The Crystal Crux: Blue Grotto

by Allen Werner

  Pero de Alava lifted his right foot and stepped over the invisible boundary and nothing happened. No howling wolves. No roaring bears. Nothing. He waited a moment longer and brought his left foot up to meet the right. Still nothing happened. Smiling, inhaling boldly, Pero took three long strides north and still nothing happened.

  Tomas Fabbro heard Pero moving away from him. He lifted his head from the truffle hunt having not secured one. His curiosity was peaked, a bit frightened as well. For the past nine years, many things in his world were taken on faith, on the words of his jailers and his parents. It was all coming unraveled. Pero was doing the impossible. He might as well have been walking on water. This was a miracle.

  Tomas walked up to the same semaphore where Pero had been standing previously, his growing toes now inches from touching the imperceptible stripe delineating his incarceration.

  “How far is too far?”

  Tomas thought for a moment that Pero was asking him this question but before the teen could respond, the Spaniard abruptly raised his voice skyward, his raging eyes tearing a hole through the canopy, an arrow of accusation aimed for God or the gods.

  “You killed everyone else! Why am I still alive? For what purpose? Just send the bears and wolves and end me as well!”

  Tomas might not have been as wise as Pero concerning many matters but screaming at the top of your lungs and announcing your intention to escape prison, drawing attention to yourself while you did it, didn’t seem very prudent.

  As a minute of silence passed them by and there were no interruptions, no sign of threatening fauna or aggressive fowl, Tomas Fabbro’s young heart began to race. ‘What new magic is this? Have the seals truly been broken? Was Pero the key all along? Did he unlock the cage? Can my family leave? Start a new life?’ His mouth was dry but he was sweating profusely and not because of the sweltering heat. This was a courage wholly unfamiliar to him.

  Tomas bravely shuffled across the demarcation eventually catching up to the caballero. In nine years, he had never been this far away from home.

  As upset as Pero was with the supernatural forces troubling him, he found it easy to reward the troubled teens daringness with an approving grin. “Do you feel different? Alive?”

  Tomas couldn’t speak. He nodded emphatically, his mind just blank with joy. ‘I’m escaping. Pero’s going to save us. He really is a goodly knight.’

  Shoulder to shoulder with small smiles and bright eyes, the two watched and waited, acutely intent to identify and acknowledge any signs of foreboding, any signs of darkness at all. There were none. Nothing menacing or hostile occurred.

  Together, in nodded agreement, they took another step north, a big and bold one. Two curious wrens darted out of a nearby tree and circled overhead as if observing the trespassers. They squawked their complaints harshly before urgent wings bore them further north.

  Pero tilted his head toward their shrill cries. “Did you hear that?”

  Tomas’ acute ear discerned the various sounds emanating in the forest. He was keen to all it offered. Nothing he heard was out of the ordinary. “I don’t hear anything. Nothing but the wrens and the rustle of leaves.”

  “Yes,” Pero agreed. “The wrens, the birds. And that word they spoke. Come. Come.”

  Tomas shook his head, starting to feel a bit unnerved now.

  ‘I know what I heard,’ Pero assured himself, his temper returning. ‘But then again you know what you saw too, right? You saw a flying horse and a tiny man standing a leaf. You saw bears and wolves parading around a cell of fiery torches, a host of grotesque creatures crying out to you because you are so special.’ Pero couldn’t stop himself from growling like a beast causing Tomas to step away from him.

  ‘Don’t do this to yourself, Pero. Stop it. Stop thinking like a madman. Remember the snake and its teeth. You are free. You are not going back.’ Pero breathed through his nose as bulls tend to do just before charging into a sword. ‘I swear, if something shows itself, I’m going to rush forward and grab it, prove to everyone I’m not crazy, most of all myself.’

  “We should be getting back.” Tomas’ words were meekly spoken. He was genuinely concerned for the stranger now. This was the unstable idiot they saw the first night, cursing and threatening, talking mad and raving. The knight’s sureness was the only reason Tomas had dared venture this far. With Pero whitening and his poised countenance melting, Tomas lost hope in making any escape.

  The voice of Francis Whitehall ambushed Pero and the Spaniard had to listen. “Promise me you will try once more to pray.”

  Defiant, Pero tried to oppose the suggestion as he had done on the drawbridge, in the stables, but his crumbling psyche was too weak to resist any longer. Like the simpleminded creatures of the forest, he too suffered from a deeper programming. His mother had ingrained his soul with it, burned it into his heart. The words slipped off his lips as if he were not the one speaking them. “Lord, if it be you, bid me come.”

  Tomas squinted as though squinting would aide his hearing. He heard what Pero whispered but couldn’t believe he would say such a thing, not in his enraged state of mind. Tomas steeled his courage yet again and came back up alongside the Spaniard. He courageously asked Pero to repeat his words.

  “No need to repeat them,” Pero replied, his determination evaporated. “It was a sheer and utter foolishness, a disposition for children and old men to embrace.” He bowed his head. “Perhaps we should retire. I have seen what I came to see. Your mother is planning a feast tonight, lamb shanks.”

  Tomas was relieved to hear this. He was ready to withdraw and withdraw quickly. The last time there was this much excitement in his life, he pulled a twenty-pound trout out of the eastern stream. No one, not even his father, had caught one weighing more than ten. The peace Tomas had grown accustomed to, trusted these past nine years behind the torches tugged at him like a child on his mother’s leg. Tomas smiled unwittingly. ‘Right now, I feel like Dato. I’m want to go home.’

  And then a rush of wind raced down from the north, chilling the air instantly. Little beards of frost appeared on the trees.

  Tomas heeded the warning and took a full step back.

  Pero, however, chose to step forward and challenge it. He walked right into the wind as his spirit connected to something abstract within himself. He didn’t understand who or what it was but there was power there. He had to speak, he had to talk, and he had to do it in his native tongue. No hesitation. “Lord, if you want me, tell me to come.”

  The forest answered him. As the wind continued to rush through the wood, shaking the trees, bending some branches, a slight and distant but all too familiar sound began to howl.

  ‘Wolves!’ Tomas Fabbro had heard and seen enough. He immediately retreated behind the safety of the blue-eyed semaphore, gripping a steel pole of the frame as if the wind might lift him away. He was shocked to find that Pero had not done likewise. The knight was standing straight and tall, long black hair unfurled behind him.

  “Pero, come back. The wolves are coming. They are going to kill you.”

  Pero was euphoric. His pulse was strong. He didn’t flinch not an inch. “Wolves?” Pero cried over the wind. “I hear no wolves. I hear women. Several women. They are singing to me. Don’t you hear them singing? I must go to them.”

  Tomas could only hear the wolves howling. They were faint and still far away but inching closer.

  Pero’s smile grew even larger. He spun his neck around with his shoulders hardly turning. “I hear them, Tomas. Angels are leading me to God. He is why I came out here. I must seek Him. It is my quest.”

  “Are you fucking deaf? I know wolves when I hear them! Those motherfuckers are going to tear you apart!”

  “You are an audacious lad, Tomas,” Pero stated calmly, his expression turning back northward. “I have been most impressed by your resolve and courage, even your arrogance. The boldness of your ancestors runs strong through you. Fabbro blood. I pray you are wiser than they and use that gift to
make the world a better place for everyone. I have a different calling. I must heed it. Wish your parents well for me. I will not be returning.” Pero raised his arm and pointed. “My fate awaits me out there.”

  And with that, the wind died. The air was warm again, the frost melted as if it never happened.

  Tomas didn’t know what else to say. He was dumbfounded and Pero had gone mad. The teen continued to watch in absolute disbelief as the only man to ever enter Ithaca, calmly walked away from it.

  Pero de Alava gradually made his way north, disappearing in the recesses of the forest.

  Standing alone by the steel and leather structure, Tomas shivered. The cold breeze was gone but the howling of the wolves had not gone away. They were still out there, drawing nearer. Frightened, thoroughly out of options, the teen wheeled around and ran for home, dashing through the trees until he met up with his father.

  Turstin Fabbro had heard the baying of the wolves as well, and was coming for his son and guest.

  “Where is Pero,” Turstin asked, panting, his wide eyes scanning the trees behind his son.

  Tomas was so distraught he could hardly compel the words out of his mouth. “He left us, father. He just fucking left us. He walked off towards the wolves saying they were angels. He’s fucking mad.”

  “Angels?” Turstin didn’t care to hear his son curse and his expression said as much but the fact that Pero called the wolves angels didn’t make any sense. “He said angels were calling him?” Turstin looked rightfully worried asking this. He shook his head. “Pero wasn’t wearing his armor or carrying his sword, was he? Why would he do that?”

  Tomas had calmed only slightly. He bent over and squeezed his knees. “He said they were women, women singing.”

  “Sirens?”

  “I didn’t hear anyone, father.” Tomas confessed. “I just heard those damned wolves.”

  Turstin Fabbro was tired. It had been years since he ran. He was an old man. He took a deep breath and sighed. He patted his son on the shoulder and turned him for home. “There’s nothing more we can do for Sir Pero now. He is in the Lord’s hands.”

  Turstin started walking home but Tomas did not follow immediately. He stood there alone among the swaying ash trees and indifferent oaks listening to the wolves still baying in the distance. ‘Women’s voices? I just don’t hear it.’

  Tomas had to look back one more time. He remembered how good it felt standing outside the marker, how the air tasted better, cleaner, richer. Pero said it rightly. “Alive.”

  Tomas murmured to himself the words his father had instructed him. “Pero is in the hands of the Lord now.” Tomas scratched his head and rubbed his eyes, gripping his throat last of all. “Where did he find the faith to do that?” Feeling ashamed of his weak resolve, feeling once again like a criminal who deserved to be locked up, Tomas put his head down and followed his father’s footsteps home believing he had missed his one glorious opportunity to escape. ‘Now I’ll never be free of this place.’ He forgot quickly, that for a few glorious seconds, he had found the faith to go forward.

  Chapter 16 – Blue Grotto

  The veil blinding her eyes relented and permitted the tiny head of a thin blue snake to enter. The luminescence of the reptile slid serpentine through the darkness, making its way inconspicuously throughout the whole until the effulgence had discreetly overtaken the black and the void ceased to be. Anthea Manikos knew now, for certain, her eyes were open. And yet and still, she could see nothing but blinding blue light. Her mouth tasted odd. There was a salty tang to it, brine. A thin film of moisture had built up on her light brown skin, the layer causing an unwelcomed chill. The world sounded hollow and distant. She wasn’t moving and still it felt as though she were at sea, a world adrift, unanchored, lying just beyond her reach. And then a familiar sound resonated in her ears, speaking to her soul. Calm, sloshing seawater moved nearby. ‘It is the sea,” she thought with a smile. “I love the sea. I have always loved the sea. It must be near.’ And then she couldn’t help but frown. ‘The waves are sad. They are trapped, confined. They want to be leave. Why do I understand them? It is not words they speak but it is something else. A longing.’

  The blue emptiness exploded. Everything turned white and slowly faded until Anthea pictured a woman, a teen, standing on a cliff overlooking the Saronic Gulf. ‘That is me. I am home.’

  The midday sun was fixed high above the sad young woman, warming her flesh. Strong gusts of fierce wind were forcing the powerful waves below into the sides of the cliff, the punished water racing tenaciously up the rock face, splaying the teens body with a cool salty mist. Her long brown hair kicked out behind her as she lifted her head. There were tears in her eyes, old tears, tears that should have ceased by now. This was long ago. It was an ancient hurt. ‘I miss you, Mama.’

  The worst memory of Anthea’s life was not something that could be condensed to a singular moment but rather a long series of conjoined recollections spanning several horrible months. There was no way to isolate one dreary memory from another. They were all tragic and heart wrenching and became one.

  Anthea’s mother, Penelope Manikos, had taken ill and died. At one time, Anthea would have sworn Penelope was the most strikingly beautiful woman who ever lived. The illness had wasted her, stole her beauty and never gave it back. People tended to compliment Anthea, telling her that she was as lovely as her mother, how they shared so many mystic qualities. Anthea would only indulge that sort of nonsense so far. She didn’t feel beautiful, not in the way her mother was beautiful. She dismissed the talk with a blend of modesty and disinterest. ‘I could never be so beautiful as Mama.’

  Anthea pounded her rosary day and night back then, praying as she had never prayed before, all to no avail. God didn’t appear to be interested in listening to her and that worried her.

  “What am I doing wrong, Lord? Why won’t you help?”

  Anthea remembered praying in earnest. She had so many questions for God back then, so many anxieties and doubts concerning life and death, health and sickness. The weeks dragged on until a desperate and final plea spilled out of her mouth. It was but a whisper but God must have been listening.

  “Enough already. Enough pain and futility. It is time you make a choice, Lord, and be done with it. Heal my mother or claim her. Those are your only choices. I’ll not give you another. She’s tired. I’m tired. My father is tired. Let us put an end to it.’

  Incredibly, the struggle ceased. Penelope flashed opened her eyes for a moment and spoke to her only daughter, the only person at her bedside when the time came.

  “Anthea. Pray for me. Sing for me. Never forget me.” Penelope closed her eyes and passed.

  “I will Mama, I will.”

  While her mother’s body was being put out to sea, per Penelope’s final wishes, Anthea Manikos wandered away from the elaborate ceremony being thrown in her honor and climbed atop the cliffs overlooking the Saronic Gulf. With tears and sorrow swelling her young face, Anthea lifted her voice to the heavens and sang to the churning waves that claimed Penelope’s remains.

  This long night has ended, the veil shelters the sea

  This long night has ended, our struggle to be free

  This long night has ended, one falls upon the stone

  This long night has ended, a friend…

  Her voice trailed off … – my Mama - is called home

  Something that did not happen on that day, happened now. With wide-eyed curiosity, Anthea watched from a distance as her teen-self extended her right hand and began to catch tiny blue snowflakes trickling down from heaven. It was contrary to reason that such a miracle should occur in the summer heat. The sun above the cliffs was warm and strangely, seemed to be getting hotter. The anomaly of blue snow continued to intensify until the falling of it became a full-fledged flurry, eventually blocking out the sun and nullifying the heat, blanketing the entire sea and escarpment. Everything was covered in blue snow, everything except Anthea. Her teen-self was simply stand
ing there, disappearing incrementally beneath a growing drift. Soon the snowfall was up to her neck, nearly touching her chin. She could not move and she didn’t care. The blue was embracing her, taking her away. Her mother’s voice called out to her from somewhere beyond this vision. ‘Never lose hope, Little One. Never lose hope. And thank you for your prayers and song. You are proof that I lived a good life. For once and forever, goodbye.’

  The word ‘goodbye’ echoed, trailing after her, taking its own sweet time being swallowed up by an infinite hollow. The sound of a distant surf filled with melancholy pulled Anthea down into the blue snows. She was sinking, encased, slipping through it, sliding around in it, travelling within herself. As the speed of this world increased, so did the darkness of the blue light until it was black again, black as it had been at the beginning. Reality.

  Two grim forms appeared before her and drew near, infringing on her solitude. They were tall disfigured beings, strange black creatures. Her eyes could not focus on them. She sensed their presence more than saw them. Their bearings were evil, cruel and spiteful. ‘Ghouls,’ she thought at once. ‘Trolls or demons. Something wicked and distasteful. I must be in hell.’