A Myth to the Night
***
I ruminated over the events of the night before, and of the last four hundred years, as I continued to walk aimlessly from one narrow dirt path to another. I didn’t stop to pause until I noticed sparse rosebushes strewn along the edges of the path I was walking on. I looked up at the sky and saw it was still overcast. However, the day had grown noticeably darker. I realized that I had been wandering for at least a few hours.
My thoughts had taken up the greater part of the day, but now the roses continued to hold my attention. Ever since the Order of the Shrike had taken over, all the roses that bloomed on the island had been either black or blue. Without looking twice, I assumed that these roses were also black or blue. However, as I walked a few more yards, I stopped as I spotted a red one. Astonished, I stooped down to observe it and saw that the other roses on that same bush were all the color of blood.
Red roses! I thought of Drev’s story about how he had first seen Pamina in the mortuary, and how he had untangled a blue rose from her hair and placed a fresh, red one in her hand.
I began running along the path, inspired by the red roses and believing I might find an answer to a question that I’d kept buried within me, for fear that if I let it surface, the answer might break my soul: Was Pamina finally resting in peace, now that she had Drev to join her in the afterlife, or had Drev’s sacrifice been for nothing? Other questions I had not dared to ask began to bubble up. The bushes around me were getting thicker, developing larger, greener leaves and stronger branches. Knowing what had happened to Drev and Pamina was about more than just finding out if there was a happy ending or not; it represented an affirmation that there was such a thing as fate, and that we were fools to think we were in complete control of our destiny.
Soon there wasn’t a dirt path before me anymore, just shrubs and grass beneath my feet. I was fighting my way through thorns and branches that clawed at my robe, but I didn’t care. I was still lost in my thoughts. Were some of us predestined to find what we wanted in this life and others condemned to wander aimlessly, without anything to show for ourselves, even after centuries had passed? Raindrops poured down as I struggled step by step, sinking deeper into a mash of thorns, leaves, and petals.
And no matter how much we wanted something to happen, were we meant to be satisfied only with what was given to us? In other words, why have any mission or goal at all during our existence on this earth if the Fates decided what would happen to us?
I knew I was dangerously close to the cliff. I could hear the roar of the waves as they collided against the rocky slopes of the island. The storm was threatening to be a merciless one. Splashes of seawater pelted my face, but I kept forging my way through the roses. I may have surrendered my dream, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care about what had happened to Drev and Pamina.
Then it ended. The patches of rosebushes grew no farther, and I found I was walking on bare dirt. I saw that I had come to the edge of a cliff. A wave rushed toward me and crashed against the rock wall, the water reaching a colossal height. For all my time on the island, I had never seen the surf smash against the cliffs with such force. Looking below, and seeing how far I was from the sea, I ascertained that I was still close to Stauros Hall, which meant I was on the same side of the island as the Forgotten Cemetery, and probably not too far from it.
I crept along a strip of land that was wide enough to provide me a narrow path to a wide, carved-out recess in the side of the cliff. I saw, sheltered in a shallow grotto, a bronze statue—one of the many resting haphazardly on the island. The statues on the island often stood at the end of one of these off-the-beaten-path trails. This particular statue was one with which I was thoroughly familiar, the subject, Roland, had been the most popular hero among the people on the mainland.
The Song of Roland had been celebrated over the centuries but, sadly, forgotten after the Order of the Shrike had taken over. A fine tale of courage and loyalty, this was the story of a young hero, Roland, who helped defend King Charlemagne in his battle with the Moors. Roland, although a great warrior, had died in battle. However, according to the myth, his legendary sword, Durendel, had not been destroyed—for it could never be destroyed. Forged with the blood, bone, and hair of saints and martyrs, it was a powerful weapon with a spirit of its own. Aligning itself only with the righteous, in the hand of a worthy hero, it could cut through a slab of stone with only one stroke.
The statue held Durendel in his right hand, and although Roland himself was rusting, corrosion eating away at him, Durendel glistened as though someone polished it every day. The statue’s left hand rested on a square block that had an inscription. The block, too, was bronze, and just as withered as Roland, but the etchings on it were still legible. Although I had passed the statue every now and again throughout the centuries, I had never stopped to read the inscription on the block: the steel edge grides but does not break a chip. the sword grates, but it neither snaps nor splits. The words undoubtedly described Durendel.
For centuries, while the myth was popular and still sung by the local people, Durendel was believed to have been brought to Stauros Island by a monk who had been at Roland’s side at his time of death. Nearly all the people in the vicinity had believed that this statue held the original sword Roland used to fight the Moors. To honor Durendel, the local metalsmiths had forged a statue of Roland out of bronze and presented it to the Order of the Crane, who had readily nestled it in a cozy alcove on a cliff that faced the mainland. Durendel was placed in the statue’s hand and never removed. While the Order of the Crane had been in power, the statue had been well preserved, with great care.
However, when Stauros Island fell to the Order of the Shrike, the members tried numerous times to take the sword, but no one could wrench it from the statue’s grip. The Order of the Shrike went so far as to try to chisel out the sword, say prayers to the statue, and even sever its hand, but to no avail. Roland guarded his beloved Durendel and would not release it to anyone unworthy of wielding it.
The Order of the Shrike finally declared that the sword was a fake and that a warrior named Roland had never existed. Thereafter, the statue was neglected. Within a few generations after the Order of the Shrike had taken over, the local people no longer sang the Song of Roland, and the great hero was forgotten.
I now approached the statue with slow, heavy steps. The grotto blocked the sprays of the sea and the rain from me. No matter—I was already soaked. I wiped the excess water from my eyes to see the statue better.
I brushed off the bits of broken branches and scraps of leaves that stuck to the old, rusted statue. Suited in his battle armor, Roland still posed as a formidable warrior. As I wiped off the dirt and dust that was caked into the crevices of his pauldron, the armor that covered his chest and shoulders, I saw another detail I had never noticed before: an olifant, a horn that was used in ancient times to send out a distress call, hung on an iron chain that was strapped around his shoulder. The horn was not bronze and welded into the rest of the statue but detached, like Durendel. Made out of elephant tusk, the white of the horn contrasted strikingly with the bronze of the statue. I never knew why I had not noticed it before.
I studied the statue for some time, wondering what had led me here and why. I looked behind me at the rosebushes lining the path I had followed. I couldn’t recall having gone through such a path when I’d encountered Roland in the past. And when I came across the red roses, I was sure they were a sign that would lead me to find what had ultimately happened to Drev and Pamina. Disheartened, I turned to walk away.
“Ahhhh!” I heard a high-pitched scream. I looked around and saw no one. The voice—the shrill screech—was familiar, however.
“Argh! I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do on this island!” It was Leo. I recognized the lion’s deep voice immediately.
Moments later, a tiny man, no taller than two feet, sprang from around the edge of the cliff overhanging the grotto. Upon seeing me, the leprechaun screamed—a spastic,
high-pitched grunt released between tightly clenched teeth that he bared in a wild smile.
“Hugh!” He leaped up onto my chest and grabbed my robe with both fists as he dug his feet into my gut. “Blimey! I’ve been searching all over for you!”
“Where’s that little rat?” roared Leo. A magnificent lion jumped into the grotto from the ledge, landing softly, knees bent. He stared with wild eyes at the leprechaun and me.
“You!” Leo seethed as he prowled over to us. “I’ve finally found you, you little mole.”
“You crazy cat!” screamed the leprechaun, still clinging to my shirt. “I have a message for Hugh!”
“What message?” I said, staring intently at the tiny man hanging onto my robe. “Tell me!”
The leprechaun turned back to me. “In the library, where I kept the blue lanterns . . .”
“Where you’ve been hiding the lanterns, you thief!” growled Leo. “The blue ghost has been searching for them!”
“In the library,” continued the leprechaun, trying to ignore Leo, “at the bottom of the library, the last floor, a rush of water in the darkness—it came, kapow! Like that! I had only the blue lanterns. Blue light isn’t strong. I could see nothing! I thought, ’Tis the end; ’tis the end of us all! To hell! To hell! Parafron’s doing his evil work, and the island is being destroyed. Then the earth divided—like the beginning of time—and the floor broke. I shouted, ’Tis the end! ’Tis the end! The end of the old and the beginning of what is yet not known!’ I ran into the water, but it rose quickly. Soon it was up to my neck. And then . . .” The leprechaun’s eyes bulged, and his voice dropped to a low pitch. “I saw them!”
Leo had become engrossed with the leprechaun’s tale. “Who?” he shouted.
“The evil of this island,” said the leprechaun, still clinging to my robe, as he turned his bulging eyes toward Leo. “The Saboteurs! But they weren’t after me—no, dear me, not me. That evil swarmed—swish! swish!—and huddled around, and then one being, one figure, came up from the ground, like a sea god, all drenched with seaweed to his hair. He was fighting them and fighting them and fighting them. . . .”
The leprechaun’s words diminished to a drone in my ears, as I realized that the crashing waves, the anomaly in the weather, wasn’t about transitioning from autumn to winter. The heavens and the sea were creating a miracle.
“Drev!” I seized the leprechaun with both of my hands and lifted him so his eyes were level with mine.
“’Tis,” breathed the leprechaun loudly, his eyes widening even further. I swallowed and kept swallowing, trying to get rid of the lump that had risen in my throat, blocking the words ready to pour from my mouth. How has Drev come back? By virtue of his parentage, he’s already half phantom; did he completely transform into a full one? Or has he become something even worse?
“Is-is he all right?” I finally managed.
The leprechaun, sensing my hesitation, said, “Don’t worry, Hugh. He’s not a monster. He’s the same old Drev. But he’s stuck in the library, at the bottom. The Saboteurs are blocking him from ascending the thirteen floors—attacking him. I fought alongside him, tried to fight them off, but Drev asked me to find you.”
I nearly dropped the tiny man, but I was conscious enough to set him gently on the ground. Leo did not attack him but walked over to me. They both watched me, both silent. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I was lost in my thoughts until the leprechaun screamed.
“Hurry, Hugh! Move!”
“Right,” I replied, startled. “I-I-I have to help him. . . . I’ve got to help him fight them.” I began running out of the grotto.
Leo shouted. “Take Durendel!”
“Yes!” The leprechaun jumped. “Take it!”
“I can’t.” I pointed to the statue. “It’s stuck in his hand. All have tried in the past, and—”
“You can’t go empty-handed!” bellowed Leo.
He had a point. I needed a weapon to fight the Saboteurs. I had no other option. I reached over to where the golden hilt of the sword met the statue’s fist. Anticipating resistance, I put all my force into pulling out the sword. I stumbled backward as it easily slid out of Roland’s grip.
“He has Durendel!” gasped the leprechaun, hopping from one foot to the other, clapping.
“He’s worthy enough to hold Durendel,” added Leo.
I stood in awe as I held the shining sword in my hand. While it appeared to be massive, it felt weightless, as though it were an extension of my arm.
“Quick, Hugh, to the library!” shouted the leprechaun.
“Right,” I said, ready to exit the grotto.
“Wait!” screeched the leprechaun. “Take the olifant, too!”
“Why?” I asked.
“The leprechaun is right,” said Leo. “Take it. We will look for and gather the other phantoms to come help you, but if you or Drev need our assistance right away, summon us with the olifant, and we will come immediately.”
I nodded and lifted the olifant from Roland. I pulled it over my head and strapped it across my chest. We parted. I ran toward Stauros Hall with Durendel in one hand and the olifant in the other. The rains continued to pour down. What had begun as a dark day had become darker still, for it was coming to a close.
Whatever doom awaited the island and the phantoms tonight didn’t matter, however. Drev had come back. I didn’t know how he had managed to return, but that mattered little. As a scholar and believer in myths and legends of a forgotten time, I understood that it was always at the darkest hour that a miracle occurred, and the ones who kept the faith until the end were the ones who could partake in the miracle and see that a door that had once been closed was now open for them.
Part V