by A Werner
And there was Zaon’s big black marbled eye. Her body was broken, tendons and muscles exposed, lying motionless on a bed of pine needles. They were dead now. All of them dead. “Bravest blood flows first,” the Spaniard whispered to himself. “Bravest blood flows first.”
Rolling over onto his back, Pero brushed his long black hair beneath his head, creating a cushion. He sought to evict these troublesome memories when Rugerius Fabbro stood before him, climbing slowly from a vat of boiling, bloody water. He wasn’t wounded yet, his jaw wholly intact. He was young and healthy, cutting a dashing figure. He did, however, have shiny gold teeth. Above the vat was an enormous finger bearing a golden ring. It poked down godlike from a clear blue sky, mixing the elements of the scene together. Blue sky, the gold of Rugerius’ teeth, the black vat and the bloody water blended into a soup, saturating everything until all was awash of clumpy brown filth. Torrential rains fell. Darkness covered everything. Pero could feel himself spinning, seeking light. There was light. There was a roar. He twisted about to find an enormous black dragon whizzing overhead, its unholy wings stroking up and down with frightful force, barely missing his head. Axe wielding ogres suddenly ran by, wholly ignoring Pero. The whirlwind their haste created blew his long black hair behind him. Pero spun dizzy and lost his balance. By the time he righted himself, the horde was beyond him, butchering a mass of screaming peasants, limbs veering off in every direction as far as the eye could see. It seemed as if the terrified souls expected him to help them. He didn’t know how. Their spirits were trying to get inside his heart, climb inside his mind. Within a matter of seconds, his heart weighed a ton.
An ice-coated corridor with grey walls suddenly rocketed up out of the earth and engulfed Pero in a way he could not fathom. The corridor was dripping blood. There was an odor of death, putrid and rancid. Pero fanned his nose until he spotted something moving far down the corridor. His eyes narrowed. A hobbled griffin with a burnt wing, limped about on one claw. The griffin wept, a corpse with bright red hair nearby. Pero wanted to call out to the griffin but a streak of unexpected lightning crashed loudly and destroyed the scene. More rain fell and Blassilo’s voice thundered down from another world. “Be Penafiel, my hijo,”
The tighter Pero pressed his eyelids shut, the more intense the voice became. “Be Penafiel, my hijo. Do not ignore me.” A small green lizard scurried up Pero’s arm and dashed inside his right ear. Its webbed claws started scratching at the inner workings of his skull. The roar of a great bear cursed him from inside and outside. The fur was becoming his skin. He was transforming, becoming an animal. The howl of wolves was near, fresh blood on their maws. He could smell the blood.
Pero was nearly convinced he was barmy. He balled up his fists and placed them against either side of his head, trying to physically battle the mental madness. At one point, he thought to injure himself, strike himself repeatedly until he passed out and the dark thoughts disappeared. “Why have I been so reckless with my life?” He whispered aloud, hoping no one heard him.
Blassilo Velez lay before him on clean white linens. A golden beast with grizzled hands offered a parchment. ‘I am Penafiel,’ Pero thought loud and proud. ‘I am Penafiel. And I deserve to die honorably like my father.’
Maria Alava appeared behind him. He could feel her icy stare hitting him on the back of the neck. “You arrogant little boy,” she snapped. “As always, you hear what you want to hear, see what you want to see. Your father did not die honorably. Remember all the blood!” Suddenly Pero saw Blassilo on his deathbed again but the white sheets were covered with blood, his father’s arms reaching out for him in pain. “Your father died disgracefully, ambushed by bandits in a muddy ditch. If you wish to fulfill your father’s dearest command, then you must exceed him. You must not die alone. Anthea yet lives. She awaits your return.” A gentle wind kissed him. “Love fixes everything. Redeem the time. Transform your thinking and start over.”
A white cloud materialized in the air above him. Pero could only stare blindly at it. Anthea emerged from it, her graceful figure wearing a long gown of silver with a thin belt of gold. She was gorgeous, stunning, exactly as he cared to remember her.
Anthea Manikos drew nearer to him, her smile warming his troubled soul.
‘Surely this is what I need to see before falling asleep.’
Before Anthea could reach him, an arrow came flying out of nowhere. Gherardus Fabbro stood in that mist of the white cloud, his face turned decidedly away, an empty bow in his hands. The arrow he had fired had pierced Pero’s beating heart, dead center. Pero looked down at his chest expecting to see blood and ruin. He discovered to his amazement that his heart was not a heart after all but a shimmering crystal, a beautiful magnificent gemstone with rays of colored light spraying outward.
Amazed, Pero sought Anthea but she had vanished. Gherardus Fabbro’s presence turned the white cloud, dark. Everything was black and grey again, smelling of rot and death, just like Eagles Pass. Fast approaching storms punished the earth, the rainwater pooling up quickly on the swampy ground, turning puddles into lakes, streams into rivers. A whole ocean instantly appeared before Pero and in it, a wave taller than a ship crested high above his head. The wave was aiming to crash down upon him. Pero could taste seawater in his lungs already. He was choking, gagging. He wanted to break and run but he was trapped, pinned down and incapable of moving. ‘Why?’ He looked to his arms and legs and found that they were bound. He was tied down spread-eagle to a giant metal structure composed of rusty iron poles. A big blue eye had been painted on his forehead. ‘Oh my God, I’m being sacrificed for the greater good! I’m going to drown! Right here! In the midst of my mind, in the spirit of a dream, in the wilds of a forest far from the sea, I’m going to drown. Help me!’
Pero ducked as the wave approached and saw his injured chest again. His heart was still a colorful, light-spewing crystal. Although the arrow still pierced it, it continued to beat, rhythmically, peacefully, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing was going to happen.
‘Solace,’ Pero thought. He had no desire to look away ever again. ‘Let the storms come. Let the wave strike me. The past is behind me. We have all been cheated. We are all sinful creatures. Love is not a virtue. It is a fault, a mistake. The teaching of compassion is best left for children and old men. We are monsters. Our salvation is written in blood, in adventure, in the quest for fortune and fame.’ Pero felt inspired to sing, so sing he did, in his head. ‘Sing ye bards, sing the tales, sing the songs of the brave and the fortunate. Our tales shall live on forever.’
Pero anticipated his own goodness cheating up from behind and would not allow it. ‘No!’ he thought in a rage, looking away from the crystal heart. ‘When I awake, if I wake, I will start anew, fully reborn. The past is over. The peace has ended. I have no home, no family and no friends. I shall never think again of Francis, Father, Mother or Anthea. A glorious ending. I will face Gherardus and Rugerius. When they come, the slaughter shall be great. This is where I make my stand. It is the destiny I choose for myself. No one chooses it for me. I am my own god.’
Pero tried hard to convince himself that this was the end of it and he had successfully silenced his problems. And then a gentle whisper intruded and he feared he might never sleep again. He wished, at first, to be furious with the voice but could not. “You do not wish to die,” Anthea Manikos whispered. “You should have never left me, Pero. You were my comforter. You swore it.”
At this point, Pero noticed he was standing on the side of an exceedingly high mountain, snowy peaks as far as the eye could see. He was cold and alone. Anthea hovered in the air far off the edge of the cliff before him, her shimmering silver dress a wispy, formless mist allowing her to float effortlessly. Her skin was sparkling. She slowly unbuttoned the collar of the dress to show him her heart. It was the mysterious crystal, the hateful arrow still piercing it.
Pero felt his chest and realized it was gone. ‘She has it.’
Pero stared at the light in
side the crystal heart and felt its warmth reaching out for him. “Let me in,” Anthea whispered. “My grace is sufficient.”
Pero puckered up his lips to kiss the looming image of his floating bride which was leaning in closer to him now, her short brown hair growing longer and longer with each passing moment, stretching out behind her into the eternity of blue sky. Before their lips touched, the crystal heart stopped beating and he feared she would die. But she didn’t. She smiled all the more, nerves of steel, completely unafraid. A shower of light brighter than the light inside the crystal sprayed out of her eyes, her ears, her nose and her throat until her angelic image wholly dissipated in the ether and everything inside his troubled mind turned to pure white light.
Anthea’s voice softly whispered from nowhere. “There you go again, Pero, trying to make me your god.”
There was no more darkness, no more shadows and no more pain; not even the room he was in. Pero de Alava had drifted through a hollow pocket in time and space, discovering a sound and restful sleep where the only disturbance that entered his mind, if it could be called a disturbance, was his own proud voice echoing repeatedly, “I am a rock. I am Penafiel. I shall not be moved.”
And with this, the first day ended.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Crystal Crux – Betrayal, is the first novel by A M Werner, and the first in ‘The Crystal Crux’ series.
A M Werner is a past winner of the WRWA Jade Ring contest receiving first place for an article he wrote about his experience at the bedside of his brother who died of complications from Muscular Dystrophy.
A M Werner is a history enthusiast focusing chiefly on the Middle Ages, Greek, Roman and Norse mythology, and Native American studies. He follows the Way of the Sacred Names, Yahweh and Yahshua, plays soccer religiously and is an ardent supporter of rock and symphonic metal bands.
He lives in Southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, Susan.
They have three daughters, three grandchildren and a loving host of self-proclaimed extended children and grandchildren.
Ready, set, run …
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[1] Henry VI died September 28, 1197
[2] Diamond Sky
[3] Proverbs 17:6
[4] The Eagle Forest
[5] Eagles’ Pass
