CHAPTER TWENTY
“We are thwarted! It’s that devil, Ragund! There is
no way across!” shrieked Radik, enraged by the loss of his troops.
“Not so, my Radik,”
Arissa purred, keeping a check on her own anger with no inconsiderable difficulty
while, at the same time, doubting that Ragund was responsible Ragund, after all, had far more important
fish to fry. So who…what…? “We were
careless, that is all,”
“Careless…? Careless…!
They were more than comrades-in-arms, they were my friends! We have been
through much together and now…!” Radik raged on.
Friends,
indeed…? I think not. Arissa closed ears and mind to the
krill leader’s ramblings, the better to concentrate all thought on their next
step. In her mind’s eye, she summoned an image of Astor the White Mage and
proceeded to enter his consciousness. Vison was blurred. There were other
forces at work that she could neither identify nor begin to penetrate. Even so,
she was able to home in on distorted images passing through a rock door, one by
one. So they have found the tomb. Redirecting
her train of thought as easily as if she were rearranging a flower display, it
took her to a narrow bridge of sorts. “Ah!”
“You see something? You
know a way across?” Radik demanded
“Come, follow me…” Arissa
took only a few steps. We can cross here where the mud will take our weight,
but the path is narrow so we must go in single file. Stray not a fraction from
the path I take, my Radik, or be sure you will meet the same fate as the
otherss. Do you understand, not a fraction…?”
“I see no path, only a
death trap,” protested Radik.
“Trust me,” she told
him with discernible impatience and started to cross without waiting for any
further response. Place the imprint of your feet in mine, and you will have
nothing to fear,” she called, sensing his hesitation without the slightest
movement of her head to confirm it.
Realizing he had little
if any choice, Radik took his first tentative steps on the muddy surface…
………………………………………
“There is nothing here,
the tomb is empty!” Beth cried out in despair. Instinctively, she looked to
Calum for an explanation. How so easy it was for the mind to forget,
as if Mulac had never existed? For all that, she was in no doubt that her
heart would always belong to one she had first known as of the Nu-gen tribe.
The ground trembled
beneath their feet.
“It is a warning,”
squealed Fred, “The mountain, it is warning us we have already come a step too
far.”
“Or it is trying to
tell us something else,” said Etta, looking directly at Galia who was holding a
hand to her head as if in pain.
I
need to remember, I must remember, but what…? Galia rummaged
a far distant memory without even knowing for what it was she sought.
“The tomb, the spring
of life, where are they?” Pers wailed.
“Yes, Galia, where are
they?” It was Ygor’s turn to round on Galia.
“Mother…?” Calum was
visibly uncomfortable with the word, no less so because it meant he and the
male Motherworlders were half-brothers, born of the same womb if literally
worlds apart. At the same time, he had
the sensitivity to appreciate this was neither the time nor the place for
explanations. Nor was he certain he wanted one.
Since first handling
the key, and then turning it in the lock, Calum had the sense of being flooded
with information beyond his knowledge, images of a cultural past in which he
had played no part; not only a whole new identity but a feeling for history,
and consequently the responsibilities attached. He glanced at Etta whose gaze
was fixed on his mother with an intensity that warned him to stay silent.
A sudden surge of
resentment for all The Magela had kept from him lodged in Calum’s throat. He
tried to catch Michal’s eye to see if he, too, was experiencing a similar
epiphany. The Motherworlder, though, promptly looked away. His gaze settled on
the boy, Peter, whose demeanor appeared somewhat distant, almost trance-like as
if he was quite unaffected by what was going on. Over the mop of red hair, his
eyes met the elf-girl Irina’s, and they seemed to be asking the same question. What has the boy, Peter, to do with any of
this? At the sound of Galia’s voice, both looked away, relieved, for now at
least, of any responsibility for looking closer at the awful suspicion, barely
half-formed, nagging at them with a persistence that was disconcerting, to say
the least, as if it was determined to make itself known.
“This is but the
outward entrance to the tomb. There is an inner chamber,” Galia spoke slowly,
softly, almost as if to herself. She had not expected to feel reticent with
this son of her Mamelon past. Despite her joy, she was finding the experience
an unnerving one. “Search your mind, Calum, tap into the consciousness that
belongs only to the Ruler of Mamelon and seek out the truth of this matter.”
Her voice was strange, strained, as if it, too, belonged to a distant
consciousness, but there was no mistaking either its urgency or authenticity.
“Let go of all but who you are, my son, and there you will find the knowledge
that is Mamelon, its past, present, and perhaps even something of its future…if it has one, she added, but silently,
to herself alone, fearful of tempting fate.
She
understands. She knows what is happening to me. Calum
instantly took comfort, reassurance and increasing self-confidence from this
rapport with one whom he already accepted as his mother. Mother figure, Etta
may have been, but this, this was the
real thing. His mind rushed back to the
Here and Now from wherever it had been and he did as she had said, let go of
everything he was, had been, and yet might be, letting instinct alone take over
and guide him…wherever.
“Here, somewhere here…”
Calum went to the farthest inner wall of the gloomy interior, placed his hands
against the cold stone and searched for what it was he knew had to be there but
which, for the life of him, he could not identify.
“Let your hands do the
searching,” counselled Etta.
“Ah!” Calum exclaimed
so loudly that everyone jumped in their skins. His hands, moving dexterously
around the incongruously smooth rock wall, paused and appeared to exert the
slightest pressure resulting in the appearance of an opening. All but Ricci and
the Foss needed to bend low to enter what turned out to be a short tunnel.
The crypt, as everyone
assumed it to be, took everyone by surprise. The walls were high and decorated
with murals comprised of mosaics depicting much of Mamelon’s colourful history
and mythology. At the centre of a rock floor, as smooth as the surrounding
walls, stood a huge stone, rounded to perfect proportions as if it had been
created with much love and care although to what end was obvious to no one.
“Is this it then, the
tomb of the Creator?” Fred was plainly disappointed. All present correctly
assumed the question to be rhetorical and it was a while before anyone else
spoke. Pers and Irina amused themselves by admiring, interpreting and
occasionally discussing the fine mosaics albeit in low voices. Pete and Mick,
also, were much in awe of the same, glad to be distracted from the purpose of
their mission which, on the available evidence, had to be judged a miserable
failure. Ygor, Etta, and Galia exchanged knowing looks with increasing
discomfort for asking the same questions of themselves, equally desperate for
answers that eluded them at every turn.
Calum considered the
huge centerpiece with mounting fascination and excitement, unable to quite
fathom either; it was as if the stone was trying to communicate with him. The
Nu-gen ingrained into him dismissed this as fanciful, impossible. Yet, a new,
emerging self struggled to make sense of the inexplicable.
Among the others, only
Beth observed how fiercely Calum wrestled with forces within a self as yet no
less foreign to him than their surroundings. He stood perfectly still, scarcely
breathing. It struck her that he might easily have been one of the mosaic
characters, leapt from the walls to confront them with…what? They did not impress her, the mosaics, but she bonded with
them as she might an army summoned for…What?
Attack, protection…? Attack who, though, and protect whom…? It was a good
while before she admitted to herself that they were almost certainly there for the
likes of her, Bethan, to attack any enemy that might enter the chamber and
protect any Keeper guarding it. Fanciful though the idea was, preposterous
even, she sensed the truth of it, finding herself suddenly in close contact
with an unreality she could only describe as magic. Dark magic…, For the first time, the fuller implications of her
presence and purpose in Mamelon, the part she - and she alone, would be called
upon to play impacted on Beth with such force that she stumbled and almost
fell. I must hang on to Beth, I must or…
The alternative was
unthinkable. Yet, Beth was fading fast as Bethan, Keeper, was assuming the
ascendancy. Fear not, child. All may yet
be well. She recognized Tol’s voice in her inner ear, but let wishful
thinking assign the voice to her father instead. Immediately, she felt
comforted to the extent that she began to relax, and even permitted herself to
entertain a glimmer of hope. Her gaze fell on the object of that hope.
Suddenly, she knew what to do and what to say,
She took Calum’s hand,
and squeezed gently. He made no sign that he was even aware of her presence, of
anyone’s presence.
“Be at one with the
stone,” she murmured softly so only he would hear, “Lend it of your mind, body
and spirit,” she continued in a voice she did not even recognize as her own,
“Know what it intends and act upon it without question. Trust me.”
“I trust you,”
responded Calum, but without moving a muscle so she could not be sure if he was
addressing her or the stone. Either way, it did not matter. Her hand still in
his, she felt his body relax. His hand went limp, hers fell to her side. She,
too, sensed it was imperative that she did not move. An incredible intensity enveloped
them both; as invisible as the clammy air around them, as tangible as the tip
of a feather in an aryd’s wing.
The stone spoke. Calum
listened. Bethan, Keeper, felt faintly reassured. No one else was aware of
anything untoward happening in their very midst although Etta, Galia, and the
druid, Ygor, held hands in a circle they had no conscious awareness of forming.
Push,
instructed the stone, No, not with your
hands, your selves, they that comprise mind, body and spirit. The Keeper, she
knows. Trust me. Trust her. Trust yourself.
BE yourself, Calum of Mamelon. The time has come, the time is now. Push,
push, push…
Perceptibly, yet
barely so, the stone began to roll away revealing a black pit of nothingness.
Exhausted,
Calum slumped to the ground. Bethan, upon discovering that she could move with
ease once more, knelt beside him and cradled his head in her lap. The others,
awareness restored, crowded round anxiously.
“Look!” cried the
little Foss, the first to hear swishing, gurgling sounds, “Water…!”
All eyes fastened upon
the gaping hole where the stone has been just as the first water sprouted from
it, like a fountain in its death throes at first, and muddy, now fiercer,
rising higher, and crystal clear.
“Oh, Spring of Life!”
exclaimed an ecstatic Ygor, at the same time withdrawing a small, slim cane
from his robe.
“It is a druid wand!”
Pers recoiled in horror, “It is dark magic, black magic. He means us ill!”
“Then do something,” Fred screamed, “You have
magic, don’t you?” he looked around wildly seeing only blurred shapes in his
rising panic. You all have magic, USE IT.”
Ygor threw back his
head and laughed, an ugly sound, and began chanting.
“Fool, druid! There is
no Spring of Life, it is a myth!” cried Galia, but Ygor continued to chant,
curious guttural sounds flowing from his mouth all but silencing their
malicious echoes. Meanwhile, rivulets from the Sea of Marmela, gagged for so
long, made celebratory noises that echoed the entire length and breadth of the
Purple Mountains.
The fountain of water
continued to rise, gurgling noises replaced by the unmistakable sound of a rip
tide. The rock floor began to quiver. The mountain itself began to tremble. A
flurry of falling rocks all but blocked the only exit.
“There’s no way anyone
is getting out of here now,” said Mick so matter-of-factly that at first no
one, including himself, took in the full import of his words. Moments later,
the awful truth dawned.
They were trapped.
Everyone looked at each
other, unable to move. A roaring sound, at some distance yet, but homing in
fast hurt their ears, threatening, imminently, to blast their eardrums even as
they drowned.
“The Spring of Life
will answer to me, only to me, and you dare try to thwart me at your peril”
Ygor stepped back a few paces, thereby able to take in the entire group through
a veil of spray that was spreading rapidly even as, in the eyes of its
beholders, the pillar of water rose to tower over them and spread wings.
“Dove of Deliverance or
Angel of Death?” murmured Etta.
Ygor heard and fixed
her with a menacing glare. Wild-eyed, he struck them all as the personification
of mad desire. Making no attempt to disguise his contempt, he hissed, “Fools,
you know nothing. It is I, yes, I, Ygor, who is in command here. The Spring of
Life will serve me as will all Mamelon.”
“It is you who are the
fool, druid, pathetic creature that you are,” Etta snapped, and moved to the
fore of the group. “You understand nothing. Nothing…!” She spat.
By now all were
drenched in the spray. The rock floor, too, had begun to sprout little pillars
of water as cracks appeared everywhere. “There is no Spring of Life,” Etta
continued to address the druid, her wrath all the more impressive for the
evenness of her tone and the lilting quality of her voice, “it is pure myth. Mamelon
was fed by the Sea of Marmela until that devil, Ragund, attempted to exceed his
powers and harness its flow. But Ri was having none of it and conspired with
each of the mountains to block its path. So do your worst with your silly
little stick, it cannot help you here. Are you truly so blind you cannot see we
will all surely drown? Magic has no place here. Yet, dying will have been
worthwhile just for knowing that Mamelon will flower again as once it flowered
beyond all imagination. Have us all under
your heel, would you, druid? Dream on…while you still can.”
“We are all going to
die!” It was too much for Pers who burst into tears.
“It cannot be so nor
will it be so,” Fred squeaked excitedly, “I am one of you, yes? And I am Foss.
We Foss are of the mountains, they would never harm us. Others might, but not
the mountains. Ri would never permit it. Besides,” he added as an afterthought,
“this is my home. No Foss would be seen drowned in his own home.”
“There is a first time
for everything,” Irina laughed, but not unkindly.
“Save yourself then,
Fred,” said Mick, “and while you’re at it, you can show the rest of us how to
survive this pretty pickle as well.”
“Pickle…?” Fred was
nonplussed, and it was Mick’s turn to laugh.
“I don’t want to die!”
Pete yelled above the rising din of the water. By now all were ankle deep in
it. Mick grabbed his brother’s hand. “We can’t die, we don’t even belong here,”
he said with such irrefutable logic that he almost convinced himself.
“There has to be
another way out,” Calum shouted, more with a view to galvanizing the others
into action than out of any real conviction, “We just have to find it.”
Anything, he reasoned, however futile, had to be better than just standing
around waiting to die. Waiting to die? “No!”
he screamed, or thought he had screamed, but it was much softer cry that
reached only Behan’s ears. She smiled. To her, it sounded much as a war cry
might, and she felt the first glimmerings of hope.
“There is a way, there
is!” Galia spoke up excitedly, “Michal brought me here once to show me the
mosaics. I had forgotten, but I remember now, as clearly as if we came only
yesterday. He showed me a hidden exit known to none but Rulers. Apparently,
they have to swear to Ri they will reveal it to no one. I feared for him should
he break his oath, but he insisted it was the right thing to do. He was not his
usual self. I thought perhaps the mosaics had affected him, but perhaps it was
a premonition…” her voice trailed off as if swallowed up by the rising
cacophony.
The mountain shook,
more violently than before. All lost their balance and were sent sprawling into
water nearly to their knees. Ygor
collided with Calum. They fought, but
only briefly. Only Calum heard the druid’s shrill cry as he fell back into the
pillar of water and was instantly sucked into the vortex from which it
rose.
Mick was the first to
recover his balance, managed to grab a spluttering Fred by the scruff of the
neck and hoisted him upon his shoulders. “Hold tight,” he shouted. The little
Foss did not need to be told twice.
“Ricci, dear, where are
you?” Etta called and was rewarded by the sighting of an arm flailing above
what was close to becoming a fast flowing torrent. She made a grab for it and
followed the Motherworlder’s example by hoisting him upon her shoulders. “And
you can stop fidgeting right now or I will drop you, and you can drown for all
I care.” Ricci took the Magela at her word, and froze. Etta looked around.
Someone was missing. “The druid, where is the druid?”
“He fell,” said Calum
with a look of satisfaction that Etta recognized only too well. Mulac had worn
much the same expression whenever he made a kill. She looked where he pointed
to the ever widening hole from which the water rose, as frantically now as it
was unstoppable. “I may have accidentally helped him on his way when we
stumbled,” he added with a boyish grin which, too, was reminiscent enough of
the Nu-gen to reassure her that Mulac was not lost to them forever.
Bethan gave no
indication of having witnessed this fleeting, intimate exchange between Calum
and the druid, nor did she find in it any reassurance. Rather, the
former’s expression filled her with
greater dread than ever, not of dying, that was the easy part, but of their being
separated forever.
“Mother, think! Where
is this secret exit my father spoke of?” Calum prompted Galia, the urgency in
his tone causing all eyes to fasten on the erstwhile consort of Michal the
Great.
“Yes, Mum, think!” Mick
echoed, keeping a wary eye on Pete as he spoke. His brother was tall for his
age and, like himself, a strong swimmer. Much good would the latter do either
of them, though, he reflected grimly, if they could not find an escape route,
and soon.
By now the water had
risen above their waists.
“A star…!” Galia
exclaimed, “Among the mosaics, a star!”
“I see it, in the
ceiling!” Irina shouted, pointing.
“Can you reach it?”
Galia called to the elf girl.
“I think so.”
“Press it.”
Irina stretched until
the tip of one finger was level with the mosaic pattern, and pressed.
Nothing happened.
“Try again!” Pers waded
up close to his sister and partly lifted her so Irina was better able to exert
some pressure.
Again, Irina pressed,
harder this time.
There was a grinding
noise as a small section of the roof, just big enough for a body to pass
through, slid open, inviting entry to another, smaller chamber. One by one,
they clambered into it, chased by the floodwaters. Calum was the last to heave
himself up, one foot colliding with one of the mosaic characters as he did so.
Instantly, the opening slid shut, and but for Mick’s quick-wittedness and a
timely helping hand, the heir to Mamelon’s Seat of Rule would have followed
Ygor into the vortex.
“My heartfelt thanks,
brother….”
“My heartfelt pleasure,
brother…”
Both men grinned,
tacitly acknowledging a kinship and friendship to which neither would openly
refer again.
“What is this
place?” It was Pers who spoke, but to
Galia that everyone looked for an answer.
They were crowded
together in a relatively confined space, weirdly lit by a weird glow emanating
from a raised stone slab at the centre of a floor that was otherwise as smooth
as black marble. The walls, too, were as
smooth as those in the chamber below, but there were no mosaics.
It was not, however,
Galia who answered the elf but Etta. “You may well ask, elf, as there can be
few that have entered a tomb alive.”
“The Tomb of the
Creator,” Galia added reverently if unnecessarily.
“So, what now…?” Pers
asked anxiously.
“What, indeed, elf…?”
Galia replied slowly, confronting them all with an expression of utter dismay,
“…for I have no idea.”
“But you said my father
showed you a way out,” Calum was quick to remind her.
Galia shrugged, “He
only indicated the mosaic star. I assumed…”
“You assumed…?” Pers screamed at the hapless
figure, dripping wet as they all were,
“You offer us hope based on an assumption…?”
“You are shouting,
elf,” Etta rebuked him gently.
“Nor will I apologize
for it” Pers told her with an uncharacteristic show of spirit.
“My point, elf, is that
you have the breath to shout. Somewhere, there has to be an air hole. What use
an air hole in a tomb unless…”
“There is a Plan B,”
said Mick excitedly.
“Quite so,” Etta
agreed, “All we have to do now is work out what it is. Has anyone any
suggestions?
No one spoke.
