Song of the Ovulum

by Bryan Davis

  “Let’s say that I have it. How do I know you’ll let me go if I give it to you?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.” Joran gave the blade a slight twist, drawing more blood. “Give it to me now.”

  Moving only his eyes, Devin looked at Palin. “It has served its purpose.”

  “As you wish, my liege.” Palin reached into a pouch attached to his belt and withdrew an ovulum. Gray mist fogged the inside, darkening as he held the egg in his palms.

  Joran nodded at the ground near the broken ovulum. “Set it there.”

  Palin rolled it gently out of his hands. As soon as it settled on the grass, the fog began to clear.

  “How did you look into it?” Joran asked. “Neither of you has the purity of a rat.”

  Devin sneered. “There are nunneries aplenty, and the novices are easily duped. Once we found the mongrel’s hideout, we sent a pretty little novice home on a donkey.”

  Keeping his sword pointed at Devin, Joran stooped, set the lyre on his knee, and felt for the invisible purity ovulum. When he found it, he slid his palm underneath and lifted. As before, the glass became cloudy.

  “Are we free to go?” Devin asked with a sarcastic bite.

  Hugging the lyre and ovulum close, Joran backed away and looked beyond the fence at the field. The trio mingled with the horses, apparently making ready to ride them away. “Go,” he said, waving the sword. “If you so much as look back, I will relieve you of your eyes.”

  Palin jumped to his feet and ran toward the fence and horses. As blood streamed down his neck, Devin rose more slowly, his evil eye trained on Joran. With a sudden leap, he lunged and jerked the sword away. He swiped the blade, but Joran ducked just before it could slice his neck.

  Then, instead of attacking again, Devin ran after Palin. “I am coming! Don’t let them get away!”

  “It seems that dragon killing carries a greater weight than does revenge.”

  Joran spun toward the voice. Enoch held the broken ovulum, one half in each hand. “I assume you have wondered about the multiple colors in the field of yellow grass.”

  “I have.” Joran turned back to the horses and riders. Timothy and Hannah rode away safely, but it seemed that Palin had thrown a dagger and wounded the third escapee, likely Elam. Still, Elam’s horse broke into a gallop with Elam securely mounted.

  “When entering this red ovulum,” Enoch said, “you actually passed through three others. They belonged to dragons the slayer has already killed. I assume they are stored together somewhere, because when they were apart, the grass in the field you traversed was not yellow, and the plants were fewer, all violet. After the deaths of those dragons, the three virtues merged.” He nodded at the lyre. “It seems, however, that you have not completed all four parts of the key.”

  Joran shifted the purity ovulum to his other hand and looked at the lyre. Only one new color had appeared. The string with the highest note had turned red. Yes, he had been humbled and shamed, his bitterness exposed, giving the D string its blush, but there was still much to do. “I know why.”

  “Yes, I have also deduced the reason.”

  “So now I have to figure out how to show mercy to the plants.”

  “To the plants?” Enoch bent his brow. “Is that what you think?”

  Joran nodded. “Shouldn’t I show mercy to them? They begged me to take them with me. Shouldn’t I do everything I can to help them?”

  “Of course. We should be merciful to every humiliated soul in God’s creation.” Enoch’s face slackened. “What do you think you should do?”

  “Go back to them. But is it even possible? The red ovulum is broken.”

  “It is possible. I can arrange it.”

  “Okay, but where am I going to get so many pots?”

  “There is no need to worry about pots. When you return, wisdom will guide you. Eventually you will be shown how to give mercy even to creatures you deem to be the lowliest.” Enoch swiped a sandaled foot across the ground. “Why do you think the grass was yellow in that field and the plants never grew to maturity?”

  Joran kicked the turf with the toe of his sandal. “It has to be the soil. Nothing can grow if it feeds on futility.”

  Enoch smiled. “My son has taught you well. I hope some of the plants will understand and go with you. It is essential that you take at least one. In fact, the more, the better.”

  Joran looked Enoch over. Dressed in a tunic, belt, and sandals suitable for the days of old, this man really was his grandfather. “So the legend is true. You lived within the ovulum all these years.”

  “I did, but time is short. I will have to explain everything when we meet again. For now, you must continue your journey.”

  “So after I gather all the plants, how do I get Selah out of the lyre?”

  “The only way is to complete the final steps in constructing your key, and even then, freeing her will be a difficult task.”

  Joran gripped the lyre tightly. “It doesn’t matter. I would fight the devil himself to rescue her.”

  “As you should. You and she must be reunited.” Enoch displayed the two halves of the ovulum, the open ends facing up. “It is strange how common this piece of glass seems to be when it has been cleaved in two. It is impotent, worthless, ready to be cast away into a junk pile. Yet …” He fit the two pieces together. “When its parts are rejoined, they become a unit, a powerful tool for God to use for his glory. That is why Tamiel wants you and Selah to be separated. Apart, you are no more useful than two halves of a broken egg, but together …” He held the restored ovulum over his head. Red light emanated down and around his arm, expanding until it enveloped his body as well as Joran’s. “Together, you will be a greater force than before, because now you will be sharpened blades forged by the one who told Naamah to go and sin no more.”

  Joran basked in the restored ovulum’s glow. Already his mind felt different, more alive, less afraid. Maybe he could finally leave his past behind and be the warrior he was meant to be. “I think I understand.”

  “Excellent.” As Enoch lowered the ovulum, the surrounding light faded, but the egg itself still glowed red. “The path to freedom will be fraught with great risk, and you will have to learn the details as they emerge, but I can tell you one important fact. The dragon you once knew as Arramos has changed. The devil himself now inhabits his body, and the spirit of the true Arramos has gone to a place called Second Eden. He is a human named Abraham who shepherds the people there.”

  Joran lifted the purity ovulum. “Why is it still cloudy when I carry it?”

  “Your journey is not yet complete. Some virtues remain to be gathered.”

  Joran pressed his lips together. If only virtues could really be gathered like fruit from a tree. It seemed that some came at great cost. “Should I take it with me?”

  “No, you cannot enter something you carry any more than a dog can eat itself.” Still holding the red ovulum, Enoch extended his empty hand. “You must give it to me.”

  Joran rolled it onto his grandfather’s weathered palm. Although it turned invisible, a tiny red light sparkled within, apparently signaling its closeness to the other ovulum. At the same time, the red egg’s light began to fade. “What will you do with them?”

  “I have a secret purpose for the red ovulum, and I will begin a search for the discarded ones. I have a good idea where each one is from watching that vile dragon slayer kill his victims. Unfortunately, the green ovulum has fallen into the hands of the enemy of souls, so when you enter it, you should assume that you will encounter evil.”

  Joran nodded. Even after all he and Selah had been through, it seemed that their journey had just begun.

  “In the meantime,” Enoch continued, “I will have to transfer the purity ovulum’s song to another vessel.”

  “Another vessel? Will it still be protected by a curse?”

  “It will be my goal to ensure that the one who destroys it will be destroye
d. A more urgent objective will be to find a vessel with greater mobility. That way, even I will not know where it is at any given moment.”

  “If it’s mobile, will anyone be able to find it?”

  Enoch offered a gentle smile. “God will raise up another Shachar who will be able to hear the song in her scales and locate it when it is needed. She will be in human form, so she will be quite vulnerable, because Tamiel has known about the Shachar prophecy for a long time. Yet, he also knows what else the prophecy says. Since this human Shachar will have scales that absorb sound and energy, and since Tamiel is the Silent One who can create a shell of silence, if they should touch one another, they would create a clash of powers that would be fatal to both. So Tamiel would have to use extraordinary skill and deception to get her to do his will from a distance.”

  “Did Tamiel escape when the red ovulum split in half?”

  Enoch shook his head. “I would have seen him. You should assume that he will continue to stalk you as you try to complete the key.” He held out the red ovulum in his palm. “Now play the strings that do not yet have color, and you will be taken back in.”

  Joran strummed the lyre, taking care to skip the D, C, and G strings. He managed to create a melody, but without Selah’s guidance, it sounded less than beautiful.

  As he played, light glimmered within the purity ovulum, a spark of green, then yellow, then indigo and violet. They grew larger with each note, as if the egg were drawing toward him.

  Soon, he stood once again in the field of yellow grass. A few tiny mounds of soil had been pushed together at various spots, but no plants stood or waded anywhere.

  “Hello!” Joran called.

  Mendallah’s head popped up through a pile of soil. She blinked away granules and smiled weakly. “I am here,” she said in her breezy voice.

  Joran stepped closer and knelt. “Mendallah, what happened?”

  “Most tried to gather soil, but it is hard work. They gave up.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “They fled the promised fire. They are hiding.” Mendallah wiggled higher and pulled her side stalks from the soil. “I fear that I have gathered only a small pile. I grew tired.”

  “Then why did you come up when I called?”

  Mendallah bowed her pod. “To beg for mercy.”

  “Granted.” Joran reached out a hand. “Is it safe to uproot you? If you’re the only one who is coming with me, I can try to fit you in my pocket.”

  “And will you take my soil?”

  “No. The soil will have to stay. You’ll just have to trust me to find new soil as soon as possible.”

  “When will you burn the grass?”

  Sighing, Joran shook his head. “That was a stupid threat. I’m not going to burn anything.”

  Several more plant heads popped up, then dozens. Cheers followed—shouts of “No fire!” and “Safety!” and “No work!” breezed across the grass.

  As they burrowed upward, exposing their stalks, Joran looked at Mendallah. Her face took on a morose expression.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “The others will refuse to come with us. They are motivated only by fear, and they will fear being uprooted.”

  “Don’t they fear staying in this place and never growing?”

  Mendallah shook her pod. “Not so much. They want to leave, but they are unwilling to risk their lives to do so.”

  “I can still make the offer. I’ll take as many as are brave enough to come.”

  “How many pockets do you have?”

  Joran smiled. “Since I’m not carrying soil, I can bundle you up. It might be uncomfortable, but it should work. First, we’ll go to a place that’s all white and completely silent. Then we’ll search for a land of green. Maybe we’ll find fertile soil there.”

  Mendallah pulled up on one of her supporting stalks, partially exposing a root. “It is very painful to uproot.”

  “I can believe that, but it’s the only way to get out of here.”

  “I trust you. You are strong, and I am weak.”

  Joran cupped his hands around his mouth and called out. “Earlier you all asked me to take you with me. Now here’s your chance. I don’t have any pots, so I will have to uproot you and carry you without soil. Those who agree, come to me, and we will leave this place immediately.”

  The cheers suddenly silenced. The plants stared at him, their eyes and mouths as wide as the tiny slits allowed. While most seemed frozen in place, several waded backwards. Whispers of “No soil?” and “Unearth our roots?” flowed from pod to pod.

  “If you stay here,” Joran shouted above their breezy words, “you can’t grow. This soil will never provide what you need to mature. Come with me, and I will take you to a place where you will become …” He searched for a word. What would they become?

  As if echoing his thoughts, several called out, “Become what?”

  “I don’t know. Something different. Something new. Maybe a man, maybe a woman, but certainly something more useful than you are now.”

  More plants backed away.

  “Trust me,” Joran continued. “It will be worth the risk and pain of uprooting.”

  Like a stampede, dozens of plants turned and rushed through the grass as if blown by a storm. They huddled in the distance, crying out in a jumble of fearful laments. One small plant, however, stayed—Zohar. Trembling, Zohar reached out a side stalk. “I will come.”

  “Good,” Joran said. “Do you have a name?”

  Zohar shook its pod. “Not a real name. They call me Wilt, because I am so weak.”

  “It is true,” Mendallah said. “It is an unkind name, but he is weaker than most of the male plants.”

  “That doesn’t matter even a little bit.” He gave “Wilt” a brief head bow. “May I call you Zohar? It means radiance.”

  “Yes,” Zohar replied, copying Joran’s head bow. “I am honored.”

  Joran wrapped his fingers around Mendallah. “Are you ready?”

  Mendallah closed her eyes. “Take me from this fetid soil, good master, and set me free. It is better to suffer and die than to be rooted in this valley of death.”

  Joran pulled. As Mendallah rose from the ground, two long roots, thick and black, emerged. They appeared to be legs with the last inch angled like a foot. He set Mendallah on her “feet” and tried to steady her legs, but her entire structure collapsed in a heap of stalks and roots.

  “Are you all right?” Joran asked.

  Mendallah didn’t answer. With her eyelets closed and indigo draining from her pod, she appeared to be dying.

  Joran fell back to his seat. What had he done? Instead of helping the poor plant, he had brought her to death’s door.

  “Take me now,” Zohar called.

  Joran pointed at Mendallah. “Didn’t you see what happened?”

  “She has been set free from this corrupted soil. Perhaps she will recover.” He reached his stalk farther. “Take me now.”

  “Okay, I’ll—” A crackle sounded, and the smell of smoke drifted by. Joran looked to his rear. Less than thirty paces away, a waist-high wall of flames raced toward them, running parallel with the red viewing wall. Plants fled in front of it. Some started behind Joran and waded past, like humans would through water, trudging while pumping their side stalks furiously. Tongues of orange devoured every blade of grass in the fire’s path. One flaming tongue shot out and engulfed a fleeing plant. It screamed but quickly fell silent as its spindly stalks vanished in puffs of gray smoke.

  As a wave of heat rushed over Joran, he grabbed Zohar by his side stem and ripped him out. He laid Zohar and Mendallah on the lyre, and, hugging it to his chest, ran parallel to the viewing wall. Behind him, more cries arose, the dying shrieks of wayward plants.

  Joran looked over his shoulder. The fire raged closer, growing taller as it closed the gap. The wall to his left pulsed red, like a warning flag signaling danger. Ahead, yellow gra
ss went on and on with no shelter in sight.

  Heat scalded Joran’s back. He pumped his legs harder. His muscles cramped. His lungs ached. Finally, he toppled forward. The lyre flew to his side and, as he slid in the grass, it fell behind him. With a quick twist, he lunged for it, now within inches of the fire, but as he jerked it away, the two plants fell off. The fire engulfed them and burned onward, blocking them from view. Mendallah and Zohar were gone.

  A HAND OF MERCY

  Joran leaped to his feet and, ducking his head and pulling the lyre close, reversed course and ran through the fiery wall. Once on the other side, he scanned his body. The flames singed his sleeves but nothing more.

  Near his feet, Mendallah and Zohar lay on green grass. Fire had caught their leaflets and crawled across their stalks. Joran set the lyre down and batted at the licking orange tongues, but his waving hands just fanned the flames, making them flash bigger and brighter.

  Yet, instead of dwindling in the fire, the plants began to grow. As both stretched, their indigo and violet skin transformed into flesh tones, Mendallah’s much darker than Zohar’s. Their leaves altered from plant material to cloth and wrapped around them in knee-length tunics. Mendallah grew long, stiff hair and took on the body shape and facial features of a human woman.

  Soon, the flames died away. Mendallah opened her eyes and climbed to her feet. With sepia skin and muscular frame, she towered over Joran like one of the Nephilim. Zohar also rose. No taller than Selah, his pale complexion and sparkling blue eyes matched Seraphina’s, and his hair, collar-length and as white as chalk, resembled the hair of the girl who watched the embryonic plants as Mardon threw them into the fire. He seemed to be about Selah’s age, perhaps a year or two older.

  Mendallah wrapped her arms around Joran, lifted him off his feet, and twirled in place, laughing with a bellowing howl. As the spinning continued, Zohar clapped his hands and shouted in a strange language.

  Finally, Mendallah set Joran down. Dizzy but smiling, Joran picked up the lyre and looked at the strings. From left to right, they carried all but one color of the spectrum—a violet E, an indigo F-sharp, a blue G, a yellow B, an orange C, and a red D. Only the middle string, the A note, lacked color.