Without touching the doors or the metal that bound them, he sat facing the side wall, almost the length of a man distant from the beginning of the portal. He looked at her, catching her eye and knelt on the dirt, bending his legs under his body. Folding his arms in front of him in the X shape she had seen various priests assume during holy day celebrations, he beckoned to her to do the same. Awkward for a pose, she couldn't help feeling sheepish at his direction, but she copied the posture and position as best as she could.
He breathed soft words, “Call to the Sun. Call to the Sun,” with each exhalation of breath.
Alizarin tried to follow his instructions, but she had no knowledge of the ritual he invoked. At first her attention was drawn to the tiny weeds that attempted to flourish in the cracks of the walls, seeing every stone, every bump, every unevenness that composed the surface. The beginning of the tiniest bloom was struggling to open, a delicate life pushing against the formidable barrier.
Instead of chanting Ilion's refrain within her own mind, she drifted, watching his lips move. He mouthed the same sentence over and over. The sound of his voice was a lull and a rhythm all in one. She had never noticed his teeth before. Nor his tongue to think of it. Regular teeth, her mind thought, and a regular tongue. She realized that it was his voice that held her, and kept her thoughts from drifting off to other tangents.
After what seemed to be an unending repetition of the simple phrase, Alizarin found her mind effortlessly following his words, ingrained in her thoughts with or without consciousness. Though she did not say the words, they floated over and in her head until her lips moved in synchronization with his. She did not even mean to. The phrase became like the swelling of the water on the edge of the sea, rising and falling in balance to some other invisible pull, and she found that it took no concentration at all for her to follow the sway of that call.
She had grown so used to the sounds that chanted from both of their lips that the cessation of Ilion's voice went unnoticed for a few moments. It brought her out of a deep trance, a foggy and yet oddly clear state of mind. She found she couldn't think too hard on that transition or the well that had deepened within her mind without losing track of her thoughts.
Choosing instead to open her eyes slightly, she searched for Ilion's shoulder, as he had been seated right next to her. The brightness of the sun struck her eyes, leaving her unable to see. Reaching out she felt for Ilion, grasping his arm, solid and certain. His other hand reached to her elbow and helped her rise.
They hadn't moved. They were still outside of the gate. She waited for a response to the chant, a voice of invitation, a welcomed admission from within the sturdy, impenetrable walls. Nothing happened. Nothing changed.
Except for our location! More specifically, somehow they were inside the temple walls.
As her eyes adjusted she could still make out the weeds and the marks on the wall that had captured her attention as she attempted to begin the chant.
“But we didn't move! How did we get here?” Looking behind her, back the way they had come, back down the familiar path of the winding dirt road, she saw instead the graceful edges of the decorated opening to the temple itself. They were on the other side of the gate. Or the gate is on the other side of us? She didn't understand it at all.
Alizarin looked at Ilion who only winked at her. He stepped back as if he walked down the way they had come, down the dusty dirt path, yet he stepped into the temple and disappeared within the cool, blue shadows.
He stuck his head back out the archway and said, “Are you coming, then? We have work to do! Sleep more after we get what we came for, all right?” With a chuckle, he beckoned Alizarin to come in.
With uncomprehending wonder, the baker stood and walked back the way she had come, into the scrolled entryway of Mira-Sang.
Chapter Nineteen
The Defiance of Guilt
With a deliberate lack of stealth, the securing of the surrounding forest began well. Short of banging drums and pots to announce their presence, the eager villagers made certain that every bit of forest ground was encased in the din of their arrival, surrounded, and walked through. Carefully looking in the intertwined branches of the thick trees, the high reaching limbs, and the hidden doorways of ground-level animal dens, they left no area untouched, no nest undisturbed.
Methodically the group walked, or rather stomped, each man or woman in sight of another, all spread out along the border of the village's edge. With a nod, all walked in together, certain of their superiority and ability to defend what was theirs. Beating the bushes, waiting for the flush of some mysterious prey, they delved deeper, ready to kill any intruder that they happened upon, no questions asked. Each searcher had a bell wrapped in cloth. If that bell was loosed, it signaled that the quarry had been found. The others would converge toward the beckoning sound, committed to fight.
At first, tensions were high. After several long excursions into the shadowed forest with no results, the initial feeling of heightened senses faded. After the sun's rising had finished and the orb drifted high into the sky freed from the bonds of shadow below, it appeared to the keen-eyed villagers that they were destined to meet no opposition. Every able person had searched high and low; each stone had been turned, each log lifted to no immediate results. The hunting became harder as the work became tedious and plodding. Many of the earnest villagers started to wonder what they were doing in the wooded lands anyway.
The hunting parties saw no sign of large animal intrusion, no telltale tracks of any other danger. Still, they walked on, examining everything. The villagers’ sense of unease had grown so large in their minds that the searching groups were determined to flush whatever animal preyed upon them. They needed a return of peace and tranquility, to lead quiet lives and fear nothing again.
Moving as a great wave pushing back the lands in its wake, scouring the treed ground, the villagers' determined search charged deeper and deeper still. They were secure in their ability to see others walking a short distance away, secure in the feeling of unity. The native born men and women did not see the hidden dugout roofs of bound sticks and mud lift ever so slightly, as they walked past. They did not see the traps or hear the daggers that flew right for them. Without even knowing they were attacked, four died quickly.
Mudded arms emerged. Dreadlocked spikes of dirt-brown hair swayed.Marked tattoos glistened in the high sun's beaming light as it fell through the canopy in columns. Three more villagers died.
Walking in certainty, many of them only noticed the disappearances when the noises to their sides ceased. By then it was too late. Bells started ringing up and down the broken line: a cacophony of sounds, chiming in distress. Those left alive realized that the unseen enemy was all around.
Reacting with initially only a small sense of panic, as more bells rang out, the villagers lost heart and hope. They fled back to the confines of their scarcely protected village. Land that had taken the group half a day to cover thoroughly, took only moments to run. Still, the group of screaming villagers that emerged from the wooded lands was far smaller than that which had initially entered, bonded together in confidence and authority. Fearful for good reason now, they could only flee for the relative safety of the meetinghouse and cling to their remaining friends and family.
A network of guards was immediately posted on the outskirts of the village's enclosure. No one spoke any more of imagined beasts and fanciful enemies. The threat was real! It was apparent to all that the unseen, unknown enemy was intent on the destruction of their lives and had already claimed the forest for itself.
After a count was done, the toll of missing and presumed dead or captured had risen to thirty-nine. Almost everyone in the village had lost a family member. And, worst of all, there did not appear to be anything they could do to ward off the very real, very likely coming attack. The feeling of powerlessness raged and bloomed in each heart, decaying their wills, sapping their strength.
No one could save them, surrounded as
they were by unknown enemies and cut off from all assistance. No eyes were dry as the priest began a Godsday service on the wrong day again. No one cared. They huddled together, in a few tight groups waiting for the traps of Death to ensnare them, certain of their end.
Then, out of the grasping green of the treacherous forest's boughs the lost boy returned.
*
As Alizarin walked into the coolness of the graceful interior, her first impression was one of ornate, detailed decoration, both above her head and below her feet. The thick rugs that carpeted the ground piled on each other, forming a giving surface, a welcoming embrace to her tired feet. Having gone seven days without much comfort at all, the stillness of the warm interior exuded a sense of calm, control, and order. Everywhere she looked, gold tesserae gleamed and glimmered. The way forward was lit with wall pockets, small bits of fire that seemed to dim and twinkle in the distance as far as she could see.
Alizarin did not want to leave this place. Not ever! With all of the chaos and confusion that seemed to swell around her lately, the respite of Mira's refuge was almost solid to her senses.
Ilion walked calmly in front of her when the tunnel was too narrow, but as the entrance widened, they stepped forward together into a large room. The walls that had flanked their journey into the interior spilled their stories of myth and creation upwards to dizzying heights. Full of wonder, the baker followed the ascent of several legends she had thought nonsense fables until they climbed so high she could not make out the intricate details. Like the depictions that rose in their rendered continuation, Ilion’s and Alizarin's steps began to ascend as well, until they reached an alcove. It appeared to be the nave of the temple, but Alizarin could not be sure.
Light beamed into the towering room through fifteen sky holes which were carved in half domes, far above her. As it fell into the lower parts of the wall, the rays lit a rainbow of colors dancing from one end of the room to the other. Depending on where she moved within the nave and around the entirety of the sanctuary, the glowing colors changed and merged. What was once a brilliant, piercing red segued into the depths of the ocean's murky green and then to the iridescent blueness of a ringnecked swallow's chest. No specific color was permanent within the temple's walls, but the pureness of light's true reflections beamed from every side. Alizarin had never even dreamed of such a room, let alone such a place.
Ilion bent his head expectantly.
Alizarin saw no sign of any other living being within the limits of the walled enclave. Her eyes continued to be drawn over and over again to the spiraling stories of yesterdays long forgotten. She could make out the story of Jerusha and the Fried Pickle, Marna's Dream, The Travels of Thantos and many, many others. Still other characters seemed to tell stories she had never heard of, scenes that had no reference of familiarity for her.
There were images of long-necked serpents chained to the Carriage of Lightning, clad in her strength and glory. Three rough brown bears sat in silence staring at a dead child. A wave of darkness sped toward a tower of light-filled stars. Winged animals sprinkled the stories, over and over: a horse here, a long-legged, spotted goat there, a lizard again, and a green cat. What is that about?
She had never heard of such stories, such fantasies. Surely these were not real. These things hadn't actually happened, had they? The stories were just cautionary tales to chide children and mold everyone to act with kindness and aforethought. But these depictions showed details she had never heard of, slight variations within the stories she was familiar with, enough so that the very outcome changed, or the true reason for the obscurity and nonsense seemed to sparkle with clarity to her mind’s eye. Tales that had never before seemed logical now overflowed with rational, linear thinking.
The true way of things, Alizarin thought. The real pattern of life.
She was so absorbed in her examination and reevaluation of the tumultuous tales that were scattered around the doorway and spiraled up from the walls, that she did not notice for quite awhile that they were no longer alone.
Dressed in robes of deepest cerulean, a woman faced them both as if she had stepped out of the wall itself. She was every bit as illustrative as the detailed paintings. Watching them, her placid face asked nothing, demanded nothing. She stood before them and waited.
Ilion's eyes closed as he offered a series of words that Alizarin had never heard. It was not even a language that she was slightly familiar with. The blue-clad woman nodded. He spoke again, his words spilling strange liquid sounds which fell, tripping off of his tongue. She could make no sense of the exchange but hearing the utterances was a beautiful sensation. Alizarin felt like a true outsider for the first time in a long while.
He spoke. The woman listened. Then, with a simple gesture, he spread a large red cloak on the ground and laid two purses and a pile of smaller objects. He stepped away, and beckoned to her to do the same. Backing down a few steps, she was careful not to lose her balance.
Scarf of sky blue wrapped around her head, the woman's expression did not change. In fact, she seemed untroubled by the conversation or the objects on the red blanket. She had only glanced at the pile of things before turning away and watching Ilion again. The blue woman was so passive. Alizarin did not understand.
Ilion nodded twice and uttered a few more words that rippled of falling water.
Then he gathered up the shawl, scooping up all the objects within it, and folding it squarely, replaced the red cloth bundle in his pack. He beckoned to Alizarin as she stood by watching all of the interchange. Shouldering the full pack once again, he took her hand and they walked out of the towering temple's room of colors and true stories.
Walking three steps out of the room, they had barely lost sight of it, fading away slightly into the distance, when Alizarin looked back hoping to catch one last glimpse of the priestess. There were only the drawings on the walls. No other person was left in the room, at least none she could see. She turned back to Ilion, looking forward to asking quite a few questions. The toe of her boot hit a stone.
Wincing, she looked down to inspect the damage, down at the dirt road she walked on: the simple dirt road. Looking behind her, the steel-enforced wooden gates loomed high into the heavens and stood as silent sentinels, blocking the way beyond.
*
He came crawling out of the forest, half-starved, unable to talk and fell unconscious onto the garden dirt.
News of his return spread like wildfire over and through the village. Everyone in the area, old and young, small and large, they all surged to the site of the boy's appearance. His agile father reached him first and picked him up as if he weighed no more than a five-cycle-old, which he probably didn't. Tears streamed down the stoic face of the seasoned forest hunter as Centen's muscled arms cradled a skeleton of a child.
He started walking with utmost care through the backfield of Laylada's house where her little cousins had found Cethel. So carefully, so gently did he travel with his precious burden that the villagers lined the path between Sansha's house and Cethel's, heads bowed in grief, worry, and gratitude.
“At least the boy returned!” a few women whispered. “At least he came back!” Heads bowed, their eyes wept at the joy of his impossible appearance, all the while searching the surrounding area of wood for the other two missing children. “Perhaps they were together? Had they just gotten lost?” Clucking amongst themselves,“Where have they been?” as if their unanswered questions somehow helped the situation or confirmed any relevant information.
Two women of the village had run directly to Cethel's house immediately upon hearing of the discovery. With great urgency, and no tact, they blurted the news to Ranada, Cethel's mother. Her eyes lifted for the first time in days. Her mouth hung open for but a moment, and she screamed the surging power of surprised joy, “Cethel!”
Running her hands over her hair several times, patting her cooking apron, not certain what to do, finally she ran out the door to see her son. Ranada made it only as far as the out
side gate when she saw the blood-covered skeleton that her husband carried home.
“Is he dead? Is my baby dead?” she cried out, seeking for answers in her husband's careworn face. “Is he dead? Is … is Cethel dead?”
Centen shook his head vehemently causing his tears to fall like sweat from his cheeks. “No! No, no, Ranada! Our boy lives still! We have taught him well. Be calm. Be calm, woman. Whatever happened in those woods, this is not his blood.”
Ranada stared at him as if his words were incomprehensible. She couldn't find consolation in their sounds. Still begging for knowledge, she clasped her hands in front of her face. Tears fell ferociously down her cheeks. Her eyes implored him.
He hastened to reassure her, “Listen, listen, Ranada, listen! He is only slightly hurt, a small wound on the hand. Two fingers at most. It will be alright. We will fix him up right quick.”
Panic still mixed with relief in her eyes. It was joy with sorrow, and at the bottom of it all, the worry a mother always carries. “But he is just skin and bones! Where has he been? Has he spoken to you?”
Turning her attention on her child, Ranada said urgently, “Cethel, are you alright, son? Can you hear me? Cethel?”
The young man's eyes opened, registered his mother's face, and blinked. Still cradled in the capable arms of his father, he closed his eyes in relief and thankfulness. His lips moved: “Home … ,” he said. “I, I made it …home.”
With those few words, the nearly lost child turned away from all eyes and wept from empty tear ducts. He cried though no water fell. He sobbed. He keened.
His puzzled father took him in the house and laid him on his bed. His concerned mother made some warm cacao and biscuits, soaking away their hardness. Little by little, drop by drop, Ranada fed him, slowly, only a few crumbs at a time. He did not speak again.
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