The Awakening

by Gary Alan Wassner

  Cairn was growing tired, as the effort to observe required more energy than he ever realized. The board also drew power from him directly, though he did not consciously lend it, and he fatigued quickly from the exertion. He knew that he would need to cease this session very soon, or he would pass out, but he hoped to gain as much insight as he could before that.

  His eyes flashed across the entire surface, searching now for changes that might catch his attention, but the figures were fading and growing dormant once more. He breathed deeply and relaxed, closing his tired eyes briefly. When he reopened them, the surface was still, flat and colorless. He placed the pieces in the velvet pouch, folded the board and returned it to its case.

  Sitting cross-legged upon the woven mat, he began the process of relaxation that would help him focus during this tense and exciting time. He began to breathe deeply, filling his abdomen first, and then allowing his lungs and chest to inflate. He released his breath in the opposite way, deflating first his chest, and then finally pushing the remaining air out of his abdominal region. He then lay down on his back, with his hands at his sides. Directing his attention to each part of his body, one at a time, he tensed the muscles as tightly as he could, and then released them slowly, beginning with his left foot, and continuing from left to right until he reached his head. He opened his eyes and mouth wide and stretched them, then he squeezed his features together as tightly as he could, relaxing totally.

  Cairn lay upon the mat, barely breathing, totally centered, and he swept his mind clear of all the debris that had accumulated during the day. He then focused upon the images he had just seen, not trying to interpret them or understand them in any analytical way, but simply desiring to remember them, to make them a part of his consciousness.

  As he settled even deeper into this meditative state, the image of encroaching blackness presented itself to his mind’s eye and he could not will it away. It darkened his soul and penetrated his very essence, as if it was seeping into the room and enveloping him in its shadow and filth. He could see the light in the background trying to pierce the shroud, but it was not strong enough or bright enough to do so. Intense and sporadic bursts of energy shot up around the perimeter of his internal vision, and loud crashes resulted from the confrontations, but he could not eliminate the images from his mind.

  He felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into the obscurity of the void, and the light was fading and losing its intensity. The blackness began to overwhelm him, to numb his senses, but he could not protect himself.

  I should have been more careful, the thought rose from somewhere deep in the back of his mind. I was unprepared for this.

  Something within him revolted against what was happening, and his body itself was fighting to remain intact, to not get lost completely in the darkness. On the very edge of consciousness, Cairn was aware that he was in grave peril, but he could do nothing to stop the blackness from encroaching, from covering him completely and stealing away his very identity. He watched as if in another’s body, as his own grew more and more distant.

  He thought for a moment that he heard banging of some sort and then voices shouting his name, but he could not distinguish from whence they originated. The blackness was taking control, seeping into his pores, destroying his substance and scorching his soul.

  He made one final effort to break free of this foulness, and he knew that it would be his last chance. As if urging himself on from a distance, he focused what little was left of his energy upon the tiny speck of white light he saw glowing ever so slightly in the depths of this darkness, and as soon as he did, he was sure that the dimness faded if only just a tiny bit. Cairn continued to gaze at the image of the circle of light he now clearly saw far in the distance of his tired mind. It was growing in intensity, pure and clean, he was sure, and it gave him hope and the strength to fight on. He tried desperately to reach it, knowing it would be his salvation, but it seemed too far away. He concentrated as hard as he could, exhausted now and barely aware that he was losing the ability to distinguish his own self from the putrid environment within which he floundered.

  “Cairn? Can you hear me?” she said to him, but he did not respond. “Wake up,” Filaree shouted into the scholar’s ear. “Fight, Cairn. Do not give up.”

  She had come to his room to talk, nothing more, if only to calm her nerves and settle her troubled mind. She was apprehensive about tomorrow and her ability to manipulate the ring properly. Cairn always helped her to reason and to discover for herself the way to proceed. He led her to the path, even though it seemed as if she made all the necessary choices. He was like a guide rather than a pedantic instructor, and she enjoyed his erudite method, almost as much as she appreciated the results.

  When he did not come to the door after she knocked repeatedly, she began to worry. A terrible feeling overwhelmed her, a feeling of hopelessness and despair, and she knew that her friend was in trouble. Filaree forced the door, and rushed into the room. Immediately, she recognized the great peril that he faced. His features were blurred, as if his essence was fading away, and he did not move at all. At first, she thought of calling for Robyn, the Chosen, but she knew that she did not have the time for that. In fact, she hoped that she was not already too late.

  She placed her strong hands on either side of his forehead, leaning over his motionless body, and she tried to reach him somehow. Unaccustomed to fighting in this manner, weaponless and against an enemy whose presence she could only feel, she nevertheless forced her thoughts into his weakened mind, laboring with all her mental strength.

  “Come on, Cairn. Speak to me,” she implored him. “I could not bear another loss right now. Besides, who could possibly teach the boy better than you? You must awaken.”

  Filaree felt her palms sweating against his temples, but not from fear or distress. Her fingers seemed to wax transparent for a moment, and a potent heat penetrated her skin. Her entire body grew warm and she became momentarily lightheaded, though it was not a disturbing sensation. Rather, it felt purging to her, and she relaxed in the warmth despite the circumstances.

  Cairn’s eyes burst open, and Filaree stared into them for signs of awareness. She was kneeling next to the prone scholar and she was searching for signs of receptivity. Something told her that he would be okay, and she continued to force herself upon him, as if she were lending him a bit of her own life essence.

  From within the depths of his darkness, he could see the bright light that he had been following, the light that brought him back from the edge of nothingness, suspended in the air before him. It was so white and so pure, like the circle of light in his previous vision, but closer. If he could only reach it, he knew that he would be alright. He lifted his tired arm and tried to touch it. It was so much nearer now, almost within his grasp.

  Filaree watched with delight as he snatched the golden ring which dangled before her, suspended from its woven chain that hung around her neck. He closed his hand around it and the ring blazed brilliantly, illuminating the entire chamber in dazzling streaks that escaped through the spaces between his fingers.

  Within moments, a healthy color returned to Cairn’s cheeks, and his eyes lost their glassy, far away look. His skin regained its human sheen, and he looked at Filaree with a penetrating yet thankful expression upon his face. That countenance quickly changed to sullen grimace, as he gathered his strength once more.

  “He knows we are here,” he said to Filaree, almost in a whisper. “We cannot wait any longer. The heir must be awakened,” he said, struggling to rise.

  She needed no further explanation to understand the seriousness of his comment. Filaree had felt the malignancy all around her during her contact with Cairn, and the attribution of a name to it would not have made its source any clearer or more certain.

  “Are you well enough to stand now?” Filaree asked, as she helped Cairn to a sitting position.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I feel remarkably refreshed, considering what I just went through,” he r
eplied, shaking his head to clear it even further.

  “The ring has more power than we imagined,” she said in response.

  “As do you, my Lady,” Cairn rejoined, peering at her with his yellow eyes, bright and sparkling once again.

  “If I can leave you for a moment, I will go and tell Robyn the dismal news,” she said, shrugging off his compliment without a second thought.

  Cairn had clearly recovered quite well, and Filaree started to rise. Before she regained her feet, a voice spoke out.

  “I already know,” they heard the somber words from the doorway.

  Robyn entered the room quietly and quickly, and stood next to the others.

  “The city had been betrayed,” he said to them. “Treestar related the squalid details to me just before. A young watchman it seems, first committed matricide, then murdered his countryman and finally escaped through a little used passage. They discovered the bodies only hours ago.”

  Cairn and Filaree listened intently to the Chosen’s gruesome words.

  “He had a lover in the woods below. The guards found her cottage burned to the ground and the remains of her and her father within the devastation,” Robyn explained. “The mark of the Dark Lord upon the premises was unmistakable,” he concluded.

  He was aware as soon as he entered the room, that something here was amiss as well, although he could sense no trace of danger. Robyn had immediately noticed the golden ring hanging tranquilly outside of Filaree’s tunic.

  “What news have you two for me?” he asked, eyeing the ring.

  Cairn recounted the events of the last hour, and then Filaree added her own observations. When the narration was complete, they each took a silent moment to contemplate.

  “It is clear that we must be more vigilant henceforth,” Robyn said, drawing in his breath. “We know not what form Colton will assume in his efforts to disrupt our plans. Nor do we know how he will attack Seramour. But, we can be certain now that he knows the heir is here, that an attack is imminent.”

  “How secure are we here?” Cairn asked. “He was able to infiltrate my mind, although I probably opened the door to that all by myself,” he said, rather annoyed at his own careless actions.

  “You could not have anticipated that, Cairn. Do not blame yourself,” she said, soft and kind, and she laid her hand upon Cairn’s own. “This city is defensively more sound than any I have ever seen,” Filaree replied, quickly moving to other matters. “An attack from below would be futile, as long as the lifts remain sealed.”

  “Have you not seen the storm clouds hanging in the southern sky?” Robyn asked.

  “I was just getting to that…” Filaree replied seriously, as three pair of apprehensive eyes stared out the leaded windows of Cairn’s small chamber into the dim light of the breaking dawn.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Teetoo looked over his shoulder at the cascade of leaves floating gracefully to the surface behind him. He had just landed upon a spot of ground, the texture of which he was unsure of at first. He allowed his translucent wings to flutter rapidly so that he would not land heavily and perhaps sink into a mire or fall into a pit, but he stirred up everything that was loose upon the ground in the process. His youthful face had a wide smile etched upon it, as he enjoyed watching the falling material. It reminded him of the storms of his youth, when large flakes of frozen precipitation would drift to the earth, pile up quickly and form enormous mounds of billowy, virgin-white snow everywhere.

  Unfortunately though, his mood quickly turned to melancholy. He suffered a deep yearning recently, that nothing seemed to alleviate. Even flying could not completely remove the feeling of sadness that gripped him these days. What he was seeing all around him reminded him too poignantly of his own land in its final days. It broke his heart to see the trees die and to watch the darkness spread. He recalled vividly the beauty that was Celaceran. A large, round tear welled up in the corner of his left eye, and he squinted cross-eyed, watching it as it dripped down the side of his nose. It landed heavily upon the surface of a bright orange leaf and hung a moment before it fell and dissipated in the earth.

  Premoran will be along shortly, he thought.

  They had just left the Sister from Parth in Oleander’s woods, and he had a few items he needed to collect before joining him here. Teetoo took this rare opportunity to sail through the safe skies of this forest until his companion completed his tasks.

  I wish not to witness the end of another world, he thought to himself. I have had enough of death and unhappiness. What must we do to stop this? Can we do anything?

  Premoran wandered into the glen as silently as a mountain doe leading its newborn to safety. Regardless, Teetoo sensed his approach. The old man was his only friend in the world, and he knew whenever he was present. It was lucky for the wizard that they fought the same battle. He could never sneak up on this boy and catch him unawares.

  “Why so sad, Teetoo?” Premoran asked, seeing the melancholy look upon the boy’s face immediately.

  “I was just thinking,” he replied.

  “Is that all you are going to tell me?” the Wizard said fondly.

  “Well…” the winged one hesitated for a moment, “…I was thinking about loss.”

  “Oh,” Premoran responded, as if that was enough of an explanation. “And with each loss, does not something else follow? Is not something found?” he inquired.

  “Not this time,” he replied quietly. “If this battle is forfeited, there will be no other.”

  Premoran knew as well as Teetoo what Colton was striving for, if not better than the boy. He knew that dissolution was the end and that nothing would come after. Time would cease to be relevant.

  “Then this war cannot be lost,” Premoran asserted. “There is much to be hopeful for. Not since time untold have the Tomes revealed themselves so clearly. We have a multitude of things to be joyful about. If all that we ever experienced was positive, we could not recognize it for that,” he continued, trying to soothe his friend’s distress.

  “I suffer for those who will lose what they cherish. I suffer for the children whose parents will die, and I suffer for the fathers and mothers who will live out their days alone, with only memories.”

  “As you do?” he inquired tenderly.

  “Yes,” Teetoo responded, looking wide-eyed at his friend.

  Premoran paced back and forth for a few moments, staring at the ground and shaking his head back and forth.

  “I do not know the reasons why we suffer. Sometimes I think that perhaps there are no reasons at all. Some of us grow tender from it and some grow cold. Life itself is ironic, is it not, Teetoo?” he asked.

  “How so?” the boy replied.

  “The very concept of life can be looked upon as tragic if one wishes. Everything that is born, dies. Some will say that your fate is etched upon your soul from the beginning and the journey of your life is merely a scripted exercise. Others believe that the future is yet unwritten. But if we all die sometime, then the final act will forever be the same.”

  “And you find solace in that?” Teetoo inquired.

  “In a way, yes,” the old man answered. “It is the journey that is important. And the fact that all living things are mortal, that they will all pass in time, makes it even more important. This is one fact that we can all rely upon. Our life spans may differ from race to race. But nothing alive can be immortal. That in itself would be a contradiction. Life is defined by a beginning and an end. Would you wish not to be alive so that you could never die?” he asked.

  “You are playing with me, Premoran,” Teetoo smiled.

  “No, my friend. I am not. I am just making a point,” he said, and he raised his arm and swept the area with it. “Look around you,” he commanded. “Now look again. What you saw before is no more. It is gone, though it looks the same. Each and every second the earth changes, and the physical world evolves on its own. You can never find the same moment again. But, Teetoo, that is what our enemy seeks, i
s it not? He seeks to stop time, to end the cycle of birth and death. And yet you lament the fact that we are caught in that very cycle itself. Rejoice in change. Rejoice in the fact that things are uncertain, that our actions have an effect. The fabric weaves of its own will, Teetoo.”

  “I am the last of my kind, Premoran,” he responded mournfully.

  “And I am the last of mine,” the Wizard rejoined.

  Teetoo arched his thin eyebrows. “Are you forgetting your brother?” “I am the last of my kind, I said. He and I are no more alike than a troll and an elf. If he were to have an heir, it would not be my blood line it carried,” he sneered.

  “But it would, you know. Although you may wish it was otherwise.”

  “There are no females left of my race. Regardless, his offspring would be impure.”

  “But that which distinguishes your kind from all the others would be present in a living thing, if he were to have heirs. That can never happen for me. I can not procreate with any of the races in this land. My kind will die with me, forever and always,” Teetoo said summarily.

  “Be that as it may. We cannot change what is already. Our task is to do what we can regarding that which will be,” he said, avoiding his friend’s analysis.

  “I am sad, nonetheless. I will always be sad. My memories sustain me to an extent. But, I only feel truly alive when I am airborne. And today, even that did not alleviate my melancholy,” he returned, still despondent.

  Premoran walked over to him and placed his arm around his stooped shoulders. Turning him so that they could face one another, he looked him sharply in the eyes. “The line between happiness and sadness is not real, Teetoo. Our moods, like our lives, are variations on a theme. We characterize them with words, but words never do justice to feelings. Words do not define feelings, they define things. Feelings are not as precisely cornered. We think sometimes that we understand, simply because we can isolate sentiments by appending names to them. They though, are of two different kinds, like oil and water, and we merely assuage ourselves into a false complacency. For some reason, it makes us happy to think that we have accomplished something when we find the right word with which to pigeonhole a feeling.”