Darkin: A Journey East (3 page)

Eventually the path led to a fork that split off heavily east in one direction, heading into what looked like a hot, sand filled horizon. The other direction jerked back and up north, deeper into the Red Forest. Relief came in not having to travel the wooded path any longer, as his quest called for him to move eastward. The entrance into the heart of the dangerous Red Forest is what the northern trail had been, he knew from tales, though the path itself was not labeled with any signs. The tales said that the Red Forest was full of evil things, and no sound-minded human should enter it alone. But the forest path was averted, and he made his way in the other direction toward a gloomy desert, slowly gaining glimmer as the sun came up. The weeds and grass around the path began to intertwine with patches of yellow sand, and a distinct smell arose; it was totally unlike that of the Plantation, not a pinch as vile. An aroma of warm bliss flowed in a delicate wind toward him, carrying the fresh smell of the dunes westward. The path leading out into the now cheerful desert seemed less than a few hundred yards, he realized.

Then, impulsively, he stopped walking for a moment, and glanced back one last time. Facing the direction of the life he was leaving behind, he felt his lingering stare hold all his memories in a single instant, one intense second of recollection, before melting away into passion. After several minutes, he looked away from the past, and set his eyes back upon the desert.

*                  *                 *

Adacon was a slave. Slaves did not get an education, especially any form of vital knowledge about the world or its geography. Slaves were given essential information needed to perform their duties. The information taught to a slave was always functional—it pertained either to how to use farm equipment or how to follow order. There were a select few whose dynasties were traced back to the most ancient times, slaves were told. These were the blood born rightful owners of Darkin. He was taught that the owners were gracious in that they allowed the poor to live on their land, and not only that, but offer them work on their farms. There could be no opposition because opposition meant death. No great powerful lords to control the great land of Darkin meant starvation and hunger for all, a good slave knew. It meant the absolute end to civilization. Still, he had always felt his mind was his most valuable asset, though it was restricted almost wholly. He had learned on his own to write, and had worked on his reading skills at night, absorbing books stolen from passing trade wagons.

He marched on, slowly starting to feel fatigued from the bloody scuffle he’d just survived. The sun rose slowly up and up, and soon the heat began to burn his skin. He wrapped his arms in a tight bundle, attempting to hinder the strong sun, but it didn’t seem to help as the hot rays continued to scorch. He’d read about the desert before, yet never had it seemed in writing so cruel and hot. But it was hot, and before long he grew hungry and thirsty. The patches of green slowly fell out of sight behind him, as the path leading on through the desert twisted and trailed eastward.

He noticed his vision seemed blurry, but even still he thought he could see an unusual sand dune up ahead, spotted with discolorations. He wondered if the vision could be a mirage, but as he drew closer he realized the dune was completely real, as it did not change or vanish from his sight. It was not so large in size, and it seemed to have what looked like windows and a small door. He wondered who could inhabit such a remote house in the desert, and where they fell under the rule of the lords.

It was noon by the time he reached halfway to the small house. He dragged on, noticing as he got closer that the windows were actually small holes, plated with glass, carved from the hardened walls of the sand hill. The door was a faded green, and it had a small sign hanging on it, he could see. He paced on through the terrible heat, hard as ever up and down the dunes, as slowly his mind began to waver. He began to wonder what he’d just done. He had killed six men. The lords would torture and hang him if he couldn’t find freedom in the east; if there was no freedom in the east.

Abstract thoughts rushed through his brain, many things of the strangest sort. He grew into a depressed state, deciding it was more than likely that the sand dune hut was a desert outpost for the lords. The structure hadn’t appeared to be anything more than a small, hardened dune to him at first glance, and the door to it had been well hidden behind another nearby dune. Should there ever be any roaming guards passing by, they would not easily see the hut. But he had spotted it, and so he adjusted his path across the hot sand towards its entrance. As the door came within his sight, he could clearly comprehend the lettering on the sign:

‘Molto’s Keeping.

Do Not Enter,

Lest You Fancy

Spirited Winds

To Sear Your Soul.’

He stood completely puzzled, yet completely enthralled. Though as a child he never talked of it, he always had a keen intrigue in the legends of
Vapoury
and its surrounding lore. Vapoury was the idea of using magic righteously, for the good of others, though magic itself was forbidden to be discussed by slaves, and was only spoken of in hushed tongues. He used to hear tales of the
Vapours;
the mythical wizards who used Vapoury, and could harness the natural elements for purposes of good. In one such tale there was a spell called the Spirited Winds, the same as was written on the sign. Though in all probability it was a coincidence, a stream of excitement poured through him, as he thought momentarily that perhaps Vapours were real, and their stories true.

Then a wave of fear poured through him. He knew, as slave legend told, that most of the magic users rumored to remain about the land in modern times were cruel and evil, only using their forces to construct a landscape of evil upon Darkin. The fear almost overtook him, but soon he supressed his worry, and curiosity devoured the fright in him. Still, he unsheathed his sword to be cautious, and made a slow pace toward the mysterious dune. He reached the tiny green door, froze for a moment, and then made an anxious knock. He hid his drawn sword to his side, deciding that an evil wizard might not kill him immediately should he appear unarmed.

The majority of slaves he’d known on the farm did not believe in Vapoury. None had seen it. The lords condemned the use of the word, and they named it a treacherous and chaotic fable. The rulers of Darkin believed with mysterious fear that the legend of magic was a bringer of ruin. The very act of reading about magic, or even openly speaking of it, almost always resulted in execution.

Adacon had always dreamt that there existed another world besides his own, one possible only in his dreams, where magic was a beautiful thing; he dreamt of humans and elves frolicking together on golden hills, using it only for Vapoury. This tinge of wonder in him had caused him to knock—any sane escaped slave would have made for the east until more civilization appeared, and worked from there on. But the moment had passed, and the door did not crack.

He briefly thought that perhaps the hut was an abandoned jail for some poor slave who had stepped too hard on his master’s foot. The windows were in pristine condition; there appeared to be no cracks, or for that sake any chips in the green paint coating the door. A bird chirped in the distance, and the sound of the sand ridden wind grew louder as he stood still waiting. The sun was extremely bright and there was no shade for him, making sweat slowly bead on his forehead as the intensity of the day grew. His hand holding the broadsword slowly released its tension, almost letting the handle slip, as he sighed in disappointment. He knocked once more, yet still no response came. He tried the door’s knob. It was locked. With a sigh he threw away his last hopes of anyone being inside, and turned around to face the pathless desert abyss, about to retrace his steps. No one was home.

“Yeh fallen tatter,” came a raspy voice, seemingly from thin air. Adacon had turned his back as the words were uttered, and he quickly turned around to face their source. No one was there, but a small hidden hole had opened on the door’s frame. “What chose you to disturb me? Has the great hawk of the sky met the humble serpent of the sea?” the withered voice continued. “Ah, I see you are a slave, escaped I presume. Forgive my queer tongue, and let me open the door.” Adacon remained speechless as the tiny door swung open. Standing in the light now able to poke through the door was a small and silly looking old man, well robed in dark purple cloth.

He wore a purple cap, a strange looking assembly, lined with emeralds that appeared completely foreign to Adacon. He held aloft his left side with a marble staff, which looked rather valuable; its top was gemmed with amethysts and rubies. His face was well wrinkled, a yellowish tan desert color, filled with crazy hair that assumed the form of a beard encompassing a mustache. His eyes were deep green, and quite large, though his pupils were barely visible inside his irises. Adacon could plainly see that the odd looking man was weaker than himself, but he decided not to spare any caution for the appearance. He took his sword out from behind his back and pointed it at the small man in a menacing motion.

“Are you an ally of the lords?” Adacon asked viciously, gripping the handle tightly and preparing to strike down. To be safe now, he thought, he could only trust himself; a stranger’s trust would have to be hard earned. He kept an intimidating glare on the old brightly clothed man, but the old man simply stared back with an eager smile.

“Fellow of the light, brethren of Darkin, calm your anger. I am not at all with a
label
, you see. I do not follow such organized rules for structuring life, but I embrace life all the same. Now let us have some tea, yes, that would be nice. Save the sun for another day, don’t you agree? Today is a particularly harsh one. I think perhaps I shall have to set about making an awning for my front step. Perhaps the Lord Grelion should not get any sleep yet,” the little man babbled.

The old man had a delightful sparkle in his eye; Adacon could not tell if it was virtuous or pure evil. Either way, the welcome greeting was a relief to him, and rest from the heat along with food and drink seemed too desirable to question.

“Thank you, kind sir,” Adacon returned. “I am a weary traveler seeking refuge, and if possible, something to eat. I would be greatly in your debt if…” he was cut off:

“Tisk you—dabbling in your moral necessities. I am of your kind too, you know. I shall prepare for us some feast, as I suppose I can fix. But alas, it is time for you to escape this harsh golden eye, and breach into a cooler ambiance, down inside my den. Come, follow me, and leave your haste behind.” The old man grinned deeply and turned, scuffling quickly back inside his hut. It was small making for Adacon, but he managed to squeeze through the door. He sheathed his sword again, realizing oddly enough that the hermit man gave no sign of fear at the sight of the blade.

The walls inside were quite beautiful, he soon discovered. The hall they walked was lined with endless shelves of books, then clear cabinets displaying wondrous rocks of all colors. Some seemed to glow and waver with a mysterious glimmer as he gazed upon them, but he kept his eyes mainly on the old man’s back as they ventured down, descending the sandy corridor deeper into the mysterious house. Finally they came to a big open room with four larger corridors leading off in different directions. He noticed the walls were engraved with odd symbols, some of which were things he had seen before in forbidden books. His spine shivered. The old man turned to him and nodded, and without a word he walked with a strenuous pace toward the room’s center. Once there, the tiny hermit paused to smell the air. He sighed, and gave another glance to Adacon.

“The sort of home that would make for comfortable living, eh boy?” he asked.

“I suppose, I am much cooler in here, and there’s a pleasant aroma in the air. Do tell me we’re going to the stove?” Adacon asked, feeling his stomach growl, reminding him of his hunger.

“Surely, I should hope, lest the trolls of Carnine have looted my good store,” laughed the old man, letting out an enormous high pitched howl, seemingly too loud for someone with such a small frame. Suddenly, he began to run ahead of Adacon. They paced toward the left wall corridor, and he was surprised at the energy he felt rolling off the old man. They came to a hole in the ground at the end of the sandy hallway, and without a word the little man disappeared down a ladder coming out of the top. Adacon stood dumbfounded. He almost thought he could hear water dripping from below, but decided it was his imagination. Without shouting down to ask if it was safe to come, he followed the man. The ladder seemed to go down and down forever, and he began to grow faint after repeating the same hand movements over and over. Finally he came to the ground at the bottom and realized he was no longer standing on hard sand, but smooth grey rock. He looked directly up:

The ceiling of the great cave was sparkling like diamonds, and there were jagged rocks jutting their edges down toward the ground. High above was a tiny spot of light where the ladder had led down from. The height seemed quite extreme and he leveled out his glance, taking in a deep cavernous chamber. The sparkling room was enormous, one hundred yards wide at least, he thought in wonderment. The place looked like a palace carved from the inside of a giant rock. The most beautiful sight in the cave was a clear blue pond that sat comfortably in the center of the room. The water shimmered with reflections of the surrounding crystals and rocks that draped the walls and ceiling. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He had a sudden notion, almost gone the next second, to kill the old man and spend eternity alone and at peace within the cave. But that thought snapped away, and reality returned with the sound of the old man’s voice.

“So what do you think of my pool? I think it should be called lovely by some, though I reckon not even this could be seen as beauty to Grelion and his kin,” muttered the old man, ending on an angrier tone.