The Embroidered Serpent (The Crystalline Source Book 1)

by M. Woodruff

  “We’ve gone as far as we can,” Josiah announced, startling Nels out of his nighttime reverie, only to be submerged once again as soon as he stared into the water below.

  He could see fixed black rock still afire with heat, but bereft of movement it would cool to uphold the very foundation of all the worlds’ hopes and dreams. He had the sudden desire to reach down into the depths and touch the very heart of the world, leaving some imprint of himself in the liquid rocks before they were melded together forever in their frozen solidity. As if in answer to that thought, a single drop of blood fell from the tip of his nose, landing in a perfect circle on the surface of an arm of molten fire, alive in the night air, before it was soon to be entombed by the sea, forever encased in the embrace of the Isle of Choice.

  He spent the rest of the night sleeping in a soft bed of white linen. He felt immersed in a downy cloud of forgetfulness. His thoughts refused to traverse paths that led to past memories or step onto new ones that led to places yet unknown. Instead he was focused on the moment—each breath took on new significance as he imagined the very air coursing through his body, unseen yet felt. He heard the quiet tingling hum in his ears, a vibration that was there, yet not. He felt the nerves tracing through his eyes, somehow producing pictures even though his eyes were closed and yet producing nothing but darkness when they were open. His heart was beating like a ticking clock, counting not time, but marking the presence of the life-flow within his own body and that which could not be measured, but coursed just the same through his spirit from the eternal Source of Tiph’arah.

  He was awakened suddenly by a pounding on the door—No! Not the door. It was a pounding in his skull like distant drums grown too close. So close they sounded from the inside out. He felt as if he could hear the noise audibly and wondered vaguely if anyone else would be able to, too. There was no pain—just the ever-present boom—boom—boom—seeming to grow in intensity though the rhythm never altered.

  He struggled to rise in the soft bed, the night still present, casting dark shadows amongst darker forms that slithered across the walls and ceiling. The air seemed to take on a discordant note of vibration, as his eyes focused. After each sounding of—boom—the room would jerk abruptly, though Nels could feel no movement.

  He sat, waiting, as the room filled with dread expectation, hanging heavy in the air. He knew what was coming—could feel the very taint of the Darkness sliding effortlessly through every crack in window and door, into his very soul.

  Quiet, now, so quiet—a stillness took over—a hush over the din that had seemed to herald the coming of someone—something—important.

  And then he saw it, a vague impression of a man, flat beyond belief as if in the very effort of manifesting, it could manage no more than a grayish outline like a charcoal painting hanging in the gloom. The figure held out a hand, not towards Nels, but to the side as if his range of motion was captured behind glass. He held the hand flat, palm upwards and there appeared a tiny globe. It grew in size as Nels watched; he could see small images flittering about. First one, then another, flashing too quickly for him to understand what he was seeing.

  Suddenly, the movement stopped. His eyes sharpened as the globe enlarged showing an image. Casandra!

  He sprang forward to the edge of the bed, heedless of any fear he might have possessed, straining to see…see…is that really her? It can’t be! Light, don’t let it be her!

  Casandra was walking. Taking careful steps as she picked her way through and endless expanse of fire-burned trees. Stumps and charred logs lay in her path and she moved as if she was blind, her hands stretched out before her. The blackened trees still standing acting as her one source of solace as she would fall heavily against one then another, sobbing in despair.

  Her face and once-fine dress were covered in soot, Nels saw, as the vision seemed to move in closer. She had gouges on her face as if she had raked her fingernails down her cheeks in complete mental torment. Her eyes were too large—too large!—ensnared in wild panic. Casandra turned to face him then. As if she knew he was watching, if she could feel his presence somehow, her mouth opened in a distorted grimace of fright. Nels!

  The eyes staring straight into his heart were solid white.

  He tore his gaze away from globe dancing in front of him—his mix of fury and fear now aimed at this semblance of a man that had dared to dangle this horror in front of him. The figure opened its mouth releasing the same stench that had permeated the diseased trees in the forest, the same black void visible between its stretched jaws, where suddenly two diamond-yellow eyes appeared.

  Bursting forth from the flat plane that had encased the man, the embroidered serpent bared its fangs in the parody of a smile.

  “Go home, Nels!” it hissed. “This will be your last warning. I won’t tell you again. Casandra will be waiting for you in the Black Mountain. She will leave unharmed, all of what you just witnessed erased from her body and soul, once you arrive where you belong, Nels. Otherwise, her agony will continue for eternity. And you will know, Nels. I will make sure you know that you are responsible for every moment of torture she suffers. With your own eyes you will witness destruction that has no end, and I will see to it you never forget one shred of the pain that you have inflicted on that woman.”

  GO HOME, NELS!

  Casandra’s voice suddenly shrieked, as the black void sucked the serpent, the spectre of a man, the globe, and the night back into the abyss, leaving Nels staring at his reflection in the mirror, sunlight falling on his graying hair, crowning him in a mocking splendor of glory, as Casandra’s last words reverberated in his ears.

  10

  Casandra took a step forward. Her white slipper delicately peeking out from the hem of her white satin gown, making not a sound as her tentative footfall met with gleaming white marble. For as far as she could see, the corridors were made of the same white marble sculpted into intricate scroll patterns. Where was she?

  The last thing she could remember was rummaging through endless bolts of fabric in the palace seamstresses’ storage room. Grayson had brought her to her own personal seamstress to learn how to physically sew a dress so that she might learn how to create one using the Gift. Grayson had felt actually working with fabrics, the feel of needle and thread in her own hands would stimulate the creation desire needed to be able to manifest one out of thin air.

  And, in somewhat of a surprise to Casandra, she had found she actually was enjoying the whole process—the measuring, the cutting, the designing, looking at the selection of fabric in all their various hues and patterns. She had ended up spending less time trying to draw on the Light of Tiph’arah and more time actually working with her hands. She had enough needle pricks in her fingers to show exactly how much.

  She had been staring at bolts of gray satin, imagining a dress, similar, but not quite as extravagant as the one Grayson had been wearing when she had first brought Nels to Silver Persia. With the thought of first seeing what ornamentations were readily available before deciding on the exact shade of gray satin, she had walked out of the storeroom and walked into this hallway. Which was no hallway she had ever seen before.

  Even her clothes were different. She had been wearing a simple yellow frock that was easy to work in, but pretty enough to be seen in. The yellow fabric reflected on her face in a way that reminded her of the way she would gather up buttercup flowers when she was little. Her mother, Hattie, would tie the bunches together with a piece of twine then hold it under Casandra’s face so that it lit up in a buttery glow. Then it would be Casandra’s turn to hold the flowers up to Hattie’s round face. She would tell her mother that her face looked like the moon had eaten too much butter and they would both burst into girlish peals of laughter.

  But now she was wearing a smooth white satin gown that was plain and tight to the fit in the bodice and sleeves then flaring out from the waist downward. Her long brown hair had been woven into a braid with tiny white rosebuds decorating its length until ending
in a white ribbon that continued trailing almost to the floor.

  She continued walking the corridors, sometimes emerging into large rooms of multiple stories decorated always in white—rugs, furniture, sculptures in strange geometric shapes, and sconces and chandeliers that held glowing white crystals. She took steps up that led to nowhere but alcoves where blank canvases were hung as if they were on display as fine works of art. She took steps down that led to fountains filled with pools of milky white liquid, flowing and gurgling at times from urns and at times from fantastical creatures’ mouths, the likes of which she had never before seen.

  Casandra always had the faint impression of windows as she walked, but when she turned her head to glance where one should be there was nothing but a solid wall of marble. At times she thought she saw the after-image of where a window had been, revealing a bright blue sky and puffy white clouds, but just as suddenly the image would disappear. And she would be back completely surrounded by a marble structure that never seemed to give her the feeling of being trapped, no matter how long she walked, never noticing a single door to be opened. All was laid out before her through small hallways and rooms barely large enough to be closets to gigantic spaces so large they had to be supported by hundreds of thick marble columns.

  She never once felt panic as her journey continued—only wanting to see more and more of this strange—house? She wasn’t sure what this structure was for. She vaguely wondered who had built it and where she was, but those thoughts were fleeting, barely registering as her steps kept going forward, never seeing the exact same place twice. Always the rooms and corridors offered new experiences of exploration, though she never saw a color other than variations of white—glossy, flat, furry, fabric, leather, embossed patterns, shiny, slick, wet—one room was even filled with a floating white mist that warmed and cooled her at the same time.

  Eventually she felt a faint pang of hunger. Stepping into the next room a meal was laid out before her on a balcony that overlooked an outside landscape painted in white. Trees and shrubbery pruned into more of those geometric shapes and creatures she was unfamiliar with, overlooking a small pool surrounded by neatly trimmed grass. All appearing as marble statues, but Casandra knew that was not so, as the liquid in the pool rippled and the trees swayed slightly in an unfelt breeze.

  The meal was laid before her on a small table set for one. There was a small cake, frosted and decorated with white-icing flowers topped with small edible pearls. A plate of white powdered cookies set beside a goblet of white pudding.

  Casandra recoiled when she saw the quartz glass full of milk. Something told her she didn’t like milk, but she couldn’t remember why. Taking a small sip, she was flooded with relief—it wasn’t milk after all, but a delightful mix of her favorite fruits and berries.

  Happily staring about with a mouth full of sweet cake, Casandra gasped in wonderment—it was snowing! Large, fat snowflakes drifted down from the marble ceiling overlooking the indoor garden. Casandra clapped her hands with glee. It had been such a long time since she’d seen snow. Hadn’t it?

  She ran to the edge of the balcony so she could catch the snowflakes in her hand and even turned her head up so she could watch the swirling white pattern dance above her eyes. As the snow thickly coated all the garden surfaces, she had the thought of going below to walk in the winter wonderland and maybe even build something with the frozen ice crystals. But she had no idea how to even get down there, she thought a little sadly, before turning around to see a steaming mug of white liquid. The thought quickly fled as she felt the warmth of the drink on her hands and nose, heating up her insides too, as she relaxed back in the fluffy white leather chair—where had that come from?—curling her legs up underneath her with a contented smile on her face.

  Grayson Scarlett placed the crystal globe back in the mirrored curio and closed the door on the winter scene she had created. The castle would hold, she knew, for as long as was necessary. The entertainments she had planned should keep Casandra mesmerized as the worlds marched on around her. Not a bad place for the girl, really. No, not bad at all—especially for a princess such as she, and the woman she needed to become.

  Grayson stared at her reflection a moment longer in the surface of the glass; happy to see the long years behind her had never touched her face. She blew a kiss towards the mirror in a moment of whimsy, and as she turned away towards the doorway ahead, she was unsure whether the slight pang of sorrow she felt was for the girl or for herself.

  Nels felt the first light of morning before he ever opened his eyes. He nestled down in the soft comfort of his fluffy mattress, wrapping the white sheet and downy coverlet closer around his body. He burrowed his head deeper into his rose-scented pillow. The smell filling him with warm thoughts of Mistress Whiten, who had been like a mother to him for almost thirty five years now, after taking him in to her own childless home when he was but a runaway lad of fifteen. She still used the same rose-petal wash to clean all of their linens, even after all of these years.

  He lay with his eyes closed as the wispy tendrils of sleep still tried to stir, keeping him attached to the dream world that he wasn’t yet ready to leave. There had been something he could almost remember. The pull to the far reaches of that imagined space—if only he could grasp it again. He wanted to keep dreaming. To keep walking in that mysterious land that could be so tantalizing in its absurdity, so clear in its revelations, or so dark in its gray-shadowed fear.

  He had felt a drawing towards something just out of reach—a place, a person, some long-lost wisdom he should possess—that try as he might to capture it, continued to flee with the lightening of the sun as the faint aromas of breakfast cooking took its place. The dwindling memories of sleep replaced by the solidity of the awakening to a new day.

  Nels stretched aching joints that he refused to acknowledge existed, letting any hope of returning to the dream world fade. If it had been important, he would dream of it again, he was sure.

  Sitting up, he fully adjusted his eyes to the familiarity of his bedroom. The same heavy wooden bureau with the large mirror on top greeted him as it did every morning. He always surveyed his reflection with increasing wariness over the years. Subtly, the signs of age had shown their presence, reminding him every-increasingly that time stood still for no one. His once dark-brown hair had now faded mostly to gray. The smooth boyish face, long gone into the weather-beaten countenance of haunted memories. Brown eyes that had once shone with possibility, now dull with resignation.

  But—this morning—something had changed. His gray hair was gleaming in the sunlight like a silver crown of wisdom. His face renewed, the lines emblems of newfound truth instead of badges of falsehood. His eyes ablaze with power, full of what would be, now that he could see what had been, clearly. The gemstone engraving on his upper arm, brilliant in the light, glowing with determined purpose.

  He was not surprised when his eyes rested on the crystalline geyser frozen in the corner of his room. It looked as if liquid crystal had erupted from the wooden floor, sending its plumes man-height, before solidifying into a solid mass.

  Nels got up slowly, his eyes transfixed on what was encased inside the crystal. Hundreds of white jade scales, pale pink, yellow, and blue sapphires were trapped within the liquid explosion. As he looked more closely, running his hand down its smooth arches, he saw two needle-sharp onyx fangs, and stared into two sightless yellow-diamond eyes.

  Stepping back with a smile on his face, Nels saw bright red blood begin to drip from the edges of the frozen liquid freefall. The drops becoming a shower of rubies as they landed silently on the floor.

  Nels Hunter, in all his glory, had finally arrived home.

  Epilogue

  The Darkness felt the rip and tear in its being, and for the first time felt fear. Not having the creative force necessary to repair itself, it began to feel a burgeoning revelation that manifested in the awakening power of its own destruction. The spark of self-oblivion took root and began to spr
ead—not directed completely at the nothingness it had always been, but at the infestation that dared to live where life should not be. The very source that gave it the realization of how to glory in destruction was now its prime target. Not for survival would it fight, but for the very act of destroying all—itself included. And with every pulse of light that flickered across its great abyss, the Darkness shuddered in its vengeance with renewed purpose: the complete obliteration of the Light. That was its only thought of salvation—absolute annihilation—to return, once again, to its original form in the hollow expanses of time and space.

  But this time, it would not be alone, while it gloried in its newfound pain and fear.