(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

There was blackness and the sound of running water.

“Where are we?” Murkle asked.

John thumped his staff on the floor, making a small splash. The gemstone that topped the staff glowed blue, casting a circle of light on the party. “I don't mind telling you, it's good to have my staff back,” he said.

They were in a cylindrical tunnel ten feet in diameter. Above them was a wide shaft that even now was sealing itself shut with roots and dirt. Two inches of murky water ran along the floor. “What just happened?” said Private Murkle. “How did we get down here?”

“It's tough to translate it directly,” said John, “but essentially, I asked the ground to engulf our meager bodies and deliver us from this place in whatever manner the forest deems us worthy of, or something like that.” He trailed off.

Zeck looked at John, aghast. “You asked the forest to eat us and then dispose of us?” he said. “I thought you'd worked out some kind of deal with it.”

“This place doesn't think in terms of 'deals,'” said John. “Look, there's more to it than that. It just doesn't translate well. The forest takes from the water what it can use, and the rest of it ends up getting washed out the other side in one of these pipes. I basically asked it for a ride. I'm pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure?”

“We made it down here, didn't we? We'd best get moving. The longer we stand here jawing, the more likely the Colonel is to come after us. I don't know if he could find his way down here, but I'm not gonna start underestimating the son of a gun. Come on. This way.” He started walking upstream. The rest of them followed, including the horses.

“Shouldn't we be following the water?” said Zeck.

“Not yet,” said John. “Trust and follow me; I was an aquamancer, remember?”

“You really think these pipes will lead us out of the woods?” said Zeck.

“I'm sure of it,” said John. “The question remains, where do we go from there?”

“The bloodhound will answer that question,” said Steven.

“I thought you were only pretending to fix it,” said Zeck.

“Yeah, but not because I couldn't. It's not that complicated. Give me an hour, and I'll have it up and running.”

“I don't like water,” said Murkle. “I never learned to swim.”

“No shit?” said Steven. “Me, neither. You'll be all right, mate. John knows what he's doing.”

They passed several inlet pipes that drained murky sludge into their tunnel. The farther they went, the drier the tunnel was, until there were no more inlets. John darkened the light on his staff. The tunnel was no longer pitch black; up ahead, there was a circle of blue where a larger pipe crossed theirs. When they got closer, they could see that the glow was coming from the water that flowed through the bigger tunnel.

“This way,” said John. “Now we follow the water.”

“Why is this all down here?” said Murkle. “Who keeps it running? And how did you know about it?”

“Once again, former aquamancer here,” said John. “I couldn't help but feel a system that moves so much water. As for who keeps it running, it's the forest itself. This is how they distribute the dark water to the forest at large. And how they move it out after it's been cleaned. It's like a natural irrigation system, repurposed from the old sewer lines and pipes that used to serve the town. Any more questions?”

“Just one,” said Murkle. “What's that sound?”

Somewhere behind them, there was a steady roar of white noise that seemed to be getting louder. A door slid shut to block the tunnel they'd just come from.

“Well, here is comes,” said John.

“The water's getting deeper,” said Steven, a hint of panic in his voice.

“Run!” said Zeck.

“Don't run,” said John. “Grab a horse, take a deep breath, and try to stay calm.”

The wall of water smacked them off their feet. It swept them down the tunnel like sticks in a river. All they could do was float with the current and hope for the best.

John was in the dark. He was in a wide open space, no walls around, nothing familiar, nothing he could touch. The smell of cold metal hung in the air. He was outside, he knew that. But it was so dark, darker than night.

One point of light pricked the black. It danced like a fairy. Or did it sit still, and his eyes danced around it?

The smell of sulfur accompanied the metallic tang. A dozen lights pricked the black. A hundred. The pinpricks swelled. All around him were firelit faces, young and old, men and women. He hadn't seen them, had he? All of their faces? So how could he remember them now? Surely, all he saw were the flames in their hands. And the odor of sulfur was heavy.

John raised his staff. He pulled a heavy handful of rock salt from his robe and flung it high overhead. With a word and a motion from John, the rock salt lit up the mob, the orange flicker of their firelights quickly outshone by the light of another world bending through the crystals.

A moment later, the screaming came. The sounds of confusion and dismay, of horror and pain, as the water that composed the bulk of each living body was drawn inexorably into the salt and out of this realm.

It didn't go dark then. No. The bodies were dry as dead wood. The flames in their lanterns had plenty to feed upon. As the orange of the fire swelled and crawled across the field, John saw at last that these were not Tephran soldiers. These were not the pyromancers of the enemy. These were not agents of the Empire, sent to vanquish a powerful foe. This was a village, and these were its people. And this was their ruin.

The drainpipe ended in the side of a hill, protruding just enough to create a calm waterfall with a pool at the bottom that fed a wide creek. Calm, that is, most of the time. When the pipe was purged, the water and anything else contained therein sprayed out like a hydrant. Zeck and the others overshot the pool entirely and landed with an unceremonious splash in the middle of the creek. For its size, the creek was surprisingly deep.

All along the bank grew gnarled trees with faces hinted in their bark and flowers that bloomed even now, in the middle of the night, with a moon-like glow in their centers. Standing on either side of the creek, holding lanterns and buckets and pulling wagons, were a dozen or so figures in dark robes. Under their hoods, their eyes peeked out with that same moon-glow.

“I saw a 'sheen,” said one. “Maybe more than one.”

“Tain't a masheen,” said another. “It's an orse.”

“It's a masheen shaped like an orse,” said another. “And a pile o' bods. The woods 'ave been generous tonight.”

“Spring cleanin',” said a fourth voice. “It's like to be garbage.”

“Spring's on t'other side of the year,” said a fifth, and then they were all talking at once, arguing over each other about what the pipe had spit out, none daring to venture into the creek just yet.

“It's four men,” said a young voice, “and they got robot orses, like what t'Norther talked about. And they're obbously alive.”

As if to prove her point, John broke the water's surface with a grunt. He waded to the bank and climbed out with an angry groan. He was as dry as if he'd never so much as dipped a toe. He looked around, seeing the robed figures for the first time. “Pyroclasts?” he said breathlessly. “I want no part of it. I've told you, I'm done. It's all yours now.”

“Brother Cribbert, see to that one,” said the one with the young voice. “He may be having the sight of Kist.” Then she waded into the creek to where Zeck and the others were still finding their feet and ejecting water from their head orifices. She drew back the hood on her robe. Two of the fingers on her left hand bent in a way that fingers usually don't. They looked more like tentacles, smooth and curling. Only one of her eyes glowed with the same light as the flowers along the bank. The other one was mostly pupil, a deep black well shaped like a goat's eye. “My name is L'Oak,” she said. “I'm a wayfinder for our village.” She extended her hand to Zeck, who was closest to her.

Zeck wiped the mud from his hand as well as he could and shook L'Oak's. “Zeck,” he said. “These are my, er, fellow travelers. John, who is on the bank already. Steven, and Mr. Murkle.”

“Niewt,” said Private Murkle.

“Really?” said Zeck. Niewt nodded. “Fair enough.”

“You come outta the Forst,” said L'Oak. “Are you a friend of the woods, or have they cast you out as they have so many others?”

“We are acquainted with the spirit of the Forest,” said John. The one called Cribbert was trying in vain to get John to drink something from a flask, but John just waved him away. “I'm well, I'm well,” he said. “Just disoriented from the wash.”

“We required swift egress,” said Zeck. “Hence our somewhat soggy transit.”

“Eh?” said L'Oak.

“We had to get out in a hurry,” said John. “So we made use of the sewers. We're being sought by a person who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. We would ask for succor, but I'm afraid harm may befall you if you aid us.”

L'Oak nodded. “If you are in the Kist water, the Forst is like to deem you friend. Two times in a day, the Forst casts much of the water she has drank out the pipe. It flows down in the creek, and we catch what we may with buckets an' jugs. She takes water from where it's no good, and she makes it good again. Kisses it. Hence, Kist. Some of the time she casts out garbage or 'sheens or bods what she don't have use for no more, or what she reckons we could use, and we take 'em as a boon to us and the Keeper. The Keeper sees to it that no harm befalls our village. We can take you there. He'll know what to do 'bout you.”

“Is your village far?” asked John.

L'Oak shook her head. “You drink of the water, we get there quick. Just a little, though. You drink too much, it does things you don't like. You'll have a bad time. You drink it all your life, you come accustomed. Some have the boon of sight. They make the water small, put it in their eyes. See more than what's here. See more than what's there. Some put too much, see things they didn't want to. I'm a wayfinder. I see the way. You drink, just a sip, and you'll see me along the way. I follow the path, and you follow me, and we don't go stray.”

L'Oak waded back to shore. “Brothers and Sisters and Siblings,” she said, addressing her fellow robed figures. “These four are a friend of the Forst. They are tonight our Brothers. Do not take from what they have. The Forst has cast them out, but that is her boon to them. They are travelers, and their path has brought them our way, just as the Keeper's path brought him to us in the whirlwind.”

“She sure says 'boon' a lot,” said Zeck.

“Shh,” said John. “Be quiet, be respectful, and follow my lead.”

The Siblings gave the four of them small sips of water from their jugs. The effect was immediate. Weariness sloughed away. Aches and pains, both fresh and accrued, were for the moment forgotten. They moved with a vigor none of them had felt in weeks, years even.

Before they departed, the robed villagers filled their jugs with water from the creek and gathered bouquets of glowing flowers from the banks. “Stay close and keep your gaze on me,” said L'Oak. “The way is bent to you, but straight if you can see as I do.” She covered her right eye with a patch, leaving her oddly pupilled left eye uncovered.

L'Oak led them into a canyon formed by fallen buildings and high-walled cliffs that seemed to have been sliced out of the Earth. The canyon led to a stone gate, the gate to a corridor with walls at least twenty feet high on either side. “We are in the Keeper's labyrinth,” she said. “He built it for us out of the things that came before.” The walls of the labyrinth looked to be made from blocks of concrete, bricks, asphalt, sometimes stone. They were anything but rough; each block was smooth as a cave wall sculpted by water. They were joined so snugly together they hardly needed any mortar, but the gaps were filled in anyway by a black material that glistened like obsidian.

“Look!” Zeck said in an excited whisper. He pointed at the sky, visible in a long strip above the walls of the corridor.

“I don't see anything,” said Niewt. “Just the gray shroud. Oh! The purple cast is gone.”

“Whatever lurks in the sky outside,” said L'Oak, “it has no place or power within the Keeper's realm. You'll see naught of those purple clouds in our town. Mind your gaze, now. Keep it on me, lest you lose the way.”

L'Oak led them on through the labyrinth. She never called out directions or pointed where to go. She simply went, and they followed, back and forth around corners that jagged like a saw, down twisting corridors that rose and fell so suddenly they could neither see where they'd just been or where they'd be next. They could only see the place where they stood, and L'Oak, and the company they walked with. Despite all the twists and turns, they never actually seemed to change direction. By the end of the journey, they had the distinct impression that they'd gone the entire way in a straight line.

They came at last to a long corridor with a cobblestone floor. Arcing over the path was a stone bridge with a small wooden tower at its apex. Somebody called down from a window in the tower, “Ho there, L'Oak. Who approaches with our siblings?”

“Ho, Tom. Only four pilgrims and their orse masheens,” L'Oak called back. “Kist by the Forst and come to see the Keeper.”

“Will I wake Sal?” asked Tom.

“You will,” said L'Oak.

Tom climbed down from his tower and ran across the bridge, disappearing out of sight beyond the wall.

There were two doors in the walls just past the bridge, one on either side of the path. Beyond the side doors, the cobblestone path and the high walls that bordered it went on without obstruction. The rest of the Siblings split their haul and took it through one door or the other. Only Cribbert remained with L'Oak and the travelers, a small bouquet glowing in his hands.

“Come with me, travelers,” said L'Oak. She led them under the bridge and down the path until the cobblestones turned to wooden planks. A long pier led out over a wide dark lake. As they walked down the pier, they came past the ends of the high walls and got a look at the village that spilled over the banks of the lake. The buildings looked to be made from the same melange as the walls of the labyrinth, none taller than a single story. They only occupied one side of the lake, leaving rough, scrubby forest to cover the rest, but there were scores of houses and shops, taverns with warm lights in their windows and sounds of revelry carrying across the water.

“There is our village,” said L'Oak. “Shorem Co'horen. So it was named by the Keeper.”

“It looks very homey,” said John.

“It's home to many,” said L'Oak, “though it was not always so. It may be that Sal 'members to you this night 'bout how we came here, 'suming the Keeper likes the look of you.”

“Who is this 'Keeper,' if I may ask?” said Zeck. John gave him a sideways glance, but didn't chide him for the question.

“Gh'orek Thosh Amurga Pergin Foffnet,” said L'Oak. “That is as close as we can come with our single clumsy tongue, and so 'The Keeper,' you may call him. He is founder, savior, and keeper of Shorem Co'horen. If he's keen on you, you can stay for a spell. If he's not... Well, every pilgrim has their own path. Let's get you seen.”

L'Oak and Cribbert stepped up to the end of the pier and each poured a long stream of Kist water from their flasks into the inky murk of the lake. Cribbert turned to the four travelers and handed them each a moon flower from his bouquet.

“Thank you,” said Zeck.

Cribbert nodded.

“He's still finding his tongue,” said L'Oak. “The flowers are a boon, but not for you. You just hold on for a second.” She stood on the edge of the pier. “Gh'orek Thosh Amurga Pergin Foffnet,” she said into the water, her voice heavy with reverence. She continued in a language that seemed to have a surplus of consonants.

“Do you have any idea what she's saying?” Zeck whispered to John. John only shrugged.

Something massive moved in the depths. It wasn't that they could see it, not yet. They felt it rising, felt it in their flesh like the tingle of electricity, the scrape of nails on slate, a blade sliding between skin and muscle. The water swelled. The four travelers standing on the wooden pier suddenly felt very tiny. As their gaze was drawn to the rising form, they were struck by the feeling that they were looking not down into a lake, but out into the vastness of space. Niewt put his hands on John and Steven's shoulders to steady himself.

The Keeper broached the surface, creating a rolling wave that lapped the bottom of the dock. He loomed over them, not weightless but without regard to gravity's pull. He may have been the size of a great whale or the size of a moon, but his body filled their view, dwarfing the world around like a bear beside a model railroad.

His form became clearer as the water drained from his bulk, yet his shape was always changing. A rough sphere of tentacles never ceased their motion, waving and undulating with only the barest hint of the body that bore them. Nestled among the countless arms was an enormous head, distinguishable as such only by the presence of a wide slit that may have been a mouth, and of course the eyes. The eyes. There were two eyes, huge and parallel, and many more besides. They packed the face like the gems of a pomegranate. Nearly all of them bore the curved pupil of a goat or cuttlefish eye, but here and there were orbs with a more human aspect. Each eye looked where it would, independent of its neighbors. The largest ones, the only matching pair among them, bore their gaze upon the travelers.

L'Oak said something in the creature's language, then said, “The Forst sends not only the waters she has kist, but these four wayward wretches besides. They came to us with orses of masheen. All they have, they carry with them, and so they offer you this small token.” She turned to the group. “Your flowers,” she said.

“What, just toss them into the water, or at, er, him?” said Zeck.

“Do as you deem natural,” said L'Oak.

Zeck and John tossed their flowers gently into the water. Steven threw his next. Niewt hesitated a moment before dropping his over the edge of the dock with a trembling hand. The blossoms floated on the surface, still glowing.

The slit on the front of the elder thing's head opened, wider than should have been possible, a cavernous maw eclipsing the face. It was a mouth after all, and it contained many tongues and more teeth. Four tongues flicked out at once, snagging a flower on the end of each and pulling them into the impossible gape. The lips slapped shut. Something occurred within the elder god's body that may have been swallowing. The mouth opened again, though not as uncannily wide this time. “Thank you,” said the Keeper. “I like those. They don't grow down here.”

None of the visitors were prepared to answer, so they said nothing, but John bowed his head politely.

The Keeper swam a little closer to the pier. A dozen or so of his eyes protruded on stalks, stretching toward the strangers. He regarded each in turn. Zeck kept his feet planted, but he felt the Keeper's gaze in his heart like a body feels the wind. John met the gaze eye to eye, unblinking. Niewt was next, and he trembled and fell to his knees, but kept his face upraised by force of will. Steven stood his ground and gave the Keeper a nod.

The Keeper chuckled and swam back from the pier. “You may stay the night,” he said. “Good guests are welcome to stay. Bad guests are sent away. Rest well here. One way or another, I will see you on the morrow.”

Ouroboros circled the spot where the fugitives had vanished, pawing the ground with his hooves. He whinnied and stomped. The Colonel examined the patch of ground. “There's not a trace of them,” he said. “No crack, no hole, nothing. To hell with it. We'll catch them in the open country.” He turned in a small circle and took stock of who and what remained.

Irving and Solomon were scraping the last shreds of webbing from their uniforms. Bob was having a more difficult time parting the silk of the webs from the silk of his sleepwear. Sheryl handed him the scraper she kept in her utility belt for just that purpose.

“Now there's an interesting thing,” said the Colonel. He reached down and picked up the limp hand that lay at his feet among the ivy, wisps of silk still melting away from it. Blood seeped from the stump. “Chad, there must be a vitalis cuff in the apothecary. I want this kept alive. Use whatever resources are necessary. Treat it as a favored pet.”

Chad took the hand and ran to the apothecary horse, cradling it like a wounded bird.

“Three Sparassa, an attercop, and myself and my squire,” said the Colonel. “We're out of Websolve, but we're also out of weavers, so it's a wash. At least we've no shortage of horses.”

Ouroboros whinnied and chuffed and stamped the ground.

“I know, I know,” said the Colonel in a gentle voice. He patted the destrier's nose to comfort him. “It's not your fault, my horse. It's that damned thief and his group of wastrels. Chad, as soon as you've got that hand under control, meet me in the bunker and start packing. Let's be rid of this accursed place.”

Sheryl looked from Captain Irving to Captain Solomon. They were fully armored. Irving wiped her face with her hand and pulled on her mask. Sheryl looked at Bob, standing half-dressed with only his empty spider gun. She caught his attention and motioned for him to join her. “Oh, here,” he said, handing her web scraper back to her. “Thank you.”

Sheryl nodded. “Come to the corral for a minute,” she said. She led him to where the horses were waiting. “I hope it's still here.” She found the horse she was looking for, popped its hatch and rummaged for a second. “This is my Guard-issue blunderbuss,” she said. “But I'm no longer in the Guard. You are. And your blunderbuss was taken from you in the line of duty.” She held it out to him.

“Oh, no, I couldn't,” he said. “You're meant to keep your weapons when you retire. It's an honor you've earned.”

“I haven't retired, though,” she said. “And you may find yourself in need of a weapon.”

Bob started to shake his head again.

“Consider it a loan,” she said. “When we get back, you'll requisition a new one. Until then, I have no use for it. But you do.”

Bob took the blunderbuss. “Thank you,” he said.

“Now, go get dressed.” She patted his arm and made her way back to the front of the bunker. “Colonel, may I have a word?”

“You may, Lieutenant.”

“Our numbers are greatly diminished. This land is not known to us. Perhaps our resources would be best devoted to fulfilling our primary mission.”

“Our primary mission, Lieutenant? And what would that be?”

“The Cormorant, sir.”

“And how, Lieutenant, do you suggest we find the Cormorant in this landscape of chaos?”

“You have its thaumatic signature.”

“And no bloodhound with which to sniff it out. The traitors took it with them.”

“Surely, with all the scrap we have, we can build a makeshift tracker.”

“A waste of time, as there's no need,” said the Colonel. “Ouroboros cannot track thaumatic warps, but he can follow the trail of our deserters. Their spoor is in his databank, as are all of yours. If the thieves are using the bloodhound to find the Cormorant, they'll lead us straight to it. If not, we can still retrieve the hound when we find them. Then we'll have the traitors and the ship. Two birds with one nose. I believe I'll execute the recruits on sight. They've become more trouble than they're worth. But I'll bring Murkle home for a court martial. A Caustic turned traitor deserves a public execution.”

Sister L'Oak took them to a long building with a pitched roof. Smoke rose from the chimney. “This is the Guest House.” She said the words as if she was speaking about a place of reverence, like a church or a cemetery. “Anything you need but don't find inside, you ask a Watcher. They pass by four times in an hour, all day and all night. You can know them by they have an eye like mine.” She pointed at her goat-like eye. “Cribbert, stable their orses. Do they need fed or groomed?” she asked.

Zeck shook his head. “No, but I'd like to get a few things from them before you put them in the stables. If I may.” L'Oak nodded. Zeck opened the horse with the butterfly stamp and rummaged until he found his satchel and Burts's map. He stowed the map carefully in his satchel. “Anybody else?” he asked. Steven fished out the electric bloodhound and a dozen or so bits and bobs that he stuffed into his pockets. John already had his staff, and Niewt seemed to be in his own world. Cribbert nodded. Without a word, he took the horses behind the Guest House.

“Now old Sal's inside here,” said L'Oak. “She visits with all our guests. She may ask you where you been and how you came here. And other things besides. It's good to talk, but better to listen. I go to my own house now. May you have the rest you need and wake in the place you slept.”

The Guest House was dimly lit, but not dark. Wall sconces burned with lamp oil every few feet. The fireplace was in the exact center of the main room and crackled with a cheerful flame. Old Sal sat by the fire in a huge wicker chair stacked with cushions. “Welcome, pilgrims,” she said. “There's fresh robes in the bedrooms. You'd best hang your clothes to dry before you catch your death. Those of you that are still wet.” She looked pointedly at John.

They hadn't realized how damp and cold they were until they felt the heat from the fire. The guest robes were made from cotton with a thick denim-like weave, sturdy but soft. Putting on dry clothes and sitting indoors in a comfortable chair felt like the height of luxury after the preceding weeks.

“It's well past supper,” said Sal, “but I can offer you snack meats, walnuts, some raisins, and a drink of burrin.” She gestured with a hand that featured no fewer than three tentacles in the place of fingers. Zeck tried not to stare. Niewt openly gawked.

“Burrin?” said Zeck.

“Sweet potato hooch. It's a little like bourbon, but more like vodka, though I taste those but rarely, on occasion that a trader comes to be here. “Hooch won't warm you, but it'll make you feel better about the damp. Scooch close to the fire. I gather the Forst spat you out in the creek. How came you to be there?”

“We were drafted against our will into military service by a Churlian madman,” said Zeck. “In the course of that service, we ended up fleeing a horde of monsters sent after us by a different madman. The forest gave us shelter, and helped us to get away.”

“I've met such beings as them before,” said John. “Wild forests, old and deep, in a faraway land.”

“We know well the Forst and their pilgrims,” said Sal. “There are some on occasion who find their way from there. The Forst is on the path of many. Shorem Co'Horen on fewer.”

“How often do you have visitors here?” Zeck asked.

“Here and then,” said Sal. “Some stay and some go. And some go elsewhere still. They're all pilgrims of the old world, searching for the new one. Ever since the unmaking, we're all just trying to find our way out. It's only the madmen, as you say, that are fighting over the old wreck.” She looked from Steven to Zeck to Niewt. “So young, you three. Not one of you alive yet when the war was born. Not one of you born when the world was torn down.” She poured four glasses of burrin, topped off with kistwater. She passed them around, then poured one for herself.

“Would it be all right if I just had water?” Steven asked. “I've gotta work on this hound.”

“As you like,” said Sal. She dumped his burrin into her own and poured him a glass of kistwater.

Zeck reached for a glass with his closest hand, then cursed when he remembered its absence. Sal gave him a sympathetic smile. “Such things are not unmendable,” she said, giving her tentacular digits a little wave. “It's more than these that the Keeper made whole again. Of course, it's not as it was before. In some ways better. In some ways worse. In no ways the same. Could be that the Keeper deems you worthy of a boon.”

“I think I'd like to sulk and mourn the loss of my hand before I go replacing it,” said Zeck. “But thank you, all the same.”

“Things will happen if they happen,” said Sal. “That's the way it's always been. But the Keeper is good to us. He has made much of what was lost. You there, bone dry wizard, one who speaks to the Forst. Do you 'member the unmaking?”

“If you mean what I think you do,” said John, “I remember. I fought in the war. What you call 'the unmaking,' I think, is what we call 'the Retort.'”

“Retort. Hmph. I do not see the sense of the word.”

“A double meaning,” said Zeck. “An alchemical tool, as well as repayment for a wrong.”

“I know its meanings,” said Sal. “But its use then and there does not make sense of it. But that is the way of these things.”

“How did you come here, after the unmaking?” John asked.

“That is the question,” said Sal. “Myself, I was a child, nearly ten. It was so long ago, longer for me than for you, but I 'member like I 'member my old fingers.” She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers, including the tentacles. “I 'member it like my face after I turn from the mirror. And I 'member it like you 'member the time I slapped your face.” She fell silent then, as if waiting for a response.

“Who is she talking to?” Zeck whispered to John after a few seconds. John just raised an eyebrow and sipped his burrin. Zeck leaned toward Sal. “Slapped whose face?” he asked. Sal slapped him across the face. Steven laughed out loud.

“It is like both,” she said. “A distant thing, so far away sometimes I forget it's part of me. It is a part of me, though. So close and fresh I don't know where the next sting will come from.”

“She could have made her point without hitting me,” Zeck whispered, rubbing his cheek. John shushed him.

“I was here for the start, or hereabouts. It happened on the fifth of July, as you may still call it. The sky was dark, for even then, the shroud was thick. The first bombs fell on a city in the North American South, a place they called Atlanta. It used to be that it was North of here, but nothing's where it was. All is busted up in fragments and screwn about.” She took a swig of burrin straight from the bottle, forgetting the cup in her hand. “We heard the sirens. Air raid. We looked up, and the sky was clear. A bright blue I had not seen since I was little. No gray, no shroud. No clouds. Next it turned colors on all sides of blue. A dark rainbow, twisted up in fireworks. We ran to the bunker. They built it, my family, for them and me and a few friends besides. They cast wards upon the stones and mortar. Stocked it with provisions. It was not too small, but not that big. Meant for thirty altogether. Some made it in time, some didn't. We had to shut the doors. We had to, though we had room left over. We were only twenty in there. We heard the others at the door. And we heard them later on, wailin' echoes on the wind.”

Sal took another drink and stared into the fire for a while. “In the shelter, under the ground, it was about what you'd expect. There was a lot of noise and shaking. It lasted all day, maybe longer. When it finally settled, we couldn't stand to be shut in the bunker no more. There was plenty of food and water for a while to come, but the power had gone, the gen'rator blasted to bits. The lights were out. The air was off, and getting stifling.

“When we came out, we weren't in the same spot as when we'd gone in. The whole bunker was swept along to some other place. All that chaos magic and wayfaring crystals and whatnot that they rained down and pumped up from below softened up the land and stirred it around like a pudding. There was not an inch of dirt that was where we'd left it. There were other things, too, stalking the land and wind. Worse than them, too. Things we'd never seen. Things we couldn't fathom. And something else, of which we do not speak. Something which had come before, and now had come again. Drove some mad. Killed others. Did worse than that. We lost some. Found others. Kept going.

“Hard to tell time back then, but it was a little while before we found Gh'orek Thosh Amurga Pergin Foffnet. He battled long and fierce, and he banished that which came before, of which we do not speak. Time was runnin' wild then, faster in here than out there. The Keeper made a place where we could stand and not be lost. He built the labyrinth, piece by piece, with our hands and help. He tamed the minutes and the hours, bent them back the way they should be. Not before a long spell, though. Thirty years ago, you'd say this was, I reckon. Ten o'that for me. I was the youngest of our lot, and the last of the first. Ten when I came here. Close upon three hundred now.”

“You're three hundred years old?” said Zeck.

“Give or take,” said Sal. “It's the boon of ichor what keeps me long here. What gives us eyes to see more than we might. Tongues to speak more than we could. None of us would be here still if it weren't for the Keeper. When we were lost, he found our way. Where we were broken, he mended what he could. When I ran to the end of my path, he found the way so I could stay and 'member. No one stays put forever. Someday, I will walk on. But he will stay as long as he can, and keep his place and people.”

Sal fell silent. She didn't drink any more burrin. She just stared into the fire.