The Dark Crystal (5 page)

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Authors: A. C. H. Smith

BOOK: The Dark Crystal
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“What is evil?” Jen asked.
“Evil does not exist,” urZah answered. “Evil is disharmony between existences. Now go, Gelfling, with your questions.”
UrZah turned away, faced the sun, and joined the chanting of the urRu.
Jen took his first steps up the spiral path leading out of the valley. When he reached the cave where he had lived with urSu, he paused and looked down into the thalweg. Rising up to him came the deep, nine-toned chant of the urRu. He saw that they were all staring up at him. Whether it was their gaze or their chant or the seed of courage he had experienced at urSu’s death, he did not know, but a force propelled him past the mouth of the cave and on up the spiral path.
At the shoulder of the valley, higher than he had ever been on his own, he glanced back once more. The waterfalls were tiny, sparkling jewels in the early sunlight. He took a deep breath. For the reassurance of a familiar object in a strange world, he put his hand up to touch his flute, which he carried on a leather neck-string.
Near him was another line of Standing Stones. They were tall and narrow, shooting up from the ground like needles. Seen from the valley below, they had always marked the boundary of his world. On them he saw carvings similar to those on the stones that formed the triangle down below, where the chanting of the urRu continued, still surprisingly distinct even from where Jen stood. Perhaps, Jen thought, the carvings might offer him some indication of the direction he was supposed to take.
He approached the nearest stone to examine it. It had a black patina on it, like soot. He reached out to rub it off but withdrew his hand sharply. The stone was burning hot. He remembered what he had seen the previous day, sparks traveling across the valley and over its rim. These stones must have been struck by lightning.
He breathed deeply again and walked on, over the shoulder of the valley and out of sight of his home. After a few steps, the ground in front of him began to slope down again. Soon Jen was standing on the brink of a wide, bowl-shaped plain, lush with vegetation and sprinkled with woods. Far away, on the misty horizon, the plain terminated in a range of rounded hills.
“To the high hill,” urZah had said. That must be the direction he had to take.
T
he complex pattern on the ceremonial floors of the castle of the Dark Crystal represented a path. No one who saw it could doubt that. What was open to interpretation was where the path had started, where it might end, and, indeed, what the purpose of the journey might be.
With its forks and intersections, its arcs and spirals and spheres, leading from room to room, it would probably have been seen by one of a transcendentalist cast of mind as a pilgrim’s path, the way of enlightenment, leading from station to station of ascending consciousness. Originating in brute, dark matter, the traveler would, metaphorically, rise toward pure spirituality, though never in a straight progression but always circuitously, even after the journey had apparently been accomplished. (For even the purely spiritual soul has unfinished work to do. The cycle of the floor’s pattern extended infinitely.)
The Skeksis, however, did not take that view. The assumption that pure spirituality was in some sense a higher form of being than brute matter was not self-evident to them. How they interpreted the pattern on the floor was clear on the day following the funeral of their Emperor. For them it was a path to the throne.
He who aspired to clutch the scepter in his talons was well advised to be seen treading the path. It suggested some vestigial humility, a sense of due observance, a willingness to submit oneself to a proper discipline. Thus it was that three of them – the Ritual-Master, the Chamberlain, and the Garthim-Master – had spent some hours edging along the path, with the expected solemnity, while the rest of the Skeksis formed an audience. Round and round the path the three of them went. And as they went, they studied the complexities of the pattern and experimented by taking different forks, different routes always to the same end, in which was their beginning.
Each of them was hopeful that sooner or later some hitherto overlooked clue might present itself to him, some untrodden path that, by a psychic machinery he could not guess at, would yield the throne to him. How had the late deceased Emperor accomplished this? None of them could recall.
As their patience dwindled, their pace gradually increased. None of the three now left the Throne Room but studiously gyrated closer and closer to the dais and the throne itself. Their eyes were flickering around beadily. Each of them had to keep a close watch on the other two in order to forestall a sudden lunge for the throne. But there were also factions to consider among the rest of the Skeksis. Would the Treasurer and the Scroll-Keeper preserve their traditional loyalty to the Ritual-Master? Would the Garthim-Master still command the powerful support of the Scientist and the Slave-Master? And would the Chamberlain still be joined in a triple alliance with the Gourmand and the Ornamentalist – the triad that, together with the old Emperor, had formed the largest, and therefore successful, faction at the previous enthronement?
It was the Chamberlain, filled with a righteous sense of his prior claim, who finally made a grab for the scepter. Wielding it shoulder-high like a scimitar, he spun round to glare at the other two contenders, screeching and snarling his defiance. From his bared, yellow fangs saliva dripped onto the silken floor of the dais.
The Ritual-Master was outraged. This was no way to behave on such a solemn occasion. Due rite and custom had to be observed, or everything was lost. He started to make a speech of protest, a quivering talon pointed at the Chamberlain in denunciation of his gross ambition.
The Garthim-Master’s reaction was different but no less vehement. Striding up to the dais, he thrust his face out at the Chamberlain so that they were fang to fang. In his deep voice, the Garthim-Master pronounced one word.
“Haakskeekah!”
A thrill ran through the watching Skeksis.
The Chamberlain had no option. He could not now be seen to shrink from the most solemn challenge of the Skeksis. Hissing back into the Garthim-Master’s face, the scepter still held high, he returned the challenge in an eldritch shriek.
“Haakskeekah!”
At this point, the Ritual-Master withdrew from the contest. Opinion among the rest of the onlooking Skeksis differed on his motivation. Some argued that his innate sense of ceremonial propriety inhibited him. Others maintained that, not being directly challenged, he was evading the ordeal of
Haakskeekah!
And a further view was that he was making a political calculation: against the sheer strength of the Garthim-Master and the constitutional claim of the Chamberlain, he could not hope to be the victor; but by withdrawing at this stage he would assure himself of the vice-regency beneath whichever of them triumphed, and thus he would be next in line to the throne.
Whatever his reasons, the Ritual-Master moved to the center of the Throne Room and took charge of the situation. He gave a nod in the direction of the watching Slave-Master, who waddled off to prepare for the ritual. The rest stood still, murmurous with eager anticipation. Many trine had passed since the trial of
Haakskeekah!
had been witnessed in that chamber.
The Slave-Master returned with a score of Pod People, whom he sent to the side of the room. There they hauled on a long rope running down from a pulley mounted high on the wall. In the middle of the floor, a slab of stone was slowly raised.
When it had cleared the surrounding floor, the Slave-Master called out a command. Having secured the rope, the slaves ran across the floor, and with their shoulders pushed the slab, which was supported on a pivot, through an arc of ninety degrees. It took them a long time, such was the dead weight of the stone. The Skeksis grinned and twitched with excitement. The Garthim-Master and the Chamberlain furtively watched each other out of the corners of their eyes. The Chamberlain had reluctantly laid the scepter back on the throne.
The Slave-Master then issued another order. The slaves ran back to the side of the room and hauled on another rope that was hanging parallel to the first. From the pit that the revolving slab had disclosed, a rock slowly emerged, finally coming to floor level. It was a remarkable rock. Six feet in height, made of granite, in origin it could have been a cromlech stone. But it had lost its gloss and pride; it was a dull, unreflective boulder, mutilated by gashed scars.
The Ritual-Master ceremoniously held out both his arms toward the Slave-Master, who strutted forward bearing two massive broadswords. The Ritual-Master bent his head over the weapons and spat on each in turn. They were then presented to the duelists. The Chamberlain, having given each of them a trial whirl around his head, chose first. The Garthim-Master took his, the Slave-Master retreated to the margin of the floor, and the Ritual-Master intoned,
“Pih Tabrokh!”
As the one challenged, the Chamberlain had had the advantage in choice of sword. His disadvantage was that he had to strike first. He approached the rock, dragging his sword on the ground, where it made a trail of little blue sparks. Then he raised the sword to shoulder level, swung it around several times, gathering momentum, and smashed it into the rock with a defiant shout of
“Haakskeekah!”
The sword made a dull clank on the stone. Nothing else happened except for a violent jarring of the Chamberlain’s back and tepid applause from the Ornamentalist and the Gourmand.
The Garthim-Master stepped up with a derisive sneer. Grunting, then roaring, he swung the sword around once and dashed it against the rock.
“Haakskeekah!”
A bright spark flashed and a chip of granite flew off from the impact and skittered across the floor. It was not a decisive blow, the watching Skeksis knew, but the Slave-Master and the Scientist cheered it in their guttural voices. The Treasurer and the Scroll-Keeper also croaked their admiration, in the hope that they had chosen the winning side. The Chamberlain took the applause to be a goad from his enemies. They always had underrated him. Very well then, as Emperor he would make them regret it.
This time, he wound up his momentum by spinning his whole body around, like a dervish, some yards away from the rock. Then, in a sequence of three advancing gyrations, he arrived with his sword singing through the air. He hammered it into the rock with such awful power that it would hardly have been surprising to see the stone sliced in two.
“Haakskeekah!”
he gasped.
There was a tiny spark at the point of impact. A scintilla flew off and over the heads of the slaves, hitting the wall with an almost undetectable ping. The only other sounds in the chamber were the Chamberlain’s groan of pain as he held his back and ambiguous rumbles in the throats of the Ornamentalist and the Gourmand.
With a stentorian bellow of laughter, the Garthim-Master stepped forward again. Standing beside the rock, he grimaced several times, swinging his sword. He balanced ponderously back on one foot, spun himself around once, and then, leaning on his front foot, drove the blade into the rock at full arm’s length.
“Haakskeekah!”
he thundered.
With a flash and boom of released energy, a white-hot chunk of rock the size of the Chamberlain’s head crashed to the floor.
“Haakskeekah!”
bayed the watching Skeksis, in praise of their new Emperor.
“Haakskeekah, Khrokon! Haakskeekah! Haakskeekah!”
In a minstrel gallery above, an assembled choir of Pod slaves struck up with an anthem of conquest. Up and down the chamber the Garthim-Master minced to it, receiving homage. The Ritual-Master held both hands on high, mumbling some words of benediction. At the side of the room, the slaves looked on mute and expressionless. Their eyes were milky and unfocused.
Beside the ravaged rock, the Chamberlain cowered wretchedly. He was nothing now. Worse than nothing: a magnanimous gesture to one’s defeated opponent was no part of the Skeksis’ tradition. At best he would be able to slink away when no one was looking and perhaps self-effacingly resume his duties as Chamberlain, since none could deny his administrative competence.
But the Garthim-Master was not so inclined. Slumped arrogantly on the throne, with the Ritual-Master kneeling before him, he affected an offhanded gesture in the direction of the rock. The rest of the Skeksis took their cue. Grinning and hissing, unsheathing their talons, they surrounded the Chamberlain. In moments they had stripped him of his insignia, badges, chains, precious gems, even his layers of mouldering robes.
In order to preserve his very skin, the Chamberlain bowed low to the ground and crept away, whimpering, out of the chamber, clad only in rags and tatters.
Now was the time of high rejoicing in the castle of the Skeksis. The choir sang on, while a silken canopy was held aloft over the Garthim-Master.
“Khrokon, Khrokon!”
the Skeksis acclaimed their new Emperor, as the Ritual-Master gravely advanced to place the crown on his majestic head. The scepter was solemnly handed to him, and he leaned forward to allow a robe of satin, trimmed with fur and winking with rubies and emeralds, to be laid over his shoulders. The Ritual-Master stepped back from the dais and made deep obeisance.
“Khrokon, Khrokon!”
rang out the loyal cries, as the remaining Skeksis also fell to their knees.
The Ritual-Master rose again and held out his hand. The Ornamentalist stepped forward with a chalice, which he handed to the Ritual-Master. It was full of freshly drawn Pod vliya, the life-juice that the Scientist extracted from captives when they were first brought into the castle, ready to be turned into slaves.
The Ritual-Master raised the chalice above his head and turned, offering it votively to the new Emperor.
The chalice slipped from his hands and hit the floor. Vliya ran in rivulets across the spiral pattern.
“Idiot archimandrite!” the Garthim-Master snarled at him, lapsing into unceremonial demotic speech.
The Ritual-Master’s mouth and eyes were opened wide. “The Crystal!” he babbled. “The Crystal!”
The Garthim-Master’s jaw snapped shut. He listened, as did all the other Skeksis. In the noise of their sycophantic rejoicing, they had not until that moment heard the warning ring emanating from the great Crystal.
The Garthim-Master leaped from his throne and rushed from the room, followed by the other Skeksis. Behind them, slaves came forward emotionlessly to mop up the vliya. Their own vliya had been distilled from them upon their arrival, and out with it had flowed both feeling and thought.
Still clad in his robe and crown, and clutching his scepter like a sword, the Garthim-Master led the charge along the corridors of the castle and into the Crystal Chamber. There the eight Skeksis, talking agitatedly, gathered to see what the Crystal had relayed to the castle from the Crystal Bats that monitored the planet.
There it was. A Gelfling! The Garthim-Master thrust out a quivering talon; and the rest, looking on, fell silent.
The Garthim-Master’s eyes bulged with astonishment, then outrage. “Garthim!” he screamed. “Garthim!”
In response to the summons, all around the castle, from the ceremonial chambers to the Garthim pit itself, the waiting Garthim, standing like suits of armor, came suddenly to life, with a loud ticking sound.
“A Gelfling,” the Garthim-Master was bellowing, “on Aughra’s high hill.”
Huge black carapaces lumbered along the corridors to the tube that was the only exit from the castle. Down it they vomited forth into the world outside.
Hidden in the shadows of an alcove, the Chamberlain watched the Garthim clatter past, then crept stealthily after them.
Around the Crystal, the Skeksis muttered ominously among themselves. This was inconceivable, a Gelfling still alive. The entire race had been liquidated. Surely they could not have regenerated themselves spontaneously. Things of that sort did not happen. The Scientist was rapidly elaborating a theory of interrupted transmission: Suppose this inexplicable image in fact relayed an event that had taken place long ago and that, by some freak of physics he was not yet in a position to elucidate, was only now registering its electrical impulses on the receiving Crystal. As a theory it left a lot to be explained. But it was more plausible than a living Gelfling, and much less unnerving to the Skeksis.
Gazing at the image deep within the Crystal’s dark core, the Garthim-Master was hoarsely commanding his Garthim, “Kill it! Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!”

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