*
III
On a far distant shore where the wind whipped wildly and the ocean broke against her brother the land, the sky slowly began to blush with dawn. The colors of the sun were mirrored in the undulating waves as the cold world slowly woke. Not far from the grey castle lonely on its peninsula was an encampment of dull war tents flapping in the foggy coastal breeze. Long had been their siege upon the castle Tintagel and the men were weary, hungry for victory or forfeit, caring little what should cause their safe departure. These were men capable of stout heart, men who had once joyously conquered for glory and wealth — yet their courage had long since waned as their king’s obsessions blossomed.
On that bleak morning there was one among the sleeping camp who did not belong. He wore no armor, only a simple tunic of umber-and-vert embroidered with whimsical manta-rays. He had passed the dim morning hours slumbering not upon a bed but in a chair, though now was he roughly pulled awake by a hand on his shoulder. He rubbed the bleariness from his eyes and saw that it was the king himself who towered over him.
“Dawn is come,” said Uther. “You march with the first band, my curious knight. Make ready.”
“You need not wake me with such urgency,” yawned Sir Wander-Gogh, “for I need waste no time with ready-making. Yet now I am alert.” The Knight of the Manta-Ray stood and rubbed his calloused hands across his face. How have I come to this place? Alas, yes, I abandoned Sarah Bellum in spite of my attempts to return to her side. I suppose I have lost the Knights of Bidgood again, just as I have lost myself. And who are these strange men? Thier smiles are somehow harder, more foreign than any I’ve known in the Merry Land. “Tell me, O King, or clarify if I have forgotten — do we march to some funeral? Has someone found his sleep eternal this dawn? All those you’ve gathered here are passing somber.”
The Sky King’s dark hair danced madly in the biting wind, and his smirk was as cold as cumulous. “If all fortunes are with us, then yes, we shall introduce my rival Gorlois to his sleep… yet it shall be I who acquires his bed. If instead only a little luck we possess it shall be you who slumbers at day’s end.” And the king left Sir Wander-Gogh’s side to tend to more urgent matters. Memories slowly grew into focus for the Manta-Ray, but he did not let their peculiarities, nor those of his situation, weigh too heavy upon his mind as he tested the balance of his sword. Sleep still clung to him, seeming to press heavily on his eyelids in the chill morn, and so the knight — being no novice to battle — chose for simplicity’s sake to don neither armor nor shield, much to the surprise and alarm of his fellow soldiers. All eyes seemed to be on him, yet the Manta-Ray did his best not to notice their alien bewilderment. A sort of suspicion, no doubt. They never have met me before. Strange though, that none of them choose to fight unencumbered. Some even seem to be packing on extra armor, as if they fear for their very lives! This must be a serious skirmish — good. If I can not make my way back to Sarah then I shall at least assuage the competitive ache within my bones.
Together, the company set forth in the unglamorous mists of morning; sea-salt embraced by cold coastal winds. The sky was a more grey than blue, hardly a victory there for King Uther, and its pallor echoed off yonder mountains and the cruel crests of waves. Uther, who stayed behind at camp, had ordered Sir Wander-Gogh to the very front lines, intending that the rough passage over the well-defended peninsula should be his end. This strange wayfarer’s ambivalence about the bloody business of war puzzled the king, and it was his blackbird’s course to put the poor fool from his misery — possibly saving a devoted soldier in the process. The banners of the company were blown fiercely about as they marched on through an over-grown ribbon of mud that once had been a respectable path. Between them and Tintagel lay the natural bridge that the king’s men had not yet been able to take, but on this day the force that had been mustered from the myriad lands of Uther’s domain intended to break through and enter the stronghold of Gorlois. When at last the soldiers stood before the unsure terrain they found that the mists had grown so thick that the other side was in shroud. Yet all knew that the Tintagelites were wary and ever in wait.
The captain of the Utherians, who wore a coat of crimson over his fine armor, blew a single blast from his trumpet, and yelled a challenge to his foes. “Once more men of Cornwall: the King of England appointed by God and the roving skies, Uther Pendragon bids you submit to his will! Let us men of loyal blood pass, and your goodly submission shall earn you futures! Else, you shall have none. Speak, you whom we would embrace as brothers.”
This is a good speech! though Sir Wander-Gogh. He had heard many rallies to war in his day. For all the tension and dread I feel amongst them, it seems at least they have skill in their tongues.
From beyond the mist came the shouted reply, “We love our God as we love our king! And yet one fallen from the grace of God has no right to rule. We would welcome Uther had he come of kingly purpose, but he has come bearing only insults and folly. Let England fall, but he shall not taste the lady Igraine herein enshrined!” And a single arrow was fired from the fog. Sir Wander-Gogh watched it slice through the tumultuous winds, sailing as a hawk, before plummeting in a raptor’s dive to embed its head in the grass. What wonderful melodrama is this! Genuine fear I sense in these men, no doubt that this will be some great sport! So began the march of Uther’s men across the bridge, and umber-and-vert Sir Wander-Gogh at the lead.
The fog proved a trusty friend that morrow, for on other days the Utherians’ passage had been plagued by a ruthless hail of arrows. Hope began to grow in the soldiers that perhaps this day was different than the others where so few men had returned from the errand. On either side of the rocky bridge the waters broke mournfully, and the way itself was wide enough only for three men abreast. When half the peninsula was successfully traversed the rank of the unarmored Manta-Ray, a great momentum began to build in the men’s hearts and the formation was broken when the front lines rushed forward like the sweeping tide on either side of them. The roaring soldiers fell upon the Tintagelites with zeal — like crashing waves — and the ubiquitous wailing of the winds was overcome by the cacophony of blade on blade.
Umber-and-vert Sir Wander-Gogh, being by far the most skilled in these perilous arts, dispatched his first target with considerable haste and left him breathless on the ground. So proficient he was that he sent two more Tintagelites to their defeat before any others had had even engaged the enemy. He felt in great cheer, for grim Cornwall enthralled him much more than the mob at castle Montrose when everything had been spoiled by that foul Orca Knight. Here even in the heat of the enemy ranks he found time to stop and breathe full before his allies joined him, time to smell the salty ocean air and feel the giddy thrill once more. He thought there was no danger here, but as the first true Utherian closed with a Tintagelite Sir Wander-Gogh gleaned a serious problem. Thus did he leap into action faster than a stroke of lightning: he dove to the side and parried a sword that had thrust with deadly intent. The blade was jarred from the Utherian’s hand, and the Tintagelite watched them agape. Grizzled soldiers on both sides slowed their approach when they saw the flash of the knight’s brand. “Forsooth,” said Sir Wander-Gogh, “excitement does course through us, yet still our actions must be controlled. That would have been a foul blow indeed with the blade you wield! See where you thrust towards a flaw in his breastplate. Now wield your brand once more, but no blood I say. Fight by the rules or do not fight.” Most of the nearby combatants looked on in confusion and disbelief, yet in one more moment the dashed elsewhere to forcefully disarm another soldier — this one a defender of Tintagel. To the mob he cried, “Have you all forgotten the travesties of the jungle countries? If your swordplays were not so unskilled I should suspect some venomous purpose behind your uncouth strokes! Take a little care, men!” Neither side was quite sure what to make of this foreign knight who bellowed his madness. Had the Sky King enlisted a soldier bereft of sanity? Competent though he seemed with his blade, he was already an oddity in his mere tunic. His lunacy attracted pugnacious Tintagelites to him and the sights of a nearby archer, but, “What sport!” cried he, just as an arrow sped screaming through the air at his breast. Yet faster than an instant of understanding was the unarmored knight, and his gleaming sword broke the missile in twain ere it spelled disaster for him or any man. Daunted were Gorlois’ defenders, yet they charged nonetheless, hoping to overcome this audacious stranger with the force of hordes. They they too were valiantly parried, and were left wondering at his great strength. But this melee was not to last, for again Sir Wander-Gogh’s intentions were called away and he was forced to distract another from causing mortal harm — this time a young warrior of Cornwall barely of age. With this third defensive act, the slow dawning of dread had broken upon his brain and without wasting another instant the lone knight turned fully on Uther’s men. With a maelstrom’s ferocity he sliced at them, dashing about to every single soldier, faster than a blink, singlehandedly driving them back across the rocky peninsula towards Uther’s camp. “I see your intent now,” he shouted, “though I had not believed it before! This is not how civilized men do combat!” As punctuations in his speech he was forced to defend against those who still struggled on either side of the conflict. He slapped aside the swords of Utherian and Tintagelite alike, and the men had no choice but to marvel at both the profound heights of his prowess and the depth of his seeming madness. By pressing them all back over the natural bridge he was able to defend against Uther’s army of hundreds, and soon the Tintagelites no more loosed arrows at the unique spectacle. They pulled back for they had been merely defending what was theirs, yet the ranks of Uther roiled and dissented like the clouds their monarch reigned over.
They cried, “We are but fighting for the will of Uther, the will of the king! We must taste the blood of those who displease him!”
“Back!” cried Sir Wander-Gogh. “There will be no debate with you: back I say, minions of the false one. A king should know better! Bloodshed, what contagion is this? Now, march! Cease your mourning, your child-like tantrum, and march!” Uther’s men unanimously charged at Sir Wander-Gogh ferociously, but the knight’s strength was apparent and shone in place of the absent sun. The king’s men found they could not contend with so confident an unarmored man and dissolved their charge, grudgingly retreating. For all their bluster, the men were weak of spirit and unwilling to perish here in a foreign corner of their land for a king they too had doubted. Indeed it was a strange prize that Uther desired, the fruitfully married wife of Cornwall, once known as ally. And so — fearing the wrath of the king gravely, yet fearing more the unfathomable skills of this lunatic knight — all marched wearily back to the flapping tents of the Pendragon camp.
In the dim morning Uther saw the glints of their armor riding back. His beard deformed into a grimace as he rushed with his attendants from his vivid tents to meet their march. In the disbelief of anger he rubbed fierce his bleary eyes when Sir Wander-Gogh apore, leading his own defeated army back to him.
“Incompetents!” he cried as a storm. “Knaves of useless clay! I have commanded you to take Tintagel, to crush Gorlois and all those who hold my beloved Igraine from me, and yet you turn upon the word of a more worthless wastrel than yourselves! Now your Sky King orders you to cast away your false idol, you whimperers, slay this blemish and return to my rightful war! England herself charges you!” Uther beat his arms upon a shield but evoked only a fearful murmur that spread through the ranks of the soldiers. A brave few rose to challenge the usurper, but the Manta-Ray saw that they were neither skilled nor determined and he was not overly rough in dispatching them.
Sir Wander-Gogh then declared, “Your men are not to blame, for my abilities far surpass theirs. It is you with whom I have quarrel. I question not your questionable motives, but only your methods. Upon your battlefield I was witness to the sinful sight of your soldiers — and those warriors of your enemy too — attempting to slay one another. To the death! Tell me, is the command of this gross bloodshed on your orders?”
Uther bellowed like an enraged bull to the uncaring sky. “Despicable boil that you are! I shall burst you ere your insanity spreads! You had no loathe to end a life when you pledged your sword to me in the night! No matter what you are, or what your motives may be in stealing my army, I shall waste not one more breath before killing you. How could these things have come to pass? Well, my strange wanderer, your sword-arm may be strong but my divine brand can conquer it.” And from a richly embroidered sheath at his side the king drew a blade of wonder: a razor that sliced the air as it moved, singing. When Sir Wander-Gogh saw, he grew crestfallen.
“Indeed that is a beautiful blade,” he admitted. “But not one meant for senseless slaughter, I think. Was it your ruthlessness that holp you acquire it? You know it not for the art that it is, but only for the death it can deal.” No reply issued from Uther Pendragon but a primal yell as he rushed forward with a blinding thrust. But the Manta-Ray was no longer in his path, instead safely to the side. Without hint of worry or breathlessness, he continued, “I have no doubt that your sword would spoil my own. I beseech you to hearken to what I have to say.” Uther turned and wildly sliced once more, his sword singing a baleful note as again it cut only wind. “These circumstances are strange to me,” said Sir Wander-Gogh, “and I do not hold that against you, I only wish to help!” His words fell on senseless ears as the glittering razor slashed a third time in vain. Sweeping behind the king suddenly stood Sir Wander-Gogh who, with a well-placed kick of his boot, sent regal Uther to the muddy ground.
“I do not understand you!” bellowed the fallen king in desperation. “You say you are opposed to death, yet men are taken by the earth every day! In the name of God, what form of attack did you imagine we were mounting?”
The Knight of the Manta-Ray looked off into the misty distance, smelling the spray and choking memories from his eyes. “I underestimated the boundaries of your intent,” he said. “The England I know has come, through great loss, to comprehend the value of a human life… yet this is somehow foreign to you. England waged a bloody Crusade, you know. They sunk to filthy depths before they saw the blood they had senselessly spilled. They were lost within the jungles of Nahm until they come to understand the value of but a single life, even one blazing with hatred. This tale is oft told in my home of Germantowne, and I have found that it resonates within me. Peace and understanding is to be upheld to the detriment of all else.” Uther scoffed, baffled, but Sir Wander-Gogh snapped “I do not jest! In sooth are people taken by the earth every day, so why must you compound that? What could have more importance than a life?”
Uther coughed, and rose to his feet. His sword shone between them. “Humans are as worthless as all creatures,” he grunted, “lower even than the grass of this field, more pitiful than the dirt that takes a boot-print. If I cannot posses happiness, then why should these subordinates? It is I who rules this place by sheer divinity! All that I am and all that I do will be remembered in the years that pass! And I shall have that which I desire!” He attempted to rise from the soil, but Sir Wander-Gogh thrust his ordinary sword through the Pendragon’s heavy cloak and pinned him down.
“O Uther! There is harm in this world, harm enough without you creating more! You can comprehend the low feelings of inadequacy: fear, boredom, depression, grief… how plentiful are they even for one so crowned. Imagine what it must be like for the needy peasants who look up to you. To live in your society, it is vital to know that any harm one deals into the world he deals against himself — just as the slowest hind sets the speed of the herd. In the aftermath of the fearful English Crusade, their people became predisposed towards nonviolence. They have obtained a perspective that realizes the negative connotations of all we may experience; they seem to understand the difficulty in being human. That is why I travelled there from my home. One tenant of knighthood is charity: we bestow the benefit in areas of doubt. Even the treacherous Sir Hadeon, a man seen as villain across the land, a knight who famously sent many good souls to their dooms — I have faith that motes of nobility reside even within that villain. This understanding, this charity, begets the truest peace.” Jovially colored tents wavered in the slight breeze, and though Sir Wander-Gogh and King Uther were moved to passion not a man else stirred.
The Sky King snarled, “Yet… are you not a warrior? You demonstrated surpassing use of this wimp’s blade. And why? I ask you: why then would you have agreed to fight alongside us yester dusk?”
“I knew not that you lusted after full-scale slaughter! England now wages war only for sport and enjoyment, not so men may risk their souls! Beneath impenetrable armor we are invincible, for no one engaged in combat would be so uncouth as to end their opponent’s life. Defeat is but a matter of stamina, and of perspective. This is what I thought you had in mind.” Sir Wander-Gogh grew silent then as his mind floated back to his encounter with the ragged ignoble knight who had slain the king of Montrose. What sort of human being, let alone a knight, would murder another man? What sort of king? What is it about struggle that a man is compelled to cross the uncrossable threshold? Is there punishment enough taking a life that it might haunt these men? It would be the greatest hypocrisy for me to prevent this war by force. What can I do? Surely they shall see the faces they have slain for eons ever afterward. I must let fate bestow her own manner of justice. “I could prevent you from fighting, if I wished,” Sir Wander-Gogh found himself saying, “but I have determined not to restrict your will. There are lessons, King Uther, and there are cycles of lessons, and cycles of being. And for my part in this Cycle, I must leave the decision in your hands. Uther, son of the Sky: you must hunt inside yourself for your elusive feelings and determine their nature. Without this ability, worse than death shall follow you and follow you all. Therefore, farewell.”
And thus did the Knight of the Manta-Ray simply stride away into the shifting mists. Uther’s men stood silently, staring at the departing stranger, all dressed in their finest battle-clothes with spears and swords sharpened for victorious bloodshed.
* * *
It was as though she had been blind all her life and now finally allowed to see. It was a strange formless world that Sarah Bellum entered, with twisting trees that whispered with the swiveling sound of bells and laughter in the sultry shifting air. Melodious lights fluttered in phases and everything about her seemed both calm and strangely unsettling, as if unable to resolve into stasis. The maiden felt the tangled roots below her and gazed around the impossible auburn land in awe alone until she became aware of someone’s presence behind her.
The Sparrow said, “Where are we?” for he was as entranced as she. “No such place have I ever heard of in all our songs and tales, and neither have I ever felt such an… an atmosphere as I feel here.” He seemed to speak in uncertainty for all he saw was immaterial, a mere film of breath that swayed with their merest movement, and the shifting haze that snaked through the undulating air was in their minds as well.
But then it was a grim remembrance that flashed over Sarah’s pale face as she gasped, “The fountain! The pool! O fairest Sparrow, we must have drowned!” Her courage sunk and her knees collapsed to the network of gossamer roots as she moaned, “Alas! We have perished, and this is the netherworld!” A crystal tear fell from her eye for many eternities before splashing into droplets on the ephemeral ground.
“Not quite, gallant friends!” spoke slyly the familiar voice of Hesaid Isee who materialized behind them. The mystic explained through the freak-fog, “I know of this place, though tales of it have been abandoned by mortal men. But then, but then. It was said that under streams or falls or caves one might stumble upon passage to the home of the faerie-folk. I had imagined that no portal endured beyond the Dark Age. O, be of good cheer friends, and cherish these moments well! This is a sight men rarely catch a glimpse of, and never twice. Though our time here is short, let our mirth be boundless!”
But Sir Elisa, feeling a sensation of endless falling, stammered, “I have little understanding… is it the fog? I feel as light as I might drift away. Hesaid, you said… whose home is this? We seem to walk through the roots of a great tree, yet where is the trunk? Where is down, and where is up? Where is anything? Are those the winking stars beyond yonder branches? This is more disconcerting than the arloamn… O who could dwell in such a dimension?”
Yet in place of a reply from Hesaid, a great swirling began as if the Sparrow’s question had prompted a whirlpool from the thin of the air. From this disturbance, out from the very weave of dream-like boughs, there emerged three soft spheres of light. To behold them was so lovely that the humans found they could not turn aside as each lumination in the air before them congealed into a shape resembling human. They were not large, nor were they small, for size and form seemed to have no meaning in this place. Then it was that the trinity of stellar creatures began to sing as one voice that was both beautiful and sad.
You mortals whom we never see
Have drained our lives, our souls-to-be
By being raucous, being rude,
Our souls, by your actions, became unglued.
We of the woods and of forest springs
We left your world of happier things
And in these places strange of thought
We dwell, and are our perils wrought.
And the beings of light crossed their celestial arms, guarding the realms of fae. Sarah became crestfallen and her blue eyes filled with sadness, yet Hesaid Isee stepped forward sweeping his consecrated blue-tattooed map-lined limbs. He kept time by mystically waving three blue fingers as he chanted back:
O ho we
O wind blow-hu-we
And lighten the air about my robe
And give my heart its breath.
We arrove but by accident,
And would be gone with but the Queen's consent!
So let wind blow your locked door away
And aid us.
And with voices of crystal, the guardians sang back:
Wa windelu
Will the wind only blow for you?
Don’t treat wind-sister so lightly.
Hesaid’s deep tenor then burst out, startling Sir Elisa who had never known the mystic to possess so sacred a skill. Hesaid Isee sang:
The wind I see is the wind I take, for the clouds made it for me.
The land I live in is the land I make
And the cows do not quake in their pasture.
It was the wind’s singing whispers brought us to you
So please extend your ephemeral hand
That we may take and kiss of it and pull ourselves up
From our hardships.
The faerie-lights with the forms of men hovered before the travelers and considered the mystic’s song. Finally, in plain speech the foremost faerie said, “Your song, seer, has bent our wills only slightly. You shall see the Queen, and she shall know whether to aid you or to cast you from our sacred beyond-land.” The pure light of the faeries’ bodies dissipated into the shifting dreamland and were forgotten.
Seemingly unbidden, Sir Elisa, Sarah Bellum and Hesaid Isee all began to levitate up from the roots and drift amorphous through resinous skies. Floating in a thoughtless haze, the mortals spaye the realm of the fae. Great patterns of nature, but different, played out across the endless beautiful vacuum that had no boundaries. That which grew likewise decayed in its own time. The three floated through a location where many Cycles met, many luminous patterns interseced, all revolving in lengths of time that the travelers could not comprehend. Even I myself once was there long ago, and some small fraction of my journey through that realm was witnessed by these guests, though it was nothing that could they comprehend for they only could see my back.
In that bizarre forest of the subconscious where the tides of the fae held sway, Hesaid Isee began to speak as he drifted dreaming and uninhibited. He said, “From the lost tales of those who dwelt upon our isle before us, the fae were powerful spirits of the land. I remember when they used to make the trees reach and the blossoms prevail, and every morning they would spread sparkling dew upon Britain’s grasses. They were blessed by our ancestors, and were sung to, and ritual offerings were bestowed upon them… but no longer. Tales still are told of mortals who have stumbled into the home of the fae, yet I imagined that all such entrances had long since run dry. It is no wonder we were asked to depart, they cannot have much trust for us after our race drove them from our island. Alas that all our forests have vanished, and that the old ways have sickened into impotence.”
Drifting through the roots and the stars and the fractals of stars, Sir Elisa saw scenes from his own childhood, and Sarah was able to view herself as all others viewed her. Each of their multifaceted bodies extended into realities beyond the mortal mind as the foreigners were drawn deeper into the impossible wilderness. It was as if they were mirrors of me, and as if I am a mirror of you.
Ever so slowly it seemed they approached a thick knot in the clusters of entwining branches and brambles: adorned with quick-blooming orchids it was an imposing oak, mighty and tall and all-consuming, and the long reach of its branches seemed to tangle into the boughs of half the trees of the kingdom of fae. Upon that tree there crawled a vine, and upon that vine there grew a purple flower towards which they found themselves ineluctably drifting. Though the flower seemed small, when the floating travelers approached it the blossoms engulfed all that could be seen. Sir Elisa felt his stomach turn and his eyes were agape; there was no way to perceive if he was very small or if the orchid was tremendously large. They continued to drift deeper within until all were set gently down upon the soft dew of a petal. At the center of the orchid was no flower’s stamen, but instead a great stone tower of ivory and silver. The foreigners’ eyes glanced all around, marveling, trying to take in every inch of this dream that they perceived. When they had drawn close to the dual doors of the tower, two globes of illumination took hold of handles and parted the portal, revealing the spritely throne-room within the center of the blossom.
At the crux of that silver room, humming with eternal harmonies, sat the Faerie Queen in a throne made of flowing water. Her face was regal and wan, covered on one side by a mask of the moon. Her eyes were twins waxing and waning, and her knowing smile spanned the history of time from lip-end to lip-end. In a row around the columned walls of the throne-room hung twenty-seven masks that each wore a different facial expression. Sir Elisa and his companions knelt before the radiant Queen, yet when she spoke to them, her words were at first the tone of baleful arctic winds that froze them unto their very bones.
She said, “So, the humans have come. It has been many leaf-cycles since we have seen any of your nature. It is because of your waning belief that magic is abandoning your lands. In the days of old there were five great kingdoms of fae existing just beyond the mortal eye. Now we are the last: our fair realm of Aerlynd. We speak these words to you that you may understand our secret sorrows, and the reason you are unwelcome in our domain: our end was spelled by human hands signing in tongues of doom! …Yet for you three this is but breath wasted. You must excuse our breathing, since you care nothing for the woes of nature. Hark: no mortal may remain in this land for longer or shorter than we desire. When sleep overcomes you at last you will be gone, woken at our threshold as if from sanctimonious hibernation.” Slowly, the Faerie Queen’s voice warmed into soft falling snow, still indifferent, but pristine and beautiful. “Now,” said she, “kindness to traveling strangers has sometimes been our affair. If you have needs — as humans we do not doubt it — speak them and we shall judge their worthiness.” The humbled mystic had not let the old traditions die in his thoughts, and so was the first to reply to the Queen.
He said, “O lady of moon and star, of oak and pine, sorry am I to burden one so fair with troubles so base, but as I have excused your breathing I must ask for the favor of survival! We sought not the entrance to your realm and neither did we stumble upon it: verily were we tricked into its discovery by an enchantment that would have slain us if not for your unwitting hospitality. If we should return to the same spot we shall surely drown, for it is no placid pool that shelters your doorway but the rage of a waterfall into which we were drawn by enfeebling mists… and so towed were we, deep by malicious currents. How can we be plucked from your fairest realm yet still draw our own breath? We would be satisfied to leave you in peace now — though we desire to explore your fabled lands — were it not for the peril that awaits us in our own dimension.” Hesaid bowed low and awaited her reply, dreading it as much as did Sarah and her Sparrow.
“You speak well to us,” replied the languid Queen, “and through your shaman’s words we sense that you have not let the old ways die in your mind. And this is well, for were it not so we never would believe such a tale. From the inception of the fae realms, a time so distant it lives as but a glow in our memory, our doorway has rested beneath the placidity of a famous pool — such as you have described. Long indeed must it have been since we last ventured into the world of forms, for the waterfall of your words is unknown to us. Troublesome it must be to dwell in lands where change is marked by years. There is no other exit; that place is our only link with your world, yet the fault is none of yours and we shall bear no perilous changes upon our doorstep.” Like a sapling bowing gently in the breeze, the beautiful Queen wove her hand before her eyes and all the brightness of the realm seemed to fade briefly before swelling once again. Her strange magic waned, then waxed again. After one thousand years, after the blink of a single eyelid, she said, “It is done. The falls are no more, we have consumed them and they are a part of us. It was some knightly spell of the past that we have now absorbed. Free you have become to wander about our land, but care must you take to touch nothing that does not belong to you — you shall find nothing that does — and you must eat nothing that you see. Food of the spirit is not meant for the flesh. Go now, leave our sight for the favor has been granted. And we tire of speaking in the ways that mortals speak.” The travelers were glad to hear this news, and were about to happily depart into the strange land of the faeries when Hesaid Isee hesitated.
He petitioned, “Beautiful lady of the fae, I am grateful for your hospitality and wisdom, and while I am here I would ask yet one more wisdom of you. We seek some thing that is able to wake a sleeping wood known in our world as the Silver Spring. Our king told us but little of that place, only that we must pass through it to reach our destination — yet the Spring somehow slumbers, and we require a key to wake it. Verily we do not know upon what fulcrum this leg of our quest hinges, and if— ”
“No!” commanded the Queen. “Mortal men ask no second favors in our court! We have seen you worthy and it is enough. Now you will leave me.” The mystic at first was crestfallen for he knew no one possessed the lore that this timeless being did, and he began to lead the way out of her throne-room. But as they were slipping out, the Faerie Queen’s silver eyes drew slightly towards the left and noticed fair Sarah Bellum. Stretching one ghostly arm out long to pluck a more light-hearted mask from her wall, the Queen smiled, “Your one wish has been granted, yet no boon has yet been asked by the lady. Step forward.”
Her samite gown billowed like snowflake anemones in the dreamland of the fae. Thinking quick despite the haze, she reiterated Hesaid Isee’s phrase. “Please, O Lady of the Forest, won’t you help us to wake the sleeping Silver Spring?”
And her mask smiled deeper as she graciously gestured in acceptance.
Here Hesaid said, “My Queen, you are most gracious to have granted our sole wish and also Sarah’s wish, and I apologize for succumbing to a mortal’s greed of knowledge. To prove we have no ill wishes, nor the fallacies of our kind, we wish to serenade you as we take our leave. Think of it as our tribute to you, Queen of the fae of Aerlynd, fairest entity in any dream or wakefulness.” So it was that Hesaid Isee persuaded Sir Elisa to take a graceful step closer towards the goal of their quest. The Sparrow timidly approached the flowing throne, bowing low, and he began to play his fingers across the heartstrings of his lyre. The knight’s timidity slipped away as he began to sing as clearly as an english horn a famous lament written in war-time by the poet Sir Dylan, and when the Faerie Queen heard his words her eyes showed their likeness to the stars.
O where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
O where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on the ancient highway
I’ve walked between trees in seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
O it’s a hard rain
Soon to fall.
O what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
O what did you see my darling young one?
I saw a newborn babe with wild wolves all around it
I saw that highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood ever-dripping
I saw a room full of base men with their hammers bleeding
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw shields and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
O it’s a hard rain
Soon to fall.
O what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the cry of thunder that roared out a warning,
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were blazing
Heard ten thousand whispering with nobody listening
Heard one person starve, heard many people laughing
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a jester who sobbed in the alley
And it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard,
O it’s a hard rain
Soon to fall.
O who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
And who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a small child beside her dead pony
I met a sad knight who slew a lowborn lover
I met a beautiful witch whose body was burning
I met another witch who gave me a rainbow
I met myself when I was wounded in love
And I met myself sore-wounded in hatred
And it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard,
O it’s a hard rain
Soon to fall.
What shall you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Yea, what shall you do now, my darling young one?
I’m going back out before the rain starts falling
To tread the depths of the saddest sad forest
Where peasants are many with stomachs always empty
Where poisonous violence is flooding their water
Where their homes in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner’s face is always well-hidden
Where their hunger is ugly and their souls are forgotten
Where black is the color and none is the number
And I shall tell this and think this and speak this and breath it
And exude this from the summit so all souls can see it
And I’ll stand in the ocean until I start sinking
And I’ll know my song well before I start singing
That it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
O it’s a hard rain
Soon to fall.
The Queen reclined rapt in her liquid throne, yet when the song concluded she rose and spoke sweet words of thanks to the Sparrow Knight. “Your song was lovely and we found it all the more so for knowing your heart, brave minstrel, just as I know the mind of your tattooed friend and your maiden pure. Before we gift you our knowledge of the Silver Spring, first must the trade of songs be completed. Come Vanaeori,” she cried to the room. “Come and sing for our guests!”
Within the throne-room apore another sphere of pure light, and this faerie took the form of a woman with skin like mountain breezes. Her hair was a cascade that curled in individual strands about her, all held secure by the living crab she wore upon her brow. Yet there was no time to take in her appearence for Vanaeori began her song at once, singing a droning bass note that slowly migrated upwards and broke into lyric. The sky darkened as the faerie song enveloped the minds of the mortals.
O let the sun beat down upon my face
And let stars fill my dreams,
I am a traveler of both time and space,
I am where I have been.
I sit with elders of a gentle race
That this world has seldom seen,
They talk of days for which they sit and wait
When all will be revealed…
They talk and sing from tongues of lilting grace
Whose sounds caress my ear,
Though not a word I heard could I relate,
The story was quite clear.
O father of the four winds, fill my sails
Across the seas of years
With no provision but an open face
Along the straits of fear —
We’re moving through Kashmir,
Kashmir.
O my love,
Let me take you there, O,
And let me take you there.
The unnatural darkness brightened into smiles and applause as awareness was returned to the human guests. When dismissed, Vanaeori transformed from a woman again into a glowing sphere of light and disapore from the throne-room. The soft ringings of bells echoed in her departure, and to their accompaniment the Faerie Queen rang the silver bells of her own voice.
“We have pondered your quest while hearts were sung,” she said, “and we are much grieved at how far our realm has drifted from yours. How long it all has been since the days of the ancient ones. And yet, we cannot imagine why this strange Silver Spring should slumber. There are gleams of worry in your eyes, we know, yet we also know such a being as may prove helpful: follow the path here to our left.” There then appeared a road of yellow stone that ran beyond the throne-room into flowering groves that stretched ever on. “This shall take you among the gardens of the fae, and there you shall find Butterfly. He is but small, yet has ever flet in and out of the physical realm. He is a character of colors and may have knowledge of that which you desire. Hence, farewell on journeys that shan’t soon end! For we shall not meet again this entire Cycle of Being; not again shall we know one another while the elements of existence are separate. Fare you well, for we now depart.” She drew her palm to her silver lips and blew to the companions a cold kiss of ivory, and with that the Faerie Queen and her watery throne dissolved into a new-moon of invisibility in that room with the many watchful masks.
So it was with much wonder but few words that the three companions stepped out between the great white columns and found themselves in a luxuriously overflowing garden through which ran the Queen's winding yellow-bricked path. The plants here, seeming more dreamlike than of waking substance, had been neither tamed nor pruned but left to pursue their own beauty and function, blooming against the shapeshifting void. The vines that had slunk about the orchid found their source here, friend to hefty shrubs and sweet-smelling blossoms. Sarah, as if a hummingbird, flet all about and inspected each leaf and flower, bud and berry, on her own quest to find some meaning in the patterns of her life.
Hesaid reflected her enthusiasm and determination, but warned to both, “You must not leave the path. This realm is both wide and strange, and needs not follow the rules of space that you are used to. There could be far other worlds and other seas beyond these ferns, and we would not know it till we were lost within them.” And so they followed strictly to that road though the sights beyond called to them with ineffable wonder. Once they saw a generation of fungus expand into an ageless city and wither away again, once they saw the flying form of a mammoth manta-ray move in between the stars beyond the trees, and once they even half-comprehended the shape of their Cycle. And they did bear witness to many other inexplicable sights of form and unform beyond the yellow-bricked road. Sarah once was tempted by a row of banquet tables heaped high with ineffable delicacies, and Sir Elisa once was tempted by visions of long-dead minstrels who had composed famous songs, yet Hesaid had been prudent enough to grab them both away and besought them to heed his warnings.
A little further the path passed through a copse of towering oak trees wherein a shaft of sunlight roech a marble sundial. The woodsey mystic sensed some flavors of magic in that place, and he beckoned them all towards it. Past the callous bark of impossible trees they circled the sundial to find a large azure butterfly soaking up the rays of lumination. Upon his wings were patterns in that strange blue that mesmerized the humans so that it was no trifle to look away. They almost became lost in the patterns, yet with great willpower Hesaid interrupted the reveries of Sarah and Sir Elisa by placing his hands upon their shoulders.
Swallowing a yawn, the mystic said to the creature, “Are you the one named by the Queen as Butterfly? We are travelers from the realm of man, and she has directed us to seek your counsel.”
A wind blew through the heavy trees and on it came a tiny voice that was as audible as if whispered into their ears. “I am the spirit sometimes known as Butterfly, ages old, and I have seen much. I fly from blossom to blossom collecting my wealth. If the Queen has bidden me to speak, then I shall do so. What is it you seek, son of man?”
“We seek passage through the Silver Spring, long sleeping. I had heard that it began to slumber when England's Crusade came to an end. What is the key to wake those woods?”
Butterfly whispered, “Ah, news of the realms of man. I lived there once when a different form I bore, yet I changed and have been absent for many a long year. I know nothing of that which you seek… yet there is another, older than I, who might. Fear not for the path and follow me, adventurers brave, and I shall lead you to my cousin.” When Hesaid Isee nodded to his companions, they knew it was safe to follow.
From the sundial Butterfly flew, lazily bobbing in the sultry air. That blue body led them from the yellow-bricked road into deeper thickets of trees where the garden expanded meditatively, past fallen mounds of ghostly leaves and embracing palms of moss. Despite the forest’s beauty, the Sparrow was forced to rub his eyes also trying to ward off sleep. It was the brink of a shadowed hole that the azure-winged spirit brought them, a great menacing pit into blackness. Disappearing for brief moments within, Butterfly emerged once more upon the muscled shoulder of a gargantuan black bear. Twice the size of any man was he, with great bulk for chasing prey and supping upon it, but no hint of dim animal violence was in this beast’s eyes. It was Sarah who stood forth, reaching out her arm like an alabaster bough to it. The grizzled inhabitant of Fae sniffed at her fingers and ran his hot tongue across the length of her palm before speaking.
“You are the humans. I am spirit Bear, ages old, and I have seen much. I wander my woods, or else I sleep in my den. If Butterfly bids me to speak then I shall, but what is it you seek?”
Sarah silver-tongue said, “We seek passage through the Silver Spring, long sleeping. I had heard that it began to slumber when our forgotten capital of London was abandoned. Do you know the key to wake those woods?”
The bear grunted and snuffled, moistening his jowls. He replied, “Questions of the realm of man. I wandered there once, lost and alone I searched for a mate. Yet long has been my slumber since those days, and nothing I know of how your wilds are now. I know nothing of that which you seek but there is another, older than I, who might. I am tired, but I shall lead you to my cousin.”
So blue-beacon Butterfly flet away, and as the knight, maiden, and mystic trodge behind that ghostly bear they found themselves overcome by sloth. Yawning dreamily, some supernatural weariness grew within their brains. Every waking step became a struggle against slumber, but at long last they came to a place where the mosses were thicker and the trees more silent and tall. To one old twisted tree they were led, greater and more gnarled than all the others, covered in vines and lichen, its flesh sustaining whole societies of life. The roots were woven like looping rope, and the branches drooped like jointed fingers, and it was at this tree that Bear pawed roughly and thrice roared — and once loudly yawned. The travelers each emulated Bear’s mighty yawn in turn but then down, down from the high branches swope a snowy spirit gliding on the mellifluous breezes. Straining to keep their eyes open, they forced themselves to perceive the white bird. It perched on a nearby stump swarmed with shy mushrooms, and the mortals found themselves face to face with an owl. Bear gave a loud grunt and a yawn, and slunk back through the brambles to resume his hibernation.
From the stump the wide-eyed white spirit cooed, “So… humans in the forest. I am Snowy Owl. Long have I perched upon my sacred branches and gazed at all there was to see. Little has escaped my piercing sight, but rarely do I hold discourse — and never before with humans. Yet I cannot turn aside the trust of my cousin Bear, and I have seen too that you travel with the Faerie Queen’s blessing. My curiosity salivates; what do you seek?”
This time it was Sir Elisa who came forward, checking himself from yawning in the presence of this majestic creature, his weary feet sinking into the soft moss of the forest floor. “We seek passage through the Silver Spring, long sleeping,” he said in desperation. “We seek the High Fortress that lies beyond it, for we seek knowledge from that enclave, yea, and we seek to know the whereabouts of that elusive Wreath of Reincarnation! O where can it be and what is it? And O, great Snowy Owl, how can we come to find it?”
Snowy Owl gave a long hoot that echoed through the undulating woods. “Seeking a thing from the physical world. ’Tis a good place to seek for things that might be found. And yet, never have I set eyes on that realm. All my long years have been spent basking in the Queen’s power, never venturing forth save in spirit form. Sorry am I that your expedition thus far has been in vain, for I can not fulfill your desires.” The ponderous avian preened behind a wing for several seconds of exhausted silence. “Yet there is another whom I know,” continued Snowy Owl, startling the sleep-wracked travelers back to wakefulness. “Though I am indeed the eldest spirit, none are more wise than this other I know. Sadly, his soul has passed from my knowledge of late, and I know not where he dwells. Yet that is no reason to prevent us seeking! I have not flown for many an ageless epoch though still do I well remember how. Follow me, brave humans, and we shall scour this land in search of my spirit-cousin Salmon. If he knows not, then I say there are none who know. Away!”
They hurried as best they could, yet alas, as they began to follow Snowy Owl, Sarah suddenly collapsed into sleep and her gown spread out upon the forest floor like spilled silk.
“She has fallen!” yawned Hesaid loudly, trying in vain to stir himself into a waking frenzy, but his hope evaporated when Sir Elisa, kneeling beside fairest Sarah, fell also down upon the pillowy mosses. The valiant fight against rest had ended with barely a struggle: Hesaid’s heavy lids closed without his consent, and for the whole rest of this Cycle they opened never again upon Aerlynd nor any lands of the fae.