Mythangelus

by Storm Constantine

  He had been within the tower for so long that most people no longer knew the reason for his lonely exile, and those that did remember never spoke of it. The people liked to make up legends concerning his existence, for that is the wondrous thing about forgetting the truth; it is possible for the realm of fantasy to blossom. He within the tower lived by fantasy. He knew these things. Some said that he was walled within the stone because of some mysterious misdemeanour he’d committed as a child (rumours of death, poisoning, darkness abounded), whilst others claimed that it was because he was a sorcerer who had no control over his visions, who was dangerous and fey and to be shunned. Those who were wisest thought to themselves that the reasons for his imprisonment were infinitely more complex than that, and it may be said that those folk were the most accurate in their musings.

  There was no door to the tower, the stone was skin smooth, and its narrow windows began halfway up its height. No briars grew against the poreless walls, no lichens formed, no lizards scaled the hot mid-day stone; it was inviolate and pure, a pristine symbol within the earthy confines of the forest, whose equally earthy activities daily affronted the aura of the tower. In the morning, rays from the rising sun would fall across the exile’s bed to wake him with the lightest of touches. He would rise, stretching like a cat, and his shadow on the bedroom wall would be that of a great cat. Then he would dress himself in dull, black silk and put his feet into worn, silk slippers, go through the long windows open to the dawn air, onto the balcony and lean upon the parapet to let his hair fall forward over the stone. Then he would sigh. Every morning began this way; the days were endless.

  Sometimes, he found himself wondering why he did not vary the routine by going to bed at different times or waking up at different times, when the colour of the light would be different. He never did. The mirror in his bedroom was veiled. Each morning, he would look at the veil, but be too afraid to lift it. His reflection was within the walls anyway; he could not escape it, but there it was a soft and harmless thing. Mirrors were too harsh and he feared their cruelty, their passionless honesty. Perhaps too he feared being turned to stone, but in reality he should have worried more about being turned to ice.

  He could not remember his life before the tower, the term of his imprisonment. He felt he never aged and it was rare that the melancholy or the boredom became too much to bear. Sometimes, if his guard was lowered, a small voice inside him would speak of loneliness, but he had learned long ago how to silence it quickly. Contemplating the walls of the tower and what they meant was painful and he was most happy when he forgot they were there. Few things could remind him now. He could take up a quill and draw the destinies of men with red ink, but he had covered all the mirrors because he could not bear to look upon loveliness.

  Of course, it was inevitable that he should acquire within the neighbouring towns, the reputation of a seer, and inevitable too that people in aspects of distress and confusion should come to the base of the tower and call out to him for guidance. Sometimes he wanted to speak to them, but he knew the dangers of walking out onto the balcony, for then they would see and his privacy could no longer be ensured. Out of the shadows of swaying curtains he would tell them that he could not help them, for he truly couldn’t, and then maybe they would wait a while, sitting down on the velvet grass, gazing up at the empty window and the curtains, where the hint of jewels might coruscate and the ghost of a white hand waver in the folds.

  Sometimes at night, or in the dewy, breathless time before the darkness came, demons would alight upon the balcony, folding their glossy wings and speaking in voices of intense allure. Once, long ago, the exile had protested against their mockery, but experience had taught him that this was only wearying and futile. Now, he could draw the curtains and think to himself, No, you cannot touch me, not through words, not though anything... and turn away into the dim lamplight and take up the quill. Inside himself, he was drawn to the parchment, for within it he could truly live and breathe; physical life was just an illusion that he scorned and resented.

  Yet some part of him, some unquenched, adventurous spark, spoke out against the seclusion, the half-life, so that occasionally he would find himself upon the lip of the tower stairs, gazing down into the dusty shadows where the stairs disappeared, towards the door that should be, but was not, there. It was like a dream and, on waking, he would feel feverish and unnerved, his icy calm laced with cracks that leaked uncomfortable heat.

  Outside, the demons clawed at the curtains and shook them, mocking his grace and coolness. It angered him that he could not yet make himself utterly deaf to their chatter, yet it was only to himself that he spoke the response: I exist, in simplicity, without artifice. My soul is me; there is no other. At these times, he would be standing at one of the veiled mirrors, a trembling hand resting upon the shroud.

  Voices asked him, ‘Don’t you want to know why you are here?’

  But he knew inside himself that only the intelligence behind the voices wanted the answer to that. Why they should care what he thought about himself was beyond him. Was it important? The same voices told him he was selfish, that his exile was selfish, and he could not find the words to explain sufficiently how the silence was safe and aloneness was safe. They thought he lived in fear, but he did not see it as that.

  At various times during the long days, he would find himself walking into the pale dining room and there would be simple food laid out upon the great, whitewood table. He could still sense the life within it, and because of that its taste would be as ashes in his throat. There was little life within the tower. Its visions were sterile and without warmth; he knew them utterly.

  One day, when he awoke, the sunlight seemed more golden than usual and the heavy warmth of the forest was invading his room more than usual, so that when he stood up and stretched, his body seemed to sing like a plucked string. As he walked to the window, the veil fell from the mirror, and for a moment, he was facing a stranger. He no longer felt alone. His reflection filled the room with radiance.

  ‘It is you, you alone,’ he said to the glass and for a time his spirit soared in a magnificent fountain of sad, sweet pain. He could have walked to the mirror and put his lips against the coolness, but he did not. Instead, he went as usual to the balcony and gazed out at the forest. All was still, but from the darkness of the foliage, lambent eyes stared up at him; jets of light like ruby fire. A great cat, crouching, life shivering in its sleek muscles. He gasped and put his hands against his face, conscious of a hurt within him, deep inside. When his hands fell back against the stone of the balcony, they twitched and the nails were red. The forest trilled with life as warmth crept from his skin, from his brow, and fell in dark droplets onto the stone, where they hissed like acid. The eyes were gone.

  He turned away, dizzy, seeking the sanctuary of the tower, but a threnody of sound came out from the trees below, so that he paused and looked down once more. From the moving leaves, he saw a white horse emerge with bowed neck, a golden bit making flashes of fire around its chewing mouth, its pelt shining like sun on snow. Its rider let it walk right out onto the sward, gazing upwards all the time, shading his eyes with one hand, which was gloved in black.

  The eyes met. Other eyes. The cornered prey. Birds flying upwards, whirring, clattering. Shards of light glancing off the marble, brief spears of light. Reality shimmering within a breath of bright light.

  The exile panicked. Now he was no longer He; there was another. The walls of the tower had to speak his name to make him real again. His hands were against his eyes again. He said, ‘I am Saphariel, angel of the bow, the hoof, the two in one.’ He blinked. Strangely, he had thought to find himself crouched against the floor of the balcony, cheek against stone, knees against throat, but instead he found he was standing upright holding his robes about him, staring down.

  The visitor called, ‘You are Darkness?’

  And he answered, ‘No, I am Sephariel.’

  ‘As you wish,’ the stranger said.

>   It seemed so far away, the floor of the forest, that Saphariel felt disorientated looking down. He hardly ever did that.

  ‘Do not look down on me,’ the stranger said and Saphariel shook his head.

  Now the stranger was beside him on the balcony and the balcony did indeed seem a lot closer to the ground. Looking over the stone, Sepharial could see the definite blades of the grass and hear the animal sounds coming from the trees.

  ‘What do you want of me?’ Saphariel asked, and his voice felt so strange; he realised he could not have spoken aloud for quite some time.

  ‘Your beauty is legendary.’

  ‘And is that what you want of me? Beauty?’ Saphariel’s voice was cold.

  ‘No. What I want is for you to come out of the tower. You must return to Tooreal.’

  ‘Impossible,’ the exile replied, but without particular emphasis. He knew the simple facts of his estate.

  ‘How did I get here?’ the stranger teased.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose you are a sorcerer. They speak of me that way. Perhaps they hope that you are stronger than I.’

  ‘And how do you know what they say of you?’

  Saphariel did not answer. He looked away and found that a sparkling decanter of wine had appeared upon a fragile table beside them and that they were now sitting in wicker chairs softened by cushions. Birds with amethyst plumage sang in cages, heavy ferns drooped against the stone and there was a soft, brown aroma of sandalwood in the air.

  ‘Do you see me?’ the stranger asked.

  ‘Of course I see you!’

  ‘Describe me then.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Then you don’t really see me, do you!’

  ‘I don’t want to!’ Saphariel stood up and gazed longingly at the dark interior of the tower. ‘You must go,’ he said.

  ‘You cannot make me, nor do you want to,’ the stranger asserted.

  ‘I wish only to be left alone! I am inviolate. That is the way it should be. Inescapable. You must go!’

  Then he was alone, his face against the smooth stone, and the birds and the ferns and the chairs had gone, and shadows fell across the sward, a long, long way below. He was surprised to find his cheeks were wet, and that it was not blood.

  That night, inside the tower, he started to walk down the winding stairs, but soon he was lost in the darkness and could only feel the wall beneath his hand, no longer sure of solid stone beneath his feet. He crouched down and stared into the shadows, but they did not move.

  Upstairs, the last of the evening light glowed in blues and greys into his favourite room, where the long curtains were white and the walls and floor were white. He sat at a table and visualised a mirror and visualised himself going into that mirror, and from there out into the world beyond the tower. He thought that only his reflection was real. In the shadow world, he sought out an oracle, hoping for wisdom, but all he got were questions, questions, which he did not want to answer. He said, ‘I believe I know myself,’ and the oracle answered, ‘You are blind!’ and then laughed at him. Stung, he returned to the tower. A voice in the air said to him, ‘Look into the mirror!’ but he was afraid to. He covered it with the veil once more.

  In the morning, he found his visitor of the day before sitting by his bed, looking down on him. The stranger threw down a divining card and Saphariel saw the picture. It was one he knew.

  ‘Eight of swords,’ he said, ‘for bondage.’

  ‘Quite so,’ the stranger answered. ‘You are bound by your own hair and tendrils of your own heart.’

  ‘This is not true! I deny you!’ Saphariel insisted and closed his eyes tightly, but the stranger was still there when he opened them again.

  ‘You are such a liar,’ the stranger said.

  ‘How can I be? I rarely speak.’ Saphariel wanted to get up out of the bed for he felt at a disadvantage lying down, but he was concerned for his modesty.

  ‘How long have you been waiting for me?’ the stranger asked him.

  ‘Never, that I know of.’

  ‘You see? I told you; you lie!’

  The stranger laughed and walked out of the room.

  Saphariel scrambled, shaking, from the bedcovers and struggled into his clothes. He found his visitor waiting for him in the dining room. The food upon the table was sumptuous, tempting smells and savoury steams. The stranger was eating and whilst he was in the room, the curtains there were no longer white, but deep blue, and the floor was carpeted in deep, dark crimson. Saphariel walked silently to the window and put his hand upon the glass, for it was comfortably cold, despite the warmth of the sun upon it. He could hear the chink of metal against china and then the sound of a chair being pushed back along the carpet, and he knew that now the stranger stood close behind him. A physical presence; their auras touching, but their bodies miles distant. Saphariel felt the sun shine through him. He felt transparent.

  ‘Your neck is lovely. Your hair caresses it. Your bones shine through like pearl through finest silk.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘The gracious curve of flesh between shoulder and jaw is constructed expressly for the accommodation of an adoring human hand.’

  Saphariel put his forehead against the glass. He did not want to hear this. ‘If you are right, then I am mine alone,’ he said, and if a hand had been extended towards him, it was withdrawn, and the room was empty around him. The back of his neck prickled with damp. He reached up and rubbed the skin slowly, and pulled out straight one long, curling lock of hair.

  The veils fell from all the mirrors in the tower. His reflection, like a bright star, sizzled with colours off the glass. White as milk, black as night.

  In the middle of the night, he woke up screaming, beating stone with his fists and found himself at the base of the tower, in utter blackness, clawing at the walls. All was smooth. Cold as a tomb – and no door. After a while, he pushed back his hair, turned away and climbed back into the dim light of the world he knew.

  Now sleep became a terrifying thing, for it was full of dreams and the dreams were of hands and eyes and warmth. He screamed, ‘NO! NO! NO!’ endlessly. He would awake with aching limbs and tangled hair and suffered in full the terror of feeling alone.

  The stranger did not visit him again for weeks, and he found himself thinking of a demon face that was both wickedness and desire and also kindness, that had no name for he was afraid of naming it. He could not even draw it, for beauty was repellent to him. Everything was ugly!

  In his room, Saphariel threw things at the wall, helplessly, impotently, shrieking inside at the truth he feared and the inevitability of Fate. For weeks, he struggled feverishly with his control and sometimes had the strangest feeling that he was out in the open air, rushing breezes against his skin. He closed all the shutters in the tower. His body, white as marble and slim as a reed, was hidden from the mirrors once more. He wanted to twist himself with pain, but that was impossible.

  When the stranger came again, he carried a single, black rose which was symbolic of many things. Saphariel, dishevelled and gaunt, threw himself onto the floor, near the stranger’s feet. ‘Why must you torment me?’ he cried.

  ‘You torment only yourself,’ was the answer. ‘You must speak the truth. How did I get here? Tell me!’

  Saphariel could not do that. Never. He curled into a tangle of limbs upon the cold, unresisting floor, and wept.

  It was then that a star came out of the sky, white-hot and burning. It was a Presence, and the Presence was Truth. It entered into the heart of Saphariel. A rare thing, but the gods are merciful sometimes.

  Saphariel saw a shining figure that was himself, wrapped in thorns. As beauty is only in the eye of the beholder, so too is ugliness. Eyes deceive and the eyes are the sentinels of the heart. Saphariel was blind. He could feel but he could not see. In blindness, he offered up his throat to the blade, for he anticipated the pain and terror, but found herself touched only by cloud, the lightest of touches, like sunlight, like fur. Withou
t sight, there is only sensation, neither could there be guilt. In the light of dawn, Saphariel opened his eyes and reached out. What he found within his reach was without darkness or crudity or fear. It was merely light.

  When he walked down the tower stairs, there was no shadow waiting to claim him. The door stood open and he walked out onto the grass where a lean, enigmatic man waited for him on a white horse. Saphariel looked back at the tower, but already it was half hidden by ivy. He said, ‘You came because I wanted you to come, didn’t you?’ And, behind him, he heard a great crack splinter the roof of the tower. Gleaming tiles fell around him like scales of pearl. When Saphariel smiled, the whole forest was lit by his radiance.

  The stranger (who was no longer that) spoke. He said, ‘I have always been here for you Saphariel, if only you’d known where to look...’

  In that part of the world, people speak of a legend. It is of a beautiful sorcerer whose soul could only look inwards, who chained himself within a tower for he was afraid of life. They speak of a ruin in the forest where a miracle happened, where the Unattainable, the Chimaera, made flesh and came to him and broke the chains. It is only a legend, of course, and one that I first heard a long time ago, but even now, I’ve heard it rumoured, that in the forest near the town of Tooreal, on the nights of the full moon, travellers may still see the vision of Saphariel walk through the air like a ghost, and his glance fills the soul with Light.

  By the River of If Only, in the Land of Might Have Been

  There were no questions in the wilderness.

  The debris of our camp was lit by a cold glow that came down from the sky. How? I don’t know. We couldn’t see the stars from there, and the sun and moon wore shrouds of impenetrable cloud, shining unseen above. We knew of these heavenly guardians, for they were in our legends and rituals. We spoke to them often, but we never looked into their faces. Our tribe was Obliviata, the Forgotten, aimlessly treading the Wheel of Life, around and around.