by Joseph Lallo
"It sounded like 'Hollow is twitching,'" she said.
"You are not mistaken," he said.
"What does it mean?" she asked, as she realized that they were headed to the Elder's quarters, along with nearly every other resident of the village.
"Do you recall the prophecy I was reading you? How it was the life's work of Tober, our prophet? Well, all through his time here, he was constantly in search of the next thing that could enhance his already remarkable scrying skills. He drank potions, underwent treatments. Each altered his body and mind to lengthen and deepen his trances. Soon he was able to commune with the spirits for days at a time, and an army of assistants worked in shifts committing every word to writing.
"One day, he entered the trance, never spoke, and never left it. We still speculate on what precisely occurred that day. Some say he had spent so much time with the spirits that he left his body to join them. Others believe he asked one too many questions of a malevolent spirit and paid the ultimate price. All that is known for sure is that his body no longer contains a soul.
"We've taken to calling the empty shell he left behind 'Hollow.' It wasn't dead, not technically. It never ate, never moved, but continued to live. We left it in his hut. No one really knew what else to do. Then, decades later, someone heard a noise. Hollow was speaking. His body remains a superb conduit to the spirit realm. In times of incredible import, the voices from beyond speak through him. The words are impossibly cryptic, but flawlessly accurate predictions," Deacon said, lowering to a whisper as they made their way inside and took a seat on the crowded floor.
A heavy, throne-like chair was brought in by four stout young men. In the chair was a frail and ancient man dressed in a dusty, but not worn, tunic. A pair of milky white eyes stared vacantly across the room at nothing at all. His hands, gnarled like the branches of an oak, curled around the arms of the chair. When the men lowered it to the ground, others opened a chest attached to the back of the chair. Inside were chains and shackles. The shackles were clamped onto both of his ankles and wrists. The chains were attached to loops installed in the walls of the hut.
"What are the shackles for?" Myranda asked.
"Some of the spirits have never been in a body. Their actions when they find a vacant one can be unpredictable," he said.
When the restraints were in place, the handlers retreated into the rest of the crowd. No one would venture closer than ten paces from the seat. The only sign that the man who was given so much space was even alive was the subtle twitch of his fingers every few minutes. Despite this, the scene was tense. Absolute silence was maintained as the most powerful wizards and warriors of the world watched the withered old man. Minutes passed.
Finally, the silence was broken by the rattling of chains as Hollow shifted forward. He seemed to be pulled by an unseen force in his chest, and in a flash he was suspended in the air, straining at the restraints. He drew in a breath, pained and ragged enough to be his first in years, as he lowered slowly to the ground. His legs folded limply beneath him, and he lay in a pile on the ground. Words began to flow from his mouth. It was a terrifying sound. He spoke not with one voice, but with dozens, perhaps hundreds. They formed a sort of sloppy harmony, some voices lagging, others rushing desperately through the messages. There were whispers and screams alike. Some even uttered in different languages.
All who had the means to do so wrote madly. Deacon was writing, not only with his own stylus, but with three more that moved about on the page under their own power. Myranda tried to listen, but the language was unfamiliar to her. As he spoke, Hollow's body jerked and shifted, as though he was a marionette with different hands pulling at every string. As more time passed, his motions became more violent.
Nearly an hour passed without a moment of peace before, as suddenly as it had begun, the tumult ended. Hollow fell to the ground as though his strings had been cut. Fully half of an hour passed before all were convinced that the prophet had spoken his last for the day.
"Splendid. This has been a fruitful session," Deacon said, marking down notes and separating blocks of text.
"Did you understand that?" Myranda asked.
"A great deal of it," Deacon said.
The crowd was filing out of the hut. Deacon was comparing notes to those near him as the handlers began to unfasten the chains from the walls. As they did, Myranda approached Hollow. He was being loaded back into the chair. All of the chaotic life that had filled the hut was gone. She looked with curiosity at this bizarre side effect of so many mystic procedures. His wrists looked thin and brittle as twigs, yet earlier the chains had been barely strong enough to restrain him. The eyes were disturbing. There was no hint of the previous color of his eyes, and even the pupils had clouded over. She was wondering what seeing through those eyes must be like when they slowly turned, locking onto her. Myranda shook her head, not certain if she was imagining it.
A moment later, she was on the ground and the wrinkled fingers were stretching out in the direction of the wall behind her. Three chains were still in place, but one had been removed from the wall and was still in the hands of the handler. Hollow's arm hurled chain and man effortlessly through the air. He collided with the far wall. Five men rushed to the flailing chain and tried valiantly to reconnect it to the wall.
"Light! More than for one! Another still! Threads! Connections!" Hollow's many voices cried.
He was reaching out for something specific, not like before. It was as though he was looking through the wall. Beyond it. The three chains were creaking at their moorings. One leg restraint broke free and lashed across the crowd. The possessed form jerked out of the air and onto the ground with earth-shattering force. He reached out toward Myranda.
"At the meeting of light, light, light! Above the darkened door! A sacrifice! A blinding ring! The elders of the crescent made equal! All is a whimper in the shadow of the white wall! Victory is a prelude. The final struggle follows!" he decreed.
There was no denying it. Myranda was the target of this last prophecy. Once it was delivered, the shell of a man fell limp once more. The handlers returned Hollow to the chair and re-secured the restraints. White-robed healers emerged from the crowd to care for the injured. The loose chain had bloodied no less than five people. When they were satisfied that Myranda was not hurt, they helped her to her feet. Deacon helped her outside.
"That has never happened before! Hollow, once he dropped down like that, has never awoken again in less than a year. And he never, never addresses anyone directly," Deacon said.
Myn came sprinting to the hut. The commotion had attracted her. She surveyed Myranda for injury, and was less satisfied than the healers. She shot angry looks at all who drew near.
"Come on. I do not want her to start breathing flame at imagined attackers," Myranda said.
They had to move quickly. Already witnesses to the unprecedented event had begun to assemble around Myranda to learn more. Still not eager to be confined to her quarters again, Myranda joined Deacon in his hut. He closed the door against visitors and took a seat at his desk. All of that which he had written while watching Hollow was in the open book waiting for him. Myn set herself faithfully before the door, adopting a hostile posture each time footsteps passed too near.
"So much to be done. Translation, interpretation. But first I must ask you. In the commotion, I could not record Hollow's unexpected additions," he said.
He began to mark down the words.
"When he spoke to you, he said 'light' three times, correct?" he asked.
"I believe so. Does that really matter?" she asked.
"Not a single word is wasted when he speaks. Of course, your message and the one before it are among the most straightforward I have ever heard," Deacon replied.
"Do you mean to tell me that you know what was meant by those words?" she asked.
"Well . . . no. But the imagery was at least obvious. Most times interpreters must work for days, or weeks, to uncover something that even resembles realit
y. Luckily, Tober took volumes of notes before his transformation into Hollow. The spirits that choose to communicate with us through him are often the same ones that he relied upon. As a result, many of the allusions they make are documented and translated," he said, selecting a book from one of the carefully kept shelves.
"One of the shorter statements. Keltem gorato melni treshic. Now, Keltem translates literally to people--or, more specifically, physical beings. The spirits use this term most often when they intend to indicate a specific body part. An arm or a leg, for instance. Gorato is the name of a prolific gold mine of years gone by. In older prophesies, gorato has been used to imply things of virtue and worth, but mostly it refers to gold itself. Melni is the name of a specific spirit that was known for terrorizing the living. The spirits tend to use the name interchangeably with fear. And finally treshic. Treshic is the name of a fabled ancient tree that stood for so long against the forces of nature that it eventually succumbed to rot from within. This is essentially the spirit 'word' for corruption," he said, flipping constantly through the book to find his answers.
"What does it mean?" Myranda asked.
"Well. If I were to arrange these translations into a sentence as we know it, it would be . . . Beware those with golden . . . no, virtuous limbs, for they are corrupt," he said.
"I see," Myranda said with a smirk.
"It is not an exact science. There are other listed interpretations for each one of these words. They could even be intended literally, or some combination of literal and interpreted. It could mean to fear people who wear gold on their bodies, or simply warn against trusting the wealthy. That is why a skilled interpreter is worth his weight in gold. Right now, the best we have are the historians in the records building. When I have had my fun with my personal notes, I am to relinquish them to the experts," he said.
Myranda turned to the dragon, who had not been at ease for several minutes. There was now an audible clamor outside of the door.
"What is going on?" Myranda asked.
"I would imagine that my fellow Entwellians have finally come to see the truly exceptional person I have known you to be for some time," Deacon said.
"I really do not want the attention," Myranda said.
"I should expect you will have a rather difficult time avoiding it. Unless you sic Myn on them," Deacon said. "Besides, you were just saying that you were hoping for others with whom you could speak."
"This is rather more than I was hoping for," Myranda groaned.
When the door was finally opened, Deacon was proven to be quite correct. Her earlier achievements had made her at best an interesting oddity, admired by some, envied by others, but nothing remarkable. Now she was nothing short of a celebrity. Hollow had permanently labeled her as something of the greatest importance. For several days, while she was still recovering, she was constantly being approached by wizards and warriors alike. Some made an earnest effort to converse with her in her own tongue. Mostly, the admirers adhered to the standard policy of Entwell, speaking in the language of their origin.
Myranda was able to muddle through most conversations passably--but, in truth, she learned more from the first day's dialogue than she had in all of the time she'd been listening. The wizards who spoke to her were primarily practitioners of white and black magic. They seemed to know that she was something special, and tried their best to inject their knowledge and expertise, hoping in some way to make their mark on history though this unique girl. In the few days that followed, she was made aware of dozens of techniques in white and black magic alike, many of which were little more than theory. Warriors were more interested in learning what great deeds she had done before arriving. They latched onto her tales of the Undermine and questioned relentlessly to that end.
The attention was almost more than Myn could bear. She'd had a hard enough time sharing Myranda with Deacon. Now she had to endure dozens of people a day. The little dragon had learned restraint in her days in Entwell, but she had her limits. Each new visitor received the same harsh treatment as Deacon had when she had first met him. Even a handshake was cause enough for her to flash her teeth and lash her tail. Visitors learned quickly that a bit of caution was in order when dealing with her.
Myranda scolded her halfheartedly each time. The times that Myn chased her visitors away tended to be the only times that she was alone. It was something of a reversal of fortunes for her.
#
Nearly three full weeks elapsed before the clerics and healers agreed that Myranda was ready to continue her education. Her next teacher, Cresh, had been contacting her during the last few days of her recovery. He never met with her directly. Instead, books found their way onto the table of her hut in her absence. If the dirt smudging each page was any indication, the books were from his personal collection, and he loved his work. They were written in a language that made them incomprehensible to her.
Now the time had come for her to meet him face to face for the first time as his student. The usual crowd of admirers followed as she approached her teacher's home, with the exception of Deacon, who had taken to remaining in his own hut rather than compete with the crowd for Myranda's ear. Cresh's home was a low, unusual hut fairly buried in a jungle of plants and trees. The structure was unlike any of the others. It had no seams, as though it had been carved, or grown, from a single stone.
"I am not putting on a show. Off with you and leave us in peace," Cresh warned the onlookers as he emerged from within. He was speaking his own language. It was the same he'd spoken on their only other meeting, the same she had failed to decipher in his books.
The eager onlookers shuffled away, much to the relief of Myn. Cresh looked at the creature for a moment, then shrugged.
"A cave-dweller is a welcome visitor any day, but no one else, if you don't mind. This is serious business. Mine is the most important of magics, you know," he informed her.
Myranda took a moment to attempt to translate his words. After managing to understand only a few she requested that he address her in Northern, or Tresson. He answered with what would be the first and last word she would easily understand for the duration of her training. No. He then launched into a speech.
It was rather entertaining to watch him speak. He was fully two feet shorter than she, and perpetually encrusted with dust and dirt. In addition, he tended to gesture enthusiastically while speaking. This was fortunate, as it helped her to understand his meaning. She could tell by the chest thumping and smiling of the speech that he was bragging about himself. He gestured for her to follow as he entered his hut.
The inside was as unique as the outside. There was no floor, only bare earth. There was also no furniture to speak of, save the shelves of books and jars. Even his staff was sticking into the soft earth rather than sitting carefully in a rack, as was the habit of the other wizards she'd met. He plucked it and held it in one hand while the other reached into one of the jars. He tossed a few grains of the substance within to the ground at her feet, and a few more at his own feet. A sweep of the staff sprouted the seeds instantly into stout vines that obligingly wove themselves into a rather inviting chair for each of them.
"That was very impressive," she said as she took a seat.
The dwarf waved off the compliment and sat as well. He began to talk again. It was apparently one of his favorite pastimes. After ten minutes of listening, she was able to understand enough to know that he was responsible for growing all of the food for the village, in addition to drawing up all of the crystal, metal, and stone that they might need. She had often wondered how a moderately-sized village like this could satisfy its demand for resources without any apparent source. Now she knew.
Suddenly, the time for idle chitchat was over. He first gestured at her feet, clearly indicating that her boots had to be removed. He said something about a sculptor wearing mittens, if Myranda pieced together the words correctly. She obeyed and copied him as he dug his toes into the dirt. He launched into another long speech, cupping his han
d to his ear and pounding the ground with his feet. After receiving a puzzled look from Myranda, Cresh indicated that she should close her eyes and cover her ears. He then tapped the ground again. When she responded that she could feel the footfalls, he indicated that she should focus and discover what else she could find.
Focusing and searching with her mind was, at least, familiar to her. Before long, she found that she could sense the footfalls of the other people of Entwell. He seemed pleased and encouraged her to continue. More time passed and she realized that she could feel the constant flow of the waterfall. Again she was encouraged to deepen her search. It was truly remarkable the information that the earth could give her in the absence of all of her other senses. As she revealed everything from the movement of insects in the earth to the wind rustling the grass, he entreated her to speak up when she discovered something that she could not identify, rather than those things she could.
This assignment left her silent for some time. She quickly identified all of the new things she could detect, and gradually ceased to locate anything new. Her mind delved deeper and deeper. The thing that Cresh had been waiting for her to find came slowly. It was barely anything. At first, she was unsure she'd felt it at all. However, slowly she was able to push aside all else. Soon it was undeniable. There was something there. Something she'd never felt before.
"It is a rhythm. I can feel it. Like a heartbeat," she said.
Cresh nodded enthusiastically. He stood and took her outside, scolding her when she instinctively reached for her boots. She stood in front of the hut, dug her toes into the ground, and found the pulse again. Once in the stance that would be commonplace in the days to come, she was able to lock onto it and hold it in the back of her mind. In this way, she would be able to listen--or, at least, attempt to listen--to her instructor. The procedure he seemed to describe was familiar to her as well. She was to allow the rhythm to mingle with her own strength. The fire and wind methods were similar. Different, though, was the way that she was to do so. The rhythm was to ripple up through her feet, and later her staff, and into her body. Once she was a part of the pulse's path, she was to allow it to echo inside of her. It was to rebound and reverberate through her, growing ever stronger as it did.
