The court applauded and the King Consort swiftly disappeared through the door behind the throne. He made his way through richly decorated halls, his stride measured and determined. Upon reaching his chamber, he closed the door behind him, locking it with the tear shaped diamond key that hung from a silver chain around his neck.
The main room was spacious and richly decorated in cherry tree furniture and jewelry. A large mirror hung next to the doorway leading out onto the balcony. Several entryways, lined the walls and led to side chambers, one of which was a bedroom. The bed stood—visible from the entrance—against the wall, covered with thin silk sheets.
“Thank you for all your aid,” King Consort Perow said, turning toward the cobbler and his family, who sat on a long velvet Chatham bench next to a writing desk.
“We didn’t do much, my Lord,” the cobbler said, standing up.
“Nonsense,” Perow said. “You saw who attacked the Prince.” The King Consort smiled warmly and walked up to the family, crouching next to the two girls. “So, which one of you saw the foreigners?”
The blue eyed girl shyly raised her hand.
“What is your name, dear?” the King Consort asked.
“Lacy,” she said.
“What a beautiful name,” Perow said. “What did you see, Lacy?”
The girl looked at her father.
“Go ahead,” the Cobbler said. “Tell the King Consort what you saw.”
“You won’t believe me,” Lacy said. Perow looked up at the cobbler, then back at the girl.
“I will decide on that,” Perow encouraged. “Now, from the beginning, Lacy. Tell me everything.”
“I was gathering mushrooms by the oaks near the road when I heard a loud noise,” Lacy said. “I hid in the bushes. A beautiful caravan came into view, and this black thing with wings was tearing at its roof. There were men fighting each other on horseback. Some were castle men; others looked like bandits, odd foreign dressed men.”
The cobbler, his wife and the King Consort looked at one another.
“This monster lifted the caravan up and threw it against the trees. I saw a man and a woman escape into the woods from the caravan. The monster followed them while the bandits finished killing the castle men. Then two people rode up, one was a man wearing all white, the other looked like a little boy, but he spoke in a voice of grown man. They talked for a moment, before the boy rode off after the monster. The man in white told the bandits to shoot arrows at the caravan, and after they did, they too rode off after the monster.”
“And what did the man in white do?” Perow asked.
“He got off his horse, took out a small satchel and put the dead men into it. I ran home after that.”
“Lacy,” the Cobbler said shocked. “You said you only saw some strange men, I didn’t—
“This girl saw the whole attack,” Perow said, standing up. A great gust of wind burst through the balcony door, which swung wide open. “Madam,” the King Consort turned toward the cobbler’s wife, “will you take the children into the bedroom, I’d like to speak with your husband alone.”
The cobbler’s wife obeyed.
“What did she tell the guardsmen who questioned her?” Perow asked.
“She said, that strange men were riding on the road shouting and making noise,” the Cobbler said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, my Lord,” the Cobbler said. “I stood beside her. I didn’t know there were monsters and bandits involved.”
“Good,” Perow said. A cry came from the bedroom.
“Mara!” the Cobbler said. Behind him, a boom sounded as if of a ship shattering against a stone shore. The cobbler turned toward the balcony door to see a shadow as black as the abyss stretch forth and materialize before him into the figure of a mist draped Pale Rider.
“What in the name of the Windcallers,” the Cobbler said before the Pale Rider’s shadow grabbed him by the neck and lifted him a yard off the ground. As the cobbler suffocated, the Pale Rider took out his satchel and slid it over the cobbler’s feet, then—after he stopped struggling—the shadow lowered the cobbler’s body into the satchel.
“Have we found him yet?” Perow asked.
The Rider’s face contorted in a ghostly manner. He handed the satchel to his shadow. “There are three more in the bedroom,” he said before turning to the King Consort. “We are gaining on him. It shall not be long before his pelt hangs from the nearest tree.”
“The sooner, the better,” the King Consort said.
“And the people?” the Pale Rider asked. “How have we dealt with them?”
“With theatrics,” Perow said. “Show them a little drama, play them a sad tune and watch as, instead of focusing on the truth, they speculate and play games with each other’s opinions.”
“Manipulate, divide and conquer,” Ecilám’s reflection said. His shadow returned, handed him the satchel and combined itself with him.
“Precisely,” said the King Consort. “While we play at pretending and caring, while the people are lulled into a false sense of pride in the action of their leader, we act and seize the power we need.”
“It is not power we seek,” Ecilám’s shadow said.
“No, we seek the pleasure that power brings,” Perow said. He looked at himself in the mirror only to see a white creature, an outline of a human being with no features: no face, eyes or anything to distinguish itself, looking back, a thick black chain of shadow hung around its right wrist. The King Consort smiled.
“We paint a portrait that we want them to see,” he said, observing his reflection in the mirror before turning to Ecilám, “Does the shadow know that it is intangible?”
“We seem slightly nostalgic,” Ecilám said.
“We ponder what we are,” Perow said.
“We shall halt the fox from ever reaching the Soundsmith,” the shadow said.
“Did we figure out how he learned of us, of our plan, of the Soundsmith?” Perow asked.
“His fiancée,” the shadow said patting the satchel. “She knew much. Now we know it.”
“Did we catch her?”
“No,” said Ecilám. “We killed her. We consumed her into the satchel. That means only one thing: the Prince’s memory will begin to fade. He will forget his past; the idea of who he is will disappear one memory at a time. Even if we do not catch him, do not kill him, if his soul does not bond and share love with another, he will simply become another fox in the woods, a chicken thief raiding some farmer’s coop until he is caught and skinned, his pelt used as a rug. I wouldn’t doubt if he’s already forgotten his name.”
“We did not know that such a curse existed,” Perow said.
“We did know, we just never put it into practice,” Ecilám said. “The curse we placed on him is like a ripple made by a stone tossed into a pond. It shall echo and echo, ever so slightly, until there is no evidence of it ever happening.”
“And the Xis part, the canary we spoke of?”
“In due time, it too shall be in our possession.”
“So it seems that we are indeed in prime position to shed the shackles around our being,” Perow said, touching his right wrist.
“There is more,” the shadow began, growing darker and more ominous with each word. “On the border between Vivéret and Mundialis, we saw a girl accompanying the canary. She saw us, she ran, yet she knew not who we were.”
“So what?” Perow said. “We care not for the likes of little girls lost in the woods.”
“There was color in her soul,” Ecilám warned. Perow recoiled in disgust as if he heard the worst of curse words. “What little of it there was, shone brighter than anything we’ve ever seen before. And the color, it felt familiar. We know it…” Ecilám paused and looked at his hands. Every other finger was missing. “The splintered part of us knows it.”
“From where?” Perow asked.
“From long ago,” the shadow said. “And yet, not too distant a time either.”
“
Should we be worried?”
“She echoed resilience, maybe even faded love,” the shadow said. “Deep in her, we heard a scream, a loudness that beamed through her, seeping out of her pours. Yet, she carries much loneliness in her. A sense of defeat flows from her like rapids from a mountain.”
“If there is loneliness and despair then there is no need to concern ourselves with her,” Perow said, looking at the mirror, following the length of the chain that continued, disappearing off the mirror’s edge.
“We must contact our distant parts,” the shadow said, “they must be made aware of her, this girl—
“Catch the canary, kill the fox,” the King Consort interrupted. “Forget the girl, for now.”
Chapter Eight
Reminiscent Memories
Mondo was a decent man. He grew up in a small village, where his father was a shop keep and his mother a baker. When he was seven, his brother was born. At the age of ten, he took a hobby in archery. At the age of eleven, the family moved to the city, where Mondo studied to become a potter. When he was seventeen, he met Ella, a daughter of an apothecary and a housemaid. At twenty-two, he married Ella and opened up a small shop, which he called Kiln Me Softly. Three years later, Dalo Matta, a banker and one of the richest men in the city, began buying porcelain pieces from Mondo, bringing him and Ella wealth and respect. At twenty-six, his mother died of a blood infection, seven months later, his father died of a broken heart. At twenty-eight, he got in an argument with his brother over a trivial matter; he would never speak with or see him again. On his twenty-ninth birthday, Ella ran away with a traveling songster. The same year, Mondo became friends with the bottle, which culminated with the arson of his shop four years later. At thirty-three, morally lost and angry at the world, Mondo, traveled the land as a bandit. Mondo was a decent man then color faded from his soul.
While traveling the Shattered Road, an abandoned and crumbling highway that led into Mundialis, Mondo came upon a lone traveler garbed in feathers. Thinking him rich because of his garb and the fine horse he rode on, Mondo readied his crossbow and shot the traveler in the back, thrice.
“There, there,” Mondo said as he walked toward the horse, the traveler slumped onto its mane. Before Mondo grabbed the reins, the traveler grabbed Mondo by the neck and lifted him up, so that they were face to face. A cluster of eyes stared into Mondo. Images and voices rushed through the former potter’s mind until only one image remained: of a beagle and a rainbow gecko.
Mondo pulled out a curved blade and with one hack, cut off the Seeing Man’s hand, which turned into a cluster of crow’s feathers before hitting the ground. Mondo landed on his feet and turned to run only to feel a powerful kick on his back delivered from the Seeing Man, who quickly dismounted the horse. The bandit stood up and watched in disbelief as the Seeing Man’s hand regrew rapidly.
“What the hell,” Mondo said and charged at the Seeing Man, who anticipated his attack. Before Mondo turned to strike once again, a black sword made to look like a hundred razor sharp feathers materialized in the Seeing Man’s hand. He blocked Mondo’s strike, shattering the curved blade in the process. Having enough, the Seeing Man grabbed Mondo by the neck and pinned him against the nearest tree.
“Where did you see the dog and the lizard?” a voice echoed in Mondo’s head.
“Please,” Mondo said. “I didn’t know who I was attacking… please.”
“The dog and the lizard,” the voice said and the Seeing Man squeezed Mondo’s neck.
“Down the road,” Mondo gasped. “They went into Mundialis. They—
The Seeing Man’s eyes looked deep into Mondo. Images of laughter and joy flooded the bandit’s mind, the faces of his parents, his brother and his wife but soon they turned to flashes of yelling and tears, to a duo of coffins, his brother’s anger and his wife’s mocking laugh. Tears streamed down Mondo’s cheeks.
“What a shame,” the voice said. “Men need to learn how to interpret sadness with a necessary dignity.”
“Please, sir,” Mondo said.
“Thank you for your aid,” the voice said and the Seeing Man let go of Mondo, only to embrace him and the tree in a bear hug. The arrows, which still stuck out of his back, slowly passed through the Seeing Man, pierced into and through Mondo to lodge themselves into the tree. The Seeing Man let go of his enemy, climbed onto his horse and trotted off.
The last memory to pass through Mondo’s mind was that of the burning Kiln Me Softly.
The deeper into the woods they ventured the duller the pallet of colors became. The greens and browns became gray and murky, washed out and diluted.
“Mr. Fox?” Clementine said.
“Yes.”
“Have you noticed what’s been happening around us? Have you noticed that the color seems to have gone out of the world?” she said.
“I have,” the fox said. “We are at the edge of Mundialis, the dilution. Colors fade here and the ones that remain have no right doing so. For now, they are the strong ones, sprouting from life with a willingness to exist, a magical feature that pulsates from them. But in time, they too will fade and the border of Mundialis will grow, it always does.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What do you mean the color has no right being here?”
“There is no color in Mundialis. There is only gray, the memory of color.”
“That’s depressing,” she said.
“More than depressing, it’s a horror that only those who live in Mundialis understand. A life without color is like a life without music or dancing,” the fox said. Clementine observed as more and more of the colors faded, leaking along the ground like paint splashed with a bucket of warm water. “We enter a dangerous place,” continued the fox. “It is an odd and frightening land.”
“I just came from a place like that,” Clementine retorted.
Puzzled, the fox gazed at her then asked, “And what place is that?”
“It’s called loneliness,” Clementine said. She thought about her answer for a moment and looked down at the ground, blushing. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be so negative, I…”
“Don’t apologize for something that came from the heart,” the fox said sternly.
They trekked along for several hours. As the sun began its descent, a swift coldness came over the woods: the wind became icy and frost caressed the branches. The lower the sun, the darker the shadows, the unkinder the air and the more colorless the woods until a silent blackness remained.
“We need to rest,” Clementine said.
“It’s not far until the dome,” the fox responded.
“I’m tired and hungry,” Clementine complained. “And your bandages need changing.”
“Fine,” the fox relented.
Clementine and the fox found a great spot to lie in for the night: a leafy opening between a trio of merged oaks that acted as a shield from the wind and sheltered them from searching eyes. After adding freshly fallen leaves to their sleeping nook, Clementine gathered dry leaves, twigs and branches, compiling them into a sturdy pile, which she encircled with stones that the fox found. Using a trick learned from A Guide to Camping and Hiking—a gift from her mother—she kindled some embers and after carefully adding them to the pile, created a fire, whose color, with the birth of the first flame, faded into the night.
“Impressive,” said the fox.
Clementine smiled. “It took me a while to learn how to do that,” she explained. “It always seems a bit easier in books and movies.”
Clementine let her companion’s leg breathe while she made another reed boot for him, cushioning this one with leaves. Surrounded by the still night, they snacked on raspberries that the fox found. Sitting on piles of oak foliage in their nook, they silently watched the flames, with Clementine adding wood whenever necessary to keep the fire aglow. To the crackles of twigs and branches, their minds floated away to their own internal islands.
The fox tried to recall his name, which constantly eluded him as a swift
sparrow does a famished hawk. His mind acted like a shadow artist, projecting silhouettes of people and places that were at once vaguely familiar yet foreign. He recalled faces of men and women; he smiled at the thought of some and felt distinct fear and anxiety upon the appearance of others. There flashed glimpses of events, some draped in grays, others in faint color: a funeral, an earthquake, a woman who spoke of living shadows, a boy who was not a boy, a journey and a chase. He recalled voices: soft and gentle, and hard, booming ones. All of this seemed so distant, yet he knew that it happened not long ago.
Between all these memories, there were glimpses of two faces: a beautiful woman with curly auburn locks and an ashen man with eyes of night. “Delicata. Ecilám,” the fox whispered and a memory returned: the beautiful woman speaking to a man he could not see. “The Soundsmith, we must tell him of what escaped. We must tell him of the…” her voice drifted off replaced by what sounded like a high-pitched dog yelp. His memory became clouded again while a symphony of yelps and howls accompanied the cluster of images.
Clementine too drifted among the memories of her past but unlike that of the fox, hers were detailed and specific. She recalled sitting on a stone pier. Nothing but blue on the horizon: the sky and the sea. Adolescent waves raced each other while their mother, the Mediterranean, waited with open arms to catch them as they fell into her warm and all-encompassing embrace. Meanwhile, her neighbor, the sky, let loose its lazy pet, the breeze, which smelled of salt and sun, upon the shores of the sleepy Algiers.
Alongside Clementine, sat Alice, in her azure sundress and oversized straw sun hat. Bell, in his collard cyan shirt and white shorts, knelt behind them, playing with the focus on the camera, hopeful to get the most beautiful image of his wife and daughter. Clementine and her mother dipped their feet in the warm water, giggling as groups of tiny saffron fish gathered to pick softly at the dead skin of their heels. The silence in these memories accentuated the colors and emotions, and Clementine, in the solace of her past, felt deep warmth.
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