CITY OF THE GODS: FORGOTTEN

by Verne, M. Scott

  As she rode along in her benefactor’s arms, the mystery of her current predicament was foremost. Looking up at the confident face of her new friend, however, pushed some of the fear away. Perhaps if she relaxed and observed the world around her she would remember something. She tested this first by examining the man. His dark hair hung straight to his shoulders, uneven edges brushing a thick half cape that hid the mass of his upper arms. Those were encased in a thinner coat that closed in the middle with hard, oblong protrusions that nested into rope loops. His coat was not as soft against her naked side as the one the other man had thrown, and it was plainer and darker in color. She reached up to touch the side of his cheek. Her fingers brushed against hair that grew densely around his mouth and on parts of his chin. Checking her own face, she found nothing at all like that. She wondered if everything in this place felt different from everything else.

  At her touch, he smiled very slightly. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen a barber.”

  “Is a barber like a healer?” she asked, and his smile broadened into an open laugh.

  “They like to think they are, at least when it comes to cutting things off. But I wouldn’t trust them with anything beyond my beard.” He’d known many a barber whose surgical skills were barely a notch above butchery, so he would not entrust this strange girl to just any knife-happy surgeon.

  The mention of things being cut off caused a small gasp to pop from the girl’s mouth. She wasn’t sure why this was so upsetting. She didn’t feel like she was missing anything, and from what she could see she had the same number of body parts as everyone else here. Since everyone else was clothed, however, she couldn’t be absolutely sure.

  Her body shifted in his arms as he began to ascend a new kind of street, one made of smooth stone steps. Up and up they went, and the man exhaled a weary sigh of relief when they finally came to the top. “Why is it that no one ever sets up shop at the bottom of a hill?” he grumbled to himself.

  An amused voice from behind them answered. “Because, D’Molay, there is no drama in convenience.”

  “Kafele, you appear like an actor from a stage trapdoor. Foolish of me to think I’d find you in the apothecary where you belong,” D’Molay said.

  Kafele had the jarring gift of being in the right place at the right time. Many patients would be dead today if not for his effortless ability to arrive with aid at the critical moment. For as long as D’Molay had known the healer, this trait should no longer be surprising; yet he still found it uncanny.

  “Your assumption was reasonable, just incorrect.” Kafele took a step closer to D’Molay and looked down at the girl. “She is ill?”

  “No,” she bravely responded for herself, comparing Kafele to her friend, who now had a name. While D’Molay was strong and solid, Kafele was taller. His gestures were more fluid, and his face, along with most of his head, lacked hair. The robe he wore was enveloping and it seemed thinner than the fabric of D’Molay’s garments. Her embarrassment was increasing as she learned more about the others around her. She had no clothes, lacked a name, and had no idea what she looked like. “I don’t know who I am,” she admitted nervously.

  “Interesting. Let’s go inside.” Kafele shifted a knapsack that was slung over his left shoulder and withdrew a set of keys from it. “Despite D’Molay’s belief that I’m a frustrated street entertainer, I do not normally treat patients in the City square.”

  “You would if you had an audience,” D’Molay charged.

  “And you two are drawing one.” Kafele gestured to a few men grouping around the three of them, hoping to get a better look at the naked girl. “I think we should continue our visit at my new dispensary. Come.” Kafele turned in the very direction from whence they’d just come and started down the great stone steps.

  “Don’t tell me I climbed these steps for nothing!” D’Molay balked.

  At the sound of his protest, Kafele grinned back over his shoulder. “If you’re tired, I will mix you a vitalizing tonic. Now hurry up before our patient catches a cold.”

  As they walked, D’Molay told Kafele how he had found the girl on the street. They went almost all the way back down to the bottom of the steps before Kafele stopped at a sturdy door. It bore no sign, and the window beside it was empty of any display. As the healer thumbed through the many keys on his ring, the girl in D’Molay’s arms began to wiggle. The pressure of the man’s arms against her back and under her legs was starting to hurt.

  “I’m sorry you had to carry me so far,” she said, feeling a bit guilty about the unnecessary trip up the steps.

  “That’s all right. I feel fine, strong as ever.” D’Molay was determined not to let Kafele force any of his vile potions down his throat. Now was as good a time as any to draw that line in the sand. He shifted impatiently from one foot to another as Kafele continued to fiddle with the door. “Are you keying that lock, or picking it?”

  “New shop,” Kafele shrugged as the door finally swung open. “I don’t have the knack of this clever Egyptian padlock yet.” As they stepped inside, the light from the street came with them, illuminating a large room with several counters and shelves lining the walls. Packed baskets and trunks, tightly tied sacks of herbs, and a line-up of exotic potted plants filled most of the empty floor space. Kafele waved them to come deeper into the building as he put down his sack beside a cabinet filled with glass jars of ointments and lidded stone vessels marked with the names of medicines. “You caught me on moving day.”

  D’Molay spied a cushioned wicker chair with a tall back shoved into a corner. He helped the girl settle into it. Stretching the kinks out of his arms, he stepped out of Kafele’s way as the healer began to look her over. Then, idly lifting the lid of a small basket to snoop inside, he asked, “Why did you leave the City apothecary?”

  Kafele made a non-committal murmur. “There are advantages to working alone. For one, you can treat cases without interference. By now, half my former associates would have your lovely friend covered in leeches, and the rest would be sprinkling her with salt. Now tell me,” he continued, speaking directly to the girl. “Can you remember anything at all before D’Molay found you?”

  “N-no, I’m afraid I can’t. I don’t remember anything until I woke up in the street.”

  “I’m going to place my hands on you to see if I can feel any damage. All right?”

  She nodded nervously.

  Kafele reached out and carefully put his hands on the top, back, and then the sides of her head. He could sense no physical injuries at all. However, as he looked down her torso between her breasts, he noticed something out of the ordinary. It was something he’d seen long ago and hadn’t expected to ever see again. He quickly composed himself, then leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  She shook her head as she looked up at him. “Oh, everything about me feels . . . wrong,” the girl said in quiet frustration. She sat rigidly in the chair, unsure how to explain that all the things the others were so comfortable doing seemed so alien to her. Kafele raised a brow as he noticed her hands clutching the arms of the chair as if she feared she would slide off onto the floor.

  “D’Molay, there are some spare robes inside that blue trunk behind you. She might be a little warmer and more comfortable if she were wearing something.” As the other man turned away to look in the trunk, Kafele retrieved a smaller box from a nearby pile. “Let’s see if we can spark a memory. I’ll show you things, and you can tell me if any of them look familiar.”

  Kafele pulled out small effigies of different gods. Then he showed her bone runes, sacred tokens, and calligraphy stones. She handled small carvings of common animals and fantastic monsters. The girl stared without comprehension at miniature pyramids and domes. Her fingers played gently over an unusual whistle shaped like a bird, but Kafele could sense that her interest in it was that of discovery, not memory. He slipped a leather string through a hole in the little bird’s tail and tied the whistle around her neck. “You should always wear this,
it will keep you safe,” he whispered to her with a friendly smile.

  “Nothing ringing a bell?” D’Molay ventured, turning back with a yellowish silk garment. D’Molay noticed the girl was twiddling her fingers oddly over her throat, and assumed she was still very frightened and jittery.

  “Bell?” the girl questioned.

  “Never mind. Let’s get this robe on you,” Kafele said. He had to manipulate her arms, for she didn’t seem to grasp how to slide them into the garment’s long sleeves. As he tied a loose knot in the cloth belt at her waist, he whispered something else to her. Then he looked at D’Molay as if he had come to a decision.

  “She doesn’t need medicine,” he said. “She needs a seer, one who can look into her mind and find what’s been erased. If they can see even one thing, it might be enough to bring her memory back.” Kafele stepped over to one of the counters, rummaging through his belongings until he found a square of parchment and an inkwell. He dipped a stylus into the brownish liquid and scratched out a message. “I’m referring her to the Oracle at Buddha’s Retreat, across the lake. This pass will admit her.” He held the parchment out to D’Molay.

  “Thank you,” the girl said.

  “He really hasn’t done anything,” D’Molay jibed. “I have to get you there, but he’ll still want a coin.”

  “Oh, you Freemen clutch your purses so tightly. You forget I have provided clothing, a referral to the Oracle, and made sure she has not suffered any physical damage. But if I must do even more to earn my coin, let me then give our pretty friend a temporary name.” Kafele put a finger to his lips, thinking. “Let’s call her . . . Aavi, for now.”

  “Aavi. Agreed. I suppose good advice is worth a coin, and here’s another for the robe.” D’Molay handed the money over. “Looks like I’ll be showing you more of the City, Aavi.”

  Aavi smiled as Kafele helped her stand up and D’Molay held the door open for them to leave. She was relieved that she wasn’t sick and that the men were continuing to help her. She had a fleeting thought that such goodness had become rare, but the notion quickly flew out of her head as D’Molay began to speak of the journey before them. Aavi listened intently as he began to tell her how they must ride in a cart and cross a large lake to visit Buddha’s Retreat.

  Chapter 2 - Mysterious Attack

  In each realm within the Barriers there was a place of pristine beauty, a locale that recreated the perfection of Earth during the ancient times when the gods had true power there. The Egyptians enjoyed the deltas and deserts of their own Heavenly Nile, whose lush green reeds challenged the Hanging Gardens of Babylonia for verdancy. Afrik and Maya boasted the splendor of virgin jungles, while immortals of the Asian and Hindu realms meditated among jeweled spires of palaces that sprang from the living rock of snowy mountains and sparkling grottoes. Even the hardened knights of the Middle Realm paused to remark upon the blue perfection of their lakes and pools, so much deeper and clearer than those of neighboring Purgatory. Lord Ghede, ruler of Purgatory, would have countered that the waters of Camelot were mere puddles in comparison to many watery graves on Earth and beyond, had he not the sense to avoid pointless arguments. Yet among all the scenic wonders flanking the City of the Gods, there was one that was truest to the lost paradise of old Earth. The best was Seven Hills in the Olympian Realm, whose deities once ruled Greece and Rome.

  Seven Hills, at first glance, seemed simply that, just over half a dozen huge rolling banks of land. But the hills not only served as a home for many beings, but also provided an aesthetic view to the greater gods whose temples rose on the plain between them and the real Mount Olympus. Unfortunately, the scene was no longer pristine - and this sudden calamity had triggered reactions ranging from fear to disgust among the gods of the Olympian Realm. Whatever had marred the scenery was the talk of the hills.

  The satyr shepherds and their intelligent sheep had, after long debate and intense kick-fights that left many hoof print-shaped bruises on both sides, come to the conclusion that it was a fumbled bolt from Zeus that had decimated the ground and gouged out the large crater. Higher beings, who perhaps knew more (or at least knew enough not to implicate their King in such a blunder) maintained a different opinion. The damage was indisputably the work of some unknown beast from a foreign realm. None could, of course, definitively agree on what beast or which realm, but the topic was sure to keep their heads nodding together for an eon or two, and would be a welcome change from the tedious attempt to determine which side had cheated more during the Trojan War.

  Two friends now sat upon the third hill considering all they had heard and what they had seen with their own eyes, for both had been nearby when the tremendous blow shook the valley. They were formed in the shape of young men, yet with wings. Those of one were as insubstantial as the clouds far above them. The wings of the other were finer than any bird’s plumage. Each being was a keeper of the secrets of flight, which made their discussion of one particular rumor concerning the beast all the more interesting.

  “So if its wings fell off, it can’t fly anymore. So I don’t see why we care.”

  Zephyrus, the West Wind, wore the cloudy wings and a wrinkled tunic stained with ale. He sent a puff of warm air across Eros and the party of nymphs he had collected for their afternoon amusement with every ‘so’ that crossed his lips. Eros reflexively glanced at his bow and quiver on the grass beside him, forcing down an urge to pierce Zephyrus if he dared start another sentence with that meaningless word. Eros diverted his annoyance by focusing his power on one of the nymphs, who swooned conveniently into his lap. Her calming scent of dew and blossoms allowed Eros, the god of passions, to endure his friend’s repetitive speech patterns and the hot breezes they created.

  “I care because we may only be safe for the moment,” Eros reminded him. Zephyrus was pleasant company, but shallow and short-sighted when it came to anything beyond his immediate pleasure. “We’ve flown to safety, but what about those who can’t? Even you have to come down from the sky if you want your beer and women.” The nymphs began to chatter about the disaster and whine about their sisters who had not been as lucky as they to be plucked from the valley. Eros growled at their squeaking and they fell quickly silent, immediately turning their attention to braiding one another’s hair or collecting silky cobwebs from between blades of grass. Although Eros was beautiful and perfectly formed, the nymphs sensed that his refined exterior did not negate his ability to be monstrous in anger.

  Zephyrus frowned, his handsome brow furrowing above his dark eyebrows as he tried to absorb his friend’s point. “So . . . you’re saying . . . we should protect the brewers and whores, then? We should move them all to these hills.” Zephyrus nodded to himself in satisfaction and tipped back his tankard of beer, leaving a few droplets clinging to his upper lip. He wiped the moisture away with one large-knuckled hand that bore a metal ring on every finger. “That is, if any are left. You saw the size of that crater.”

  Eros nodded. The image of the great hole that had been blasted to the west of Venus’ Temple was still fresh in his mind. It had completely wiped out her settlement of priests and slaves, sending the goddess into a furious rage. First blaming Ares, then Hephaestus, for the insulting defacement of her lands, she’d been making the rounds of the Olympian realm seeking restitution. Eros and Zephyrus had taken to the hills before they too were dragged into the fray.

  “I wonder what really did it,” Eros mused. No one had actually seen a beast, not even the watchers at Hermes’ outpost. This fact had allowed speculation to run rampant, and everything from dragons to giants was being suggested as the cause. Some claimed to have seen a bit of broken wing in the center of the hole, but that it crumbled to dust when Venus tried to seize it as evidence. This implicated some flying creature and allowed simple Zephyrus to assume that whatever injury it had sustained would render it wingless forevermore. From their long association, Eros knew it was easier to let the wind think what he liked rather than engage in a witless debate.
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br />   “I wonder where it went,” Zephyrus countered before slamming down the last of his drink. A familiar twinkle of drunken resolve danced in his eyes. “We should go hunting. Get your bow.”

  Eros stared at him silently for a moment before realizing he was serious. “Zeph, no -”

  “Let’s do it! Come on!” The wind’s resolve was rendered less than convincing by the waver the strong Olympian beer put in his step. But before Eros could dissuade him, Zephyrus launched himself into the air. Momentarily tempted to leave him to his own stupidity, Eros hesitated. Then, thinking how insufferable Zephyrus would be if he was somehow successful in hunting down the threat, Eros admitted to himself that he could not stand to be left out of such glory. He dumped the nymph he’d been cuddling from his lap and sprang to his feet.

  “You idiot! At least take a stick or something!” Eros called after him.

  “At least I’m not naked!”

  The nymphs were unable to contain their laughter as Eros flew off in pursuit.

  Zephyrus rose straight up into the heights of the sky, shifting from his solid man-guise to his true form. His dark, thick hair transformed to white wisps of cloud and the rough wool tunic that clad his body was replaced by a fine mesh of vapor. What had been muscular planes of flesh on the ground turned to smooth plates of ice in the cold, thin air. He turned, hovering, to look down over his native realm in hope of spotting the monster he was hunting. But he saw only Eros gliding effortlessly just below him, his strong wings barely moving to maintain his position.

  “See anything yet?” Eros asked. His tone was doubtful, but he took the precaution of stringing an arrow just in case. The bolt he chose was Indifference. A direct strike with it would remove any being’s driving lust. If the beast lived only to destroy, Eros would soon erase that joy from its life.