The waterfall was thinning. It divided itself into many smaller streams. Then it was just a series of thin trickles. Finally it was nothing but drips, coming from the rock above.
The waterfall was gone.
The enormous cavern stretched out before us, dark and vast. The heady scent of Yolandë’s flowers faded and died. There was the lake with its stepping-stones, waiting. It was as if a spell had been broken. I could move.
“Come on, Mom,” I said as I pulled her to the first stone.
Epsilon appeared then, moving out of the mist. As we picked our way back across the stones, Epsilon moved away from his ledge. He strode down the stone steps and around the lake. He was coming down to meet us, his face set firm.
“Look, Mom! It’s Epsilon. He is a Bright Being, oh, please, Mom—look at him!”
Mom stared at him, her face closed and tight.
“Him? I am not interested in him,” she said.
We stepped off the last stone and back onto the stony beach in total silence. Mom turned immediately toward Yolandë.
For Yolandë, too, was moving closer.
She stepped easily, daintily. Over the stepping-stones she came, and with each step she took, the light in her hand glowed and flickered. Nearer and nearer she came, and all the time, Mom followed her with her eyes. Until Yolandë, too, stood on the stony beach.
Yolandë was on one side, Epsilon on the other. Both within Mom’s reach.
Epsilon’s face held a look of immense sorrow as he looked at the relic Mom was holding. A look of failure—of despair.
“The relic is in the wrong hands,” he said.
But Mom turned away from Epsilon. Her eyes were fixed on Yolandë’s.
“The relic is in the right hands!” whispered Mom.
“Yes, it is in the right hands at last.” Yolandë smiled, and as she spoke, a freshness came into the air. Sounds came and went—sea breezes sifting through harp strings and making them thrum. Water trickling delicately in between roots of heather and over ancient soil. Old sounds, clear and unutterably fine.
“You have done well,” said Yolandë. “You have found the relic. Now it is time to hand it to me.”
Her delicate hand reached out, and it was as if her fingers had plucked the air and brought silver notes from it that played softly all around.
Mom’s hand tightened in mine. She turned toward me slightly, never taking her eyes off Yolandë. When she spoke, it was in the quietest of whispers.
“Week after week, I saw her, Jess. I heard her calling me. Night after night after night.”
Yolandë nodded gracefully. “Yes. You heard my voice,” she said.
Mom spoke as if in a dream. As if she had not yet woken up. Her eyes had a fixed look, a tired, sad look. Her hand was cold, so cold.
“I followed her down to the sea,” she said to me. “Time and time again, I followed her. She had the sweetest face. She sang and sang. ‘The Ballad of Yolandë.’ Over and over.”
“I know, Mom. But she isn’t what she seems! Look away!”
But Mom tugged at my hand to silence me. She went on gazing.
“I saw her everywhere. Behind rocks. Along the beach. Up on Crag Point. In the woods. She woke me up, every night. Looking, she was always looking for something.”
She looked down, then, at the relic in her hand.
Yolandë reached out toward it and spoke gently.
“Yes, I have been looking for it. It is mine. Give it to me now. It holds great blessings, which I would bestow upon many people.”
“Don’t believe her, Mom!” I shouted. “It’s not blessings it holds—it’s curses!”
But Epsilon shook his head at me.
“She must decide,” he said.
Mom stared up into Yolandë’s gentle face.
“I drew her face, you know,” said Mom quietly. “Over and over. I couldn’t rest. That sweet face, but always behind a fog. A mist.”
I thought of Mom’s sketches. That woman’s face, as seen through gauze. A pale face, peering out. A sweet, beseeching expression.
“Give me the relic now,” said Yolandë. “It was I who called you, it was my face you saw through the mist.”
But Mom slowly shook her head.
Yolandë went very still then. Something flashed across her face and was gone. And the lake swans were moving, I noticed. They were gathering in the middle of the misted water. They moved close together on the lake and faced Yolandë. Her tender smile deepened.
“It was my face you saw,” she repeated to Mom. “My voice. I called you to the shore.”
“It was not you I saw,” said Mom. “It was not your face.”
She lifted the locket then and struggled briefly, prying it open.
Inside, two faded faces peered out from the rust.
Sebastian’s face.
Martha’s face.
Mom lifted up the locket and held it out.
“It was not your face. It was this face. Martha’s face. She looked so lost, so tired. On the beach, in the woods, looking and looking.”
Yolandë’s flame glittered and leaped. The swans were silent, staring her way.
“Yes.” Yolandë smiled. “She was looking for the relic. And you have found it for her. You can give it to me now. It is what she would have done, what she would have wanted.”
“All she wanted was peace!” shouted Mom. Tears appeared in her eyes and fell. “And I saw her face, trapped behind mist. But it wasn’t mist at all. It was water. She was trapped behind the waterfall. Where you left her to die. Because she couldn’t find this!”
Mom held out the relic.
Yolandë stared at it, and a look of immense greed came over her face. Both hands reached out, and I saw that the flame in her palm was not held in a white seashell at all. It was held in a coiled snake. A pale snake, with its tail in its own mouth—an Ouroborus. And the flame was coming from its coils, shining through its horrible skin.
Mom did not even seem to notice the snake. Her eyes were hard and stony.
“I promised her I would find her,” she said. “You left her to die, all alone. I would never give this to you. Never!”
Mom slowly turned her back on Yolandë.
She faced Epsilon and held the relic out toward him.
“No!” screamed Yolandë, and it was such a terrible scream that Mom whirled back round, appalled. It was a sound I never want to hear again—a monstrous scream, emanating from a monstrous mouth. For Yolandë had begun to change.
As we watched, her violet eyes darkened until they were black. Her smile was gone, and a look of such hatred came that I trembled all over. Yolandë grew in size, taller and taller. The stench of rotting rose up all around and made me gag. Mom gazed up into that vile face and fell to her knees, her eyes wide with terror.
I turned to Epsilon for help.
But in his eyes was horror, too! I saw it there clearly. Then he covered his eyes with his hands.
“Do not look upon it!” he whispered.
But as he raised his hands to his face, a great beam of light shot out briefly from behind him. Then the light was gone. As if a brilliant arc light now stood behind him and his whole body blocked it out.
Slowly he began to turn his back on us.
“Epsilon! Don’t turn away! Help me!” I screamed.
But I had to shield my eyes. Because as he began to turn, it came again—that light coming from behind him. It flashed out, white, too bright to look upon. He continued turning, until his back came fully our way and the light was blocked out again. Only when he moved his head a fraction of an inch did a slim portion of that light gleam out again.
Then slowly he bent one knee and began to kneel. The light streamed out from behind him as his head bent lower.
And as he knelt before it, that light shot out. It lit up the entire chamber—it blinded us. Lower and lower he knelt, until the shape of someone stood behind him. Someone tall and full of shine. Someone pure—someone made only of light. It dazzled me, and at the
edge of my vision, the flame Yolandë had been holding appeared sickly and dull compared to it.
Then there was too much light, and I, too, fell to my knees.
And a voice rang out, clear and strong—a voice that made me go still inside.
“The Time of Dark Choices is upon us,” it said. “But the relic is not in the wrong hands. For I chose the very hands that now hold it. And my great plan is unfolding as it should.”
New music came, too—strong, magnificent music—it swirled all around me until I felt I would scream. This music was beautiful, too—infinitely more beautiful than Yolandë’s had been. It was wilder, older, younger. It held ancient notes and words of creation. It held many things at once. Wrath and kindness—fury and compassion. It was a call to warfare and a call to rest, both at the same time. It was the music of all authority and magnificence. We trembled before it.
Then the Being raised his arms, and rays of gold shot out to every corner of the cave.
“Show them your flame now, Yolandë! Do not hide in lies in my presence. For I, Agapetos, hold a charge against you—you spoke four things to the child standing at your side. And each of the four were lies!”
Agapetos!
He made me want to stand up and shout for wild, mad joy. He made me want to bow my head and weep. All I could do was shield my eyes with my hand and try to see him. Even though I was dazzled, I longed to see him, I could not drag my eyes away.
But from Yolandë, I felt a gathering of something primeval and ugly. It reached out for Mom. I felt it coil closer, and a cunning voice spoke. It was a voice of deep, deep avarice. It was so filled with malice and greed that it sickened me to hear it.
“But she is mine!” it said.
Instantly, Epsilon rose to his feet and went to stand by the side of Agapetos. He, too, had changed. His face was stern and noble. His clothes were a deep gold. Scarlet banners appeared at his wrists. A sash of gold covered his chest. Across his waist, a girdle, gold and red. And in his hand—a sword. A sharp two-edged sword.
Agapetos spoke again, and his voice was strong and terrifying.
“The first lie you spoke to this child was the word ‘welcome.’ You welcomed her into this place when you meant it to be her tomb. The second lie you spoke was to call her your child. For she is not your child—my mark is upon her head. The third lie you told was that you were here to protect her mother. Yet you sought only to destroy. But your fourth lie was the worst lie. For you called yourself Yolandë. Yet your name is not Yolandë. Your name is Cimul—the Lord of Inversion! Be seen before me, Cimul!”
At that, the gold light receded its brilliance a little. Now I could drag my eyes away. Mom, too, looked toward Yolandë. Her gaze lifted higher and higher as the being that had been Yolandë rose up, immensely tall and strong.
The soft gown it was wearing changed before my eyes, from light to dark. The Ouroborus snake in its hands flattened itself out on the outstretched palms, then seemed to melt into the skin. Scales appeared, starting at the hands. Pale scales, yellowing scales, and as they covered the monstrous body, inch by inch, that body grew in stature. The soft hair shortened and matted, and round its wrists, pale bracelets appeared and gleamed. But they were not bracelets at all—they were row upon row of snakes, all with their tails in their mouths. The Ouroborus, lining the arms and the legs.
Then the scales deepened and hardened.
Cimul was black and red, the color of old blood. His face was full of trickery and cunning. His mouth held mockery and sneers and foul words. The skin of his face was the skin of a serpent, its scales peeling, shearing off, renewing themselves all the time. But his eyes were the worst.
They were filled with a deep malevolence. They were the most sickening, evil thing I had ever seen in my life.
Then Cimul opened his mouth and pointed a crimson finger at Mom.
“I am the Ouroborus, the cunning one, the great Inverter! I it was who beckoned you here. Give me the curses that are held in your hand!”
The voice of Agapetos rang out again.
“I am the One without beginning or end! I it was who chose your hands to receive the relic. And those hands will not fail me now.”
Mom bent down low, shivering. But she slowly reached out her hand—held the relic toward Agapetos, whose brilliant light shone out at once.
Cimul threw back his head and gave a monstrous cry.
“Then I call you to me now—my faithful ones! Rise up in these places of the deep, for I would have you fight for me.”
With a deafening cry, all the swans replied—the swans on the lake and the swans leaning down above us. All round the cavern it echoed on and on—a shriek, the scream of hundreds of birds. Into the air those voices came again, the voices of the ancient followers of Cimul:
“If we possess the tooth, we, too, can curse.
If we can curse, we, too, can rule.
If we can rule, we, too, can misrule.
Long live the Inverter, Lord Cimul!”
At that, Cimul rose, his arms out wide. And as we watched, his outstretched arms became dark and feathered. He gave a mighty leap into the air. As his feet left the rocky beach, they turned black and webbed. The image before me in the air was no longer that of Cimul.
It was a swan.
A huge black swan with vile red eyes.
Chapter Twenty-seven
MY DIARY
It circled in a great arc over the lake, over the shrieking swans. Then it flew up and up, to the very top of the cavern. As it rose, the swans lining the stone steps started to peel off, to launch themselves into flight and follow. Then they turned as one and began to fly down, directly at Mom, curled up on the floor.
At that, Agapetos gave a great cry—a wild, sharp cry.
I turned his way. Only now Agapetos was not there at all, by Epsilon’s side.
In the place of Agapetos stood an eagle.
A huge eagle. But still shining, pure white.
The white eagle opened his mighty wings and flew up. He, too, flew directly toward Mom. She screamed and held the relic out to him.
The eagle took it in his talons before the swans were upon him.
He flew away from Mom and up toward the mouth of the Miradel, as swans all around slashed at him with their beaks. Blood appeared on his plumage as he tried to rise. The black swan was beating, beating at him. Feathers fell, feather after feather. As soon as he made some headway, they drove him back downward. Lower and lower they drove him, back toward the lake.
Blood dripped into the water as I pulled Mom to her feet. The eagle was floundering to stay in the air, struggling, surrounded by those savage beaks. Then the eagle lit up with a great light that shot out into the darkness. It stunned us all.
Instantly the swans veered away. They flew to the lake as one and landed there. In their midst, the black swan. Now there was just the eagle airborne. He hovered in the air, his mighty wings flapping. Then the voice of Agapetos roared.
“Take the relic with your own hand, Cimul! It is yours from this day forth!”
Total silence came then. It was as if every living thing in that place froze with shock.
Then up flew the black swan, its red eyes filled with greed.
As it rose higher and higher toward the relic in the eagle’s talons, it changed back into Cimul. His foul red hands reached out for the relic. Then I screamed as his fingers closed around it. But before he could even begin to draw it to himself, the voice of Agapetos called out again.
“I, Agapetos, revoke this ancient curse! From this day on, the relic will hold only blessings! I declare the words of Cimul broken!”
In the air, Cimul held the tooth up before his eyes and screamed. The relic began to shine with a bright silver light. It seemed to burn his hands, but still he would not let it go. Instead, his scream grew and grew in the cavern. It shook the rock walls. It reverberated all round—a scream of pure rage. Every swan on the lake raised its head and cried out. As the noise grew, a deep rumbling b
egan, far above. A cracking sound—a splitting.
It was the sound of masonry beginning to crumble.
I looked up, aghast, just as a cloud of dust came pouring down.
An enormous crack grew from the base of the Miradel and slowly split up to the top of the tower. Then the huge stones holding the gargoyles dislodged—toppled inward—began to fall. The parapet crumbled and fell.
Huge stones dropped all around Agapetos and Cimul. The whole of the great tower was coming down upon them. The shining relic was knocked from Cimul’s hands. It came spinning down toward us, as if in slow motion.
Both Agapetos and Cimul were engulfed in the falling stones. The huge east gargoyle spun toward Cimul, its devil’s face turning. It hit Cimul with a sickening thud. Cimul fell under its weight.
But the white eagle, too, was engulfed. As the very base of the tower came down, the huge foundation stones struck him and carried him down with them.
Appalled, I watched Agapetos fall into the lake.
Epsilon gave a terrible cry then—an angry, warlike battle cry. He drew his sword.
“Get out!” he shouted to me in a terrible voice.
I pushed Mom into the mouth of the tunnel, too frightened to look back.
“Run, Mom!” I screamed.
The rock under our feet shook and rumbled. I pulled Mom on, half carrying her along the tunnel.
We ran, crying and stumbling, on and on toward the peaceful seashore.
I pushed Mom out of the tiny gap in the cliff and held her hand as she slithered down onto the sand. Then she reached up for me, caught me as I fell. We lay there in a tangled heap, panting and weeping, our arms around each other. I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering.
Mom suddenly seemed to notice this. She felt with her hands, all along my wet clothes.
“You’re soaked. Come on—there’s a fire still lit.”
She sounded like Mom again.
We helped each other over to the fire. The embers were still glowing. They threw out a strong, comforting heat. The sky near the horizon was a soft, deep red. The night was almost through. Sunrise couldn’t be far away now.
The Riddles of Epsilon Page 20