The Spirit Well

by Charles E Yallowitz

  *****

  Nestled within the snow-covered forest, the clearing remains a spot of permanent springtime. The warmth gives Dariana an immediate chill as she marches over the flowers that have grown since her departure. A large butterfly flutters into her face, its blue and purple wings throwing pollen onto the telepath’s cheeks. With a wave of her hand, she sends the insect careening to the edge of the clearing where it remains shuddering on a sunflower. Dariana cautiously eyes the suspicious bug while inching closer to the canopy bed. Her hand runs along the crimson blanket before pulling it back to reveal the black sheets and a chipmunk that scurries away. She undoes all of the golden cords to release the ivory curtains, but refuses to climb onto the thick mattress that has retained an imprint of her body. The thought of putting anything more than a hand on the bed makes her nauseous and angry.

  “I must have left a clue here somewhere,” Dariana mutters as she begins her search. One by one, she examines the tasseled cords and yanks them down when she finds that they are nothing more than useless decorations. “My father brought me to the portal once. I know this. Then Stephen forced me to erase it from my mind. I would have seen that demand coming, so there has to be a clue around my resting place.”

  Realizing that she must have put the message in a place her brother would never think to look, Dariana crawls beneath the bed. Unable to see in the dark, she gropes around the mattress in search of a spot that has been sewn shut. Thin boards prevent her from checking the entire underside, which forces her to use her legs to lift the futon. Slipping her fingers between the mattress and lengths of wood, Dariana grinds her body in order to move along the ground. The longer she remains among the black flowers that have sprouted without light, the sleepier she becomes. Fearing that a spell is coming over her, the yawning woman rolls into the open air and smacks herself in the face a few times. A violent sneeze removes the pollen from her nose and she backs away from the cloud that briefly takes the form of a grinning face.

  Her cheeks red and her head clear, Dariana decides to stop being gentle and kicks the bed with half of her strength. The blow is powerful enough to crack the frame and snap one of the canopy posts in half while sending everything on top flipping away. After checking the top sides of the support boards, the frustrated woman moves to the upside down mattress. Stripping the sheet off, Dariana smiles at a faint line of stitching along one of the sides. It takes a few minutes to delicately dig her finger inside and snap the thread, which falls onto the flowers and dissolves with a hiss.

  “Why is there nothing in here?” she asks, shoving her entire arm into the mattress. Reaching further inside, the touch of metal grazes her fingertips and she clutches a small box. “This must have been pressed against my back the whole time. Surprised I left more than a written message, but I don’t really remember what I was like that long ago.”

  Dariana pulls the plain box out of the mattress and casually flips the simple clasp. As soon as she opens the container, a shadow lunges out and grabs her shoulders with cold, stretching fingers. Caught by surprise, the telepath is whipped around the clearing and continually slammed into the ground. She tries to get a hold of the creature, but finds that her hands pass through its ebony body. Flowers are uprooted as Dariana is dragged face first through the dirt, a cackling laugh echoing in her ears. The shadow tosses her high above the trees and moves the bed so that the woman will break her spine on one of the orbed posts. Instead, the telepath folds her body and reaches back to grab the wooden globe, the momentum helping her swing back to land in front of the creature.

  “Guess I left a trap,” Dariana whispers, dodging the next grab. Spinning around her enemy, she leaps through the creature to avoid a new pair of spindly arms. “I’m the one who left you here, so stand down and give me the message.”

  “Big brother says you lose again,” the shadow gurgles as a wide smile emerges from its chest.

  The creature grows a pair of edged wings that do nothing more than flap and leave deep gashes in the earth. Not sure if she can block its attacks, Dariana leaps away from the monster and searches for a weak point. When the deadly blades get stuck in the ground, she darts forward to deliver an elbow strike to the grinning mouth that has grown from its chest. All of the teeth shatter like glass, but she is forced to dive through the shadow in order to avoid capture. Unlike before, the creature’s body is sticky and Dariana can feel it try to hold on as she escapes. Hoping that her enemy has become more solid, the telepath makes a spinning kick for its head. The blow does nothing and she is forced to awkwardly cartwheel away and dive to the side as the laughing creature becomes faster.

  “Stephen was always thorough,” a woman’s voice whispers from across the clearing. A shimmering form briefly appears near the bed, but disappears as soon as the shadow looks in its direction. “Stop playing with it, Dariana, and we will talk. Or am I too pure and wise to understand your actions?”

  “Be right with you, mom,” the telepath mutters, stopping her rapid dodging. A psychic blast rips the shadow apart and casts it remains across the world. “I thought the creature had answers, but it seems I was wrong. Should I ask why you’re here?”

  Zaria appears on the opposite side of the clearing and walks until she is within reach of her daughter. The red-haired goddess catches the punch that sends a tremor through her body, which brings a frown to the deity’s face. Meeting the other immortal’s gaze, she is surprised by the disgust and anger in the younger woman’s eyes. Knowing that she could never strike her only child, Zaria releases Dariana’s wrist and moves away without putting her back to the former champion. Not wanting to appear weak, the Purity Goddess conjures a sword on her hip in the hopes of it giving the illusion that she will fight if pushed into a corner. Clapping her hands, the beautiful deity repairs the damage to the clearing and has the metal box float above the bed. She transforms it into four moth statues that fly to the bedposts and attach themselves to the wooden orbs at the top.

  “Why bother with that since I’m never going to sleep here again?” Dariana asks while cracking her knuckles. The sudden sensation of being watched by hundreds of eyes makes her sweat and a faint giggling echoes in her ears. “Good to know we have an audience. Things must be very boring in Ambervale if our family problems are worth watching. I assume the others want us to fight, which will cause you to be sealed for a bit. Though you usually manage to talk your way out of such a punishment. Windemere simply can’t exist without the great Zaria doing her job.”

  The goddess appears flustered by the blunt words, but it is shown only by a momentary glint in her whitening eyes. “I assume you’re angry about all of the lies. To be honest, I thought we were past this issue. Yes, I led you to believe your father forced himself upon me. The truth is that I took him to my bed willingly, but only to prevent him from doing harm to the other gods and goddesses. If he had ascended with good intentions for Windemere then it would have been different, but it wasn’t like that.”

  “All I hear is a bunch of excuses and a story that makes me feel like I’m one of the biggest mistakes in history,” Dariana replies, spitting at her mother’s feet. Bending down, she plucks a white flower from the ground and calmly tears the petals off. “The most pathetic thing about this whole prophecy is that it was born from the most ridiculous source. A man’s broken heart and the stubborn law-abiding goodness of the goddess he was once married to. You can blame Gabriel for this all you want. He may be the puppet master, but you’re the one who built the theater and set the stage. Are you aware that my father still loves you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you still allow this to go on?”

  “My hands are tied by our law. To interfere could return Windemere to chaos.”

  “Could is not the same as will, mother!”

  Zaria’s blade leaps from the scabbard and aims for Dariana’s neck, the point stopping a hair from the silver-haired woman’s flesh. “Do not speak as if you were alive during those times, child. Before the Law o
f Influence, the gods and goddesses of our world would do whatever they wanted. Their followers called on them to step into battle against mortals and many would do so for the right price. Others manipulated men and women for amusement. They craved attention and a stronger hold on the world, which nearly led to Windemere’s demise. Imagine if Anceron the Destruction God or Lady Aiko the Lustful Sister were allowed to run wild. It would be a disaster. And do you think the law is only to protect mortals from us? You travel with a woman who has broken more than one of our seals and there are more out there with her level of power, but not her restraint. Gods are not always the strongest beings in a fight, which is what they learned before Arthuru and I saved them from their own comeuppance. Do you think I am happy that we were the final casualties of a war that we put an end to?”

  Dariana scowls at her mother, whose sword remains in position even as its wielder wipes a few tears away. A cool rain falls upon the clearing even though there are no clouds in sight. The flowers sway to catch as much of the crisp water as they can, a few of them humming a variety of tunes. It is enough to soften Zaria’s features, the goddess gradually lowering her blade and relaxing. Both women smell lilacs, neither of them knowing if the specific plant is in the clearing or a deity is trying to erase the tension. Dariana is the first to break eye contact and goes to stand near the bed where she mindlessly fingers one of the golden cords. The former champion hears her mother take a few steps, but the Purity Goddess stops and remains out of reach. Ignoring the crawling sensation that ripples over her skin, the telepath sits on the edge of the mattress and leans against the post.

  “I can’t explain my actions to you,” Dariana claims, gently exhaling the last of her pent up aggression. Even with her muscles loose and her mind clear, the cautious woman refuses to entirely drop her guard around the goddess. “You haven’t been mortal for so long that you don’t know what it’s like to survive outside of Ambervale. There’s so much pain and suffering out here even without our family intervening. Dad might not be the greatest choice to unite Windemere, but the champions winning could be worse. They don’t end anything more than a single threat while he could eliminate several. Don’t you see that the time of heroes is over and something new has to appear?”

  “A time of heroes is what we are on the verge of, Dariana,” Zaria says as she floats over to her daughter. Taking the woman’s face in her hands, the goddess refuses to turn away from the steely gaze the bores into her eyes. “Your father is only one of many ancient dangers that have been locked in the shadows. He has always been the darkness at the edge of the horizon, but there are things lurking beyond that line. Gabriel and I always knew that his containment would be temporary, but it was after the Great Cataclysm that we realized he had unwittingly become a cork. Once the Forgotten Baron returns, more dangers will stir and a new generation of heroes will be needed. Some will appear by our hands and others of their own accord. The champions must usher in this age because such mortals will never bloom under Arthuru’s rule.”

  “More games that ignore the fact that you’re toying with living, thinking creatures,” the telepath sighs while moving her mother’s hands away. The feeling that they are being watched fades away, the other deities apparently losing interest. “The Law of Influence is as sturdy as a rope made of water considering how many loopholes you have. An age of heroes is ridiculous and makes me wonder how many lives you’re willing to sacrifice for your fun. I’m sure father could defeat or control all of these ancient evils any way.”

  “That is not his place.”

  “Neither was being a god, but he once claimed the title of Destiny God.”

  “Which is what led to his downfall.”

  “I think that would be you, mother.”

  Zaria’s hand lashes out to slap her child across the face, reviving the attention of the other gods. “Remember that purity does not mean I am always nice. My rage would rival that of Ymir the Fury God, so bite your tongue, child. Arthuru’s fall into the abyss was one of the most painful sights I have ever had to witness, but it was by his own hand. He was told to accept our fate and instead he made himself an enemy of the gods. I did not force him to make such decisions. Every time we spoke, I begged him to atone for his misdeeds, but he would only ask me to revoke the law. That was the one thing I could not do even for the reason that I missed my husband. None of the others would agree to such an act.”

  “How did you speak with him?” Dariana asks as she places a purple flower in her mother’s crimson hair. Managing a smile, the telepath lets her fingers trace the goddess’s jawline as if she is a curious child. “I mean, the Law of Influence forbids gods from influencing the events and actions of a mortal’s life. The only way father could have spoken with you is if he initiated contact. Did he truly have the power back then to do that?”

  “Your father had a portal he used for-” the Purity Goddess begins to say.

  Dariana screams as her mind bores into her mother’s memories, the billowing energy burning the young woman’s skin. Unleashing her full power, the telepath’s hair turns black and her eyes explode into twin orbs of ebony fire. The pain reminds the former champion of a time long ago when Sutter the Ifrit knocked her into the lava of Helgard, which nearly killed her. This time the agony is entirely mental and any physical damage is an illusion caused by misfires in her brain. Dariana is only partially aware of her mother’s shrieks, which are powerful enough to shake all of Windemere. Flowers explode around their feet and the warmth of the clearing is devoured by artic freeze that crystallizes the butterflies. Distracted by the sound of shattering insects and bursting petals, the telepath turns off her ears and focuses on violently burrowing into the psyche of a goddess. All Dariana wants is the location of the portal, which she eventually tears from the recesses of Zaria’s mind.

  “Thanks, mother,” she growls before stopping her attack. Dizzy and in pain, the woman staggers away from the fading deity and collapses on the bed. “This is what all of you have brought upon yourselves. I just need to take a nap.”

  *****

  Balancing a covered platter on her head and dragging a long sack, Yola gleefully skips through the Chaos Void. The sky is choked by black smoke that is billowing out of nearby volcanoes, each one adorned with a colony of grinning faces. Lightning flashes overhead, but it never does more than frame the ash-filled clouds. Only a handful of demons can be seen in this far corner of their dimension, but the former goddess senses that more creatures are lurking within the crumbling ground. She knows it is because of the stone-faced man that has been sitting on a throne of crimson stone for the last two weeks. Even though the Baron appears calm and patient, there is a constant pulse of aggression that only Yola is brave enough to ignore. The one time the immortal considers that she has made a mistake is when her master scowls at the chorus of grunts coming from her sack.

  Not wanting to disturb the Baron, whose eyes are closed in meditation, Yola quietly puts the platter on a table that spins out of the earth. Bits of stone strike an invisible shield that turns them into wisps of powder, the ancient warlord’s right eye twitching at the sizzling noise The green-haired woman glares at the naughty table and waves an admonishing finger at it before turning her attention to the sack. Though the bag is no bigger than Yola’s leg and flops about like nothing is inside, she proceeds to pull out a variety of prisoners. Twelve men and woman are lined up in front of the Baron, who continues to stare at the harsh landscape before him. The people are unable to move due to their ankles and wrists being fused together by the former goddess. Having found their constant begging an irritation, Yola has stolen their mouths, which are being soaked in brine to become snacks for Walter.

  “Thank you for bringing me these tools,” the Baron says in a faint voice. His body dry from dehydration, the immortal coughs up dust while reaching for a shimmering goblet that appears on the platter. “And the nourishment. The lack of food and water cannot kill me, but it makes my existence difficult. Do you bring news
as well?”

  “Nyder is ahead of schedule with the Weapon Dragons,” Yola answers while tickling the prisoners’ bare feet. She enjoys the muffled laughs and complaints that rattle in their trembling throat. “There’s another little thing that’s happened. Dariana has stolen the Compass Key after betraying the champions, but before knocking out Isaiah and ripping the location of your portal out of Zaria’s mind. A butterfly told me all that with its dying sneeze. I bet the creature its soul that you wouldn’t care.”

  “I apologize for costing you whatever was wagered,” the warlord says, amused by his companion’s carefree smile. He waits for a spectral butterfly to appear and claim its prize of a single lock of Yola’s emerald hair. “My daughter is doing exactly what I knew she would. For a long time, I have sensed that she had a plan to help me, which required my presence at the other end of this portal. You may return to our son, Yola. If I need fresh telepaths then I will contact you.”

  “They aren’t easy to come by these days.”

  “You merely need to be creative in what you define as a telepath.”

  “So I can bring you a bag full of gnomes next time?”