Summerhill (20 page)

Just as he began to feel progress, the door itself began to fight back. Some kind of force was resisting him, and he knew right away that it was far stronger than him. He tried to redouble his efforts, but the barrier redoubled its power in kind, and Summerhill was forced to pull his hand away from the door, the wood warping back into its proper shape. It was as if the door itself had a will of its own and didn’t want to be opened.

“Oh, come on,” Summerhill growled. He tried the handle again, once more wrapping both hands around it, and yanked with his full body weight behind him.

Still nothing. The doors may as well have been a permanent fixture of the cavern wall for all the opening they weren’t doing. Summerhill was sure these doors led
somewhere. If someone wanted to keep people out, they built a wall; they only built a door if they wanted to let people in or out.

While trying to think of some new plan to either break the door down or get the attention of whoever was on the other side, Summerhill let his gaze wander unfocused. As he did so, his eyes naturally followed the pattern in the wood grain, and he found it naggingly familiar.

He couldn’t place where he’d seen it before. It was something from after the World of the Pale Gray Sky, though. That much he knew for sure. The exact significance of it escaped him, but recognizing it at all gave him at least something to work with.

Once more, he reached out to the door with his power. This time, though, instead of trying to warp the wood or break it, he let the energy from his body flow through the grain. There were several paths to trace, but Summerhill let his hazy memory fill in the blanks for him, finding that there was no resistance from the door so long as he stayed within the confines of the proper pattern.

When he’d suffused the full pattern with his spiritual energy, the wood grain briefly glowed a bright, familiar blue. A moment later, the double doors blew open with violent speed. Light blinded Summerhill as the force of the doors opening knocked him backward, sending him clear off his feet and making him tumble ears over tail. He landed on his back in the dead dirt, limbs splayed in all directions, his weary body now bathed by the bright light pouring in through the open portal.

Nineteen

Desolation

The sudden surge of light into the empty darkness was so overwhelming that it blinded Summerhill for several seconds. He rubbed at his sore, stinging eyes, and in his exhausted state, it took a good while for him to recover and be able to see clearly again. As his vision returned, he got to his feet, shielding his eyes with one hand as he stepped up to the edge of the open door.

The first thing he could make out was a dull gray sky. He started to panic, but before that panic could build, he saw amidst the gray the darker curves and billows of clouds—actual clouds, moving clouds, real weather. This was not the sky he’d feared. This was someplace else.

Beneath the cloudy sky stretched a snow-covered landscape. He was looking downhill, into a tiny valley, bounded by mountains whose height he could not gauge without frame of reference. Trees were few, or else they were difficult to make out through the uniform white of snow. If there was any real sun behind the thick clouds, there was no sign of it.

It was cold, too, but it felt to Summerhill that his fur should suffice in keeping him warm. This world might not be the most inviting of places, but it was still an actual world, and that was better than the empty darkness behind him. At least this was somewhere.

Summerhill stepped over the threshold, and only then did the full shock of the cold hit him. He was now clad in a small jacket, but it was nowhere near heavy enough to suit the current weather. His ears flicked back as the wind bit the insides of them, and his tail curled up protectively against the back of one leg. It wasn’t snowing; the air was dry, which made it a little worse in some ways. He spun around and saw that the door he’d come through was gone. Wherever he was now, there was no going back.

Though the sun wasn’t visible through the thick clouds, the amount of light suggested that it was late afternoon. Summerhill surveyed the horizon in all directions, finding that the valley appeared to be in the foothills and not surrounded by unscalable mountains. Downhill from his current position, he spied what looked to be a tiny cottage, its roof covered in snow, its chimney spouting smoke into the cold air.

The cottage was the only sign of civilization he could spot, and so he began to trudge in that direction. The snow was several inches deep, so the going was slow, but since the path led downhill, it wasn’t as tiring as it might have been otherwise. His new ensemble included a pair of boots and some full-length pants, sparing his fur any more immediate discomfort. The jacket had no hood, though, leaving face, ears, and whiskers fully vulnerable to the biting wind.

He did his best to keep his head down as he approached the cottage. If there was smoke coming from the chimney, then hopefully that meant someone was home and could offer him shelter from the cold. The thought of being inside made him trudge faster. Getting closer still, he saw that there were small patches of farmland around the cottage, the fields blanketed neatly with snow.

Summerhill stopped atop a small rise a few dozen yards from the house. A lone tree also overlooked the tiny stretch of farmland. Its branches were frostbitten, and just from the look of it, Summerhill could tell that it would not bloom again when the season changed. It had once been a fruit-bearing tree of some sort, and it was sad that, despite being so close to a farm, it had been allowed to die.

A short jog later, Summerhill was standing at the door to the cottage. It was barely taller than he was, the building itself just a simple, one-story stone structure built in a square shape. There were tiny windows, but they were so frosted over with ice and snow that Summerhill couldn’t see in through them.

Still, given the choice between wandering the snow-filled valley aimlessly and trying to make nice with the locals, Summerhill didn’t have a difficult time deciding. He huddled in close to the door and knocked hard. The wood felt very old, the surface of it rough and dry.

Snow fell from the eaves of the cottage as the door swung open. Standing in the entryway, backlit by the fireplace set within the far wall, was a robed figure about four feet tall. Its cowled head was impossible to see, and the robes were so thick and heavy that it was difficult to discern any physical details of its body other than the fact that it had two arms and two legs. The robes likewise made demeanor tough to discern, and for several long seconds, the figure just stood there in silence, as if staring at Summerhill with eyes that the dog couldn’t see.

Without breaking that silence, the figure gestured hurriedly with one hand for Summerhill to enter. No sooner had Summerhill complied than the figure slammed the door shut behind him, and through the blurry windows, the dog saw more snow fall from the roof.

The interior of the cottage was nice and warm, and Summerhill took a few moments to relish the heat of the fire and the absence of wind. While the dog basked in that relief, the robed figure shuffled up behind him and jabbed him in the flank with a poking finger. “Foolish,” it hissed at him in a dark and raspy voice. “Too cold for one such as you. Foolish.”

Turning around to face his chastising host, Summerhill finally noticed that the two of them were not alone. Huddled on a low couch off to one side were two more beings, both likewise robed and cowled. One of them was only about half the size of the other. A child, perhaps?

The cottage itself was cramped and simple. There was only one room, filled with all the necessities of a basic kitchen, common area, and bedroom, all piled in different corners. The smell of dust and mold was strong in the air, though not overpowering.

The figure who had invited Summerhill inside gestured sharply to a patch of hide on the floor near the fireplace. “Sit,” it instructed. Summerhill eyed the creature’s outstretched hand; for a moment, he felt a twinge of excitement at the sight of furred fingers much like his own, but upon closer inspection, it was clear that the creature was wearing gloves of some sort, leaving its true form a mystery still.

Summerhill was happy to sit by the fire, but very soon, the accusing stares of three beings whose faces he couldn’t see grew quite awkward and oppressive. He kept his tail curled against himself, and waited to see if his hosts were as accommodating to his presence as he hoped they might be. “I am sorry to intrude,” he offered when none of them said anything right away. “It’s just very, very cold outside, and I’ve gotten lost.”

“Foolish,” the first of the creatures repeated. Its voice sounded masculine enough to Summerhill, but he couldn’t say for sure. “You travel almost naked. You will freeze to death.”

Sparks from the fire crackled and landed harmlessly on Summerhill’s jacket. “I’m hoping to avoid that,” he replied, trying to inject some humor into his voice, hoping these creatures even had a concept of what humor was. “Any help you could provide would be greatly appreciated.”

“One meal,” the raspy-voiced host said, already picking up a small metal pot. He hung it by its handle over the fire. “Directions, maybe, if you need them,” the creature added as he sat on the floor opposite Summerhill, his back to his family.

“I’ll take what I can get,” Summerhill said. He was in no position to be ungrateful, here. “Do you mind if I ask where this is?”

The creatures did seem to be unfortunately humorless, betraying nothing in their body language as they sat and just kept their hidden faces pointed at Summerhill. “We are in the mountains,” the host explained. “To be lost here is ill fortune.”

Summerhill tried to smell what was in the metal pot, but whatever it was didn’t give off much of an aroma. “This place does seem pretty inhospitable,” he said. “How do I get out of the mountains, then?”

Now the family on the couch
did
react physically, both forms shrinking in upon themselves. The host, from his position on the floor, reached out to stir the contents of the pot, and he started to laugh. At least, Summerhill assumed it was a laugh; the sound of that raspy voice undulating wordlessly was eerie and unfriendly. “You do not leave the mountains.”

The adult figure on the couch stood up and silently walked across the small cottage. It fetched a small bowl from a crowded shelf and carried it over to the host, who merely set it in his lap. For a brief moment, from within the darkness of its cowl, Summerhill thought he saw the flash of eyeshine from the creature who had fetched the bowl, but he couldn’t be sure it hadn’t been his imagination.

“Is there nothing but the mountains, then?” Summerhill asked. “Surely, it must be possible to get somewhere.”

“Adjoining valleys, perhaps,” the host said. “Other farms. Other homes. But you do not leave the mountains.”

The child-figure leaned forward. “There is the Plain of Ice,” it said, its voice chirping while retaining the same raspy darkness as the host.

“If the traveler wanders the mountains like a fool,” the host snapped, “then he will find the Plain of Ice all on his own.” He sounded offended by the child’s sudden intrusion into the conversation, though he vented his ire towards Summerhill instead. Again, he stirred the pot, this time with angry motions.

“I really don’t mean to be an imposition,” Summerhill insisted. “You’ve already been more than generous by letting me in to sit by your fire.”

“Yes,” the host agreed too quickly. “We have. One meal I promised, however, and so one meal you will get.” He then started to scoop the contents of the pot into the bowl in his lap. It appeared to be some kind of porridge or gruel.

Given the creatures’ diminutive size, the bowl was likewise very tiny by Summerhill’s standards, and so the amount of food within could scarcely be called a full meal. Still, he could hardly beg for more, and he was still grateful that these strangers would give him anything. It smelled bland, tasted blander, and filled Summerhill with a sense of pity for these creatures that this was probably the bulk of what they had to eat.

Before he finished completely, he stopped to ask, “If this sounds like a stupid question, then I apologize, but what is this Plain of Ice you spoke of?”

The adult on the couch lowered its head and tugged the child closer to its side. The host snorted, shook his head in resignation, and then explained, “The Plain of Ice is the last thing you see before you die. That is the only escape from the mountains.”

Summerhill left the last few bits of food inside the bowl and set it down on the floor. “Do you have anything warmer that I could wear before I set back out again?” he asked. “It’s very—”

“No,” the host interrupted. He was already getting to his feet. “You only take, and give nothing in return. You have taken enough, and now you must go.” He strode over to the door and gripped the handle.

“Please,” Summerhill said, wishing that this creature had visible eyes that he could look into. “If you have anything else that could help me, I’d—”

“Hope that the inhabitants of the next valley have more to spare than we, foolish one,” the host said, and he pulled open the door. “Go, and hurry; you waste precious heat.”

For Summerhill to dig his heels in at this point would only be petulant, and also unfair to this family who had already taken him in, however briefly. “Thank you again for your hospitality,” he said with as much sincerity as he could put into his voice. He then scooted out through the open door, and when he turned to say a parting farewell, the host had already slammed the door behind him.