same, but was less strenuous. Now I grew used to the pungent aroma of plant and potion. I could feel the infused oils rubbed into my skin surface and beyond. I didn’t know if this was to cover my smell or to heal my wounds, and I didn’t care. We pulled on, and slowly I began to come back to myself.
My limbs were drawn and stretched, and joints almost immobile began to loosen. Some treatments brought heat, some cold, others I could taste when applied. My body drank this attention like a sponge, and paused occasionally to sip strange teas from the cup she held for me. With each new nightfall I was happy to hear the fire built again, and ate ravenously the stew she served.
Our last full week upon the grinding road began routinely with the rising sun, and her work continued. I watched her slip needles from a pouch and insert them deeply into my arm, chest, and shoulder. I braced for pain, but I felt none, even as she rotated them one after another. The feeling of having nothing and being nothing was beginning to lift, I was no longer burdened by this emptiness, but liberated by it. The insipid smell of desert sand had been replaced by the lush aroma of plant and blossom. My world was turning green, as if spring had come to me at last.
I ate well that evening, and I left the confines of my traveling nest. By firelight I saw their faces, and for the first time I saw how beautiful she really was. I was a man well starved, but I did not hunger openly. I watched her from the cool darkness and was nourished by her presence. The moonlight played on her thick black hair. Its rich luster was like the coat of a wild fresh-run stallion. Her skin was soft even to the touch of my eyes. It had the color of amber spring honey, and the echoed fragrance of jasmine. Honey and jasmine, like the mead of my homeland, I felt strangely light headed as I drank her in.
Their eyes were different than any I had ever seen, black like the richest and darkest wood and shaped like the knots that give it character. Hers picked up the reflection of the bright flames, and banished any trace of the night’s chill from my bones. I listened without understanding as they spoke in the language of their world. As I lay down, it washed over me like a wandering brook, and for the first time in a long time I began to dream again. There were the sounds of sword biting metal, the lightness of my arms, the flashing of silver edge, and the feeling of flight. I was both weapon and wielder in an ethereal battle that raged far beyond my waking senses.
By mid-morning well into the fourth week, I was sitting in the wagon. Light still played on the clothing of the rider, and his darkly clad daughter rode with him on the back of his powerful mount. There was life all around us; songbirds were in full form, small creatures scrambled from our approach. Tall trees waved young leaves that caught the soft winds. A movement of his arm spoke that this land was his. We climbed higher and could soon see all around us. Almost hidden in the center of this view, I saw a dwelling.
As we came closer, the grazing animals stopped and looked up at us. Birds swooped closer as if to spy, a raven cried from a branch overhead, and wild deer and game stepped out from foliage just to show themselves to him. We entered the walled courtyard protected by a huge wooden door that closed behind us. We stopped first at the barns, and I was shocked by how well I felt as I stepped onto the ground.
The horses were fed and tended, and the young girl took the sword from her father as if he were himself a horse being stripped of brass, blanket, and bridle. As we walked towards the large house, we passed a deep pond of lilies. I could see fish thrash and surge to hold orange heads above the surface. Their wagging tails reminded me of my wolfhounds, which once jostled happily to greet their returning master.
We entered the house through a great hall. Weapons and armor from all over the world lay scattered from far wall to near. I recognized some, but most looked foreign, from a different place or a different time perhaps. Many pieces were just strewn and dust covered, others seemed waiting to be picked up and handled again. There were spears, clubs, short swords, scimitars, slings, projectiles, helmets, shields, and breastplates.
It brought from my memories tales about the dragon’s lair, dark and cavernous, littered with the weapons, armor, and bones of brave souls previously dispatched.
I thought once more of the mythical serpent, childhood dreams and adult nightmares, of journeys ended and journeys begun.
My body’s passage over, my mind raced onward to catch and hold the truth. Days before, lying within the moving wagon, it had fought to grasp reality. It had moved in vision from event to event, and weighed each one heavily against the possible and the probable. It saw the one beneath the shimmering robes that could not hide the strength and power of the man who wore them. It fixed itself upon his flashing steel—a sword described in legend.
My mind saw again the creatures of his land, wild animals that at a glance were tamed by his authority. It seemed that every living thing knew its place, and that he was the keeper of this garden. From lofty sky to waters deep, all awaited and respected his command.
It turned from man to girl, and remembered her skillful touch and unworldly beauty. It reviewed the passing of recent events with care and accuracy to avoid all room for error. It saw again the mixing of the plants and potions and remembered the strength giving magic of her bitter teas. It remembered their pungent but not unpleasant smells, it wandered further and held experience up to reason’s light.
The needles had been sunk deep beneath my mangled skin, and then rotated one by one, but as if by magic no pain did come. Surely this was not possible in any realm of man. Emotion screamed through my careful logic. This was powerful sorcery bound to witchcraft bold and unrepentant.
I arrived at the certainty that I was to be the object of their ungodly rituals, and sweat ran down my middle back. I thought about how to escape, but I knew I was still far too weak. I felt my blood drain instantly from my face, and as if by curse my limbs hung useless. I have never feared death, but now in every corner of my being I trembled, frail and pathetic. It was not my flesh I dreaded losing, it was my eternal soul.
As if on cue they entered the room and stared at me with concern, alarmed I think by my pallor. “Stand away from me,” I shouted. “My enemies have delivered me into the hands of a wizard and his witch. In another time and another place, I would be the one lighting the fires of purification under your feet.” I tried to run but tripped over some canes piled near the door. As I struggled to rise she was beside me helping me to my feet, laughing freely like a child. Then in a solemn tone, “I have heard about the burnings,” she said.
Her father, too, had finished smiling. “Be at peace,” he said, “this is not your time or your place, it is ours. My name is Mah Lin. I am a warrior monk, and the last of my Order. This is my daughter Selah, and in our time and our place she is a respected and skilled practitioner of Traditional Medicine.”
“Merlin, Sea Lass,” I repeated carefully, while they laughed at my butchered pronunciation. “Rest now and grow strong, and know that my sword has called your name,” said the wizard. In my language but with the richness of her tone and meter, “I will show him where he sleeps,” said the witch.
I fell asleep that first night thinking about the life that I had lost, and the life that I had found, and the dreams came back to me strongly.
From first breath life had not been easy, for he had arrived at a difficult time. Natural disasters had become the norm rather than the exception. If there was no drought, there was flooding, if there was growth, there were locusts. The last two seasons had been the worst that the living could remember. The land was not forgiving. Seeds perished where they were sown. The heavens were not pleased, and for this
