Sometimes the Hunter, Sometimes the Prey

     “There is a small village just over this corner.  Just Buddhists live there.  Some of them may recognize my master as well,’ she said.  She placed her hands in the Namaskar prayer position and bowed slightly in Abhiseleka’s direction.  Abhiseleka put his thumbs in his mouth and stuck his tongue out at her.

     “Well, if you believe you’re fooling us, you are sadly mistaken.  As far as I’m concerned, no one should have to work under those conditions,” said Drogon.  “I am glad you escaped, but there’s no way we can take you with us,” he said.  

     Her face began to redden, and Drogon wondered if she was going to try to throw him from his seat.  She did not.  She sat quietly for a moment, then began reciting the Sanskrit alphabet.  

     “My master taught me to apprehend the mind with Sanskrit.  ‘A faithful servant and despicable master, is the mind,’ he would always say,” she replied.  That was indeed one of the Karmapa’s favorite sayings when he was alive, and Pomdrakpa stopped his mantra altogether when she repeated it.  The lamas looked at each other then looked down at Abhiseleka, who wore a slight grin.

     They traveled for the rest of the afternoon until the valley which housed Kimiya’s village began to appear on the horizon, just before the grand wall of the Himalayas began.  A blue river ran down from their peaks, feeding the misty air of the village.  A large and colorful Tibetan Buddhist monastery sat perched high on a cliff overlooking the houses, market, and fields.

     “This is my village,” said Kimiya.  It’s name is Pharping.  The two lamas looked at each other for one moment, simultaneously, then back straight ahead.  Their new destination was also known as Yanglesho to the Tibetans.  The originator of Tibetan Buddhism, The Lotus Born, was said to have gained his enlightened state in a cave somewhere near Pharping.  This state was referred to by the Mahasiddhas as “Mahamudra.”  

     Neither Pomdrakpa nor Drogon Renchen had visited Pharping since the Karmapa had died.  They were too wrapped up in their own political designs to apply any honest efforts towards their practices.  The guilt bore heavily on them, and they recognized the “crazy wisdom” techniques as the Karmapa’s trademark.  Pharping was a place of pilgrimage for Buddhists, lay people and clergy alike.  It was a place to avoid for a Lama-turned-merchant.

     “You know, the Buddha warned against practitioners like you,” she said, “that would take what they learned and swindle people with that knowledge.  Have you ever been to the Temple of Kali?  That’s the place Buddha learned compassion,” she said.  She looked at Abhiseleka, who was smiling with a big gap toothed grin.  The Lamas had turned green.  Pomdrakpa had pulled the long stemmed pipe from it’s yak leather holster and the small ceramic container for the hashish opium mixture he and Drogon had been smoking.  He crouched down, away from the wind and lit the pipe with a sulfur match, taking a long and satisfying draw from it.  His eyes glazed over almost immediately and he handed it to Drogon.  They passed it between them again and Pomdrakpa placed it back in it’s holster.

     They sat in silence for a while, until Kimiya saw the road that would take them to the Kali Temple, properly named the Dakshinakali Temple.  It was a narrow road that had a steep incline.

     “This is where we turn,” she said.  Drogon Renchen pulled on the reins, stopping the horses in the middle of the road.  He was looking at the mountain and thinking it was a bad idea to even attempt it.  He didn’t say anything, though; Kimiya was very excitable.

     “You’re just too intoxicated,” she said, “trade me places.”  She climbed over Drogon and clenched the reins from his hands, pushing him aside with her hips.

     “Those horses don’t know you; they won’t follow your instruction,” he said.  She sat quietly for a moment and closed her eyes, then tied the reins loosely to the bar at the front of the carriage.  The horses began to forge ahead, up the mountainside, by Kimiya’s mental instruction.  Abhiseleka laughed as Drogon Renchen covered his eyes with his hands.  Pomdrakpa hung his head over the edge.  Always a glutton for pain, he was afraid of heights, and yet he stared down the lengthening distance from the side of the road to the bottom of the valley below.  

     “Are you going to make it, Pomdrakpa?”  Asked Abhiseleka.  Pomdrakpa pushed his left hand out toward him and groaned.  The fire of Kali was lit within the Lamas bodies; they were both dreading this unexpected visit to her temple.  Abhiseleka had hatched a thought in his brain that Matangi was involved in this detour.  He watched Kimiya, and though she was short with straight hair and brown eyes, whereas Matangi was tall with curly hair and green eyes, they moved the same way.  He dismissed it and watched her drive the horses up the mountain without holding the reins, just like Matangi would do if she was here.  She looked over at him and winked.  He blushed.

     The steep incline plateaued and gave way to a dense and fragrant forest, swaying in the cool breeze.  The air was fresh and new.  Kimiya directed the horses up the path.  There was a wooden sign that read: “Temple of Dakshinakali, The Mother of the Universe.”  As they neared the temple, the smell of goat meat cooking drove Pomdrakpa and Drogon into a frenzy, so much so that the horses veered off the path and headed towards it.  Kimiya threw up her hands as if the movement was out of her control.  They were now on a lesser worn path through the forest, away from the temple.  

     The sounds were deafening, as the sun was beginning to set.  The monkeys called from the treetops.  It sounded as if they were beating their chests.  There was a cacophony of bird calls as well, that one could not be separated from another.  It was a solid wall of sound.  As they travelled deeper into the forest, the smoke from a fire became thick on the path.  A boy came out to greet them with his hands in the namaskar position.

     “Come, and eat with us; my mother and father have sent me to get you.  You can park your horses there and it’s just down this path,” he said.  It was strange he did not announce his name.  He seemed eager to get back to the fire.  “Come, come; it’s almost ready,” he said.  Kimiya tied the reins to a tall papery barked Birch tree.  Abhiseleka stayed behind with her, but the lamas followed the hungry boy.  She extended her hand to him and they began walking.

     “I’m sorry I sent you away with such incompetent fools, Abhiseleka,” she said.

     “Matangi!” he said.

     “Don’t blow our cover; we’ve got a good thing going here,” she said.  He looked at her and she, for just one moment was Matangi.  Then she was the Dakini Kimiya again, walking with her head held high as if to gain a little more height.  She was just a little taller than Abhiseleka.  He smiled and had nothing to say.  They walked, hand in hand towards the little boy’s fire with his parents.

     When they arrived upon the scene, the lamas were tearing into the goat meat.  They acted as if they hadn’t eaten for years.  It scared Abhiseleka; he remembered his vision from earlier, when the lamas were tearing Goldach apart.  Then he remembered, and released his hand from Kimiya’s.  She was there too, devouring her friend’s flesh.  It was another lifetime, but it still made him wonder if he was in the wrong place.  

     She walked up to him and held his hand again.  He saw something terribly disturbing in his mind’s eye.  There was a lama, dressed in yellow, beating a hand drum and chanting a strange incantation.  He looked closer, at his face, and saw that it was he who officiated the ceremony, the one where Goldach was torn limb from limb.  He started sweating.  Cold beads appeared on his forehead and upper lip.  

     “Sometimes you’re the hunter, and sometimes you’re the prey,” she said.  She gripped Abhiseleka’s slippery hand a little tighter, then released.  She bent down and kissed him on the forehead.  “Please forgive me, Abhiseleka,” she said.  He looked at her, then to the lamas, then to the family officiating this ceremony.  That’s when they came up to greet Abhiseleka and Kimiya.

     “Welcome, welcome,” said the man.  “My name is Sandeep.  My wife is Sunjata, and my son, whom you have already met, is called Yuvaraj.  Please, sit down with us and eat.  You’re friends tell me you are on a long journey.  You must be hungry, and you’re in luck.  This is the prasad from our sacrifice to Mother Kali at the temple,” he said.  “I insist that you eat some with us and share Mother Kali’s blessing.”

     Abhiseleka looked at Kimiya and she elbowed him in the ribs.  Let’s sit down with Drogon and Pomdrakpa at the fire, Kimiya thought at Abhiseleka.  She took his hand and twisted him over to his place next to Pomdrakpa, his spiritual teacher.  He was beginning to realize that he was not going to get out of this.  Sunjata would come around to his spot in front of the fire.  He would have to taste the stringy, greasy goat meat, leaving not a morsel on the plate, lest he rouse Kali’s anger.  He hung his head down at the thought, just as Sunjata walked from the tent towards he and Kimiya at the fire.  She elbowed him in the ribs yet again.

     “Would you please stop doing that?”  He asked Kimiya.  Sunjata was standing there, holding a silver dish piled high with goat meat.  She handed Kimiya a smaller plate.

     “For the boy,” she said.  Kimiya forked an overgenerous portion from the dish for Abhiseleka.  He groaned.  She handed it over to him.  Sunjata nodded her head and smiled.

     “A big plate for a big boy; it will make you grow big and strong.  Mother Kali’s blessing,” she said to him.  He was supposed to eat the meat with his hands, like the lamas.  Just don’t think about it, Abhiseleka.  It’s not a big deal, thought Kimiya.  The lamas were finally reaching the end of their servings.  They both looked in Abhiseleka’s direction and chuckled.  He raised his upper lip in a snarl towards them.  They laughed harder.  Kimiya took a large greasy bite of the goat’s leg, tasting the smoky fire over which he had been cooked.  It was delicious to her; the energy of the ritual was fresh on the meat, very hot and angry.

     Now that everyone was seated and eating, Sandeep seized the opportunity to make small talk.  He addressed the lamas, disregarding the others.

     “Men, it is an honor to have two initiates in our midst,” he said.  He motioned with his joined hands in their direction and bowed.  They returned the gesture.  “I see you have eaten heartily from Mother Kali’s sacrifice,” he said, “and pledged yourself to her.”  He chuckled, and looked towards the sky.  The ground shook and the sky rumbled, now hanging low above them.  A group of devotees travelled down the path, headed for the camp, singing a hymn to Kali.  They carried two large posts and spools of twine.  When the group reached the fire, they seized the lamas and tied them, hands and feet, to the posts.  Abhiseleka and Kimiya were also seized.  They were shackled and led, along with Drogon and Pomdrakpa, towards the temple of Dakshinakali.  

Deleted Scenes: The Celtic Goddess, Coventina

     When he looked back to Mungan and the Lady, she was gone, replaced by a girl who looked exactly like her, but smaller.  She was roughly the same age as Goldach, about ten years old, with bright red hair and pale greenish blue eyes.  She stepped forward and kissed Goldach softly on the lips, which sent an electric shock throughout his body.  It made him dizzy, almost to the point of falling down.  

     “My name is Coventina,” she said.  She presented Goldach with a rather plain looking flower stalk.  He accepted the gift and presented he with a perplexed look.

What is this?  He thought.

     “That is a flower of the Gold Dock plant, the mystical cure for stinging nettles,” she said, “and your namesake.”  She held up the fringed ends of her dress and curtsied respectfully to Goldach.  “Would you like to take a walk with me through the fields?”  She asked.  He was suspicious of this girl who had just been a grown woman.  He did not trust her one bit.  He looked at Mungan.  

     “Mungan, what’s going on here?”  Asked Goldach.  Mungan had bent down and was investigating the right rear wheel of the wagon.  His back was turned to Goldach and Coventina.  “You’re really going to kidnap me and send me off with some shapeshifter?”  He asked.  Mungan remained focused on his task, nodding his head imperceptibly.  His body began to shake and convulse slightly.  Goldach could tell he was laughing at him.

“Are you laughing at me, Mungan?”  Asked Goldach.

     “No, I’m laughing with you, son,” he said.  “Why don’t you go with Coventina?  She can answer your questions much more thoroughly than I.  I am just a simple bookbinder,” he said.  

     “I don’t want to go with her,” said Goldach, looking straight into her eyes.  As he did, his words trailed off.  Her eyes are quite stunning, he thought.  

     “Why, thank you Goldach,” she said, and curtsied again.  She produced two matching hats made of tightly wound burlap fabric.  She handed one to him, and placed the other on top of her copper colored head.  “It’ll keep the sun out of your eyes,” she said.  The sun was low in the sky and rising quickly towards the noon.  Goldach thought the hat was a sensible gift; his eyes had always been extremely sensitive to light.  He placed the hat on his head, and was suddenly willing to go with Coventina.  She grabbed his hand, and they walked off in the direction of the sunrise through the green fields.  

     There were tall hills that lay in the distance, covered in green even to the tips, surrounded by the dense network of canals and streams that linked the land to the wider sound beyond.  The pathway was coarse gravel, leading straight towards those hills, through the tall green fields that stretched out as far as he could see.  She had released his hand, and now ran out ahead of him, throwing her hat into the field.  Goldach kept his, to protect his vision from the still low sun.  She stretched out her arms and twirled around, falling over into the field.

     “Do you ever do that, Goldach?  Have you ever spun around and made yourself so dizzy that you fell down?”  She asked.  Goldach did not answer.  He pretended to not have heard her comment, looking out into the shimmering green field.  She kept staring at the side of his head.  He felt the hot iron of her stare.

     “What?”  He asked her, annoyed by the prying eye.  

     “Have you ever done that, Goldoc?”  She asked again.  He shook his head.

     “No, I have not,” he said, “and what’s it to you?”  He asked her.  She did not answer for a long time.  They kept walking.  She picked at the crops that flanked the dirt road occasionally, eating their flowers.  Goldach kept silent.  He didn’t know what to say to her.  More time passed.  She appeared to be deep in thought.  Her face lit up and she walked over to Goldach.

     “Alright.  Hold on right there,” she said.  “Close your eyes.”  Goldach closed his eyes, and he felt her slap his back, right in between the shoulder blades.  His ears started ringing and his eyes crossed.  His vision was doubled. 

     “What’d you do that for?”  He asked.

     “You’re too serious, Goldach.  You really should loosen up.  This might be your last chance for a while,” she said.

     “What are you talking about?”  He asked.

     She spoke another language, one he did not understand.  He did catch the meaning, but her abrupt change threw him off.  He thought on the meaning.  Soon, your training period will begin.  You will speak only in Latin, and translate texts for the Catholic Church!  His face got red.  He thought of Myrridian.  He could see his face in his mind’s eye, laughing at him, then looking at him sternly.  He looked at Coventina.  So, this is my punishment?  Myrridian sent me here to be punished?  He felt rage rise in his throat, and Coventina sensed it.  Her small frame grew, then shrunk back down.  She had become an elderly woman, sufficiently startling Goldach into forgetfulness.  She seemed very angry.  What was I mad about?  He thought.

     The elderly Coventina looked down at Goldach.  There seemed to be fire emanating from her eyes.  She reminded him of what had angered him moments earlier.

     “This is no punishment, Goldach, just part of the training you are destined to complete and surpass.  You’re not getting out of it this time,” she said, flashing a grin.  With that smile, she became her child self again, baffling Goldach.  

     “I have to sit down,” he said.  He sat down right at the edge of the field, dizzy and exhausted.  “I don’t know if I can keep up with you.  How do you do that?”  He asked.

She was skipping around the gravel path, kicking up some dust at Goldach.  She walked over to him and gave him the flask of yogurt to drink.  He held it up to his nose and sniffed.

     “It smells rotten,’ he said.  “What is it?”

     “This, my friend, is your salvation.  I know about your special dietary requirement,” she said.  A scene quickly flashed in his mind.  He had the meteoric iron dagger in his hand, and a large male boar bared his neck to it.  It began to slice through the thick flesh when the flash was over.

     “Isn’t that rather inconvenient for all involved parties?”  She asked.  He sat mesmerized.  “The concoction in that flask is my own invention.  I usually reserve it for gestating women, but having thought about your illness, I believe we may have the cure,” she said.

     “Well, I’d rather drink blood.  This smells rotten and inedible.  I demand to know the ingredients immediately,” he said.  Rather than being offended at his insolence, she threw her head back and laughed.  Goldach began to laugh with her.  He then realized he was laughing at himself, and she still had not answered the question.  She stopped laughing abruptly.

     “This is the ingredient list, Goldach.  Goat’s milk yogurt, from the milk of a brown nanny by the name of Aeval is the first.  Next, the key ingredient is blood from her utter.”

     He wrinkled his nose and put the cap back on the flask.

     “The final ingredient is a yogurt culture passed down to me by the great Merlin, Saint Aurelian himself,’ she said.  He felt as if a knife had been plunged into his heart.  Upon hearing the name, he removed the cap, tipped it back, swallowed, and shuddered as it went down.  The mixture had a familiar musky and slimy texture to it.

     “You’ll get used to it,” she said.  He glared at her and tipped it back again.  There was no need to get used to this dreadful brew; it was already more familiar than boiled potatoes.  Goldach, in his previous incarnation as Aurelian, had drank thousands of gallons of it.  This was his most vivid recollection from that time.  He had developed a nauseating aversion to the smell and taste of goats.

     “Tastes like it’s good for you,” he said.  He smiled and began to heave, choking it back down.  He did prefer the boar’s blood.  The goat’s natural smell reminded him of carrion, food fit for vultures and raccoons.  Coventina nodded her head once, walked over to Goldach, and offered her hand to him.  He was dizzy and the breakfast churned in his stomach, threatening at any moment to make a return visit to the outside world.  He did not want to stand up; even less did he want Coventina’s assistance in the act.  He ignored her hand and strained himself upward and onto his own to feet.  

     Thanks for the goat and the hat, but I don’t trust you, he thought.  Coventina smiled, but it was an evil look in her eye.  She looked directly into his, silently.  You don’t have to trust me.  You just have to do as I command, she thought back at him.  Her face lightened and brightened.  She was laughing at him again.  

     “I was just kidding,” she said, but Goldach was having none of it.  His face turned red again.  

     “I don’t have to take this,” he said.  He turned around, intending to walk back towards Mungan and the wagon.  He couldn’t believe his eyes.  There was no Mungan and no wagon, but an expansive coastline had taken their place.  The waves crashed onto the rocks below them.  He turned back around and she was there, right in front of him.  

     “You’re so cute when you’re mad,” she said.  “Walk with me Goldach.  The yogurt is probably taking some effect now.”  He thought about it for a moment.  He willed himself to disregard the lingering odor and taste in his nose and throat, and noticed she was right.  He was feeling stronger. 

     “What happened?”  He asked, gesturing towards the salt spray from the water.  She didn’t answer, but gently took his hat off his head and threw it into the water.  She took his hand into hers and they began to walk the path again, the one that appeared to lead to the green mountains ahead.  We don’t have much time left Goldach; you’re going back to Mungan soon.  She picked two large flowers from the green herbs of the field, and handed one to Goldach.  She took a bite of hers and began to chew.  Goldach looked at it.

     “Try it, Goldach.  It’s one of the best medicines we have,” she said.  They continued to walk, away from the water and toward the hills.  Goldach put the entire flower in his mouth and chewed.  Coventina’s eyes widened.

     “You remember that too; it was always one of your favorites,” she said.  They kept walking together, holding hands most of the time.  He wondered what Coventina wanted, and why she was here.  The sky began to change colors, as the sunset was coming.  “Let’s go back to the water,” she said.  They turned around and walked back towards the waves.  Through the rocks was a sandy path.  She led him down it, and there was a tall rock with steps carved into it, as well as strange writing.  They climbed the side and sat facing the spray of the ocean and the large sky, where the sun began to dip below the watery horizon.

     “Goldach, do you ever wonder whether you’re dreaming or awake?”  Asked Coventina.  He did not answer.  A feeling of acrid fear ran through him; she knew too much.  He stiffened, then loosened.  Be natural.  He thought to himself.  He didn’t want to give himself away, but she already knew.

     “I already know what?”  She asked him.  He clamped up tight, not wanting to reveal any of his adventures in the dream world to Coventina.  She knew too much.  She was dangerous.  “Goldach, sometimes you’re so dense.  I just wanted to tell you that all this has been a dream,” she said.  Immediately, he knew.  She was lying.

     “I’m telling you the truth,” she said, putting two fingers to his mouth.  “You are about to wake up in the back of the wagon.”  He looked at her and started to laugh.  He threw his head back and closed his eyes and laughed harder and harder.

     Mungan’s thickly calloused hand was on his shoulder, shaking him.  He was on the floor of the wagon bed, rolling around, when he was roused from his dream.

     “I reckon he had a rather humorous dream,” said Mungan.  He turned around and looked back, away from Goldach, and she approached.  It was Coventina.

The Liberation of Kimiya

     “Abhiseleka, it’s the end of the road for today,” said Pomdrakpa.  “We’re going to stay here tonight.”  Abhiseleka sat upright, facing the corner with his hands still clenched over his eyes.  “What are you doing?  Are you hurt?”  Asked Pomdrakpa.  He climbed  into the wagon and Abhiseleka shrieked.

     “Get away from me!”  He said.  Pomdrakpa grabbed his thrashing body into his arms and began to recite a mantra in a very deep voice, over and over.  He stroked Abhiseleka’s hair and he was docile.  He carried him to the edge, dismounted the wagon, and pulled Abhiseleka out as well.  Pomdrakpa was still reciting the mantra as he stood him up.  He acted drunk until the lama clapped his hands three times, and ceased the mantra.

     Abhiseleka felt as if a fog had lifted.  He did not know where he was.  There were colorful and loud people everywhere.  It was some kind of market, smoky with fires over which large meat sticks roasted.  The shopkeepers who turned the meat sticks were mainly elderly women with wrinkled faces.  They smiled while they did their work.  Many of them recited mantras as they turned the meat.  They were Tibetan women.  There were also loud men calling out in Tibetan, which Abhiseleka understood, though he did not yet speak the language himself.  

     Overall, it was a filthy place.  Abhiseleka was repulsed by the smell, but it was the din of haggling voices that threatened to bring him to his knees.  Pomdrakpa and Drogon Renchen looked around the market.  Abhiseleka followed.  Deeper down the smoky stone corridor began the skin trade.  Naked women, men, and children stood in the dark cages lined with straw.  They wore metal collars that had chain connected to them.  Abhiseleka wanted to cover his eyes.  He could not believe what he saw.  The lamas walked hurriedly ahead, desperate to find something.

     “Drogon, my friend,” said a voice from behind one of the cages.  A Turkish merchant emerged from the shop behind a caged little Ethiopian girl.  She sat in the corner, huddled with her hands around her knees.  Her body was propped up against the back wall of the cage.  The shopkeeper, upon seeing this, slammed the bars of the cage.

     “Get up, you lazy girl!  How will I ever sell you if you act sick?  You must stand and look longingly in the customer’s eyes, like this,” he said.  He clasped his hands together and cocked his head to the side.  He batted his eyelashes.  She did not move.  The girl continued to stare off into nowhere.  A small tear emerged silently from her right eye.  He opened his palms and beat on the bars.  She still did not move.  He turned his head away from her and to the lamas.

     “What good fortune has brought you men to my shop today?”  He asked.  The lamas remained silent.  Abhiseleka looked up at them, anxiously awaiting their answer.  He looked back towards the Ethiopian girl, then back to the shopkeeper.  A new idea dawned on him.  His face lit up.

     “You have brought me a prize,” he said.  He walked up to Abhiseleka and stroked his cheek with the back of his hand.  “He is beautiful.  What is his price?”  He asked.

     Drogon Renchen face reddened.  Pomdrakpa stepped forward and pulled the boy away from the shopkeeper.  

     “He is not for sale,” said Pomdrakpa.  “You couldn’t afford him anyway,” he said further.

     “Oh really?  Try me,” replied the shopkeeper.

     “He is technically worth twice his weight in gold,” said Pomdrakpa.  A middle aged Indian slave, a man wearing a dirty linen outfit stood at attention.  The shopkeeper clapped his hands three times and he ran off.  Less than a minute later, he emerged with another slave who was dressed identically.  They toted a mid-sized wooden trunk, each holding a handle from either side.  They dropped it at their master’s feet.

     “Open the trunk,” he said.  One of the slaves unlocked the lock, pulled it off, and threw back the lid of the trunk.  It shone brightly with small gold coins, full to the brim.  He smiled at the lamas, then at Abhiseleka.  

     “This boy is not for sale,” said Drogon Renchen.  “We have come only to replenish our supplies, and to garner a guide to help us navigate the passes.  We are headed to Lhasa,” he said.  Drogon handed a small rolled up scroll of paper to him.  The shopkeeper winked twice at him, bent down, and whispered in one of his slave’s ear.  He ran off and emerged with a beautiful Persian woman.  They were dressed in long and brightly colored dress, blue and purple.  She smelled heavily of Frankincense.

     “This is Kimiya.  She will take you to your lodgings for the night.  In the meantime, we will exchange your cart with a full one, equipped for the journey east, and your mules for yaks.  It will all be ready by the morning,” he said, and extended his hand to Drogon first, then Pomdrakpa.  

     “This way please, dear Sirs,” she said.  She clasped her hands together and bowed down to her waist, then began to walk back down the bazaar in the direction of their wagon.  Once out of the range of her Master’s hearing, she began to speak.

     “I am no concubine.  I am the Master’s Dakini,” she said.  Drogon and Pomdrakpa looked at each other.  “Don’t play stupid with me, you old men.  He, this boy, is no ordinary child,’ she said.  She laughed.  It bubbled up from her until she was nearly doubled over and unable to walk.  “The look on your faces,” she said, “when Kamran tried to buy him,” she gestured towards Abhiseleka, “was priceless,” she said.  She abruptly stopped her laughter, and a grave look fell over her face.  “That man in there, Kamran, he is not my master.  This boy is Vajrasattva, my master and teacher.  I will never leave his side,” she said.  

     She stopped walking abruptly.  Drogon and Pomdrakpa almost ran into her.  She bent down and touched her forehead to Abhiseleka’s, holding the back of his head in her hands.  She closed her eyes.  The tumult around their party faded away for just that moment, at least for her.  Abhiseleka seemed unperturbed and put his hands on the back of her skull as well.  “Where have you been?”  She asked Abhiseleka.  She then continued walking.  Their carriage was now in sight.  “You cannot trust that man,” she said.  The lamas hesitated.  “You tell them, Vajrasattva.  We must go to someone else,” she said. 

     “I thought you were showing us to our room,” said Drogon Renchen.  “I am not joking.  Kamran will kill you in your sleep and take the boy, along with all your merchandise,” she said.  “Ask him and he’ll tell you.”  She motioned to Abhiseleka with her head.  The lamas looked at him and he nodded his head once.  “You see!  He knows I’m right.  He recognizes me,’ she said.  “Let’s get out of here,” she said.  All four of them squeezed into the front of the carriage.  Drogon held the reins.  To his left was Kimiya.  To his right were Abhiseleka, then Pomdrakpa.  He snapped the reins down on the mules and they pulled the wagon, back towards the road that headed out of town.

Myrridian Saves the Day *Deleted Scene*

One third of the Merlins and most of their squires suddenly disappeared, leaving no trace.  The Templars were bloodthirsty and angry at having been eluded by the remaining members of the Merlindom.  Also, they were frightened by what repercussions may await them due to their failure.

     Myrridian had roused them all from the metal fogginess their squires had imposed on them and organized a rallying point which they all knew.  Their perfect and momentary mental clarity was enough to call them in the direction of the infirmary.  Merlin quickly re-routed them to the village where Marta and Goldach were residing, instructing them along the way to discard the identifying outfits they had been wearing and procure the garments of peasants that were sold in the marketplace a little further down the path from here.  They were all on foot, aware of each other by the telepathic link Myriddian had established and was now maintaining.  

     Guirmean, back at Myrridian’s lair, had witnessed all these events and was extremely displeased.  He had gone inside and was loudly meowing at Myrridian’s prostrate body to awaken, calling his spirit back to it’s home.  This was disruptive to his guidance of the Merlins.  Guirmean had been vested with the power to make such decisions, however, so Myriddian slowly travelled back along the elastic cord that led back to his body.  Along the way, he gave explicit instructions to the Merlins who were traveling to conference with him.  Speak to no man, and if you must, feign total ignorance.  Each one was now on their way, separately, to the safe village where he had brought Marta’s family.  There was work to do.  He finally reached his lair; descending again through the roof, he landed on the Dervish carpet and was magnetically pulled into his body.  It felt like it weighed eighteen tons.  Guirmean was standing on his chest, meowing loudly.  He reached up to pet him and he jumped off.

     He looked over at the Calamus root extract, picked it up and tipped the bottle back.  It was an extract of Calamus in whiskey he had brewed himself and would begin to take effect immediately.  He rose from where he had laid, walked over to his stone table, sat down, and began to write the events of the journey down, lest he forget.  When he had sufficiently documented the story, he walked out the back door to the creek and washed the remnants of the ointment from his body.

     He had not forgotten Marta or Goldach, but without this meeting the work he was destined to do would be futile and frivolous.  He sat on the front porch with Guirmean, feeling refreshed from the time spent outside of his body.  It was much more restful than any sleep could be.  Guirmean was still angry from the risks he had taken.  Conferring with him through mental pictures, Myrridian showed him his reasoning.  Goldach and Marta must come here; there is no other safe place.  Even these Merlins who were loyal now would be advised to abandon the old ship.  There was no other way.  The tides had made their decision, and they were going out.  The old ways would be driven deeper undergroung, but the concessions Goldach would make were too much for Myrridian to bear.  He would just as soon die.  Goldach, however, the heir of Aruleanius, would be pragmatic to a fault.  His pragmaticism knew no bounds; when a goal was set, nothing could stop him from achieving it.  

     He sat and daydreamed about Marta and Goldach, sending her the message that he would be there shortly with guests.  Though the season was over, they would plow the fields together.  He wanted them to stay inside if possible, and for her to make sure the possessions she had were packed and ready to go.  There was no time to waste.  The Merlins were on their way.

     Marta had experienced the vision of Myrridian’s deeds, along with Goldach, who was becoming more and more aware, and communicative.  On one level, he understood his mission in life.  Yet the awareness of that destiny was slipping away from him, as it does from all young children.  It’s not an evil process, but a natural and organic one.  If we already knew the end of the story, would we even bother to read the book?

     In her dreams last night, it was as if she sat on the rug with Myriddian, though he seemed quite unaware due to his focus on the task at hand.  He continued to underestimate her, such was his impression of women in general.  Nevertheless, she did bear witness to the salvation of the twelve Merlins, each with their druidic squires.  The gravity of the situation surrounding Myrridian and Goldach was becoming quickly apparent to her.  The old ways were gone, and the only option was total conversion.  She, like Myrridian, had not wanted to believe it; now there was no denial.  The old political clout held by the kingdom of Merlins had all but disappeared.  Though there were many who would die for Myrridian if so required.  That was exactly what he wanted to avoid.  

     The twelve Merlins were on their way, each with varying levels of loyalty to Myrridian, all with a now deadly self-destructive and unflinching devotion to the old ways.  She was rather exited that this meant she and Goldach would be returning to Melrose for good.  Her own mental and telepathic suggestions were taking hold, unnoticed by the High Merlin of Scotland.  However defunct his title and office were becoming, it was still quite a feat to exert such powerful influence on such a man.  She smiled to herself with a rare moment she allowed herself of pride, quickly changing her focus back to the persona that was rendering her capable of such influence.  She was again an idiotic wench, who hung on Myrridian’s every last word. 

    That was her costume she had to wear when she was around him, and she would wear it well.  Soon, it would come off piece by piece, and she would show herself an adept scholar of the old alchemical arts.  It would be gradual, and yet sudden.  The calamus root was that effective, and the time was at hand.

     Myrridian arrived at the village; about two hours ahead of the Merlins who were in transit.  He was kicking at the clods in the fields, acting perturbed at the soil conditions.  He had brought many plows and farming implements with him in a horse driven wagon he had rented from a shell-shocked youth in the village adjacent to Melrose.  When Yohanon saw that Myrridian had arrived, he rushed out to greet him.

     “Sir, sir, to what do we owe the honor of your presence?”  He asked.

     “I have brought soil experts to examine these fields with me, dear Yohan; I would like to know their opinions on how to maximize yields this coming season,” Myrridian replied.  In his reply was judgement and cruelty, to effect Yohanon’s quick and sullen departure.  He was a meddlesome sort, bound up in the petty politics of the small-town cathedral.  He did get the message, but did not want to be construed to Myrridian as rude or unthankful, so continued to carry on the conversation.

     “Well, that’s a rather wise decision.  There is always room for improvement,” he replied.  At this, Myriddian showed his displeasure on a very subliminal level, conveying the fact that Yohanon was no longer welcome in his presence, but that he appreciated him and his work here on this little farm.  Yohanon quickly responded,

     “I didn’t want to be rude, Master, but I believe I ought to take leave of you and let you to your business unperturbed by the likes of Yohanon.”

     “Thank you Yohanon.  It’s always a pleasure to see you.  Would you mind sending Marta out to greet me?”  Myriddian demanded.

     “I certainly will.  Your kindness is never wasted on me sir!”  Yohanon spoke these words and almost tripped over his own feet as he backed away, not wanting to turn his glance away from Myrridian too soon.  When he reached twenty paces, he turned and ran back to the cottages, his belly flopping around accordingly.  Myrridian heard him calling Marta,

     “Lady Marta, Lady Marta, the Master would like to see you in the Kale field, on the double!”

     Myrridian was unsettlingly exited when he saw Marta emerge from the cottage in the distance.  She was wearing a crimson dress, and had Goldach slung around her front side in a cotton sling.  He was getting rather heavy for her to carry and she slunk under his weight.  

     “Marta, it is no longer safe here.  Do you have your things together?”  He asked.

     “Why yes Master.  I heard you calling when you began your journey here.  Has something terrible happened?”  She asked.

     “We have no time to discuss anything now;  suffice to say we will be departing before nightfall.  I have brought in soil analysts, Marta.  They will be here any minute, and I don’t want them to see you or Goldach.  They won’t be here long.  Please remain unseen within the cottage,” he said.

     Marta was surprised to see him so affected by the events of the previous night.  He looked like he was about to fall over he was so tired, and his pupils were blown.  He was still in the spirit world, beside himself with fear and loathing for his existence.  She felt tenderness for him and reached for his hands, taking them up in hers and staring deeply into his eyes.  They were dark and deep, like the water of the ocean on a moonless night.  She felt as though he was pulling her in when she saw them, deep under the waves where the pain was absent.  Perceiving all this, she realized she had already succeeded; Myrridian was in love with her.  She was feeling his feelings as her own.  She was silent in her mind, mirroring back a nurturing feeling, still holding his hands in hers.  You can depend on me, Myrridian, she thought.  

     It was only a ten second exchange, but it was meaningful enough that there seemed to be a break in his demeanor, and she thought he was about to cry.  People like him, caretakers, were never allowed to show their emotions, even to themselves.  And in such a powerful political position with the lives of so many constantly at stake, there was no option.  His back straightened and he withdrew his hands and his emotions, retreating back into himself and to the task at hand.

     “Take leave, Marta, and be on the ready,” he said.

     “As you wish, dear Master,” she replied.

     As she turned to walk back to the cottage, he felt the hatred rise up again, for himself, from the danger of being involved with this woman.  He never allowed himself to be mirrored.  That was how people got killed.  He remembered Miryabeit, then quickly forgot.  He was afraid that Marta never would.  No matter how well she thought she could hide it from him, she wanted vengeance.  It was plain as the nose on her face.  He would continue to act as though she didn’t, but remain extremely wary of her.  There was, after all, no choice but to allow her in to his inner sanctum.  Goldach would be much more than he could handle, and without a mother figure, he would lack the diplomatic skills he would desperately need in years to come.  He knew from experience.

     The Merlins were close, he could almost smell their breaths.  They travelled on foot, as instructed.  Myrridian was ready to break the connection with all of them.  Some of the Moorish squires been judged trustworthy, and were traveling with them.  By his sight, he saw seven of them.  The rest were companionless; their apprentices had been traitorous.  Those five who had remained at Stonehenge had born the brunt of the Templars and the church back at Stonehenge, caught in the middle of a colossal tidal wave.  

The Gnome House, Deleted Scenes #1 MG, Book #1

     “Let us go to a more hospitable place,” he said.  He spoke yet another magical phrase.  There was a loud thunder clap and flash of lightning that accompanied the phrase, then nothing.  The Merlins looked around at each other, some wondering if Myrridian was losing his touch.  He stood with his back up against the tree.  Cyprian looked at the tree and noticed something extremely peculiar.
     “Did anyone else notice that tree is moving?”  He asked the group.  It looked for a moment like the thick bark of the ancient oak tree was running upwards, like a river flowing.  They all noticed at once that the tree was growing before their eyes, widening as well as growing taller, rapidly.  Myrridian continued to watch them, as they wondered what happened.  It was Mungan who noticed the grass around the tree had gotten taller as well.  He walked over to an acorn and figured it out.  This tree hasn’t grown, he thought, as he picked up an acorn from the forest floor.  It was the size of a large melon.  Why, Myrridian has shrunk us all down! 
     As he realized this, he looked around at the rest of them as they were having the same realization.  They had their heads hung back, gaping at the enormity of their surroundings.  Their minds were taken completely off of Stone Henge for a moment.
Myrridian didn’t stop them.  He laughed quietly to himself as the six inch tall Merlins perused their new environment.
     Cyprian walked around the tree and noticed what looked like stairs that led beneath the tree’s visible roots.  It looked like an ordinary foxhole.  I would never have seen these steps, he thought.  If he had been his ordinary size, which was nearly five and a half feet tall, he would have walked right past the hole.  He was just the right size to look down under and notice a vey tall set of double wooden doors at the end of the short landing after the subterranean steps.  They were sturdy, just like German Alehouse doors.  He was tempted to walk right up and knock on the door, but thought better of it.
     Cyprian walked around the tree and saw Myrridian still leaning up against it, waiting.
     As Cyprian approached, he said,
     “Cyprian, you found it.  Thank you.”  The Merlins all looked over at the two.
     “Found what?”  Asked Mungan.
     “If you want to know, come on,” said Myrridian.  “Take us to the entrance, Cyprian,” he said.  Cyprian walked around the tree and looked down into the hole he had discovered beneath it’s roots.  No one seemed interested except Myrridian.
     “Well, good job, Cyprian, you found a hole.  Congratulations,” said Rinauld.  He was the Merlin of the West Midland Birmingham District, where the Forest of Arden is located.  Myrridian walked over and looked down into it.
     “That is much more than a hole, my friends.  This is the house of a gnome,” he said.  He walked down the steps and gave an extremely peculiar sequence of knocks on the door.  It was a series of four knocks in rapid succession, then three loud knocks.  He repeated this cycle three times, and the door opened suddenly, revealing a plump white haired gnome woman who was holding a cast iron skillet that had thirteen pastries on it.
     “We were wondering if you all would ever get here,” she said, “the tea has been ready for an hour.”
     “I must apologize, my dear madam,” said Myrridian.  “We were nearly murdered by the heathen hunters just moments ago.”
     “Even more of a reason then; please tell your friends to come on down.  Dweldin’s waiting for you in the study,” she said.  “My name is Braelyn.”  Myrridian looked up at the Merlins, except Cyprian, who was already down with Myrridian and Braelyn.
     “Let’s go, men,” Myrridian yelled up the steps.  Rinauld peeked his head down.  “Come on, we’re running late already.  We are invited into the home of the renowned Merlin, Dweldin,” he said.  The men began to file into the house, Braelyn first, then Cyprian and the rest of the Merlins.  Myrridian waited until the last one entered and followed behind him.  
     As Myrridian entered the threshold, Braelyn was leading the Merlins through her kitchen, which was saturated with the delicious aroma of mushroom and potato stew, and the bread that was baking in the oven.  He lagged behind the others and looked over the simmering cauldron.  He heard the woman’s voice,
     “Come on Myrridian.  You’ll have to wait with the rest.  It’s not ready,” she said.  Myrridian, impressed with her sight, followed her order.  
     “Of course I could see you.  That’s my kitchen, son,” she said.  The small kitchen was walled with wood planks and the roots from the tree below.  Passing into the next room, a vast expanse lit by bright clear mirrored lanterns opened up.  This was the dining hall, and an enormous round oak table sat directly in the middle of the room.  At the far corner, facing the entrance to the kitchen, was the Merlin Dweldin.  
     He was a gnome; his outfit was complete with a tall red conical hat and blue coveralls.  His cheeks were red, and he wore a large smile on his face.  As the Merlins filed in, he retained his seat.  When he saw Myrridian, he jumped up as spry as a toddler, ran to him, and embraced him.  He squeezed Myrridian so tightly it knocked the wind out of him.
     “Why, you’ve been gone too long my brother,” said Dweldin.  Myrridian was crouched with his hands on his knees, still attempting to resume his normal breathing pattern.
     Between gasps he said, “Yes it has Dweldin.  Maybe if you didn’t try to squeeze me to death every time we met.”  He was smiling, and began to laugh as he regained his composure.
     “When are you bringing the boy to see us?”  Asked Dweldin.  He was referring to Goldach, and had no way of knowing he had even been born.  Dweldin heard his thought.
     “This great tree surrounding us told me.  That’s news around here.  Everything has come to life over this boy.  What’s his name?”  He asked.  
     “His name is Goldach, and he’s still rather young to be smearing on flying ointment,” replied Myrridian.
     “You and I both know, Myrridian, that child can get here without it.  Why, look at your men,” he said.  “They’re all here.  Were you going to introduce me, brother?”  He asked.
     “Please pardon my lack of consideration.  Please make each other's acquaintance.  Here is Cyprian, Rinauld, Mungan, Adair, Forgall, Gabhan, Ernan, Conlan, Doran, Trefor, Heddwin, and Cullan,” he said.  Each of the men tipped their hats as his name was announced.
     “Pleased to know you, men.  Anyone care for a drink?”  Asked Dweldin.  He held up his stein, then tipped it back, draining it and slamming it down onto the table.  He then walked over to the corner adjacent the kitchen entrance, where a large oak barrel was sitting on a marble slab.  He opened the valve and refilled his cup.
     “Feel free; the steins are on the wall,” he said.  The mugs were hung on wooden pins that were securely fastened to the wall.  A line formed.  Myrridian was at it’s head.  He sat down, directly opposite Dweldin.  The rest of the Merlins found their chairs, and began to enjoy their ale.  
     “This is a fine brew, Dweldin,” said Myrridian.
     “Yes, it is,” he replied.
     “What are the ingredients?”  Asked Myrridian.
     “I do not know.  This barrel was a gift,” he said.  As Myrridian tasted the brew, he allowed his mind to wander.  He did not want to ask Dweldin who contributed the barrel, but he had to know.  
     “Well, just ask me then,” said Dweldin.  Myrridian saw his answer in his mind’s eye.  It was a familiar face, and old Merlin turned Templar from Northwick.  
     “Some secrets are better left untold,” said Myrridian.  The men were occupied with their ale, and not paying attention to the two of them.  
     Did Grefin brew this ale?  It looks like he’s created a situation in Canturbury.  Has he talked?  Thought Myrridian.
     You are perceptive, sir.  It is indeed his handiwork.  He is in trouble, Myrridian.  They have had him locked in the dungeon, feeding him pig droppings.  Yet he will not reveal the secrets, even after many months.  I don’t know how long he can hold up.
     Grefin was a young Merlin in training Myrridian had first met just after the death of his mentor, Aurelian.  He had been invited to join the Knights Templar then.  Ever since, he had been sort of a double agent.  Now, no one knew who’s side he was on.  The clergy at the Canterbury Cathedral had gotten wise and detained him.  They lacked the mercy to kill him, allowing him to waste away chained to a wall in the dungeon there.
     “I would like us all to raise our steins,” said Myrridian, “to Dweldin and his lovely wife Braelyn.  May they live a hundred more years,” he said.  All the Merlins raised their steins and chanted in unison, “Aye!”  
     “Don’t be shy.  If your cup is empty, please refill it,” said Dweldin.  “It sounds like you all have a valid reason to drink yourselves silly.  What’s this business at Stonehenge all about?”  He asked.  Myrridian’s face turned red.  He had momentarily forgotten about the recent events.  Now reminded, his anger rose in his throat.  He drained his glass, got up, and filled another.  
     “They’re putting the screws to us,” said Myrridian.  Dweldin shrunk back and hid his thumbs.  “No, not the thumb screws,” he said, “they have forced the issue.  It looks as though the Merlindom has finally been overtaken.”
     “They teamed up against you, huh?”  Asked Dweldin.  “Well, you know what Aurelian said about this,” he said.  Myrridian stared at him.  He did not want the man’s name brought up here, even though it was inevitable.  
     “Men, it is time to discuss Stonehenge,” said Myrridian, taking his cue from Dweldin.
“The incident shows us, our time is short.  Those men were agents of the church, many of them Templar Knights.  They were planning to sacrifice every one of us,” he said.
     “I don’t believe that.  I didn’t see anything out of place at all.  A regular old fashioned ritual it was,” said Rinauld.
     “The hell it was,” said Dweldin.  He was sitting forward in his seat.  His face had reddened and scrunched up.  His eyes got large and wild and he hunkered down as if he was telling a ghost story.
     “I saw it with me own two eyes.  If a word of what I tell you is false, let Thor strike me dead where I stand with a thunderbolt,” he said.  “As the men assembled at the Big Stones, there were mounted cavalry surrounding the entire area.  Troops had amassed and were poised to strike as the ceremony began.  If Myrridian had not arrived when he did, you all would have been pig food,” he said.
     “Is that how it was, Myrridian?”  Asked Rinauld.
     “The Merlins have been infiltrated, said Myrridian.  “They caught us off guard.  I was not expecting them to have advanced so quickly,” he said. 
     “They, the Roman Catholic Church, have begun to employ Elemental Spirits, who fight their wars for them.  Without our help, nothing grows, wells dry up, cows stop giving milk, and the land withers,” he said.  “When the famine comes, the agents of the Church are there to pick up the pieces,” he said.  “That’s why every one of you are on their kill list; not one Elemental I know would go against you,” said Dweldin.

Frozen In Time

     When the Merlins reached Canturbury castle, Goldach looked up at the imposing fortress, nearly falling backwards as he did.  It was quiet and misty; just a few birds chirped.  As he listened closer, he heard fain sounds coming from within he fortress.  The large drawbridge was up and showed no signs of lowering.  One of the Merlins, Absolon from the Norfolk district, had his falcon with him.  Myrridian removed a small, rolled up scroll from his satchel and handed it to Absolon.  He placed it in the falcon’s talon and tied it loosely.  Then Absolon leaned down towards the falcon and whispered into his ear.  Goldach thought he heard what he said, but it was in some other language.
It was French.  Myrridian noticed this too, and when the drawbridge came down over the stream, he said, “Get back!”  There were men with spears and armor that had come to meet them.
     “What is your business here?”  One of the guards asked.  
     “I’m afraid we have made a mistake, dear sir.  We will be on our way now,” said Myrridian.  He obviously knew something they didn’t, but Absolon would not leave without his falcon.  He was about to speak, but Myrrididan looked at him then looked up.  There was the falcon, circling high in the sky.  Absolon then knew that the situation here was grave at best.  The guard was not warming up to Myrridian very well, either.
     “I think not.  The motley bunch of you will be coming with me to the dungeon!”  Said the head guard.  Myrridian decided quickly that it would be wise to allow themselves to be captured, and spoke to the men.
     “Do not oppose them,” he said.  He quickly pulled Goldach near to him.  “We will go peacefully,” he said.  The men did not hesitate to do as Myriddian had instructed.  The guards began to file back into the castle.
     “Go on now, head on in there,” said one of the guards.  As they entered the castle, there was an entryway lined with replicas of the royal tapestries of the Lady and the unicorn.  Large candles burned in amber glass holders alongside these tapestries.  One of the larger oafs of their party, Rinauld, lingered over the tapestry of the Lady holding a mirror up so the unicorn could see his reflection.  As he hesitated, the guard poked him in the back with his spear.  He knocked the spear out of the guard’s hand.  As it fell to the ground, Myrridian put his hand up, and everything stopped.  
     “Rinauld, I’m sorry.  That should not have happened,” said Myrridian.  Only he, Rinauld, and Goldach were still in motion.  Everything else was in suspended animation.  Myrridian looked at Goldach.
     “Your mother’s been feeding you the Sweet Flag, hasn’t she?”  Asked Myrridian.  Goldach just shrugged his shoulders.  Myrridian ruffled his hair.  He continued.  “What I want you to do, Rinauld, is nothing.”
     “He drew blood, Myrridian!  I cant just...”  Rinauld was quickly silenced by Myrridian.  His mouth was still moving but no sound was exiting.  
     Myriddian said, “Now, Rinauld, we do not have time for this.”  He stopped and smiled at the irony.  “Well, we do, but we won’t in just a second.”  Rinauld was no longer attempting to speak.  “Look, Rinauld, he won’t remember anything.  No one else will either.  We have a task to accomplish here, and we cannot leave a trace!  So, no more altercations.  Keep your eyes straight ahead and follow these pissants into the dungeon.  We will not be there long, but we have to free our compatriot.  This is the most direct way.”
     Goldach noticed this conversation.  His gears were turning.  He thought to himself about the strange logic.  He knew this was a dangerous situation, yet he didn’t tell anyone else.  It was a rescue mission, on a need to know basis.  He had decided that no one but him needed to know.
     Rinauld looked at Goldach, and remarked, “We’re here for his education?  Far be it from me to question you Myrridian, but come on Sir!”  At this, Myrridian’s eyes narrowed.
     “You will not question me or my directives, Rinauld.  Forget about all this, drive on, and do not speak or hesitate again,” he said.  At that moment, time resumed itself.  The guard was on the ground, picking up his spear.
     “Why, you twit!”  The head guard said.  “You dropped your spear.  Can you show some royal decorum for one moment?  I should report this to the Archbishop.”
     “Please don’t Sire; I will straighten myself this moment,” he said.
     “We’ll see about that.  Well, go on.  To the dungeon,” said the head guard.
     Past the entryway, they travelled down a long hall.  When they reached the end, a dimly lit hallway spiraled down to the subterranean dungeon.  Two guards went down first, then the Merlins were lined up and sent down.  
     “Put him in there as well,” said the head guard.  The guard who had dropped his spear protested and the head guard slapped him with the back of his hand.  The guard fell to the ground, as the head guard was wearing heavy metal lined gloves.  They picked him up and carried him down the steps behind the Merlins.  

     The dungeon smelled terrible, as the floor was wet and soft with excrement and urine.  There were so many rats that their sound was rather deafening.  They were placed in one large cell.  The unconscious guard was thrown to the ground after them and the cast-iron gate was shut loudly.  Sitting in the corner was Grefin of Northwick, whom only Myrridian knew well.  He was in a dishevelled state, covered in the ancient waste that lined the floors and walls of this dank prison.  He was thin and emaciated; not much remained of him.  Myrridian became extremely angry at this.
     “Gentlemen, this is the man we came to see.  Meet Grefin of Northwick,” said Myrrididan.  Goldoc recognized this man, but not acutely.  He had been a close associate of Aurelian’s when he was alive, helping him to form the secret branch of the Knight’s Templar that was their reason for this journey.
     Grefin was weak and barely able to speak, but his spirits were renewed when the party of Merlins arrived.  He raised his head with tremendous effort.  It otherwise was hung down from a lack of spirit and energy.  He mustered out the words,
     “Young Myrridian, a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into here.  I suppose these are your like minded compatriots, excepting the sleepy one over there?”  He asked.  Myrridian nodded.
    “And what have we over here?  He’s a might young, isn’t he, to be locked in Canturbury’s holy dungeon?”  Grefin turned his head to look at him and Goldach remembered.  “Yes, my boy, you’re no stranger to me,” said Grefin.  Goldoc said nothing.  He felt faint from the fumes, which overpowered each one’s senses.
     “Who is this man?”  Asked Absolon.  
     “He is our important contact at Canturbury castle these days, I presume,” he said with a laugh.  Grefin laughed also, but with difficulty.
     “If I were you, dear Sir, I would ask the more pertinent question: How in the bloody hell are we going to get out of here?”  Said Grefin.  The unconscious guard began to lift his head.  Rinauld saw this, walked over to him, and knocked him out cold again.  His head fell into the pile of feces on the ground.

Pratipanna, The Trickster

“You know them personally, Pratipanna.  It is time to summon them,” she said.  For a split moment, a crack in time, Pratipanna thought to himself.  I work to get paid, woman.  Matangi heard this thought, as did the sages who ignored it.  Her eyes narrowed and Pratipanna collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain.  Fine, I’ll do it!  Matangi loosened her grip on his nether regions and he somewhat regained his composure.
     “They are already outside, Dearest Goddess,” said Pratipanna.  Abhiseleka released her leg and walked over to the flap.  Before anyone could stop him, he had raised it.  Outside the door was a group of sages with torches.  Their spokesman stepped forward.
     “We are her in the service of the Kingdom of Delhi, and her rightful ruler, Sultan Shaams-Al-Iltmush. Victory! Truth!,” he said.  The last part was chanted by the entire crowd, which consisted of about one-hundred individuals.  Abhiseleka allowed the flap to drop back down, and ran to Matangi, hiding behind her leg and again holding it tightly.
     “How can they be trusted?”  Asked Shaams.  He looked straight at Matangi.  She looked at the Sages, who looked at Pratipanna.
     Pratipanna said,”They care nothing for money.  The reason they are here, and they can be trusted, is Her.”  He looked at Matangi, and Shaams sighed audibly.  Matangi was the only factor in his life that he had ever risked trusting.  Beyond that was always his own cunning and brute force.  They all worship her.  They all know her.  Matangi had visited each one of the crowd in their meditations and had pre arranged this entire episode.  Even Pratipanna, upon seeing her, had the recollection.  She reached for young Abhiseleka’s hand and went out to the crowd.  As she opened the flap, their torches burned brightly.  They stood in organized rows, as if soldiers awaiting command.  This was how Matangi had been envisioning it.
     “For the children!” She said, and paused, pulling Abhiseleka to stand in front of her.  He was terrified.  “For the children’s sake, for the next generation.  It is not for ourselves that we now undertake this battle.  It is for the people here in this kingdom, who have no voice of their own,” she said.  “How can they beat us?  Only if we let them,” she said.  Shaams listened to this speech and wondered.  He was implicitly guilty for allowing the Ulaamas to do his dirty work.  He was not the ruler Matangi said he was.  She was that ruler, and that was what the Ulaamas could not tolerate.  The time she had forseen was now transpiring.  They would all have to be exiled, and a new type of army created.  From the sounds of the crowd of sages outside, it was well on it’s way.
     Shaams stepped out in front of the tent with Matangi.  The crowd roared with affirmation, and yet Shaams knew, their approval was not because of his actions.  It was  for Matangi.  Shaams was merely a man caught in between two political ideologies, two religions, belonging to neither one.  Yet this was his moment to make a stand.  he had absorbed Matangi’s teachings.  However foreign they were to him, she made sense.  The only prospect that would come to fruition with the Ulaamas in power would be more chaos and treachery.  It was not that he trusted these people, it was that he had to.  He believed in Matangi.  He spoke.
     “My friends, by fortune or fate, I am the Sultan of this land.  I understand the atrocities that occur daily here.  Until now, I have opposed them to no avail,” he said.
The crowd groaned and grumbled.  Matangi raised her hand and they all fell silent again.  “We are brothers here.  I have taken the Sufi vows.  I believe in the oneness of God and his creatures,” he said.  “Now, seeing you assembled here today, I have faith that the Orthodoxy can be defeated.  They will not be defeated by brute force, but by freedom of the mind.  That is where the war is waged; you must see that!  Together, and behind Matangi, we can unify the various factions that are now divided.  The division is our greatest weakness, and it is not your invention.  It is the invention of those who have come before us.”
     Shaams had learned as a young boy in Turkestan the forbidden doctrine of the great Persian emperor, Cyrus.  Through private instruction, it was none other than the Sage Moinuddin, who was still meditating in the tent, who had lit the fire of liberty in the young Shaams.  He was told stories of how conquered countries would cheer and applaud Cyrus’ entrance into the city.  In his mind, he had finally realized a boyhood dream as he spoke to the gifted and boisterous crowd.
     There was a scroll surfing over the people, being handed upwards towards Shaams.  As it moved towards them, there was a low murmur echoing.  Shaams’ moment was interrupted as he wondered what he could do about the inevitable traitors that dwelled within the ranks of the sages.  Matangi pinched his side, leaned into his ear, and whispered.
     “Shaams, let it go,” she said.
     When the scroll reached him, he opened the cylinder, removed the document, broke the wax seal and unrolled it.  The writing on the note was in a language he did not know, Sanskrit.  He handed it to Matangi, who held it in her hands for a moment.  A smile came over her face.  She, as many had already experienced, could feel the message on the scroll.  It was most fortuitous.  She whispered in Shaams’ ear.
     “Let’s peruse this message within the tent,” she said.
They went inside.
     “What does it say?”  Asked Shaams.
     “What does it say, Mata?” Asked Abhiseleka.  She ignored them, but they all watched her face for any subtle hints that would give away it’s contents.  She read over it carefully, once, then began to translate it for Shaams.
     “To the Sultan Shams-ud-din Iltutmish, may he rule Delhi for a thousand years.  This note is to inform you of the going’s on at your palace.  The rebellion has been quashed, and the traitors have been captured, bloodlessly.  The prisoners are now in the dungeon, and I, your Lieutenant General, Pratipanna, await further instructions,” she said.
     “Lieutenant General Pratipanna?”  He asked.  For the first time, they noticed he was no longer present in the tent.  “Matangi, is this authentic?”  He asked.
     She looked at him, took his right hand and placed it on his heart.
     “You listen to your self and answer your own question,” she said.  He closed his eyes and began to see his answer for himself.  Pratipanna had appeared back at the palace in the midst of the Ulaama who had paid him to orchestrate Iltmush’s assassination.  They were convened in his interior court, already quarreling amongst themselves regarding the division of power in the new Sultanate.  When the doors opened and Pratipanna entered the court, the discussion abruptly halted.
     “Pratipanna requests permission to address the kind ministers,” he said.
     The Ulaama with the biggest hat, Shayk Mohasim, responded, “Yes, go on,” he said.
     “Shaams Al-Iltmush has been captured and is being held for ransom by the Chishti Sufis,” he said.  There was an outrage amongst the Ulaama.  Some thought that Pratipanna ought to be beheaded for his failure.  Iltmush was supposed to be dead.  “They have assured me, however, they have no loyalty to him.  They only want a certain measure of gold and jewels, and he will be yours,” he said.
     “Bring the jewels,” said Mohasim.  He clapped his hands twice and two eunuchs were sent to retrieve the trunks loaded with jewels plundered from the treasury, previously plundered from places like Assam and others.  When the eunuchs had brought the trunks, Pratipanna clapped his hands twice, mocking Mohasim.  They all gasped when they saw the two men who brought in another trunk.  They were both Pratipannas.  He had replicated himself!
     They set the trunk down in front of Mohasim and opened it.
     “The finest hashish from Khorasan,” said Pratipanna; “Let us celebrate!”
     Some of the Ulaama hesitated, thinking it was an inauspicious time to celebrate and knowing it was inappropriate to become intoxicated.  When Mohasim was handed the large hookah and began to smoke the hashish, however, everyone else followed suit.  Pratipanna and his two doubles also smoked, not to rouse suspicion.  He remained unaffected, while the Ulaama, every one of them, were fast asleep in a short amount of time.  He then walked to the exterior door of the court and brought in the sages, who relocated the jewels to a safe place, and systematically carried the Ulaama to the dungeon.
     Iltmush opened his eyes and did not believe his vision.
     Matangi said, “That’s exactly how it happened, Shaams.”
     “If that’s the case, let us make haste back to the palace,” he said.

Atlantean Mermaids and Telepathic Frogs

     It was a short distance away from Myriddian’s stone house, down a path that was invisible.  It was not that it was overgrown, though the ground path itself was only about a foot and a half across, but that it was not meant for anyone’s eyes but Myrridian.  He was holding Goldach against his chest, with Goldach looking backwards over his left shoulder at the forest they left behind them.  When they arrived at the clearing, Myrridian set him down and let him walk the area.

     There was a hot spring pool in the circumferential clearing, and though the entire space was surrounded by the dense oak forest, there were specifically thirteen oaks that demarcated it as a holy and hidden place.  In the center of the pool was a green copper statue of a mermaid laying leisurely on a clam shell, and playing a harp that looked exactly like Myrridian’s.

     Being here with Goldach, Myriddian began to have the experience he was hoping for.  The memory had been lost to him, almost as if it were covered over by layers of dust.  There was a flood of remembrance now that washed all that dust away.

     Myriddian was young, but a little older than Goldach was now.  His master Aurelian had brought him here, he realized now as a sanctifying ritual.  This was his most powerful ritual space, and even then, the mermaid at the center of the pool glowed and seemed alive and yet timelessly ancient, as if beckoning with a call older than time itself.  It had brought little Myriddian comfort to see her, the comfort of remembrance and familiarity.

     Aurelian had spoken to him then, in a voice so open, tenderhearted, and out of character that Myriddian would have been frightened to hear it in years to come.

     “You know, dear Myrridian my boy, we have been here before,” he said.  Myriddian replied then, 

     “Yes, Master, I remember building this place, and putting her here to guard it,” Myriddian replied, smiling and pointed at the mermaid.  “Her name is Atargis,” he said further.  His master Aurelian’s countenance changed when Myriddian said that he constructed this sanctum; for all these years Aurelian had the distinct feeling that he had been the one.  The innocence of a child however, could not be debated with, especially when he remembered the mermaid’s name.  

     Aurelian had spent many long hours having conversation with the spirit of the statue, prior to this day, and she had indeed asked him to refer to her as Atargis.  When the child Myrridian spoke these words, he had a flood of visions.  There were ancient civilizations with untold knowledge, sunk forever under the waves.  The immortality of the soul and the relativity of the human reckoning of time became more distinct and concrete.  Aurelian wanted to ask Myrridian more questions, but was almost embarrassed to.  This caused a rift between them that was never really healed.  

     Myrridian realized today, standing here with this child, that the rift he had been raised with was not new and had not been for an infinitude.  There was an opportunity here for forgiveness, but the depth of the loathing he felt for Goldach rose to the surface in an undeniable way.  He pushed it back down, and saw the boy as a boy again.

     Goldach was playing, walking around and touching all the trees on the periphery and talking to them in nonsense.  It sounded like babbling to Myrridian, but it felt like something more.  As he turned his ear toward the interaction, he could hear the birds in the trees, the frogs, and all of nature responding to Goldach.  The oak trees themselves seemed to be welcoming him back, as if he had only been gone for a day.  With their infinite forgiveness they wanted to inspire Myrridian.  He would think about it.

     It was humorous to Myrridian that Goldach avoided Atargis, the centerpiece of this sanctified ritual place.  It was as if he remembered that he did not want to remember, focusing on what he knew best, mother Nature Herself.  As Myrridian thought this thought, a toad about the size of the child’s fist hopped from a cooler side pool of the main one and began to croak, calling to him.  Goldach ran from the tree he was talking to, smiling and laughing, got on the ground, eye to eye with this toad, and began to carry on a private and silent conversation with it, nodding every once in a while.  After a two minute span of this passed, Goldach carefully picked up the toad, rose from his position, belly down on the ground, and placed the toad in the front pocket of his burlap tunic.

     He then saw the statue of Atargis and began to cry.  He sat down on the ground and wept silently to himself, looking at the copper statue, with the steam rising up from the hot pool around her.  He cried silently to himself for five minutes, then took the frog out of his pocket and held him eye-level.  He looked into the frog’s eyes then set him down on the ground in front of him.  

     When Goldach had looked at the mermaid statue, a flood of communication came through to him, in the form of pictures.  There were layers upon layers of lifetimes, and the spirit of Atargis had represented the very beginning, of all of this.  It was the fall of humanity eulogized in the Jewish bible, the moment of Earth’s history when humans began to know what it meant to be enslaved.  Goldach saw himself, standing over an unconscious person, laying supine on a table.  He was not a he, but a she, waving a crystal instrument over the person.  There were people of authority looking on, supervising the event; her partner was a stoic man in the corner, standing silently and directing energy.  The patient writhed and moaned as the session continued.  This was the genesis of the first disease on Earth, a successful attempt by one group to enslave another.  This was Atlantis, the beginning of the end; incomprehensible emotions flooded his body, and Goldach turned away from what he saw.  It was too much for his young mind to handle, and he begged Atargis to stop.  

     “Ask your friend to help you, Goldoc,” said Atargis.  He saw the frog in his mind’s eye.  Removing it from his pocket, he spoke to him telepathically.  

     “Can you make it stop?”  He asked the frog, looking deeply into his eyes.  The frog did not speak in coherent thought, but Goldach suddenly knew her name was Ceres, and the feelings he was experiencing began to subside.  He then knew to put the frog down, as she had all that she could take.