Eye of the Oracle

by Bryan Davis

  Merlin stood at the center, lifted his head, and whistled a nightingale’s call. He then stooped and signaled for Arthur to join him. “The stench of discord taints the wind,” Merlin said. “I believe Devin will soon launch a rebellion, and in order to quell the uprising, I will conduct my greatest, and my last, experiment.” He bent close to the king. “Valcor will be here momentarily. When he comes, you will learn a secret about dragons even the dragons themselves do not know.”

  Bushes rustled. King Arthur rose to his feet, Excalibur at the ready. A man emerged from the darkness with his hands raised. “I am Valcor, unarmed and at His Majesty’s service.” He bowed low.

  The king returned the sword to its sheath and touched the man’s head. “Arise, Valcor. I have not forgotten you so soon. You seem more fit than ever.”

  “Enabling me to serve you with more vigor, my king.”

  Merlin laid his hand on Valcor’s shoulder. “You have learned diplomacy well, my friend.”

  “Not recently, good prophet. Makaidos instructed his offspring in the protocol of human royalty long ago.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Merlin waved his hand across the depressed clearing. “I have chosen this place because the dividing wall between this world and the world to come is as thin as papyrus. Here, creating a portal to that world requires only the paltriest skill.”

  Merlin knelt and placed a gem at the lowest point of the depression. Its crimson glow pulsed, like a dragon opening and closing its eye. “This rubellite belonged to Makaidos. As you know, the gem itself represents the essence of a dragon’s soul, beautiful in form, as is the dragon, yet scarlet, the color of the unredeemed. What you may not know is that when a dragon takes the stone as his own, his soul becomes tied to it, and it transforms into his gateway to the dragon afterlife, a place where humans are not meant to go.

  “If a dragon has one, as long as there is the slightest glimmer of a dragon’s soul remaining, his chosen rubellite will be red, and when he passes through the gateway into Dragons’ Rest, the gem becomes a pulsing beacon, indicating his presence there.”

  Merlin laid his hand on the rubellite, capping its glow for a moment. Then, as he raised his hand, the glow seemed to follow underneath, growing into a vertical column, a rising scarlet pedestal that finally stopped when it reached the prophet’s height. Merlin drew an oval around the pedestal with his finger, and the glow seemed to bleed in all directions, filling up the frame he had drawn until it formed a scarlet ellipse.

  He backed away and joined the king and Valcor as they gaped in silence. He waved his hand at the flaming halo and spoke in a resonant tone.

  O make the passage clear to men

  Who wish to see the gate,

  The path no dragon deigns to cross,

  For death is not their fate.

  From top to bottom, the halo’s red hue faded to pink, then to white. A straw-laden path took shape, and as people crossed from one side of the road to the other, they trampled the straw into a maze of muddy footprints. The scene appeared to be a marketplace. Two young women stood in front of a hut, displaying their handmade wares on the tops of wooden tables; a burly man carried a pole with a deer carcass hanging by its hooves; and a matronly woman bore a fruit basket in each of her meaty arms.

  Merlin took two quick steps forward. “There!” He pointed near the top of the ellipse. “See the woman standing next to the nobleman? The one carrying the scrolls?”

  The king leaned closer. “The gray-haired lady handing him a scroll right now?”

  “Yes! Yes! She’s the one!”

  The king stroked his chin. “She is familiar to me, Merlin. Very familiar.”

  “She should be. She’s my wife.”

  “Your wife? So are we looking upon Dragons’ Rest?”

  Merlin’s fingers hovered over the image of his wife, caressing her face from afar.

  “Merlin?” The king shook the prophet’s arm. “Is that Dragons’ Rest?”

  Merlin tore himself out of his trance and stepped back from the oval. “Yes.” He took a deep breath, now keeping his gaze on the king. “As I told you, Morgan’s food not only kills the body, it drains vitality from the human soul, and this dungeon is reserved for the dead who enter into eternity without a vibrant, human soul. Now my wife languishes in that hopeless village, not knowing who she really is or why she is there.”

  The ellipse suddenly shifted to gray, then black. Darkness seeped out of the oval like a night fog. Billowing smoke crawled along the ground and rose into a column, slowly solidifying into a human form, slender and feminine the shape of Morgan Le Faye.

  King Arthur drew his sword, but Merlin raised his hand. “Not here,” Merlin said. “Not now. She has yet to fulfill her purpose.”

  Morgan, dressed in her usual silky black gown, waltzed up to Merlin, laughing. “I saw you mooning over the gateway. Do you miss your sweet wife, my old friend?”

  Merlin clenched his fists. Serrated words slipped through his grinding teeth. “Leave it to you to attack a man by killing his defenseless wife.”

  “Oh, but Merlin,” she crooned, “there is no more effective tool. Taking a man’s woman is the same as ripping out his heart and pouring his life’s blood on the ground.” She patted his cheek, pursing her lips as though speaking to a child. “And watching you wither over the past three years has been such a joy. It seems that checkmate is at hand.” She turned and gave the king a mock curtsy. “Your Majesty. It is an honor to see my brother again.”

  King Arthur drew back his sword. A brilliant ray erupted from its tip and shot into the sky. “Merlin, step aside, and I will slay this foul witch where she stands.”

  Merlin stayed put. “She is a wraith, more dead than alive. In your hands, the sword would do nothing more than reveal her nature. Killing her requires much more.”

  The king shoved Merlin aside. With a wild swipe, he sliced through Morgan’s waist. Her body absorbed the sword’s light, and her face transformed. A sultry, painted mask melted, replaced by a bloody raven’s head, its red eyes aflame and its mouth locked open in a raging scream.

  Arthur fell to his seat, and the sword’s light died away. Valcor rushed to his side and slid his hand behind the king’s shoulder. Morgan returned to her female form and glowered at the king. “You are all such fools. Knowing about my strategy will not protect your wives now or in the future. All who oppose me will feel my wrath, and no loved one is safe man, woman, or child.”

  Morgan sublimated to black fog and disappeared into the ellipse. Seconds later, the portal cleared to a pulsing red glow.

  King Arthur jumped to his feet. “That sorceress from hell will not kill my queen.” With the sword lighting the way, he sprinted down the narrow path.

  “Your Majesty!” Merlin called. “What of my plan?”

  Arthur halted and spun around. “You have proven your words once again. Bring Clefspeare and Hartanna to me. I will adopt them, as you requested.”

  Timothy brushed on a final stroke of paint and read the sign out loud. “Brogan’s Flowers,” he said proudly. He turned and addressed the young man standing next to him. “What do you think?”

  “I think my mother will run the shop,” Brogan said, his Celtic accent breezing through his words, “but it will do. Still, I am not accustomed to my new name. After being Hilidan for so long, Brogan seems foreign to me.”

  Timothy laughed and set the sign on a wagon. “I understand. We had our dragon names even before the great flood.” As he wiped his hands on a paint cloth, he gazed at the new huts that lined the straw-laden path. Two young women bustled around their pottery table, setting out their wares for trading. A matronly woman carrying a fruit basket ambled across a walkway that passed through a garden in the middle of the village square. She smiled and tossed a yellow apple toward the two men.

  Catching the apple with one hand, Timothy returned her smile. “I think the marketplace is complete. With all the new arrivals, we will
have a thriving community in no time.”

  “Jasmine is coming,” Brogan said, nodding at the path. “Does your daughter ever smile about anything?”

  “I heard you,” Jasmine’s sharp voice rang out. “How can I smile? New arrivals can only mean that more dragons are being murdered by humans.”

  Timothy took a bite out of his apple. “Are they reporting details?”

  “Only sketchy stories,” Jasmine replied, her tone calming. “They are quickly forgetting their dragon past, just as you hoped they would. They do know that Devin has committed most of the murders, and one reported that Goliath has also been killed.”

  “Goliath?” Timothy nearly choked as he swallowed his mouthful. “Dead?”

  As Jasmine lowered her gaze, her voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes. He should have been here by now.”

  Timothy rubbed her back gently. “Perhaps he is here and has forgotten who he was.”

  Jasmine stepped away from his caress. “I have matched every citizen with the name of a dragon, and neither Goliath nor Arramos is here. With the exception of one woman, all the arrivals knew who they were, though they forget everything quickly. It seems that the three of us are the only ones who still remember most of our past.”

  “I am beginning to forget, too,” Brogan said. “I barely remember what it was like to fly.”

  “I will never forget being a dragon.” Jasmine crossed her arms tightly. “I refuse to forget.”

  Timothy pointed at her. “Remember if you must, but do not torture the others. It would be better for them to live at peace here.”

  “On that issue, I do agree.” She breathed a long sigh. “In fact, I will encourage them to forget, but at least one of us has to keep the memory of our species alive.”

  Timothy held up his hand, displaying his pulsing rubellite ring. “These rings are surely a sign that the Maker has not forgotten who we are. Horses and other animals have appeared out of nowhere, as did a crop ready for harvest. God knows we are here, and he will not abandon us forever.”

  Jasmine rubbed her ring’s gem. “That woman I mentioned doesn’t have one. She also has white hair, so I thought she might be an underborn.”

  “Many humans have white hair,” Timothy said, “especially the older ones.”

  “She is older, to be sure, and she is also very intelligent, though she remembers very little of her past. I put her in charge of archiving scrolls until I had an opportunity to ask you about her.” Jasmine nodded at the path. “Here she comes now.”

  An elderly woman with a sweet smile extended a scroll to Timothy. “Here is the harvest inventory, Captain Autarkeia.”

  “Captain?” Timothy laughed. “Am I now a Captain?”

  “My designation for you as king of the dragons and founder of this town,” Jasmine explained. “I am establishing a hierarchy using a military system. I thought it best to maintain an orderly governing body.”

  “I see.” Timothy bowed his head toward the newcomer. “What is your name?”

  “Sarah.” She dipped her knee. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Timothy leaned over and studied her face. “We have met before, have we not?”

  Sarah rearranged the stack of scrolls in her arms and smiled again. “Not that I can remember, Captain.”

  “I know we have,” Timothy said, tapping his forehead, “but memory loss seems to be affecting me.”

  A popping sound made Timothy pivot. A red glow, an elliptical aura, much like the one created by the Ovulum, arose from the garden in the town’s central circle. Bordered by the only two idols remaining from Shinar’s ruins, it vibrated a tune as if strummed by a skillful hand. Entranced, Timothy walked slowly toward it.

  “Where are you going?” Jasmine called.

  Timothy pointed. “To the red glow.”

  “What red glow?”

  He stopped at the edge of the garden and spread out his arms. “Right here. Right in front of me.”

  Brogan ran up to his side and whispered, “Timothy, perhaps you have been working too hard. There is nothing here but tulips and daffodils.”

  Timothy pointed again. “Look! I see Merlin on the other side. And there is King Arthur. I also see a third man, but I do not recognize him.”

  “Father,” Jasmine said, sliding an arm around his elbow, “you need to rest. Come with me.”

  Timothy pulled away and tromped right into the flowers, reaching for the aura.

  “Father!” Jasmine called.

  Timothy touched the crimson surface, raising a splash of sparks. The radiant energy crawled along his hand, then up his arm, and covered his skin with vibrating red embers. When the energy reached his eyes, a dazzling flare of scarlet enveloped everything in his field of vision.

  Jasmine screamed. “Father! Do not leave me!” Her voice sounded distant and warped.

  Timothy felt himself being drawn into the aura, swallowed whole, as if becoming part of its pulsing red field. The town disappeared in a foggy sea of scarlet, leaving only the two idols intact as they seemed to join him in the sparkling radiance. Distorted words drifted past his ears, like a woman’s desperate cry blown about by the wind.

  “Father!” the voice called. “I love you!”

  Merlin strode to the portal and set his hand on top. Pushing down, he squeezed the aura into the rubellite on the ground below. As it compressed, a stream of energy popped out. It spun around Merlin and Valcor three times, then shot into the sky like a frazzled lightning bolt. Two balls of energy followed and launched over the trees in a high arc.

  “What were those?” Valcor asked.

  Merlin laid his hand on top of his head. “I have no idea!”

  “Is it a sign? Part of the prophecy?”

  “I will seek wisdom on this mystery, but for now” Merlin picked up the gem “I want you to take this rubellite. Keep it safe. When I have set the plan of redemption in order, I will make sure the way to use this gem is added to the king’s chronicles.” He laid the stone in Valcor’s palm. “I will call it the Great Key, for through it the dragons will be able to leave their prison and find a true resting place.”

  Valcor drew it closer to his eyes. “Master Merlin! The rubellite is no longer pulsing.”

  Merlin rocked the gem with his finger. “Makaidos! His spirit has either died, or . . .” He gazed at a vapor trail vanishing in the sky. “He has escaped.”

  “My father? Escaped?” Valcor lifted his head upward. “What will happen to him? Where will he go?”

  “I’m not sure. He died before the transformation, so he has no body in which to reside. Unless he finds a way to reanimate his dragon carcass, he will be a wandering spirit.”

  Valcor held the gem in his fingertips. “Shall I tell Clefspeare and Hartanna about this? After all, Makaidos was Hartanna’s father and Clefspeare’s grandfather.”

  “Yes,” Merlin said, “but guard what you say. Tell Hartanna that the rubellite once belonged to her father, that it reflects the vitality of a dragon’s mortal essence, but keep the rest to yourself. Since we don’t know what really happened to Makaidos, speculation about his fate would be foolhardy.”

  Valcor peered into the gem. “What about the village we saw inside? And what about the other dragons? Should I tell Hartanna about that?”

  Merlin shook his head. “Until the dragon messiah comes to set the dragons free, the gateway to Dragons’ Rest must remain a secret from everyone else.”

  “To keep the dragons safe from Morgan?”

  “Morgan cannot harm those already dead. What’s important is that the dragon messiah finds his way to Dragons’ Rest, and, according to the word God gave me in a dream, he must do so only through a special messenger whom God will prepare at the proper time.”

  Valcor closed his hand around the rubellite and gazed at the moon, now hazy behind a veil of thin clouds. “May God bring that messenger soon!”

  “Perhaps you will have a hand in his coming.” Merlin
patted Valcor on the back. “Walk with me to the place where you will hide until I summon you again to Blood Hollow. You and Sir Gawain must organize the king’s knights. I am certain now that a rebellion will soon arise, and I will need Arthur’s loyal soldiers to help me put it down.”

  Stooping low, Elam smoothed the dirt on top of the grave, picking out each pebble and fleck of debris. As the headstone’s speckled crystals shimmered in the rising sun, he admired the block letters and rugged cross he had carved with his own hand. “Lazarus VII, descendant of Lazarus of Bethany. Rest in Peace.” Following the outline of the etched cross with his finger, he whispered, “Thank you for teaching me. I know we’ll be together again someday.”

  He stood and clapped the dirt off his hands as he counted the graves in the family plot the original Lazarus with his tombstone that read, “Lazarus of Bethany, in Heaven to Stay”; Lazarus’s wife, passed away two years earlier; Joseph, father of Lazarus VII; an unnamed girl who died at birth; and a boy named Elam.

  The last grave carried no body. Elam had carved the cryptic marker, “Elam the Wanderer,” to answer neighbors’ questions. Whatever happened to that wandering waif who showed up over three years ago? Now they would know. He had moved on to another life.

  Elam slung a knapsack over his shoulder and looked behind him at the towering hill, the tor of Glastonbury and the tiny church at its apex. Yes, it was time to leave for good, and best to do so without answering all the well-intentioned questions of the villagers. Firming his chin, he marched around the bordering swamp and followed a damp, muddy trail that led into a forest. Camelot lay ahead, a new home atop a new hill, and this one promised adventures unlike any he had ever known.

  As he passed under a lush canopy, he reached into his knapsack and withdrew the Ovulum. The egg was dark today, but that wasn’t unusual. It seemed to warm up and glow only when it had a mind to talk, and that wasn’t very often, maybe a half dozen times over the last three years, and most of those had come when Lazarus was holding it.