“You don’t want to hear that again,” Frenjoo said shyly.
“No,” Paladin said quickly, “I would very much like to hear it, Frenjoo.”
Frenjoo seemed to hesitate. But then, clearing his throat, he sat a bit more upright and stared intently at the floor of their small, makeshift cabin. “Oh, all right.”
In reality, telling tales was one of Frenjoo’s favorite things to do (and he was actually quite good at it), especially this one. It was a tale that all chendrith were familiar with from the time they were young: A tale told by countless mothers to coax their young’uns to sleep; a tale embellished by restless siblings as they lay in bed at night, or wary travelers journeying under hostile skies. It had even been told by a general or two during military skirmishes to boost the morale of troops. It was, to most chendrith, a part of their mental furniture. The tale never lost its power: it could always still, silence, and sober the listener.
Could it be that deep down inside, lurking somewhere below the consciousness, there was a forgotten or pushed-aside acknowledgement that this tale was not merely invented to entertain, but was in fact true and real and rooted in history? Paladin lay there, looking at the hay-ceiling, and waited for Frenjoo to begin. It seemed that every time he heard this tale (and, for him, it had been a long time), there was a brief, flickering moment when the elusive sense of familiarity about it seemed almost definable. It was not unlike experiencing déjà vu; or when someone recovers from amnesia and things seem familiar and forgotten all at once. The tale was to the chendrith what the story of the nativity has become to most humans.
When the small enclosure grew still, and shadows deepened to a darker hue, Frenjoo began. The only light in the room was a pale glow that seemed to emanate from Frenjoo’s face.
CHAPTER 11
“The Tale of the Lamb”
“Once there was a glorious kingdom far, far away. This kingdom was beautiful and rich and wholly unspoiled. It was ruled by the wisest and gentlest of kings. The kingdom existed long before any of the elahs entered the world, and was populated by the first existing representative of each kind of animal. There was Uta the Great Dog, and father of all dog-kind; Sporraw the Great Bird, the first of all flying birds. Here there was Vilmbricht the Great Fox, and Grypha the Great Lion. All the legendary fathers of the chendrith lived in this kingdom, and the kindly king was their Lord, keeper, and friend. For many years life in the kingdom was beyond our ability to imagine, for all chendrith lived in peace with one another, and none hunted another for sport or food. It was in those days just as we believe it shall be once again.
“But one day there came into this kingdom a Dark Stranger. He came alone; he walked quietly, and leaned upon a long, gnarled wooden staff. The Stranger was hooded and cloaked, and as he slowly made his way to the castle of the kindly King, it is said that all flowers and plants shriveled at his passing. For any chendrith who dared look into the darkness under the Stranger’s hood, their ability to speak was stolen.
“Bane was his name. None knew from where he came. He moved without word or sound, and made no display of himself. He crept, and no shadow followed behind. One by one the chendrith sensed his coming, and when he passed they each began to follow to the castle to see how the King would deal with such an invader.
“Bane reached the steps of the castle, and all were sure that—upon seeing him—the King would banish Bane from their lands. To their surprise, the King walked quietly down the long, steep steps of the castle, and all could see him talking with Bane. After a few moments, the King nodded and Bane stepped aside, allowing the King to re-ascend the steps. By this point, all chendrith in the kingdom had gathered on the huge, sprawling lawn before the castle, and waited anxiously to see what the King would do.
“Friends,” the King began (for he did not call them servants). “Something has happened in the kingdom today.”
“Tell us!” shouted Vilmbricht. “Tell us what it is, O King!”
“Yes!” others agreed, nodding and grunting. “Tell us, please!”
The King smiled patiently and held up his hands as he spoke. “An ancient enemy has come to lay claim to the kingdom!”
A wave of surprise and dread spread across the crowd gathered.
“From where has this intruder come, my Lord?” Grypha, the Great Lion, growled.
“Intruder?” The King raised his eyebrows and looked upon his subjects with great love. “You misunderstand, my dear Grypha. This is no intruder. This is something that has been with you the whole time, here in the kingdom.” The King nodded at the puzzled looks of the chendrith. “Yes, something that has always been . . . but sleeping.” The King paused, then added, “But, one of you has awakened him, my friends.”
The chendrith murmured and looked at each other. “And one of you,” the King continued, “must put him to rest.”
The King looked upon the chendrith with deep, sad eyes.
Bane stood motionless; a hooded gargoyle at the foot of the steps.
An awkward silence descended, until finally Uta, the Great Dog spoke. “But will you not tell us who woke this sleeping thing, O King?”
“Nay,” the King said, shaking his head. “For now, it does not matter. It would only lead to you losing focus of the most important thing. For even though it was only one of you who awakened him . . . he comes to lay claim to all of you! For that is his right.”
At the King’s pronouncement, great cries of fear and shock and dismay erupted from the lawn.
Bane nodded, but made no sound.
“What will happen if this thing is not laid to rest, my Lord?” a voice peeped. It was Garnthol, the father of the mice-kind.
The King looked around at them with a deep, sad gaze. He sighed and lowered his eyes. Though none could see, a single tear rolled down his smooth, but aged cheek. Slowly—painfully—the King said, “Then Bane will become like me, and I will become like him. He will be your rightful King, and I . . .” The King paused for another moment, as though speaking these things drained the very life from him. The stillness on the lawn was complete. All chendrith—small and great—gathered here now to hear the King’s pronouncement. “I will fade,” the King said, “and become slave to the Great Void.”
A shock went through the crowd: shrieking, squeaking, squealing, squiggling, braying, barking, howling, hooting, jumping, shaking, snarling, whimpering.
The King listened but finally raised one hand, speaking above the cacophony. “I hear your disapproval, my friends. And I share it. But that is not what is needed. Now is a time for sterner stuff. I ask you a question.” He searched their fuzzy faces, saw their anticipation. “Which of you will actually do something about this calamity—this curse—my friends? Is there any one among you who will actually face this fear in place of all the others?”
A long pause followed, where all the chendrith regarded one another nervously. Finally, Grypha stepped forward and said, “I will face this thing, O King.”
“Ahh, Grypha!” The King smiled, but still he looked sad. “Tell me, what will you use to defeat this foe?”
“I will use my great strength,” Grypha roared, baring his teeth and claws. The chendrith shrank away from him.
The King nodded. Bane remained unmoved.
“And is your strength as complete as mine?” a voice thundered. The whole land shook as Looma, the first Great Elephant, lumbered toward the castle steps, the crowd parting as he came. Grypha nodded and Looma looked to the King. “I will do this thing, Your Majesty. There is none as strong as I.”
The King smiled. “True, Looma. True.”
“No!” another voice announced. It was Sporraw, who fluttered over both Grypha and Looma and landed on the first step of the castle. “I will do this thing,” the bird said.
“You, Sporraw?” the King asked, smiling slightly. “And what will you use to defeat this enemy?”
“I will use my wings, my Lord.” Sporraw flapped his wings this way and that. “It is true that both Grypha a
nd Looma have strength. But they are bound to walk the earth. I will take to the sky and crash upon this enemy, defeating him in a way they could not.”
A murmur of approval went through the assembly. Grypha and Looma looked at each other as the King once more nodded approvingly.
“And none is swifter than I!” shouted Timbana, the Great Leopard. She bounded to the castle steps and ran circles around Sporraw, confusing the poor bird.
“Or able to fight hand-to-hand like I!” Renfu, the Great Gorilla, cried, and grabbed Timbana by the tail. He swung her from the steps and glared at the other chendrith, beating his chest for emphasis.
There followed a heated debate amongst all the chendrith as to who was the strongest, the fastest, the biggest, the fiercest to take on the enemy.
But two figures remained unmoved: the King and Bane.
Finally, a smooth voice hissed, “You’ve all got the wrong ideassssss.” Grypha, Looma, Sporraw, Timbana, Renfu, and any other who had stepped forward to nominate themselves stopped bickering. They turned to see Fastwith the serpent slithering toward the castle steps. “It will not be strength, or flight, or speed, or hands, or might that will defeat this enemy,” Fastwith whispered.
“No?” the King asked. “And what do you propose, Fastwith?”
“It will be wisdom, my Lord King. For there is none more cunning than I.”
“Ah. . . That is certainly true.” The King nodded.
One by one—all day long and into the afternoon—each of the chendrith stepped forward to contest the claim of Bane, each presuming to outdo the other. The King listened for so long that he began to grow weak and pale. He sat upon the top step and lowered his head. When it was all said and done, the chendrith waited with bated breath for the King’s final judgment. Who would be chosen to fight Bane? Which of them would be counted worthy to defeat this vile foe?
Yarbouta, the Great Horse exclaimed in fear, “Look!” The others turned to see the King slowly fading from sight! The edges of his form had grown translucent. In places, the chendrith could see right through him! At the same time, dim facial features had appeared beneath Bane’s awful hood: a long, hooked nose; lifeless, pale-green eyes. And a grin—a grin so hideous and grim it made the blood run cold.
The chendrith suddenly felt ashamed. They had spent their time arguing over who was the greatest when the King himself had begun to disappear into the Great Void!
The King could still speak—but just barely. The chendrith strained to hear him. And his pronouncement was ominous and disheartening: “None of you has offered anything worthy enough to appease the claim of this foe.”
“Tell us!” a desperate voice shouted (some say it was Bibou, the Great Kangaroo). “What does he claim?”
The King paused. His voice, barely above a whisper, finally uttered, “Blood. Bane comes for blood. And blood is the only thing that will satisfy his claim.”
The chendrith fell silent. Claims of being fast enough, strong enough, wise enough meant nothing. Something more was needed; something that had never even entered their collective reckoning.
As they watched the King fade from sight, Bane’s features became more and more defined. “Will none of you step forward?” the King pleaded quietly. “Is none of you strong enough to give your blood for all the others?” His voice sounded thin and far away.
Silence descended upon the great lawn. Though none could see it, the King lowered his eyes and wept. For the King knew that if no one offered their blood, Bane would become the rightful lord of the land, and lay claim to all their lives! Only sadness, fear, and death would follow.
Under the dark hood Bane smiled a crooked, yellow smile. He started up the steps of the great castle. The sky grew dark. Not merely a darkness of oncoming dusk, but a supernatural darkness crept over the land. Something unholy and foreign took place. Clouds churned. Thunder boomed. As Bane reached the top of the steps, he stood in front of the failing King. They exchanged a gaze, then Bane turned and faced the onlookers. He stepped in front of the King, eclipsing him—the way he would do entirely in just a short time! The chendrith saw his face clearly now, the forgotten memory of a nightmare emerging fresh to haunt their days.
His lines were cold, and hard, and drawn. His face seemed young and old at once, giving the impression of possessing knowledge from time out of mind—things both good and ill. His eyes shone with a mad glee; the eyes of a spoiled child who has gotten his way far too often. Then, the most dreadful thing happened. Bane’s voice rang out; a cruel, heartless sound. Lightning split the sky. It seemed a great spell was being cast, or demons summoned.
Chendrith gasped and cowered. Some of them fled to the nearby woods.
“None of you is strong enough, or smart enough, or fast enough to oppose me!” Bane threw down his staff and raised his hands high over his head. His fingers splayed, as if to gather the chendrith to himself. The chendrith backed away from the evil Bane who came to claim them—who now stood in full appearance at the crest of the castle steps. Each of the chendrith knew that his rule over them would be cruel, full of malice and pain. Even Grypha, the Great Lion, shivered—wide-eyed—with fear and loathing.
“I see you!” Bane cackled. “You cannot hide! You cannot run! I will find you! This kingdom is mine,” he declared, “and I will see you, wherever you go!” Bane’s voice rose to a horrible high pitch that penetrated the sky. Behind him, no longer noticeable to any of them, was only a pale, shadowy reflection of the once-great King.
“It is the end!” cried Renfu, and fell to the ground.
“We’re done for!” Yarbouta neighed, and bolted for the woods.
Birds took flight; smaller animals cowered behind the larger.
All gave in to agony and despair!
Then, something happened that no one had foreseen.
Out of the midst of the frightened, cowering chendrith stepped a single, solitary lamb. The Lamb was small and unassuming, his appearance frail and weak. No one knew his name. His hooves clopped hollowly upon the cobblestone path as he made his way to the base of the castle steps. The Lamb stood there, an almost absurd contrast to the chaos unleashed all around.
Bane lowered his eyes and glowered at the Lamb. His pale yellow face was a mask of disgust. His eyebrows rose and his hands shot up; his fingernails flashed, as if preparing to seize the little Lamb. Then, something seemed to restrain him. Instead, Bane smiled a huge smile and leaned forward.
“You?” he cackled in delight. Then he said it again with great disdain. “You?!”
Bane glared around the rest of the chendrith gathered, who now stared at this little Lamb themselves, amazed. Bane let out a laugh that was long and hard and loud. “Is this the best you can do?” he screamed. “Is this the one you send forth to challenge me? Do you mock me? Do I not deserve a more worthy adversary than this?!” Then, Bane turned his gaze once more to the Lamb and hissed, “Tell me! What is it that you offer?” He added repugnantly, “A simple, little Lamb? Ha!” Bane’s voice was strong, and seemed backed by the night itself. Clouds swirled above like a tentacled beast writhing in a foamy sea.
The Lamb spoke, and his voice was quiet, meek, and lowly. “No,” He said simply. All the chendrith leaned forward to hear what would follow. “I am not strong,” the Lamb confessed. “Nor am I fast, or smart. And I cannot fly. But I do have one thing I come to offer.”
“And what, pray-tell, would that be?” Bane licked his lips greedily. “Your wool?” This last comment begged a laugh or two from some of the chendrith themselves. They began to feel embarrassed and annoyed at the Lamb’s apparent arrogance.
“Who does he think he is?” Sporraw cawed.
“Look at this hero!” Vulmbricht sneered.
“Well,” the Lamb said, holding his ground, “I offer My blood.”
Gasps went through the crowd: shock, contempt, rage. Some began to laugh at the Lamb, or mutter and complain. Some even cursed Him! But none of them noticed something important: Bane’s reaction was totally di
fferent. Bane’s eyes flickered with an insane spark, and he leapt from the great stairs.
“And I will have it!” Bane cried. He reached into his cloak and brought forth an ancient, twisted dagger. He sailed through the air like a great bat. Chendrith hid their faces. But at the bottom of the steps, the little Lamb never moved.
He never even opened His mouth.
Bane landed upon the Lamb, plunging his blade deep into the soft, waiting flesh of this sacrifice. Bane laughed.
But at that point, several things happened at once.
A brilliant flash of light pierced the sky. Clouds retreated.
Chendrith screamed and recoiled in astonishment and fear.
Bane flew violently back against the steps. He crouched a moment, seeming to have received some kind of fatal wound to the head. He looked up, peering from between frail fingers, his face a mask of rage. “Nooooo!” he cried.
But a familiar voice rang out. “Be gone!”
With that, the enemy disappeared from sight!
At the top of the castle steps, the kindly King stood tall and strong and firm over them, smiling and fully restored!
For a moment, the chendrith were too stunned to react. Then Looma, the Great Elephant, threw back his head and gave a long, triumphant blast of his trunk. It rallied the other chendrith to praise. The King smiled in return, but then slowly, deliberately, stepped aside. And from behind the King there strode the Lamb, still bearing fresh scars—as though it had been recently slain.
Praise died to an absolute, stunned silence. None of the chendrith had noticed the Lamb disappear from the base of the steps. But this Lamb held not the appearance of the one attacked by Bane. This Lamb was large and powerful and beautiful and strong—and terrible!—all at once.
Gazing upon him—his shining and bloodstained coat; his beautiful face—the chendrith felt shame and fear and exultation. None of them spoke. At last, a trembling, nameless voice sobbed, “T-t-tell us, O King . . . What has happened? Make sense of this for us!”
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