The Secret Key of Pythagorum

by Michele Angello

  “I guess it depends on what’s in the box.” Savaric pulled out the wooden box and brushed away the dirt that clung to it. No design decorated the box, no pattern or carving ornamented the wood at all. The top just fitted tightly on the bottom without hinges. Savaric pulled the two pieces apart. Inside, rolled in a piece of soft leather, lay a key.

  “Another one?” he breathed wondrously.

  “What do you mean? You have another one of these?” Elias said, incredulous. “More secrets.” He said furiously. He got up and stalked off.

  “Where are you going?” Savaric called after him.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Savaric sat back against the tree, aghast. What would happen if he were caught? He started to get up to go after Elias, but turned and sat down again after a few steps. There was a far greater danger if they were caught together. After thinking for a few moments, he decided to look around and see if he could find the sheriff. He put the cloak on and stole quietly around the forest that stood at the base of the hill of Thor’s Cave. There was no sign or sound of the sheriff. Unsure of what else to do, he went back to the tree where they had hidden. Elias sat at the base. Next to him on the ground sat their traveling bundles and food, retrieved from the cave by Elias.

  “That was really stupid, you know, going off like that. He could have caught you,” Savaric said.

  Elias started, putting his arm up as if to ward off a blow. He then realized who the disembodied voice belonged to and lowered his arm slowly. Savaric realized what he had done and dropped his cloak.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot it was on.”

  “By my estimates, your specialty lately is being stupid and unkind,” Elias replied.

  Savaric sighed and sat on the ground across from Elias, cradling his knee. He reached over and pulled some food from his pack. He ate for a while then gathered his pack and started off.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Elias said.

  “Mancunium.”

  “And you’re just leaving me here?”

  “Well, yes. I’m the horrible unkind one, right? Why would you want anything to do with me?” Savaric said.

  “I, uh. It’s all right. I forgive you.”

  Savaric stopped and looked at the other boy.

  “Just don’t leave me here,” Elias said softly.

  “All right,” Savaric said flatly. He turned and continued heading north again, toward Mancunium.

  The two young travelers settled into an uneasy truce, both smarting from the other’s words and deeds. They traveled under the cover of darkness and slept uneasily in the full light of day under whatever cover they could find or assemble. They took turns keeping watch, leaving them both sleep deprived and anxious. Savaric’s injury grew steadily worse, oozing pus and stinking horribly. Their progress grew slower and slower. It took them twice as long as it should to arrive there, but they finally stumbled into Mancunium.

  “This way,” Elias said.

  “What do you mean? How do you know where we are going?” Savaric mumbled.

  “My aunt’s, of course. Isn’t that where you meant to go?”

  “No. I just wanted to find another scribe,” Savaric replied, slurring his words.

  “You need help for that knee. My aunt can help.”

  Savaric looked at Elias, swaying. “Can you trust her?” he said thickly. His eyes closed slowly and he forced them open again with difficulty.

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.” Elias stepped over just in time to keep Savaric from collapsing to the ground, catching him and putting his arm around his shoulder. Half dragging and half carrying him, he made his way through the muddy streets of the village to a small cottage. Smoke rose hazily from the chimney. The rounded front door stood slightly ajar. Elias opened the tilted gate and helped Savaric to the door, calling out as he went.

  “Hello! Help! Auntie, help!”

  A middle-aged woman came to the door, her hands full of wilted leafy vegetables. “What! Who is it?”

  The last thing Savaric saw was her red bewildered face leaning over him after he collapsed to the ground, his strength sapped, no longer able to help hold himself up.

  CHAPTER 19

  “If the vision was true and mighty, as I know, it is true and mighty yet; for such things are of the spirit, and it is in the darkness of their eyes that men get lost.”

  - Black Elk

  Whispers ebbed around him, coming and going like waves endlessly washing the shore. The whispers seemed to merge with his dreams and his sleep and another uncertain state of unconsciousness. Somewhere between these states, Savaric dreamed of the woman in the woods again, her hair flowing around her like she lived and breathed under water. Wolves circled a glowing fire in a clearing in the woods, joined by men and women dressed in white cloths wrapping their bodies. The pine tree of invisibility withered and died, its needles falling to the ground and blowing to the edges of the meadow. Savaric thrashed, cried, and called out, gripped by a fever. “Scribe, scribe,” he repeated.

  Nearby Elias watched and waited, his hands never leaving Savaric’s cloak. Auntie bustled to and from the sickbed to her meager kitchen, spooning broth and water through Savaric’s dry, cracked lips. After a day of this, she paced back and forth, mumbling to herself. His Uncle Alard skulked nearby, going out often.

  “First that … that man! Terrible, terrible man in black. Now this!”

  Elias snapped out of his reverie, coming to attention from a long stare into space. “Man in black! What man in black?”

  “You! You have caused a lot of problems for this family. And you just got here!”

  “What man in black?” Elias repeated, jumping up from his chair and rushing across the room to his aunt.

  “A tall man wearing all black. Said he was the sheriff of Deva, though what he wanted with us here …”

  Elias put his hands on her arms. “What did he want?”

  “He said he had someone in his lockup claiming to be you. But he said it was some justice breaker named Savaric. And then you show up here, weeks late. I thought you were dead, killed on the road, probably by this Savaric.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said you were a good boy and wouldn’t be with a justice breaker.” She glanced over her shoulder at the huddled form on the bed. “Are you sure his name isn’t Savaric?”

  Elias said, “Of course I’m sure. His name is Tristan.” He took his hands off his aunt’s arms and thought for a moment. “Was there anything else he said?”

  “He said to let him know if you ever showed up here,” she said softly, snuffling her nose into a handkerchief.

  Elias’s face fell. A long silence followed.

  “And did you?”

  She hesitated. “Well, no…”

  “Auntie,” Elias pleaded. “Did you?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I didn’t tell him anything.” She quickly walked back to her washbasin and fussed with the crockery piled there.

  Elias watched her for a few moments, then walked over to Savaric and leaned over his unconscious form. “Now is the time to wake up,” he whispered tersely into his ear. “Wake up, wake up, wake up.”

  Another day passed, with Savaric’s sleep becoming more unrested and fitful. The smell coming from his bandages filled the room, stinking horribly. Everyone who walked in took a deep breath outside the threshold and covered their mouth and nose as they passed through.

  Finally, his aunt said, “Enough. I can’t stand this evil stench in me house one second more. That thing must come off.” She marched over to Savaric’s bed and lifted his leg and unwrapped the bandage as quickly as she could. Barely gripping it in her fingertips, she walked over to the fire and flung the bandage in the flames. She then waddled out of the house as quickly as she could and let out a huge breath. She stood outside for a moment catching her breath. Back inside, she grabbed a pitcher and walked to the well, dropped the bucket down, then turned the crank to bring it back up. She marched back to Savar
ic’s side and splashed the whole bucketful over his leg. All the dirt and pus and filth loosened and splashed to the dirt floor. Savaric suddenly came to life, screaming in pain and clutching at his knee. He looked at the perpetrator of his pain, a startled and confused look on his face. “Wha…” he started to say, then fell back on his bed, passed out.

  Elias watched all of this in shock from a few feet away. “By the gods, what are ye doing?” he shouted at his aunt.

  “Just cleaning things up a bit,” she said calmly. “It’s just not wholesome—that smell, Elias. I had to get rid of it.” Elias stood there with his mouth hanging open. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him another bandage.” She went to the clothes cupboard and got out an old and holey but clean shirt. “And I’m going to put some mash of allium on it as well. I spoke to the priest, and he said it might be too late, but it still might help.” She smiled brightly at him and then busied herself with her concoction.

  Elias stood staring at her for a few more seconds, then strode out the door. A few minutes later he came back in, grabbed Savaric’s cloak, and left again.

  CHAPTER 20

  “All sounds, all colors from the landscape banished! And all, all life constrained far hence to fly! Myself alone, still lingering, all else vanished, Hang as a tear in Desolation’s eye”

  - Charles T. Brooks, German Lyrics

  Elias stood in the marketplace, an island in the throngs ebbing and flowing around him. He wore Savaric’s cloak and carried a piece of parchment gripped tightly in his hand. He jostled from side to side as peasants dressed in earth-colored breeches and tunics hurried past. In the time he had spent with Savaric, they had been in the countryside with fresh air and no people around. Now the crush of people, with the shouting of the peddlers and the smells of people pushing past him, seemed stronger than he remembered.

  He looked at the faces of the peddlers. How did Savaric pick a scribe, he wondered? Suddenly he realized that a group of men wearing swords and shields on the far side of the market pushed through the crowd toward him. He turned as casually as he could and let the crowd carry him along. After a few minutes, he pushed his way out of the center of the stream of people and to the edge. There, in a clearing, a few strides away, sat a scribe with his lap desk—little more than a rough piece of wood with legs. He sat with his head propped up on his chin, tapping on the desk with a stick. Elias took a deep breath and walked over to him.

  “How much to read a map?”

  “Go away, brat. You don’t have a map.” The scribe looked back at the people passing by.

  “Then what is this?” Elias said, waving the map in the scribe’s face.

  The scribe looked up at him lazily. “All right, three coins.”

  “Two.”

  The scribe looked him up and down. “Let’s see what you call a map then.”

  Elias defiantly slapped down the ragged piece of parchment on the lap desk. The scribe looked at it for a second and then looked back at Elias, barely disguised surprise registering on his face.

  “Well, you do have a map, don’t you?”

  Elias nodded.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “My grandfather,” he said gruffly. The tone of Elias’s voice firmly said that no more information would be coming from him. “What does it say?”

  “It says,” he said sharply. “The maiden will lead you to the way. Naban guards the hill on high, but a lowly bridge guards the greater treasure,” He then read slowly.

  Elias repeated his words slowly. “Who is Naban?”

  The scribe shrugged. “Never heard of him.” He hesitated for a moment and then looked behind Elias, who was lost in thought. “Looks like your jig is up, waif.”

  Elias spun around. His uncle strode quickly toward him through the marketplace. A dark, intent look clouded his usually slack features. Elias turned back around to grab the map. The desk and the map had disappeared. The only evidence of his conversation with the scribe was the sight of his back with the tiny desk hoisted under his arm, melting into the crowd a few feet away.

  Elias shouted “Hey!” and began to run after the scribe. He suddenly felt himself being scooped up, his feet dangling in the air. He looked, confused, to either side of him to see what had caused the strange feeling of suddenly taking flight. A large man wearing a soldier’s helmet held his right arm. Elias’s heart dropped as he turned to look at the other side. A man he definitely knew held his left arm—the sheriff of Deva.

  “No…I’m not him,” he stammered out, repeating the worn refrain he had come to associate with the terrifying face above him.

  “We know who you are, Elias. Don’t worry, we got your friend as well. He won’t be bothering your aunt or uncle anymore either. You’re both coming with us.”

  Elias looked around the marketplace. A crowd had gathered to watch. His uncle stood at the edge of the crowd watching his capture and struggle. “You, you did this!” he shouted. “You’ve turned on your own family.”

  His uncle smiled, a tight-lipped, self-satisfied smile that did not reach his eyes. He gave the little sack of coins in his hand a small toss in the air and caught it again, brandishing his gains. He then turned his back and pushed his way through the crowd to leave.

  The sheriff grunted as they both watched him leave. He walked toward the edge of the market, bumping through the crowds, dragging Elias, and shouting “Make way, move!”

  Elias desperately scanned the faces of the people as they passed by, looking for any sign of help or pity. Stoney, dirty blank faces stared back at him. No sign of care showed on any of the smudged, baleful faces. He dropped his head and looked at the ground. All hope was lost. No one cared, and there was no one to rescue him and Savaric. The map was gone. His family was gone. All hope was lost.

  CHAPTER 21

  Reeling and lost in his own murky sea of lost hope, Elias had no awareness of where he was going or what was happening to him. He folded into himself. There was no light or sight or sound that he was aware of, only blurry impressions of his surroundings and sounds that seemed to come from far away. His worst nightmare had come true. The sheriff had found him. He fell into a deep-under-water-at-night feeling, floating somewhere between unconsciousness and sleep.

  In reality, Elias had been deposited in another cell, deep under a stony mountain, guarded day and night. The cell’s dark stone walls held nothing but a bit of straw on the floor. The cold cut to the bone, demanding that no other thoughts occupy the mind but of how desperately cold it felt.

  In the corner farthest from the cell door, a bundle of clothes lay dumped on the floor. The unmoving pile of refuse was Savaric. With no daylight to determine the passage of time, and no tethers to hold them to this world and its reality, the boys stayed where they had been dumped on the floor, unaware of each other’s presence. Irregularly served food went untouched. Time blurred.

  But then something changed. It started with a scent that floated through the air. At first it was just a whiff that flitted by and could be promptly dismissed as a figment of dreams. Then it became stronger, definable. The sweetness of apple blossoms mixed with the sharper scent of oranges. The smell wafted stronger into the cell, billowing in clouds. It crept into the boys’ dreams, pricking their consciousness, twitching their noses. Then came the loud clanging sound of metal latches lurching open, squealing hinges, and rustling clothes. Bright light spilled into the space, reaching through their closed eyelids, forcing its way into their minds, prying.

  A presence filled the room. It stood silent, waiting. The presence commanded attention simply by being there, needing nothing more than its own fullness of self to gain compliance. The boys stirred for the first time in their imprisonment. Their muscles refused to work, aching from time spent immobile. The presence demanded, without a sound, for the boys to stand. Their bodies responded to the external unspoken command and slowly rose like marionettes, to their knees and then to their feet.

  An incredibly beautiful woman dressed all in whit
e and silver stood before them, her long thick black hair flowing in rivers down her back and around her chest. Her fair skin contrasted sharply with raven’s wings eyebrows that perched sharply above deep violet eyes. The air seemed to shimmer around her, glowing bright, lighting the room in pure white light. The scent of apple blossoms and oranges was overwhelming. Savaric’s milky brain lurched, grasping at thoughts that floated by him. He knew this woman. But from where? This was not a face or presence that you ever forgot.

  Without realizing that he was speaking out loud, he whispered, “Who are you?”

  “I am Morgain le Fey.” The silver voice floated around them like a voice under water, soft and yet unbreakably strong all at once. “I have been looking for you.”

  Elias, aware of Savaric for the first time, turned his head slowly towards Savaric, but not tearing his eyes off of the vision in front of him but for a fraction of a second, then quickly turned back to the magnetic presence. The boys stood floating in space and time, unable to move, waiting for her to speak again.

  “Give it to me,” she said. The tone and strength of her voice left no doubt that full, unwavering obedience was commanded, expected, and always received.

  Elias and Savaric glanced at each other, their heads bobbing and minds reeling. After a long silence, Elias finally slurred, “Give what to ye?”

  Morgain smiled sweetly. “Why, give me everything, of course.”

  Without hesitation, Elias reached into the folds of Savaric’s cloak and pulled out the two remaining pieces of the map. His hand floated through the air like a dancer at a performance, holding out the parchments to the silver glow. Morgain snatched them out of his hand and looked at them greedily. She turned and walked out of the cell, her head still bowed over the maps. The door clanged loudly behind her, seeming to close without the help of human hands.

  At the same moment, Elias and Savaric dropped abruptly to the floor. They sat there for a few minutes in stunned silence.