EA#23:
Read From the Beginning or the start of Trial Two or Three or Four
The Mountain in the Clouds, Part Twenty-Six
“
I stepped out on the grass. Verdant field of green. Waving blades of dew. Morning sun. Wispy winds. Billowing over my head and hair. Cooling and warming and soothing and real.
It felt like home.
But I knew it wasn’t. Not my real home. Yes, it was a landscape I could perceive as normal, in the sense that it had rock and earth and tree. It wasn’t the black void, the streaming waves of energy. But it wasn’t my home. It wasn’t anywhere I’d ever been.
Part of me felt like it wasn’t anywhere anyone had ever been.
I looked around. Before me the fields of grass went on and on, rolling into hills in the distance, sparse trees dotting the land. As I looked to my left and right as I could make out the coursing path of a waterway. It felt unnatural, as though it were designed by hand.
As I spun full around I knew why. The water formed a moat, or an aqua system of some sort for the castle that lay before me. It was a strong structure of stone and wood, fashioned of large, grey bricks and towered overhead. To my mind it was one of the most classic and traditional castles I had ever seen, barely showing a sign of any age. Near perfect.
The breeze kicked up around me, brushing loose leaves from the ground past my face. I felt a slight push from behind, as if the wind were urging me on. My feet fumbled to hold me up as I tittered towards the building in front of me.
I had an “A-ha” moment as I witnessed the drawbridge before me. It was a familiar old rock, ruddy and strong but slightly porous to the touch, with two, blue ropes corded at an angle to a now perceivable wall and the entrance to this magnificent place. It was the rock I had been stuck on in the void, now part of a real world.
Had I really been sitting in that black space all along, only to be standing now at the door to this castle? Had I but to trust in the reality of what was around me in order to see it?
Yes!
It was the disembodied voice I had grown accustomed to hearing. Now it seemed to applaud me from all around. I found myself looking to see if I could make out where it had come from. But there was nothing, no one.
And then there was.
“Who goes there?” someone demanded from the castle wall.
“Um,” I stuttered, half expecting to see or hear from nobody in that place of quiet. “Uh, it is I…”
“No need, no need,” a new, distinguished voice intoned. “Please, open the portcullis.”
“Sire, yes, Sire,” answered the first voice. A sound could be heard of machinery unhinging and clunking, then the portcullis began to rise slowly. The gears screeched and plodded, and I watched the heavy frame lift.
A young man came to the gateway and placed a block under the portcullis to hold it in place, then ran back into the barbican.
Before I could move or think, a troupe of trumpeters had arrived at the wall and heralded some prominent notes on their horns. The air sizzled with their song, lifting the hairs on my arms and neck.
Next a dozen heavily armored boots marched through the barbican and out across the drawbridge. The sound of their feet created a mesmerizing beat of authority and grace. They came to a halt in two lines facing each other, spears held tall next to them.
This was followed by half a dozen men in rich, colored robes and old, white beards. They held an air of solemnity and dignity and lined up just in front of the guards, staggering themselves just halfway between.
At last a high dignitary came forward wearing a red-striped robe of white and an exquisite wool cap. He in turn was followed by a lady dressed in the most luxurious attire, dress flowing in silken blues and whites, gems and diamonds adorned at her ears, neck, wrists and fingers. I presumed her to be a queen, perhaps. And finally came a man whom I could only imagine to be the lord or king of the castle. He was wearing a stunning violet cape over deep red garments that bespoke of the highest tailoring in the land. His neck was donned with a massive loop of golden chains held low by an emerald of impressive size and refinement. The crown on his head held every gem known to man and shone in the sun like a burning fire in its prime.
“My lord,” I tried as I saw him approach, offering a bent knee even against my own inner tuggings to do otherwise. Part of me thought, who is this man? I do not know him. I do not need to bow. And a side that honored respect and propriety took hold and told me to offer my best impression at this time.
“No, please,” the royal personage requested of me. “Please stand. For a Magi need not bow to a king.”
“But I am not,” I tried to clear up the misunderstanding
“Again, I must insist,” the man before me stopped my plea. “There is no need to explain yourself. We know who you are.”
“You do?” I asked, deeply intrigued.
“Indeed. You are the Magi who made the giants disappear. And you are the one who has appeared from thin air before my castle to help us. Are you not?”
“I am no…” I tried again.
“Do not be modest. Modesty does not become the Magi. We have heard the tales of you. You are famous in this land. We are humbled by your presence. Please, you are my most welcome guest to my home, Castle Greene. I am, for once in my life, your servant.” He bowed, but briefly, before standing tall again and gesturing broadly with his hand, throwing his cape open as he did so. “My subjects know me as their liege and crown, King Garamund the Second. And this is my love, Queen Ishabelle.”
King Garamund looked at me deeply for a moment. Perhaps he was waiting for a response. But I was honestly dumbfounded and had no words. I must have stared blankly at him for some time. Queen Ishabelle frowned at me and bowed her head awkwardly. The king didn’t seem phased and kept still, eyes wide, looking at me.
At last he said, “Please, you are more than welcome in my home. You will be treated as I am treated. You will be like a king. For you are a king of Paelstor, one of the Nine. A Magi made in flesh before our eyes. We are richly blessed by your presence. And we have need of you. I,” he emphasized strongly, “have need of you. Let me tell you more over dinner.”
After following Garamund and Ishabelle into the castle, I found myself in an elegant banquet hall. I was not sure where to sit but the king gestured that I sit next to him and his wife at the head of a long table. There were few others there but servants and cooks, and the king’s closest advisor, as was explained to me, the man wearing white and red. His name was Gareth.
Once the meal began and the food was served, Gareth opened the dialogue. “Lord Magi, I am your humble servant. I welcome you to my king’s abode. On his behalf, I will explain our concern and offer our plea for your blessing. My lord, King Garamund, may seem to have it all. As you look around you the castle seems in prime condition. The king is healthy, his belly is full, and his appearance is unmarred. Even his marriage is long and lasting and his children are growing into young adults in good order. The kingdom prospers and there is peace and good fortune for all. So what could a man in his position have for troubles? What could he need of a Magi such as yourself?” He paused for a moment, taking a bite of his bread stuffed with brie, garlic and olive oil. “Well I will tell you…”
“No I will,” the king interceded. “What my trouble is… is just beyond all appearances to the contrary. My royal coffers are empty. The food you see before you, the well-being of my kingdom, my family, myself… It is the last of it. It is the end. It is my downfall. It is the destruction of all that I have worked for and my father before me. These bites may well be the last good meal I eat, or my family may eat. Your timing could not be better. Please, Magi, you must help us. You must help my kingdom. You must help me. All are counting on me. All rests in my hands! The worries I face daily are too much for one man. You must help!” The king exhausted himself, sighed and fell back into his chair, then reaching for a swig of fine ale and a bite of roast duck prepared with rosemary and thyme upon a creamy white wine sauce.
“Don’t sound so pathetic,” Ishabelle chided the king while sipping a delicate red wine from her glass. Then looking to me, “My husband is not so weak as he makes himself seem to you now. Please forgive him.”
“My dear wife, there is no need to defend me,” Garamund returned. “This is our most desperate hour. This is a Magi, a creator of our world. If I cannot be authentic with him, then who? I needn’t put on a show or save face before this one. Be kind to me.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” Ishabelle said, sounding only partly remorseful. “It is but the shame of our kingdom that I feel. I am deeply saddened and worried for our affairs as well. And we have three children to provide for. Magi, if there is anything you can do to help our plight, we would be eternally indebted to you. We would redouble our prayers to the Nine and return the sanctums to their former glory in the land. You have our word.”
At that moment they stopped to look at me. They waiting for my response. And I waited with them. I was awestruck. I was amazed. I was confused. I was terrified.
What would I do? What will I say? I am not who they think I am. I do not have such power. Should I tell them the truth? Should I fake it? What will that gain me? I cannot fake the power of the universe.
So King Garamund, Queen Ishabelle, and the advsior Gareth all looked hopefully my way. They awaited my answer.
And my answer was…
“
Thanks so much for reading.
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Blessings to you,
Matthew