The Monster and The Maelstrom – Chapter 15

*Scene 01* 4:42 (Between A Rock and A Hard Place)

As the storm surged overhead, Christie held tightly to the reins of her horse as they sheltered in the leeward shadow of a curved stone. The sky flashed with an electrified cavalcade of pyrotechnics spiderwebing the roiling clouds that strobed and pulsed. The pummelling winds had driven them off of the muddied roadside, and the sting of galeforce rains blurred the way ahead. Christie’s whole body ached from the tension of muscles flexed in flight. The wet chill of the wind poured ice into the very marrow of her bones and her head swam and throbbed with a piercing headache. She had almost blacked out from the fatigue and constant exertions, since her overland flight back from the seashore. Her horse was not fairing too well either. It snorted and blinked away the wet and the wind. Christie could feel the horse’s muscles shiver underneath her saddle. Its saddle blanket was now saturated and squished with each twitching movement. Had the storm not carried with it a cannonade of thunder, her chattering teeth, the horse’s uneasy snorts and bawling, would have easily revealed them in the rocky lay-by.

She had narrowly escaped being spotted by the Xarmnian soldiers that had brutally run down those she had seen ascending the hill to the inn. But she had no illusions. These men were not yet done with their search for others. If they had stationed themselves along the ridgeline, she would have been seen shortly after they had felled the two with spears, but the storm, as difficult as it was to endure, had masked her brief furtive flight away from the hilltop.

She wondered now if the voice and the blue light had all been a hallucination, brought about by her extreme stress and fatigue. She felt so uncertain and she hated that feeling. This place, this in-between whatever, was a land of much uncertainty. Everything felt real here, but somehow even moreso. This was no chemically induced perception. No virtual alternate reality, or sensory deprivation chamber experience, allowing her subconscious to fill in the gaps of perception. No. She felt like this Mid-World was the reality she had awakened to, and her other life in The Surface World was the presistent and recurring dream. Like she was finally on a road heading towards home, after having been away for far too long, but still having some trepidation on where or not the home she remembered would be the home she returned to find. If she was cracking up, this would be the worst possible time to do it. The spears those soldiers carried were real enough, and she had no doubt the soldiers would not hesistate to drive one through her aching body, stealing this reality from her awareness, if she gave them half the chance to do it.

Despite that, she could not shelter here for much longer. Those who had fallen were on foot, but where were the others who had been prepared to travel in Begglar’s wagon? Were the others that much farther ahead? Would she find more stragglers as she rode on? Would she find the wagon abandoned? How much of the remaining wagon ruts had been washed away by the storm? How many more bodies of her fellow travelers would she find on the road ahead? Were the three Xarmnian hunters the extent of this brutal bunch or were there others still out in the storm? The longer she waited here, the more the terrifying questions loomed into her mind, threatening to paralyze her from ever leaving the temporary shelter of the curved stone. She had to make a decision. Stay here until she was discovered? Should she turn back and ride under the ridgeline and try to angle back towards the sea road and seek a portal of her own to get back to the Surface World? Or move ahead into an unknown fate?

The rain hitting her brow and streaming down her face hid the track of her tears, as she fisted the reins of her horse, and leaned forward. The hard quivering set of her clenched jaw was the only indication that she at last had made her decision.

*Scene 02* 13:00 (To the Point)

I approached Begglar, standing under the wavering and dappled shadows of a great tree with a massive trunk. Large roots extended into the streambed, fanning out among the buried rocks, but three of the largest ones curved and came together into a wooden knot that twisted around the blade of a singular sword. High above us, the terebinth’s two broadest branches towered like the open arms welcoming the growth-march of the regiments of smaller trees that lined the banks on either side of the dry creekbed. I had assumed that the trees on either side were principly birch, and aspen, signified by their white bark, however, as I progressed further into the creekbed corridor, I noticed that my initial assumptions were incorrect.

The trees were a cross-sectional representation of many different arboreal types: Poplars, cedars, elms, firs, spruce, oaks, ash, cypress, maples, cotton-woods, palms, birches, junipers, teeks, pines, hickorys, mequites, tamaracks, larches, redbuds, neem, mahogany, beech, basswood, gums, willows, dogwoods, butternut, chestnut, nutbearing trees, floral trees, fruit-bearing trees, olive trees and redwoods. Trees of like kind were paired across the opposing banks of the stream, giving both the appearance of uniformity along with its diversity.

It appeared that this odd assemblage trees ranked here, gathered from what would have had to have been many different climate zones in the Surface World, were long ago planted at this place, along this strange stream as representation of what once was a singular source of communal life extended outward. I had a growing sense of awe that this place held more symbolic meaning than I would ever be able to plumb the full depths of, had I more time for contemplation and reflection.

My crew had aligned themselves in a sort of meandering line pointed towards a copse of darkened trees which formed a sort of oval shape into a darkening sky.  They had all passed through and down the same rocky swale that I had walked, but I wondered whether they had noticed what I had seen and perceived in my own personal passage. One by one, my fellow companions had walked towards the grove and met Begglar under the shadows of the bare trees.  The mysterious sword gleamed in the distance between the two silhouettes as Begglar asked his private and mysterious question, waited for the answer, and then, satisfied, directed each person to proceed on to an area just out of my line of sight to wait until the testing was over.

A sense of urgency pressed the import of this moment upon me. Daybreak had come only a few hours ago, and it was odd that gray dusk should be descending upon us so early and so shortly down the trail.  At this rate, the sky would soon darken into a premature nightfall, and its ominous shadow would build up to the mountain peaks in the distance. The air grew thick and heavy, feeling like a moistened and weighted blanket upon my shoulders. Almost as if something in the air around us was distressed by what was happening here.

We had not moved towards the grain bins, located in the carved out caves beneath the escarpment, but had gone directly to this site as a priority. Whatever catch release Begglar had pulled within the granary storehouse should have unlatched the hidden weapons somewhere under there. But Begglar insisted that our company be led through the copse and grove, before revealing the precise location of the cache.  There could be no other reason except to bewilder and confuse the enemy walking among us. Arming an enemy with a blade with which they would undoubtedly later use to stab us in the back was untenable.

I now met Begglar under the trees beneath the light of a gibbous moon. The sky had darkened further with the gathering of the bruised clouds, now laden with coming rain. The expression on Begglar’s face was troubled and dour. His thick eyebrows formed a scraggled-edged canopy over the shadowy canyons of his eyes. His brow folded into ploughed fields of worry lines. His skin, once ruddy and sun-baked, now appeared sallow, and ashen. A sheen of sweat glistened in droplets on his face and cheeks. His jaw-line bunched with muscular strain.

“O’Brian,” he paused, “I’ve known ye for most of our time here in this Mid-World.  You and I have faced hard tests together and common enemies. We have each met with our own failings and had to honestly look into the face of the lies we told ourselves and call out our own deceptions.  You know what you, I, my family and the rest of these travelers are facing ahead, the same as I. You and I have a history. But be that as it may, we come now to the only thing that can lift us above this current set of troubles we are facing together. What I think and feel and what you think and feel do not matter. For it is in our feeling that we are most easily deceived. I’ve asked all the others that are here standing by, and so it is that I’m now askin’ you.”

And here he took a breath and stared hard at me and asked…

“What are ye thankful for?”

For a brief second, I was taken aback. But then the import of that particular question hit me, and I knew why that question was pivotal and would be the most effective was of exposing ill intentions. Begglar had known this question would not be expected and would momentarily disarm the respondent. And brilliant it was too. This was our form of the Shibboleth Test.

It was a query that would work in the Sub-World, and I highly suspected it would be highly effective in the Surface World as well for it touched upon a vulnerability in every sentient creature stained by the curse and fall of mankind.

Everyone has lots to say about what they don’t like, but fewer and fewer take the time to say what they are grateful for.  I well knew that gratitude was becoming a lost language, in the age of protests and angry demonstrations.

I marveled at Begglar’s forethought, and could not help the smile that crept into my expression. “You astound me. I am so grateful to call you my friend. I am grateful that whenever, I am tempted to rely on my own myoptic opinion I have the blessing of you challenging me to look beyond the surface and dig deeper.”

“How did you know that this point would be the most effective approach to expose an enemy?”

Begglar’s brow softened, and his pent up breath released through his formerly clenched teeth. He cleared his throat, still not fully comfortable, but considerably more at ease from when I approached him.

“Xarmnian enemies here are incapable of expressing gratitude.  They live under the illusion of resentful entitlement.  The are generally arrogant and expect everyone’s love.  For any consideration they feign to give you, they expect to be more than compensated. In consideration of any agreement between them and we have learned the hard way that they expect to be enriched at everyone else’s expense.  They believe anyone who has what they do not, achieved it through privilege or theft and disenfranchisement.  Therefore, a Xarmnian, whose mind has been taken over by that mentality, will struggle to come up with anything that they are thankful for. Words of gratitude are not easily formed on their lips. Gratitude is a command given to the followers of The One. Those who follow Him should already have much practice in this.”

I nodded in full assent, “I very much think that applies to our other enemies as well who are less identifiably aligned to a region.” Begglar knew what I was alluding to.

“Aye,” he gravely agreed, “those fruits are lacking in the grove of infernal spirits as well.”

“You may as well know that the Surface Worlders of my day have difficulty with it too. More and more people are falling under the temptation to believe in entitlements. What they fail to recognize is that if one expects everything, then eventually they will be grateful for nothing.  No one owes us anything.  You and I walk under the dispensation of the Master’s grace, whether we acknowledge it or not.  For He holds the worlds that exist together under His will.  He owes us nothing, yet He gave us everything.”

“Tis true, tis very true,” Begglar shook his head, “But this needs to be asked before we move into the days ahead. Entitled travelers will make the road before us that much more difficult. It will get one of more of us killed. We mave to be able to rise above the difficulties of the moment. We have to work together, recognizing that our fellow travelers owe us nothing, but they owe The One everything and that is what will extend and strengthen the bonds we forge with each other.  In all things be thankful. That is how Nell, Dominic and I have survived under the occupation. If we cannot get these followers to understand that now, it is best we part company sooner rather than later.”

Finally, I broached the subject that it seemed both Begglar and I were avoiding. “So, have you learned anything more in all of your questioning?”

“I have,” Begglar was silent for a long moment, the tension returning immediately to his jaw, brow and lips.

“It’s her,” he said at last. “You will have to confront her, but you’ll need this sword to do it.”

I looked down at the weapon before us, saw its ornate carvings in a language I did not recognize. Saw a ribbon of red cloth, aged and dark-stained by sweat and blood.

“Why haven’t you already tried it?” I asked quietly. To which Begglar grunted, and placed a tentative hand on the hilt of the old sword.

“Many have tried to remove this blade and failed. Many much more stout than I even in my younger days.” Begglar patted the cross-bar tentatively. “No. This blade is held here for a far different reason than merely revealing the intentions and lifting the cloak of traitors.”

He raised his eyes to me, holding my gaze steadily, his hand resting on the hilt again.

“This blade is set here for one who is called to weild it for a specific purpose. It may very well be for the purpose you and I are even here in this Mid-World. I cannot free it from the terebinth’s grasp. A few years ago, I chanced to meet Jeremiah again, for he has remained in the Mid-World all of these years. I brought him here and he could not free it either.”

“What are you saying?” I rasped.

“That this sword has been waiting here for you to reclaim it. This is the second part of your Shibboleth test. You need to take up this sword.”

*Scene 03* 2:55 (Somewhere Below)

The darkness blinked. The shadows folded into solid form. Tons of the substrata-rock melted away, and a gaping mouth emerged. A feral gleam, sparked from a cobalt blue eye, sheathed behind a nictitating membrane that sloughed dust away from its surface with vibration and puffing jets of air, huffing out of a line of ducts hidden beneath a boney, metallic and barbed brow. The mismatched eyes of the tunneling beast, though seemingly skewed and oddly dissimilar, served a purpose unique to its particular mode of travel. One eye swept the field of the visible spectrum, the other saw into infrared and invisible fields with something akin to penetrating radar. One eye cast an invisible short wave of agitated radiation ahead of its sight path, the other acted as a receiver and picked up the bounce back like an undersea sonar mic, processing the feedback for vectoring. The cast of these rapid microbursts weakened the rock, as the beast rammed through it, engulfing scoops of its fragments, crushing the skree in monstrous jaws that crashed down upon the rubble like a hydro pneumatic press, pulverizing the shattered rock into powder and louvering and blowing the result out of air pressure baffles through gill-like slits that puffed and constricted like hardened bellows.

The beast had achieved the grade of the escarpment’s upslope, hollowing out it own path towards the precipice where its hidden agent’s feet had touched the upper surface for a brief time, leaving a barely discernable residue. Its sensory probing detected odd displacement cavities within the stacked rock ahead, that descended into vertical shafts and pits. A central shaft of fibrous material vertically penetrated the entrire rock strata, expanding spoke-like short branches into a series of stacked chambers, with porous stone floors and tunneled voids crossing the chambers. Angled tunnel chutes allowed material to slide and be pushed by gravity from pit to pit until fully separated and milled. This was both a natural and human construction devised to serve purposes that eluded the beast. Confusion prompted hesitation. It’s agent was no longer present on the surface of the upper ridge. It was now somewhere else. Somewhere lower.

*Scene 04* 4:09 (Unprotected)

The bruel’s fists were bloodied. As some point in the pitiless interrogation, the bruel had abandoned the hard leather strap and preferred to punctuate his questions with more direct contact. For the third time the old man had passed out and his tormentor could no longer get any coherent information out of him. He lay like a crumpled assemblage of flesh and bone, a slightly angular sack. The chair the old man had been seated in lay askew. Kicking the old man no longer brought him satisfaction. For over an hour, he had worked on him, but still could gain no further insight into where the inn keeper and his wife had gone. Jahaza would not be pleased.

Frustrated, the large man smashed the vacated chair across the hardwood table, flinging the splintered pieces into the roaring hearth fire. Sparks and ash coughed into the room and scattered fiery embers across the inlaid stone floor.

Two lifeless bodies, one a man, the other a woman, had been unceremoniously dumped onto the floor of the inn. Their slayers stood over them, brandishing their bloodied spears.

The broken door did little to keep out the wet and the wind of the outside storm.

“Is Aridam back yet?!” he turned growling.

“He’s just riding down from the backridge,” one of the dour men answered. “Should be here soon.”

The snort of a horse, the loud splash of pounding hooves, and the rumble of thunder preceded the sudden entrance of the man in question.

“Your late!” the head bruel barked.

“The storm makes it difficult to see, Hadeon,” the arriver retorted, shaking off the sheared wet from his oiled cloak.

“If there is nothing to see, why did you delay?!”

“I said it was difficult. Not impossible.”

“And…?”

“There is one of them on horseback. From the distance, I could not tell much, but out in this downpour,” he gestured back towards the canted door, “it could only be one of this man’s party.”

“Heading?”

“Northwest.”

The bruel pondered that a moment.

“Not much in that direction, except the old granary. I believe it is still in operation, but only during season.”

The bruel ground a fist into the palm of a leather glove he had just pulled back on to his other hand. “What interest would they have with the granary?”

He flexed his fingers into the glove and pulled on the other one over his bloodied knuckles. “No, I think they are taking the roundabout road down the highland pass. There is an old road there. It joins the road to the stench armory of Azazel, but passes through grain fields below into the Jezreel valley.”

“Should we ride out into the storm?”

“No,” the bruel answered, glaring into the crackling fire.

“No?”

“We will as soon as the storm abates. Take your ease, boys. Let this rain pass. The worst of it must be over by now. I want this place burned down. Set fires in the straw of the stables. Burn the barns. We will give this errant inn keeper no place to return to. His former life is over, now that he has inconvenienced us. Slaughter his stock. We will catch up to them soon enough. The dogs will find them out on the open road. Unprotected.”

*Scene 05* 14:43 (The Bloodline Oath)

Gratitude. There has always been something so powerful about it. Choosing that mindset is an act of obedience to the will of The One. (1 Thes. 5:18)

The language of gratitude is more akin to the mysterious speech of Excavatia than any other language spoken by mankind. Those who speak it, cannot remain bound to the threat of their circumstance no matter in what situation they find themselves. Gratitude is the language of blessing and success. The mainstay of the patriarchs and matriarchs of faith. The content of the voices of the heavenly hosts experiencing The Presence within The Kingdom of Excavatia.

It is so easy to slip and fall out of it. To choose to see the storm and the waves, rather than the rays of light that assure us of our Hope. The blue gleam on the horizon I had seen together with Miray while standing along the Hill of Skulls had almost completely escape my mind. The Praesporous Stone. The evidence was there, even though others had failed to see it. Hope is only visible to those committed to seeking it. Those who pant after it as a running deer thirsts and seeks to be refreshed by the cool waters of a hidden stream.

I had another reason to be grateful. The very fact that both Miray and I saw the gleam together was a gift and an assurance, even as much as witnessing the Golden Letters on The Marker Stone within the Hill. Both assured me that I was purposed to be here, even standing before Begglar as I was, directed towards taking and wielding this mysterious sword.

I swallowed hard, putting my hands tentatively on the hilt of the sword, sensing my own apprehension rising.

“I have not put my hand to a sword in so long,” I whispered.

Begglar nodded gravely.

“I remember your words,” Begglar grunted, “You nearly swore never to take up one again.”

I raised my eyes and focused on his serious experession.

“And yet, here I am.”

“Here you are…,” Begglar agreed. “Too often words we speak in haste are regretted in leisure. Think clearly about what you are called to do now. I cannot fully express to you how much depends on what you choose to do with this moment.”

“You are not making this any easier, you know.”

“It is not an easy thing. I cannot make it more or less so,” Begglar answered gravely.

“So what happens if I cannot lift it from this root that binds it? You say both you and Jeremiah have tried and failed, yet both of you are stronger than I.”

“Aye, us and many others. Xarmnians included.” Begglar acknowledged.

I touched the right crossbar of the handle, and slowly placed my other hand on the left bar. I moved in closer to the verticle blade, preparing to use both my arms and legs to pull the blade up and out. My feet found two flat stones on either side of the curved root.

Closing my eyes, taking slow and deep breaths I clasped the crossbar and jerked upward, my arms flexing, my thighs and calves shaking with the effort of the pull. I pulled and attempted to wrench the blade, wanting to loosen it in the wood by attempting to torque the blade. I pulled and pulled, my neck muscles corded and straining with the effort until I could bear it no longer.

Suddenly, I released the crossbar, the metal of it had left its imprint in the backs of my finger and in the palms of my hand. “I can’t…I can’t…,” I huffed, gasping for breath, feeling a dark pit open up in my stomach. “I’m sorry…I am so sorry.” I panted, falling back from the blade. I crumpled to my knees, fealing weakened by the effort I expended.

Begglar’s expression was dour and furrowed by worry.

“That is where we all failed, O’Brian. Might cannot raise the blade. At one point even a team of horses were harnessed to this sword and could not do more than strain the tethers and scar the ground. But there is a verse that later came to my mind, and I have often wondered about it. Perhaps it is not might or strength that is required here.”

Catching my breath, I felt my mind reaching for words that did not come from me, but through me and to my lips.

“Not by might,…nor by power,…but by My Spirit…” (Zechariah 4:6b), I mumbled between gasps.

“Aye. That very one,” Begglar assented.

I shakily rose to my feet, placing my hands on my thighs above my knees, gathering my breath and strength.

“Are you certain it is I who should lead this group?” I asked, not yet ready to look up at him. “Most of these suspect that I am not suited for the job. Very few have given me their names. They are not committing to anything, because I may seem to be unreliable. I doubt myself too much.”

Begglar folded his arms, “And well you should,…” I raised my head to see his eyes. “…if that is all you are placing your trust in,” Begglar concluded.

Begglar opened his arms, raising his shoulders in a concurrent shrug. “Why should they commit themselves to a role in this quest, if you will not commit to your role in it. Doubt yourself, fine. Your ability and efforts are not what is needed here. Just your willingness to be obedient to The One who brought you back here. To this place and this Joshua moment.”

“Joshua moment?” I queried standing erect again, looking at the sword once more.

“Choose you this day, whom you will serve…,” (Joshua 24:15) Begglar began.

I nodded, and completed a latter part of the verse he alluded to, “…but as for me and my house…” I trailed off, taking a full stand as I did so, again approaching the sword and placing my feet on either side of the flat stones near the pierced root of the terebinth tree.

Begglar moved forward to join me at the sword, facing me on the other side of it. His eyes searched my face, seeking evidence of what, I did not know.

“Are you ready to commit to this fully?” he asked in a low voice. “To quit looking for someone else to take this role?”

I exhaled and raised my eyes, looking up the massive trunk of the terebinth tree and the large branches that extended outward, high above us. I closed my eyes for a moment, mentally releasing all of the tension and fears I had been feeling into the high arms of the symbolic tree, mouthing a silent prayer aksing for forgiveness for my doubting.

I felt a calm come over me, and then was able to open my eyes and again look directly at Begglar. “I will need lots of help in this.”

Begglar’s expression softened, and a bit of mirth ticked at the edges of his lips and eyes, “Of course, you will. I havna doubt of that. And I must ask you again, O’Brian. What are ye thankful for?”

I extended my hands and placed them again on the crossbar of the sword handle, noticing at that moment how the crossbar was in someway similar to the two extended branches in the large tree above. “I am grateful and thankful for second chances,” I said.

Begglar reached down and took up the red sash, and began to stretch the scarlet ribbon out and loop it over my wrists.

“Do ye know what this red sash signifies?” he asked me in a conversational low voice.

I shook my head.

“This is called a lifeline,” Begglar continued, “The hilt of the sword is burnished gold and it forms a golden cross to grip the hammered and polished steel of the blade.  The red sash is symbolic. It represents a stream of shed blood from Immanuel’s veins. The wielder of this kind of sword is expected to wrap the sash around his or her forearm and bind it to themselves so that the sword might never be lost in battle.  It was to be fixed to the hand and arm that bore it forth.  The sword only falls when its bound bearer falls. Hence it is a blade that falls one when the life of the one who bears it is taken. But this too is a ceremonial sword, and not merely a battle sword. These swords, in peaceful times, were much more ornate ceremonial swords and they gleamed and shone with polish. this one had seen battle: Several conflicts from the look of it.  Its metal is burnished from handling, its blade notched and nicked in places, yet solid. You can see its inlaid designs are obscured by age and use but reticent of a spatha blade. There are still some worthy rituals that have survived antiquity here. These represent a worthy practice long since lost on the current warring factions of this sub-world.  Honor swords were used for swearing fealty, bestowing knighthood, and binding a person’s word to their promised future deeds.  With an honor sword, two parties are to stand facing each other and place their hands upon each end of the cross-guard. Then they sware an oath of commitment to each other which is binding to death if not mutually released by a similar ceremony.  The honor sword was to be used against the person who broke the commitment to the oath they had given with their hands placed upon it just so. If the persons were also committing their posterity to the same oath given. That is why the sash is traditionally called The Bloodline.

The Bloodline sash was to be wrapped around the hands of both parties swearing the oath together are they placed their hands on each side of the cross-guard.  This was called The Bloodline Oath.  Once entered into, there is no mutual agreement that could ever dissolve this kind of oath, even if both parties mutually consent to the dissolution of the pact.  Bloodline Oaths are permanent and irrevocable.  Bloodline oaths extend beyond the grave.

As I am a witness to what we together are committing to, I am bound to place my hand on this sword as well. Are you willing to be bound to this sword and to the quest you have been called to lead in observance of The Marker Stone?”

I took a deep breath, and nodded slowly, sobered to the gravity of what we were doing.

“Empowerment does not precede commitment, in The One’s way of doing things, it follows it. This is borne out in The Ancient Text. You must commit to this before you will ever be empowered to do it. Surrender precedes action. Will you now surrender your self-doubt and allow yourself to be directed by The One who calls you to this role and task?”

“I will.”

Begglar extended his hand and grasp the other end of the cross-guard, and with his free hand wrapped the remaining length of the Bloodline sash around his own wrist and hand, joining both of our hands to the binding of the sword.

“Then I, as your friend and witness, and the onlookers of our family and party standing as our witnesses in the field beyond, do commit to you to carry out the charge and responsiblity represented by our oath together, to pursue this Stone quest into whatever fate and end it might lead us. Do you also agree and bind yourself to this?”

“I do.”

“That being the case,” Begglar reached forward again and began to unwind the red sash from his own wrist, but left the sash bound to mine, “may I suggest that you take hold of the handle of this sword properly as one who would wield it, rather than one who would heft it out of the root, to see may follow.”

With the length of the sash given additional slack to my wrist, I then release the cross-guard and turned my hand into the handle. The hilt seemed to move into my grasp even as I closed my fingers around it, and in one fluid motion the blade slide cleanly out of the root of the terebinth tree, and the metal flashed for a brief second clearing the blade of tarnish and age before it gleamed as newly polished steel.

Suddenly, Begglar reached out and gripped my shoulder, his eyes widening and I mistook his surprised look as a natural reaction to what had happened to the sword.

“O’Brian,” he said, looking beyond me, “We need to get out of this river bed, and fast.”

“Why?!”

He pulled my shoulder into a turn, and nodded down the riverbed back toward the escarpment and bridge ahead. “Look yonder.”

*Scene 06* 4:26 (The Tell)

Christie rode hard through the wind and wet, not exactly sure where she was headed, but she had some strange sense that she was going in the right direction. The land rolled in a series of small hills and declivities, finally curving around to the brow of a smallish-sized hill roughly twenty meters in height, and surrounded by briars and a series of thorny hedges. It peaked sharply and was covered within by small white flowers, making the hill appear like a massive bald skull. The rudimentary markings of a long unused road led up to the strange hill, with impressions that evidenced that it had only recently been used.

Despite the wetness of the ground, Christie was able to make out the track of wagon ruts and the trampled ground evidencing the prior presence of a team of horses. A collection of jagged boulders and slabs of limestone, lined the immediate base of the hill, as if the hill itself had thrusted up through the lower layers of rock, however, the outside border seemed more deliberately circular than a formation made through natural processes. The presence of the thorny hedge, implied that access to the hill was forbidden in some way. It was then that Christie realized that this place was no mere hill, but was a manmade construction. What some might call a ‘tell²‘.

A footpath, just outside of the prohibiting hedges, encircled the mound and Christie rode cautiously around it, looking for an hidden opening within the hedgeline. Something had drawn them here, and she felt that same inexplicable tug. Was this the place that Mister Brian kept referring to? The place of the Stone Marker? It had to be. But what was so important about this place?

They had all been here, she consoled herself. Recently, judging by the track and prints left behind. But where had they gone from here, she wondered. The wagon ruts were deeper than that of the horse prints, so she was certain the full company had piled into the conveyance. Yet, the ground hardened and became rocky in places, so she knew she would have to spend some time riding in widening circles to be able to pick up more of their trail.

The hill–this tell–was set upon a promontory and giving it a full range view of the western mountains and the darkening skies to the north. The storm’s strength had passed over her, but it seemed to be gathering further vehemence ahead.

It was almost as if the storm had deliberatly skirted this strange hill-lock, but regathered itself together again, as it blew in a northwesterly direction.

She cast glances to the north, feeling a forbidding unease judging by sight alone, but also a sense that she would have to follow the track wherever it led her, if she hoped to rejoin Brian and the others.

Coming around the circumference of the tell, she suddenly drew in a breath at the sight ahead of her and off to the west. The shadowy grey brow of distant mountains sawed the lightened edge of the horizon, but there again was the gleam of the mysterious blue light coming from somewhere up in the high eyries. The beam of it shone like a beacon across the sky, joining the far horizon to this mysterious tell mound, falling upon the surface of the mound, giving the white flowers a bluish cast, but centered upon a clearing of dirt which had formed a fanned tailing, around a gaping hole and the tall surface of bare stone within. Riding closer to the hedge for a better view, Christie realized that the stone bore some sort of writing upon its excavated surface.

She dismounted and tied her horse’s reins to a small thorny branch along the hedgeline, and climbed up on one of the granite boulders along the footpath to get a better look through the sloughed pit at the lettering.

The revealed face of the inner stone was a bright white, but had a bluish tint under the cyanotic beam.

These were not merely words, but names etched in large block letters.

A list of names she immediately recognized.

One of which, was her own.

*Scene 07* 24:33 (Pound of Flesh)

When Begglar turned me, for a few seconds, I had difficulty processing what I was seeing. The floor of the riverbed was rising. Above and down the regimented columns of trees, partially obscured by the overhanging branches, a cloud burst of white reached towards us with misty, fog-like fingers.

The basin in the channel was leveling up to the riverbanks, lifting the leaves and detritus under the inexorable plough of rising water.

Somehow, the sword had been the key that reopened the water locks that formerly fed this stream.

Begglar and I scrambled up the embankment, as the rising water poured into the area we vacated. Wet leaves swirled in the twisting eddies created by the forward push of the water along the banks. Sodden shelves of wet leaves pushed up onto the walls of the river, collecting in the rakes of extended roots from the arboreal regiments.

I swept up the sword that had for so long stood within the grove and riverbed, driving its waters into seasons of drought.

I carefully wound the red sash, called the Bloodline, further around my forearm and Begglar assisted me by weaving the excess it into a knotted braid, then tying it off.

We were still breathing hard as we watched the rising water find its way further through the streambed, gurgling along with a wet rumble, cascading over and slapping the gray stones and descending down its fanning watercourses towards the deeper, thirsty basins in the lower valley.

I gripped the sword firmly, having no present means of keeping it in a scabbard. Its heft was surprisingly light and its balance felt true and sure.  The hilt felt good in my hand, and the cross-guard did not impede the fluid rotation of my wrist.  From the pommeled cross-guard, the ornate, scroll-worked, rain-guard extended partway down the fuller of the double-edge blade, tapering in swoops to long solid edges that barely hissed through the air as I tested its feel and action.

Truly, it had been some time since I had held a sword.  As Begglar had alluded, at one point in my journey, I foreswore ever holding one again, but strangely, and perhaps, fortuitously, this sword suited me. The muscle memory of having trained and fought with one long ago came back as if awakening within me from some strangely familiar dream.

“This sword feels familiar to me, but I don’t think I have ever held its equal.” I shook my head clear and turned to Begglar. “Shall we join the others?”

“In a moment. We still need to talk about the one in among us who is not what it seems to be,” Begglar said, cautiously. My eyes swept up and down the blade of the sword as I answered, “It’s the dark-haired girl, Becca, isn’t it?”

It was said in more of a statement than a question.  My gaze moved from the blade and pivoted to Begglar.  He nodded slowly, then put his hand to his chin, absently tugging at his short beard while he spoke. “When my Nell told me, I did not want to believe it, but just now…”

“What did she say when you asked her the Shibboleth question?”

Begglar scratched the back of his head, fidgeting–still unnerved by the private encounter.  “She refused the question outright. It made her visibly angry that I would dare to ask it. She thought it was insensitive of me to do so.  Said as much.”

Begglar paused again, and then blurted, “But she was not satisfied to accuse me only.  She then shifted to you.  She accused you of terrible things.  Things I cannot repeat.  She said my Nell is covering for you.  She leveled those accusations at me as well.  She said that if we were looking for a threat we should take a harder look at you.  She said you were the last one to join them on the beach when they arrived.  That you seemed to arise out of nowhere, and no one saw you come through one of the portals.  She said that you were going to kill us all if someone didn’t listen to her.  She said if anyone should be grateful for anything, that we should all be grateful to her for being the only one willing to upset everyone by trying to reveal the uncomfortable truth.  She said that you would target her and accuse her because she is the only one who truly threatens your leadership.”

I was taken aback, “She said all that?”

“For a few moments, she was almost convincing,” Begglar eyed me, “Almost.”

He cleared his throat, “You know what is happening here.  She is eroding the chain of command.  Planting doubt and questioning you before we get further into it.  Planting nihilism.”

Begglar’s eyes fell to the sword in my hand, and to the wet glistening of the stream as it clarified and rippled along its deepening course, “Aye, that’s what she’s doing.”

“You seem unsettled.  She had to have said more than that to make you feel as you do.”

“Aye,” he nodded, “she did at that.”

“What makes you so sure about her?  There are a lot of the ungrateful who are not necessarily harboring an alter ego.”

Begglar assented, “There are those, and a greater number too, as they model the ingratitude of their parents.  Fit throwers, tattlers, and tantrum-mongers.  But this one is devious about it.  She drops a hint here, a suggestion there.  No one suspects her because she presents herself as a fair innocent child.  She is ingratiating.  That is why I am having such a hard time confronting her.  I see a child before me, but my mind tells me there is a monster there too.  I keep making excuses and doubting it, but I cannot shake the internal knowing.”

“The illusion is so strong, I understand.  But the truth must be brought out.”

“Aye, I know it.  But what it might do to others could be bad.  We are already less in number than we began with.”

“We must be careful.  Is there anything else, that makes you sure that the girl is not what she seems to be?”

“She avoided the question of what she was grateful for, and distracted me with her other disparaging statements regarding you, and when she assumed the conversation was over, I spoke The Name.”

I waited.  My heartbeat rose at what Begglar would say next.

“She’s the one.”

I let out a pent-up breath. No deceit can resist The Name being spoken here.  In the Surface World fools malign The Name, ignorant of its power.  But here…the darkness flees from the spoken Word of Light.

And speaking of darkness, the sky even now begins to grow bruised and angry.  Its grey clouds are blackening and swelling with wet purposes.  The winds are gaining strength, dispelling the calm of the false twilight.

We need to get the weapons, but the enemy in our midst must be exposed.

“Has she given you, her name?”

“We believe she is called Torla. Nell was able to find out the name from the wee red-headed one, though not directly. The child spoke in her sleep, the night you and the company arrived. She had no memory of the name when awake, but somehow the mental block is not as strong when she is half-asleep.”

Our band of travelers stood just beyond the copse watching the gathering storm roil and darken the clouds about, obscuring the distant mountains.  The storm would arrive soon.  The pressure in the air around us smelled of copper and wet lime, scents carried from the granite of the mountains in the distance.  Shadowy, evanescent, gossamer forms appeared to swim through the darkening thunderheads, coalescing and dematerializing out of the roiling mists.

“We had better get this over with.  Looks like the mists from the coastlines have found a way to come inland.  We need to get to shelter soon.”

Begglar and I turned and approached the group.  “We will need to get into the grain bins, under the escarpment.  The weapons cache is there.”

“You want be to confront her now?!”

“It is not going to get any easier if we wait.  Besides, sheltering with an enemy is not a good idea.”

Steeling my resolve, I adjusted my grip on the sword and cleared my throat, moving forward with a determined strive, approaching the young one who called herself “Becca”.  The girl had been standing just beyond the gathering, uncharacteristically sullen and quiet.  When she saw me approaching her, she stood with her feet apart, eyes narrowed, arms folded, hands fisted, chin raised in contempt with a defiant sneer on her face.

“So, you’ve got yourself a new toy to poke at us with!” she growled, one dark eyebrow arched like the back of a hissing cat.  I disregarded her challenge and went straight to the point.

“Torla,” I said, “I need to speak with you.”

My use of her name caught her by surprise.  For a moment she looked down, her forehead twitching, her eyebrows knitting together forming their own dark clouds for an oncoming storm.  When she finally raised her eyes to mine, and I saw seething hatred in them.

Begglar had backed the group off a bit, knowing this confrontation was about to get ugly.

“I did not give you my name,” she said in a measurably chilled voice which seemed strangely much colder than the moistening pre-storm air pressurizing around us, “Who gave it to you?  Was it the witch?!”

Becca cast hateful glares at Miray and Nell, starting towards them with murderous intent.

I stepped into her path, interdicting her intended assault route, but did not answer right away.  She hissed at me and glared at the sword in my hand.  The aspect on her visage as she moved threateningly towards me, no longer seemed so much like a small innocent girl.  “Are you gonna cut me, big man?  Wanna let them all see you make me bleed?!  Show them you’re the fearless hero, by threatening a little girl with your pointy stick?!”

Her brows continued to furrow, and as she moved closer, I could see there was some scar line forming on her forehead, running down between her cheek and her nose cleaving her upper lip and running to her chin.

“Wound me, big man!  Wouldn’t that be a sight to see, huh?!  Cut me down in front of them and they will never forget the image of you doing it!  Never!!”

The growing wind tugged at her raven hair and whipped it about as if each strand suddenly gained a writhing life of its own.

I held my ground, and my lack of response further fueled her fury.

“Who gave it to YOU!” her fingers had become claw-like, and she raked angrily at the air, with each hissing syllable.

With a swiping motion, she reached forward into the air and with a palpably-felt yank, pulled some invisible cord mysteriously tied to me, lunging forward and shrieking, “GIVE IT BACK!”

Suddenly, as if I had been struck a hammer blow, I felt a searing pain in my forehead, and I staggered forward, temples pounding.  My vision blurred as I sagged to my knees, wincing under the pain of a severe migraine.  Silent flashes of light appeared before my eyes, nausea washed into the pit of my stomach, and I swooned.

Through tears gathering in my eyes, I struggled to clear my mind, “the girl, what was her name…?  Why can I not remember it?  It was just there…  What is happening to me?”  I felt bile rising in my throat, as the girl approached, seeming much larger than she should be.  My eyes burned and blurred, “Can this be real?”

The others had backed further away from the confrontation, unable to believe the transformation they were witnessing.  This was no longer a girl.  That illusion was far gone.  The wildness of the girl-thing’s hair formed a mad twisting curling inky and silvering nimbus about her head, and her once blue eyes had blackened to the color of the approaching storm.  Teeth once small, even, and straight were now broken and yellowed with age as her jaw slackened and her breathing became an audible prelude to the high-pitched, ear-splitting keening that followed.  The shrieks were terrible, prolonged, and gathered weight in the air, and the whole party fell to the ground as if a blast of destructive energy released a pressure wave with each terrible shriek.

This Torlah thing might have made good on her challenge if she had been able to maintain her composure and visage as a little girl, but now that illusion was breaking away in her raging.

I felt the sword still in my hand, the bloodline coiled around my forearm, holding me to it and my commitment to see this quest through.  I now knew what she was.  This being disguised as a little girl was a monster of a particular kind.  This was Begglar and our former party had called a Banshee.  A mixed creature of the wind with a body spawned by some form of a dragon.  It suddenly all made sense.  The swirling storm mix of dark wraith-like incorporeal forms overhead, the rage of the girl mirrored by the coming rage of the maelstrom.  Our situation could only worsen if whatever dragon had baked this harried form into the girl’s image came upon us out in the open.  Dragon fog seeded the storm, infusing within it the ability to cloud thoughts and fade memory.  Somehow the fogs, usually relegated to the seafront, were comprised of living colonies of malicious entities.  But the dragon’s reach had installed within our company one of its own, not reliant on the limitations of its sentient fogs alone.

My fingers felt wet wrapped loosely around the hilt of the honor sword. With a deliberate effort, I closed my fingers and held to it.  My hands and arms felt completely numb, but despite that, I felt encouraged.  If nothing else, this early threat at the start of the quest assured me that we were already following the correct course of action.  In a voice that I barely recognized as my own, I spoke the Shibboleth question again, to dispel any doubts.  “What are you grateful for?”

The keening ceased, but the echoed ringing of it did not.  The being, now revealed as a monster stood before us in the darkening twilight. Her form was dappled in roving shadows, but I could see that her face now bore cracks in it, as if she was composed of the dust of a dried lakebed.  No further illusion of the beautiful child remained.  The creature’s blackened eyes were now icy with a glaze of cataracts.  The illusion of clothes gave way to ghostly tatters of rag and old soiled cloth and gossamer spider webs.  The blond hair was now gray and white with streaks of black in it.  Her face was the face of a million nightmares.

In a sinister twist, belying her looks, the mellifluous voice of the little girl we all had shared a brief part of the journey with came from the chapped and cracked lips of the crone before us, “I have no idea what you are asking me, bloody man. There is nothing to be grateful for here or anywhere else.  Murderers cannot lead.  This cruel joke is on you all.  And you all will soon die here.  Mark my words.  This man will lead you to your deaths the same as he did those who were with him before.”

I felt an abatement from nausea and a lessening from the throbbing headache that threatened to curl me around my pain into a fetal helpless position.  The pommel of the sword brushed my wrist and the sash connecting me to it, felt warm and somehow reassuring.

I did not address her dire prediction because I would not put the power of the idea into her hands, but I felt the words come that this creature did not want to be spoken and could not refute.  I spoke The Name.  And added, “Where He is, there is always hope, and our lives are held in the palm of His hand to do with as He wills according to the calling, He has given.  Your threats have no power here.”

This monster-being visibly wilted under my spoken words, descending to her knees.  Her swirling hair obscured her malignant scowl.  Strength was returning to my legs, and slowly I found my way back up to my feet.

Begglar was near me, trying to say something to me, but the ringing in my ears dulled my ability to hear him.  He sounded as if he was speaking through water, and I was several feet down below the waves.  The growing wind from the oncoming storm completed the effect mimicking the crashing noises of waves driven by a storm surge.  Attempting to focus, I believed I could just make out his words…something like…“ward”… “fjord”… “much the bored”… “crutch her with the…”… “…SWORD!

Suddenly it came together.  “Touch her with the sword!” he was saying.  The honor sword.  I need only to touch her with it.

I lifted it, and strength and clarity returned…as did the name she did not want me to know.  Her name.  Torla.  But something in my inner spirit kept me from saying her name out loud again.  A verse from the Ancient Text sprang to my mind:

“For who is God except the LORD? Who but our God is a solid rock? God arms me with strength, and he makes my way perfect. He makes me as surefooted as a deer, enabling me to stand on mountain heights. He trains my hands for battle; he strengthens my arm to draw a bronze bow.” [Psalm 18:31-34 NLT]

I brought the honor sword up with me as I rose to my feet.  Seeing the sword raised, the Banshee howled and scrambled away like a scuttling spider, her joints bending at odd angles, dust powdering her frantic steps.

Begglar rose to his knees, again shouting above the wind, “You need only touch her with the sword, lad.  She is made of dust.  You’ll see.”

I nodded and walked towards her, the growing wind howling around us, skeletal branches of the trees clacked and snapped as I leaned against the savage chilled gusts seeming to prevent my approach.  The nightmare face glared and hissed at me; her cataract eyes seem to glow with a sickening greenish light.  Her jaw slackened and seemed unhinged as she filled what passed for lungs with another keening wail.  My ears still rang from the first cacophonous assault, but I held my ground wincing in anticipation of the next one.  From the corner of my vision, I could see the others covering their ears, and curling up on the ground, bracing for the onslaught.

It came, but not as the first did.

There was mocking laughter in it.  Derision, scorn, and contempt.  A vile, brothy, stew of vitriol, accompanied by a putrid stench.  My gag reflex threatened to cripple me again, but I drew strength from the honor sword in my grasp, the bloodline wrapped securely to my forearm binding me to my Word.

The hag was within striking distance, and I struck her through the noise storm with the flat of the blade.

Ribbons of dust swirled about us, peeling the semblance of flesh and bone from the creature.  A whirlwind spun and lifted into the wind and circled us, grating us with sandy grit, yet spiraling off as the storm winds pulled it up into the swirl of the angry sky.

The Banshee hag was dissolving, rags dissipating into frayed threads, hair flying loose and balding the skull-like pate of her forehead.  Her screech folded into the howling of the winds, yet before the mouth was gone, she spoke these few chilling words: “I will find you again, O’Brian.  You will bleed for this.”

And then, the hiss and grate of her searing words were gone as the corporeal form she once occupied exploded like dead wind-blown leaves.  The fragments swirled away and dissolved into the blasts of dust that abraded us joining with the twisting vortex that tore and pulled at the limbs and branches of the swaying trees in the grove. Begglar and Dominic took my hand and Nell helped others to their feet as we scurried through the storm seeking shelter.  Rain began to fall in heavy, wet thudding drops that beat upon our heads and drenched our clothing.  A cry erupted from the distance to our left and we all turned at once to the direction of it, thinking that somehow the Banshee had returned seeking her owed pound-of-flesh.