“The holy books speak with Legends. Not with Truths. The gods already gave you the three lives you ask for. The one, before Apelo, when you were driven by your sword and your ambition. The one, in the Forest, the life of the butterfly that escaped its cocoon and flew. That was a beautiful life. The butterfly lived for many honeyed moons.” Nagpaal continued, “And more recently the third one, those last four years, where you became a storyteller and found the eternal life of the ink and the codex.”
Da-Ren shook his head with denial and despair as he listened to the bald monk. When I first met him, Nagpaal seemed the kindest and most acquiescent, the one with the softest words. But he became the one who spared not even a thread of hope as he spoke:
“The gods also granted you seven deaths. In the Sieve, in the Forest, with the Ouna-Ma’s poison, in Apelo, in Lenos, in the Wolfhowl and one more tomorrow. Those are the Legends. They are not Truths. To live three lives, you must suffer seven deaths. Whatever you asked for.”
“Only one miracle. Aneria,” he pleaded.
Nagpaal repeated his answer in a more severe tone.
“Don’t succumb to the Sorcerers, Da-Ren. Why now? You never did. My own God could offer you the three lives you ask, and Zeev’s mighty God can bring upon you the seven deaths of revenge. Evagus here is the most powerful of us all, for his God can promise everything, but you must suffer eternity before he comes. Worse, you must suffer it again after he comes. But ignore those gifts. They are deceitful and useless. Life owes you no gifts,” Nagpaal said for the last time.
“Long ago I gave two promises to Zeria and Aneria. I will never stop until I fulfill them. No matter whatever hell your gods send me to, I’ll return until I am vindicated. I demand three lives.”
Baagh also spoke his last words:
“The circle of blood must stop, Da-Ren. The barbarians were destroyed. That’s how it always happens. Time and again through the centuries they rise to power, only to end up devouring their own flesh. I told you.”
“Is that why you followed me for so many years, Baagh? To take revenge on my tribe for Varazam?”
“Revenge? No. To prevent it from happening again. You did the right thing, Da-Ren.”
“I didn’t want to become a martyr, Baagh, or an angel of death like the ones in your papyri. I only wanted to live with them.”
“You did. You had a happy life.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“It never is.”
Da-Ren pleaded with the monks for the last time.
“I will do anything to get back the three lives.”
“Even if you have to suffer seven more deaths?”
“Yes.”
“Blasphemy and defiance to the end. I pity you for the fate you choose. Find your peace, Da-Ren,” said Baagh.
Da-Ren tightened his lips to stop from breaking down, to fight one last tear.
“Peace? Peace? Baagh, have you ever put your hand…under the ribs, to pull out?”
“No, I am not a savage.”
My ears burned with their words, and my gaze turned to the sea, longing for that pirate ship to come and set everything on fire, so I wouldn’t have to listen anymore. A holybird was beating a locust savagely with its beak, crushing it atop the tree branch.
“You are not a savage, Baagh? I am. And I am going to stay here today. So that all of you live. Because I am the savage.”
Neither the Sorcerers nor Da-Ren had any more words.
He shut the red-rimmed eyes that had been crying for a thousand nights.
What did he see?
What did the Almighty show him?
Far away there in the poppy-covered fields, west of the White Doe. So many of them, the young girls of Lenos run and dance among the blood flowers, chasing butterflies on a summer day such as this.
Did you see them, through shut red eyes, Da-Ren?
Apocrypha Revealed
Sixteen years after the events at Hieros Island
According to the Imperial Scriber Eusebius
“Behold, Asimea, the One Mother of the Tribe, First Witch of the Ten Thousand Archers, Womb of the Ssons, and Voice of the Sky, the Bringer of the Auguries and the Heart of Enaka, the silver-haired daughter of Selene, behold the mother of the Khun, the Emperor north of the Blackvein and west of the steppe. Kneel at her feet, all of you, othertribers or of our own blood.”
The Ouna-Ma descended the steps and walked past me, leaving a scent of cypress and oliban as she exited the hall. Asimea was let alone, staring at me. They had let none of my companions join me in her private hall.
It was the same black throne that Da-Ren had described to me, almost twenty years ago at Hieros; even the two maulers sitting silently, panting at her feet. And she was all that I had imagined. The painted silver hair, her face silver on one side, the hands ending in gold-painted nails and the silver armbands heavy with rubies; bands around her naked ankles. Eyes deeper and darker than Da-Ren ever could describe them, those of a creature who barely passed as human. A creature to be worshipped. Lips and nose beautiful as sin. I knelt; I actually welcomed the order of the Ouna-Ma after the long journey we had just completed. Asimea, the First Witch of the Tribe, addressed me for the first time.
“Welcome, Eusebius. Or do you prefer that I call you Imperial Scriber, your official title?”
“I don’t have as many titles as you, my queen.”
“No one calls me queen, yet I understand that you are used to this word in Thalassopolis.”
“Forgive me, the only title I always preferred was monk. It is the least demanding and the most humbling.”
“You don’t wear the cloth anymore.”
“I wouldn’t dare. I lost God, long ago. I can admit it in here, unlike in Thalassopolis.”
“We all did. We were all servants of God once; even I. I know you don’t believe me, but we’ll have time to discuss all this. I thank you for coming, and I thank the Emperor for allowing you to do so. I hope you’ll find your stay enjoyable.”
“I had heard that you spoke our tongue, but your mastery surprises me, First Witch.”
“There are many things that will surprise you before you leave the Iron Vale. I am not even sure I can allow you to leave after you’ve heard everything. But I needed you and only you for this task. Tell me, is it true what they say, that you completed the Story of Da-Ren in that island, scribing for four long years?”
“Yes. I have the proof, First Witch. I brought a copy here, for your tribe to finally know his tales. He was your ninestar, Uncarved, and Firstblade. But for me, he was brother, hero, nightmare, savior, and my life’s only story.”
“And? Am I in there, in those codices? Did he ever speak about me?”
“You refer to the events of the night before the battle of Apelo. And the evening before Wolfhowl.”
I lowered my eyes, yet this attempt revealed that I knew a lot more than anyone could imagine.
“So he did! You must rest now, but come tomorrow morning; they’ll bring you back here. It will be only the two of us. And them,” she pointed at the dogs. “And I will hear your story.”
“Will the Khun attend?”
“Absolutely not! No one will. You may speak to the Khun about other matters and your official mission as mandated by the Emperor, but the truth of the past will remain between us. An exchange!”
“An exchange?”
“Yes, that’s why I invited you here, Eusebius. When I heard of a man called Da-Ren’s scribe I knew I had to meet you. You will give me his Story, and in exchange, I will tell you mine.”
“I am honored.”
“You are frightened and rightfully so. But my Story is brief; the one I really want you to put down on the parchment is another one. That of Sah-Ouna. I had promised her that I would do so after she died.”
“Sah-Ouna? Do you know he story?” I trembled with an excitement that had become very rare at my age.
“You are here to scribe the Apocrypha of Sah-Ouna from when she was a young w
oman south of the Blackvein.”
“Apocrypha?”
“This is the name Sah-Ouna chose herself. The Apocrypha chapters as I heard them many times and which exist only sealed in my memory. And if I am right they will reveal to you a lot about Da-Ren’s Story. About Sah-Ouna. Malan. Their bloodline.”
“Did you say, ‘their bloodline?’”
“There is so much you don’t know, Eusebius. And no one else ever will, unless you scribe the Apocrypha of the Witch. Her Story is short, but it is the other half of Da-Ren’s. You’ll know of her bloodline, yes. Even Da-Ren’s.”
“You are full of surprises, Asimea. I don’t think I will be able to sleep tonight.”
“Our milk-spirit is strong. You will. Come dawn, we start.”
“You cannot imagine my excitement, First Witch. I am too tired to show it, after such a long and strenuous journey. I am not used to those horses and carriages. But to finally know the story of Sah-Ouna!”
“The Apocrypha will be a heavy burden and contain secrets that may kill whoever hears them. But they must be written and saved, for I am the only one who knows the truth now. There must be a second. A worthy one. A scribe.”
“I hoped that when we are finished here, I may venture west. I always wanted to cross Da-Ren’s Forest, the White Doe. Even go to Lenos to meet young Princess Zeria.”
“Princess Zeria, eh? The insolence of her, choosing that name. When we finish here, I may have to murder you or keep you chained forever. You must know that we’re not on good terms with the young princess. I can’t accept a girl of her age defying me. But I promise you that you will learn of Malan’s beginning and end. And Sah-Ouna’s. This must be worth a lot to you.”
“It most certainly is. And I will reveal all about Da-Ren’s beginning and end,” I added.
“I might even surprise you on that matter, Eusebius.”
“What do you mean?”
“Thank you for making it so far to listen to me. But this is another story, for another day. Please, go rest now.”
XCVI.
Like the Drakon of a Mythical Tale
Island of the Holy Monastery, Thirty-Sixth Summer.
According to the Monk Eusebius
Drakon was the name the peasants always favored. His nest was perched on the highest peak of the island, the steep barren rock that rose on the northern back of the Castlemonastery. He was the eagle who ruled the pelago, the osprey, black and white-feathered, proud and regal. Gold were his eyes and claws. He mated once and nevermore in life and abandoned his nest only to hunt for prey on the sea waves.
Drakon was the first-ever settler on Hieros Island, before man, horse, locust, or holybird. Even before God. Vigilant, with radiant eye, the sea eagle flew down to the southwest tower for the first time that morning.
“To taste the flesh of the holybirds,” said those who hadn’t read the story.
“To defend his nest from the barbarians,” said the others.
“εδρακων. He spotted the pirates first.” Even fewer would choose the ancient verb. That was where Drakon had gotten his name from, his perfect eyesight. Only one dream blinded him; only one could kill him.
I had eaten and written with Da-Ren for a thousand days and nights, but never had I seen him prepare for battle. He shouted with all his strength to the old peasants and the monks who had stayed behind.
“We only need to defend the gate for a day. They cannot climb those walls from anywhere else. We will be above the gate on the two towers, and you will throw whatever death you have at them. If you can shoot an arrow, do so when they’re close enough. If you can wield a sword, tear through at least one of those dogs. Oil and fire. Once this ship disembarks, we’ll barricade this gate. And don’t let them capture you alive because they will torture you. Keep lit torches nearby. Set yourselves on fire and fall upon them if you cannot fight any longer. Throw yourselves off the walls.”
I still had hopes that the pirate ship would not appear, that Da-Ren would be able to join me on our escape.
“Ship east tower! Ship east tower!” shouted Rufinus, the words like daggers through my heart. The old man had decided to stay and fight with Da-Ren, defend his library and the holy scrolls.
“They’re coming. Still far off, sailing straight from the east. That ship will reach us by midday. We must run,” Nathan came to report.
“Light the beacon fires on the northern ruins, to lure them there first,” Da-Ren said.
“We did that.”
“That will delay them, till they go around the whole island, looking for a place to anchor. The harbor here is well hidden. You must sail away, now.”
“Come with me, Da-Ren!” I pleaded.
“I will. I’ll come down the steps to bid farewell.”
We ran down as fast as we could, following Nathan. Agathon was already flashing the torch, the last signal before departure. Da-Ren had helped me earlier to load the last trunks on the merchant boat. The children had gone in first; the trunks with the codices last. I decided to take both the prototypon and the crypton with us.
From the jetty, he spoke to Baagh for the last time:
“We must hold until sundown. If we don’t, they’ll come after you. That ship of theirs seems fast. I promise you we’ll fight, even if all you left here are old men and cripples,” said Da-Ren.
“The children of the old men are on the boat. They’ll fight well,” said Baagh. “And it will be a day of redemption for you, Da-Ren, to save all these children here.”
“Redemption? No. I still go to your hell. But with a smile.”
Da-Ren turned to me, shaking his head without words.
“You knew they’d come,” I said with bitter lips.
“Why are the pirates coming here, Eusebius? To this barren rock that the winds beat mercilessly?” he asked me.
“For the gold. Everyone knows that this the Castle of Gold.”
“Gold. Not God. You never revealed that.”
“Forgive me. I never cared much about gold.”
He smirked and wiped with the back of his hand the sweat from his forehead. He stared far away into the blue sea.
“What a fate! Since I was a twelve-wintered boy I’ve been trying to die for love and in the end, I’ll die for gold.”
“The manuscript is with me,” I said. “It will live forever.”
“You have one final chapter to add, Eusebius. From last night. Write the truth, not the half-lies that we had scribed before. Where will you go?”
“West, to Foleron Island. It is a wasteland, harsher than Hieros. The peasants will stay there until next spring. I’ll continue with Evagus and the others to Thalassopolis.”
“At least you got rid of the cloth, Eusebius. Now, go and become someone else.”
“Poet. Warrior.”
“Lover. Barbarian,” he smirked at his own words.
“You know, Da-Ren, I don’t need to save the manuscript.”
He didn’t answer. He was talking to the peasants who stared at him from the ship’s deck:
“We are all going to die here today before nightfall. But your children will be saved!” he shouted.
He raised his fist as if he were celebrating. A summer day, a blinding sun above us.
“Abandon whatever you cannot load. Leave now!” Da-Ren yelled. “Farewell now, Eusebius. Go! To Thalassopolis.”
I had thrown off my cassock. I wore a short-sleeved, milk-white tunic, trousers like the common folk, and belted a dirk around my waist. I unwrapped a sheet of papyrus that I had kept inside my clothes and gave it to him.
“Do you want me to read it to you?” I asked.
“I’ll manage. You taught me.”
He read it by himself:
…the Night Goddess left her egg, and from their dark and silent union came to be the God of Love, Eros, his wings sparkling silver and gold. The God of Love carries a bow. If his arrow strikes a mortal, he falls into passionate ecstasy. And then, as Love triumphs and conquers, it leads tha
t man down to one of two paths. To Virtue or to Misery…
“I don’t need to save the manuscript, Da-Ren. Because I will remember its words forever.”
The boat sailed away. The sea gave us life.
From afar I could see the osprey, the Drakon, sharpening his claws high above the Castlemonastery. He had perched himself on the southwest corner tower, next to Da-Ren, to defend the sacred and the holy. I saw my friend standing tall on the battlements. From there he would be able to peer on both sides. The pirates approaching from the east, us disappearing in the west. Two shiny blades above his head formed a cross, calling the pirates, flashing the light of the sun before falling bravely at dusk.
I waved my last farewell standing on the stern next to the wood-carved swan. The defenders had lit the torches all along the parapets to lure the pirates away from our escaping ship. Fires everywhere. But it was the sun flashing on his two unsheathed swords, the last light that I was ever to see on that windswept rock, where the doomed and the faithful came to seek eternal life. It was, I know now, the only pure and holy light.
The previous afternoon, before the reading of the final chapter, we had searched every dungeon of the Castlemonastery. In the cell with the white bones of the deceased monks, we found a chainmail armor. It had a wide gaping hole on its right side leaving the ribs unprotected.
Armor. As soon as you put it on you hear the voices of the dead heroes. They sing to you from the stars, whisper how you’ll die, where the iron will pierce you.
“Armor! Like those of my enemies. I’ll wear it when the pirates are near,” Da-Ren said to me when he saw it.
Its right side tattered and rusty.
“You’ve never worn armor before, Da-Ren.”
He put it on.
“Death comes at twilight tomorrow. I want the blade to enter from the right, under the rib. Just like that evening under the oaks, when Zeria saved me from the poisoned arrow. And then maybe I’ll see the Forest again. In the end.”
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