Mamelon - Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

“Couldn’t you have done some magic,” Pete wanted to know.  “He said he was a magician,” the boy protested as Nick and Beth glowered.
      “I wasn’t much of a magician in those days,” Ricci confessed with a rueful smile, “Goodness, no. I was just a frightened, confused boy who ran wherever his legs chose to take him.”

“Oh, and where was that?” prompted Mick after Ricci had been silent for a while.

“What? Oh, I ended up in the Purple Mountains and devoted myself to learning about magic from the Master. But that’s another story.  It was assumed by all but a loyal few that Michal and his family perished in the fire.  Shireen and Ragund ruled Mamelon with a cruelty that surpasses imagination. No one believed things could get any worse. Then krills sailed across the Sea of Marmela and began to mine for gold in the Purple Mountains. Yes, gold, another evil that followed us from the motherworld.  Rather, I should say, the love of gold.  Love, dare I say?  Not even that, but a single-minded passion that feeds on its own lust and always an insatiable hunger for more...” Ricci paused before adding as if as an idle afterthought, “The prettiest thing, too, a piece of gold.”

Another long pause followed during which everyone drank more vinre but only picked at the food on their plates. Had they known better, the brothers and Beth would have scoffed the lot and still made room for more. Now, though, they were caught in the spell of a rare and shocking tale and their bellies were content enough.

“Gold!” exclaimed Ricci and made everyone jump including himself.  Instantly, he became more subdued. “Ragund could not resist it of course. While all Mamelon prepared for war with the krills, he had other ideas and ambitions of his own. He made a pact with them, agreeing to supply slaves to mine the mountains in return for a share of all gold found there.  And so it went on, for years. Half the young people in every village, town, and city were rounded up and despatched to the Purple Mountains on their twelfth birthdays. Some chose to flee and headed north, most of whom probably died right here in the bog lands.  Others were saved from the mines because they had mastered a trade or were considered comely enough to be kept back for breeding purposes.”

“Then some fool stumbled upon the Tomb of the Creator in the very heart of the mountains. It was an even bigger fool, though, who took the decision to defy its Keeper for the sake of a treasure far greater than any gold”. Ricci spread his hands in a gesture of such bleak despair that his sceptical audience could not help but be moved. “It is not only the tomb, you see, that Keepers have guarded for generations but the Spring of Life also. It preserves Mamelon’s Creator just as it preserves Mamelon itself. From it, flows the purest water, some say from the motherworld. Whatever, it is water that makes the green grass grow and gives life to all things. Once, that is, not now. For the Spirits made their wrath felt and the very mountains shook with a terrible rage. Many, many died. The tomb was lost, even to the last of the Keepers who must also have perished for she was never heard of again.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Since that time, no drop of water from the Spring of Life has flowed into Mamelon soil. Our grass turns the colour of autumn leaves wile the roots of every tree and plant take what precious little succour they can from those few underground rivers and streams that have not yet run dry. The soil is near infertile. Our people grow old, albeit slowly as the likes of you would know it for time moves in a different dimension here than in the motherworld. Slowly, yes, but surely we grow old.” Ricci repeated mournfully. “In the meantime, no children are born. Mamelon is dying.” He stopped, plainly overcome with emotion.

No one spoke but waited expectantly, sensing that a connection was about to be made with their own presence in this crisis stricken world into which fate, or whatever, had so unexpectedly thrust them.

“Only the Rulers of Mamelon have ever had access to the tomb although, to my knowledge, none have ever gone there. Even the Keepers were but guardians, sworn not to pass beyond the outer sanctum. There is a key that has been passed down through the bloodline and may only be used by a Ruler. Before he ran into the fire, Michal took the key that hung on a silken thread around his neck and hung it around young Calum’s. Later, Galia took it upon herself to remove it for safekeeping because he kept taking it off and playing with it. Before she went to seek the help of elves and was taken by the mist, she left it with me. ‘You would trust me with the key? I was overwhelmed. ‘I trust you with my children so why not this?’ was all she said moments before she vanished. I should have realised then what she had in mind. But the young only see what they want to see and hear what they want to hear…”

Mick bridled at this last comment, but kept a tactful silence.

“Where’s the key now?” Pete wanted to know.

“Are you blind, or what?” retorted Mick, “It’s hanging from that chain around his neck.”

Pete and Beth strained to see. She could just make out something that might have been a silver chain and a pendant of sorts, but no key. Pete saw nothing but had no intention of conceding his brother any advantage. “Oh, yes!” he enthused and cocked his head on one side, pretending to study the invisible key.

Beth said nothing.

Ricci looked momentarily nonplussed then settled down once more to resume his tale.  “Recently, a few hundred years ago, I discovered that that Galia’s daughter, Nadya, lives. Not only does Nadya live, but she has grown to womanhood and taken a husband. They have a son, Heron, a boy about your age in motherworld years.”  Ricci gave Mick a queer look that made Beth, especially, uneasy. The son of a Princess of Mamelon, even a dispossessed one, has a far greater claim to rule Mamelon than either his aunt or her foul consort. The trouble is…” Ricci fidgeted. “I suspect that Ragund has also learned about Heron. Nor is it information he would care to share. Indeed, there have been several crude attempts on my life since I arrived here.”

“The bog folk you mentioned?” Pete was impressed.

“It would seem so, and that Ragund is able to exercise some control over them,” Ricci agreed, but his sober expression quickly brightened. “However, as you see, I am not so easily disposed of.”  Everyone giggled. That is to say there was potential for laughter in the subdued, nervous sounds they made, but at least this helped ease the tension. “The word is that Heron can be found on Ti-Gray, Isle of the Dead. One can only hope that he is alive,” Ricci added dryly. But if this remark was intended as a joke, it fell on deaf ears.

Ricci rose abruptly and left them, returning almost at once so it appeared to Mick and Beth that he had hardly been away from the table at all. Pete hadn’t noticed a thing but was intent on helping himself to more vinre. As he was about to replace the heavy silver flagon, three goblets were held out and his struggle to fill them gave the others welcome cause for a good chuckle.

Pete had barely put the flagon down when he noticed that Ricci had produced a crystal bowl, moreover one that looked uncomfortably familiar. “My mum has a bowl like that!” he exclaimed and instantly wished he hadn’t. The memory hurt more than he’d have thought possible and he was careful to avoid his brother’s searching look. I won’t cry, he promised himself, I won’t. Pete took a long swig from the goblet. While it helped to ease his distress, even the potent juice could not entirely douse a need for his mother that coursed like wildfire through his whole body.

“Yes, well, hmm,” Ricci coughed and went on, “This is what you would probably call a crystal ball.”

“But it isn’t a ball, it’s only a half of one,” Pete contradicted loudly.

“Quite so!” exclaimed Ricci with such a ringing note of approval that Pete positively blushed with pleasure. “It is a seer bowl among other things. But not any old seer bowl. Goodness me, no.  Astor, Mage of Mages, who was Galia’s father, created it himself. It is the most powerful thing in Mamelon. It is so powerful that Astor worked a spell to split the bowl in two lest the whole should ever fall into evil hands.”

“Ragund,” murmured Beth.

“Ragund, Ricci sombrely agreed. “How it came into my possession is another story. Suffice to say, it did. If I concentrate, I can catch glimpses of future, past or even present events taking place elsewhere. Granted, it has a mind of its own and is inclined to be very selective about what it lets me see. Only glimpses, you understand, links in a chain if you like.” He considered the comparison and found it wanting. “Pieces in a jigsaw might me a more apt metaphor. It is down to me what I make of them…or don’t, as the case may be. I’ll say so!”

“This is all very interesting, but what has it got to do with us?” Mick was getting impatient. He, too, has been affected by the sudden appearance of the familiar bowl, more so than he cared to acknowledge. But Ricci had fallen into one of his pensive trances and they had to wait awhile.

“Ti-Gray, Isle of the Dead is not far from here. It lies at the very heart of the bog lands,” continued Ricci without warning.  His audience started but was soon hanging on every word. “Naturally, I headed this way as soon as I heard the rumours...”

“Naturally,” commented Mick dryly. No one took any notice. Ricci did not even spare him a glance but stared straight ahead and let the spellbinding monologue flow on.

“I camped here, intending to journey on the next day. That night, I was awoken by a curious humming noise. At first I thought the sound came from outside and I was about to be attacked. There was something sinister about it, ominous even. At the same time, it instilled a certain confidence in me.  I prepared to make a swift departure, of course. When nothing happened and the humming persisted, I reviewed the situation.”

“As one does,” muttered Mick. Beth glared at him to shut up.

 Ricci went on, “Then I noticed the seer bowl. How I’d overlooked it before, Ri only knows! It was glowing, a sort of pinkie colour. I picked it up and nearly dropped it. My goodness, yes, nearly dropped it! The thing had a pulse and might have been alive. It was most extraordinary and had never happened before, I’ll say not! When I tried to put it down, my fingers refused to let go. The glow turned red, and then crimson, and then white as if heat were flowing through it. Only, there was none. If anything, there was a chill in the air. It was just extraordinary, quite extraordinary. And why now, you may well ask?  Hadn’t I had the thing for ages?  Goodness me, yes.  It had never behaved that way before. Then I saw her, Galia!” His voice broke. “It was her, Galia, alive!” He forced himself to stay calm.

“She was in the motherworld, that much at least I could tell.  Her mind was sending out signals, images. She was frightened, but not for herself. I saw you, Michal, and you, Bethan. No, not you, I saw nothing of you.” Pete had caught his eye as Ricci anticipated the question.

“Bethan…?” Beth mused. The name had a familiar ring to it other than the obvious similarity to her own name, but she said nothing.

“Then, a blur…” Ricci went on, “…as if Galia’s mind was straining towards something…or someone…it could not quite focus upon. Suddenly, there was nothing at all.  No light, no pulse…nothing. I might as well have been staring at a lifeless artefact. But, Galia, alive! And a son, a son! Better than a grandson, I’ll say! Real hope at last. Better still, Ragund can have no idea or he’d not be wasting time on young Heron…”

Ricci was regarding Mick with the same queer expression that had bothered Beth earlier. Now she thought she understood. Somehow, Galia had been reincarnated in the person of Gail Wright. As the eldest son, Mick was next in line to the kingdom, territory or whatever of this place called Mamelon.  Mick, a Ruler, the very idea is  insane.. She burst out laughing. 

      Beth’s peals of laughter took the others by surprise, and not only those seated around the table.  Tears sprung to Beth’s eyes. Through them, she saw faint shadows on the marquee walls, figures about to attack.  Her eyes met Ricci’s. 

       Ricci swung round to see what was his guest such alarm. “Bog folk! Run, run for your lives!” yelled Ricci.

 In a flash, everything vanished.  Food, table, even the marquee itself disappeared into thin air. Ricci had gone too. They were alone, the three of them and Ace. Ahead, a crowd of ferocious zombie-like creatures were poised, as if frozen, to descend upon them. Someone grabbed Beth’s arm, she thought it must be Mick. Then they were running towards some trees. The twin moons had dimmed but there was just enough light to see by.  Suddenly, a warlike cry erupted behind them and they felt the ground shake beneath their feet with the frantic momentum of pursuit.

The forest was in pitch blackness, its trees owing their silvery aspect to moonlight of which, by now, there was precious little.  Beth stumbled in a muddy patch and paused to wrench her foot free. In the process, she let go of the hand holding hers. When she reached for it again, it was not there.

She was alone.

Farther on, Mick was panicking too. As soon as he realised Beth was not with them, he rounded on Pete whose hand she had been holding. “Why did you let go?” he hissed.

“I didn’t, she did!” Pete whispered back.

Mick felt he had no choice. “Beth!” he bawled and took several strides into the darkness. But the black night swallowed up his voice without returning even an echo.  “Beth!” he called several times again, but in vain. Once, he thought he recognised her voice. Half yell, half scream, it rose in terror only to be cut off with a dreadful suddenness.

Unable to establish any sense of the direction from which the bloodcurdling cry came, he ran first this way, then that. Here, nothing. There, nothing. There was nothing else for it but to stay put and wait for daylight. He looked round for Pete but there was no sign of his brother. A fresh surge of panic rose like bile in his throat. He retched several times before bracing himself to take several deep breaths. “Pete!” he hollered. There was no answering shout. But shouts there were, hostile and closing in.

 Mick took more deep breaths and felt marginally less panicky. He had no choice, he decided, and ran blindly on.

To be continued