In the friendly
light the islands were softened, nestling into the calm ocean, slumbering
before the heat of the day.
Three islands,
close and visible to each other, rose sheer on all sides out of the sea as if
pulled by an almighty force from the depths. The cliffs were a brilliant,
sparkling white, smooth, with no handholds, impossible to scale, but carved
into the side of each island there was a gentle meander of time-worn stairs
rising from the deep ocean, here so like a lake, spiralling around the outcrops
of land until they gently gave way to the plateaus above.
When she came
with Vannis the day before the stairs were there, although substantially
eroded, and the sea beat itself senseless against unforgiving grey cliffs. The
land, though level, was black and brittle underfoot, as if scorched for ages. A
harsh place, sustaining no life, not even a hardy seabird. Now, after the
uncloaking, the plateaus were uniform emerald, grass cropped short as if a
contented herd of horses had been a-grazing but moments ago. There were no
horses, but there were birds; strange, little yellow creatures with long
scarlet legs and sharply pointed blue beaks. They fluttered here and there and
every time they moved their wings, the sound of mournful flutes filled the air.
They walked with graceful, dainty steps and every time their small three-toed
talons touched ground, the sound of tinkling bells was heard. Saska was
entranced by the little creatures, and by the happy-sad melodies of their
movements.
Yesterday Vannis
whistled a short, complicated tune that brought them to him in greeting, their
fluttering causing flute music to rise and fall in deliberate melody. Communication,
she realised. She had never before experienced such complete serenity.
‘They are
sky-born,’ Vannis whispered, tears in his eyes. ‘They are the very last of
their kind, rescued from a far planet poisoned by darklings. They are almost
sentient and would have achieved it if they continued undisturbed. The Valleur
call them Ephnor, an ancient word for
Heavenly Music.’
‘Why do they not
fly away?’
‘This is their
home.’
‘Vannis, has all
the life around the sites been in stasis?’
‘Time has no
meaning out there in the magical realms, Saska. For the Ephnor, for every blade
of grass, it has been but a moment, a blink, a thought.’
Incredible. She
looked at them now, the birds of music. How happy they seemed; how sad they had
lost their sentient future.
She raised her
eyes to the nearest arch, still amazed by it, by all of them. The birds had so
taken her in yesterday that it was a time before she actually looked at the
islands; aptly named little spits of land, for to any eye it was three gates.
Upon each island there stood an iridescent blue arch, free-standing in splendid
isolation, structures at least ten times higher than the average woman, seemingly
sculpted from one solid block of stone. What stone it was, she could not
comprehend, but she knew there were no joins; the surfaces were smooth and
unblemished.
‘The Three
Gates,’ Vannis said, rather obviously, causing her to smile. ‘The Gate of
Forgotten Past,’ and he gestured to the arch left of them, ‘and the Gate of
Remembered Future.’ He pointed right. ‘This one before us, sandwiched between
Past and Future, is the Gate of Present Dreams.’ They had uncloaked from the
central island. ‘Self-explanatory, I would think.’
House of Valla
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