by Davis Ashura
Serena surprised him by shifting closer, and her face held what might have been anxiety. “I’m not sure I like this,” she whispered.
“We don’t really have a choice,” he whispered back.
“Hush,” Mrs. Karllson said. “You don’t want your first interaction with the Memory to be one of fear.”
William stilled his movements and tried to rein in his rising edginess.
A moment later, his attempt at a calm demeanor frayed when ethereal streamers of green fog lifted off the Tor. They twined around one another until they formed the shape of a woman. She was more firm than mist but less solid than living flesh. She was also smaller than Mrs. Karllson and Serena, but built along their athletic lines. Her clothes were a blend of greens and grays, and her brown hair fell over a pale, heart-shaped face and delicately pointed ears. William’s eyes widened when he noticed her corneal tattooing, a forest-green coloring of the whites of her eyes.
Mr. Zeus had spoken to him about the tattoos. Apparently they had something to do with an elven ceremony in which a child became an adult. The coloring indicated where an elf resided. Blue for the ocean, green for forest, orange for desert, and yellow for prairie.
Despite her strangeness, the elven woman was beautiful.
“My name is Grail of Treasithe,” she said. “Come with me, William Wilde, and I will teach you of our lives.” With that, the elf turned and strode toward the jungle.
“See you in two weeks?” William asked Mrs. Karllson.
“Of course,” she answered before shooing him off. “You better hurry before she disappears.”
“Good luck,” Serena said.
William nodded a surprised “thanks” at Serena and darted after the elven Memory. He caught sight of Grail passing into the trees. “She sure is fast,” he muttered as he jogged after her.
He soon reached the jungle and found a narrow trail. Little sunlight penetrated the thick triple-canopy, and along the floor, low-lying bushes spread their broad leaves to capture whatever meager sunlight came their way. The trees varied between the gigantic—some reached over one hundred-fifty feet in height—while others were a more pedestrian sixty or seventy feet.
William continued jogging and caught brief glimpses of Grail farther up the trail. He finally caught up with her when she stopped in a glade several miles into the jungle and waited for him.
She held a pensive air. “I’m told you are from the Far Beyond.”
“Yes I am, Ms. Grail,” William replied, unsure how to address her. In addition, he struggled to maintain his focus. Because of her incorporeal nature, he could see through her, to the trees on the far side of the glade. It was distracting.
“That is not my name,” she said. “I am Grail of Treasithe, and ‘Grail’ is how I wish to be addressed.”
“Of course, Grail,” William said.
“I suspect you have many questions,” Grail said. “Let us dispense with them before we begin your instructions on who we once were.”
She wore an expectant expression, and William realized she was serious. She wanted him to ask her questions, and he wracked his brain, trying to come up with some that wouldn’t make him sound stupid.
“You’re a Memory, and a lot of people have tried to tell me what that means, but I still don’t get it,” William said.
“Are you posing a question?” Grail asked with an elegant arch to a single eyebrow. Spock couldn’t have done it better.
“Err. Yes,” William said. “What are you?”
Grail tapped her lower lip as if in thought. “It is the nature of Far Beyonders to compare a Memory to a ghost,” she began, as a faint smile curled her lips. “That is incorrect. A ghost only has the retained memories and persona of the one who has died, whereas I am the sum of all the elves who lived on Arylyn at the time of our passing. I know all we once were but am now blended and tangled into one being. In fact, I could have appeared to you as Drilstone of Manusithe.” Her form blurred and she changed from an elf maiden to an elf male. “Or Shinosei of Karlusithe.” She became an old crone. “I am all of them, and none of them.”
William finally got a sense of what Mr. Zeus and Jason and others had explained to him about Memories. Every elf in the form of one being, all their memories and personalities tangled up together. “How did this happen?” he asked.
“We are not like some of the other woven, creatures such as witches, unformed, or the necrosed, those who can create their own lorasra. We cannot, and when Arylyn could no longer support our needs, we had a choice: die out as a race or live on as a Memory. We chose this.”
She shrugged, a delicately dismissive gesture, but a single tear coursed down her face. “On a day of warm rain and heavy clouds, we gathered at the Tor. Our milders—our healers and teachers—fed us a drink, a quieting balm, and we drank our fill. The children had to be coaxed because the drink was bitter. They were the first to succumb, and one by one we all lay down for our final sleep.
“Before the final breath passed from our bodies, our milders drank the balming liquid as well, and wove us into a Memory.” She smiled sadly. “Perhaps one day a magus will have the wisdom to learn how to restore us.”
William backed away in horror. They’d murdered their children?
“I see judgment on your face for what we did,” Grail said.
“It’s not that,” William said. A second later. “It’s not only that,” he corrected himself, taking a moment to pause and consider the entirety of her story. “It’s more that I actually understand why you did it.” He hesitated. “Are you okay with this?”
Grail gave him a pointed look. “No. We are not at peace with this.” She shrugged. “But what other choice was there?”
Grail taught William much about the legacy of the elves. What resonated with him the most, though, were the ruins of her people. She brought their homes to life as ghostly images, and it quickly became obvious that elves revered nature. While they bent the forests, deserts, and jungles where they dwelled to meet their purposes, it was a light touch. They strove to live in harmony with the world around them, and William appreciated the balance they struck.
In the end, William decided that the elves really had been a lot like the ones from Tolkien’s Middle-earth—a pale, long-lived race who viewed humanity with a curious but arrogant dispassion. A strange attitude to take, since elves were woven. They’d been created by asrasins, by humans.
On his last night with Grail, the elf maiden’s countenance became melancholy.
“What’s wrong?” William asked her.
“Tomorrow you leave, and my time will end.”
“I don’t understand,” William said. “You’re part of the Memory. You’ll live forever, won’t you?”
Grail shook her head. “I will exist, but I won’t live. These past two weeks have been the closest I’ve come to life in many, many years.” She sighed. “I’d almost believed myself a part of the world again.”
“But Serena will be here tomorrow,” William said. “Why can’t you teach her like you taught me?”
“Because your friend will require her own guide. Another one of my people, the one best suited to earn her trust, will bear the burden, and I will fade away.”
William didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”
Grail smiled sadly. “It is no matter,” she said. “I’ve had two weeks of near-life. I should thank the Lord of Singing Light for His blessings.”
William smiled wryly. “I’ve heard of the Lord of the Sword and the Lady of Fire,” he said, “but this is the first time I’ve heard of the Lord of Singing Light.”
Grail’s brow furrowed. “Truly? I never spoke to you of Him before?”
William shook his head.
“Well, your knowledge of my people won’t be complete unless I teach you of Him who gave form to all the worlds in this vast cosmos. He is the First and the Last.”
William’s confusion cleared. “You’re talking about God.”
“A short a
nd ugly word to describe the Lord,” Grail said with a sniff of derision.
“Maybe, but God and Jesus are the only names I use to worship Him.”
“Now you know another one,” Grail said. “A better one.”
“Why do you call him the Lord of Singing Light?” William asked.
“Because upon our final passage from this coiling life, He will call us home to His realm. His beacon is a singing light.”
William frowned as a lurking memory came to the forefront of his thoughts. It had been in Sinskrill. He’d ridden the languid currents of his Spirit and had found a peace, a light that shone and sang …
The memory slipped away, and William frowned more deeply. What had he remembered? He tried to force it back, but the harder he strained, the more easily it escaped his clutches, like a fish slipping through his fingers and darting back to sea.
He sighed in defeat.
“I sense you once felt His call,” Grail said, “but do not despair. To truly remember His abode is nearly impossible.”
“I don’t know what I felt,” William said with a shake of his head. “For a moment I thought I did, but now I can’t remember.”
“Few do,” Grail said. “My people only know of two who were blessed enough as to perfectly recall the Lord’s call.”
“Who were they?” William asked.
“Who are they is the better question,” Grail said. “I sense their presence in the world. They still live.”
William waited but she said no more, and no matter how many times he asked, she wouldn’t say anything more about the subject.
“Go to sleep, William,” Grail said after a while. “I will watch over you on this final night of mine.”
William’s heart went out to the elf maiden. Her voice sounded full of despair. “Will you be here when I wake up?”
Grail placed her ghostly fingers on his eyelids. They felt as soft as the touch of a butterfly. “Sleep,” she ordered.
Tiredness tugged at William’s eyes, and he slept.
When he woke, Grail was gone and an elf child, a girl, stood in her place. “My name is Timial of Iliasithe,” she said.
“Where’s Grail?” he asked.
“She resides and rests within,” the girl answered. “Come. Your friends are expecting you.”
The girl led him out of the jungle and to the Tor, where Mrs. Karllson and Serena waited for him.
“How was it?” Serena asked.
William was about to answer her, but the elf girl spoke first. “I am Timial of Iliasithe. Come with me, Serena Paradiso, and I will teach you of our lives.” With that, the little elf girl marched back into the jungle.
“You better hurry,” William advised.
Serena sighed, and hustled down the Tor after the girl, leaving William alone with Mrs. Karllson.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“Now you go meet the dwarven Memory,” Mrs. Karllson said. “Come on.”
William slung his belongings onto his shoulder and followed Mrs. Karllson. They traveled east, along a rugged, rising terrain. Their trail ascended, and boulders lay strewn about like a giant’s toys. Despite all his exercising, William panted. He was glad to see Mrs. Karllson similarly struggling, and they spoke little. Early in the evening they reached a grassy meadow at the foot of Mount Madhava.
William paused to stare at the peak. It soared above him, starting as a sheer cliff and continuing in a series of snarly projections and rocky rises. A pine forest and a shroud of clouds claimed the lower and middle reaches, and a snowy peak shone like a beacon in the afternoon sun.
There, in the cliff, stood a closed round door with a large knocker.
“Here,” Mrs. Karllson said. “This leads to the village of Meldencreche,” she explained. “It means ‘home of the family Melden’.” Mrs. Karllson used the knocker to rap out a staccato rhythm. “Now we wait.”
Seconds later the door opened and in the threshold stood a figure with a beard hanging to his waist. He wore a red vest over a gray shirt; black pants tucked into dark half-boots; and a shiny, gold buckle on a wide, black belt. He came no higher than William’s waist.
“This is William Wilde,” Mrs. Karllson said.
The dwarf bowed low. “The people of Meldencreche are honored by your presence,” he said, in a voice sweet like a child’s but stiff as an English butler’s. “I am Galse Melden.” His formality transformed into a winsome grin. “Call me whatever is easiest, but please don’t call me Gal.”
“I will be back for you in two weeks,” Mrs. Karllson said to William before turning to Galse. “In your keep, I entrust him.”
“In my keep, he is entrusted,” Galse replied with another bow. “No hardship shall befall him under my shelter.” He addressed William. “Come, let me show you my home.”
William followed Galse down the throat of a long, narrow tunnel lit by regularly spaced lanterns.
Illuminated frescoes decorated the otherwise bare walls, and many of them had humans prominently featured. They shielded huddling dwarves from fire-breathing dragons; defended against pale-skinned creatures with exaggerated fangs; and hurled streams of fire against decaying necrosed. One fresco had a faceless, dark-skinned man, a typical native-born Arylyner, standing amongst misshapen children who stared rapturously at him as if he was holy.
William paused, and Galse must have noticed his interest. “The frescoes depict the lives of my family,” the dwarf explained. “That one,” he pointed to the one of the man amongst the children, “depicts the creation of the dwarves. He sighed. “It is to our undying shame that we know not the name of our beloved creator.”
William stared at Galse in surprise. The dwarf had sounded earnest, even reverent when discussing the frescoes and the humans.
“Come,” Galse said. “We’re almost to my home.”
They continued on, and the tunnel ended at a broad ledge opening onto a cavern that spread out in all directions. William stopped and tried to make sense of the scale of the space. High up, a narrow window let in the sky and sun, which beamed dim light, but provided little illumination. In the gloom, William couldn’t see the far side of the cavern.
Galse spoke a word, and glass lanterns mounted throughout the cavern lit up.
William inhaled sharply.
Deep in the heart of Mount Madhava, the dwarves had built a terraced village of beauty and strength. The floor held a large field of green grass surrounding a crystal-clear pond that seemed depthless. Graceful statues of dwarf maidens bending to fill buckets, children laughing while holding a parent’s hand, and couples embracing perimetered the water. More lovely carvings, statuary, and artwork in wood, stone, and metal decorated other open spaces and many walls.
“It’s gorgeous,” William whispered. A sense of the holy permeated the place, and it felt wrong to speak too loudly.
“Food awaits,” Galse urged. “Let me offer you a meal. Though I cannot eat, I can still cook.”
They took a set of stairs winding upward, but a sense of being watched caused William to spin about. He frowned, searching for what bothered him. No one else was there.
Galse’s mien became dejected. “It is the nature of our home,” he said. “Even with the lanterns, most humans find Meldencreche disquieting. We are sorry for your discomfort.”
William forced a smile. “It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
Galse brightened. “How splendid were it true.”
They reached a wooden door hanging on stone hinges and carved into it was the figure of a human holding a bared sword and a ready shield.
“The Lord of the Sword,” Galse said, sounding proud. “Our greatest defender. He is worthy of the highest honor and accolades.” His face grew unexpectedly stricken. “I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect. We honor all the magi who defend us.”
“You didn’t insult me,” William said, confused by the dwarf’s reaction. “But why do all the frescoes and imagery have humans protecting dwarves?”
&nb
sp; “Because we can’t protect ourselves,” Galse said. “We don’t know how. It is not in our nature. We can no more cause violence to another being than a bee can swim. It makes no sense to even try.”
William struggled to make sense of the dwarf’s words. They were utterly different from what he had expected. Unlike the elves, these dwarves appeared to bear little resemblance to the ones of Middle Earth.
“Had I flesh and you struck me, I would have asked how I could correct my offense to you,” Galse further explained.
“That’s awful,” William said. “No one should abuse you like that.”
“No one did,” Galse said with a gentle smile. “Magi kept us safe from such harm.”
William tried not to scowl. Whoever had created the dwarves had done a crappy job. They’d made the poor creatures slaves and sycophants to humans, dependent on their masters to protect them.
“Are you ready to eat?” Galse asked.
“Sure,” William said, although after learning about the dwarves’ helpless nature, his appetite had fled.
“Come in and be welcome,” Galse said. He opened the door, and it swung aside easily and without a sound.
Galse spoke another word, and lanterns illuminated a small room separated into a cooking area, a place for a small bed, and another one for a kitchen table. On the wall above the bed was painted another fresco. This one held no humans. Instead, it depicted a beaming dwarf maiden.
“The Hearth Queen of our family,” Galse said, apparently seeing the focus of William’s attention. “Our villages always have two queens: one for hearth and one for crafts.”
“What about kings?”
Galse laughed. “We have never needed one, nor have we ever wanted one,” he replied. “Unlike most humans, we follow our ancestry upon our mother’s side.”
“A matriarchal society?”
“Exactly,” Galse said, sounding pleased. He clapped his hands a single time. “I will now make you supper. I’m sure you’re famished.”
William frowned in puzzlement. While he hadn’t been hungry minutes before, now he was.
Supper ended up being a plain but hearty vegetable stew, made from William’s own supplies.