John Bowman's Cave

by Erron Adams

  At first it seemed she would make no reply, though she smiled enough for teeth to show. Then, in much the same way it had moments earlier, her head tilted on its axis to take him in. “Another one?”

  He laughed at his mistake, and in relief at her humour. “Yes, if I may.” She gestured in an off-hand fashion which he interpreted as assent.

  “I want to ask after a fellow Outlander I believe you are holding here in Kasina Nabir.”

  Her smile died. She nodded. “The adopted Rory. Caylen.”

  “Yes.”

  “She lives.” Another look at Bowman, this one searching his face. “That was the bargain, as I recall: you were to accompany Keemon back to your old world and return here with him; we would hold your woman as hostage.”

  “She is not my woman!”

  For a moment she looked past him, expressionless. Then she fixed him with a small smile.

  “What is your real name, Outlander? What do friends call you?”

  It took Bowman back, but he managed to answer evenly.

  “Bowman, or John. I’m John Bowman. To friends, I guess I’m John.”

  “I would like to call you John, while we are alone. And you will call me by the name I was given as a child, Emrel.”

  Now Bowman was completely off balance. How could he call a Queen by her first name? And what purpose could such familiarity serve? “But, .. yes. May I ask, why?”

  “Because no one else ever does. Call me Emrel, that is. No one else ever can, of course. Which means all show the same respect, and most lie to me. I need to know you aren’t lying to me. It is easier to see through deceit when the relationship is less formal.”

  Bowman smirked. “How can you be sure? I could just be a very good liar.”

  She shook her head. “No one can lie to me.” She paused a moment. "I just need to feel I can trust you with what I’m about to say.”

  “John.”

  “Pardon?”

  “John; you said you’d call me John,” he smiled.

  “Of course, John. Do you know what lies behind these walls, John?”

  “Kasina Nabir. That, and beyond that, the lands of the Rory, the Dragonspine, the Plain of Nabur and, well, everything else out there. What do you mean?”

  She shook her head. “Not that. I’m talking about the reason these walls were built.”

  “Then my guess would be, to define the city limits and keep those inside, safe.”

  “Yes, very good.”

  Bowman looked at her a couple of times, expecting more. Whatever else was coming, he decided against drawing it out of her. They walked on, the soft echo of their measured footfalls in the passage the only sound to accompany them. Eventually, Emrel spoke.

  “We build walls around us. Both here,” – she reached and lightly tapped the masonry – “and in here,” she lay the palm of her hand across her heart. Her expression had retreated with her mood, sudden and shockingly cool as the onset of a summer storm. “These walls mirror the struggle inside every human, that’s why we build them, I think. We make the world to mirror our own inner world.”

  “They serve a practical purpose, nonetheless.”

  “Of course; how else could we justify the endeavour? But it won’t save us. At any rate, as far as Unconnu believes, it will matter very little, and very soon.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying there’s some kind of threat?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes! These walls will be torn down by the hands that built them. The hands of our own people. That is the word of our Oracle, and she is seldom wrong.”

  “Is that Unconnu’s job, fortune telling?” Bowman tried to hide the cynicism in his voice.

  “Partly, yes. Unconnu has the gift of foretelling. It has served us well, as it has served her well.” Now the cynicism was Emrel’s, and it showed.

  “You don’t like her?” Bowman only got another slight smile in reply. He tried another tack. “What about Keemon?” he asked, leaving the question as open-ended as he hoped it was, non-accusatory.

  “He is my consort, as you would know.”

  “How would I know that?”

  Emrel looked genuinely disappointed. “Remember, John, no lies? Keemon has spoken with you; I know that. And Keemon is not the kind of man to shrink from such a boast.”

  “Yes, you’re right there! But look, Emrel, why him? Why have anything to do with such a man?”

  “He serves his purpose. He serves my purpose. He is from your world, which seems to be moving ever closer to this, and in dangerous times I like to keep such ruthless people close. As is said: friends close; enemies closer!”

  “Yes, we say the same where I come from. At any rate, I’m relieved to hear you recognise Keemon as an enemy. He is a man without true allies, Emrel, and you’re right: he is dangerous!”

  “Agreed. It is a bit like holding a snake by the tail. However, we do what we have to; it’s duty.”

  “Well, all I can say is that Keemon follows me around like a bad smell, and whenever I run into him there’s trouble, for me and others.”

  “He is your shadow, then, or should be. Remember, keep your enemies close. I sense this Keemon is part of your life. A very important part.”

  Bowman made to answer, but couldn’t find the words to frame the mixture of revulsion and uneasiness he felt. He shrugged, made a sour face and looked away.

  Emrel continued unperturbed. “Another I keep close is Unconnu. She is my shadow. We all have such a one; Keemon is yours.”

  Bowman wondered just how much she knew about him. It didn’t seem right that a complete stranger could so confidently analyse him. The only other person to have done that had been Argilan, up to now.

  “I don’t suppose you heard about the Jindi during your time in Grealding?” she asked.

  “No, not really. I heard the word, but not much of an explanation. Something about magic, or some such…”

  “The Jindi are the predecessor race of the Rory; the initial separation of the two is something whose facts are lost to time. We Kasina have never had much contact with them. They are a powerful people, and great warriors: the cost of fighting them is high indeed.”

  “So, what do they have to do with the Kasina now?”

  “The Jindi are the source of much of our culture; even more so for the Rory. Essentially, they teach that civilization is based on the battle between human evil and divine goodness. It is the destiny of every human to subdue their own inner evil. By doing so, they separate themselves from endless struggle and become part of the divine universe.”

  Bowman shrugged. “Familiar story. And it doesn’t explain where we came from, though that’s pretty much par for the course as well. But sorry, go on.”

  “The Jindi believe this battle permeates everything, every level of existence: from the physical world - which can be changed to our needs, but never trusted to behave how we think it will, since it wages its own struggle - to our secret inner worlds of treachery, deceit and hopeless love and longing.”

  “Well, hopeless love I understand: it does seem futile, most of the time, don’t you think?”

  “You misunderstand what I’m saying. Love is hopeless because it only works unconditionally; you love without expectation of something in return. In that surrender, in that defencelessness, lies all the power of the heart.” She heard Bowman’s snort. “There are those who scorn such vulnerability, of course. Such people live in fear, which is the death of love.”

  “God, Emrel, what a speech! I suspect you’re the worst tragic hippie I ever met!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, never mind. Anyway, what are you doing in this fortress with sentiments like those? Shouldn’t you be outside these ‘safe walls’, dancing in the flowery fields?”

  “It would be more instructive for you to imagine what you are doing here,” Emrel said with the little smile that was starting to irritate Bowman. He opened his mouth to reply, but it was a pugnacious reflex action; he had nothing to say, and le
ft it at a shrug.

  “Well, here we are, I believe?” Emrel stopped outside the door to Bowman’s room. They had come to the end of their walk, apparently, and their talk.

  “Yes, yes. Well then, thanks,” he said, and reached for the handle. With the door open, he nodded at the room’s interior. “More walls, hey? Who are these to protect, you or me?”

  Emrel ignored the invitation to levity. She came closer. “John, there comes a time when one must master their shadow. That time is fast approaching for me, and for you.”

  “Well, frankly, that’s comforting to know. I’m not sure what you can do about Unconnu, but as for me, I assume you are talking about killing Keemon? No problem, I already intend doing that.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. Not killing, exactly.”

  “Well, I give up. Just how does one best a shadow?”

  “Remember, John, everything is a mirror of the inner world. Death is not necessarily defeat. And defeat means more than simple death, for us or our shadow.”

  “What does it mean, then?”

  “Annihilation, for us, if the shadow wins and carries us into eternal darkness.”

  “God, Emrel, you’re a treat, you know that? You belong on stage!”

  She smiled. “I am on a stage. Look around you, what do you think this is?”

  Bowman felt an old chill return, but before he had time to place it she turned away. He felt as if the end to their conversation had come too soon, and made another lame joke in an effort to detain her. “Aren’t you going to see I’m securely locked up in this room, Emrel?”

  She continued walking as she spoke. “I’m sure you can do that yourself. And remember, the Good do not always triumph, John. Not all will endure to the end. We came in off the plains and built walls to keep the danger out; now danger eats us from within. I trust that you will fare well.”

  ***

  After Emrel left him, Bowman lay back on his bed and wondered what the Hell had just gone on. An audience with the Queen of Kasina Nabir had ended almost as soon as it began, its only substance a rambling walk through the Citadel’s Byzantine corridors, punctuated by the equally rambling talk between himself and Emrel.

  What had she wanted? What, come to think of it, had she really said? Something about a clash between Good and Evil seemed to be the nub of it. An inner battle reflected in every outer thing’s own personal struggle, whether they be living or inanimate.

  It sounded far-fetched and familiar at the same time. Reminiscent of childhood’s fidgetingly endured church sermons. And unlikely as a rainbow at night. He couldn’t see sense investing rocks with consciousness, of any kind.

  But if the content of Emrel’s talk perplexed him, it was the interplay between her and Keemon that really drew his thought. Just what the cop had planned for the Queen - in fact, for both her and Bowman - seemed difficult to say. Keemon would kill them both, Bowman knew that, as soon as either ceased to be of use, became a danger or a burden. And though Bowman had been marked for service shuttling weapons through from Dyall’s Ford, he couldn’t tell how long his usefulness would last. How many guns would Keemon deem sufficient to his task? Would his greed be never satisfied, giving Bowman an indefinite stay of execution? Most likely the Queen would only survive until Keemon had enough military hardware to unseat her. But what chances to escape would time present Bowman, before some point of no return occurred?

  And where did the Oracle, Unconnu, fit into the picture? He’d only seen her once, just now in the Queen’s court, and had never spoken to her. Nevertheless, the little he’d heard of Unconnu made him suspicious. What was the Oracle’s role in all this? What were her personal ambitions?

  Bowman sighed and turned over to try sleeping. No use worrying about the things you can’t change, he thought, rather unsatisfactorily. But as he slipped into fitful semi-consciousness the machinations of Kasina Nabir played on in his head. What were they doing, what were they all up to?

  ***

  His face smug with overreaching intimacy, Keemon passed a goblet to Emrel. “Your health, my Lady!” She accepted the wine without looking at him. Keemon took another goblet from the table, filled it and turned to the other figure in the room. “And one for you, my dear?”

  Unconnu shook her head. “No. I will keep my mind clear.”

  “Ah, yes, the ever-sensible Unconnu! What is it you say about concentration, that it’s within everyone’s grasp but everyone’s too busy grasping to get it?”

  The Oracle looked back evenly. “You grow more tiresome with every meeting, Keemon.”

  Emrel stepped between them. She put her hands out to either side to separate the sparring parties and looked at the floor. “We don’t have time for this,” she said. She glowered at Keemon, knowing just the look to silence a man who shared her bed. Then she turned to the Oracle.

  “I have summoned you both to discuss what to do with the Outlander, John Bowman.”

  Unconnu glared past the Queen at Keemon as she spoke. “My Lady, how does this upstart Outlander share our council?”

  Emrel stifled a sneer. Her liaison with Keemon was common knowledge among the inner court, and she didn’t care. Nevertheless, she sensed there was more to the Oracle’s ire than mere annoyance at familiarity between Queen and Outlander. Unconnu’s black eyes were like pools in a dark forest; no matter how hard you looked, their inky depths gave nothing back. Yes, my shadow, your power grows. I have watched you these long years. I can sense your threat, I can see it: time was you would never have questioned me like this. What is it you want from Keemon, I wonder?

  Then she spoke. “Our friend Keemon has brought the future forward for us,” she said, turning to face the man. “Perhaps that is a gift of yours?”

  “A poor gift for your Majesty, if that is what it is.”

  “Not half so poor as you might think, though it cannot match your fellow Outlander’s talent, by all accounts.”

  “Indeed, John Bowman is the man of the moment, and I thank you for this audience, my Lady. I know Bowman better than anyone, though your Oracle sees fit to overlook the fact. Anyway, I have no doubt what we should do with the man. Since we now have him, I suggest we lose no time in putting his ability to good use.”

  “By bringing weapons from the outer world?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what have you to say on this matter, Unconnu? How does this strategy lie with your Prophecy?”

  “My Lady, the Prophecy is not mine, I am merely its conduit. The Gods have chosen my poor life to manifest their message, as they do from time to time.”

  Keemon snorted.

  Emrel swung round on him. “You find this amusing?”

  “My own world had its share of Prophets. Not a very dependable crew, generally speaking. Nutters, actually.”

  Unconnu ignored him. “The Prophecy is very clear: a powerful Outlander will come. He will either destroy the Kasina or restore glory to the Empire. I cannot at the moment divine which of these John Bowman represents, if indeed he is the One. If he is, the outcome very likely depends on how we manage him.”

  “You are my Oracle; you should have these answers.”

  “Not so, Majesty. I can only pass on information the Divine Ones provide.”

  Now it was Emrel’s turn to show derision. “Indeed!” She turned once more to Keemon. “In that case, I can only follow the course set down by our agreement with John Bowman. He took this one back to their old world and returned here with him. In so doing, he kept his part of the bargain. Which means we must release him, and the girl, Caylen.”

  Keemon’s back stiffened as he towered over her. “Bullshit! First off, he meant to leave me stranded in my old world, which hadn’t exactly progressed in my absence, if you get my drift. There’s a deal-breaker, to start with. And it isn’t very bright to let a man like Bowman go free, I don’t care what the agreement was. He’s dangerous. Your own Oracle tells you that. If you let him go, who’s to say he won’t high-tail it back to the Rory and arm
them the same way he could, us?”

  “He won’t do that; the idea offends him.”

  “What? What the hell do you mean, offends him? How can you tell what he’s thinking? I’ve spent more time with him than you have, and I’m telling you, he’s a devious bastard!”

  “I have spoken with him and judge him harmless to the Kasina. But I agree, he may not be well disposed to all. I certainly suggest you avoid him; he particularly has no love for you.”

  Keemon threw his arms up. It looked as if he meant to strike Emrel; at the last moment he waved his hands about in speechless rage and turned to Unconnu. But if the cop’s own anger had taken him past the point of reasoning, the Oracle seemed similarly incapacitated. Before either could speak, Emrel swept from the room, saying she would meet them in her Court before the hour was out. “Bring the girl, and John Bowman,” she added as a Guard began to close the door behind her.

  When she’d gone the cop and the Queen’s Oracle remained looking at one another for some time in silence. Their eyes mirrored dark light, and when they finally moved closer and spoke, it was in whispers.

  ***

  After an hour attempting sleep, Bowman surrendered to restlessness and went exploring. He slunk down the corridor. On either hand, other passages or doors beckoned, but he passed them by, sticking to the red-carpeted path he and Emrel had walked. He wanted a recognizable route back to his room.

  At first the entire labyrinth seemed eerily deserted, and he kept stopping to cock an ear for any sound. Whenever he did so, all he heard was noises his own blood made as it pumped around his body. But after a time and distance he couldn’t estimate in this stifling stillness, there came the faint beginnings of something happening far off in another sector of the castle. What might have been someone whispering close by, he soon recognized as the murmur of distant crowd noise, and as he made his way further it manifested more clearly as general commotion. There came clear sounds of shouting and cries, and now his other senses kicked in: he could smell burning, and occasional reverberations came through air, shook his feet.

  The voices intensified until it became obvious an encounter was imminent. Being unarmed and alone, Bowman decided to beat a hasty retreat. He would look in his room for something weaponlike with which to offer resistance before venturing out again.