Secrets from the Under Realm

The river ran backward on the day the Queen Vanished. No one wanted it to be true; however, some of her subjects saw nothing but the waning of a king befuddled by the prophesized bringer of calamity. Kings are often attacked, threatened, hell, they may even be killed. But to witness the fragile truth of mother nature’s bottomless potential in the field of the ungodly, icy, uncivil revenge added to a marshy truce humanity maintained in hubris. Take everything down to their spirits, and you still can’t salvage the drowned eyes in the torrent of sadness. It was written that this land would know new rule and the people will prosper for an era or three. Then again, some bushes blocked the sign to Aqua Sulfur Pit once fell to loose dirt, so new inductees may begin coming in abundance if they survive the transition. To the last influential folk to get the right kind of loss, not that they had time to argue, must know the mage or be the light for the Green Jay to follow the air of destiny.

The story begins crudely, like most, with four friends, an expert on ancient cultures, and a terribly underprepared map. An unnamed road for the third time since this journey started on their way to find the archeological discovery assumed to have only existed in a collection of dreams noted by the doctor’s office of the town seven miles from where they currently found themselves. Their shoestring budget put an extra toll on their fried nerves as false positives were hastening a troubling deadline, made daunting by the static growing over the music the further they continued sniffing out the river that had alluded them the last two weeks. This river ran through this mythical village of Dane Edith D’Atoure River’s Edge. Something to do with the lore surrounding all of their research. Lore, since no record of such a dane has been found. Its relevance to any past event, as many names of towns can be attributed to, could not be found. Vince assumed ‘Edge’ was the clue to them being on the right track, following the cliff side of the canyon a quarter-mile into the trees. If anything, he wanted to call it quits days ago if it wasn’t for Isadora’s stubborn refusal to give up hope so close to the undiscoverable.

The talk of her condition seemed to keep leaving him outvoted by insufferable numbers that felt purposefully meant to set him up for a heart attack. Arguing at all became the farce of five exhausted minds. They refocused on ignoring sleeping or eating stops, and Vince reluctantly did the same. Being the sole driver made this problematic every time she coughed. Bret and Cynthia weren’t far behind, running out of the snacks from the hotel vending machines. The expiration dates must have been wrong because their backchat died down to the sounds of occasional gastral distress. Where they were going, where Vince reluctantly drove, had no markings on the map for reference for three miles in all directions; also insane while driving around the largest canyon ever, he thought. Artie’s abrupt turn to unbiased documentarian schtick cost him a vote when Vince needed a second voice of reason to pick a motel, making the nightfall camp sight he was eyeing on his slow crawl through the trees all he’s doing to stay sane. Whether they searched or not, Vince was turning in as soon as the SUV was in park.

“Isadora, I’m not trying to piss you off. That’s a dumb goal. But if I don’t refer you to the vanity mirror, I don’t feel like I’m—” Vince stated this as a reconciliation, only to find the revs building again under his feet. His yelling earlier may have inadvertently pushed Artie out of the vote. What could he do, he thought, as she filled the sinking silence with coughs, always followed by groans held down with a clenched fist around her stomach. “I think I need you to know we're golden on this find. And I want you to walk away from this—you’ve got to make it—”

“Vince—”

“What, Cynthia? Are you comfortable with the optics, or did you guys have a conversation I’m not aware of? I’ll even concede to your passion gambit. If I’m thrown from the newest, fastest coaster, party easily at my funeral knowing I’m out of life and regrets on my way to Elysium.”

“Vince, I’m—”

“You need rest, a proper rest. Where could it be going at this point?” Vince finished.

“Tell us how these emotions came about. It’s moving stuff.”

“Artie!” Vince paused to recheck the gas tank and his anger. “I’m sorry, Isadora, I should’ve—” except he had no intention of finishing that non-sentence. He did lie. He’ll always regret not starting with the apology first for what he said.

“We should be coming up on where North Rim opens up,” Bret said. Then he returned to whispering to Cynthia, both pretending not to observe his scrambling.

“Should we get some things into the open? Without the camera, Artie. I don’t mean now but over the fire,” Cynthia put forth.

“Will this be where your obsessions break their silence, releasing the shame of the journey thus—”

“ARTIE!” the four of them yelled.

Looking out the window, Artie became aware of the creeping fog, picking up a sprint with great volume that filled in the path where they entered and where they thought they were going according to the map. It was here in the dense fluff that her gap in coughing came with her opening the window entirely. She rested her head on the base. If she was compensating for the side-to-side rough and rumble of pathless road, she hid it somewhat well. In a deep breath, Vince could almost see a sign of relief in her relaxed simile. He slowed instinctively to keep her head from bouncing, to her dismay, even if she didn't voice this opinion. The bubble needed to say what was too much for the group and gave him a hint of puke when he considered the one-on-one he hoped to get. He thought about slowing down more as her ignitor so he could lay down the straight flush of hearts and breathe again, rejection or not. If her bloodshot eyes were on the prize, the recognition of a forgotten people, at least he's planted on the steering wheel with a part to play.

“Does anyone know if camping in the fog is more risky beyond the obvious?” Cynthia asked.

“We’re on track,” Isadora said, pepped to the brim with her head out the window. "Study your text. Far into the fog, far into the unseen, be weary of land’s wiles to avoid the end most vile.”

“How old is this fog then,” Bret asked.

“It’s just what the message around the map key says,” Isadora said.

“What’s this here,” Bret asked. He had found a canyon on the map that perplexed him. Two miles off Capache Trail, they should be hearing the water, he thought. The hand cranks got to winding down. Isadora was full dog minus the tongue, and in the glow of a pleased expression, Vince could’ve encouraged her to give it a try.

“That sounds like water, but—”

“It’s chillier, even for it getting darker, right?” Bret asked.

“Not too fast,” Cynthia uttered. “Just in case.”

“What are we looking for as a signal to the find? Do we know the essence of a people in such seclusions--” Artie asked for the commentary portion.

“Yeah, but not water, but—maybe like heavy wind through a forest—”

“Baby, we’re on it now!” Isadora shouted.

The ground didn’t slowly give way to weakening earth with the nose a negotiable force to think your way out of. No. There was a ground beneath them glued to the bottom of their wheels until they were, instantly, teetering on an edge that visually looked like the dense fog, already too late to make any life-changing decisions for crisis aversion. Artie shimmied his little body over the back seat, but that only bought them an extra few seconds of will they or won’t they make it quickly to the rear. Letting go of the steering wheel turned out to be an actual trial, but in jostling stillness and groove creating grip, he could deep hyperventilate while Cynthia tried the same thing. Bret could yell reverse all day, but it wouldn’t put the wheels back on the ground; plus, he did that first and hadn’t stopped gunning it. Shouting commenced in all but one seat, and Vince took notice as she slammed him back into her seat, shaking the entire car. A second gone right there. “Keep it climbing, you too—”

“I know how this feels. You have to believe in me—” the nose tipped. The free fall had begun.

“AHHH, What—Wait!” Vince said in blow-fish breaths

Isadora pulled off her skull cap and turned his face by the chin to make him face her. “Please, see me—”

“Hang on to something—” Bret screamed.

“I’m sorry to burden you with this destiny…find me,” a voice in Vince’s ears uttered with the soft pops of delicate air tickling the ear hairs from lobe to drum.

End of Prologue Part One.