Aurelius and I

by Benjamin James Barnard

  “Hmmm, I might be interested yes, but first, a closer look at those acorns if I may,” he said, reaching quickly across the table at them.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied snatching them away. Unfortunately, I did this a little too quickly and was forced to watch in horror as one went spinning across the table, over the edge and onto the wooden floor below.

  It was one of those moments that seems to move in slow motion, where you are able to see in precise detail everything that is happening while simultaneously being filled with a clarity as to what terrible repercussions the events you are witnessing are liable to have. Unfortunately, it is at these moments that one finds themselves paralysed and powerless to do anything to change the path of the events they can so clearly see coming. That was the case that day, as the acorn crashed to the ground before my eyes, failing to explode on impact just as I had known it would.

  “What is this trickery?” the old man cried from a face that would no doubt have turned red with anger were it not for the earlier candy-based mishap.

  “N-n-no trickery,” I stammered, panicking. “J-just forgot to use the magic word, that’s all.”

  “Nonsense! Do you think me a fool, boy? No magic word was needed before and none is needed now! That acorn is about as magical as a jack-in-a-box!”

  “B-but you saw the explosion. A-and the talking cowboy, how do you explain that without the involvement of magic?”

  “Oh, I never said that there was no magic involved,” he sneered, the anger in his voice being replaced by a sinister undertone that was a great deal more frightening. “I simply implied that the items themselves were not magical, as for you’re accomplice however, I believe that to be an altogether different matter.”

  “A-a-accomplice?” I stammered, trying to appear ignorant as opposed to just scared as my eyes darted around the room, searching, without success, for a door or window that had not been locked shut.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, young man, I’ve seen you making your little signals to someone – or, more likely, some thing – I mean, did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Did you really think I could be fooled into swapping two live fairies for an old Christmas-cracker novelty and a few acorns? You must think me quite mad. Now who is it you’re working with?”

  I sat, mouth-open in stunned silence as I tried to think of a suitable answer to the old man’s question. He was right of course, I did think he was mad - a not unreasonable to make such an assumption of somebody who lived alone in the woods, dressed like an unemployed clown and spent his days stuffing corpses with Styrofoam. But crazy and stupid are not the same thing and in equating the two I had underestimated a serious threat to our mission thereby placing us all in grave danger.

  I looked toward Ophelia for any indication as to what I should say, but she merely met my glance with helpless eyes which told me that, perhaps for the first time, her fear was even greater than my own.

  Grahndel’s reaction was even less helpful, I looked down into my rucksack to discover him curled up in a ball in its darkest corner, quivering. This time I was on my own, I was in charge, I needed to come up with my own solution. But as I sat there staring into the narrow, evil eyes of the blue-faced taxidermist my mind went blank, my mouth went dry, and I could find within me no answer to his question that would allow all of us (or quite possibly any of us) to walk out of this awful place alive. And then, for the second time in as many minutes, I was rescued from the brink of disaster by the smallest, quietest and yet bravest of my companions;

  “He’s working with me,” came the strong, confident voice from inside my shirt pocket.

  “Who said that?”

  “I did,” Daisy replied, climbing out of my pocket and onto the table. “My name is Daisy, and I am a daylet; a magical species devolved from the fairy family.”

  The old man’s eyes lit up with the excitement of a child witnessing his first snow fall. He had finally found what he had been looking for all his life; a living, breathing, talking, magical creature with whom he was able to communicate.

  “And how am I to know that you truly are magical?” asked the old man, for though he wanted to believe more than anything in the world, he remained, at heart, a scientist.

  “Will this suffice as a demonstration?” Daisy asked before promptly using the spectacular bolts of green fire he had previously shown us to incinerate a napkin.

  “Impressive,” agreed the old man before falling silent for a moment, his hand cradling his chin as if in ponderance. “Very well,” he said finally, “I am willing to trade, you may take with you one of my prized fairies in exchange for this intriguing little fellow.”

  “No!” I cried in anguish before I could think, before quickly recovering a little of my composure. “No, I couldn’t do that. No way!”

  Anger once again crossed the old man’s violet face and he looked as though he were about to launch into another torrent of abuse before he was interrupted by the tiny daylet.

  “If I may be permitted to speak sir, I believe that the point my master is attempting to intimate is that I - being a sophisticated, magic-using, English-speaking creature of the mystical variety - should be considered a far more valuable prize than a mute, half-dead fairy who seems unable even to fly any longer, let alone perform magic. Twice as valuable, some might say.”

  “Well, I don’t know...”

  “And then there is the fact that, while there are two fairies, their health is clearly not what it once was. A great scientist like yourself must have realised that they will not be of this earth much longer. I, on the other hand, am, as you can see, at the peak of physical perfection, and promise to serve you and your quest for knowledge for as long as I live.”

  It was when the brave young-yet-old warrior uttered these final words, winking at me as he did so, that I knew that he was right. Ophelia’s parents had the potential for a long and happy life, whereas, no matter what happened, Daisy would be dead by morning. It might not have been what any of us had desired, but it was a situation that required a sacrifice for its resolution, and Daisy’s unusual biological curse made him the obvious solution to the problem. Being the smart, kind, brave warrior that he was, he had realised this long before I would have, and had done all he could to take the decision, and the guilt that accompanied it, from my young shoulders. In doing so he had provided himself with great dignity and his life with great purpose.

  Chapter 35

  Having sacrificed my young friend in order to release the king and queen from their copper prison, I loaded them into my rucksack with the rest of our troop and moved quickly out into the forest, straying away from the path and into the thick undergrowth and frequently changing direction until I was certain that I was not being followed. Only after a good quarter of an hour did I dare to stop, sheltered from on-looking eyes in the dip of a long-dried out stream, in order to use my abilities to heal my two newest passengers.

  Whilst I still found it difficult to believe that the fire I felt when using my ability was actually emanating from me, my own incredulity was nothing compared to the reaction of those I was healing, both of whose faces quickly moved from baring distrust to the looks of creatures witnessing divinity. I still couldn’t get used to being looked upon as some sort of hero. It really was quite unsettling.

  “Are you the chosen one?” the fairy queen asked me with wide eyes.

  “Er, well, I guess...” I hesitated, not wanting to disappoint my new-found fan.

  “Yes he is,” insisted Ophelia, demonstrating a great deal more confidence in me than I held myself.

  “Then there is still hope,” said the king.

  “But you don’t understand, I’m new to all this, I didn’t even believe fairies existed this time last month, you can’t seriously expect me to take on Aurelius and Blackheart together, can you?’

  “So Aurelius has gone over to the Tundrala?” said the
king with only the mildest hint of surprise.

  “Yes, Aurelius is seeking to destroy the forest too!” interjected Ophelia. “Together they’re going to try to steal the power of the ruins, and if they don’t succeed, they’re going to destroy them!”

  “Nonsense!” laughed the king. “Everybody knows the tablet in indestructible.”

  “Not if you have the scimitar,” I said.

  “Which scimitar?”

  “What do you mean which scimitar?” I asked, shocked that one who knew so much about the ruins would not also know of their only weakness. “The Scimitar of Swaronia of course.”

  “Swaronia or Sharonia?”

  “Swaronia...at least, I think so. Does it really make a difference?”

  “I’m afraid it does. You see, it is a little-known fact that when the ancients forged the Scimitar of Swaronia, they also created an exact replica as a failsafe – the Scimitar of Sharonia. The two are identical in every detail, and impossible to tell apart even to the most well-trained eye. On using the blades however, one will quickly notice one important difference; while the Scimitar of Swaronia is the most powerful blade ever forged, capable of cutting through any substance on earth with a single swipe, whereas the Scimitar of Sharonia is merely an ordinary sword, capable of cutting through only ordinary, soft substances like wood, or human flesh, or Edam.”

  “But wouldn’t Blackheart have tested the sword before the big moment?”

  “Not necessarily, if he, like so many, had no knowledge of a second sword, he would have no reason to use the blade he did have without purpose. Especially since doing so would engulf whatever it touched in an immensely powerful magical aura which would serve to act as a calling card to every powerful witch, wizard, and demon who would seek such a weapon for themselves.”

  “So how are we to know whether Blackheart has the right sword or not? Or Should we simply cross our fingers and pray that the tablet stays in one piece when he cuts it?”

  “Well, I suppose that’s one option,” mused the king, “or we could retrieve the other blade and discover for certain which one Blackheart holds.”

  Chapter 36

  Even in the near-darkness that had rapidly descended upon the forest, the silhouette of the massive misshapen tree, and the owl perched high amongst its branches stood out strongly against the starry sky. After several lost hours and one lost friend we had returned to where our journey into the forest’s dark heart had begun.

  TOOWIT-TOOWOO! came the owl’s familiar cry.

  “And a good evening to you, Jeffrey,” replied the fairy king, whom I had learned during the course of our journey, was named Rolinthor. “Glad to see someone reliable guarding the scimitar, it’s just a shame these young fellows did not pass this way sooner, such a weapon would have been of great use as a bargaining tool in our escape.”

  TOOWIT-TOOWOO! TOOTOO-TOOWITWOO! TOOWIT-TOOWOO!

  “What do you mean they did come this way? Why on earth did you not inform them of the scimitar’s hiding place? Could you not sense the immense power and goodness emanating from within the human? Perhaps, Jeffrey, you are not so wise after all!”

  TOOWIT-WITWITWOO! TOOWIT-TOOWOOWOO! Replied the owl rapidly, and in harsher tones, an apparently indignant expression spread across his face.

  “Impossible!” laughed the king. “Ophelia would surely have understood at least most, if not all of what you said, for her mother and I have been departed for many moons now and our daughter’s schooling would have begun long ago. Tell him Ophelia,” he said, turning to face his daughter.

  “Erm, yes, er,...”

  “You have been going to school haven’t you, dear?” asked her mother (who was named Ramelia) in a tone that suggested she thought of truanting as akin to granny-bashing in terms of the horrifying things a child could do to upset their parents.

  “Well, not exactly, no.”

  “Oh my goodness,” the fairy queen squealed hysterically, leaning on her husband’s shoulder in order to stop herself fainting from the shock.

  “You mean to say you have been skipping school?” cried her father in a voice that did little to hide his own dismay. “How many days have you missed?’ he asked. ‘Two, five...not ten, please don’t tell me you’ve missed as many as ten.”

  “Well,... kind of,...all of them,” Ophelia replied sheepishly.

  This time her mother did collapse, wilting to the floor like a trampled daffodil at the thought of her offspring missing out on education, something I found a little strange given that this was a woman who had survived weeks of imprisonment and experimentation at the hands of Mr Romarticus. I reasoned that it must, in fact, have been these experiences which left her so ill-equipped to cope now.

  “I didn’t care about education – especially when it came to learning the language of our predators - all I cared about was learning to be a warrior so that I could come and find you both” she said, propping up her mother while her father split a shoot from a small shrub in order that his wife might drink its refreshing liquid.

  “An owl, a predator to a fairy? What nonsense!” cried the king. “Next you will be telling me that stag beetles use their enormous claws to do harm as opposed to carrying injured insects to safety. Do you see what bigoted lies one ends up convincing themselves of without education? Did we not always teach you that a great warrior may only come from a great mind?”

  “I know,” said the princess, tears filling her almond eyes. “I’m sorry. I just missed you so much. I never meant to disappoint you.”

  “It’s okay, little one,” her mother whispered soothingly, pulling her daughter’s head to her breast. “It’s okay, you were the one who rescued us after all.”

  “I had a little help,” she replied, smiling up at me.

  “Listen,” interrupted the dragnor, “this is all very touching and everything, but did someone mention something about a second mystical sword? It’s just that it’s getting quite close to midnight and we are a pretty long way from the river right now.”

  As much as Grahndel’s point had been insensitively raised, it was an undeniably valid one. Our situation was becoming more desperate by the second. Even if the scimitar we were about to take possession of was the correct one, and assuming we managed to reach the caves on time, we still had no kind of plan regarding what action we might take upon our arrival, and very little time to arrive at one.

  Taking heed of the dragnor’s concerns, King Rolinthor left his wife and daughter and marched purposefully toward the base of the immense tree without a word (although not without a particularly dirty look in Grahndel’s direction). He then fell to his knees at the great oak’s base, removed a strange-looking blue amulet from around his neck, placing it in a hole in the trunk, and uttered the following words in a language that the heat in my wrist told me was not English;

  “Oh wise Elders,

  We ask that you provide us,

  Not only with the great and powerful weapon,

  But also the wisdom with which to wield it.”

  I should say that these words appeared to have a great deal more rhythm and meaning to those of our party who were able to understand them in their intended language, I guess even magical watches have trouble with inflection. Certainly the words seemed to have significantly more power than their translation may have suggested as the ground around the tree’s enormous roots promptly began to shake, an occurrence which was followed by the spontaneous peeling away of a large section of bark out of which poured a vast stream of intense golden light which appeared to be emanating from the sole item contained within the hollow; an extravagantly bejewelled scimitar.

  For a long moment nobody spoke, each of us standing in silent awe of the incredible sword, which, bathed in a mysterious, ethereal glow, looked more like a piece of art than a weapon. It is difficult for me to put into words just how wondrous a sight it was, for it was a sig
ht which defied description, a sight which, even given the company in which I first saw it, seemed somehow other-worldly.

  “It’s magnificent,” I said finally, though such words seemed (and still seem) shamefully inadequate.

  “It certainly is a thing of beauty,” agreed the king, “but of course it’s true beauty, as with all things, lies in what the scimitar stands for, as opposed to how it looks. As amazing as it seems, both scimitars are wholly identical in appearance, yet only one holds the key to the destiny of many kingdoms, the other is no more powerful than any ordinary blade.”

  “So how do we find out which is which?” I asked even though I think on some level I knew the answer, but was simply unwilling to risk discovering that we had the wrong one, that all we had gone through thus far had been for nothing. Thankfully though, it was not a discovery that was mine to make.

  “I can think of a way,” said the dragnor, bursting forward and snatching the scimitar from its resting place. We all took several quick steps back as he wobbled and stumbled under the weight of the blade he held high above his head. Indeed, so fearful was I for my own safety that I failed to grasp the purpose of the little demon’s smash-and-grab raid until it was already too late to do anything about it.

  “TIMBER!!!” he cried, bringing the scimitar crashing down into the flesh of the enormous tree which had provided both its shelter and its security for so many years past.

  Metal met bark with an ear-splitting crack, closely followed by a long, low, painful whine which sounded as though it had come from the tree itself. The owl loudly squawked its disapproval as it abandoned its shaking perch, flying off into the forest. There followed an audible and suspicious silence which was observed by us all with baited breath as we waited to see what would happen next.

  Those brief seconds provided me with perhaps the strangest emotional conflict I have ever experienced. On the one hand I wanted the tree to remain standing, and not only for fear of being crushed to death under its weight when it landed, but also out of a deeper, less rational attachment I had developed for it and the part it had played our journey, both in terms of keeping safe the scimitar and in guiding us on the right path so that we were able to locate Juliette’s parents. On the other, I knew that, if I were to have the slightest hope of fulfilling my destiny and saving the forest, I needed it to fall.