The Runes of Norien

It felt like an eternity before he found a Boatman who not only knew where Zaepix’s island lay but was willing to take him there. The first ten or so, upon hearing his name rowed instantly away, grumbling fearful, unintelligible words, and of the next ten only one had the decency to tell Wixelor why this particular Foreseer was dreaded so.

  Apparently, or so the Boatman said – and he seemed young and innocent enough to be telling the truth –, Zaepix was rumoured to be the maddest madman in all of Ienar Lin, a thing apparent from his island, (specially made so by the Gods? chosen by other Linners as a sort of exile that would keep them safe?) whose stem stood so incredibly high it was invisible, merged with the darkness of the Eye’s dome. Moreover, Zaepix was different from other Foreseers in that he didn’t merely lie down and let the future rain on him, but used what he saw to construct alien devices, which he then tested on unsuspecting Boatmen he lured with promises of the treasure’s location, and which invariably caused them to die horribly. And as if this wasn’t bad enough, whenever the hateful man knew the precise details of someone’s death, he would send out this knowledge to them like a venomous arrow, driving his miserable victims to obsess over the ominous date and the manner of their dying so much, that most of them killed themselves just to fool fate and escape a more painful end.

  However, the Boatman said, lowering his eyes to hide the embarrassment of bargaining for something obviously valuable to him, he would consent to take Wixelor to the island of the evil Foreseer, if he – provided he made it back alive – promised to ask Zaepix a question most dear to him. Apparently, there was a fair Ender who lived near the centre of the Eye, whose melancholy eyes and nightly sobs made the young Boatman’s heart swell with loving sympathy, and ache to know whether his secret longing had any hope of being returned. Wixelor hastened to vow that he would do his best to find out, and so, sitting and staring at their feet in their respective preoccupations, they set out for the island of Zaepix.

  The boat glided silently along the still black water, from darkness to deeper darkness. After a while, the last reflected glimmer from the islands’ lights dwindled and vanished, and they were left to drift almost blindly. And while they both waited for their dark-accustomed eyes to begin to discern the vague shapes around them, Wixelor was once again beset by doubt and fear. Was he truly willing to risk his life because of a few dreams and their wild interpretation by the – possibly senile – Huxor? Did he dare involve himself in the mysterious workings of the Gods? And what if all this was an insignificant fiction, like the dreams of legendary power, dreamt by weaklings, that had been cousring through his mind for two and a half centuries?

  But then he thought of the smooth black stones, placed inside his very body (by what hand? what divine will?), as real and undeniable as the heartbeat that throbbed in his ears.

  And suddenly the water and the boat were illuminated by a soft yellow glow, and looking up Wixelor and the Boatman saw a ring of pale fire, burning so high up it seemed to hover in the air – and little by little they made out the formidable pillar that loomed before them, crowned by the flames and made of a rock so perfectly smooth that even the most gifted climber could never scale its astonishing heights.

  How am I supposed to get up there? Wixelor wondered, staring with awe at the unique island. And do I really want to?

  It was then that he noticed a faintly gleaming rope-like strand dangling beside the full length of the pillar, and asking the Boatman to row them a bit closer, he realized it was a thick chain, splitting into four and fastened with sturdy bolts around the rim of a wooden barrel, big enough to fit two men of twice his girth.

  Of course. After all, Zaepix was a Foreseer. He was expected.

  The first thing Wixelor’s anxiously blinking eyes fell on the moment he pulled himself out of the barrel and stood on the island’s slippery ground was an enormous device unlike anything he’d ever seen, even in the most exotic alien dreams.

  The top of it looked like a huge flower, its long thick petals made of wood and its stem connected through a complex combination of ropes and chains to a cylinder; the wondrous contraption also had a pair of long leather wings hanging limply to the ground, a fish-like tail, and a seat attached to a long vertical stick and wooden treadles.

  For a moment Wixelor contemplated the device, trying to guess what it was meant for, and suddenly the young Boatman’s warning came back to him; could this be an apparatus of torture? Was he about to have his life cut excruciatingly short?

  Thus when he heard a hoarse voice from behind him, he jumped in terror, and turned to look; but no one stood there.

  “Pray lower your gaze, Dreamer Wixelor,” the voice said.

  Wixelor did, and was confronted with a sight even more startling: his host, Zaepix the Terrible, was short as an infant, but one with the face of an impossibly old man – a tiny, shrunken creature, with a soiled piece of sackloth hanging loosely on his skeletal frame and toenails long and hardened like claws. It defied belief that this was Huxor’s son, for Zaepix seemed ten times older than his father, of an age so overwhelmingly advanced it was almost reminiscent of the legendary Ancient Linners, whose lives were said to span hundreds of centuries.

  And just as those ancestors could commune with one another unhindered by such barriers as actual speech and distance, their minds linked in a single entity of wisdom, the minuscule Foreseer appeared to have read Wixelor’s thoughts at a glance – for first he dispelled his apprehension with a wide warm grin, and then he said, “Fear not, my friend; that is no instrument of cruelty. As to my, well, let’s say, fossilized appearence, it is so for the very same reason that you can be on my island without being driven to the edge of your reason from the outpour of future events rushing in from a million different worlds. You see, long ago, when I first foresaw the End of Norien, I struck a sort of bargain with the powers whose bidding I do – that I would shoulder the knowledge of ten lifetimes in one, even if it meant withering away from the burden, so long as I could always be aware of changes in the Ever-Shifting Sphere, and its distant child Erat Rin, changes grievous enough to herald the doom of all existence. And thus a few centuries back I became aware of some Dreamer who was to play a most crucial role in our collective salvation – even though you, dear Wixelor, were still a mere child at the time. And ever since I’ve been keeping an eye on you, especially after some recent visions of the three realms’ destruction, which, I’m afraid, both in Lurien and Feerien, is already under way, following a nearly catastrophic blow that brought the Forgotten Sphere to the brink of extinction. I trust you know of the things I speak – the message of the stones?”

  Wixelor, still a bit dazed, nodded.

  “Splendid,” Zaepix said, beaming once more. “Then we won’t be needing these,” he added, and pulling a lever he released the chain which had brought up the barrel from its winch, causing it to slide off rapidly and noisily, till the very last link was swallowed by the blackness. Wixelor looked on, when suddenly, staring at the empty block round which the chain had been wound, he realized what had just happened: the barrel was gone! Which meant there was no way off the island, for standing next to one of the many great torches that lit its circumference and seeing nothing but an endless black void, he knew that if he jumped the height of the fall would kill him.

  “And now if you would kindly follow me,” Zaepix said, and turning around he began to drag his bare feet toward the centre of the island, where the device stood. “I’m dreadfully sorry for the briefness of the hospitality I may extend, dear Wixelor, but there’s no time to spare. The Lids should be parting any moment now.”

  Fearful yet also strangely intrigued, Wixelor followed the tiny Foreseer, until they were both standing before the machine.

  “This,” Zaepix said, running his wrinkled hand almost tenderly across a length of polished wood, “is a flying machine, which I constructed by elaborating on the designs of an Oblivian who won’t be born for another five thousand years or so.”


  Wixelor gaped. “Flying machine?” he said. “What for?”

  “Why, for flying out of Ienar Lin, of course!” Zaepix said with a croak of a laughter. “To be specific, it is intended to carry you to Feerien, where I believe the threshold to Erat Rin lies – even though, sadly, I’ve been as yet unable to support my belief with a precise prediction.”

  “Fly out of Ienar Lin? But that’s impossible!”

  “Oh, no, it’s not; far from it. You see, dear Wixelor, our somewhat dismal world owes its name not to the madness of its people, as is widely presumed, but to the mad, incessant movement of Ienar Lin itself, which every moment passes through countless dimensions and realities. Thankfully, we do not feel this constant motion – but every now and then, when the Lids open, we are briefly graced not merely with views of other worlds, but with their actual skies and landscapes. Thus, if one were to fly through the Lids while they drew apart to reveal the heavens of Feerien, one would physically cross over to the Sphere of Toil. And this someone shall be you, Wixelor the Dreamer, as it’s been long foreknown by your humble and most grateful friend Zaepix.”

  Though unassailed by visions as his host had promised, Wixelor’s mind was reeling. Leave Ienar Lin by flying through the Lids? Preposterous! Everyone knew that what they saw was no more attainable than the dreams he so casually swept aside. But even if Zaepix was not as mad as his words sounded, what could he, a Dreamer, possibly accomplish in the uncivilized realm of Feerien? Gain passage to another world, one so alien and distant it seemed utterly unreal, through a gateway that Zaepix himself had been unable to locate? No, this was nonsense. And besides, it was as likely that he would ever fly in this unwieldy thing as if he merely flapped his arms.

  “Give it a try,” Zaepix said, seeing him staring doubtfully at his invention.

  “Why don’t you try it?” Wixelor said with sudden anger. “Or, for that matter, since you seem to know everything, why don’t you save Norien by yourself? What do you need me for?”

  Zaepix smiled at this outburst, though now his smile was tinged with sadness. “Because, dear Wixelor, I’m not long for this world – nor for any other, if you should refuse to fulfill your fate-appointed task. By this I do not mean to burden you with guilt, for after all you are sole master of your life, and I shan’t lie to you by saying you won’t be putting it in harm’s way. Ultimately, the decision lies with you.”

  That’s easy to say when you’ve cut off all other means of leaving your freakish island, Wixelor thought, but before he could stop himself, prompted by curiosity rather than belief in the machine’s capacity to fly, he was already settling in its hide-covered seat and trying to work out the leather straps that were supposed to fasten him to it. The treadles he was familiar with, for he had seen similar mechanisms in dreams whose dreamers rode vehicles of leisure operated by the turning of pedals. And so, unaware of Zaepix staring at him with wide-eyed hope, he placed his feet on the pedals and started to spin them as fast as he could, grabbing the steering rod and pulling it towards him.

  And then the impossible happened: the machine started to shake, the wings moved up and down like a bird’s, and the wooden blades at the top began to revolve with a loud whirring – and the next thing he knew, Wixelor was soaring in rapid ascent, the island’s torches reduced to a ring of flickering candle flames and Zaepix’s cries of exaltation barely reaching him.

  “Farewell, heroic Wixelor!” the shrunken Foreseer yelled, leaping up and down. “And do not fear! You shan’t be alone in your quest! Your fellows shall be revealed to you! Seek out the threshold, and an Oblivian by the name of...”

  But Wixelor couldn’t hear him anymore, as much because of the elevation as by the frenzied beating of his heart, even more deafening than the sounds of the flying machine. Like any creature blessed with the gift of flight, Wixelor couldn’t contain his glee, looking down at the yellow dots of the islands and roaring with laughter. Could he locate his own island? he wondered, but then again, why ever go back to that gruelling life that didn’t even properly belong to him, infested as it was with other people’s bliss and sorrow, when he could fly, higher and higher, tearing through the air?

  However, just as he had managed to calm himself a bit, and gain steadier control of the machine, Wixelor realized that even those tiny dots had disappeared, and he was flying in utter darkness, whose sheer unknown immensity suddenly filled him with dread. What if Zaepix was wrong and the dome of the Eye wasn’t a physical barrier but an illusion, going on forever? And what if he got lost in this abyss and was unable to find his way back to Ienar Lin, flying till he was overcome with exhaustion and plummeted to his death?

  So gripping was this fear, that he relented the turning of the pedals and was about to see if he could guide the machine gently downwards, when the blackness was abruptly filled by a rumble so deep and reverberating and seized by a tremor so intense, Wixelor felt like a tiny bead inside a gigantic rattle, shaken in every direction at once.

  And then the top of the machine was struck by a clatter that came pouring down: a hail of rocks – dislodged from the inside of the Eye’s dome? Wixelor was in such a state of panic he couldn’t say which way was up – till with an even greater shudder the darkness turned a deep and then a lighter grey, as the Lids began to pull apart.

  Wixelor could hardly believe what he was seeing, yet despite his terror he knew he should keep pedaling and fly towards the light that was growing brighter by the moment, until a vast expanse of pale violet sky was framed by the slowly settling Lids, a sky set alight by six tremendous moons.

  And just as he flew towards them, two frail dreams came to him, like rags clinging to him before being carried away by the wind: a girl’s dream of longed-for love and a hungry man dreaming of freshly-baked bread, both of them as meaningless and moving as life itself.

  Then with a final thrust he flew through the Lids, and as a cry of joy left his lips, Wixelor’s mind was swept clean. He was free.

 

 

  PART TWO

  Crossing the Threshold