Chapter 11
Lake of Dark Waters

 smé came out of the darkness into the light and for a brief moment the heavy weight on her heart lifted at the incredible beauty of this after-world that the Piksenvolk called the Untarweralt or Aftarweralt. Close at hand she heard the sound of the young musicians piping the spellcraft of their music. From the distance, beyond a heavy tracery of spring-green oak leaves framing the pink-and-white blossom of one of the orchards, the laughter of the younger children at play came to her. Then she saw her father walking towards her, his white robe shimmering in the afternoon sun, and pain clutched her heart at the realisation that Ignarius was slowly trying to destroy this magical place.

     “Are you ready, Princess?” the King said, using his old pet name for her.

     She answered with another question: “Father, are you sure he’ll be all right?”

     He looked at her gravely. “If I assess Mark correctly he’ll be fully equal to the demands made on him. But beyond the Halls of Judgement I don’t know what those might be, for vague memories of that great hall is all we’re allowed to bring with us. With Ignarius’s creatures swarming through the way you entered, it was pointless using that route.”

     “Will they—can they find their way to the falls?”

     Lazarone looked hard at his daughter—and judged that there was no need to hide anything from the young woman who stood before him. She had sufficient mettle to fulfil any duty required of her. He answered as honestly as he could. “They may even find their way past them. I don’t know the extent of Ignarius’s power.” He repeated the question with which he had greeted her: “Are you ready?”

     Mentally Esmé took a deep breath. “Yes.” She looked away from him so he couldn’t read her thoughts from her face. For she found herself longing, with the desperation of a small child, for what was the right of all children in distress— to be able to throw themselves into a parent’s arms, seeking reassurance. And Esmé knew that even at fifteen she wasn’t too old to sometimes need such reassurance.

     Suddenly, much to her surprise, something seemed to stir in her head, like a feather of laughter tickling her brain. Then she heard it—her father’s deep, bubbling chuckle that she had loved so much as a small child but hadn’t heard for ten years. “Come here, dearest, most precious daughter.”

     She blinked away the tears that stung her eyes at his words and turned back to him. He lifted his hands and placed them above her head as though giving her a blessing, and, although she couldn’t physically feel his touch, the reassurance he poured into her mind was very real.

     “I’m ready now.” This time, as he dropped his hands, she was able to smile at him while she gave her answer.

     Almost as though they had heard, the women and older children moved towards them and soon Esmé and her father found themselves heading a large procession, with the four young musicians immediately behind them. All four pipers carried bags full of instruments that hung in front and at their sides from straps secured around their shoulders. Only the largest instrument, nearly two metres long, had to be left behind.

     Despite consisting of many thousands of women and children, the crowd moved in an orderly fashion. The magical piping of the four children on their recorders was the sole sound to be heard, for even Esmé’s feet made no noise.

     If Esmé had known the story she would have thought the scene rather like the pied piper leading the children of the ungrateful townsfolk into no-man’s-land. They walked for kilometre after kilometre over rustic pathways, grassy hills and flower-strewn plains, across streams and rivers forded by elegant but sturdy bridges, and through woodlands and forests where wide tracks, lined with bluebells, daffodils, forget-me-nots and occasionally late snowdrops, made the going easy.

     Except when changing their instruments for a different piece of music, the pipers never stopped playing and not once did they falter or play a wrong note. For this was the climax of all their years of practice. Attracted by the sound, animals and birds moved towards them, sometimes lining the route. Many of them joined the procession, instinctively staying with the children.

     The sun was beginning to set by the time they saw their destination: a small lake lying as still as the surface of a looking glass and completely filling the valley in the centre of a range of hills. At first sight, with its naturally black surface mirroring the vivid red of the sky, it looked uneasily like a vast pool of blood. But by the time they reached the edge of the lake the sunset glow was already fading, the sky was that strange green of the time between dusk and darkness and the water was turning a mysterious black. Nidari’s evening star, the Nightingale, which the Piksenvolk called Nihtegala and others Nahtagala, hung above the western horizon, brighter and bigger that night than it had ever looked.

     With her face to the west so that she was directly in line with the star, Esmé took her place at the edge of the lake beside the King while two of the musicians placed themselves on either side of them. The four children had been playing tirelessly for many hours now and the music—sometimes bright and lively and sometimes reflective and restful—must have had amazing uplifting qualities, for it appeared to Esmé that nobody, even the youngest child, was weary after the long trek. She herself certainly felt no fatigue.

     Silently the women and children walked to right and left of the small group until the lake was surrounded by these strange beings who had no physical presence. By this time the moonless and cloud-free sky was black. Against a backdrop of smaller and more distant stars and planets, Nahtagala hung like a lamp, nearly as bright as the moon. Its brilliance almost eclipsed its nearest neighbour, known as the Cuckoo. Even so, Esmé couldn’t see most of the figures surrounding the lake. Except that she could feel the presence of the people around her, the surrounding hills might almost have opened up and swallowed them.

     With a suddenness that startled her, she felt something move in her brain. She looked at her father—a glance that took a lot of effort—but he was standing with folded hands and downcast eyes. She had time to notice that those standing nearest her, including the musicians, also had their eyes down. Then it was as though her gaze was forcibly drawn up to the evening star and she was no longer in control of her own eyes.

     And, having given the Nightingale her full attention, Esmé was unable to look down again. She found herself wondering what galaxy the star belonged to, for she had never heard of either Nahtagala or its friend Cuckow. Was it, like the moon of Lazaronia, getting its light from the same sun that warmed and lighted her world? The little planet appeared to get brighter and bigger and the music started to sound as though the children were moving away from her. Esmé wasn’t sure whether she was rising towards Nahtagala or the star was coming down to her.

     Then she found herself aware of things that she knew she had never been taught—as though Nahtagala spoke to her without words. The lake, she learned, was known by the Piksenvolk, who were the only people on Lazaronia who knew about it, as Deorcwæter Lake because its waters were always dark. They also called it the Lake of Singing Stars because of the constant presence in the night sky of the constellation known to them as the Cuckoo and the Nightingale. However, even the Piksenvolk didn’t know why the two planets were called by the names of songbirds. But Esmé sensed she was going to find out right now.

     The sound of the music at her back faded to silence with a long, steady, organ-like chord, all four children ceasing their note with a precision that suggested a single musician. Almost as soon as the chord was finished the music started again—but this time it was from above and in front of her.

     And as the first notes trilled out, to be instantly taken up by the children behind her, it seemed to Esmé that Nahtagala and then Cuckoo began to change shape. In the disc of light that was each planet she saw first the little brown nightingale take form with its pale breast and dark wing-feathers, its creamy throat working furiously as it poured out its glorious song. Then came the elegant cuckoo, with blue head and throat, long black tail and wings tapering over the tail to narrow points. It answered the nightingale with its wonderful two-note song until the two songs merged into a spellbinding duet.

     When the song was over there were a few moments of absolute silence. And Esmé found herself looking at two ordinary planets. Then she saw the birds again as, with one accord, they plunged headlong into the depths of space. She blinked and gasped in horror. For a brief moment after that she was unable to see them. Then, like a pair of vertical arrows, they cut the air in front of her, entering the lake with barely a splash. The musicians behind Esmé started playing again—a soulful lament in which the voices of the instruments wove around each other like the threads in a loom, creating a marvellous pattern.

     As though under the spell of the music, her mind suddenly blank, Esmé moved swiftly forward. Before anyone could stop her she had dived into the lake.

     The silent crowd watched, apparently unmoved, as the water closed over her. The ripples fanned out in ever-decreasing circles until the black mirror-like surface had been restored. The King then turned his back on the Lake of Darkwaters and slowly led his people away. Eventually only the four musicians remained. They continued playing as though nothing had happened.

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