by Robin Jarvis
Within the tent a flame spluttered into life and in an instant a lamp was lighted.
“There now,” the occupant stated. “May you find this more to your liking. For myself I prefer the cloaking night and the many mysteries it conceals from the harsh glare of day. Now, enter—I insist.”
A warm glow emanated from the faded shelter’s entrance and Thomas stole forward.
Beyond the unlaced opening, the floor was covered by many soft and amply padded cushions. Richly embroidered fabrics festooned the bare wooden crates on either side and ponderous, brocaded tassles of the most sumptuous purples dripped luxuriantly from above. A black and silver spiralled staff was propped against one exotic, tapestry-adorned wall and at its foot were three large bags, filled and overflowing to give tantalizing glimpses of bizarre instruments to view the stars, glass bottles of all shapes and sizes, pouches stuffed with powders for potions and leather bound books crammed with secret lore.
Upon a low block of wood a lantern that was studded with pieces of coloured glass gleamed and winked, dappling everything in rainbow hues. At its side, within a metal bowl, a cone of incense was burning and, although its scented fumes filled all of the canopy, in one corner they were gathered more thickly and had collected into a dense pall of obscuring blue smoke.
Staring at this ever-moving, writhing cloud, Thomas thought he could just discern a squat figure in its choking depths and he fidgeted with his neckerchief, not knowing what to do.
Like some phantom sentinel, wreathed about by an ethereal mist and conjured from the elemental haunted, mountain regions of the air, the dim, indistinct shape appeared—but for the moment it remained motionless.
With his eyes trying to pierce the enshrouding fogs, Thomas felt sure that whatever lurked in there was able to see him quite clearly and the fur on his neck prickled at the thought of such intense scrutiny from so mysterious a source.
Only when Woodget had entered and was standing at his friend’s side did the wraith-like form stir. Remembering his manners, the fieldmouse swiftly pulled the woollen hat from his head and clasped it before him—the tent might be the abode of a wizard or magician but he was still visiting and knew what was and wasn’t polite.
“How their hearts are thumping,” that same ringing voice came to them from the centre of the turgid smoke. “What harm have I done them—or what rumour of harm do they fear it is my nature to perform?”
There was a silence, broken only by a loud self-conscious swallow from Woodget.
Again the laughter flowed out to them and the blurred figure raised what Thomas assumed were its arms.
“Forgive this fug and vapour,” it said. “I find the profound fumes sharpen and hone the blades of my thought, though maybe it is not to your liking.”
Neither mouse said anything but the nebulous creature clapped its paws together and to their amazement the smoke began to lift.
Like a crashing wave, the mists fell away, dissipating from the shadowy corner and scudding out through the entrance, swirling around Thomas’s and Woodget’s legs until only a single filament of smoke remained rising from the burner.
With his long legs crossed but still just as enigmatically swaddled in a robe of ruby velvet and his face hidden by a great, silken fringed hood—was Simoon. Rings of silver and gold adorned his mitten-clothed fingers and bangles set with semiprecious stones jangled over his wrists as he raised his paw in greeting.
“You are most welcome, my guests,” the prophet said. “Nay, do not stand. Pray sit before me.”
Woodget glanced apprehensively at Thomas, but the other mouse was mesmerised by this uncanny personage and obeyed at once, plopping himself smartly down.
Timidly, the fieldmouse did the same and within the dark recess of the hood two points of light glinted.
“At last you have sought me out,” Simoon said. “Yet still I sense that you are troubled by doubt and distrust. Maybe if I were to cast back my cowl and you could look on my face, your misgivings would be calmed.”
The two mittened paws rose up and at once the tent was filled with the clinking of his bracelets. The long sleeves of the velvet robe fell down about his elbows and the two mice caught a glimpse of pale, sandy-coloured fur.
In anxious anticipation, they watched Simoon take hold of the fringed hood and in a slow, careful movement he pushed it back over his head.
Thomas blinked and Woodget rubbed his eyes. Neither of them had seen a face like the one that was suddenly revealed and the prophet smiled to see their bewildered expressions.
His head was small and covered in the same sandy fur as his puny arms, but the first feature which struck them about Simoon was the creature’s eyes. Never had they seen any so large or dark. Like orbs of polished black glass they were, and each glittered like a lens that was trained heavenward and filled with all the wintry burning of those penetrating, celestial fires. Knowledge and wisdom founded upon long years of studious learning shone from those deep wells of night. They were at once both comforting and unsettling, having the power to either kindle hope or instill despair at the core of any they wished and, as he gazed into them, Woodget found that his fears subsided.
Above the sparkling eyes, the brows of Simoon were hoary white and spiked far over his wrinkled nose like a thicket of frost-covered briar. Great age and weariness rested upon them, yet both mice felt that the care and grief which marked that face could melt in an instant and the vigour of youth could again be his to wield if he so wished it.
Below the slightly pointed nose, a small mouth was still curled into a smile and upon the chin bristled a great many more white, wiry whiskers.
“What... who are you?” Woodget managed to utter when the glance of those eyes had thawed most of his trepidations.
Simoon clasped his paws together and the brambling eyebrows twitched upwards.
“My common name you already know,” he said. “But that which I was first called in the great desert long ago I tell to none. Simoon will serve for now and I am content—for it is also the term my people give to the hot dry wind which rages over the dunes, like the fury of angry jinns. Yes, Simoon will do.”
The smile widened to a grin and the eyes shone brighter than ever.
“As to what manner of creature I am, I do not doubt you have never seen the like of me before. A jerboa am I—hopper of the parched baking wastes, burrower of the dry shifting hills—he who shuns the fiery day. But not for an age or more have I journeyed in the burning heats of my own land. My paths have led me elsewhere, to places cold and chill. Often have I walked in your green land and how my bones ache from the damp that creeps up my tail. That is why I clothe myself in vestments heavy and swaddling, and why I huddle in the darkness of smoke-filled corners.”
He paused and untwined his fingers, reaching out with his paw to point at each of his guests in turn.
“But you did not come here to learn of my histories,” he told them. “For one reason only do the curious venture into the tent of Simoon. You have come to ask that which only I can know. Of he who is no longer aboard this vessel I can tell you little, save that his part in this world has ended. But that is not the only reason for your coming. Do not deny it. Did you not come hither to learn also what I can see of your futures? Is this not the truth?”
Thomas leaned forward. “Can you really do that?” he breathed uncertainly. “Do you know if I’ll ever be a captain?”
“Tom!” Woodget hushed. “We ain’t got no coins.”
“The price is not always set on silver alone,” Simoon answered. “For the wisdom I now impart, the reckoning will be accounted later. Do you still wish for foreknowledge, Master Stubbs?”
Thomas glanced at Woodget’s concerned face then nodded quickly.
“Couldn’t you just tell us a tale or two?” Woodget interrupted as the jerboa began searching inside one of the bags.
Thomas pouted but Simoon eyed the fieldmouse shrewdly.
“And which of the hundred score narratives that are
locked within my tongue would you have me recount?” he asked. “Many fables and legends have I heard and countless dark and deadly histories. Which of those would sound sweet to your large ears, Master Barleyclimber?”
Woodget shrugged his shoulders. “I’m willin’ to listen to anything I ain’t heard afore.”
The prophet turned to stare at the incense burner and his eyes became fixed upon the constantly winding smoke.
“Of stories great and horrible I have great store,” he uttered, his voice dropping to a bewitching whisper. “Of the great war between the messengers of the moon and the treefolk of the wood I know much. Grievous was the sorrow of that dark time, when the young Ysabelle gained the throne through misery and despair. Many grim tales stem from your green lands and still deeds both noble and evil shall yet unfold there.”
“Don’t tell us something from our country,” Woodget broke in. “I’ll be heading back there soon enough. What I want to hear is something strange about places I’ll never see—of foreign shores and distant lands.”
“Yes,” agreed Thomas. “What about a yarn from out of the East? I’ve always wanted to travel there.”
“’From out of the East?” ” Simoon repeated and his low voice grew cold and solemn. “In that region there are many legends, yet mightiest and most terrible of all concerns that which is not a matter of idle talk and though it stretches far back to the youth of the world, its horror does not have its roots in myth nor fancy.”
Thomas beamed and he shivered with pleasure. He loved scary stories. “Please,” he encouraged, “can’t you tell us a bit of it?”
The jerboa stared more intently at the smoke and Woodget blinked, for the ravelling wisps took shape in the air until the ghostly outline of a rearing serpent hung above their heads.
Simoon made a peculiar sign with his paws and the shape dwindled until they saw only a strand of blue smoke again.
“Now shall I speak of Suruth Scarophion,” he muttered and at the mention of that name he closed his eyes and Thomas thought the blood drained from the prophet’s lips.
“He whom others call Gorscarrigern,” he continued. “The Coiled One. Sarpedon, others cursed him—the Dark Despoiler. All titles are just, yet none do justice.”
The expression faded from the jerboa’s face and his murmuring voice was barely audible above the soft sizzling of the incense and the faint, muffled sound of the waves sluicing around the outside of the ship.
“Long, long ago when the mountains were but hills and the ungirdled oceans were pools and meres, a vast darkness lay over eastern lands. Whilst on western shores the foundations of the three thrones were still part of the living rock and the Raith Sidhe had not grown to an eighth of their later strength, in the East a foulness reigned.
“Words describe him not, nor laments bewail his cruelty. But a devil he was, spawned in the freezing dark beyond the beginning of all things and clad in the form of a serpent, the like of which had never been equalled and with the Green’s grace never shall.
“The length of many leagues was his full measure and high over the tops of giant trees he towered. Black were the scales that shielded him and their strength was that of iron. Whole jungles could his venomous bile wither and kill and none could withstand him. A power as old as the earth and strong as its bones was in him and for many ages he reigned with horror and without mercy.
“Storm clouds made up his crown and those whom he had poisoned into his service with the terror of his being, worshipped him as their god. Death and despair were their creed and ever were they at war. Mightier than ever did Scarophion become, his hellish eyes revelling in the torment that ravaged the lands. Unmatched was his peerless tyranny and far did his empire reach.
“Devoted to him were his followers, but their loyalty was born of madness. All instructions they obeyed, questioning never, though it might be to cast themselves from great heights, plunge into murderous rapids or shrivel in perishing flame. Further his cruel dominion spread, his savage priests gathering more into his dark service.
“Only the newborn did they accept into the black following. The parents of those tender offspring were viciously put to death, then the evil tutelage and odious instruction began at once. So were the innocents taken to the loathsome temples and upon bloodstained altars were they committed to that most infernal of fiends.”
Simoon paused and he dragged his eyes from the smoke. “Know now the signs of The Scale,” he told the two mice. “For when a newborn is taken into the dark fold, its tail is butchered, slit and hewn into a mockery of their monstrous lord’s forked tongue. Beware any so mutilated—shun them and fear them.
“Only an adept, or one of higher rank may cleave the halves of its tail together to pass unmarked amongst his enemies. If so then look to him whilst he sleeps, for only in waking can this deceit be accomplished and in slumber it returns to its cleft state. That is but one of their counterfeits; others there are and evil are the arts practised by the High Priests, but I shall not sully the day by naming them here.”
Thomas stared at him in surprise. “But you said this was long ago,” he declared, disturbed by the vehemence of the jerboa’s warning and the apparent fear in his voice.
Simoon gaped at him, then turned back to the trailing incense. “And so it was,” he breathed. “In the dim, deep, bygone past. Forgive me, the teller oft gets embroiled within his own tale. I was forgetting.”
“What happened to the serpent god?” Woodget asked. “Was he overthrown?”
“He was indeed,” the jerboa replied, “for the history of the world would not have unfolded as it has done. Yet the Dark Despoiler was not beaten without cost.
“The shadow of Scarophion stretched far and wide. Much had he conquered and laid waste, yet still he lusted for more. Then did the forces of his enemies band together and a host of diverse creatures was gathered to do battle. But in brute force alone there was little hope. Yet there were at that time many wise folk. Those who studied the wheeling stars, dabblers in mystic rites and some who could summon the powers of the Green and turn it to their own purpose.
“Through many years of blood and pain did the wars drag them and uncounted thousands were slain on either side. Yet at the last, by the combined arts of those cunning folk, Suruth Scarophion was finally assailed upon the very steps of his greatest temple.
“Long the two opposing forces grappled. Spell upon spell, might against might. Enchantment crashed into devilry and all around the ground quaked, ripping open huge pits which boiled with liquid flame. The pillars of the temple trembled and into his shrine the black horror fled.
“Fiercely did those sorcerers pursue him and their waxing powers crumbled the gore-daubed walls, throwing them down, and the roof that was scorched by sacrificial fires was torn asunder. Then did Scarophion’s strength break, and the forces of good prevailed. Under their final enchantment the Dark Despoiler fell and his mortal form was vanquished.
“But even as he expired, his writhing body consumed by the passage of his demonic spirit, the tyrant belched forth his black blood and the Green host was sprayed with its venom. So too did the wisest leave this world, yet they had achieved great glory and the land was made clean once more.”
Simoon’s voice trailed off into brooding silence but before him the smoke twisted into a large oval shape and the jerboa scattered it with his paws as though it frightened him.
“That were a tale and a half,” Woodget crooned, dreamily hugging his knees.
The prophet shook himself and stared at them as if he had forgotten they were there.
“Ancient myths have no place in this present age,” he said drawing the folds of his robe close about him as though it had grown chill. “Let us not stir the ashes and brittle bones of the long cold dead. Our fealty lies with tomorrow, not a thousand and more yesterdays. Is there aught else you would ask of me?”
“I really would like to know what my future has in store,” Thomas ventured. “If you don’t mind, that is.”<
br />
Simoon said nothing but pulled one of the embroidered lengths of fabric from the wall and spread it over the cushions between them. Then he put his tiny paw into his robe and took from a hidden pocket a pack of colourfully illustrated cards which he held out for Thomas to touch.
“Now shall your fate be revealed,” he intoned, placing five of them face upwards on the cloth.
Thomas stared at the weird pictures arranged before him. Upon the first there was the image of a fair face but it was painted green and Simoon furrowed his branching brows.
“A maiden has driven you hither,” he said, “or rather your envious coveting of her. You have commenced your journey poorly, Master Stubbs, may you end it better.”
Thomas shifted uncomfortably and wondered if Woodget was looking at him. He was too ashamed to raise his eyes and find out.
Simoon moved his gaze to the second card. It was an alarming drawing of a glaring mask with flaming eyes.
“Danger is close to you,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Your way is littered with peril, but treachery will always be the main hazard—this is its face, already it is watching. Take care not to fall under its sway, never take up that slippery mask yourself, deny the hold it will endeavour to clamp upon you and make it not welcome in your heart.”
Thomas frowned. He didn’t like the sound of it so far, but the third card showed an illustration of the sun and he hoped that would signify something cheerier.
“A charmed life is yours,” Simoon grunted, but when he studied the fourth picture he shook his head gravely.
“Here is the sign of the rolling waters, yet see how they are tormented by storm and tempest. When this card follows that of the sun then it is not well. Fortune may indeed be shining upon you, Master Stubbs, yet so bright does her glory gleam that those about you are lost in shadow and she is blind to them. Though you may survive great peril it does not mean your companions shall. Almost, the charm that you bask in is the very beacon which guides them to disaster.”
There was only one card left. It depicted a broken anchor and Simoon took several minutes pondering its meaning in conjunction with the others before he spoke again.