Into the Raging Mountains

by Caroline Gill

  Stone struck stone, and gathered friends. Rocks fell and the opening was covered in debris and dust. When the high mountain air finally settled, only the Glyphed Men remained in the crevasses of the pathway. The two travelers had slipped beyond.

  Satisfied, nodding to herself, she leapt within the shadow of two behemoth rocks. As she disappeared, the flicker of her black coat blinked a flash of iridescent green at the winking sun.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Lesser Sacrifice

  Her mouth tasted like three-day-old trash. She felt like she was stuffed with cotton filling, like her best dolly Cinnamon.

  Once when she had carried the toy around for too long, dolly's arm had caught on the splinters of an old fencepost and had torn right off. Broken hearted, she could only gather up the limp arm and sob. That's where her mother had found her, clutching the broken doll, certain that the world as she knew it had ended. Tatanya pulled a small fabric satchel out of her apron and wielding a simple needle and thread, had miraculously fixed the tear in Azure's heart. Everything was fine again.

  Her mommy hugged her tight, and tighter, and tighter till she couldn't even move her arms.

  She started to protest, “Not so hard Mommy, not so hard. It hurts me!” Tossing her head a little, the small girl tried to open her eyes but could not. She tried to speak but only a small grunt escaped her lips. Why can't I move my arms? Her nose and cheek itched and no matter how much she blinked she could not clear her eyes to see.

  “What happened? Mommy? Laylada? Where are you?” she tried to say, but though her lips and teeth moved grudgingly, something was wrong with her voice.

  “Awake arrre you?”

  A hand touched her hair, pushing it to the side. Another hand cupped her chin, forcing her face up to the light, so very, very bright. Instinctively, her eyes closed themselves against the brutal intrusion.

  “What'sss your na-me, girlll?”

  The voice boomed throughout the area, something rolling, deep and penetrating. The little girl couldn't see, didn't want to see the cold, cold eyes that accompanied that voice.

  “What's yourrr name?” the voice cawed in her ear, insistently.

  “What's yourr name!?” it demanded, the sound reverberating within her head.

  Reflexively her body curled tightly in on itself. She wanted to do anything to block out the noise that shook her to her tummy. She felt so sick When the voice asked again and again, hammering at her very self, the little girl lost track of time and of any specific moment.

  Very softly, without any thought, a name came to her mind.

  “What’sss your name!?” It boomed again against her head. Her tears fell on the dirt ground, running down her nose. Her eyes clenched tight against the onslaught.

  Her mouth started moving, her lips repeating a name. Frightened, the lost child whispered it over and over. It was all she could say, all she could think. “Brigitte, Brigitte, Brigitte, Brigitte, Brigitte, Brigitte, Brigitte, Brigitte, …”

  Scratchy fabric covered her nose and mouth, smothering the sound. Strong hands held it there, as she inhaled through it, just trying to breathe. One deep breath and her body went limp; all strength and awareness left her. Her questions died and Azure's thoughts spiraled away into the murky pitch of her own mind.

  *

  The screams had stopped a long time ago. A thin line of red seeped from the edge of the cut, following the incision of the sharpened blade. Soon a drop gathered, and then another, banding together heavy with the burden of life that they carried. Farther and farther, the blade parted the skin, sliced through the muscle and the fat.

  The blood began to trickle in a tiny rivulet down the body, pooling at the edges of the incising table, built for the sacrifice. Each drop, each trickle pooled together and ran down the length of the table to the waiting bowls, collecting there. Siphoned off, it gathered and gathered.

  He did not stop cutting until the blood flow slowed and stopped. Then with one word and three quick motions he completed the ritual, cutting the jugular vein open. If the exactness required of the ritual had been followed specifically there would be no blood left to flow from the open wound. No blood fell.

  Perfect, as he had expected.

  He stoppered the bowls, heavy and earthen, filled up with the flow of life, and placed them in front of the altar, except one small, round, shallow dish, that held the first and last drops of blood spilled. He lit the fire suspended in the midst of the stone with a word and an ember from the hanging lantern. With a whooshing sound, the flame sucked the room clear of all air, feeding on the richness of the sky and trees until there was no oxygen left. The fire whimpered and went out, unable to resist the loss of its need. The stone that held the body, funneled the blood and stood testament to the ritual was singed and burnt clean of all debris, encircled only by the assembled covered bowls.

  Needing no breath to complete the last and most important part of the action, his arms flowed. His hands were graceful in their deliberation and studied movements as he dipped brush into shallow bowl and wrote the Call to Offering on its smooth, polished surface.

  There was no sound in the middle of nightfall to interrupt his focused thoughts; no one would dare. The gray priest knew the correct actions and the precise wording mattered; he had studied and learned well. As he had been taught, he followed the exact directions.

  He did not speak, he could not breathe. Breath was the call to life, and he called something entirely different with his libations. Everything was done correctly, everything was pure and present. He had finished. It was done.

  Sitting back on his heels, he could only contemplate in his mind's eye, the beauty of the perfect sacrifice, knowing that he had done it all flawlessly. He had won. It was finished and he had done it when everyone else had been insufficient to the plan.

  He waited, still not breathing, nor even trying to inhale in the airless compartment, waited for the sure sign of victory. He waited. And waited.

  Closing his eyes in frustration against the light-emptied, air-emptied, life-emptied room, he was denied.

  Denied? Again?

  Gathering his robes and pulling at his flowing sleeves, the priest stormed out of the room and threw open the door. He had not been successful. Everything was right, everything was pure, everything except the blood. He had the wrong blood. Gesturing to the ever-present guards stationed at the edges of his tent, he walked away, thinking.

  A few moments later, they emerged holding parts of the remains, trash to be discarded. They gave a quick nod to their fellows, one of whom leaned down and grabbed the end of a pole covering the hole. Lifting it to his hips, the other two guards threw the mutilated corpse into the blackened pit, where it was gleefully devoured.

  *

  … Nashan traveled on, forsaking all rest 'til he came to the castle of nightfall, farther than that of the farthest star. He was tired and weak but the need to find his Rose lingered, filling his heart, while his body pushed forward, ever forward. He ate food where it crossed his path, and drank water when he could find it, but he refused to stop looking for her, in her captivity. He was her only hope, the only one who remembered her name and still had enough power to do something about it.

  Held within the spell Rose waited, but as she waited, her green dress grew into the ground, rooting downward. It flowered and bloomed and then grew around her very self. She slowly became the flower of a tree, held high in its branches, swaying in the wind, warmed by the sun. As time passed, she forgot her own name or the name of any friend.

  When Nashan, thin and determined, finally reached the garden of the castle, there was no more Rose to be found, only the rising, spiraling tree, with one beautiful, full bloom crowning its branches. And it was just beyond his reach.

  He searched the castle outside, looking for a ladder, a stick to pick the perfect flower that glowed and shone in the light of the fading moon. There was no tool that he could uncover, just wall, and ground, and bushes, and the one solitar
y rose tree. Unswayed, he sat in its shade, slept under its cover, prayed near its roots. Nashan's beard grew long and brown and curled down his chest and around his feet.

  He wandered in his mind, until all he remembered was her name and his own. He forgot his reason for coming, only that he had somehow lost the most precious of all his possessions: gone away from him, taken. If he couldn't find her, couldn't be with her then he wanted nothing else. The insects flew by on their merry business, he ate them as he remembered how.

  Slowly, his hunger ceased. His beard took root and he gained strength from the earth. His thirst was quenched with the dew of the new sunrise. A tree grew around him, in him, through him, fed by his determination to find his Rose.

  I must be with her. That was his only thought. The tree grew and grew and he became the flower of that tree, the fruit of his desire. Two rose trees grow in the garden of the castle of nightfall, their branches intertwined reaching high into the heavens, as if to catch the sun itself.

  Ilion’s voice trailed off.

  She said nothing for a while. When she spoke, it was with despair and sadness. “A sad story to be sure. A sad story. He never found his Roselyna. Why did the Gods let him come so very close and not find his one true love? Why could he not save her?”

  Alizarin's thoughts turned inward. She shook her head. “Can't anyone ever find happiness in those dreadful tales? All the ones my mother ever told me, they all ended badly too. Opportunities missed, friendships betrayed, treasures stolen, sacrifices gone unnoticed, what's the point of all these stories anyway? It makes me glum just to think of all the ‘If onlys’ out there.

  “Can we never be happy? Is all of life just a series of trials and hardships leading to one brief moment of bliss? Whisked away as soon as you find it? Why study the worship of Gods anyway? It only leads to this.”

  She gestured up and down the passageway, “Stories and riddles and unanswered questions. We are left to keep hoping, but I wonder often why even bother? No one seems to hear my prayers. If the Gods loved me, or even knew of my life, they would never have taken Baby!” Finally there were words to her grief.

  Ilion didn't know what to say. All that she had claimed was true. Yet, he felt like there was an answer at the tip of his tongue, a thought that made the whole pattern make sense. It was there just beyond his grasp, like the great bloom of Rose waiting high above Nashan's implorings.

  Reaching out, he took Alizarin's free hand in his, keeping his other around the staff. He covered her tiny hand with his larger one. He thought for a while, and finally said,“I am sorry for your loss, Alizarin. I am sorry.”

  She looked at him, standing in the darkness of the mountain's passageway, lit only by the colored light of the gemstone in her raised hand, with sincerity in his eyes and care on his face. Alizarin nodded once and wiped away a tear that was just falling. Taking a deep breath, she composed herself. “Let's get on with this then. We haven't traveled so far just to stand in a tunnel. I still see no word of Bira or of her worshipers.”

  Little by little, the two travelers walked on, searching the tunnel's litany of images and verses, looking for some kind of direction.

  Finishing the Companion's Right that bound him, what a relief that would be, to finally deliver the sealed scroll. This Fire Maid better have some damn good ale! Ilion thought cheerily to himself. “After all this travel, I have worked up quite the thirst,” he muttered. Smiling to himself, amused, he began another tale depicted on the wall, flowing in front of them into the obscurity of darkness.

  There was a man named Cehan who wanted nothing more than the perfect house and the perfect wife. This man was strong and able and certain in his ways. He paid his offering at the temple and asked for his prayers to be answered according to his exact specifications. Then he would know he was favored of the Gods, that the Gods were real in their Heavens and deserved his continued attentions.

  He went home and found great fortune had fallen on his family. He as eldest son had inherited all the wealth of two grandfathers. With great determination he began to build the perfect house, certain that his prayers were heard. He waited for the second demand to be answered.

  Little by little, a great and beautiful house rose from the ground, lined with smooth wood and polished stone. He knew it was going to be the perfect dwelling for his possessions and children. Finally everything was finished, every wall was whitewashed and clean. He knew some joy in that moment of completion, but felt impatient for the wife he requested of the Gods to show herself.

  There was a knock on his great wooden door. He flew to answer it, certain of his visitor. An older woman greeted him, requesting some bread and two blankets. She was ugly and in poor health. Most of her teeth had rotted out and her breath stank. The man was completely appalled that she would dare to visit him, disgracing his perfect doorstep with her weakness and disease.

  He threw her out, threatened that her life would be payment should she ever return. He cleaned and polished and waxed the contaminated area, wiping away all sign of dirt and disease. And then he sat and waited for his perfect wife to appear. He waited awhile more.

  Another knocked on the door, and he ran to it, certain She was on the other side, waiting for his approval, his welcome. To his dismay, the old hag was there, crawling on her bleeding hands, begging for more food and again for two blankets. The gluttony!

  Enraged, the man kicked her in the side and threw her out. He set about cleaning the dooropening again, setting things right for the coming of his perfect spouse. And he waited, a very long time. And then, …

  He almost did not hear the third knock, but gladly he opened the door just the same. There stood the most beautiful woman in the world. She had hair as fine as spiderwebs, skin of butter, eyes of the purest green. Her neck held her comely head like the fluid curve of a mare. Her shoulders sloped into her arms with every grace. She moved with the elegance and rhythm of a waterfall, perfect in every way.

  Cehan smiled and welcomed her in. But she did not enter right away. Instead, she squarely looked at him, taking in every detail. He knew he loved her at that moment, that she was the only one for him. She looked at him with an indescribable expression and stepped aside, gesturing to where the old diseased woman lay doubled over and bleeding. His anger rose again, “How dare that piece of filth come back here! I have warned her to stay clear of my house!”

  Cehan's perfect woman looked at the worn old hag, and turned back to the man. She raised one eyebrow and said, “Have you met him already then, Mother?” And then she turned and walked away from the perfect house and the doubting man.

  He could only watch her leave, knowing her true judgment of his actions and his just reward. The Gods had sent him the answer to his prayers. His actions had sent her away.”

  Ilion glanced at Alizarin. Both of them chuckled wryly. “So true, so true, “ she said.

  Then, he was on to the next story, the next depictions, the next moral, and so they traveled farther and farther into the heart of the mountain, searching for the writings of dead priests and the realm of a forgotten Goddess.

  Another bit of wall, another story, on and on the narratives went. Some were diverting, some were sad. Mostly they told the human experience of wanting something and never achieving the goal. After six stories, the details began to swim in her head. What was the first story about again?

  She tried to keep them all straight in her mind, but by the twelfth she gave up. The stories became a jumble, full of bizarre moments, odd requests and gods who answered petitions with their own ideas and mixed blessings. Alizarin listened but did not hear anything of the tales as they walked deeper. Mostly, she just watched Ilion and his devotion to the task at hand.

  Ilion knew there was a pattern within the stories. He knew it at some gut level, that the answers to some of his questions were mixed into the bits and pieces of legend and lore that coated the walls like slime that remained after a worm had passed. He read on unceasingly, knowing that his mind coul
d filter it all and that the pattern or truth hidden in plain sight on the walls would fall into place like the mind puzzles he used to be given at Mira-Sang. Ilion's voice was going husky, cracking once in a while. He sipped on the bit of water left in his canteen.

  Gesturing to Alizarin to move forward with her hand-held light, his voice began the translation of the next story.

  Belna sang. It was her gift. She sang when she awoke, she sang as she played, as she worked. While she chewed her food, she contented herself to merely hum, but her father knew it was really a song without words.

  He was her world. She was his gemstone. Every day he held her in his arms and they traveled together throughout the woods, gathering their food and fuel for the fire. Every nightfall he held her in his arms and sang with her the Song of Sleeping. They were happy.

  As her father worked, she loved to climb the trees, seeing the land from way above her head, high above her father's shoulders. He didn't mind her climbing, because he always knew where she was. Her happy songs burst across the trees and filled the air with joy and curiosity. The animals that were nearest would perk up their ears and listen, sometimes cawing, hooting, or bellowing in return. She sat high in the treetop, looking out over the whole of the land, as if she were its queen. Her nonsense songs rolled along, carried by the merry winds that tossed her hair.

  Her songs brought the Hunters. Gliding through the nightfall, unerring in their grace, her songs called them to her, high within the tree tops. She saw the first two coming, almost running toward her. They looked up squinting into the sun and saw her singing. Two more joined them. Then four more.

  She waved to them, singing a jolly melody, happy to perform for the gathering crowd. One made a beckoning gesture, for her to come down to them. She would not. Shrugging her shoulders, Belna kept singing.

  While she sang the tune, she looked from her high perch to find her father's familiar shape. He was not there. She could not see him. She climbed down a little bit, to see beyond the thickness of the tree boughs, searching for him. Her song faltered. He was not to be seen.