Beneath a Star-Blue Sky
Seven Tales of Love and Grace
by
William Woodall
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 William Woodall
Cover photo copyright 2007 by Piccola Faccia
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The Keeper of Songs
Heard melodies are sweet,
But those unheard are sweeter.
-John Keats
Once there was a King who betrayed all his people for love, and once there was a boy who never forgot. The King was Ulysses; the boy had no name, for he was not meant to ever need one.
It was whispered that the King wept bitterly for twelve days and twelve nights when his first child was born, for even the servants could see what a strong and laughing youth he would be, the fairest there ever had been in all the land of Colmar.
The Queen his mother had begged not to see or touch him, and the King took pity on his wife, and took the child away the moment he was born. They had spent many sad months preparing for this day, and the King fed and cared for the baby with his own hands. He dared not allow anyone else.
When the first fair day arrived (for it was in the rainy autumn-time when the child was born), the King mounted a donkey with his baby son held in a sling across his heart, and bid his Queen and his palace farewell. The Queen would rule Colmar until his return, and that would be many years away. In the meantime the babe was his only concern.
The King rode away to the cottage prepared for him, deep in the Wilds where none other dared go, on pain of death. And there they remained always. The young King turned his strength to growing food and he put away thoughts of sorrow, for they were forbidden here.
The child grew, and was as fair and merry as his midwives had thought, and in him the King found much joy. And each day the King took the boy by the hand, and led him through fields where the red clover grew, by a silvery stream that played over rocks, and under the leaves of the old oak trees that danced in the wind and the sun. And the little one smiled at these things that he saw, and hid them away in his heart.
Then at last, every day, they came to a hill, where the sweet grass flowed in a cool green wave whenever the breeze came along. There at the top stood a cabin of wood, and inside it the Stone of Possibilities. So said the King, and the little one believed him, though never, not once, did they open the door.
"Someday you will enter that door, little child, and that day will break my heart," the King said to him once, one fine summer's day. (for the days were all fine, in that time.)
"Oh, no, Papa, never!" the little boy cried, for he couldn't have borne to cause such a sorrow, and he loved his Papa most dearly. He promised with childish conviction, but after a moment the King looked down, fingering the necklace of silver he wore.
"No, child, that is a promise you mustn't ever make, for this is the thing you were born for. Promise me only this much; remember!"
And the little boy never forgot.
Each day the King would tell stories, there on the hill in the woods, of wisdom and truth and love long ago, and he filled his child's head with dreams. And all of these were sweet as mint, for all of them were true. And each day also the man would sing (and no two Songs were ever alike), while the little one listened in wonder. When twilight came, just one word was spoken, and that was the word "Remember."
And the little boy never forgot.
Then at last a day came, after many golden years, when all the world changed. It was a crisp and whispering day in the fall when the boy was twelve years old, and the brown oak leaves fluttered and danced on the path in the sun as they walked. The boy smiled at these things, as he always did, and remembered, and squeezed his Papa's hand.
They came to the hill where the sweet grass flowed in a soft green wave in the breeze, and here the King stopped, and turned to the boy, and took both his hands in his own.
"Today I must leave you," the King said softly.
"But Papa, where are you going?" the little one asked. He couldn't imagine such a thing, for his Papa had never been away.
"In there," his father told him, and nodded his head at the cabin. The cabin with only the Stone inside. The boy thought about this and finally smiled, for that was his way in those days.
"Then I will wait for you here, even if it takes all day," he said. But his father looked sad, which astonished the boy. . . he had seldom known sorrow, either.
"You misunderstand, child. I can never come back to you, ever again. Listen closely to every word I say," the King said urgently, gripping the boy's hands tight enough to hurt. He dropped to his knees and looked not only sad but fearful, and the boy began to be uneasy. But he listened all the same, and never forgot.
"Child, you must run from this place as fast as you can. Don't dare to slow down or look back. Never tell anyone where you came from, or how you were raised, or mention my name. If they knew who you were, they would kill you at once. We were forbidden to give you a name, but you will need one now. So, I name you Nathan, for you have been a gift to me, and I pray you will be so to many others." At this point he reached in his pocket and took out a rough black stone, which he pressed into Nathan's palm.
"This is a piece of the Stone of Possibilities. Keep it safe, and never tell anyone you have it. It will give you great power, for I have sung to you the dreams of everyone in Colmar. Remember them all, and be wise, child. You were born to be a gift for the people; be a greater one now than they ever expected. Save them from Jòkai, and the Curse of Blood."
Now Nathan was frightened and clung to his father, and there on the hill he whispered "Don't go."
"Child, I must," his father said.
"But why?" Nathan cried.
"If I stayed, the cost would be too much to bear. I cannot tell you more than that. Now let me go, my Nathan. You are all I ever loved or wanted. . . Run now, and God keep you safe!" the King said. He brushed away the hair from the boy's brow and kissed him just once, very tenderly, then without another word he turned and walked away. Nathan stood frozen to the spot as the King approached the cabin and opened the door. Then he was gone.
"I promise, Papa. . . I'll try," Nathan whispered.
A minute later the piece of rock in his hand grew hot as blood, and a hard gust of wind almost sent him sprawling. He scrambled to his feet and caught sight of black clouds rushing down from the north beyond the mountains, and with no more hesitation he ran off the hill and away. He passed the forest of oaks where the branches groaned and snapped in the rising wind, and the silvery stream that played over rocks, and the meadow that once had been full of red clover. Then the rain came, heavy and blinding, and Nathan could see no more. He was soaked through in an instant. He dared not stop at the little cottage where he had spent his whole life, for just then the lightning began. He heard thunder and knew the bolt had struck somewhere behind him in the forest. Then the crash came again, and again, till the sound overlapped in a long rolling roar so loud it seemed his very ears would bleed. He covered them with his hands while he ran.
He ran for what felt like hours, not knowing where he was going or why; just running because he must. At last the storm grew less, and the lightning and wind died away. The rain became a drizzle, then even that stopped. The woods were quiet except for the crunch of his footsteps on wet leaves and bracken, and the drip of soaked bark. Nathan shivered, for it had turned cold in the wake of the storm, and he was not dry yet. He trudged on in silence, lonely and afraid and beginning to feel hungry. Already he missed his Papa.
All day long he walked without seeing any hint of people. He drank water from clear pools where it had collected after the rain, but there was nothing to eat except a few stray nuts the squirrels had missed. Near dusk he came upon a fallen log, and used his bare hands to tear away fistfuls of rotten wood till he reached the dry interior. He snuggled into the depression he had made and buried himself in the torn up pieces. They picked up a little of the heat from his body and kept him warm. It was still early, but Nathan closed his eyes and slept, too tired to think.
When he opened them he was cold as the kiss of the frost, but early morning sunlight streamed down through the branches to wash him with pale warmth. He rose from his bed and drank more water, then set off at once, ignoring his hunger. At midmorning he came to a road.
It was nothing but a muddy country lane, but to Nathan it seemed salvation. He fell to his knees and let out a cry of joy, the red clay sticking to the cloth of his breeches.
With fresh hope he followed the little road east; not because it would take him to any real end, but just that it allowed him to face the warm sun. Beyond that his thoughts were still vague.
By and by the trees thinned, and he began to pass fields golden yellow and ripe with the harvest, and pretty old farm houses scattered about. And these things were marvelous, amazing to behold.
"Ho, boy," a voice called, and Nathan was startled. It was the first voice he'd ever heard except his Papa's and his own. He looked all around.
There on the ground by a moss-covered apple tree sat a girl. She was older than he was, maybe sixteen or so. Nathan stared at her, lost in curiosity. He was conscious of rudeness, but couldn't seem to help it. He didn't know quite what to say.
"What's your name?" the girl asked, when the silence had grown too long.
"I'm . . . Nathan," he told her, the name sounding strange on his lips. It was the first time he had ever yet uttered it.
"Just Nathan, that's all?" she smiled. He couldn't reply; only yesterday he'd lacked even that much. He shrugged.
"Well, Nathan, I'm Cynthia, and if you're not in a hurry I hope you'll sit down and have lunch with me. You're the first one I've seen on this road all day long," she said. Nathan was happy to take up her offer. She reached in her pack and brought out bread and cheese, which she cut into slices for both of them. At first they said little. "Where are you from?" she'd ask. (That way.) "Then where are you headed?" (Don't know.) Cynthia finally became exasperated.
"Did you just fall out of the sky then, boy?" she asked. He could tell she expected no answer to that, and he wisely didn't offer her one. They sat there in the quiet for a while, and the girl absentmindedly began to hum a little tune. Something clicked in Nathan's mind, and he knew this girl instantly for who she was. The sudden knowledge made him gasp.
"What is it, Nathan?" she asked, concerned. She half rose, to put out a hand to his cheek.
"You're the great singer!" he exclaimed with delight, for he remembered his Papa telling him about her, long ago. He almost went on to say something more, but he noticed the way she was staring.
"I'm headed for the City to study my music," she said to him slowly, "All of my life I've dreamed of the day when I'd sing at the court of the Queen, but how did you know that?"
Nathan was speechless again, but knew she wouldn't simply let it drop. She was much too determined for that. He knew more about her than she knew about herself, and realized he would have to say something. He muttered a word or two under his breath.
"What's that?" she prodded, leaning toward him expectantly. He held back another minute, then told her a bit of the truth.
"I know a Song about you," he confessed.
"A song about me?" she asked, amused.
"Yes. It's a very beautiful Song," Nathan told her. And this was certainly true, for all the Songs were beautiful.
The girl smiled prettily, and because he wished to please her he opened his mouth to sing. He sang her own Song, which his Papa had taught him on the hill in the woods where the sweet grass flowed in a soft green wave in the breeze. He sang of all that was true and good inside her, of her deepest hopes and dreams, and everything she had ever loved. He captured her soul in his Song, and never saw her tears till the music was done. Then he noticed.
"What-" he began, but she cut him off sharply.
"Why did you tell me!" she screamed in rage and grief, and he pulled back from her hastily, scared. What had he done to her? She tore at her hair and her clothes, and her body shrank as he watched until nothing was left but a bright blue pebble that sat upon the ground by the tree.
A pale sparrow alighted nearby and looked up at Nathan with steady black eyes, full of death and unspeakable cold. With a dart of its head it swallowed the stone, then departed as quickly as it came.
Here was Nathan's first sorrow, and the beginning of wisdom. No one could bear to know his own soul too well.
And Nathan never forgot.
For days he wandered the old country roads. He took Cynthia's pack rather than leave it by the road, but the food was soon gone. Then he starved. Sometimes he passed people who would give him a crust or even a meal, but more often not. It was lonely country, so near to the Wilds. He became very weak, as time went on. At first he didn't know what was wrong when the coughing and fever came over him. He'd never been sick before. He was frightened again and searched through his memories till he found one of a man who might help.
He came to a place where the land fell away in high cliffs to the sea, and many bright birds called and soared in the sere blue sky. And here on the close cropped grass stood an ancient old man, weathered and cracked as the stones down below. His name was Timias, and he was a hermit, a seeker after wisdom and knowledge. He was a kindly soul, and would understand what to do. All this Nathan knew, and he knew also that no other healer lived in this desolate region. The hermit was his only chance. He stumbled out of the forest and fell at the side of the path, and for many days he knew no more.
When he woke he was lying in a bed, and the old man Timias stood close beside him, with something that steamed in a bowl.
"I thought you would wake soon," the man whispered in a papery voice, "You've been very ill, child. . . you must eat something now."
Nathan had no strength to reply, but he opened his mouth just a little. The old man fed him with a carved wooden spoon, as if he were a baby, till all the broth was gone. Then he slept again. Many more days passed in this way.
At last a morning came when the chill winds of November rattled like ghosts around the eaves of the house, and Nathan sat up in bed and knew he was well. Timias' care had saved him. He was still not too strong, but he knew that would pass in time.
The year was growing late, and winter could be cruel to those unprepared. When Timias heard that Nathan was alone, he refused to let him leave until spring. Nathan was grateful, and spent the long winter in the old hermit's house. It became a pleasant habit to sit before the fire in the long nights together, for Timias was wise and had many tales to tell which Nathan had never heard. He spoke of wytches and ghosts, and evil things that walked the moors by night and drank the blood of babes asleep; such things as terrified a boy who had never heard a falsehood in his life. But he kept his fear inside, for he noticed that in all the stories Timias told, the good and the right overcame the dark and the evil in the end, terrible as the monsters might be. That gave him courage.
The most terrible stories were of Jòkai the Dark One, who dwelt in the cold north beyond the mountains. Even Timias' voice betrayed a tremble when he spoke of the Dark One, for this story was real.
"He is the spiritual vampire, child. He feeds upon pain and terror, and especially does he love to drink the blood of the innocent. Once he came often into Colmar by night and filled all our land with horror and death. But we made a pact with him long ago, little Nathan. He cannot hurt us now," Timias promised. Nathan's curiosity was aroused, but Timias would say no more about the Dark One then.
Sometimes Timias did speak of nobler things, or read from his books, and there were memories, memories, always memories. In this way Timias reminded Nathan of his Papa, and he grew to love the old man. So it was that just before the first pale buds of spring appeared on the trees by the path, Nathan confessed to him all that had happened and all that he knew, in spite of his father's warning. Timias was silent for a long while. When he spoke again his voice was cold.
"If I had known, I would have taken your Stone and cut your throat where you fell upon the path," Timias said, staring into the depths of the fire. At Nathan's sudden look of horror the old man waved a weary hand.
"No, sit down, boy; I won't harm you. It wouldn't do any good now. The time is past, and you have learned too much. Your father has destroyed the world, and nothing can undo it. You might as well live. Much good may it do you," Timias said bitterly, and then cursed King Ulysses in the foulest terms possible. Nathan trembled on the verge of tears.
"But Timias, why? Papa wouldn't tell me; I don't understand!" he begged. Timias sighed.
"Your father had a silver necklace he always wore, did he not?"
Nathan agreed that he had.
"That was his Scepter; a gift of Jòkai to the kings of our land. With it, your father looked deep into the hearts of all his subjects, and then taught you all the good things he found there. And this he did, so that when the autumn of your twelfth year came, he might spill your blood upon the Stone of Possibilities and cause all that you remembered to come true. There is great power in the blood, boy. That was our pact with the Dark One. One pure and innocent life as a sacrifice for him to devour; in return he would grant the heart's desire of all others in Colmar. Just one sacrifice in each generation, but if ever we fail to give it then Jòkai will come ravening as a wolf from the north to devour us all and utterly destroy our land forever. Why do you think Ulysses taught you so many joyful things, and showed you only goodness? And now he has let you go, and turned all our hopes into ashes." The vicious hatred in the old man's voice was unmistakable.
"Get out!" Timias screamed harshly, raising a clenched fist as he jumped to his feet. Nathan leaped from his chair and fled the house in tears, for even by that time he had never dreamed that such hatred could exist.
But all this too, Nathan never forgot.
He walked alone and shivering in the cold light of late winter, and the wind cut cruelly through his thin indoor clothing. He wept for a time at the evil of the world, but soon gave that up. It did him no good. And as he walked he 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. Those who had given up hope when they heard what Ulysses had done 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 all 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.
The boulders blocked his sight, and he stopped to climb up and look around from the top of one. 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 an old 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 without 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. Nathan clutched his head in pain, and tears slipped down his cheeks to freeze on the black rock. Through it all came the cold voice of the Dark One, sharp as a stiletto, piercing the confusion.
"You see, Boy? See them for what they really are. You grieved for the pain and hurt you saw in the land. Know then, foolish one, every bit of it they inflicted upon each other, because of the evil desires of their hearts. Your father set that evil free when he took your place, and nothing will change it until the next sacrifice is made. Go back to Colmar, King. Give your firstborn to Me as all your forefathers did, and bring happiness back to your people. It is not such a great price to pay, unless your heart is too weak to bear it. Great Kings are not broken by sentiment when the fate of their country is at stake, and this you well know. In times past, Colmar has been the fairest and most joyful land in all the world. It can be so again," Jòkai urged.
For a moment Nathan was almost swayed by the Dark One's logic and the power of his voice. Was one life worth more than ten thousand? Was it right to condemn a whole nation for the sake of one person, who would then die anyway when Jòkai destroyed them all? Nathan could hardly think for the haze of pain in his head. Yet he knew that he held the future of his people in his hands. He must act with all Colmar in mind, not simply himself, nor even his possible firstborn child. Only the kingdom, and its flawed and unhappy people. Nathan felt for the first time the loneliness of power.
With an effort he shut out the wailing of the Songs and composed himself. Without the music pouring in, his mind cleared. He took a deep breath of the cold air and looked Jòkai in the eye.
"You are right, Dark One. My people are weak and evil, and cause themselves much sorrow by it. I could indeed go back to rule them wisely, and make your sacrifice upon the Stone of Possibilities. Perhaps it would be worth it. I could make them happy, and save them from death. Many have made that choice before me. . . but still I will not do it," Nathan said. A smile had begun to creep across the Dark One's thin lips, but at Nathan's final word it vanished at once.
"Why not, then?" he asked.
"Because you lie!" Nathan cried, "Indeed, your gifts are more bitter than dying. By your curse every good and noble dream my people imagine is twisted into a bitter and empty husk, tainted with blood-guilt. You offer happiness, but in fact you rob them of all pure joy. Perhaps they had very little of that before, but now they have none at all. That has ended today, Dark One. You may come and destroy us, but you will never corrupt us again."
And Jòkai was filled with anger and hate for the boy-King of Colmar who dared to defy him.
"You will not break our treaty if you are not there to lead, Boy. Another may wear the Scepter as easily as you." And Jòkai curled his fingers into claws as sharp as serpents' teeth, and reached out his long arm for Nathan's throat. He would have his blood after all.
Nathan felt a sharp bolt of terror, but then did the only thing he could think of. He snatched the Stone of Possibilities from his pocket and swiftly raked it across his palm. A thin line of bright red welled up. Nathan gripped the Stone with that hand, ignoring the stinging pain from the cut. Then, for the last time in his life, he used the power of the Scepter.
He looked straight into the heart of the Thing standing before him. He saw only a black emptiness, a pit that could never be filled, a hunger that nothing exist at all. Nathan gagged as if he'd tasted something vile, but he opened his mouth and forced his lips to sing the terrible Song of Jòkai. The stone grew blood-warm in his hand, and a coldness began to creep up his arm. The Stone was still drinking from him; even now, the Dark One thirsted. The flesh of the boy's forearm became the color of bleached bone, and his head grew light and fuzzy, but somehow he kept up the Song. He must not fail, even if it killed him.
When the last note was finished, Jòkai's shrieks cut off sharply, and there on the dirt lay a bright black pebble. The Stone of Possibilities slipped from Nathan's hand and fell to the ground with a soft thud, where it crumbled into dust. Nathan smiled faintly and whispered, "It is done, Papa." Then he slumped forward.
When he woke, many hours later, he could barely move and felt only half alive. His skin was cool and pale as milk, and he hurt all over. He reached down to pick up the black pebble that was the soul of Jòkai the Dark One, and began to make his slow and painful way back toward the cleft in the mountains.
A thin ray of light broke through the clouds to splash the cold ground, startling him. He looked up, and saw patches of summer blue through the dull grayness. He wondered at this, and then noticed the light breeze tickling his ears. A warm breeze. Jòkai's power was broken. Slowly, the ghost of his old warm smile began to spread over Nathan's face, and his step was lighter for the rest of the way. As light as it had ever been on the path in the oak woods long ago, where the green leaves danced in the wind and the sun, and he held the hand of one who loved him more than life.
When he emerged from the mountain gorge and looked down into Colmar it seemed as if a great shadow had fallen away from the land, a shadow he had never known was there until it lifted. Every rock and tree looked bright and new; looked free.
Nathan laughed aloud and clapped his hands for joy. There would be much work to do; many, many years before the people could cast off completely the sickness Jòkai had woven about them. But in time, Colmar would be a richer and kinder land than it had ever been in the days of the Curse, if only the people would choose it. Nathan lifted his eyes to Heaven and thanked God for leading them aright, for he had faith that it would be so.
Then, smiling, he went down to join his people.
Singing Wind
In beauty be it finished.
-Navajo proverb
Long ago, there was a girl named Singing Wind, whose hair was the longest and blackest of all the girls in the village, and whose face was more beautiful than any of the others as well. Her people lived in a village on the Ikahiri Plain, and moved about from year to year to plant their crops in fresh soil. It was a good life, and Singing Wind was the happiest of them all.
But it happens at times that too much fame and beauty can lead to difficulties, and so it was with Singing Wind.
There was in those days a certain Witch named Alitha who lived alone in a hut in the woods, and in time the tale of the beauty of Singing Wind came to her ears. She was at once filled with a jealous rage, for although she was very ugly, she fancied herself the most beautiful lady in all the Plain. No one had ever dared to tell her otherwise, for she was much too powerful and dangerous for that.
She was able, when she chose, to transform herself into a hideous monster that no one dared to fight. Alitha could become a dead skull with glowing eyes that rolled about and spewed forth coals and flame to burn anything that came near her to ashes.
And so it was that Alitha walked into the village one day, and demanded to be taken to the headman’s house. The people dared not refuse, for they knew who she was. The Witch and the fear of her had gone wide throughout the lands.
When she came to the headman’s house, Alitha got right to the point.
“Headman, I know you have a girl in your village by the name of Singing Wind, said by some to be beautiful. You will bring her here immediately, and she will come to live with me, and then you and your people must depart from this place immediately and go to live far away,” the Witch commanded him. The headman was considered brave, and his warriors also, but none of them dared to say no to the Witch, for they knew she could lay waste to the entire village and reduce them all to ashes if she chose.
Therefore the headman sent for Singing Wind, and told her what must be, that she should go to live with the Witch. Singing Wind wept and tore her clothes, but there was no help, for she saw that the headman would not resist the evil one. Therefore she calmed herself, and arose from her seat, and spoke to the headman calmly.
“Sir, if I’m to go with the Witch, there are three things I’ll have to take with me,” she told him.
“You can’t take any weapons, nor anything valuable,” the headman warned her. Singing Wind agreed to this, and fetched a small bundle from a shelf in the house. Then she went with the headman to the front of his hut.
When the Witch saw the beauty of Singing Wind, she was amazed, but her heart was filled all the more with hatred and spite. She opened the bundle that Singing Wind had brought, but it contained only a plum twig, a small bottle of water, and a mussel shell. The Witch cared nothing for these things and allowed her to keep them. Then she took the girl to her own hut, after remaining long enough to make certain that the people of the village had fled far away.
And so Singing Wind was left alone with her tormentor. For the Witch was very hateful, and heaped all manner of cruelties upon Singing Wind whenever she could. She would frequently stab her with sharp thorns when she passed close by, or force her to rake up hot coals with her bare hands so that her skin was burned and blackened. She refused to allow her to ever wash her hair or to bathe in the stream close by, or to make new clothes for herself. In the fall when the hut was invaded by hideous black roaches, Alitha forced her to eat them. In this way the Witch hoped to destroy Singing Wind’s beauty and turn her into a bitter and fearful slave. Alitha threatened her that if she ever tried to escape, that she would hunt her down and burn her to ashes, along with anyone who dared to help her.
Singing Wind pretended to be terrified of the Witch, and in truth she did fear her, but she had courage, and refused to give up the idea of escaping and returning to her people. And although she was forced to live in filth and cruelty, she was just as beautiful as she had always been, for true beauty shines from the heart, like a fire that can never be put out.
Now it happened by and by that the Witch had business of her own to attend to in other parts, and she wished to go off on her own for a time. However, she was gripped by the fear that Singing Wind might take this chance to try to escape her, and she was determined that this should not happen.
Therefore the Witch announced her intention to leave, and again threatened Singing Wind with horrible consequences if she dared set foot beyond the vicinity of the hut. Then the Witch pretended to depart, but in fact she went only a short distance from the hut and hid herself behind a tree to see what her prisoner would do.
Singing Wind was no fool, and she continued to do her work about the yard and the hut, without so much as a glance towards the deep woods where she might try to escape. After a time, the Witch was satisfied that Singing Wind would not dare to leave the hut, and she departed to take care of her other business.
Singing Wind waited for a time, until she was certain that the Witch was far away, and then she acted quickly. She gathered her bundle of possessions, and departed from the Witch’s hut immediately.
She was not so foolish as to think she would be able to escape from the Witch without help, and so she headed at once for the den of a certain Bear who lived not far away and who might be able to protect her.
It was not long before Singing Wind approached the home of the Bear, and as she came to his den she called aloud to him.
“Oh, great Bear, I’m in terrible trouble, for a powerful monster is after me, and there’s no one who can help me but you,” she cried. And the Bear heard her plea, and lumbered out slowly to meet her. He looked upon her beauty, and he was inclined in his heart to help her. Therefore he said,
“Tell me then, lass. . . what’s this monster you fear? I’ll crush it with one flick of my little claw,” he boasted, and held up his paw. And Singing Wind was glad, for she thought the Bear would save her.
“Great Bear, I’m being chased by the evil Witch Alitha, and if you hadn’t helped me then I would have been lost,” she thanked him. But the Bear was startled when he heard that name, and a new attitude came over his face.
“Ah, no! Not the Witch! For she will set fire to my fur and burn me to ashes, and you along with me! Great though I am, I dare not fight against the Witch. But go to the Mountain Lion, and perhaps he may be able to help you. Now go!” the Bear ordered her, his eyes bulging in terror. And he turned tail and hid himself deep in his den.
Singing Wind hid her fear, and would not give up. She wasted no time on the Bear anymore, but set out at once for the cave of the Mountain Lion, in the hope that he might be more brave.
In the meantime the Witch had returned from her trip sooner than Singing Wind had thought, and she flew into a rage when she found the girl gone. She muttered her curses and took her skull shape, and her wicked red eyes glowed fiercely with hate. She suspected the Bear at once, and set off to see him, for she was determined that the girl should not escape.
She came to the den of the Bear before long, for she could roll very swiftly when she needed to.
“Have you seen a young girl pass this way, old Bear? Tell me at once, or I’ll burn you to ashes, you filthy old flat-foot,” she demanded. And the Bear stuck the tip of his nose from his cave, and in a voice that trembled he answered her back.
“Yes, I’ve seen her. She asked me for help, but I gave none. She headed that way, toward the cave of the Lion,” he told her in fear, pointing his paw toward the west.
“Hah,” the Witch grumbled, and paid no more mind, rolling off quickly.
So fast did she roll, it was not very long till she saw Singing Wind just ahead, and she laughed to herself, spewing coals all about.
Singing Wind heard the monster and said nothing else, but she reached into her bag and pulled out the plum twig. She broke it in half, and threw the pieces down behind her. At once there arose such a thick, tangled mass of thorny plum trees that she knew it would take the skull quite some time to burn its way through. And in the meantime she came to the cave of the Mountain Lion.
She stopped, out of breath, and called to him quickly.
“Great Lion, please help me! A terrible monster is hot on my heels, and no one can save me but you,” she cried out. And the Mountain Lion blinked in the bright noonday sun, and Singing Wind’s beauty was such that he decided to help her. Therefore he said,
“And what is this poor puny monster you fear? Why, I could crush it with one flick of my little claw,” he told her, and held up his paw. But Singing Wind hesitated, for she remembered the Bear.
“Great Lion, the Witch named Alitha is coming, and- ” she began, but the Cat cut her off. A look of bright terror came over his face.
“The Witch will burn both of us right down to ashes! There’s nothing I can do against a monster like that! But go to the Snake, and perhaps he will help you. I dare not. Now go!” the Cat said, and fled into his cave.
Singing Wind was frightened, but she still kept on, for what else could she do except wait for the skull?
In the meantime the Witch had burned her way through the thicket, and came to the cave of the Mountain Lion.
“Milk licker! Where has that ugly girl gone, for I know she came here to see you!” the Witch demanded.
And the Lion poked only his nose from his cave, and with trembling and terror he answered the Witch.
“She went that way, oh great one, to see the old Snake. I gave her no help, I promise!” he cried. The Witch said no more to the Cat, and rolled off, and before long she had almost caught up with her prey.
“Now I’ve got you!” she cried, coming close indeed. But Singing Wind reached for her bundle, and pulled out the bottle of water inside. She poured it all out on the path right behind her, and at once there arose a wide lake between them. The lake was so wide, and so icy and deep, that she knew it would take quite some time to get around it. That gave her time to get to the Snake.
Before too much longer, the girl reached a place where a deep hole was dug, and that, she thought, must be where the Snake lived.
“Great Snake, there’s no one to save me but you, for a monster is chasing me that no one can resist,” she cried. And the Snake heard her cries, and slithered swiftly to meet her. He hissed when he saw her, her beauty was so great, and he thought he would help her, if only for that.
“So tell me, then. . . what is this poor little monster you fear? I will crush it with one flick of my tail,” he boasted, and rattled his tine. And Singing Wind was happy, for the Snake seemed sure. But she thought of the Bear and the Cat, and she feared.
“Great Snake, the evil Witch Alitha has followed me here, and unless you destroy her I fear all is lost,” she told him.
“Sss, no!” the Snake hissed, “Not the Witch! She will roast me for supper and burn you to ashes! You are lost!” the Snake told her, and dived underground.
Singing Wind was in terror now, for there was nowhere else to go, and before long the Witch would overtake her. But she still kept on, for what else could she do?
Indeed, before long the old Witch rolled up close, laughing and spewing her burning hot coals.
And Singing Wind reached in her bag one more time, to take out the very last thing that she had, and that was the mussel shell, shiny and white. She crushed the shell and threw it behind her, and at once the ground was covered with glittering diamonds, so many and so bright that the Witch could not count them.
She was sure of catching the girl at that point, so she stopped there awhile and took her own form. She picked up the diamonds as fast as she could, but there were so many it took quite some time. And then when she finally picked them all up, she found a little bag in the folds of her dress to put them inside, and the bag she hid in the hole of a tree, where it would be safe till she came back for it later. Then at last she took form as a skull once again, and rolled off after the girl she hated.
Singing Wind at last had come to a river, and it blocked her way forward completely. It was too wide to swim and too deep to wade, and at last she despaired of escaping.
But at the edge of the river she spied a tall boy, and not far down the bank was a solid wood hut. She had nothing to lose, and no time to think, so she went to the handsome young man.
“Boy, there’s a monster that intends to destroy me, and none of the Beasts will help. Can you hide me awhile, till the monster is gone?” she pleaded.
And the boy saw her beauty, and he loved her at once, but he said nothing of that just yet.
“My name is Little Bear, and of course I will. Go inside the hut and hide under the bed, and if the monster does come then I’ll kill it for you,” he promised. Singing Wind didn’t believe him, but took his advice, hoping to flee back the way she had come. The Witch might give up looking, sooner or later.
So she went in the hut and crawled under the bed, and there she waited for the skull to come. Little Bear stayed by the river outside, calm as can be, with a red wooden club in his hand.
In time the skull came, hateful and ugly, her eyes glowing red as hot coals. She saw the wide river and the tall young man, and Singing Wind nowhere in sight.
“Have you seen an ugly girl pass by, young man? If you have, tell me quickly which way did she go?” the Witch threatened, spitting out a few sparks.
Little Bear shrugged his strong shoulders a bit, either not scared at all or hiding it well.
“The girl is inside, and she is my guest. So turn tail and run, old Monster,” he told her. The Witch was so shocked by this threat from the boy that at first she was speechless, but soon flew into a rage.
“Very well, then. I’ll burn you both to ashes!” she screamed, and her eyes began to glow.
But before she could spew out her flaming hot coals, the boy raised the sacred red club high above her. And then, with one leap and a terrible cry, he smashed down the club between her eyes.
The skull cracked and shattered into a thousand small pieces, then Little Bear told his guest to come see.
Singing Wind stared at the broken up skull, all that was left of the terrible Witch, and then she looked back at the boy who had killed her.
“But how?” she asked wonderingly, touching a piece. She wondered, at first, if he was even truly human. For what normal man could have done such a thing?
“It was only a skull after all, you know. If you hit hard enough, it will break,” he replied.
“But the Beasts were in terror, and my people as well,” she insisted, still not quite believing it. Little Bear shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, so was I, but I love you, you see, and how else was I ever to save you, if I lacked the courage to try?” he asked.
“You might have been killed, and us both burned to ashes,” she said, but her heart was full.
“Maybe so, but we weren’t, and I still love you dearly,” he told her, with a practical smile. She laughed, for what else could she answer to that? So she took him with joy, and their love was deep.
Together they ground up the skull into powder, and burned it to ashes in a fire they built. In the spring they set out from that place by the river, and soon found her people not far across the Plain.
The people rejoiced at the story they told, and the death of the Witch filled them all with awe. The headman was shamed, for it was whispered among the huts that a boy and a girl had done what no leader ever dared.
In time all that people took Little Bear to lead them, and Singing Wind stood beside him in all that he did, and they lived many years in joy.
And in days long after, when they both slept with God, the people still remembered the tale of their deeds, till at last they are told here today.