree limbs created a protective canopy overhead, sunlight bouncing off the pale hard-packed clay road bit into their eyes. Crispin groped blindly for Mirella, reeling her into his chest. Uncontrollably she burrowed into his shirt seeking shade. He was the first to risk a full-out look. Tears brimmed instantly, as much from the onslaught of vibrant color as the intensity of light. Soon, however, his eyes became accustomed and after some reassurance he coaxed Mirella into confronting their new environs.

After a few false-starts her eyes remained open and she laughed and clapped her hands in wonder. For so long her world had consisted of repetitive shades of gray and black she’d almost forgotten how essential color was to the spirit and in how many variations of breathtaking hues it came. Crispin agreed wholeheartedly with her response and together they drank in their surroundings with relish and gratitude.

Under normal circumstances they would have found the air autumnally cool but after the unnatural frigidity of the Wilderness it was almost disturbingly warm even under the sheltering trees. Far too excited to give into discomfort, Mirella impulsively hummed a gypsy tune and executed several exuberant pirouettes, arms stretched gracefully overhead. Laughing Crispin clapped his hands in time. With a flourish of twirling skirts she was dancing lightly across the grass when she tripped. She managed to retain her balance and, laughing at herself, was turning around when the breathless giggles strangled into a scream. Sprinting to her side Crispin at first noticed nothing to warrant such an outburst, only what appeared to be an incongruous heap of rags lying in the tall grass beside the inelegant trunk of an elder tree.

Taking Mirella firmly by the shoulders he moved her to one side then tentatively approached the mound. Prodding proved it to be an unyielding mass. With unaccountable uneasiness he knelt, seized some cloth and tugged. The pile rolled and he recoiled with horror, and incredulity.

It was a dead troll. However, it was not just any dead troll, but the one that had ambushed him; as testimony his dagger was still steadfastly buried in its chest. Yet, how could it be that troll? The ambush had taken place over four weeks ago and this corpse had yet to display the barest hint of decay. As a soldier, Crispin had seen his share of remains, human and non, and he’d swear on that unfortunate familiarity that this particular body had been dead but half an hour.

In the high grass the cat stretched, luxuriating in the suppleness of its body. It basked in the keenness of its extended claws and rejoiced in the awareness of its restored tail. A yawn, not of boredom but contentment, flaunted its flawlessly white, wickedly sharp teeth. Its ears twitched with curiosity at the woman’s outcry and it raised its head. The humans’ attention was directed toward something on the ground. Comprehending that the dead troll was the cause of all the excitement it lost interest and sank once again into repose.

It was always amazed at how insensible humans were. A serpent would be able to sink its fangs into their flesh before they were even aware there was one nearby. It had known the troll was there and how long it had been dead the second of emerging from the portal.

Its tail flicked; now it was bored. But it had to stay until the humans left, just to make sure they didn’t reenter the Wilderness. To keep amused, it began to roll the keystone, which lay between its paws. The languid revolving soon escalated into a vigorous batting back and forth. Unlocking the portal had depleted the stone’s power but after a short rest a tinge of color had returned and now, the continuous activity triggered a surge within and it was once again its natural vivid lime-green hue.

Observing Crispin, Mirella suppressed her fear and revulsion and knelt by his side, inquiring why a troll, and a dead one at that, provoked such consternation. He acknowledged her question with a distracted grunt, for a theory, albeit an implausible one, was taking shape in his mind.

Standing, he took a good look at the surroundings. The signs that a struggle had recently taken place were apparent – twigs were snapped and crushed; large areas of grass flattened and the soil underneath gouged and stained with gouts of blood. Blood that, from where he stood, was obviously tacky, with only a thin crust just beginning to form. A trail of crimson splotches led away from the scene into the woods, the ground alongside scuffed as though made by the drag from an injured leg.

Placing his hands on his hips to disguise their trembling he mulled over the only possible explanation –the progression of time inside and outside the Bewildering Wilderness was unequivocally at variance. For him, within the Wilderness a month had passed but here in the Fourth Kingdom it was still the day he’d stumbled into the enchanted forest!

He smacked his palms together; if it was truly that day then he hadn’t failed in his mission - there was still time to get to Castle White and return to Candlewicket with reinforcements. Excitedly he turned to Mirella. Seeing the pensive set of her mouth and the disquiet in her eyes he grinned and held out his hands. Her shoulders sagged with relief and, skirting the troll’s body, she hurried into his arms.

Itching for them to be on their way he hastily filled her in regarding the troll and gave his speculation into the cause. His enthusiasm was deflated somewhat when, instead of being awed she met the disclosure with skepticism and pointed out that if his hypothesis was correct, then by rights she should have been returned to the night six years ago when she and her mother had fled into the Wilderness. Grudgingly he had to admit that her reasoning made sense. Perhaps, he offered, it only returned to the time of the one who had made the most recent crossing. The explanation mollified her and she agreed it was plausible.

Retrieving his dagger from the troll’s corpse he led Mirella toward the road and, biding her to remain hidden in the dense bushes alongside, stepped into the open and scrutinized the forest on the other side. They still had some distance to cover before reaching Castle White and he didn’t relish having to do it on foot. His horse, as was to be expected, was gone along with the one bearing Viscount Lansky’s body, however, the troll scout wouldn’t have been able to run reconnaissance without a mount.

Cupping his mouth he produced a passable imitation of a horse’s nicker. Several repetitions finally had the desired effect and following the response he soon returned with a handsome stallion, most probably the booty from some raid on a Fourth Kingdom stable, as troll horses were thick bodied and not recognized for speed.

Hidden by the tall grass, the cat, perceiving its vigil was at last ending, edged closer to the road, the keystone in its mouth.

Crispin had just settled Mirella behind him when a raucous din set up. Cautioning her to hold tight, he drew his dagger and wheeled the stallion in the direction of the disturbance.

The instigators turned out to be a bizarre pair - a long-haired marmalade cat and an undersized black and white magpie. The cat was under attack; assailed by a stabbing beak and furiously pummeling wings. Frantically the feline fled for the bushes, dropping a small greenish stone in its haste. As the cat scrambled for cover the magpie ceased its barrage and, swooping down, grabbed up the stone. Realizing its mistake, the cat had doubled-back, leaping into the air as the bird rose, its claws just missing the body but raking out a couple of tail feathers. The magpie squawked and lost altitude but managed to stay aloft. With the stone clutched tightly in its talons it darted into the Wilderness; the cat spat in rage but did not follow.

Recognizing the cat for who he was, Crispin and Mirella called out in gratitude and, farewell. At the sound of their voices it whirled, limbs splayed, fur spiked. It made no acknowledgment but tossed them a baleful look before leaping into the underbrush hedging the road. The last they saw of Amadeus was the tip of his poker-stiff ginger tail.