The Iron Tempest

by Ron Miller

  Rashid, meanwhile, had collapsed onto his bed, despairing of ever seeing his new lover. He stared with dull eyes at the tall windows of the oriel, long banners of indigo sky spattered with brilliant stars. Two of the stars, hot with blue-white light, fixed him with their rays as though incandescent needles had passed through his head, pinning it to the pillow like a prize moth. He felt his blood rush through his veins like molten sulfur, threatening to burst through his skin like lava pouring through the crust of a volcano. A shadow passed before the twin stars, long and sinuous, like the shadow of a cobra, like the tendrils of sweet smoke rising from a censer. He realized that it was the woman for whom he had been waiting. He was engulfed in the sheer sweetness that poured from Alcina’s eyes, that glittered even more icily than did the stars. He leaped from the bed and embraced her in his powerful arms, like the massive roots of an oak engulfing a lesser growth. She was wearing nothing but a light cloak thrown over a gossamer white nightgown that might have been woven by Ariadne herself. The cloak was abandoned in the first embrace. The insubstantial nightgown beneath no more concealed her than a pane of glass conceals a spray of lilies or an icy wisp of cirrus the gleam of the moon. It was no more than the the smoke that curls around a candle flame.

  Ivy never clung to a wall as tightly as did these lovers entwine their limbs, and no flower growing in the scented sands of Arabia or India possessed a pollen sweeter than that which they drew from one another’s lips, from mouths that seemed to have grown second tongues . . .

  Bradamant sat upright with a cry, her eyes wide open, staring into the dark room, still branded by the terrible vision that glowed and danced mockingly like an afterimage of the burning sun. Her heart beat against her breast as though it were about to break free and run wildly screaming around the room. She was wet clear through; her bedclothes were soaked with her perspiration. She buried her face in her hands, to hide that awful hallucination and let the salt tears try to wash it from her eyes.

  The following morning, at breakfast, she was ready to ride then and there to Rashid’s rescue, but Melissa had to disappoint her.

  “I’m afraid you can’t go,” she said.

  “What? Why not?”

  “For one thing, Rashid is three thousand miles from here, and most of the intervening distance is occupied by water.”

  “I’ll take a ship!”

  “My dear, even if that were possible—and I doubt even you’d be able to convince any captain and crew alive to brave the unknown waters at the limits of the earth—you’d never reach him in time. It would take you months and a delay of days would be fatal.”

  “Send me by a spell!”

  “I can’t do that for reasons too technical to go into right now. You don’t know enough magic to understand them.”

  “What can I do, then? Is Rashid lost to me?”

  “No, not by any means. If you’ll trust his rescue to me, I can be on Alcina’s enchanted island by dawn tomorrow.”

  “You? You would save Rashid?”

  “Of course. All I need from you is Brunello’s ring. It’s proof against any magic spell. I imagine that Alcina’s sorcery is equal to my own—but no greater—and the ring will give me the advantage.”

  “Why couldn’t you have just asked for it in the first place and spared me all of the agonizing details?”

  “I wanted you to know how urgent this was.”

  Bradamant, who would have trusted Melissa with her life, and more than her life, slipped the ring from her finger and handed it over.

  “I would just as gladly hand you my heart,” she said as the sorceress took the ring, “or even my life, if it would save Rashid’s.”

  “There’s another even more compelling reason why you can’t pursue Rashid,” said Melissa, as she slipped the ring onto a slender finger. “Charlemagne is in desperate need of you. For these many months you’ve shirked your honorable and sworn duty to the emperor. Indeed, he’s prefered to give you up for dead rather than suspect you’ve abandoned him.”

  “I’m very ashamed of that, my lady.”

  “It’s not too late to redeem yourself. Go to Paris immediately. The great Karl will be so overjoyed to see his most-favored paladin that he’ll forgive you everything.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “There’s no doubt about it.”

  “Will you come to me as soon as you’ve rescued Rashid?”

  “I won’t waste as much as a minute. I have a plan that can’t possibly fail to obtain his release. As soon as he’s free of Alcina, I’ll bring him to you.”

  “Then I will trust you, my lady.” But Bradamant gritted her teeth as she said that.

  INTERLUDE

  In which Princess Angelica briefly rejoins our History

  After Angelica’s rescue from King Sacripant, she found herself once again alone in the wilderness. Her only thought was to reach the coast, from where she was certain she’d be able to find someone who would be willing to carry her back to Cathay and to her father, the emperor. She had no idea which direction, of the many available, was the one most likely to achieve this goal. No outdoorswoman, she. Uncertain, she rode first here, then there, her ever-increasing anxiety causing a furrow of worry—albeit a perfectly-formed furrow—to form between her lovely brows.

  After a day and a night of aimless wandering, she happened upon a hermit whom she observed watching her from the hollow tree that was evidently his home. He looked like a terribly mistreated owl, or perhaps one suffering the final stages of some progressively debilitating bird disease. It was certain that he had lived within the hollow tree far longer than any human being had a right to.

  Angelica found the sight revolting; she was, however, in neither the mood nor a position to be particularly choosy, so she stopped and asked the hermit if he had any idea of which direction the sea lay.

  The hermit didn’t reply for a very long moment. A dedicated misanthrope who hated the very sight, sound and thought of the human race, he had lived for nearly seventy years avoiding all but the most necessary or accidental contact with his fellow creatures. For the last thirty of those years he had seldom stirred from the clammy interior of his den, except when foraging for the nuts, berries and grubs that nourished him. What little he still possessed in the way of clothing—bits and pieces of hide, scraps of cloth, leaves and woven grass—had decomposed into a kind of rich humus that sustained a microcosm of mold, ferns, moss, lichens, mushrooms and other fungi—to say nothing, of course, of the insects, earthworms and moles who considered him home and hearth. It was difficult, in fact, to tell just where the rotting interior of the bole left off and the hermit began. All that remained of him that still appeared human was his face, and that resemblance was little enough, to be sure. His white hair and beard—or what would have been white had it not been instead a brilliant algae-green—was an enormous tangled mat in which at least one family of small bird had passed several generations. His face was as puckered, wrinkled and shapeless as one of his own shriveled testicles. Only the eyes betrayed the presence of intelligence—though whether that intelligence was mad or sane was a matter for some half-hearted debate.

  In any event, this hermit, who had foresworn all intercourse with the human race, found his gnarled old walnut-like heart stirring at the sight of the fabulous Angelica who, as we well know, was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. He clutched at his chest, thinking for a moment that the unfamiliar sensation might be caused by some curious but unwelcome creature burrowing its way to his interior. Perhaps a mole, stoat or vole. He absently raised a scrawny hand and tried to comb his hair with his twiggy fingers and a half dozen small animals squealed and squeaked in protest.

  He struggled to speak, but his unpracticed vocal cords resented the effort and at first he could only produce an inarticulate croak. He tried three more times before he was finally able to say, “Pardon me? Ahem! Pardon me! Ah. What were you just asking?”

  “The way to the sea,” Angelica replied.

 
; “The sea?”

  “The sea. I want to get to the sea.”

  “The sea.”

  The hermit desperately wanted to keep the woman talking, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You want to get to the sea?” was all he could think of so he said it again.

  “Yes, I want to get to the sea. Do you know which way I should go?”

  “Go?”

  “Yes. Which way should I go? To reach the sea?”

  “The way you were headed is the way to the sea.”

  “Thank you very much,” she replied and began to move away.

  What have I done? the hermit thought, in panic. What have I just said? I’m sending her away! Stupid! Stupid!

  “Wait!” he cried, the sudden loudness causing a rustling of protest (“We’re trying to sleep here, if you don’t mind!”) among the nocturnal inhabitants of his beard and clothing.

  “Yes?” replied Angelica, turning in her saddle.

  “Yes . . . ah, wait . . . ah . . . That might not be the right way—I mean, I might, ah, I may be mistaken.”

  “This isn’t the way to the sea?”

  Oh, my! writhed the poor hermit, That pout! That lower lip glistening like a plump, juicy wedge of blood orange! Those breasts heaving in her sudden anxiety like a pair of magnificent swans! If that is indeed a tear welling up like a liquid diamond in that opaline eye I will be able to die now and know that I have not lived in vain.

  “Can’t you be certain?” begged the princess, “I can’t tell you how important it is that I find a ship.”

  “It’s been a long time,” replied the hermit. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sea. It’s been an even longer time since anyone has been down this road.”

  “Oh, you are making fun of me! I’m sure someone so charming as you must have a great deal of company.”

  “Oh, I do, I do! But so much of it is invertebrate. I can’t think of the last time that another human being has spoken to me.”

  “It is just that you are far too shy.”

  “I do remember having once been told that.”

  “It’s never too late to make some friends, get out, have some fun.”

  “I’d like nothing better,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion; Angelica of course couldn’t be blamed for failing to discern this nuance among his croaking words, “though I never thought I’d hear myself saying such a thing.”

  “It would do you a power of good, you know.”

  “I can easily imagine.”

  “Underneath all of that foliage must be a very handsome man. I’m sure you’d charm every woman you’d meet.”

  “You think so?” Oh, I do want to charm you, my precious! Oh, I do, I do! I want to charm you right here in the middle of this road. I want to charm you until you gasp for breath and get the hiccups.

  “Well, of course I do! Indeed, I’d be delighted to tell all of my lady friends about you just as soon as I reach the sea—which is . . . this way?” she prompted.

  “No, it’s that way.” Damn!

  He struggled to escape his hole, but he’d grown so much into place that by the time he succeeded the beautiful woman was already a hundred yards away. He tried calling after her, but his unpracticed voice revolted and refused to carry more than a few feet before falling in exhaustion to the dusty road. Panic overtook him. The road wound up and over a hill and it would only be a matter of moments before she was out of sight, and as soon as she was he knew with a certainty she’d be lost to him forever.

  He scrambled back into his dank nest, digging into the thick accumulation of rotted vegetable matter that filled its lower half. After a minute or two he pulled forth a small, iron chest, rusted to a shapeless mass. The corroded metal fell away at his touch in crumbling brown leaves. The lock broke easily even under his feeble grasp. Inside was a moldy, nearly gelatinous mass: all that remained of an ancient book. With shaking fingers, the hermit tried to separate the pages, knowing that the parchment would collapse at the merest mistouch. That his eyes had to strain against cataracts and hypermetropia of course didn’t help at all.

  He finally found the page for which he had been searching and immediately began muttering the blurry words that were printed upon it, while tracing out the strange, Oriental-looking figures with the tip of one fleshless finger. The sweet, moist smell of rotten wood and earth was gradually joined by the incongruous tang of sulfur.

  Like the well-trained hound that knows exactly how to outfox the fox and outrun the rabbit, who knows that it is sometimes necessary to go in the opposite direction in which the prey is headed, scenting the real trail with his sensitive nose—all to the dismay of the quarry who arrives at the joining of the paths only to discover the hound waiting, fangs glistening, jaws agape. In just this way did the hermit cut off Angelica’s escape.

  Meanwhile, all unsuspecting, Angelica rode on. She had forgotten about the hermit the moment her back had been turned to him. If she had any lingering thought at all, it was that small pleasure she felt at having made a fool of yet one more man. She had, of course, no suspicion of the creature that now inhabited her horse, patiently awaiting its moment, like a smoldering fire biding its time, unseen and unsuspected, until it leaps forth with a roar to wreak havoc and destruction and death.

  She eventually reached the sea, which, it turned out, was no great distance from the hermit’s tree. It was, in fact, she discovered, the Gascony coastal road, such as it was. When her horse put its first hoof upon the sandy beach the demon it contained took control of the poor animal. With a frenzied whinny—half of suprise and half of fear—the horse made a right-angle turn and charged into the pounding surf. Angelica screamed and held onto the pommel with all her strength, frantically pulling at the reins with her other hand—but to no avail. The possessed horse ignored her and was quickly into deep water; the thick foam swirled over Angelica’s thighs. The sodden weight of her dress threatened to pull her from the animal’s back and she pulled her skirts up as far as she dared without losing her balance. Cold spray soaked her to the skin and her long hair was plastered to her face and body in tangled rivulets of gold. It was only the impetuous sea-breezes that teased and tormented her in this way, however: the great sea-winds were hushed, as if abashed by Angelica’s beauty as was the beast by Orpheus’ lyre.

  She stole a quick glance over her shoulder and was horrified to see how far she had come from the shore. And still, in spite of everything she tried, the demonic horse carried ever further out to sea. Angelica despaired.

  It was therefore some time before she came to realize that the animal’s course had become a long curve gradually turning back to the coast. A few minutes later she saw, to her inexpressible delight, the low dark line of land ahead. As it grew closer, she saw that it was not the same smooth yellow beach she had left, but was instead a wild, inhospitable stretch of broken, jagged rocks and deep caves. The beach on which the horse finally deposited her was little more than a steep shelf of sharp-edged black shingle as sharp and inhospitable as broken glass. Night was falling as she slipped from the back of her traitorous mount, glad to feel her feet on firm ground again, no matter how unpleasant-looking it might be. She stood for a long time, looking around at the darkening landscape, as still as a painted statue, bemused and motionless.

  Scarcely aware of the chilly breeze that pierced her dripping garments, that scarcely stirred her sodden tresses, she looked toward the sky—her lips tight, her fists clenched—with an accusing glare.

  “Ah! cruel Kismet! What is left for you to do before your need to torture me is sated? What have I left to surrender to you except my life? Why do you refuse to take it? What was the point of saving me from the sea? Why did you pass up such an excellent chance to make me suffer and die?

  “I don’t see what else you can do to me, seeing how poorly you’ve treated me so far. By your hand I’m exiled from my rightful home—and you block my every attemot to return. But what’s worse is that my honor’s lost. I have comm
itted no sin, I swear that, but because I’m forced to wander, homeless, people say that I must be unchaste, which is, of course, purest slander.

  “What’s left, then, to a woman who’s lost her chastity? I might be young and beautiful, but you obviously don’t care about that. After all, if those qualities got me some special advantage, would I be stranded here on this miserable beach?

  “All right then, since you’ve robbed me of honor, wealth and love, what is there left for you to torment me with? If drowning would have been too easy a death, too simple and quick to satisfy your lust for cruelty, then send some loathesome monster to eat me and be done with it. I’ll not resist. Send me any fate you see fit, but get it done and overwith if you please.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty, my lady,” said a voice by her elbow and she gave a little frisk at the sound, like a startled lamb. It was the hermit, who had been watching Angelica from the beetling cliffs that overhung the beach. He had arrived hours before she did, hitchhiking there on the back of some demon or another. However he had managed it, the princess was glad to see even his awful presence, as he stood there smirking sanctimoniously. She took the withered hand he offered her and, as she did so, felt all of the weariness and fear and despondancy seem to pass away, as though they had been drawn like water into the hermit’s dessicated husk. She began to feel something more like her old self, more’s the pity.

  “Father,” she said, “I’ve been marooned here by some sort of evil magic. I beg of you to help me.” Then, sobbing tears which while they may or may not have been wholly genuine albeit undoubtedly copious, she told him the story of her misadventure, a story, of course, he already knew full well.

  As she spoke, he placed a consoling arm around her shoulders, patting her hand gently with his stick-like fingers. Then, as he whispered comforting assurances, his hand moved up her long arm, an arm as smooth and pale as a freshly-peeled willow wand. She shivered at the touch, but the hermit’s words were so gentle and reassuring that instead of drawing away, as anyone would have done in less trying circumstances, she leaned into him for support. Taking advantage of this, he continued the soporific chant, the hypnotic drone that had the princess already half-stupified. As he did, he rythmically stroked her cheeks, wiping her tears from them with his fingertips. He looked longingly at each dewy drop as it hung quivering clinquantly. Without interrupting so much as a syllable of his monotone, his hands moved down the alabaster neck and over the undulating bosom. Her body quivered once again; this time he was emboldened to venture an embrace, but he had been premature. She pushed him away with an sneer of disgust.