The Shadow Crucible

by T. M. Lakomy

  “No doubt you have come to retrieve your errant charge here.” The saltimbanque bowed low and gracefully, and the tutor nodded curtly, his white braided beard wagging. He passed his eyes over Mikhail, who knew the meaning and nuances behind his every glance, and felt the reprimand.

  “No need to be harsh on the boy,” said Bran with a charming smile. “He was on an adventure in the tents, on the noble quest of discovery, and this treasure trove proved to be well defended.”

  Turgen gave Bran a cynical, condescending smile. “Well, you have quite proven to me that you are wise enough, but this boy is more precious than you think. Too precious to have wandering around these tents unaccompanied. He could have come to harm.” Although he was courteous, the reprimand was not lost on the trouper, though he did not look remotely offended.

  “He could not have been safer than here with me, I can assure you,” said Bran. “And do not think I mistook your strange blue hat for a foreign variety of bird native to this country,” he added innocently, his pale eyes dancing with amusement. Bran’s subtle sarcasm was not lost on Mikhail.

  The tutor snorted haughtily. “What gave me away?” he asked dryly, positioning himself behind Mikhail and placing his hands on his shoulders protectively.

  “Everything has its own symphony in this lovely universe,” Bran said with glittering eyes. “That bush was singing something entirely different before you decided to crouch behind it with naked steel.”

  “I see,” Turgen replied, pretending to consider. Then addressing Mikhail he continued, “I knew you would be searching for these beasts of legend, and maybe the good man can assuage your interest.” The trouper winked at Mikhail encouragingly, who smiled in return.

  “Then apply stealth and stillness and be of a stout heart, for the scent of fear is the odor that incites their desire,” said Bran with sudden severity, untying the knots that kept the tent shut.

  The inside of the tent was dimly lit with oil torches in glass shades suspended from the rafters of the tent. The cages below were numerous and held many dozing felines. They rose restlessly as the three entered. Bran took Mikhail and Turgen to each cage, and they greeted each of the felines; leopards with hungry eyes, black jaguars, and tigers that aloofly observed them with placid friendliness one second, then lunged at the cage rails the next.

  The indomitable felines surveyed them with eyes that knew no mercy, only the lust to kill. Their savage grace made the humans seem pitiful and weak in comparison. The grip the trouper had over them was palpable, and made both Turgen and Mikhail uneasy, for though the proud beasts were untamed, their gestures were almost friendly. And when Bran extended his arm into the cages, they greeted him. The fire in their eyes never abated or dwindled, and it flared each time Mikhail or Turgen moved. In each feline glance was the promise of agony.

  They captivated Mikhail, who learned that day the love of things both beautiful and dangerous, free to their instincts. These felines relished their strength and cruelty and basked in their beautiful deadliness, but even amid their perilous power they were serene and certain of themselves. Mikhail thought to himself of the various ways one might break such a spirit and tame it to be man’s friend, but the loss of such a valiant spirit would be as atrocious as defanging and declawing the beast. It would excoriate an element crucial to the beast’s glory.

  “Are you not afraid of them, that they may turn against you one day and tear you apart?” asked Turgen with unconcealed admiration in his voice. Bran averted his gaze from them and observed the felines with the respect of an adversary knowing his match.

  “They despise human fear, and that is something I have long lost within me,” he replied. “I could never break them, and they could never break me, and in that we are both equals. They are deadly, and so am I, and we both acknowledge each other.” Bran walked towards a smaller cage that was overshadowed by the larger ones and which Mikhail had completely overlooked. “These beasts are beautiful, and from them you can learn many crucial lessons,” he added. “Beauty can be perilous. If you truly love something, you must allow it to be itself and to be free. If you cage it and break it to serve you, well, then you are nothing but a craven coward.”

  The bitterness in his voice echoed throughout the tent, and the beasts became agitated, circling their cages, their eyes alight with interest. Bran stopped in front of the last and smallest cage, then opened the latch.

  “Another lesson of life is that the smallest creatures can sometimes be the most savage. Do not underestimate them,” he warned.

  Out leapt a lynx, large for its kind but smaller than the other beasts in the tent. It circled around them, its yellow eyes studying each of them slowly. Then it hissed menacingly, its silver claws and glowing eyes unforgiving. Turgen had slid his knives into his hands, but Bran rebuked him with a warning glance.

  “Do not be so foolish as to challenge a Eurasian lynx with naked blades; it’s an insult.”

  The lynx’s eyes seemed almost to understand their words, and it began to growl savagely, baring its teeth at the tutor. Suddenly the other felines began to respond in kind, with challenging growls, but the lynx returned their call with renewed viciousness. A shrill, dismal howl revealed long canines and a ferocity that even the tigers could not match. Suddenly it sat down and began to groom itself before the cage of the jaguar, who could not bear the obvious affront and threw itself at the cage railings. But the lynx did not move, and neither did its pink tongue cease its grooming.

  “Go to it, it won’t hurt you, you have my word on it,” Bran assured Mikhail.

  Though he could sense the hesitation in his tutor’s body, he went to the lynx and knelt cautiously, gazing into its yellow eyes with deference and cautious veneration. He scratched her ears, and she purred and fixed her eyes on him, demanding more. Each time he scratched an area that she enjoyed, she would purr, but whenever his fingers erred to places she did not approve of, her silver claws would come out and Mikhail would withdraw humbly.

  That admiration in young Mikhail for the lynx never passed, and years later he remembered that fateful evening. Those shining, incandescent yellow eyes, the lethal venom one moment, and the playful delight the next.

  Coming to himself in his chamber, shivering with fever, Mikhail put his head in his hands.

  “I tried to break the lynx and the lynx merely scratched me and found better protectors. I remembered my lesson too late,” he whispered across the stone room, with no one to bear witness to his proclamation.

  Painstakingly, he rose to his feet and staggered to the mirror to gaze within. Staring back at him gauntly wasn’t the youth with the newly found wisdom, but a grown man with long hair in which strands of silver had begun to grow at the temples. The room swam before him, and he realized wearily that he could barely maintain his balance. The searing heat he felt was incongruous with the chill that coursed through his veins, and each time he coughed he brought up blood.

  29

  BLIND DOGMA

  To the Venus of my horizon, the cold flame of true illumination

  Of the most sought enlightenment, wreathed in the shadows drear

  But come closer orphaned soul, come drink the cup of jubilation

  And for the price of insane knowledge shed your last bitter tear

  THE FAINT ECHOES OF SINGING CAME THROUGH MIKHAIL’S WINDOW along with an odor of burnt wood, as if a bonfire were nearby. As the rolling sound of music wafted in, Mikhail’s fever stilled. Feeling suddenly heartened, he swayed to the window, eager for some company beside the monks’, and looked out searchingly. He saw in the nearby woods faint glowing lights. Leaning out precariously, he called out. A few moments later, a hooded and cloaked figure emerged from the wood and beckoned him with a pale hand holding a lantern.

  “Who are you?” Mikhail called out with effort. “Why are you here in this barren place?”

  But nothing came, no answer, only the renewed beckoning. Before he knew it, he was shaking from the biting cold. Detaching himsel
f from the window hastily, he made for the rickety wardrobe, cast the frail doors open, and grabbed his woolen coat. Painstakingly he pulled it on, then returned to the window where the patient figure still waited holding the lantern. He realized then that the guards, though outwardly deferential to him, would not allow him to leave the grounds. Nonetheless, he cast open the doors to his chamber, throwing caution to the wind, only to be greeted by the music ricocheting off the stark walls, amplifying with each step he took.

  The music sounded like nothing he knew or had ever heard before. It was mellow and haunting, yet held such sway over his heart that it threatened to rend him asunder should it end. It brought tears to his eyes and laughter to his lips, and walking down the dimly lit corridors with unusual equanimity, he saw that the guards were fast asleep, their breathing slow and peaceful. He passed them, went through the main hall, and then out of the doors of the monastery. Everyone within slumbered as though under a heavy spell.

  As Mikhail trod across the lawn, following the lonely figure who seemed exceedingly tall even at a distance, trepidation began to build. He walked as though in a drunken haze, unmindful of his ragged appearance and haggard eyes. His feet led him swiftly of their own accord as the lonely figure continued to beckon. When Mikhail approached him, he noticed that beneath the black cloak he wore glittering silver and dark green, and beneath the hood there were horns.

  “Whose guest am I, O strange one?” said Mikhail feebly with genuine humility.

  The hooded man cast aside his hood to reveal his full grave visage. He had one of the noblest and most benevolent youthful faces Mikhail had ever seen. His smile was full with rounded cheeks, and he had deep-set brown eyes like those of a deer, which beamed radiant light on him. Upon his brow a single sapphire glinted coldly, a stark contrast against the warmth of his soft eyes and the pallor of his skin. When he spoke, his voice welled from deep within, slow and measured.

  “I am here to escort you to a dance with my lord. He requests that we bid you welcome among us.” The elf respectfully placed his hand on his heart in a gesture of earnestness. His horns had strands of white and yellow flowers woven around them, and several glowing cerulean butterflies rested upon them.

  Mikhail nodded vehemently. “Anywhere is better than this ungrateful place that drinks the strength of men.” His eyes, normally clear as crystal, were cloudy and dark like a winter’s night, and though he was grateful, his sickness was stripping him of his habitual good graces.

  The elf nodded gravely, then closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they burned like a furnace, steady and wholesome. The longer Mikhail gazed into them, the more his fever seemed to relinquish its deathly grasp.

  “Nothing unholy shall consume you in our midst, Mikhail the Templar. And of all the sights you have witnessed in your life, seldom will you have found one that matches our nightly dances beneath the stars. Come with me!” he beckoned, and Mikhail followed him into the woods without hesitation, casting one last dark glance at the lonely monastery.

  As they walked between the tall trees that formed a canopy over them, the lights were extinguished and Mikhail fumbled in the dark, aware of the shifting presence in the woods. He stumbled as he walked, succumbing to both his weariness and the darkness, but the elf grasped him firmly by the arm, steadying him reassuringly. His voice guided him, fatherly and wise.

  “Let there be light!” the elf called out imperatively, and orbs of silvery light burst into being. They seemed alive, flitting like insects or effervescent birds, then alighting on trees, only to disperse moments later.

  Mikhail was no stranger to such wonders, and he smiled as the orbs lit the way deeper into the woods through the interlocking trees, and farther and farther away from the dismal, sickly abodes of men. He caught the elf observing him as they walked with his serene, steady eyes. The path was oblique, and the light silence was mellow, gently broken by the strange buzzing sounds of the floating orbs.

  “What does your lord want with me?” Mikhail inquired curiously, regaining some of his habitual grace. “You immortal folk have long since forsaken our lands and our people.”

  The elf did not answer immediately. The stillness in his face was like the pristine surface of a frozen lake as he reflected on the question, as though weighing its true meaning. Mikhail wondered why such folk would be concerned with him. Elves no longer harbored any friendship for the children of men since they had taken over the stewardship of earth and plunged it into chaos. Mankind had rewarded their bountiful hearts by demonizing them, distorting their sacred tales, and reducing them to garbled fairy tales. The church itself was their chief enemy, and the Templars, however erudite they became, regarded them with fear. They saw them as relics of a pagan world not yet subjugated by the laws of men. And what man cannot hold sway over it despises and holds in contempt. The elf’s impassive face shone with innate holiness as the orbs gathered over his head, lending his features an ineffable beauty.

  “The world changes and we do not,” he finally responded. “And though we forbear meddling with your rulership over earth, yet we find that every now and then the gossamer strands between our worlds runs ruinously thin. The collision threatens the delicate balance that the Great Mother has established over all creations. And then we heed her call and reach out to those with the ears to hear and the eyes to see.” His mellifluous voice rippled softly through the woods, and Mikhail hearkened with an open heart.

  “What succor can I lend to our eldest brethren, when I myself have stumbled and fallen low and shall pay the price of mortality?” Mikhail asked. The bitter twang in his words tasted unfamiliar to him suddenly, and he rebuked himself for his weakness.

  “You have much to offer and much to receive. As for lending succor, you do it not for us, for we need nothing from this world. Yet you have the choice to rescue it from certain demise, should you choose to. All things are decisions, and the millions of them echoing into the distance of infinity tear at the filament of the great tapestry of creation.” Though Mikhail did not fully understand his words, they stirred within him recognition and awoke the primordial awe in his heart.

  Soon Mikhail heard the leaves rustling, and out of every corner of the woods elves filed past. Their hoods and cloaks were of silvery grey and black, glistening with dew and silver threaded gems, and they sang the haunting tune that had led him there. He could not see their faces, nor feel their gaze, but every now and then a hand would flash in the golden light. It would pass over the low growing bushes, and then blooms would open and lend the air their sweet perfume. Some elves walked ahead of him now with bare feet, and snowdrops grew where they tread. Others cast back their hoods, and their horns were adorned with white lilies and roses. The braids of their hair held silver shells and were spangled with a million white gems meshing the purest starlight. The tenor of their voices shook the aged wooden heart of the forest, and it moaned back, bent with forgetfulness and grief. They were singing in unison in tender voices, and Mikhail wept for things unknown, finding healing in his tears.

  “What do they sing of?” he asked, as his companion smiled wanly.

  “There is ever but one song, and all songs belong to it, as there was ever one story, though the broken fragments of it grew apart with time.”

  Soon the orbs grew frantic and the elves quickened their pace, ceasing their mournful song as a clearing opened up before them. It was brightly lit with open fires and hanging lanterns in the trees. As Mikhail beheld the clearing, he thought of the carven images of horned deities in the ancient temples of the old gods, chiseled in the stone with old, wise eyes staring into the distance, laden with memories of forgotten secrets. Their brows shone with the light of stars and the sadness of their departure from earth, all but a dwindling echo in the breeze.

  The soft dancing fires in the clearing were bright yellow, kindled as if with the cold shafts of moonlight that filtered down from the open heavens. As Mikhail’s eyes adjusted to the luminosity of the clearing, he saw a multitude
of laughing elves, the flowers twined in their long hair and horns. A fire trembled in their eyes, low yet steady, mirroring their enduring spirit, and their voices were as soft as the whispers of falling rain and as delicate as the petals of a rose carried in the wind. They were like the figments of a vibrant dream, dancing with a joy that he was forever barred from. The night was still and devoid of noise, as if hearkening to these unusual guests. Swathed in the shadow of trees, they sang to the open skies where the constellations wheeled their fiery beacons, crowning the sky with a burning multitude of colors.

  Mikhail soon realized that he stood alone. Moving past the laughter and the burning eyes and the goblets shimmering in the shade, he went in search of the elven king. He stumbled on a tree root, but regained his balance with cheer, for the music and laughter were pure, devoid of malice and the licentiousness that often accompanies the merriment of men. His heart began to yearn and bleed, and his thoughts opened up to the glory of the Elder Folk.

  Then he saw the elven king beneath a moon ray. The single ray fell on his terrible and glorious face, and he spun it effortlessly into music, meshing its cold fire into the silver lyre in his hands. He did not look up as Mikhail approached, but kept his head slightly bowed and intent on his song, eyes half closed. Mikhail knew it must be the elven king, for the moon itself drew back her curtain of clouds and beamed with her fullness upon the most sublime of the Elder Folk. And he wrought spells and immortal songs that fettered the heart with her rays. White snowdrops and holly boughs with red jewellike berries adorned his horns, and his long silver hair shone in the moonlight like fish scales.

  Mikhail approached him reverently and knelt by his side. Still the elven king spun his music mingled with moonlight, to the cheer and bliss of his people. As Mikhail waited patiently, his heart was light, devoid of the bite of darkness that had afflicted his soul. Then the music suddenly reached its final note, and Mikhail awoke brutally from his reverie. He found the elven king staring at him keenly from deep-set eyes as wild as the roaring sea. On his brow a single sapphire radiated a cold light, and Mikhail was humbled as he recognized the divine, ancient spirit before him.