The Gorgon's Blood Solution

by Jeffrey Quyle

  “Well it’s getting late, and I know you’re all tired after our long climb, so I guess we can go to sleep now,” Iasco teased her audience, to be greeted by a chorus of protests.

  “So you want to hear the rest of the story?” she asked. “Well then, put some more wood on the fire,” she responded to the numerous murmurs of assent.

  “My brother came to me, and I welcomed him to my small home. I introduced him to the prince – my fiancé – and my brother was charming.

  “His name was Iago; did I mention that was my brother’s name?” she asked. “Well, Iago was charming and urbane and became a favorite at court in no time at all. I was a happy girl, so happy. Engaged to a wonderful man, someone with status in my own right, and now my brother was happily added to my life.

  “And so, on the day of my wedding, scheduled to take place in the palace, the sun rose on the greatest day of my life. The day was full of activities and nervous lulls, but when sunset came, we were in the courtyard, surrounded by all the members of the court and the market and the church.

  “And my brother brought in disaster. As our ceremony was about to begin, he cast a spell, and the gates of the palace burst open. The warriors of the Docleatae came storming in, armed and ready to slaughter, and that day they did. They killed the men and enslaved the women and destroyed the little happy kingdom of Rurita,” the women were silent, stunned by the story, and Marco heard them sniffling their tears away.

  “Iago had betrayed the kingdom because he had pledged his life to Moraca, the king of the Docleatae, after the barbarian had spared Iago’s life. Iago cast a spell over me that petrified me, and then he compelled me with his sorcery to walk away from Rurita, all the way to Scodra, ten days away,” Iasco had finally begun to shed tears of her own, though her voice maintained its dignity as the horrors of her story unfolded in the silent night.

  “And when I got there, I broke down and went insane. The ladies of the temple of Asclepius took pity on me and cured me, then sent me away to the Isle of Ophiuchus, and here we are thirty years later, where I am sitting here with all of you.”

  No one said anything for several seconds, as they all tried to absorb the horror of Iasco’s life.

  “And then, young Marco, out of nowhere, my brother appears sailing with Corsairs pillaging the great cities of our nations, and you appear out of nowhere to confront him not once, but twice, and you succeed in temporarily defeating whatever horror he served or planned to unleash, or at least you have slowed it down, and done so at some cost to yourself.

  “For the service you have done you deserve our thanks, and I do not regret for a moment that you have been allowed to break tradition to come among us for healing, though I fear what the prophecies tell is to come. For Marco, you have been chosen to be the hope of humanity,” her voice was ominous in Marco’s ears now.

  “Whatever evil power Iago was serving, you are our hope to battle against it. We will heal you and help you in your struggles that lie ahead,” she told him, looking directly at him, as though the others were not there.

  Chapter 23 – In the Apex Temple

  The party set no guard that night. The Lady Iasco felt no fear on her own small island, though the others in her party felt troubled in their hearts as they silently turned to the rolls of bedding spread out on the ground around their mountainside campsite.

  They spoke little in the morning as they broke camp and resumed their journey upward. Three hours past sunrise they reached the summit, just as the priestesses and acolytes who had spent the evening at the top of the mountain prepared to leave, after completing their sunrise ceremony in the temple of Asclepius. The departing women began to chat with their replacements, until they were stunned to see a male among the arriving group.

  “We’ll spend the day here, and begin to work on restoring Marco’s hand to him in the afternoon,” Lady Iasco directed her companions as they moved their small stores into the overnight housing that was provided at the mountain’s peak, intended to be available for those who stayed there to carry out the daily morning rituals at the Apex Temple of Asclepius.

  “Would you like to see your hand?” Iasco asked Marco as the pony was unpacked.

  Marco thought. He had seen the hand, at the time he had severed it, as it had laid on the floor, separate from his flesh, a shocking and gruesome sight in retrospect as he recollected it. He didn’t want to see the hand again, but he didn’t want to let the lady think he was squeamish, so he shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, why not?” he mumbled.

  Iasco reached into a pack on the pony’s side and pulled out a linen-wrapped object, and carried it into the hostel. She unwrapped layer after layer of material, until suddenly the hand appeared.

  Its appearance was extraordinary. The hand was enclosed within a translucent bronze-colored box, one that appeared to be solid, yet revealed its contents perfectly.

  “What is it?” Marco asked softly, asking about the strange wrapping.

  “It’s a product of my sorceress skills,” Iasco told him. “It is a preservative spell. About two hours after you cut the hand free, I was able to cast a spell to preserve the flesh, so that it will still be viable when we begin the surgery later today.

  “There may be some side-effects, but I’m sure you’ll overlook that,” she gave him a smile that made him suspicious.

  “What kind of effect?” he asked.

  “Let me keep my little secret,” she told him.

  “Marco,” she reached both of her hands up to his face and held it, directing his gaze directly into her own. “This is the last chance we’ll have to talk. After the surgery, I will not see you again, not for a long time, if ever. The story I told you is important, so think about it. I don’t know what you next immediate task will be, but I know what your long term goal must be.

  Good luck to you. You’ve been plucked out of anonymity and made into a champion, so the Lord must know that you have the strength to succeed, and he must expect to provide you with rewards at the end of your duties.

  “Be careful Marco. I want to see you again when all of this is over, and hear about your dreams,” she said as she removed her hands from his cheeks. One hand reached up and ruffled his hair, then she turned and rewrapped the hand.

  “I don’t know what to say, my lady,” Marco replied, unable to grasp the enormity of all that she had implied.

  “No,” she said with a sad note in her voice. “Before something like this begins, you can’t possibly know what will occur, or what to say. Just be sure to say your prayers and have faith that you’re not being sent out into a world without weapons you don’t perceive and allies you don’t know.

  Her words triggered another forgotten memory. “Speaking of that,” he said. “How did my sword create that lightning that killed all those birds in the palace? How does my sword do any of the things it does, for that matter?” he asked.

  “I believe the spirit of the Mother herself has infused your sword with great powers. I don’t know what all those will turn out to be, but I think there are more in store for you,” Iasco told him.

  “Now let’s go out and see the sunshine for a little while more before we get down to business.”

  Marco followed her out onto a patio on the back of the building, one that looked outward, down to the roots of the mountain below, where the village was visible, and westward across the sea that stretched to the horizon. There were no clouds, nor any shadows moving across the water. Two of the companion women were also on the patio, though Marco had not been able to distinguish them from one another after the first quick introduction the previous day.

  Iasco left, and Marco leaned against the parapet, looking out west, imagining that somewhere across the water was Barcelon, and that Mirra was there, perhaps looking across the water, perhaps thinking of him.

  “Are you ready, Marco?” one of the young women tapped him lightly on the shoulder, rousing him from his day dreams.

  “Already?” he asked, turning in surprise.<
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  “So says the Lady Iasco,” she answered. “My name is Asterope, and I’ll help her with the healing work she is going to perform on you. I’m very good with injuries to bones,” she told him confidentially.

  The two of them went across the mountainside trail to a different building, one that Marco hadn’t noticed previously.

  “Remove your shirt, Marco,” Iasco instructed as he walked in; she and two others were already in the building, awaiting him. He awkwardly did as instructed, then laid down on a table top, as Iasco cut away the bandaging on his stump.

  “Here, drink this,” Iasco instructed, as she handed him a small flask.

  “You don’t think we will see each other again?” he asked as he returned the empty flask.

  “You’re not going back with us,” Iasco said, the last words he heard, and then he lost consciousness.

  Chapter 24 – The Descent to Return

  He dreamt many things. He dreamt of Mirra and Glaze and Sybele, living in a castle in the mountains. He dreamt of a sorcerer leading an invasion that burst in upon his wedding to Mirra, as Iasco prepared to perform the ceremony. He dreamt of taking his hand off and giving it to Algornia, who turned it into gold using alchemical powers.

  He eventually awoke, and found that he was lying down inside the Apex Temple, resting on the floor, his word on a belt that held his pants in place. The moonlight and starlight were streaming in through the opening above, reflecting off the polished white marble within. He felt incredible pain in his right hand; he had experienced pain in the hand before, phantom pain, while he stayed with Albany at the cottage by the sea, but this pain was worse. He raised the hand and looked at; it was a darker color than the arm it was attached to. There was a large bandage around the place where the flesh was reconnected. And the hand did not respond. His fingers did not flex. His wrist did not bend.

  He gave a wail of chagrin. Then stood up, ready to go find Iasco and tell her of the failure. But he could not find the door. The interior of the temple was a series of uniform panels, among which he could not find any sign of a door as had been the case when he had first arrived at the temple so many weeks earlier.

  “Iasco!” he called. “Lady Iasco!”

  There was a slight scraping sound behind him, and he turned to see a dark line along the bottom of a panel of marble. He walked over and bent to examine the line, which was an opening. Using only his functioning left hand, Marco lifted the panel, which rose with surprising ease, to reveal the same chamber and dark stony chimney he had climbed to arrive in the temple when he had first met Iasco.

  The lady had told him that he would not return with her and her contingent. Was that her means of directing him, telling him to climb back down through the entrails of the island mountain?

  The passage upward had been a difficult climb, he remembered. He doubted that he could manage to descend using only his one good hand, while the other uselessly throbbed with pain. He turned and backed away from the opening; he would wait until the morning, when the temple priestesses carried out their day break ceremony.

  As he stepped away from the opening, the mountaintop began to quake, and there was a rumbling sound that rose from the ground.

  “I’m supposed to go down there?” Marco asked out loud. He stepped back towards the opening, and the quaking ceased.

  He stood in astonishment, so transfixed by the notion that the mountain itself could signal to him that he even failed to notice the pain in his hand. He crept back to the opening and stepped halfway across the threshold, considering the option. It was either an invitation or a command, he couldn’t decide which was the better interpretation, but he knew that he had to struggle down into the mountain once again.

  As soon as he was within the mountain’s passage, the slab of marble slid back into place, sealing him into a spot that was almost total darkness, except for a faint glow whose origin was indistinct. Marco gently crept across the chamber floor and lowered a foot down onto a protruding stone, then used his good hand to get a grip on another outcropping, and began to carefully climb down.

  Each step down was a careful exploration of options, as Marco made every effort to avoid becoming trapped in some spot he could not climb out of one-handed. At times he found that the two walls of the chimney were so close together that he could use them both, stepping down with greater ease, and resting his left hand which was otherwise ready to cramp up from the constant use.

  He stopped after several hours, and fell asleep on a wide ledge, then woke up in a cold sweat when he saw how close he had come to falling in his sleep. He resumed the climb down, until the final step came that let him put both feet firmly on the floor at the bottom of the climb.

  There was a passageway, and the walls and floor were smoothly finished. He saw a door, and remembered the pit of liquid, the healing bath he had walked through during his first trip through the caves.

  Cautiously, he approached the door, its size outlined by the glow from the room within. Marco opened the door, and saw again, just as he remembered it, the bath of Ascelepius. The walls and ceiling glowed in their red and blue tones, and the foamy, strange concoction of liquid and foam and solid covered the floor.

  He realized in an instant what might be about to happen. “Is this it? Is this how my hand will be healed?” he asked, hoping for affirmation by the mysterious voice that had declared him to be a champion, the voice that had guided him on the trip upward from the sea.

  There was no answer, no comments, no command. There was only silence, and so Marco waded into the liquid pool, confident and relaxed.

  As the contents of the pool rose to his chest, and then briefly over his head, he felt the same tingling energy, the same working and alteration of the pool. He thought of all that the pool had done to heal him before, and the miraculous things it had done to his sword, turning the weapon into an active tool, practically a partner that had controlled the tremendous agility and skill that had saved Marco’s life on several occasions.

  He felt the floor beneath him angle upward, and then he stumbled into a step that rose to the end of the pool. He stepped out, and he felt the same wonderful energetic potential coursing through his body that he had felt before.

  He wiped the film of fluid from his eyes and looked at the formerly severed right hand; he held it out in front of his face, and immediately noticed two things. It worked. It flawlessly responded to the impulses and commands he sent to the fingers and wrist. There was all the agility and strength he had relied upon before.

  But it was different. He removed the sodden bandage around his wrist and even in the strange mixed light of the chamber he could see that the restored hand was a different color than the rest of his body. He experimentally poked the finger of his left hand against the right hand’s flesh; it felt as it always had, as soft and bony in the appropriate places as it should. But its color was different. He looked over the rest of his body; the angry red and purple scars and wounds of his ripped and stitched flesh had healed into a faint map of fine white lines.

  Astonished and pleased, Marco pressed open the door that was in front of him, the doorway to the passage that would take him down to the watery temple where his adventure had taken such an unexpected turn.

  “Thank you,” Marco called aloud, speaking back over his shoulder to the wonderful healing chamber.

  “Your appreciation is appreciated, and you go with a blessing upon you,” the voice spoke.

  Marco stopped in surprise. “Are you here? Can you tell me what is happening? What am I supposed to do?”

  “Revelations will come to you when the time is right. Go out into the world and wait and learn,” the voice told him.

  Marco raised his head, holding it cocked as if he was ready to hear more, but no other message came, and so he left the chamber and walked into the darkened, carved tunnel that led downward. He once again held the tip of his sword down to the floor, using it to find the turns and the stairwells that would have otherwise been hazar
dous in the pitch black darkness.

  After what seemed to be hours more of travel, he saw a light ahead – below him – and he descended rapidly down the staircase that he could see, to arrive at the balcony that encircled the watery temple structure once again. It was lit once again by the jets of flaring light, burning gas that shot out of a series of uniformly spaced openings in the ceiling.

  Marco walked down to the water, and knelt on the bottom step, then pressed his face into the water and began to speak in the language of the dolphins, calling for any friends who might be near. He repeated the effort a minute later, but heard no response, and so he plunged into the water and began to swim towards the half-circle entrance to the watery exit to the sea.

  The passageway made the same zigzagging turns that he remembered from his entry, and the same layer of foggy mist clung to the water’s surface. But as Kreewhite had told him earlier, the water was not deep, and he was able to stop to rest and stand on the bottom of the passage with his head out of the water, breathing and resting.

  He saw bright light ahead, and after his rest, he stroked his way towards the sunlight, and the exit from the cavern, back out into the choppy water that broke upon the rocks at the bottom of the island cliffs.

  It was daylight, mid-morning, and the sunlight was bright. Marco scrambled up onto a rock to reconnoiter his location. He paused and looked at his hand in the daylight. It looked golden. He poked it again and it still felt like flesh, but it looked as though it were made of gold, right up to the seam where he had hacked it off so desperately in the battle in the Barcelon palace.

  He wore no boots and no shirt, he realized. They had not been upon his body after the surgery. He sat and tried to puzzle out what to do next. He could try to call the dolphins again, or he could return to the land of the island and circle around to the village on the other side.

  He didn’t know where he had to go, so he felt free to go where he wanted to go. He wanted to get back to Barcelon, to see Mirra again. So he would walk around to the village, and take a ship back to Barcelon. Lady Iasco would see him much sooner than her sober predictions had seemed to indicate, he thought with a chuckle.