Martyn Vaughan - The Cave of Shadows

He got up from the floor, still wondering how soft it had felt after the harsh, stony ground that he had been used to until recently. He crossed to his table and was only a little surprised to see that on it there was a pitcher, a tumbler, a bowl and a small object which had a little shallow indentation at one end. His surprise returned however when he picked up the tumbler and realised he could see his fingers grasping it on the other side!

Shaking his head in wonderment he pulled up the chair, which he had now completely mastered, and pulled the bowl towards him. It was filled with a soft white substance from which small tendrils of diaphanous vapour were slowly rising. Whilst wondering how he could pick up such an odd substance he had another epiphany and eagerly seized the implement with the shallow indentation at one end and began to eat his breakfast.

He poured himself some of the liquid from the pitcher into the transparent tumbler and noted that although the room was warm the water was cold. He shrugged: it was time to start accepting rather than wondering.

On another chair near the door he noted a small pile of what appeared to be fabric, which on examination was revealed to be a closefitting tunic, which when worn would cover most of his form, leaving only his head, shoulders and limbs uncovered. He suddenly realised that the scrap of soiled and torn fabric that rather desperately clung to his crotch was no longer suitable for his new surroundings. He glanced down at his torso and ran a finger along one of the white scar lines crossing his brown chest. He thrust the memory away and changed into his new apparel.

He emerged into bright skyshine and was immediately greeted like an old friend by the many passers-by. Some even came up to him to enquire on his general wellbeing. He nodded, forcing underdeveloped facial muscles into smiles, and moved on. He found this endless overt display of emotion alien and slightly uncomfortable after so much time either alone or fighting for his life.

He decided to walk to the wicker fence and try to get a better look at this tribe of Jons that Jarz had identified as “women”. There was something about the distant view of them that he had had the previous period that had left him strangely unsatisfied, as if here was yet another mystery that he must resolve. But he had not gone very far when as he attempted to pass a large table seated around which was a crowd of laughing men he was called over to join them. Jon felt that he had no alternative but to join the throng, although he was much more used to his own company. But, he reasoned, if this was to be his new home he must learn to become part of the community; after all everyone else seemed to be enjoying it.

He squeezed himself between the two men who happened to be nearest and a round of introductions began while a pitcher of a liquid that was not water was passed to him.

He sipped it and though, like the water, it was cold it generated a feeling of warmth in his stomach. He liked it.

The one who had called him over was Jal10 and he rapidly introduced the others, who nodded to Jon as their names were announced.

‘How are you finding it here?’ Jal asked, with another of those gleaming smiles which seemed to be the trademark of this place.

Jon was momentarily lost for words. How was he finding it here?

For quite some time now nothing had tried to kill him or even injure him. Food had mysteriously appeared even when he had not been particularly hungry and without him having to crawl on his belly through undergrowth. It couldn’t have been much stranger if he had found himself living at the bottom of one of the forest’s lakes.

The others appeared to be waiting for him to give some mark of approval, of approbation.

Words did not come. He did not have the vocabulary. Finally, he found himself uttering a word he had never used before.

‘It’s very nice,’ he said, to no-one in particular.

Did the smiles falter, ever so slightly? He could not be sure.

Jal looked around at his fellow diners and then nodded. ‘Of course. It was silly of me to put you on the spot. After all this is all very new to you. Please forgive me.’

An odd silence fell. Finally, Jal asked, ‘As you are so new – is there anything you’d like to know? Anything you’d like to ask?’

Jon considered asking if Jal knew anything about the women-people but decided that he would find that out for himself. But there was something to ask, he realised.

‘We all have numbers here. Is that because there – there are more than one of us?’

The group gave a noise which Jon hadn’t heard before but somehow knew was a “chuckle.” Jal tried to keep a straight face and, after almost succeeding, said ‘Yes. Of course. Why else would we have numbers?’

Jon was annoyed. Somehow he had given the impression that he was stupid, a rustic nobody. He didn’t like that. His sword arm jerked but nobody noticed.

‘More than one,’ he intoned slowly, ‘Jarz called me – uhh – Jon21, I think. Then that means that there are twenty more of me. Where are they?’

Jal leaned across the table and touched Jon’s arm. He withdrew it.

‘Well Jon,’ Jal said carefully, as if explaining something to a small, confused child, ‘there are others of you but the Jon-type is particularly prone to mishap. Not that many have managed to get here.’

‘So many of the- uhh – Jon-type didn’t reach this hill.’

‘Yes. You understand.’ Jal looked relieved and began to turn to his companion to start a new conversation.

But Jon was not finished. ‘If they never got here how did you know their numbers? How do you know I am the twenty-first?’

Jal shrugged. ‘We just do. That’s all. Have you finished?’ His tone had turned cold and neither he nor the others were smiling.

Jon stood up and looked down the table at his erstwhile companions. ‘Yes I have. Thank you for the drink’

But Jal had already turned and was busy talking.

Jon walked on.

After some time he stopped and, turning, looked down over the edge of the terrace, back over the terrain he had passed through to get here. Why had he come? Why had he left the forest that he knew and understood? Why had he battled with the Lords of the Sands? His gaze strove to penetrate the distances to their realm but it was lost in the greyish haze on the horizon. It all seemed so long ago now! And for what had he fought – to sit here in the skyshine and eat and drink and indulge in conversations that twisted and turned but got nowhere?

He shook his head. This was not the answer to the tremendous mystery that had drawn him inexorably from the sheltering trees.

This was – nothing.

He walked on for a while longer, hardly lifting his gaze from the ground. Thus it was he suddenly bumped up against the wicker fence and looked up with a cry of surprise.

As usual, there was no one nearby, just vague shapes in the distance. His eyes narrowed. There was certainly something different about them – but what?

For some reason he didn’t understand, he waved at the distant figure but it didn’t respond and, feeling foolish, he let his arm drop and finding himself under a strange dejection began the walk back.

He ignored the cries of greetings and attempts to draw him into conversations as he trudged homeward. He came into his house and sat down heavily in the main chair. His thoughts hung heavy on him as he ran through all that had happened since that peculiar day when he had first felt the stirrings of the great doubt, the doubt that all was well with the world, with his mode of existence. Then he stiffened and his head rose from his chest.

Something wrong. Something missing.

He stood up abruptly and then he realised – his sword, the one given him by the Lords of the Sands – it was gone!