The Fathomless Fire by Thomas Wharton Page B

usual.
    “Do you see?” croaked Seamus, stabbing a bony finger, as if anyone needed further directions. Despite the clouded night, it was clear as day.
    “The Deep is rising.”
    For as long as anyone in Molly’s Arm could remember, the eaves of the Forest of Eldark had nestled at the foot of the ridge. Near, but safely far at the same time. Now there were trees growing more than halfway up the slope, looking ancient and deeply rooted, as if they had always been there. The tops of a few of the tallest trees even rose above the rim of the ridge. Somehow, in the short time since Rowen and her grandfather had left the forest, it had
come closer.
Or had the trees grown larger, Rowen wondered. Or both? And what was just as frightening was that there was no sound. The forest was absolutely still. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. Not a chirp, a hoot or a rustle could be heard. If the forest was a sea, it was under an eerie calm.
    “It’s even higher now than when I first left the Mermaid,” the old man moaned.
    “It
is
rising,” someone wailed. “What’ll we do?”
    “Powers preserve us,” somebody else cried. “We’ll be inundated.”
    Rowen felt a ripple of panic pass through the crowd. Some looked fearfully at Riddle as if they thought he might be the cause of this latest eruption of the unknown and terrifying into their quiet lives. The cat was aware of the glances directed at him and he burrowed himself even further into the shelter of Rowen’s arms.
    “What does it mean, Nicholas?” Kate breathed, clutching at Pendrake’s sleeve.
    “You know this forest as the Deep,” he said. “It’s also the Dark. That’s what’s rising now.”
    There was a brief silence as the assembled villagers took in what the loremaster had said.
    “Then this is the end,” someone wailed. “Our homes, our farms … everything will be lost.”
    A clamour of distress rose. Pendrake turned to Rowen, his face grim.
    “We have to help them,” he said to her, then he sighed. “This is going to give the threads a good tug.”
    He raised his hands for quiet, but no one paid him any notice. They were too busy panicking, Rowen realized. Then Kate stepped out of the crowd and stood beside Pendrake.
    “Stop your jabbering and pay attention!” the innkeeper roared. “Nicholas can help us!”
    The clamour subsided, and most of those who had already begun hurrying back to the village returned.
    “Thank you, Kate,” Pendrake said.
    He turned to face the forest, then took the last few steps that brought him to the very brink of the ridge. The night wind caught his long grey hair and tossed it about. He really did look, Rowen thought, like someone standing at the edge of the sea. Then he gripped his staff in both hands and lifted it slowly into the air.
    “Is that a magic staff?” asked a young boy, his eyes wide. Pendrake turned and smiled at him. “It’s a stick,” he said.
    Rowen’s heart lightened to see the gleam of amusement in her grandfather’s eyes. She thought he looked more like his old self than he had in days.
    Pendrake turned his attention back to the staff, which he lifted higher.
    “This must be a beautiful spot on a sunny day,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself.
    “It is,” Kate said, glancing at Rowen with a puzzled expression. “A lovely spot entirely.”
    “I can imagine,” Pendrake said.
    To Rowen’s surprise her grandfather began to prod the staff at the empty air, as if there was something in the darkness itself he was searching for, or trying to dislodge.
    “There it is,” he said at last.
    With that he swept the staff in a long arc over his head, and the darkness opened.
    That was how it looked to Rowen. The darkness opened like a seam and a shaft of bright golden light poured through. It was if the night air was the roof of a tent and her grandfather had torn through it to let in a sliver of day. The top of the ridge was bathed in brilliant sunshine.
    There were gasps from the