by B L Barkey
Can barely feel my arms. Like slapping meat slabs against a table of broken glass. Then the pain is gone. A phantom pain. Sight the spire, even closer. Must be the temple. Please Cephas, let it be.
Kick, stroke. This is bad. If this is the beginning, I will surely fail. My dream, shattered. But no. I can’t give up. I must pass the Trials. Become Guardian. For life. What a fulfilling life it would be. To protect my island. Protect my family. Protect my friends. Marry Sadie, and start a life with her. Teach our own children to fight for others. He felt a new vigor in his muscles, pressing forward. I couldn’t live my life any other way. I must pass, or die here.
Kick, breathe, kick, stroke, breathe. Kick stroke kick breath. Kick stroke KICK BREATHE.
His hands brushed sand. Three more times it came, cutting off his strokes. He stopped and his body sank a short distance to firm ground. His heart thumped within his head, keeping a steady beat which he used to crawl up the beach. Salt fell from his eyes, indistinguishable from seafoam or tears. He had made it.
The Guardian boats were docked to his left. He stopped, the tide receding from his limbs. That’s when he noticed them. Three figures stood above him, the one in the center the closest. Ammon spit in the sand, breathing in the air that cut his throat like glass, while giving him life.
All was much brighter than just minutes before. The Sun had emerged over the rocky mountains. He was out of the water, and within the Trials. He had made it. He suddenly felt a greater hope rise up within him. Joy flooded his veins, bringing him the strength to raise his left leg. Then, bringing his other leg underneath him, he slowly stood up before the figures. He stood as tall as he could.
The figures were dressed in the robes of the Sector Guard, all dressed the same. Loose robes garbed their entire bodies. No holes or mesh were on their masks. Ammon wondered how they could see, or even breathe. And then the Guardian in the center removed his hood and mask. His long, brown hair rested just on his shoulders. His green eyes pierced Ammon to the core, seeing right through him. He wore a grin that was all but welcoming. Instead, it was a challenge. He really did look a lot like his daughter.
“You have made it to the Sector Guard Isle. Congratulations. You have completed the first phase of your Trials,” Guardian Iceland announced.
Ammon heaved, then took a single breath. It would allow a couple of words. “Guardian Ice… Maison… is dead.” He gasped again. “He…”
“We know. We saw it from afar, though we could not make it in time to stop the boy or the beast. We followed the beast, but it was far too fast for us. We have retrieved his arm. It will be returned to his family.” Thoughts of the boy’s mother and father reminded Ammon of whom Maison used to be. He wiped his eyes, shedding several tears at once. “I suggest you forget about it. Focus on the task at hand. It was clear he meant you harm. It is curious, however, why the beast did not attack you as well. We will consider this as you go through your training. We must consider all events during the length of your Trials as symbols of whether you should be accepted. For it is more than our will alone that decides.”
His face was complacent, perfectly balanced between solemnity and indifference.
“This is Phase One of the Three you will have to complete. If you are already feeling fatigued, tired, or discouraged, we implore you to stop now. Each phase after this will grow harder, and more perilous, than the last. This means that what you just completed will be the easiest phase by far. We do not wish harm or death to come upon you. However, should you choose to continue, you are responsible for the outcome. Whether good or bad.”
Ammon stood up straighter still as warmth returned to his limbs. It seemed to be coming from his heart. He was going to do this, no matter what. He had to. Fulfill my calling, or die.
“Guardian Iceland,” he said, immoveable. “I am ready.”
Chapter XXXII
The First Key
A slight breeze brushed through Ammon’s hair and ruffled the robes of the Guardians. Tide waters bathed their feet. They were all still, observing one another. Guardian Iceland nodded to Ammon. “Follow.”
He turned with his two companions to walk south along the beach. Ammon followed several steps behind. He looked for footprints in the sand, but there were none. He must have been the first to reach the Isle. He looked out to his left, seeing the Sun crest over Cloud Mountain. In the distance he could see a splash of water amongst the waves, followed closely by another. He hoped one of the splashes belonged to Mikael.
The Guardians continued forward. Ammon allowed his eyes to drift down to the sands. Again, he realized there were no footprints. None at all. Not even from the Guardians. He looked behind himself, spotting a long path of footprints back to where he had exited the water. One set of footprints... Does this have to do with their powers to manipulate the sands?
This seemed impossible, though so had the floating mountain years ago. Seeing such a miracle took him back to that time on waves of nostalgia. His blood surged in his veins. Could it all be real after all? It was then that he realized the truth. I have had doubts about that memory. Whether the moving mountain was real, or if it had been my childish imagination. I must not doubt myself. Not here.
The Guardians made an abrupt right towards the Isle center. Ammon followed. He watched their footprints. They appeared for a second, before vanishing as grains of sand moved like ants swarming fallen fruit, filling in the voids. I must believe. Ammon grinned, his eyes closing with the gesture. He wanted to laugh, but held it inside, warming his chest.
After a couple hundred steps, they reached the edge of vegetation. The Guardians turned around and looked at Ammon. Or so he imagined, as the other Guardians were still veiled. Ammon halted before them, his head bowed.
Guardian Iceland pointed towards the tallest coconut tree. The tree far surpassed that of any of the surrounding trees, almost doubled in height. If he had to guess, Ammon would say it was about fifty feet skyward.
“Run to the tree. Ascend it as fast as possible. Acquire the fruit thereof. Return the fruit to us. We require one fruit for each of us you see here.”
After a few seconds, Ammon took the silence as dismissal. He stepped off to run towards the tree, his legs heavy from the swim. He had probably kicked too hard on the swim over, yet he still felt invigorated from his lead. Worth it, he thought. In the distance, he could see Mikael standing before three other veiled figures. Good luck buddy, he thought, hoping Mikael could hear him.
Ammon entered the grove of coconut trees. Many of the shorter ones had coconuts too, causing Ammon to grimace. Why can’t I just bring them these coconuts? That would be much simpler.
He stepped up to the trunk of the tallest tree. He craned his neck back, his mouth gaping, and used his hands to block the sunlight. This is going to hurt.
He wrapped his arms around the tree and jumped, fastening his legs around the ragged trunk. A searing pain shot through his arms. The texture of the trunk was akin to broken glass, as if it had adapted to prevent such climbing. He squeezed his thighs tighter and threw his arms higher up. He hugged the tree once more. He continued this pattern, his rate of ascent painfully slow and quickly painful.
The ocean winds licked against his inner arms and thighs with a salty tongue, bringing tears to his eyes. Sweat dripped into his wounds, weakening his grip with slickness and suffering. In what seemed like an hour later, Ammon reached the top of the tree.
He punched one of the coconuts down. As it fell, he saw several other coconuts within arm’s length. Iceland never said anything about bringing one at a time… He couldn’t decide, and his arms were screaming at him to act. He swung at two more coconuts, heard the cushioned thud of the fruit hitting the sand, and then slid down the tree, streaking blood the entire way.
By the time he released his grip on the trunk, he was sure there was no more skin on his chest. Reluctantly, he looked at his limbs and was presently surprised to find his body covered in mostly shallow scrapes, though there were many.
He felt as if on fire, even without the flames. He held his arms out to keep them from rubbing his torso. He then scooped up the coconuts with a wide grip and jogged back to the Guardians.
He stopped before them, his arms full and his eyes expectant. They continued to glare at him. Guardian Iceland nodded his head towards the ground, which Ammon interpreted as permission to drop the fruit. He bent over carefully, his body still burning.
As he dropped them and stood, Guardian Iceland spoke. “How long do you think you can hold onto the trunk?”
Gripping fear seized him. A feeling crept over his bones like morning fog. He realized what was happening. He had returned as if ready for the next phase. Truth was, he had only just begun.
He didn't want to look at the now-crimson tree again, let alone touch it. Yet if he had to, in order to fulfill his dream, he could hold on for a while. He chose a reasonable number, then doubled it.
"Ten minutes, Guardian Iceland,” he said.
Wind billowed through the dangling palm leaves. Iceland studied Ammon, then answered.
“Return unto the tree. Climb to the top, then hold for as long as you can. If you touch the ground before one hour has passed, you will fail the Trials and leave immediately, never to return.”
One hour. That’s impossible, he thought. And like that, his hopes of realizing his dream vanished. Frustration and heat rose up within him. How could he possibly hold on for that long? What would happen to his limbs if he did? Was Iceland serious about disqualifying him from such an impossible task? Have they already rejected me?
Ammon stood there, hoping Iceland would say more. The Guardians remained silent. He was at a loss. Without an alternative, still unbelieving, he jogged towards the tree, hoping Iceland would call for him to come back. No beckon came.
He stopped at the trunk, wishing he was anywhere else in the world. He could see small pieces of his flesh on the gray bark, inside the splats of dark-red body paint. That was after only three minutes. Now he had to hold it for twenty times that length. This is impossible, he thought again. But what choice do I have? His conscious mind was now drifting, growing further away from his body with each step.
He jumped onto the trunk, hugging it once more. His body shrieked, blinding his mind with white and commanding him to release his grip. He obeyed, falling to his sunburnt back. His mind whipped back to the present, then fell away. One hour…
He leapt onto the tree, this time willfully disobeying his flesh. There was another flash of white. He squeezed his eyes shut as a small whimper escaped his lips. He climbed to the top of the tree, and held on. He looked out at the scenery, looking for his brother.
Looking for any distraction at all. His mind was far now, though still conscious. What are you doing! You are destroying your body. Is this really worth it? Ammon gritted his teeth. He looked towards the Sector Guard temple, still about half a mile away. Yes, he thought. Yes, it is worth it.
His limbs started to tremble. It’s been only two minutes and you’re already in excruciating pain! How could you do this to yourself? I’m sure they won’t fail you for this one task. After all, you did already retrieve the coconuts. His grip loosened some, and he slid several inches down the trunk, scraping more flesh away. He closed his eyes as pain ripped through him. He cursed himself. This is nonsense!
Enough, he silenced his mind. I must do this. It’s the only way to accomplish my lifelong dream. I can do this. I will do this. The voices of doubt did not disappear, though they were softer as he counted down the seconds. He looked to the skies for distraction. Several birds glided by. What lucky creatures. They will never have to do such things.
He thought once more about letting go. Enough, he reprimanded. He held on. He counted to thirty. It was the longest thirty seconds of his life. His core muscles quivered. He felt his body preparing to give in. How long has it been? Five minutes? I am not even ten percent of the way there… His body was about to let go when he commanded his muscles to tighten. He counted to thirty once more. After that, I will let go.
Twenty-nine, thirty. He held tight.
Once more, he counted to thirty, occasionally opening his eyes and looking towards Cephas. The Sun was above Cloud Mountain now, glaring in his eyes. He wished he was in the Sun, gone and free of pain. At the same time, he felt as if already there, burning all over.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. He held tighter still.
He kept counting. Though it brought his mind to the present moment, increasing his pain, it also weakened his overwhelming fears of failure. It was a painful strategy. It was the only way.
He could feel sweat dripping down his back like little bugs creeping over his skin. Occasionally he would feel a bead of liquid drip from his arms, too dense to be sweat. It was his own blood, seeking refuge from his madness.
He continued counting. He started to count with every breath. In, out. One, two. He breathed deep and slow. This seemed to relax him ever so slightly. His mind kept asking the same question. How long had it been so far? He counted thirty more seconds. He looked down through sweat and tears in his eyes. His teeth would shatter in his clenched jaw at any moment. He saw the Guardians now standing in his peripherals. When did they get there? Thirty more seconds.
The wind began to feel relieving to his shredded skin. It felt cool, as if dowsing the fires within and without. He thought he saw more figures leaving the waters and following additional Guardians. But between blinks they would disappear. Were they actually there? How long had he kept his eyes closed? Was he hallucinating? Perhaps he was already in shock without knowing.
Thirty more seconds. He found himself counting to ninety-three. He started over at one. He heard a cry. A weak whimper. He wondered where it came from, only to realize it had escaped his own mouth. Another thirty seconds.
“How long do you plan on staying up there?”
It was a warm, melodic voice. It was the voice of Guardian Iceland. Ammon was confused at first, then understood. He loosened his grip just enough to slide down the trunk, grinding down the bark once more. His feet hit the sand as he heard a thud in his head. He fell to the ground as exhaustion and relief swept over him. Then, large buckets of cool water splashed on his skin. It was the most incredible feeling in the world. He held open his mouth, catching several gulps. He choked and turned over, the sand sticking to his raw skin. It stung. He knew it. But the pain was distant. Although in terrible pain, he felt a certain brightness rising within him. His wounds soaked up the water, drinking it all in.
“How… How long…”
“You were up there for three and a half hours.” Unbelievable. Ammon laughed into the sand. That could not be true. Why would they lie to him? What would be the purpose?
“Most would have gone a different way.” His tone was softer, throwing Ammon off. It sounded almost personal, as if off the usual script. “Most would have focused on my words more carefully. What I said was, ‘if you touch the ground before one hour has passed, you will fail the Trails’. I never said you had to hold to the tree.”
Ammon looked around on the ground. He saw a boulder, several rocks, large palm leaves, and even fallen trees. He could have stood on any one of these, after climbing to the top, to prevent himself from touching the ground. His body throbbed at the thought.
“Your will is admirable. You have completed Phase One. You have transcended the body, overcoming its discomfort with mind over matter. This is second nature to all Guardians. You will accomplish countless feats such as this if you indeed become a Guardian. This is just a taste of our everyday life. Remember it, or else leave.”
Ammon rose to all fours, panting.
“You are free to go if this is not what you want,” Iceland repeated. “You are encouraged to leave now, before you are broken further.”
Ammon lifted one foot, his leg trembling at the support of his weight. He leaned on the crimson tree, propping himself upright. Okay, he thought. One step at a time. I can do this.
Then it donned
on him. He had been a fool before. Somewhere along the way, he had assumed that since he dreamed to be a Guardian, the Trials would come more easily to him. He had thought this his calling, and therefore believed he would swim through it like a bird flies through air. It was now abundantly clear that, whether he wanted it or not, it would surely break him. He sighed, then spoke.
“I am ready for the next Phase, Guardian Iceland.”
II
Iceland nodded in approval. “Your patience in your afflictions will be a great asset to you.” He paused. “If you can keep it.”
He looked at Ammon then. Really looked at him, as if seeing through him. Then he continued, as if he had just made up his mind about something. “You are to enter the waters of the fountain in the Garden. After cleansing your wounds, you will be garbed in your new robes. These robes are yours to keep, whether you succeed or no. You have earned that much. From pain and suffering, there is always reward.”