by Allen Werner
“Take me.”
Herophile opened her eyes and turned back to the pedestal and the bubbling mercury. The shades that had been confined to the surface of the quicksilver were now drifting up and into the cave, their grey souls providing a meager light, their tortured dead faces wearing sad and miserable countenances. “Gift him,” they said repeatedly.
“Donum,” Herophile shrieked. “Rouse yourself, Donum, and fetch me the Bellerophon Crystal.”
Above her, tucked neatly into a large niche of the cave ceiling, a bat-like creature began to stir. It yawned and opened its eyes, both red as fire. “Yes, my Lady.” The creature’s wings pushed forward and arched slowly outward until the body emerged from his comfort. Donum had human hands at the ends of his pitch-black wings. The fingers grabbed hold of the rock and the wall, helping to slide the body out of the roost.
In the silvery light, Herophile smiled. She could now see the familiar face of her old confidant, his dark human face.
“Be quick, my friend.” Her eyes sharpened. “Some treacherous stranger approaches.”
Donum nodded and flew. He circled swiftly over the old crone and the burbling pedestal, his all-black body flying through the cloudy grey shades of the dead, disturbing them, dissipating many. Donum then retracted his wings and with one strong flinch rocketed through a different narrow crevice in the wall. Soon he dropped down a deep tunnel which twisted and turned several times before careening downward for untold miles straight. The expression Donum wore during his journey was one of boredom and lethargy. He had difficulty keeping his eyes open and yawned several times. Donum had traveled this way many times before, always on errands for his mistress, Herophile.
At the bottom of the downward drain, he dropped out into a poorly lit, enormous cave, the floor of which was covered with riches for miles and miles, further than the eye could see, if the eye could see in such blackness.
Donum flapped his wings and brought himself into a hover over the treasury. “Fuck me, how the hell do I find one goddamn crystal in all this shit?” He shook his head and shrieked. The loud, ear-piercing cry echoed throughout the whole cave. The dark ceiling above him began to stir. Thousands of bat-like imps built in the same fashion as Donum were hanging up there from their feet. They began to flap their wings, aggravated at the awakening. They cried back at him, thousands upon thousands of irritated imps.
“Come now, my fellow daemoniorum. You must help me. Domina Herophile has need of a gift.”
A fiendish, rhythmic chant returned to Donum at once. It was the chorus of worshippers. “A gift. A gift for Domina.”
“Find the Bellerophon Crystal.”
The black unholy cloud of imps dangling from the ceiling fell into the cave and swarmed in every direction, the thunderous cacophony of an unholy host echoing far and wide. A million fiery red eyes inspected the vast and infinite treasury for one particular gift, the Bellerophon Crystal.
Chapter 27 – It Is Time You Leave
Sinibaldus no longer feared anything. Unless the giant was using his stealth to hunt large animals like ibex and deer or was approaching a larger town that might employ a formidable militia for protection, Sinibaldus was downright brash, stomping and strutting inconsiderately into caves and dens, homes and rural outposts, daring someone, anyone to take issue with him. He stole what he wanted. Acted out in any manner of his choosing. There were no rules.
An herbal potion Sinibaldus had recently concocted increased his sight immeasurably. At least, for a little while, it did. He could see further and sharper than ever before. He wasn’t yet sure if there would be any side effects, but if there were, he was wholly unconcerned. Long ago he had convinced himself he was immortal. And so far, everything he exposed his body to, proved him right. All the sicknesses and injuries did not dampen his faith or pride. There were no proofs to the contrary.
In his duffle bag made of pig intestine, which he had slung over his strong shoulders, Sinibaldus carried a host of scientific equipment he had stolen from various outposts throughout the years. He had a mortar and pestle, a golden astrolabe, a dozen tubes, corks and tongs. When he wasn’t travelling, pillaging or fighting, he was investigating the mechanics of nature, diving into the unknown workings of the gods. He had dissected living tissue, everything from butterflies and lizards to sheep and humans. He pawed through gizzards and kidneys, hearts and stomachs, seeking keys to unlocking the mysteries of life.
When Sinibaldus could raise a hearty fire, he mixed his potions, mingling various nuts and roots, herbs and berries together, sometimes seasoning them with smelted metals and pummeled woods, creating thick pastes for his skin and digestible tonics for his stomach. It was a self-destructive exploration for indestructibility.
During the night, while standing alone on a moonlit precipice not far from Lago d’Averno, staring northward, chewing a raw broccoli stalk, Sinibaldus spotted the opening to Herophile’s cave nearly three miles away. A mysterious silvery hue was emanating from the doorway. He felt the lure of it crying out to him through the darkness. It was beckoning him, whispering to him. He was sure of it. He sensed something ethereal and valuable. Sinibaldus smiled, gobbled up the last remaining stalk and walked all night through small trees and open meadows to reach it.
Exhausted and hungry from his all-night journey, Sinibaldus arrived at the foot of the rise immediately beneath the Sybil’s cave just as the sun broke in the east. His powder blue eyes scanned upward and eastward. A sheer wall of rock with no apparent path leading up opposed him. He scanned the entire landscape but there were no slopes, no stepping-stones or hand holds. The giant released a hearty yawn as his stomach did a flip and growled. ‘I’m fucking hungry. I’ve no time for this. There has to be a way to get up there.’
And then his heightened sense of hearing noted faint whispers all around him. The stones at his feet and the ones lying near the base of the wall were hissing his name. “Sinibaldus.”
“What kind of magic is this?” He sniggered.
An old crone limped out onto the ledge overhead, her bent, half-naked body still in shadow. Her spindly arms with loose and sagging skin, stretched out towards the orange glow of dawn just beginning to fill the clear sky above her.
“Sinibaldus. Why have you sought me out?”
Sinibaldus snickered now. “Witches.”
Being reared in La Piscine Vivant, the giant was wholly familiar with the dramatic welcoming these old crones often rehearsed and practiced in order to awe and woo disciples and visitors. She knew his name so that was slightly impressive, but so to did the rocks, or was that his imagination. He couldn’t be sure, not yet. He was extremely tired and hungry and had no patience for any theater. Few, if any of the witches he knew during his former life, had the touch. Most of them were weak and could not channel otherworldly spirits for sacrosanct knowledge. Every time he raped or murdered one of the bitches, she never saw it coming. ‘This one will be no different,’ he thought. ‘Another fraud.’
The hissing stones stopped repeating his name and started to call him something else entirely. “Spawn. Spawn.”
“I am a friend,” Sinibaldus trumped proudly. “I come to your cave seeking knowledge. Let me up and I promise to pay you well. I have much gold and treasure. Surely you are in need of such.” He winked when he said it. ‘That always works,’ he thought confidently, smugly. ‘These greedy old hags are poor and lonely. Professionally they want to intimidate and leave a lasting impression but in the end, it is gold and vits they crave.’
Herophile lowered her hands slowly. Sinibaldus was sure she was going to reveal the secret path leading up to her door. Instead, the old crone crouched down, parting her legs as if to give birth, pointing an accusative crooked finger down towards the giant.
“You are no friend of mine and you do not seek my knowledge.” She assuredly clicked her tongue in her cheek. “And you have no gold or treasure.”
Sinibaldus hated the truth especially when someone used it against him or to deny
him access to the things he wanted. His rage was mounting and his stomach was turning to fire, consumed by deprivation. He was conflicted and to make matters worse, he had to restrain a yawn.
“You know nothing about me or what I have,” he retorted.
“I know much about you, Sinibaldus.” She paused and let that sink in. “And I know what you have done and intend to do.”
“And what have I done?” He hardly heard the last part, already upset about the first part.
The crone massaged her dirty, scabby knees and hissed, “Murder.”
The stones heckled him louder, their hissing voices drawn out and extended as though they were sinewy snakes slithering closer.
“Murder. Murder. Murder.”
Sinibaldus wasn’t intimidated but still he had to lash out at something. He was irritable and a bit concerned there might be a nest of cave-dwellers lurking in the brush, thieves and rogues ready to pounce on him with clubs and stakes. He had heard rocks speak before. He knew this earth magic, friction from the ethereal electrifying the elements in the ground. The powers were heightened if the stones were composed of rarer minerals. He glanced about but they all seemed pretty ordinary, chalky white limestone, calcite, foliated gneiss. He kicked some nearby stones but it did nothing to quell them. The giant inhaled fully, trying his utmost best to remain cool and balanced. ‘This is no ordinary crone,’ he mused and acknowledged. ‘She is communicating with someone. Getting information from somewhere.’ Still, Sinibaldus was not deterred. He remembered how the silvery hue of the doorway lured him to this place. ‘There is something valuable up there, something of great import. I must know what it is and take it.’
“It might be morning, hag, but I can wait. You will not rest knowing I am down here. You should cooperate and let me up, allow me the opportunity to be merciful. If not, your fate is already sealed and the conclusion of the matter predetermined.”
The stones moaned, reverting to “Spawn. Spawn. Spawn.”
Sinibaldus snickered again, agreeing with the stones.
Herophile stood up and began fondling herself seductively. Her thin, lonely hips gyrated slightly as old fingers explored skinny thighs and loose flesh. “You underestimate us, Sinibaldus. You underestimate women. You always have.”
“Women?” He scoffed. And then a memory swelled inside his head, one he couldn’t remember having or had so long ago pushed aside, he forgot it was his. ‘Renée? She was so young and beautiful, so willing.’ A sacred knife cut her throat and blood vomited everywhere, all over Claire’s corpse.
“We have been the bane of your existence, Sinibaldus. Claire was the worst of us. She gifted you with life when you should have died. The Christians were not wrong. You are a monster.”
Another memory was extracted from the far-reaching recesses of his inner being. He didn’t know how the old crone was doing it but she had the gift, the power to get inside of his head. She was resurrecting old information and accenting it for him to see and remember – even if he didn’t want to.
Sinibaldus was now cognizant of his own birth. He watched through his infant eyes as the black membrane surrounding his body was cut away. He emerged from a lake of blood and goo, sitting on a wood table, seeing the world for the very first time through blurry eyes. Strange women he did not recognize were pointing at him, covering their mouths, ungodly terror in their eyes. “Kill it. Kill it.”
“Since you managed to survive your birth,” the Sybil surmised, “you have been nothing but a pawn for the gods to use. And until now, they have left you alone. Now your destiny has been decided.”
Sinibaldus was enraged. “And what god is powerful enough to decide my destiny!”
Herophile’s hands flicked away a few straggly strands of grey hair from her decrepit face and screamed, “I am!”
“Fuck you, hag! The blood of gods runs through my veins. I’m indestructible, felling trees and razing buildings. I have walked on fire and searched the mountains and forests of Europe for men and armies who could best me. There are none. I have crushed them all as I will crush you, old woman. Mon souhait. Ma faҫon.”
The crone lowered her head and shook it, her countenance covered in disappointment. “No, no, Sinibaldus, you misunderstand me and my intent. I have no interest in resisting you. And neither will she.”
Sinibaldus kicked some more stones and even struck his fist against the wall of rock before him as if he believed he could fell the mountain. He was frustrated with the crone and irritated by the insipid whispering of the pebbles.
“Don’t be confused by this, young giant. You’ve seen and heard enough in life to know that there are greater minds than yours in the universe. You cannot war with them all or outlive them. You couldn’t even bring Claire back from the dead. You are so weak and frail, pathetic and human. Your death will come to you with open arms. Sweetly, she will invite you to suckle her bosom, eat at her crotch.” The crone placed her fists against her flat, sagged breasts, her neck and shoulders dramatically rolling along with each and every word she spoke. “And you, giant, you will go willingly into her, the passion too tempting to refuse.” The crone clutched at the air with her scrawny fingers. “And she will take from you. She will take everything from you including your life.”
“Enough of this!” Sinibaldus hollered, his booming voice echoing through the hills. “I’ll not hear more prophesy hag! Tell me how to reach you right now! I’m going to fuck you so hard, your hearts going to pop out through your teeth! You’re going to wish you had never met me.”
Herophile shrieked. Her ominous voice pierced the air like a bolt of lightning and the stones stopped whispering. The air grew a tad bit cooler. “No, Sinibaldus! You will wish you had never met me!”
With a clap of thunder, a sleek black missile shot suddenly out of the cave behind her. The projectile rocketed wildly though the sky above them, darting everywhere within a matter of seconds, nearly leaving a vapor trail behind it.
Unmoved by this revelation, Sinibaldus calmly eyed the missile.
“An imp,” he whispered.
The black-skinned humanoid finally ended its hectic zooming and came to a hovering halt near the Sybil’s head. Using slow strokes of its wings, it levitated and waited. It was about half the size of a person, but more than a small child. When the wings were fully extended, the creature was wider than it was tall.
Herophile flashed a toothless grin.
“What? Only one?” Sinibaldus teased.
The cave dwellers of La Piscine Vivant were more than familiar with imps, often going to war with them over the rights to caverns and hollows. The deeper they went into the earth, the more of the bat-like beings they encountered. Unless imps swarmed or bared weapons, which they most often did not, they were hardly ever a challenge, no different than fighting a very large, but intelligent rodent.
Donum held out one of his wing-hands and Herophile claimed what he bore.
Politely, the imp bowed his head. “Domina mea.” Without hardly making another sound, hardly a whoosh of air to be heard, Donum launched himself upward, spun a few times and darted dramatically back into the cave.
There was an uncomfortable silence as the crone and giant stared at one another in heated opposition. The orange hue of the sky had gradually turned bluer as the fiery sun started to creep over the very top of the mountains. It was coming into Sinibaldus’ line of sight, making it more difficult to keep looking up at her.
“The spirits have spoken,” Herophile calmly stated. “From their tombs and from their graves they have risen and condemned you. They say you are not forgiven.” The Sybil was more intense now. “Sinibaldus, you desecrate the very air you breathe. You were not born but spawned. You were never meant to enter this realm. You don’t belong here. But I will not judge you or berate you any further, for I share your part in the Fall. I too am one of the forsaken, a soul doomed and damned to bitter eternity as ash, nothing more. We should never be and yet we are.”
The Sybil paused, fon
dling the object in her hands. “It is time you leave me, Sinibaldus.”
The giant growled, “I’m not leaving until …”
Herophile interrupted him. “Until you feel powerful and full.”
Sinibaldus smirked in agreement, his right hand now raised and shielding his eyes from the sun.
“I gift you your heart’s desire and may you use it to your ruin.”
Herophile held her right hand to the heavens. A brilliant gemstone resting on the palm seemed to explode with a blinding light, a kaleidoscope of colors that shamed the sun. It out shone the whole world, the magnificence generating a rainbow that washed the nearby mountains and hills with churning colors, extending outwards for miles and miles. Even Sinibaldus’ white face was red, pink, purple and blue. The rocks. The trees. The hag. Everything.
“The crystal,” she cried over the sound of the light, “was forged long ago beneath the black loam of the earth for the vanity of a warrior, a Greek named Bellerophon! It represents the arrogance and waywardness of evil men, of mortals, of the decadent florae growing in the perpetual sea of green and feeble grass. Cursed are you, Giant of Chamonix, a wicked creature who strives to be a god!” She placed both hands beneath the crystal, holding it as high as she could. “Here me now Eternals of this and other worlds! I hereby renounce my guardianship of the crux of the five conscious crystals!” Her black eyes burned as she turned down to face Sinibaldus. “Take it, you fool! It is a gift! It is death!” Herophile hurled the fiery stone and all its colorful light off the ledge on which she stood.
