*Scene 01* 1:57 (Hindered)
Deep below the rising hill, in a burrowed chamber of pitch-blackness, the monstrous creature that had breached the worlds and had entered the Mid-World following the Surface Worlders, raged and thrashed in the darkness. Rocks and debris crackled and chinked as its massive body cut and scraped along the tunnel it had made. Its furious forward digging had come to an end. Its powerful ramming and thrusts, and iron-like claws had no effect on the rising curve of stone that now blocked its path. It had reached the accursed land horn. The anchor that could neither be uprooted nor torn asunder. It would have to surface and expose itself to the light. And doing so would risk giving an awareness to the one it pursued.
Its tenuous hold upon the one called to lead, the one it pursued from between the world of the Surface and this Mid-World was growing weaker. It sensed that the other who had barely slipped through its grasp on the beach was becoming more of a problem.
“The child,” its voice rumbled from below, each word accompanied by a flash of electric light arcing from within a pool of striated blue, lit up the darkness, silhouetting a massive horned-head bristling with silver spikes.
“You must hinder the child.”
Above, a quiet voice answered the distant beast rumbling its commands from below, “I know. I shall.”
The repondent whispered voice was aged and tremulous, characteristically that of an older woman.
*Scene 02* 5:46 (Being Read)
Standing in the hush of the Golden Letters we watched as the text splintered into personal messages to each of us. It was then that, incredibly, I realized that we weren’t just reading the words that appeared upon the face of the Stone, but that the Stone itself was reading us and communicating to us. It had been so long, I had forgotten.
My imagining of the words of Dante over the portal of Hell to “Abandon all Hope, Ye Who Enter Here” had been met with The Stone’s response “Do not abandon Hope”–followed by the Ancient Text’s reminder of what Faith is. That message was personal to me. And clarifying.
I had thought that our role here was to be observers only. To take note and measure the journey and the stories we encountered in our travels, to somehow find the virtue stone and complete the quest I had betrayed. I had thought this journey required stealth and secrecy. To raise no alarm as we kept to the shadows and stole back what was lost to the horned monster in the dark forest.
To avoid Xarmian entanglements. To avoid the piracy and smuggling that had once been necessary to aid and assist those willing to resist the subversive kingdoms that were vying for the power and place that the Stone once held in the cultural center of this Mid-World.
But I was wrong. Passivity may seem to be a safe course in a world filled with dangers, but it is not what we were called here for, and deep down I knew it. Felt it.
Something was already alerted to our entry into The Mid-World. Something deep and dark. Angry and threatening. It follows us, in every step we make forward, though it moves in large part unseen.
But with the encounter of the Troll, I knew that was not where it would end. As vile and as cruel as that creature was, it failure to report back to whomever it served would bring others.
The Mid-World was a war zone. And I knew that we may be forced into the fight to gain our passage through it.
Sometimes when it comes down to it, you must be willing to do whatever it costs to uphold the good. To preserve and protect and defend it even if it cost you the ultimate sacrifice to do it. The Ancient text says:
35 And He said to them, “When I sent you out without money belt and bag and sandals, you did not lack anything, did you?” They said, “No, nothing.” 36 And He said to them, “But now, whoever has a money belt is to take it along, likewise also a bag, and whoever has no sword is to sell his coat and buy one. 37 “For I tell you that this which is written must be fulfilled in Me, ‘AND HE WAS NUMBERED WITH TRANSGRESSORS’; for that which refers to Me has its fulfillment.” [Luke 22:35-37 NASB]
Some journeys require only simple provisions. And others may require a sword.
Beforehand we needed only simple provisions, but now it’s different.
The weight of that knowledge threatened to keep me silent, but that would be unfair. I could feel the warmth of The Stone arising within me. A taste of something sweet arose in my mouth, which I knew would be bitter in telling and consumption of it.
“We are going to need to learn to fight. We will need more than just food and supplies. We will need weapons and armor.”
I had spoken of this to Begglar, and as I glance toward him, he nodded in agreement.
“I had expected as much. We have a hidden cache from collected over time from the armory and I think you’ll find all that we need.” He then added, “The lassies took the only two traveling stock I have on hand besides these wagon horses. We will need more horses, and the only supply in the area are from the soldier’s stables, but that place is heavily guarded. I have made contacts with the Lehi riders working with the resistance. They have agreed to cover for us if we move towards the stables and will fight for us to subdue the guards, but so far no overt action has ever been taken on that stockade or its paddocks. If the Lehi move against it, Xarmni will learn of it. They will know the resistance still has a presence here in the outerlands.”
“What are you saying?”
“So far, my family and I have only assisted you in your plans, which would merit us a severe reprimand, if found out. But what we’re about to do, in Xarmnian minds rises to the level of treason for which there is but one penalty. Death for me and my family. If we do this, I need to know that you are committed to seeing this through.”
The others began to assure him of their sincerity, but Begglar shook his head. “I wasn’t talking to you folks. I was talking to him.”
And in case there was doubt in anyone’s mind, his finger was pointing straight at me.
*Scene 03* 2:30 (Conspirators)
Two figures lingered in the darkness, outside of the chamber ahead that housed The Marker Stone.
They refrained from moving towards the innermost chamber when they saw the golden light shining around the dark corner of the buried corridor.
Three days they had waited on the beachhead of the eastern sea. Three days while the Occulus had swirled hundreds of yards from the sea shore. Light bending around its vertical ring. Sea foam rising from the swelling sea then spraying outward as the water eclipsed its ominous threshing wheel of turning. Before the hired mercenary had delivered them to the site, they had not understood the danger of their mission, nor what these interloping Surface Worlders might be like. Their job had only been to see and observe and report back to the factions within the underground network of The Resistance. To blend in and act as one of them for as long as that might last. Once their duty was done, their families would be taken to a safe place beyond Xarmnian reach.
It was agreed among the more cautious faction of the Resistance that “The Stone quests” were dangerous. They offered Mid-Worlders only a fool’s hope, but exacted a dangerous toll. Outsiders could not be trusted with the pursuit of legends, however mysterious the Ancient Stone might be.
“Tobias was afraid of this,” a male voice in the darkness said in a low whisper, “This Mister O’Brian will bring the Xarmnians down on our heads.”
“What are we to do?” a female voice responded.
“We cannot let them stir them up,” the male said, urgency rising in his tone, “If we see an opportunity to slow this group down, we take it. It may be harsh, but what is a stake is far too dangerous to let these Surface Worlders meddle in it and them return to their own world and leave us with the consequences.”
“How will we know when the time is right?”
“We wait and go along. There will be something. We just have to watch for it.”
*Scene 04* 16:15 (Storm Shelter)
“We’ve gotta take cover,” Christie said as the wind rose in strength, gusting down into the valley, whipping through the bulrushes growing wild along the nearby stream.
“What’ll we do with the horses?” Laura asked, trying to raise her voice over the hiss of the wind.
Christie gestured ahead, “Follow me. I noticed a structure around the bend when we were leaving the other day. This vine-covered cabin is just part of this homestead. That old ruined garden had to have been plowed, rather than just hoe cut. These rural places almost always have at least one or two cows or goats. There’ll have to be a place for where they were kept.”
Laura and Christie gathered their reigns and led their antsy horses around the hill-cut cabin, past the grotto where they had camped a few days before into a cruck house structure built into the hill-recess. The long, open-front enclosure appeared to be the crumbling remains of an old sod-bricked stable patched with waddle and daub plaster with a dusty manger and a series of open troughs and short stalls for feeding a small group of livestock. It was clear the rudimentary stable had not housed a domesticated animal in many years. The straw was dried and grey and crumbled under the feet of the horses as the two women led them into the stalls, but it was still dry in there and formed a crude windbreak from the storm gathering strength outside.
Old boards, with blackened patches of dry-rot, creaked and clattered with an irregular staccato as the wind whistled through the breaks and gaps in the plastered wall and woven thatch. An old crossbeam cut from a dried log creaked and groaned as the atmosphere grew heavy and seemed to press down on the old arthritic skeleton of the structure. The horses neighed and rumbled their displeasure, and the women rubbed them, trying to soothe them as best they could.
“Woah. Woah, easy girl,” they whispered.
“Give them something to eat. They’re scared. We’ve gotta keep ’em calm. Can’t have them running off in the storm. There should be something in the packs.”
Christie busied herself with getting the horses into the stalls turning them away from the flash of the storm outside and pulling the old gate slats through the stall-fence support beams to keep them secure. The structure was old and if the horses spooked they were more than capable of getting out.
Begglar and Nell had provided the women with an oat bag for each of their horses and gave them a pouch of a kind of molasses and grain baked biscuits to reward them with a treat the horses were particularly fond of.
“I’m scared too,” Laura said, digging through the saddle bags, at last locating the wrapped horse biscuits.
Thunder rumbled and cracked in explosive concussions, punctuated with blinding flashes that paled all surfaces inside and outside the cruck house stable. The horses twitched, and their felt skin trembled, as the girls stroked their muzzles and hand fed them the hard biscuits, speaking soothing and soft words to them. Somehow the action of calming the animals, helped calm them as well, in spite of the storm.
“How long do you think it’ll be before that storm passes?” Laura asked, trying not to raise her voice in such a way that would affect the horses.
Christie squinted out at the darkening sky and blowing bits of grass and straw as they whipped by carried by the gusts that shuddered the bones of the structure sheltering them and their animals.
“I don’t know, but that wind is moving pretty fast. I can smell the salt in the wet air, so I am sure this is coming from the sea beyond those hills. Whoever built this stable has neglected it a long time, but it was smart to build it in the brow of the hill. I don’t think it would have lasted this long, if it hadn’t been. Especially, if these kinds of storms are common.”
“What do you think happened to the man we saw the other night? The one in the cabin,” Laura clarified.
“I really don’t know. That cabin does not look like it has been lived in for an awfully long time. He could have been a squatter, sheltering for the night. O’Brian didn’t seem too concerned about him. In fact, he seemed to want to change the subject, every time one of us brought him up.”
“Do you think he knew him? Perhaps recognized him from sometime before?”
“Not sure. We really don’t know that much about Mr. O’Brian. There seems to be many things he’s keeping back from us. Perhaps he has his reasons. But I really don’t like it when men keep too many secrets.”
“Yeah,” Laura agreed, thoughtfully considering her personal experiences with men other than the mysterious and inscrutable, Mr. O’Brian.
The air had grown moist as drops of rain began to unpack themselves from the roiling dark clouds and plink and hiss as they fell. A mist arose from the distant river, creating a low-lying fog that spread along the ground and crawled up the riverbanks weaving its way into the tall grass. Fat drops of rain fell through the patchworked ceiling, spattering the women in their hair and running rivulets down their cheeks and neck as they tried to talk through the pelting hiss. Anything to take their mind off the raging storm.
Christie adjusted the horse’s bridle, removing the bit so the animal could eat.
“So tell me about what life is like for you, back…y’know.”
Laura sighed.
“Not much different than many others, I guess. Broken home, parents divorced. O’Brian didn’t tell you any of this?”
“Nope. And I didn’t ask. I figured if you wanted to tell me, you wouldn’t want my hearing it from others. Besides, didn’t we just say O’Brian was a secretive man?”
Laura laughed, “Yeah, I guess we did. I just wasn’t sure he was a man to keep my secrets.”
“Well, I guess we can’t fault him for doing that, can we?”
“No, I guess not.”
“I’m not pressing you to tell me anything, understand,” Christie said, “Just whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”
“Oh, I know,” Laura shrugged, “Guess there is not much else to do except wait out this storm.”
“Might as well.”
“Well, here goes, but remember, you asked for it.”
“That’s alright. Shoot, I’ve always been a good listener. You’ll see.”
“Well, my mom and dad, from what I heard, used to be socialites. Dad had been quite successful back in the days before I came along. Mom was the eye-candy. Shopping, fancy cocktail parties, social bee, y’know the type. Daddy had always been the stronger of my two-parent household. The dominant and ambitious one, gregarious to a fault, often funny, mostly a good-natured leader in the family, before the job loss, and long days following seemingly endless unemployment and the subsequent drinking changed him.
“I had often wondered what life would have been like if I had gone with my father that night he left us for “the floozy”. Before mom began to fall again into the final footsteps dad had taken the last leadership in. The path towards chemical dependency, the social drinking that became the hidden alcoholism, and ultimately the breakdown and utter devastation of our once traditionally-modeled family.
“Mom took longer at it, but she grew to resent and later despised me. I haven’t spoken to her in over a year.
“I think if I had gone with him that night, I wouldn’t be such a timid and fearful person as I am now. I might’ve even chosen to stay here with you guys, in spite of the troll.
She laughed hollowly.
“Daddy always said, ‘Life deals you blows, little-girl.‘ He always called me “little-girl” when he had what he thought of as fatherly wisdom to impart.
“‘Life’ll deal you blows, Little-girl. But you got to see ’em as opportunities to get what is yours. If it hits you. You hit back harder. Turn the situation around. Get what is yours to get out of it, and walk away like you don’t care. You gotta toughen up, pumpkin. Suck those tears in. Don’t give’em an in to see that they rattled you.’
“But all that was before. When life dealt him a blow, he failed to take the advice he’d given me. It is easier to tell a child what to do than to show a child what should be done.
“Dad and I still talk on the phone from time to time. He always calls on my birthday, so somewhere inside, I think he still cares about me.”
She took a breath, and huffed, “I can forgive the horrible things he said.”
“It was just the alcohol talkin’,” she forced an embarrassed laugh, feeling the need to give it a, somewhat, mitigating explanation.
“I know that now,” she added in a whisper, barely audible.
She sighed heavily and looked over at Christie, “I think I would have been better off if I’d gone with him that night. It was rough having them splitting up like that, but mom’s turning was worse somehow. She was jealous of me, I think. Wishing she’d aborted me.”
Then with a note of bitterness, added, “Said so, often enough.” Staring vacantly off, “And she was often cold sober when she said that.”
A long silence followed and then, Laura continued.
“Mom took a long time to get over what happened. She tried working but never could stick with a job long enough. I went to work after school and on weekends. Didn’t make much, but we managed to barely squeak by. I think mom, resented me even more after that. I coulda let her starve for being such a..”
Laura blushed, refraining from saying the word that she would normally have spit out, but sighed and said, nonchalantly, “I’d catch her going into my purse to get money at night. I pretended I didn’t know what she was doing. Faked ignorance. Waiting for the second until I could legally rent my own place and get away. She was clearly drinking up the money she stole, but it kept her outta my hair. She drank in private, thinking I didn’t know.”
Christie had been following Laura’s story but also watching the storm outside of the stable. It had not abated and was only growing stronger. The temperature was dropping and she could feel the pressure rising. She knew if they waited too much longer the storm would worsen and they might be trapped without the opportunity to stay warm or dry. She could wait no longer, but she did not want to alarm Laura.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but can you hold that thought for a moment and do me a favor?” Christie asked.
“Sure,” Laura nodded.
“Keep the horses company while I check out the cabin. Y’know to see if there is a light in the window.”
“You’re going out there?!” Laura’s voice rose in alarm, and the horse wagged its head from side to side, responding to her tone.
“Shhh!” Christie warned, “I am just going to check the cabin. I’ll be back in a minute. If the man showed up, perhaps he will give us some shelter ’til this passes. If not, there might be something we could use inside to start a fire in the fireplace. Get dry and warm up a bit.”
“Don’t be long, please.”
Christie smiled at her and nodded as she rose to leave, “I won’t. Keep the horses calm as you can.”
“Christie!” Laura called, stopping her.
“What?” she turned, her hand on the stable posts, bracing herself before plunging out in the driving winds and pelting rain.
“Thank you for coming with me. I know you didn’t have to. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here and I got caught out in all this alone.”
She nodded at Laura reassuringly, and said, “Be right back.”
Christie dove into the wind and felt the sharp tingling impacts of horizontal rain. Each of the myriad darts of water pinning her T-Shirt to her body and saturating her blue jeans with drilling cold. Grit and straw blew into her face raking against her skin as she tried to move against the gusts that threatened to blow her over.
This might be a bad idea, she thought as she fought and stumbled her way forward, trying to lean against the gale and block her face from the stinging wet. But she had to try. If there was any help or supplies to be had, it might be found in the cabin at the far end of the small hill.
There was no sign that the storm was abating anytime soon. From the look and feel of it, it seemed to be gathering strength which did not bode well for the long hours ahead. The time to check the cabin was now or lose any opportunity until the storm passed over.
As she trudged past the grotto, leaning forward, fighting through the gale force winds, she raised her eyes, sheltering them with her hands to look ahead and not lose her bearings.
What met her gaze was a disturbing, nightmarish sight: Things that appeared to be long tendrils stretched out from the front of the cabin, twisting in the wind like the grasping fury of an angry squid attacking some invisible boat of fishermen. Not sure what she was seeing was real, she froze for two heartbeats, and then swiftly ducked back into the alcove.
Her pulse pounded in her ears, almost drowning out the sounds of the screeching winds. Her breathing was suddenly labored, coming in short gasps, almost to the point of hyperventilation.
Calm yourself, she struggled against the rising panic, It’s dark and stormy and the wind and rain make things appear not as they seem.
Closing her eyes, she counted quietly until her breathing deepened and came in more regular intervals. She gathered her courage and leaned out again, the wind pulling mercilessly at her long blonde hair.
Though she had tried to convince herself that what she thought she saw could not be, she knew that, in this strange place that Mister O’Brian referred to as The Mid-World, she had no degree of certainty anymore.
Laura was right. It would be hard staying here much longer if one did not understand more of the rules.
*Scene 05* 5:05 (As the Crowe Flies)
Further away, beneath the influence of the storm witnessed from a distance, wind-driven rain and a sleet-and-snow mix pelted the mounted Xarmnian patrol as they imperiously rode into the town of Crowe. They had tracked the deserters to the edge of this little hamlet but were fairly confident that the general townsfolk would have shunned the man, his wife, and their children for the sake of their own. All except the Innkeeper and his wife. Their loyalty to the House of Xarm and their personal sense of self-preservation was still in doubt. They had given the man certain tolerances because of his past assistance, but it was known that the man was hiding something. And that he had a son of age that had been overlooked for conscription into their armies. The boy was very much alive, despite what the old man said to the contrary, but he had been useful to them so they did not press him further upon the matter. But should the man be harboring these fugitives, all tolerance would be forgotten, and the dealings with him and his family would be severe indeed.
The Overwatch riders were dressed in molded and scraped-hide armor joined over a thick brigandine vest. They wore thick woolen pants, sewn together with strips of tanned and molded hides, and their calves and feet were also bound and strapped with molded leather pieces joined in the form of crude boot wear. The dark dried hides of their hardened helms and the furred edges of their cowled headgear, hid the glowering faces of the cruel men as they rode boldly through the muddied street, unimpeded. Dark cloaks gathered, knotted, and affixed to the metal epaulets flowed from their thick brigandines, draping their shoulders, and blanketing the tail and flanks of the powerful black horses upon which they rose. Great gauntlets covered their hands as they rested one upon the hilt of a sword, sheathed along their hip and the other upon the pommel of their saddles, fisted with the reins guiding their mounts.
On prior occasions when the Overwatch had collected tribute from the village of Crowe, they would rouse the townsfolk from their thatched holes and expect them to present themselves for the inspection. They made intimidating sport of any who they chose and hungrily looked over the women and young girls as if examining possible market-fare for an upcoming meal.
The humble and meager hovels made of rough-hewn timber and weathered shiplap barely concealed the cowering townsfolk as they peeked out from the shadows watching the dreaded riders waiting for the call that would force them out to stand shivering in the worsening weather. But no such call came.
Desperate to avoid being been sighted by the men, but conflicted and betrayed by their own morbid curiosity, then men watched these monsters approach and ride by their homes, each step away evoking an almost palpable relief, but also a growing sense of uncertainty. This was unlike the Xarmnian Overwatch.
This time they merely rode silently through the gray main street, passed the town center, and then onward up the hill to the Inn where their Troll agent was last sighted.
The men and women of Crowe knew better than to show their faces, while the Overwatch rode their streets. Their children were nowhere present, either behind the crack of a door or the pane of a fractured window, for the parents feared they would be snatched and taken back to the dark stone city if ever seen. The last child these cruel men had taken had been casually pitched down a deep well, while their parents begged the heartless men to be allowed to let down the rope and dipping pail to save them. The couple was held under the blade of a sword until the child ceased splashing and struggling and finally drowned.
When the dark horsemen approached the courtyard where the Inn lay, they called out to occupants they expected to be inside. When no response came and no movement stirred from within, the lead rider dismounted, unsheathed his sword and strode angrily toward the doorway of the Inn.
“The old fool will bleed for this,” he growled, “Check the barn and stables. Kill anything there that dares to draw breath.”
*Scene 06* 26:21 (Names Upon The Stone)
A wall of skulls gazed hollow and vacantly at me bathed in the shimmering golden light of the illumined words. Before me the members of my Surface World travelers stood looking expectantly, unaware of the grisly wall behind them. Begglar gazed at me unwavering, his visage stern and warning me not to succumb to fear or evasion.
I knew I could no longer escape what I had hidden and buried in shame and denial. Not in this place. The site of the Ancient Marker, now buried under a mound of martyrdom was not a place where lies persisted. The judgment of the dead witnesses, represented in the bone-mortared wall, put me on the stand before their martyrdom. Despite this, I felt the fear and shame rising within me, threatening to strangle my words from ever leaving my throat or crossing the threshold of my tongue and lips.
But with the fear and dread came the words of the Ancient Text again in my memory from Exodus 4:11–the words The One spoke to Moses when he too attempted to evade God’s calling and cloak himself in his own human inability.
An inner voice resonated within me asking, “Who gave human being’s their mouths?”
Backlit by the resonant letters, feeling the words surge through me live a wave passing out of The Marker Stone I suddenly felt the urge to remove my shoes, for the ground upon which I stood was the sacred abattoir of much slaughter.
“A blood more precious than these, has equipped you to bear My message. Sacraments and acts of abeyance profit little if you do not bare your feet on the Holy Ground I have cleansed within the Temple of your own Heart. Give ear to My Words. Your past deeds must be released into Me, by open confession.”
Though deep within its entombment of bloodied earth, under moldering skulls and pillars of rock, the words on the Ancient Marker Stone imbued with persisting Life and Power, undid me, stripping away all I had clung to concerning my own qualifications and abilities. The only thing left to me was to follow The One’s prompting by openly confessing and acknowledging what I had done twenty-one years before in a previous company of travelers.
Begglar is right. Though he confessed to me in private, he was not called to lead these The One had brought here, but I was. With that responsibility, came an even greater accountability and an urgency of the moment was upon me. Now is the time.
If Begglar moved ahead with us, he would be risking everything to do so. There would be no going back to living unrecognized under the nose of the Xarmnian Overwatch. The effrontery of having done so this far would bring particular outrage from the High Council of Xarm, and the Son of Xarm himself.
If memory served, the self-styled monarch of Xarm could not abide ridicule, for it penetrated his own sense of self-worth. He was held prisoner to perception even as I was and still am.
Begglar and his family would be hunted down, mercilessly tortured, and executed publicly to serve as a brutal example to anyone considering defiance of Xarmnian authority. The Xarmnians had done it before, much to my shame and nightmarish memory. It had precipitated my abandonment of this Mid-World and the remaining members of my former company. In so doing, I thought I was protecting them by leaving them to complete the quest I had betrayed with Jeremiah’s brother, Caleb.
Begglar has counselled me against it, but I could not be persuaded otherwise. I had believed the threat of The Pan, and in so doing, had enabled his threat to come to fruition.
Begglar deserved an answer. His courageous risk was standing upon the threshold, to pass through or turn back depending upon my response.
The confines of the burial chamber, for such it was, began to close in around us. I knew my revelation would shock and disturb several of my traveling companions, and that this might very well be the moment we all parted ways.
Under the glowing light of the mysterious golden letters, I urged everyone else to come into the antechamber where The Marker stood and form a semi-circle around me facing the exposed face of The Stone Marker. My breathing was growing labored, and I could feel my heartbeat rising and hear the pulse of my blood throbbing in my temples. I felt something deep underground tug at me with an almost physical force that nearly made my knees buckle.
I cleared my throat and spoke again, “This is the place where confession is made. This is the place where we must prepare for warfare…and I must confess and tell you truthfully who it is you are traveling with.” I eyed each of them carefully and then continued, “And that the danger that threatens this land is heighted now because of me. My actions. Seven from our prior company of fourteen Surface Worlders are now dead because of it.”
“Nine.” Begglar corrected, “And three of them died and are entombed here upon this very spot. Well, what is left of them is, anyway. Their skulls are here. Missing their jawbones.”
“And the others?”
“Four have remained here, including myself. At least that I know of.”
“Why?”
“You very well know why. Because we have given our names to this quest. The Stone bears our names upon it, engraved for every Xarmnian and enemy of The Stone and its prophecy to read and hunt for us. It is the primary reason, I was willing to have this covered up.”
That knowledge sent me reeling. I felt the fear rising again.
Something powerful and strong seemed to be inside my head twisting and squirming like some alien tentacle frantically seizing upon my thoughts and mind to keep me from doing what I was about to. Fears and self-doubt assaulted me, warning me, threatening me to keep silent, but I could not. I had the odd feeling that I was being watched by large eyes from someplace deeper underground, seeing me through both an obsidian eye and a glacier blue eye. I again smelled the scent of briny salt, and a sickly sweetened odor of decay and something akin to that of rotten fish. Smells I had recognized upon arriving on the beach, but easily dismissed being under a burial mound of earth, flesh, and bones. My mind churned with panic and confusion, and my legs felt as if they would no longer hold me up. The ceiling of the cave seemed to press down upon me, almost crushing me in mind and spirit.
I stood silent, with my back to them for a moment, attempting to gather up the courage but failing. I swayed on my feet, trying to keep my knees from buckling under me. I stared up at the illumined letters, knowing that this confession was what I needed as much as anyone else in my company needed from me now. And in looking upon the letters, the din of my inner turmoil began to fade.
I cleared my throat and turned again to them, “There is a reason, I’ve brought you all here before this hidden monument. I knew we had to come here before going any further into the Mid-World. This is the place of beginnings. I knew you each had to see it to believe, as I once did.”
“The golden words you see upon this buried rock are living words. They have a power in them and bear a promise to the faithful, and a condemnation to the wicked.”
“When I left this country before, this Marker was not buried as it is now, as we have said. Rather, it was abandoned and ignored. According to Begglar, only in more recent years has it become the site of such indignities and slaughter. This is not because of The Stone itself, but because of the darkness within the inhabitants of this world and ours. Those who have been made rulers and monarchs here, because the seats of power were left vacant and undefended.”
“What does all this have to do with you?” one of the listeners asked.
“I was originally part of an entrusted company of travelers as you are, tasked with the finding and delivering one of the virtue stones to the crown gate in the high mountains. The quest failed because of a betrayal and a division of leadership. When that company fell apart and disbanded, I tried leading a counterforce here in its wake, that was hunted, ambushed, and eventually driven out of this world. I became discouraged and abandoned the quests entirely and have spent many years away, thinking I would never be allowed to return here and afraid of ever coming back. For twenty-one years, I was solely absorbed in the affairs of my own life in the Surface World, until a few days ago.”
“The summoning came through to me again, shaking up my life in the Surface World and showing me that I couldn’t remain away from my calling here without it disrupting everything in all worlds. Nothing lasting can be built without settling the foundational issues of existence. The reason I have been called back here is because of this,” I gestured to the stone behind me. “This Rock of Remembrance compels me to complete the journey I committed to back then. This landmark pillar is called The Marker Stone because it has marked me. This is the Ebenezer Stone of Creation. It anchors all existence to it.”
A teen girl interrupted, “What’s an ebby-sneezer?”
One of the other boys answered, “Like Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol,” and a few of them tried to laugh, but the scene and the ethereal light of the letters, made them feel very uncomfortable doing so.
“Ebenezer. It is a Rock of Remembrance. A Stone of Help,” I answered quietly, “The Ancient Text speaks of it symbolically, but in this world, we perceive it as a Stone that cannot be marred or destroyed by the hand, tooth or claw of men or beasts.”
“This Indestructible Stone is the reason why these lands of the Mid-World exist. This Marker Stone holds the key and bears the words of the Prophecy of this Land upon its polished surface. It is the Axel upon which all wheels turn. This Stone was also called The Land Horn, because the ancient nomadic people, herdsmen who kept flocks of goats and sheep, who first came to this land symbolized strength and authority using the figure of a ram’s horn.”
“They saw the power of rams, fighting to establish herd dominance and authority, using the striking power of their mighty horns. When a ram died, they collected the horns of these powerful animals and made blowing instruments from them. A ram’s horn was given to each family patriarch, and the head of each family would blow through their ram’s horn symbolizing a call of authority to rally their family to come to them and assemble before them for celebrations, feasts and for a call to war when faced with a threat.”
“The power and authority of this land, this Mid-World, was once anchored around communal gatherings at this prominent site upon the highlands. The Stone itself is foundational to this land. It is the core stone of every mountain here, and is the same type of stone that forms the mantle of the earth as we know it back in the Surface World.”
“Legends tell that at the base of this Stone, there once were three fist-sized gemstones. A bluestone of brilliant sapphire lit with a cool inner fire called The Praesporous Stone. A blood-red stone, like a massive ruby also with a red throbbing fire within called The Cordis Stone and a white pearlescent stone, like a perfect pearl formed from within the heart of the deep sea, called The Fidelis Stone. At the top of this Marker Stone there once was a massive circlet, woven through with veins of the purest gold, that was almost translucent. The circlet was a crown, and in it were three concave place-settings intended for the three large stones. The three gemstones were cast down upon the ground but were intended to be restored back to their place-settings, but mankind lusted after them and longed to keep them for themselves to make themselves powerful, wise, and kings in their own right. But a mutual distrust, made them agree to leave them here untouched and return to the site each year to see that the agreement was honored.”
“The crown was too large to rest upon the brow of any of them, but the stones were small enough to possess, and from the representative division of each were formed three kingdoms to rule these lands. The Old Kingdom comprised of the earliest settlers from the Ancient World, the Eastern Kingdom, and the Western Kingdom. The latter two Kingdoms by a series of conquest and overthrow eventually became what is today known as Xarmni and Capitalia.”
“Also at the base of the Marker stone, just peeking out of the ground around it were twelve conical stones, seemingly formed of both iron and granite. These were called The Builder Stones, and it was learned that these had incredible power to lift up and tear down massive earthworks. These were also divided up and taken by the tribal families and were used to clear the land and build the large cities of the Mid-World. All of this was done over time. For at the beginning, it was the Words written upon the Stone that held the most fascination to the travelers. For each person saw them written in their own native language. The words were a collective charge to the inhabitants of this gifted land, but also contained personal messages to each one who read them.”
“The words that you see here, upon the Marker Stone’s surface, are not always the same, though these words do recur from time to time.”
“The peoples of the ancient times honored this place and The One who had caused this Marker to rise from underneath its grounds. The Marker is a rib of stone, that extends downward underground at an angle. It is partially buried in the flesh of this Mid-World, but it is also buried in the flesh of the world from which we all come. This Rib of Stone represents in a symbolic and real sense the formation of a Bride, for as the Ancient Texts recounts in the story of the first creation how the gift of a suitable companion was given to the first man, in the separation of a rib taken from his side and fashioned into a woman for him to love, honor as the gift of God and to cherish and provide for all of his days. To be his companion and confidant in life and to join with him in rule over the earth. The Mid-World is the companion to the physical Surface World–Its echoing existence. Similar to it but different as well. This exposed rib of stone represents that same relationship of companionship between the Surface World as we know it and the Mid-World as we are experiencing it now.”
“This place and all you see around you is a manifestation of the meta-physical joining between the physical body and the spirit, a link between the natures of both. You, I and all of these gathered are here in a realm representative of the human heart and soul of a person who is in this company. You have heard of a joining of hearts? Well, this place is a nexus representing that very concept, but as a physical representation of it. Each of you has been called here for a reason. To join together here in this Mid-World plagued with the ravages of blight, warring kingdoms, and philosophies, and very real supernatural monsters bent on destroying this land and subduing it, so that it cannot thrive and allow the promised Kingdom to prevail and manifest itself outward into the physical Surface World from which we have come.”
“The words you see upon this Stone behind me are real and immutable. They come from an Ancient Text written through fifteen centuries of human history, all compile into one Holy Book that has stood the test of time and has origins from a source outside of time for within it are prophecies given and prophecies fulfilled and prophecies yet to be fulfilled. The Words you read upon this Stone come from the prophetic passages attributed to King David, the Prophet Isaiah, and the Apostle Paul to the Hebrews. These words are not bound by the times and situations of earth history but are applicable to all places and times through which we move. They are messages of guidance from The One Who Created All Things and Places and gives them their being. And these are the words which I will share with you on our journey forward as they are spoken through my heart and memory. I did not understand it before when I first came to this land, but these gifts of recalling the Ancient Text words are a gift given to the person given the task of leading a Stone Quest.”
Bathed within the golden light of the letters upon the Marker Stone, I could tell that those in my charge were having a hard time discounting what I was telling them, though I could tell for many it was a struggle.
A woman, seemingly in her early thirties, a brunette with long-shoulder length hair, and large, hazel-eyes that smoldered with the golden hearth fire of the illumined letters, spoke up, “Where are the other stones that were here before? The large gemstones and crown you spoke of?”
“They were taken,” I replied, quietly, “And the crown was stolen and carried into the mountains far ahead of us.”
“Who stole them?” another man asked. Speaking louder, with a degree of alarm rising in his voice.
“I will get to that all. But our focus, right here and now is on finding one of the three gemstones. They are our part of the quests. The bluestone, the great sapphire, has already been recovered long ago. It is called the Praesperos Stone.”
“Praesperos Stone?!” another exclaimed, “What is that?”
“Praesperos comes from the Latin, it can be translated as Hope, but from it also comes our English word Prosper.”
“How do you know that the Praesperos Stone is safe?”
“I did not say it is safe, I only said it was recovered and has been placed where the other two stones belong.”
“And where is that?”
“It is in the Crown of Gold, embedded in a doorway crevice up in the great mountains beyond the Xarmnian empire and its conquered lands.”
“Yeah, but, how do you know it’s there?”
“Because I’ve seen it. And the Crown bears words of the Promise given when the Hope Stone was placed within the Crown’s setting. The Words showed up, revealed in the golden letters in the same fashion as you see here. We memorized them because we did not have much time. They read:
The Hidden Kingdom is within The Door of Stone. All who shall come to these lands from among the Surface World must seek first to return the King’s Jewels to the Crown of Life. So that the Land Between them shall be healed, and strongholds of powers, principalities and rulers of darkness be pulled down, and witness the coming Light of The One who longs to dwell with mankind again and establish His Kingdom Without End.
“The Hidden Kingdom – that is what we call Excavatia. A Kingdom of Hope that must be Excavated, brought out of the Burial Tomb. It has been buried by rumors, consigned to legend, hindered by wars and power-seekers, immersed in corruption and its promise maligned by the hatred and evil of mankind.”
“But how do you know those words are connected to this Stone?”
“Because they also appear on the other side of the Marker Stone. The side facing the mountains beyond it. Along with something else.”
Here I paused, not wanting to say too much, but knowing that I could not prove what I told them unless we had time to dig around the back of the monolith and allow them to see the other side for themselves. But, unfortunately, that side was buried under tons of dirt, bones, and rock. Begglar had told me there were some places that could not be covered, and they were still open to the air around the top and that there were places on the Marker where no other stone or timber could be laid against.
At the top of The Marker Stone, under the cairn hill, there were engraved seven representations of eyes. Almond-shaped symbols that encompassed and encircled the top of the place in which its golden crown once rested. The seven eyes were representative of the seven oculus portals, said to be within the Mid-World, each pointing outward from the seven faces of the stone.
The side facing the Eastern Horizon of the Mid-World Lands, facing the hills and the distant sea and beachhead from which we had come, also could not be covered as it bore the words of the Ancient Text.
“Can we go back there to see?” a young man asked, “Is there a tunnel around to the back of it?”
Begglar shook his head, “That side is buried. This was the only side we could not cover. Nothing set against The Marker’s eastward face stays. The Stone resists covering on this side, and no darkness hides the letters written there. Many a man has tried and failed. That is why we had to build this open chamber and set stone pillars above it to hold a ceiling to bear the weight of the hill. There is unexplained power in the Stone. One that even the dark ones fear.”
“What else is on the other side, that you claim bears the message you saw on the Crown in the Mountains?”
“Names,” I said, almost in a whisper.
“What?”
“Names, laddie,” Begglar said, with more volume than I.
“The names of every Surface Worlder, who volunteers to join in the quest for the Crown Stones.”
“We have to volunteer? I thought the very fact that we were brought here out of our Surface World lives, made us a part of this!” Cheryl spoke up.
Another interjected, “You’re only now telling us we have a chance to withdraw from this, whatever this quest thing is?
Before I could answer another jumped in, amid the rise of murmuring, “Did you volunteer for this? Does your name appear back there?!”
“Yes. Mine and those of us who came before. Every Surface Worlder who commits themselves to seek to return the King Stones to the Crown in the Mountains, have their names appear on The Stone Marker. The Stone Marks them. Engraves their name forever upon its western surface. Once the committed give their names in response to the Kingdom Calling, their names will appear there…and in the Crown itself.”
“That is why I have been hesitant to ask you all for your names. I wanted to bring you all to see this Marker first. You had to know something about what I know, before going further.”
*Scene 07* 4:40 (Brooding)
Nell had waited with the two young girls and the horses.
Young Miray sat in the far back end of the buck board wagon, her legs dangling off the back of the end gate swinging and kicking, humming to herself.
Nell locked the wheel pad lever, but young Becca sat next to her and occasionally swung her leg and shoe at the locking bar, as if she would like to give it a good whack and set it loose, allowing the team to jolt forward and give Miray a quick jolt and tumble off the back of the wagon.
Nell had tried to coax young Miray to come up and sit with her and Becca on the long bench seat at the front of the wagon, and she would teach both the girls how the wagon tracer reins worked, but Miray demurred, stating that she was perfectly happy back in the back. She preferred boats, and wanted to imagine she was rowing one far away into the sea.
Becca seethed.
“She doesn’t like me,” she growled to Nell.
“Now you don’t know that, dearie,” Nell stated trying to sooth her temper.
“She hates me. She never liked me. Never gave me a chance. She’s a piglet!”
Miray went on humming as if she had not heard a thing, but Becca’s voice had raised to the volume with that last statement so that she would be sure to hear it.
Nell could see right away what Becca was trying to do, but she acted like she did not understand.
“Now that’s not a very nice thing to say. Especially if you actually want her to like you, Miss Becca.”
“Nuts! Why would I care if a snotty…PIGLET…likes me! Especially one that dotes along like a little snail after that Mister O’Brian.”
“Now what have ya got agin’, Mister O’Brian, now?” Nell coaxed.
“Nothing except he’s gonna get us all killed. Bringing us to this…graveyard. The creep! He’s like the weird guy that hangs out in the kids’ park. The kind that watches us play on the swings from the park bench, pretending he is reading something.”
“Now what kind of a talk is that from a wee gerl, I wonder? What nonsense.”
“Sister, you have a lot to learn. Where we come from, it’s just another day in the park. Kids come. Kids go. Some make it home. So get cut up, bitten and buried in the bushes, by creepies like Mister O’Brian.”
Nell found herself at the juncture of a loss for words and in a boiling kettle of shock soup. The girl was filled with a startling degree of cynicism and bitterness for someone so young. Even living under the atrocities of the Xarmnians, she had never seen a child so morbid and tactiturn. What little conversation she had been able to coax out of Becca had been laced with resentment and anger, a paranoia that had no clear explanation or source.
“Has someone tried to hurt you like that…before?” Nell ventured.
“What?! Me?!” Becca recoiled at the thought, “No! Never! Not without getting cut for it!” And something like a small smile played at the ends of her pressed lips, like she was reveling in a hidden thought.
Miray continued to hum, but a bit louder, as if oblivious to the two females who happened to be riding shotgun in her imaginary boat.
Suddenly, Becca turned and shouted, “Why don’t you shut up you little imbecile! You’re not fooling anybody! I know what you’re doing!”
Miray did not turn but kept on humming as if she hadn’t heard a word.
Becca turned forward and kicked hard at the brake lever, but Nell leaned over and caught the post before it disengaged.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the gleam of a sinister look in the angry girl’s face, and noticed there was something familiar about it.
She had seen that look before. Only the impression she had was a memory of someone she had know well a long time ago, and the person she was thinking of was not a little girl.
