Suddenly, Vorona appeared before them, battered and bleeding from the forehead. “He’s too powerful,” she said and turned toward Talin and Clementine. “I’m sorry but this is for your own good.” Purple light flashed from her hands, blinding Clementine.
“No!” she screamed and sat up. Mika lay beside her.
After checking on the charred bag, the fox ran up to them. “What happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Clementine said and Mika stirred. “It’s all blank. I remember the bag and the insect legs and…”
“You collapsed,” Nir said. “Began shaking and screaming that there were flies in your eyes. That you will turn back if they stop—
“Where am I?” Mika said and looked around.
“What happened to you?” the fox asked. Mika gazed at him for a moment, then smiled.
“Fox,” she said. “I remember you.”
“I hope so,” he responded.
Clementine looked around at each of them.
“You’re lucky,” Nir told her. “The fox kept that beast off you.”
“I’m sorry,” Clementine said. “I don’t know what happened to me.”
“It’s all right,” the fox said. “We’re all coming apart at the seams. While we’re losing our memories, you’re losing your mind. We need to reach the Soundsmith, we need to purge the gray from us.”
“He’s right,” Mika said. “The exit can’t be that far ahead.” Clementine nodded and the beagle licked her hand. Traveling in darkness, they made their way past the fly’s charred remains. When they were out of sight, the heap of black moved and a tiny shadow ant emerged from the corpse. The strange boy appeared before the ant and sympathetically took it in his hand.
“Come out,” he said, “all of you.” The fly carcass moved and a hundred shadow ants emerged and swarmed the boy’s body.
The turquoise thing watched from the darkness.
Their trek came to a crawl. The luminescent path lit some of the road but the deeper into the caverns they ventured the less the stones shined, resulting in swaths of darkness. They inched along and often walked right into the water surrounding them. The clicking of arachnid legs against stone amplified tenfold and the sounds of movement in the water doubled. Thankfully, when Mika noticed that Clementine’s back pocket shone, the girl took out the handkerchief from Meditations and used it as a lantern.
Hours into their underground journey, lying across the pathway, they come across a massive ashen tree trunk with both its ends submerged in the water.
“How are we getting over this?” Mika asked.
“We’ll climb over,” the fox said.
Clementine approached the tree trunk, touching its oily, cold surface. “This is odd,” she said and eyed its size wearily. She took a running start and tried to grab on to its edge but it was too high and too slimy to grip, and she simply slid down its side.
“No go,” she said. “Maybe if we push it.”
“I’m not sure that will work,” Nir said.
“How did a tree get down here?” the fox asked.
“If you are referring to me,” a deep voice replied as the trunk began moving, “then you must be as blind as I am for I am no tree. I am an olm.” The trunk bent and out of the water emerged a big flat head. The creature turned its great tail and after moving up and down, a white eyeless dragonesque creature with red spindle-like gills running along the side of its head, stood before them.
“I am a salamander of the dark,” the olm said. “And I shall not be likened to a tree trunk. I may be blind but…” The creature, its large nose inches away from Clementine’s face, took in three long whiffs. “…I can most definitely see that you’re good, well intentioned souls.”
“We didn’t mean to offend,” Nir said. “But in the dark, you do resemble a barkless tree.”
The olm smiled. “In the dark,” it began, “all things look like other things. I assume then that if I looked like one thing to you, then you must have eyes to see with, and if that is so, then why would those who see want to descend into this subterranean shade?”
“We journey,” began Clementine, “to the Soundsmith so that the Other—
“You need not speak any further,” the olm interrupted her. “I understand.”
The olm sniffed the air in front of them once more and its red gills flared bright like fire.
“How is it that you have color?” Mika asked.
“Unlike most creatures, I know only goodness,” the olm said. “Such is the hue of the blind whose life has been lived in deep caverns. The Other cannot steal what color I possess for it is etched onto my soul, which interacts with others so little that no harm or pain has come to it. Thus, keeping its form pristine. The truth is that one only loses color when there are cracks in one’s soul, which only happens when the soul harms itself.”
“What do you mean?” Clementine asked, intrigued.
“Externally a soul is a mighty and grand thing but inside it is frail and filled with doubt. Nothing outside of itself can harm it. All ill will shatters upon its glory. But when it turns away from others, when it gives into pain and pleasure, when it lies to others and itself, when its actions are idle and without goals, the soul grows brittle and cracks like an autumn leaf. You four souls who travel this tunnel have harmed yourselves. I smell it on you, the pain.”
They all looked away from the olm, some at the water, some at their feet.
“Worry not travelers, all will be well, it has to be. As for the shadows that you fear, do not fear them. Feign fear around those who cast them and remember that they too are living beings, as frail and soft as you. Remember that people are not wicked because of wickedness but because when they are alone, they doubt who they are, and when they are around others, they’re told who they should be. People are wicked because they do not know who they are and by with this absence of self, they create another them, a wicked self. It is a sad affair that we judge the wicked for who they should be without looking behind the curtain of their wickedness and seeing who they really are, who they were before others made them forget.”
They all grew a bit downhearted and their color dimmed.
“Be proud of your vibrancy, dear travelers, and display it with honor, for in the future Men will not be so satisfied, so appreciative of the color that surrounds them. They shall take photos and filter out the real color, the real emotion for elaborate fakes, for glitter, glamor and adoration. They will forget the green of the leaves, the blue of the sky and sea and the brown of the earth. The color of one’s character will be lost among the filters of fame, praise and ambiguity. Shine, dear travelers, shine and never hide your light, make ripples in the lives of others, feed the rainbows inside them. Dream in color, live in color, act with kindness, humbleness and hue.”
Somewhere in the distance, a stone fell in the water. Its splash echoed through the grotto.
“I’ve rumbled for far too long,” the olm said. “Go on travelers seek that which will bring joy back into your hearts. You, the one dressed like a gecko, fear not for your daughter. Her future, for a while, will be bright and filled with much bliss. And you, the daughter dressed as a hound, worry not about the fox, his feelings have kindled toward you, there is a blossoming of sentiment to come. And you, dressed like a fox, worry not about losing your past, sometimes we must lose our past so that we may find our future. And you, spirit dressed like a girl, worry not about your companions, your parents, or that handkerchief, all will end well.
“The world will not end with the Other, oh no, it will end in the silence of a white room. So smile, even in the jaws of defeat, because that will not be the end. Every mountain climbed must be descended and when the time comes, when you are faced with fire made of shadow, remember my words: shadows never harmed anyone. They rely only on the illusion of harm. Journey onwards my costumed friends but before you go, listen to this fable, and remember it well, for it’s about all you do and do not know. It goes like this:
A long time ago, there traveled together three friends, three beasts: a fox, a crow and a platypus. They came upon a bridge hanging over rapids where a vile thing kept toll.
“You pay with your life or with an answer to my riddle,” the vile thing said.
“Ha!” the crow laughed. She chose not to pay and simply took flight, landing safely on the other side of the rapids.
“Oh, what a great friend you are,” the fox said, “to leave us here all alone.”
The crow smiled and walked on.
“The riddle then,” the vile thing said.
“Ha!” the platypus laughed. It chose not to pay and simply took to the water, swimming safely over to the other side of the rapids.
“Oh, what a great friend you are,” the fox said, “to leave me here all alone.”
The platypus smiled and walked on.
Frustrated that he could neither fly nor swim, the fox asked the vile thing to ask its riddle. The vile thing said, “I am a soft featherless bird that lands only on leafless trees but always my stay is short for I am eaten by a great man without a mouth or lips. Who am I?”
The fox thought for a moment and answered, and the vile thing let him pass. A few lessons the fox learned that day: one, not to always be reliant on his friends, for one day, when it is opportune for them, they shall leave him and two, to always be ready for vile things, for often they are nearer than we think, often they wait patiently in the inactions of others.
With a smile the olm slid off the path, its tail swayed a couple of times and it vanished into the water. The four companions stood silently, contemplating the olm’s words then the fox said, “Well that was odd,” and they laughed.
“We didn’t even get the answer to the riddle,” Mika said.
Soon enough, the pathway began to slope upwards and when they found the exit—a narrow slit in the cavern wall—they found themselves atop a high rock rise. Black veins ran through the sky and a humming of murmurs carried in the cold breeze. Far below, the mist cleared. The village of Lacrimas stood in inferno, consumed by great white flames. Bellows of thick black smoke rose on high to the pulsating black sky. Clementine gave off a frantic gasp. A stream of tears ran down her cheeks.
Chapter Eighteen
A Path through the Peaks
Freedom called from beyond the bars of the cage and the canary, battered and bloody after hours of torture, lay still listening to that call. Along with thousands of dandelion parachutes, the breeze carried scents of jasmine and lavender from the nearby fields. The canary watched as the eastern wind cut through the breeze and a dozen dandelion pods landed inside the cage, spurring a memory.
It remembered the music that played during its creation: a distant, melancholy melody, which poured out of a crystal, almost liquid, music box. Its siblings, all one hundred and eleven of them, stumbling about unaware of where they were or who they were. All of them new to the world, surrounded by black columns of earth, watched over by a swirling white sky above. All the while, a thousand tongues of the great sea hummed its harsh lullaby.
It remembered when it knew that it was it: that moment of brilliant ecstasy when the pied feet, the white feathers, the white beak and the black eyes belong to it and it alone, when its color burst forth from its depths like a fountain from the sands of the most arid desert. When each breath, each swallow, each blink, action and thought were its own. It remembered the first time it felt pain and how it wished that it would end, wished for no one to ever feel what it felt. It remembered the first time it felt sorrow upon the death of its friend; the deep sense of loss and anxiety because the potential life, the potential paradise, the real emotions, actions and courage that that friend planted in it had run its course and it could not save nor revive its friend. It was helpless; its only choice was to weep.
It remembered the first time it saw a baby smile, the unexplainable bliss that ran through each of its feathers and how it wished for everyone to live in that feeling infinitely. It remembered the first time it saw a couple kissing, the feeling of love in action, the deep sense of worth that sprouted the pink hue of embarrassment and desire on the skin of these lovers. It remembered when it first saw two strangers aiding one another, when together they searched for a lost dog, when the owner cried tears of thanks, and the stranger smiled a grin of gratitude; that moment when strangers became friends, when two gray souls erupted in a rainbow of acceptance. There was so much in its life that it forgot, so much it took for granted, so much it still had to accomplish.
The dandelion parachutes swayed, gently cradled by the breeze flowing through the bars in the cage. The canary watched the light glitter off the feathery white tops of the dandelion pods. In this ordinary, everyday phenomenon, it saw an overlooked, almost forgotten beauty.
“So, this is all your doing,” it whispered and saw the face of a gaunt man with four rabbit ears protruding from the top of his head.
Dry steppe and dying trees stretched before them. Cracks ran along the dry earth and slabs of stone stood tall disappearing into the horizon. Mighty mountains encircled all. The temperature fluctuated: is was sweltering hot, then, only a hundred yards further, freezing cold. The radical shifts of temperature did not sit well with the gecko who at one moment sat fully awake and at another fast asleep.
When night came, they found a spot below the husk of a large tree where Clementine built a fire and, unable to sleep, kept watch as the others dreamt. The photo from Lacrimas tortured her mind: Alice and Bell continuously appeared before her, as did the mystery person, the traitor, whose back was turned away. “Who are you?” she pondered, staring out into the darkness, her mind making sense of the past hours, wondering when her parents might have traveled through this plain. “Lilita didn’t remember, maybe the Soundsmith will. Maybe they’re still there in the mountains, held captive by the Other.” She stopped speculating and looked over at the curled-up fox and beagle, at a budding romance of opposites.
“The world will not end with the Other, oh no, it will end in the silence of a white room,” the olm’s words echoed in her head. “What did he mean by that? A white room? Me wearing a costume? That fable about the fox, crow and platypus? Puzzles with no answers.”
She stared into the fire. An image of the burning village, the white and black flames, flashed before her. “All those innocent people, what have they done to deserve such an end?” she thought. “I shouldn’t have been there. I shouldn’t be here. I should be at home, keeping silent not chasing the past. I should be at Vulpes Hill. I…” She paused and took in a deep breath. To calm herself, she revisited a passage from book seven of Meditations, “Withdraw into yourself. It is in the nature of the rational mind, to be self-content with acting rightly and the calm it thereby enjoys.”
Instead of growing calm and content, she grew anxious. Her thoughts hungered for answers. Her curiosity, like a hundred butterflies, fluttered about in her head, pushing and shoving, demanding escape. In an attempt to appease them, she turned to sleep, to dreams. She closed her eyes and began counting, hoping for the sandman to show mercy. He never did.
“What if this ends badly?” she thought. “I shouldn’t have been so impulsive, so dumb, to climb into that fireplace, to follow that canary. I wonder what happened to it?” The whole night she struggled with herself, trying to justify her predicament, her present and her past. She watched as the blackness faded replaced by a dull light rising from beyond the cliffs.
“Are you all right, Clementine?” the gecko asked.
“You’re awake?” she replied.
“I’ve been up for some time,” he said, “watching your eyes, their nervous jitters, their worry, their fatigue. Your fatigue. You should’ve slept.”
“I slept, I—
“No need to lie,” Nir said. “Your eyes tell me otherwise.”
“It’s just that…I’m doubtful and anxious and…I feel a weight, here, near my heart, a strange feeling that there’s nothing here, nothing but a cold, granite soul.”
“Owning a soul is a difficult matter,” Nir said. “Everyone has an opinion on everyone’s soul but their own. Truth is, you’re not born with a soul. You need to earn it through love and suffering and sacrifice—through living. You see, the older you get, the heavier things seem, that’s because a soul, through nourishment from your memories, good and bad, has grown inside of you.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Clementine said. “I thought everybody had a soul.”
“Everybody is not everybody,” the gecko said as he tapped her head lightly with his tail. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. The worst things that happen to people often do so inside their own head. Life is either as strange or as normal as you make it out to be in that noggin of yours.”
Mika’s pink heart shaped nose wiggled. Her head, resting on the fox’s chest, rose and fell with his breath. Her eyes opened and upon seeing Clementine and her father, she smiled and said, “You’re up already?”
“Sleep for a bit longer,” Clementine said. “You’ll need your strength. The mountains grow near and that means the journey’s going to be uphill from now on.” They looked up ahead to see thick clouds slowly consume the peaks. Fog meandered between the great stones and as the dim light from beyond flickered in, the temperature began rising. The Other’s black tendrils descended from the clouds and caressed the mountaintops. Not one of them fell back asleep; their minds were too busy thinking of nightmare scenarios that they may encounter in the heights.
When the fox awoke, Mika said, “You must have been tired,” her tail wagging.
“Just a little,” the fox said.
“Come on Mr. Fox,” Clementine said. “We’ve got to get going. Those clouds coming in from the south look like a storm. The faster we ascend, the better.”
The Auburn Prince Page 20