pondered. At first he refused to believe his Papa had ever meant to kill him, but he couldn't deceive himself for long. Self deception was not easy, for one who remembered every word his father had ever spoken. He recalled his Papa talking of the day when Nathan would enter the cabin, and how it would break the King's heart when it happened. Now Nathan knew why. He wept afresh at that, to think his Papa had so coldly planned his death on the Stone. . . but he also knew that in the end his Papa hadn't done it. What did that mean? And why, without a sacrifice, had not Jòkai already destroyed all Colmar?
Nathan froze in place, for he suddenly had a terrible suspicion. Only one other person besides Nathan could be the sacrifice, for only one other person knew the Songs. And someone must have died, or Jòkai would have long since put an end to all stories.
"Oh, Papa. . . no," Nathan whispered. But even as he denied it, he knew it must be so. That was a grief he couldn't yet face. Then a new thought crossed his mind. His Papa had known not only the good things in his people (which was all he had ever taught Nathan), but also the horrible and selfish and evil things. Not only what they hoped for, but also what they feared. And if that were true, then Timias' frightening stories might now be something more than just stories. Nathan shivered again, not entirely from the cold.
He came to a farmstead, lips blue and toes numb, and was given his supper and a place by the stove to sleep. It was the home of a yeoman and his wife, who lived all alone and had enough to spare. He would not be a hardship on anyone. In the morning they fed him again and gave him a cloak, then sent him gently on his way. But before he had gone too far, he stopped for a moment to think. He knew their Songs, and and knew that what they both wanted most was a baby. They had been married for years, and almost given up hope. Nathan fingered the piece of Stone in his pocket and wondered if Timias had told him the truth. Power in the blood. . . but only his, since no other knew the Songs. He took out the Stone and speculatively removed the pin of his cloak. If it took all his blood to satisfy everyone's wishes, might just a drop of it suffice for one couple? Let Jòkai have a taste of what he thirsted for; perhaps it would make the Dark One greedy for more, and thus easier to destroy when the time came. Nathan wasn't sure where that coldly logical thought had come from, or even when he had firmly decided he must destroy Jòkai. . . but he had not forgotten his promise.
With the pin from his cloak he pricked his left thumb, and bled two drops of blood upon the stone. They vanished at once and the Stone grew warm in his hand. Then, quietly lest someone hear, he sang the two Songs of the farmer and his wife. When he finished the Stone was cold. Had it worked? He might never know.
Thoughtfully he replaced the Stone in his pocket, and refastened the cloak about his throat. His left thumb hurt and he put it in his mouth till the wind slicing in through the slit in his cloak grew too cold to endure, then he pulled his hand inside and clasped it fully shut. With a smile that was almost sad, he set off again through the snowy woods.
For months Nathan wandered alone, and he saw many things that grieved him, and much that was hateful and cruel. Things that contradicted the Songs in his memory, and so he knew they would never have come to be if he had been the one to die on the Stone. He didn't need to know the dark side of his people anymore; he was seeing it in real life. And if ever he dared to utter his Papa's name he was invariably met with a curse or a blow. He learned quickly to keep what he knew to himself. Sometimes as he travelled he took out the Stone, and spilled a few drops of his blood upon it to make someone's dreams come true, or at least to wash away some terrible hurt. He kept this most stringently secret, never saying a word to the ones he helped, and quickly moving on before anyone could notice him.
But among those he touched, some did see, and remembered. Not many, or often, but these spread the tale. A story grew up wherever he went. People murmured that it was luck to catch sight of him, a blessing to touch his cloak. Ones who had given up hope when they heard of Ulysses' death now dared to imagine that Nathan might find them. How they came to know his name Nathan never could guess, but he smiled to himself all the same.
And the Queen in her citadel heard of these tales, and wondered how much was true. She thought of the husband she had not seen for twelve years, and knew who the boy must be. Her son. She quietly ordered her folk not to harm him, with a bittersweet taste in her mouth, though fear was wrapped close around her heart. The Dark One was not to be cheated so lightly.
And deep in the Wilds, on a day in late summer when the cold and the dark seemed farthest away, Nathan decided that the time had come when Jòkai must be destroyed. He knew only that the Dark One dwelt far in the north, in the ice and the stone where nothing could live. How to seek out and conquer him, the boy did not know, but neither did any other in Colmar. He would learn nothing by waiting any longer. Though far from unafraid, Nathan gathered his courage and took the northern road.
For days he walked and saw no one. Few people cared to live in the shadow of the northern mountains. But the road went on, climbing steeply upward, and then passed into a narrow gorge between two high cliffs. A chill breeze blew out and wafted the fringe of Nathan's hair. Inside was dusky twilight, never touched by the sun. Nathan stopped to pull his cloak around his shoulders, and prayed for the strength to do whatever he must. Then, his courage renewed, he plunged into the dark. It closed about him eagerly, and when he turned the first corner the bright summer world was lost.
The crack twisted and turned unpredictably with no rhyme or reason, but it was much shorter than Nathan had expected. Abruptly the walls fell away on both sides, and he stood at the top of a slope strewn with ice. It glittered pale blue in the weak sun that filtered from the heavy gray clouds above. There was no wind, no blade of grass, not a single living thing that Nathan could see. Just the empty, cold landscape that stretched on forever, and the dreary mountains at his back. He was come into the place of the Dark One.
The road faded out on the rock-littered plain, not far from the foot of the hill. Nathan hesitated briefly, then followed it down. He crept on past where the road left off, picking his way among the fragments of stone. The sound of his breathing seemed loud in the silence.
He was getting nowhere, and stopped to climb a lump of stone and look around. It was cold enough to freeze the light moisture on his fingertips, causing them to stick to the surface. He reached the flat top and saw that the road had nearly vanished behind him. If he ever once lost it, he was not at all sure he could find it again. He dared not go farther.
"Jòkai, I am here!" he cried at the top of his voice. Weird echoes rebounded from the mountains behind before dying very slowly away, and Nathan sat down on the rock to wait for the Dark One to find him.
And the Dark One came.
A glimmer of motion at the northern horizon soon caught Nathan's eye and swiftly drew closer. In the blink of an eye the man stood before him. His garb was of purest white, with long hair and beard the color of mist, and eyes as black as night. In his right hand he held a small pebble of blue.
"You have sent me a soul out of turn, King of Colmar," the white figure said, in a voice as quiet and cold as the snow. He held up the pebble and dropped it into Nathan's palm.
"She cannot live in My realm. . . take her to the mouth of the cleft and she will then be restored," Jòkai told him. He did not seem to care at all that Nathan had once been his chosen prey not very long before. He reached into a fold of his robe and withdrew a silver necklace. Nathan recognized it at once, for it was the one his Papa had worn.
"Your Scepter, King," the Dark One murmured, and made as if to place the chain around Nathan's neck.
"I do not accept it; I reject the treaty of my ancestors," Nathan said, hoping that his voice sounded firm. Jòkai was silent for a very long while, and never blinked.
"You have not the authority to do this. Our pact is signed in blood, eternal. You may refuse the Scepter if you choose, but wi
thout it you cannot prepare My sacrifice. And if you do not, then when the time comes I will drink the blood of all Colmar. Many great kings have thought to refuse our treaty, in the unthinking days of youth. All of them accepted in the end. For the sake of the people they took up the burden of the King. . . to provide My sacrifice. Do you likewise."
"You lie," said Nathan coldly, "My father hated the Curse every day of his life, and in the end he turned his back on you."
"Nay. . . he merely substituted one sacrifice for another. That is all one to Me, little King. If it pleases you, do the same when your own time comes. You dare not refuse Me." With that, Jòkai slipped the Scepter over Nathan's head before the boy could prevent it. The touch of his fingers as they brushed Nathan's cheek was cold enough to burn.
Nathan gasped, for it seemed that now he saw deep into the soul of every man and woman in Colmar, all at once. It was like ten thousand Songs pouring into his mind; a waterfall, an avalanche of music. But these were not all like the beautiful ones his Papa had sung to him. There were some of those, but there were evil strains in these Songs as well. Unworthy desires, cold cruelties, terrible fears and hatreds.
The Keeper of Songs: A Short Story Page 3
