Chapter 32

Bracken breathed deeply as he made his way through the low rolling foothills of the Knasir range.   The air had a fresh scent to it that made the breather want to take full benefit of its clean fragrance.  In places, the trees grew in thick, high clumps that the trail usually skirted.  But occasionally the well-traveled path would plunge into a large forest.  Some of the trees in these woods looked like a blend between oak and pine.   Their tall narrow trunks would rise straight up, only to open out into a massive canopy of thick dark leaves, dotted with seed cones.  Other trees, which grew almost like brush but resembled dwarfed redwoods, hugged the base of the larger ones.

Everywhere Bracken looked wildlife abounded.  Uncountable types and varieties crossed his path, some even coming up to him to eat from his hand.  One, he remembered particularly, was an ermine-skinned creature with wings that lay back across its body.  A long snout protruded several inches from its face.  Six legs moving in perfect coordination carried it with stately pride.

Strange songs echoed in the trees, rhapsodies with notes so dear one could almost pull them from the air.  Bracken wondered what strange animals could make such sounds and hoped they would become visible, but he never saw them.

As he cleared the shelter of the second forest he passed through, he saw the roof of the first way-station glittering in the radiance of the setting sun.  The small building sat on top of the low ridge. Quickening his pace, he trudged up the now steepening path.   Bits of rock popped and grated under his feet as he hiked on.  By nightfall he had reached his first stop and was greeted by a friendly Filanley, dressed in an evening cloak.  The creature’s eyes glowed softly in the twilight, as he let his guest in and showed him to the tiny cubicle where he would spend the night.

The room was narrow, with a high-beamed ceiling.  Bracken placed his things on the floor and looked around him.  A small bunk and table had been placed against opposing walls.   Flickering light came from a single torch mounted against the rear partition.   Just before Bracken retired, the caretaker brought him a warm cup of herb drink.   He sipped it gratefully, then slipped off to sleep.

The following morning Bracken was on his way early.  He munched on a piece of dried fruit as he mounted the twisting rock pathway.  Above him a ridge of high crags ripped their way unto a sapphire sky.  Stout little trees with brittle-looking branches clung to the steep sides of the canyon walls.  Goat-like creatures with lavish yellow fur roamed the high steeps.  Periodically, they stopped and stared across the gullies at him.

At one point, the path became so steep that Bracken thought he could go no further.  But as he reached the top of a narrow ravine, a stairway appeared that led up the mountain.    It had been hewn from the rock and its steps were worn with travel.   Staring ahead, he could see a high meadow with a small crystal blue stream winding through it.

Green grass squeaked beneath his boots as he reached the creek.  Tiny red fish darted in its waters.  He noticed dumps of brush nudging the streamside as he bent down and drank deeply of the cold wetness.  The reflected oval of the noon sun bobbed on the creek’s sparkling surface.

Looking back, Bracken could see the rolling plain of Malchag and the distant sea shimmering on the horizon. For a moment he felt at peace, free, like a bird soaring above the confusion below, the confusion of his past.  Refreshed by his drink, he stood up and walked on.   He followed the stream up the grass tableland until he found its source.  A waterfall splashed down from a jutting bluff.  At this point, the path ended.   For several hours he looked in frustration unable to locate a new trail.  As it began to grow dark, he returned to the falls and found what he was searching for.

Beyond the crashing water was a narrow tunnel.  Wading through the pool, Bracken slipped behind the falling stream and stepped into the passageway.  A tiny square of light shone at the other end. When he reached it he was startled.

A slender tongue of stone reached out into space and touched the high cliffs that came up to meet it from the other side of a deep gorge.

Slowly edging himself out onto the thin bridge, Bracken crept along.  Far below him a thundering river carved its way through the canyon.  When he reached the other side a gentle slope let him down to the second way station.  He gratefully accepted the comforts it offered and fell quickly asleep.

The next day, Bracken encountered his first snow.  Rivulets of water washed over the lichen-covered stone as they ran from beneath the great cakes of frozen white.  Soon the path all but vanished beneath the carpet of a frosty substance.  Flagged poles marked where the trail led on.  Sparkling icicles clung to rocky overhangs and dripped a clear liquid in stark, near-frozen pools.  Gradually the path descended again until the winding ravine turned to his right.  Bracken worked his way down it for several hours. Coming around the edge of a high wall, he could see a fertile steep land falling away toward a small forest.  In its center, a chalk-white palace of stone rested, nestled like a pearl in the grass.  Bracken’s heart leaped as he gazed down at the palace.  He was almost there.  Rising from the center of the palace, a needle-shaped pillar pointed into the cloudless sky.

Bracken spent the remainder of the afternoon making his way toward the forest.  By dusk he stood at the huge gate of the castle and called to the sentinel in the tower.   Slowly, the great oaken doors opened and he was greeted by the gateman who introduced himself as Grawman.

"Who are you, young traveler, and where do you come from?" asked the leather-skinned keeper of the gate, as he led Bracken to the guest quarters.  Dressed in a hooded cloak, the old man carried a billowing torch as he guided their way through the labyrinth of hallways and courtyards.

"I’m Bracken and I come from Nerkush... through the western gate of Malchag.  I’ve come to sit at the feet of Wiscirn and learn his wisdom."

"Wisdom indeed, young wanderer," replied the aged man.  "In the morning the door of truth will be opened to you."  Bracken stared in wonder at the bright ornaments and paintings that decked the walls of this high fortress.  Through one doorway he saw a large room which held companies of Filanley as they sat eating sumptuously from long tables.  Melodic music of the highest forms drifted through the hallways and rippled at the flames of burning torches suspended in circlets from the high ceilings.   Strange languages echoed past him as he followed his guide.  A resonant bell rang several times in the tower above them.

The torchbearer stopped in front of a wooden door, ribbed with bands of black iron.

"Here’s your room.  After you’ve cleaned up, I’ll come back and take you to eat."  With that, Grawman turned and disappeared down the dimly lit hall.

Bracken’s room was elegantly decorated with woven tapestries hanging on the walls.  Intricately designed quilts covered his bed.  Its stead, made from the finest wood, had delicate figures carved into its surface.  He soon found the washbasin and cleaned away the dust of the previous days.

Refreshed, he opened his door and stepped into the hall.  Soon Grawman appeared and led him away to dinner.  The brightly-lit dining hall resounded with strains of unknown tone and cadence.  The Filanley, who sat in the room, ate and sang songs to their leader Wiscim.  They welcomed Bracken with nods and laughter.  Soon he was eating happily with them and drinking steins full of fragrant intoxicant.  But Bracken grew tired.  Weakened from his previous attack and weary from climbing, he excused himself early and slipped off to bed.

The soft luxury of his pillow welcomed his tired head.  Yet in spite of the comfort of his quarters, he slept fitfully.

In the morning Grawman stirred him awake with his singsong greeting and left a bowl of fruit for breakfast.  He ate while he dressed.  He was eager to meet the Filanley leader.   He longed to hear the words of comfort and wisdom he hoped Wiscim would bring.   He yearned for a balm to heal the scars of his inner man.  He had so many questions.  So many doubts and troubles.  The wounds on his battered soul still ached.  The affliction he had suffered physically seemed minor compared to the ache in his heart.  The words of a wise man would be an ointment of life.  Bracken stood in front of the mirror and combed his hair.  His tired eyes stared back at him.   His journey had been more taxing than he had realized.  He felt as if every part of his being was worn and frazzled.  How much longer can I go on looking, he wondered.  The roads of his life that had seemed so pleasant had turned down a weary path.  The feet of his spirit were bruised.  The cobbles on the lanes of his journey were growing sharper.  The soft moisture of his youth felt dry and brittle.

He took another bite of the colorful fruit.  Its taste was sweet and wet, but it failed to quench his inner thirst.  By the time he had finished dressing, the gatekeeper had returned.

"Your audience will be at the second bell," the elder explained, leading Bracken through the palace into a tree-filled garden.  The shrubbery and the flowers were neatly manicured.  A lily-covered pond graced the center of the square.  "You may wait here until he arrives."

"Thank you," replied Bracken as Grawman turned and slipped away.  Everything was perfect, even down to the green moss-like seedlings that floated on the surface of the pond.  It almost seemed too perfect.  Bracken stretched out on a carved wooden bench and stared up into the azure heavens as he waited.  The high needle spire gleamed in the forenoon sunlight.

The bell rang, an odd, strange sound, and then again a second time.  The door at the far end of the garden opened.  Bracken pulled himself upright. A line of musicians entered, coming his way, solemn and formal, playing what sounded like some gentle, plaintive overture.  Bracken watched.  Behind them, an entourage of Filanley dressed in silk carried what seemed to be a great throne.  What in the world, thought Bracken, getting up, and walking toward the dais near the pool where they put down their burden.   He made himself a place, a short, safe distance from their presentation and sat down to watch.  Was this all for him?  The musicians flowed and merged like streams in front of the throne, swaying, moving, rippling in a complex hypnotic pattern, the music rising, keening, ever thundering to a climax that never seemed to come.

Suddenly it stopped, and without a sound they sat.  And the throne was occupied.  Bracken sat all alone, in front of the man on the throne and stared.  For just a moment he thought he had lost his mind.  That smile.  That face.  The face he had seen calling Silas to oblivion.  The face that had appeared from beneath the disk commander’s veil.  The mocking visage that he had confronted on the crystal plane of light in the Mingus realm.  The piercing eyes.  The pointed nose.   The leathery, molded features. How could it possibly be? It couldn’t be . . . . And then the figure spoke, and all at once, with a sudden, certain terror, Bracken knew he was not mad.

The soft, mocking voice addressed him.  "And now you know.  You know the truth.   You finally know." And Semie smiled.   It was that terribly delicate smile, the merest lift of the corners of that hard, thin mouth, a smile that chilled Bracken to the core of his very being.  "But unfortunately, you know much too late."

The Filanley on either side of Semie were smiling too.  And as Bracken stared in horror, their disguises melted away, dripping like wax, leaving the tentacled shapes of the demons.   Their faces were melting, just like Bracken’s inner being.  Just like his hope.  Just like everything he had ever believed in.  "You have grown fat, Bracken.  The lies we fed you were good.  But now. . ." The voice was terrifyingly soft, "Now your soul is ripe.  And it is time for the harvest."

Bracken was afraid, but not with the ordinary fear.  Now his terror was beyond compare.  His hopes were shattered.  He had no future.  No more reason to live, no more reason to seek, no more reason to dream.  Blackness, like a giant, swirling pool churned in his mind.  One by one the surging maelstrom swallowed every fantasy he had ever entertained.  To trust now seemed blasphemous.  To hope would only compound his horror.  He heard his own thoughts laughing in despair in the clattering chambers of his mind.  Why had he ever begun searching, he wondered.  Why had he wondered.   Why had he come to this moment only to find a lie waiting behind the door of his dreams.

Semie stood to his feet.  And seemed to grow. . . and grow.  Bracken could not look at him.   "I am Semie.  I am the Ruler of the Night.  I am the Prince of Darkness."   The voice seemed to boom from every corner of the room, like a great and hollow echo, like a voice that had been forsaken by its body, a terrible, terrible voice that screamed and howled and thundered around the trembling youth.  He had to escape, somehow he had to escape.

"No one escapes."

His knees were welded to the floor.  All around, he heard the rustle of Filanley closing around him.  In that moment, Bracken knew the terror that few men ever know before death.   So often life ushers men forth with anthems of joy.  Then later at the end of the corridor of time, they discover the truth.  After they pass the last sentinel of this life, they find their fate waiting and their judgment revealed.

Now it was only a matter of time.  The waiting was nothing.  His life was nothing.  He couldn’t find even a flicker of hope.  He looked for a tender thread to cling to. . . nothing.  His heart could no longer float above the swirling tide.  It was too heavy with his cares, too filled with his own selfishness.  Yes, he finally knew.   He knew that he deserved his fate.  His own lust and selfishness had brought him to this end.  His life flashed before him.  He remembered his family. . . his father, his mother... the Volume.  The truth had always been there.   It had been all around him and yet he had refused to believe it.  Why? he agonized.  Why? His ego clutched at him. Its long, slithering fingers pulled at him, dragging him down to his final moment of despair.  Then suddenly he stopped and pushed his thoughts away.  He pushed it all away.  "Let it die. . . let me die. . . but let the truth live," he screamed.

Then miraculously something changed.  From the depths of his heart, a memory awoke.   A name!  A name which stood out above every other name, thrust up like a rainbow into his mind and in final desperation he turned his eyes toward the sky and screamed that name.

"Prince of Wonder!  Prince of Wonder!  Prince of Wonder save me!"

Suddenly, like the clockwork of a giant timepiece locking in infinite suspension, the universe stopped.  The Night Ruler was held stiff in a grip far greater than his own.   The Filanley stood motionless.  And then He came.  Not as a glowing orb or a scintillating brightness, but in a still, small voice with the strength of reality.   In love, he quietly whispered in Bracken’s dissipated heart.  The voice was tender.  Each word seemed to heal and restore his soul.

"I have waited for you Bracken."  The voice was right.  He had been selfish.   But the voice was gentle, it was forgiving.  "You’ve rejected me, but still I’ve waited.  I’ve kept you.  I have waited for the moment when you would see how vain and cruel your own heart is."  Bracken found it hard to believe what he was hearing.  It was too good.  The love was too great!   He had nearly died.  He deserved to die and now . . . now he was free!  A being of love, far greater than he had ever dreamed, spoke words of care, words of life, words of hope.

"Bracken, you have believed what men have made me out to be, believed the lies their lives have told you, that I was powerless, dead, forgotten.  But as you see, I am alive and have all power and the key to all things is firmly in my hand, even as you are.  I have loved you and now you know it beyond all doubt."

The healing of Bracken’s heart had begun.  The fear had vanished.  The loneliness was gone.  Arms of comfort held him.

"Long ago, I died to break the grip of the Prince of Darkness, and as you can see, it has been done.  I gave myself that you might live, and as I live, so will you for eternity."  The voice of the wondrous Prince had ceased, but his words had left their mark on Bracken’s heart.  He would never be the same again.

Bracken slumped to the ground, weeping bitter tears, tears of remorse, until he had bathed the stones beneath his feet.  He wept until there was no more to weep, and then he rested in a joy that had no end.  From the deep of his heart, a cry of thanksgiving, of release and joy, rose up until words of gratitude sprang from his mouth.  And then he wept again, but now tears of gladness, tears of peace, until all grew quiet again.

"I must go home," he said softly.  "My Father waits for me, too."  As he walked away, the Prince of Wonder went with him.  He had surrendered, he felt clean, and he was a new person.

Like an actor walking from the stage at the end of a play, Bracken saw the world of Malchag vanish behind him like the scattered remains of an abandoned set.  In its place the road to Tizra stretched before his feet.  He walked it with joy.