by Peter Harris
The refugees felt their way down the spiralling stairs into the depths. Their heavy breathing and their stumbling footsteps were the only sounds, loud in that constricted space. Rilke was holding onto the hem of Goldheart’s long dress, and Worriette was clinging to Rilke’s back like a baby monkey to its mother, chattering nervously to herself as they went down and down into the bowels of Aeden.
Finally there was a faint light below. ‘The diamond mines!’ said someone, and they all hurried and stumbled down the last steep steps into the bluish tunnels, lit dimly with small clear amber spheres that glowed with a pale light, like fireflies. The tunnels branched and converged randomly like a rabbit warren, sometimes joining to form larger galleries where the light hardly reached the ceiling. Here and there in the walls were veins that glittered with thousands of tiny diamonds. Rilke wanted to stop and scratch at them, but the party was in a hurry and he was swept on. ‘This way, I think!’ said the young man, and they all followed. But soon they were in a cul-de-sac, where picks and shovels still lay, and a little hole in the rockface showed sparkling gems within.
‘We must feel the draught. That will lead us to the lake,’ said Goldheart.
‘Why not let Worriette down and see where she goes?’ said Rilke. He put her down and she scampered off. They followed, Rilke at the front, with Goldheart close behind.
Soon they came to a place where the floor sloped away, then came up against a wide blank rockface that looked like the rock of the Canyon walls. Worriette sniffed along this until she came to a halt, gazed at the blank rockface as if hypnotised, then leaped forward and disappeared into it.
‘Wait!’ called Rilke. But she was gone.
‘It’s just like Shelley told me about Barachthad’s place! There was a mindweb over the cave mouth!’ said Rilke as the others crowded round. He closed his eyes and reached into the rock. He felt a gap. Taking one step forward he disappeared, seemingly into solid rock. The refugees stepped back in alarm. Meanwhile Rilke saw ahead of him in the dark a narrow vertical crack, just wide enough for the adults to squeeze through sideways. He popped back out, and said, ‘It’s all right! There’s a passage here.’ But the refugees hung back.
‘It is the magic of the Zagonamara! The ghostly boat people will get us if we go in there!’ they protested.
But Rilke said, ‘I will follow Worriette. If she’s not scared, then it’s all right.’
He stepped into the wall again, and groped his way along until he saw a faint light ahead. ‘Worriette!’ he called, but there was no answer. He heard a squeal, then whimpering. Alarmed, he hurried towards the sound, until he rounded a bend and came out into a wider space. But blocking the way, towering over him, silhouetted against the dim light of the bottomless lake, was a tall hooded figure.
‘Is this yours?’ it asked.
Worriette was dangling by the scruff of her neck from a huge hand.
‘Yes, please sir,’ said Rilke, remembering his manners, his heart beating fast from the shock of meeting anyone at all in that deep deserted place, let alone a giant.
‘It is a long time since I saw one of these,’ said the owner of the huge hand, offering the little wurrier back to Rilke, who shrank away from him. But the man said, ‘Do not be afraid. I am Rastapin, son of Rastanap and Earthmist, of the Order of the Zagonamara.’ Then Rilke saw that Worriette was not afraid, but was actually purring, which wurriers rarely do.
He plucked up courage and took her, replying, ‘And I’m Rilke, son of Grim and Ira of Pebblebrook.’
‘My monks are expecting you. The boats are waiting. How many are you?’
‘There are about twenty of us back there, maybe thirty,’ replied Rilke.
The monk looked gravely at him. ‘So few,’ he said sadly. ‘Well, Rilke my son, go and get them. Tell them not to fear the people of the Zagonamara.’
Rilke turned, holding Worriette, and went back up the narrow passage. He soon ran into Goldheart, who had led the others trembling through the gap after Rilke.
They followed Rastapin down the sloping chamber towards the dim light, and soon they came out into the Canyon, and there was the lake, lapping on smooth, many-coloured pebbles. Aquatic plants like Neptune’s necklace grew about some larger rocks, which looked as if they had fallen ages before into the lake from the overhanging cliffs above. Phosphorescent fish darted out of the shallows as several graceful boats, long and narrow, appeared out of the gloom and nudged the shore, each with a monk dressed like Rastapin guiding it with a long paddle from the rear. They motioned to the refugees to climb aboard, then the procession backed off into the dark waters and, turning, paddled out along the lake.
Goldheart wept now that the immediate danger was past. She had heard of the holy monks of the Zagonamara, and though she feared them, it was not like her fear of the Aghmaath, but an awe born of reverence for the sacred deeps, above which she had lived all her life but which she had never touched. And Rastapin told her, ‘Do not weep. We saw the bodies fall into the sacred lake, and in our long boats under cover of the mist we came and removed them for burial. The time of destruction of the Canyon sects was long foreseen by the Zagonamara, and much good will come of it. For those who survive, the unity of the Truth will burn brighter in their hearts as they fight a good fight against the darkness of deception.’
After a while the boats turned again, as if at an invisible signal, and they floated in the half-light at the mouth of a huge cavern. It was clearly not dug by human hands, but was covered with long hanging stalactites and curtain-like flowforms of delicate pinks and whites like bone china glistening with water that slowly ran, tinkling and plinking, into the lake.
The monks appeared to be waiting for something. Soon, around a bend in the Canyon came another boat. In it were two figures familiar to Rilke and Goldheart: Shelley, waving in the bows and Korman, sitting amidships, looking like a king of olden days, raising his good left hand in blessing.
‘Shelley! Korman! How did you get here?’ called Rilke, nearly tipping his boat over in his excitement.
‘We jumped,’ said Shelley, and Korman smiled at their astonishment.
‘It is true,’ he said. ‘Now we are to be escorted to the monastery of the Zagonamara at the main outflow of the lake. It is a great honour.’
The boats turned into the northern shore of the cavern mouth, and the refugees saw that a path led up to a row of narrow arched entrances dug into the walls. They all disembarked and there was a joyful reunion. Shelley told the others about her adventures and how she had made the parachutes. ‘Wow,’ said Rilke, using the Earth term he had learned from Shelley. He looked up at her in awe.
In the middle of the line of caves was one larger opening, like a keyhole or huge fish with its tail on the ground and head in the air. It was carved with sinuous twin serpents, of beautiful rainbow hues, whose heads overhung the top of the arch and guarded the entranceway, their eyes made of glittering blue diamonds, and a third eye of ruby in the middle of their brows, glowing in the reflected light of the Canyon. Worriette shivered and tried to jump out of Shelley’s arms when they approached, but Rastapin reassured them: ‘These are not venomous snakes which kill, but an image of the intertwined male and female aspects of the life-giving force we call the Zagonamara. Welcome to our monastery.’ At his kindly voice, Worriette calmed down and let Shelley carry her over the threshold.
Inside, the monks made them all welcome at the long tables of polished, rainbow-coloured stone. These were warmed with some energy which pulsed through Shelley’s veins when she touched them. The same orbs that were in the diamond mines lit the interior of the hall. Fish was brought – ‘Cooked in the hot springs of the Zagonamara,’ explained Rastapin – and there were cakes of some kind of grain. ‘Like the millet mum grew for the hens,’ thought Shelley as she munched on one hungrily. It was now well past midday, though the light outside remained muted.
‘Don’t you get sick of the dim light?’ Shelley asked a young monk sitting next to her and Ko
rman.
‘Not at all, young Lady,’ he replied. ‘My mother, the priestess Lasmarina, says that the light of day which strikes the lake only at midsummer, no matter how beautiful, is not the light we must seek. That light is only to be found in the darkness and quiet space within our hearts, with the help of the Zagonamara which energizes all life.’
‘Are there women down here too, then?’
‘Of course. But they are more secretive. They are very sacred, and live in the hidden priestesses’ convent and palace at the inflow of the sacred lake, to the north.’
‘Do you… see each other?’
‘Of course. When the times are right, all the monks who wish to make the pilgrimage go to the priestesses’ palace, or by secret paths to the Canyon above, or to the mystic lake of Avalon, and find a lover.’
‘Have you done this yet?’
The young monk smiled shyly, ‘No, not yet. I am not ready.’
‘So, where do they raise the children?’
‘At the palace, of course, each with his or her mother under the care and guidance of the older mothers, to learn of the great Mother until the time of the boys’ initiation here, where they learn, from their fathers and all the monks, skills and rituals appropriate to a man.’
‘How strange! But at least you can… you know…’ She blushed.
‘Can know the joy of being with a woman or a man,’ said the young monk. ‘Yes, that is the way of all things that live and breathe, is it not? Why do you blush? Through it we pass on our life breath – and come to know the full power of the Zagonamara, which embraces both male and female energies, and blends them.’
‘Do you know who I am supposed to be?’
‘The blessed Kortana, of course. We are honoured to have you here. You will soon meet the one who holds the sacred power of the Zagonamara on the surface, where the light easily distracts men and women from the inner power.’
‘You mean… the Lady?’
‘Of course.’
‘But did you know she is caught in the…’
‘…Thorns, in the Valley of Thorns. Yes. We know. We share in her burdens and suffering as we pray for the liberation of this land. The Deep feels the deepest pain when the Top is injured.’
Shelley felt a wave of intense sadness sweep over her, as she remembered the Lady in the thorns, and the fire and destruction in the Canyon above, and the people falling into the depths, and their screams.
‘It’s because of me the Aghmaath came,’ she murmured, her voice breaking. ‘And brave Mandala sacrificed his life so I could escape.’
Then she wept openly, and the monk comforted her, putting an arm around her shoulder.
‘It is good to cry. The lake is full of tears, offerings to the Zagonamara, for the healing of all creatures, and the comfort of all who weep. Hear the dripping of the Tears of the World into the Bottomless Lake, and the chanting of our folk to the Zagonamara:
O Damarha Ennyasha enzür
Damariti padram enbaz!
Damarhan Namyá
Magathrha tem Pagrathvala
Pagya Baz Apédnapathya
Magné Zagonamarya.
O tears of Ainenia above
Diamond-tears in the rock below!
Tears of the World,
Ever watering the Tree of Life
In Baz Apédnapath
The Wouivre’s mother’
As Shelley listened to the chanting up and down the Canyon, she was comforted, and knew in her heart that her part in these events had to be, that it was somehow all part of a great dance - the great Unfolding, as Korman called it, and yet not fixed, but responsive to individual choices and the faith and courage everyone generated. She saw a vision in her mind’s eye of a great, finely-branching silver tree, of which every twig, leaf and flower was an individual choice. And in spite of all the wrong choices, the Tree was still beautiful. Korman’s words came back to her: ‘By our thoughts we shift the Unfolding and the Tree grows branches where it would not have otherwise.’ She vowed to practise shifting the Unfolding to avoid the tragedies she had seen unfold that day in the Canyon above. Now she was swept up into the music that began to be played, magical music that reminded her of all the depths and heights she had felt since coming to Aeden, and of the ever-branching silvery Tree of Life.
After the meal there was discussion of the battle, and Rastapin led them all in a prayer for the liberation and reunification of Aeden. Then he called Shelley forward and blessed her, pouring some of the sacred waters of the lake over her head with the words, ‘When you leave here, go in the power of the Zagonamara, and remember that the earth of Aeden is deep and its love is powerful and never-ending, and when it flows through you, Love will eventually prevail.’
Shelley was at first flattered, then overwhelmed with a sense of the sacred power that seemed to flow through her and through everything there.
‘I feel as if I could go mad with it if I spent too long in this place,’ she confided to Korman afterwards.
‘You feel the power of the Zagonamara – it is close here,’ replied Korman. ‘One day you will feel it in union with other powers which will give you a balance. Then you will be enlightened and empowered as the Kortana, knowing Earth and Sky and everything in between. Then you will shift the Unfolding mightily, and the Heartstone will be restored, and the new Age will be born. That is why we must go to Ürak Tara.’
At the end of the day all the visitors were given more food, then there was dancing, and the priestesses came out and danced sacred dances with the monks, and Shelley and Korman and the other refugees joined in, joy and gladness filling all hearts, so that they forgot their sorrows for a while. As Rastapin said to Shelley when she questioned their lightheartedness in the face of the threat of the Aghmaath, ‘Let us eat, drink, and be happy and full of love, for tomorrow we may die.’
But he took Korman aside and they talked deep into the night: of the affairs of Aeden, of the Lady, and of the Aghmaath now in control of the Canyon above; but especially of the ‘Troubles,’ the conflict they had with the new Keeper of Baldrock.
‘He has shut out the pilgrims and prevented them from ascending to the holy Summit,’ Rastapin said. ‘It has brought more grief to our people, and the Zagonamara is troubled.’
‘Yet you say there is a power there which is good, and you have felt it increasing,’ said Korman. ‘What is the answer to this riddle?’
‘It is like the Canyon peoples, the Seekers of Truth. They sought first only Truth, and it divided them. We seek first only Love, and it unites us. On Baldrock is another who seeks the Higher – the head and the crown and the Heavens – while resisting the lower, the body and the Earth. He will not speak with us, but we believe he is one of the Guardian Tidak who escaped from the overthrow of the Tor Enyása.’
‘There is only one who may have escaped, surely, and that is my brother,’ said Korman, ‘Hillgard the Lionhearted. The parents of Goldheart met him in the Canyon, and tended his wounds.’
Shelley and Rilke, and the exhausted wurrier, all slept soundly in a cosy guestroom off the main chambers, on beds of dried lake weed which was like maidenhair fern, soft and green. It was perfumed with the petals of the roses which some of the Canyon people used to throw down as offerings to the Zagonamara, but would no longer. All dreamed of the terrible day that had been – Worriette’s paws twitched as if she were trying to run, and her whiskers shivered – but into all their dreams came the soothing lift of the lake. And love, as of an all-forgiving Mother, comforted their hearts.
In the morning, all the refugees were provisioned by their loving hosts, then went by boat to the caves of the Milkwater, from which they would emerge into the light of day by the hidden spring at Potterville. But Korman and Shelley, (and Rilke, after much pleading), were to go aboard another boat in the other direction, south towards Baldrock. Now it was time to say their goodbyes to Goldheart and the others.
‘Where will you go when you get out, Goldheart?’ asked Shelley.
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‘When it is safe I will go over the Canyon Hills until I come to the artists’ colony. There I hope to find my husband, Azure. Or if they have fled from the Aghmaath, I will seek him wherever he may be. And, Shelley, I will always keep his icon of you safe, and pray to the Lady for your success in the mission She has foreseen for you.’ The children hugged Goldheart tearfully and wished her good luck in finding her husband. She stroked Worriette one last time and got into her boat. Her golden hair and pale arms outstretched in farewell were the last things they saw as the refugee boats glided away and disappeared into the gloom.
Now Shelley, Korman and Rilke set off on their own journey. Casmarine, the young monk Shelley had talked with the night before, was their oarsman. After a dark but uneventful voyage they came to a smaller cave that ran under the hills at the south end of the Canyon. A strong draught seemed to be trying to suck them into the cave, moaning eerily as it blew past stalactites and stalagmites.
As they arrived at the cave mouth, Casmarine whispered to them, ‘This is the Cave of the Voice. It is a very holy passageway. Until the Troubles it was a path of pilgrimage, called by us Rastavana, the Sacred Throat, for it leads to the Head of the Zagonamara, which is our Mount Kallazür, the abode of the Highest, known to you as Baldrock. You must not speak, but only listen, until you emerge from the Sacred Throat into the light of the sun. Then, Lord Korman, as Father Rastapin has said to you, if you dare to climb the holy mountain with his message, may the Zagonamara be with you.’
‘This is the path laid before us in our quest for Ürak Tara and the restoration of Aeden. We are being sent forth on the very breath of the Zagonamara, and all will be well,’ replied Korman.
There at the dark entrance of the Sacred Throat, at the southernmost shore of the lake of the Zagonamara, they put on their packs, embraced Casmarine and said goodbye. Then they walked up into the dark passageway, lit only by the crystal on Korman’s staff. There were many twists and turns to the cave, and several steep climbs beside dark waterfalls, but eventually they reached the exit, pushed by the strong draught from below as they emerged, blinking in the daylight, through the huge mouth-like opening under great cliffs in a hidden valley. After their long sojourn in the Canyon the world at large seemed ten times as bright as they remembered. They had escaped at last from Baz Apédnapath – or had been, as Korman said, ‘Sent forth.’
Chapter Thirty-one
The Keepers of Baldrock