Bryan Davis - Eye of the Oracle

As the flames danced in a curtain all around her, Elam, Lazarus, the grassy slope, and the church incinerated in her sight, like a painted canvas burning from top to bottom. When the fire died away, the mining trench appeared. Competing shadows crisscrossed the dark furrow, some cast there by a column of purplish light spinning around her, the underworld exit point of the new portal. Dimmer shadows tripped around the flickers of the lantern Elam had left behind next to the corridor’s new dead end a stone wall the Ovulum had erected with its layers of crimson light, blocking Morgan’s entry into the girls’ home.

Sapphira tightened her grip on the smoldering cross and stepped out of the column. After picking up the lantern, she shuffled back toward the elevation platform, kicking black pebbles all along the way. Why hurry? She had all the time in the world to climb that long rope and rejoin her spawn sisters, then years and years to sit and wonder what Elam was doing up in the land of the living.

When she reached the platform, she stared at the rope and the black void above. Everything seemed so empty, so hopeless. Elam was far away up there, separated from her by much more than space. He was in a completely different dimension, probably happy now to be away from this God-forsaken hole in the ground.

She leaned against the wall and slid down to her seat, staring at the trench, the pathway back to the world above. Setting down the cross and lantern, she slid her hand into her pocket. She felt only her coif. The Ovulum was gone.

She grasped a handful of dust and threw it toward the trench. God-forsaken was right. Now everything and everyone from the living world had escaped, and they were all probably glad of it. This was a place of torture and sorrows, and those born here were destined to live here alone, separated from God forever.

Now she knew what Elam had meant. Having something and then losing it was a lot worse than never having it at all. At least now Elam could find new parents or maybe somebody else to show him love and care.

Sapphira pressed her trembling lips together. She had nothing, and what she had lost would never return.

She scrunched up her face, trying not to cry, but tears flowed anyway. Her voice quaking, she looked up at the dark, blank ceiling. “I guess you got what you wanted out of me, didn’t you? You destroyed the tower, you rescued Elam, but you left me here to rot.”

Lowering her head, she let her tears drip into the dust. “Why didn’t you just let me be Mara, the slave girl? Why did you have to show me so many wonders of the living world, only to trap me down here again?” She rose to her knees and, balling her fists, she screamed, “Why didn’t you just leave me alone?”

She fell prostrate and wept, sobbing and heaving, not caring how dirty, ugly, or ridiculous she looked. Who would ever come around to see her? Nobody cared. . nobody.

After a few minutes, something soft touched her head. “Sapphira?”

Sapphira jerked up and stared at the female form, a girl with white hair, sparkling sapphire pupils, and a burning torch in her hand. Sapphira rubbed her eyes with her filthy knuckles. “Acacia?”

Acacia extended her hand. “Let’s get you back to the museum room. There’s something you have to see.”

Sapphira took Acacia’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. “Did you leave Paili and the others alone?” she asked, brushing the grime from her dress.

“They’ll be okay. You were gone all night, so I had to look for you.” Acacia nodded at the cross on the floor. “Where did you get that?”

“From the land of the living.” Sapphira picked up the cross and tucked it under her belt. “I’ll keep it to remind me of Elam.”

Acacia leaned into the elevation shaft and looked up. “Come on. It’s a long climb. We’ll stop by the pool and clean up when we get to the top.”

“What’s going on in the museum room?” Sapphira asked.

“You have to see it to believe it.” Acacia dropped her torch and pointed at it. “Lights out!” Then, picking up Sapphira’s lantern, she extended her hand again. “Let’s save our stories for when everyone’s around.”

Sapphira intertwined her fingers with Acacia’s and followed her into the elevation shaft. The warmth of her touch fed her soul with comfort. At least she had one friend left in the world. She grabbed the rope and looked back at her twin. “Better put out the fire.”

Acacia smiled and nodded at the lantern. “Lights out for you, too.”

Now in total darkness, Sapphira pulled on the rope and inched her way up. She knew the rest of her journey would be a long, hard climb.

Circa AD 495

Merlin climbed the rocky bed, grunting as he scaled the incline. This journey had been a lot easier the first time he attempted it, but that was at least thirty years earlier. Now the slope seemed steeper, the jagged rocks, sharper.

He set down a large, leather saddlebag and pushed his long robe out of the way, then, steadying his feet on two stable rocks, cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hail! Clefspeare!”

As he waited, his spindly shadow loomed on the face of the cliff, a phantom in the full moon’s glow. Above him, another dark shape yawned as if stretching to swallow his silhouette the entrance to a familiar cave, the home of his lifelong friend.

He cupped his hands again. “Hail! Clefspeare!”

Again, no response. He turned and looked down the rugged slope. The king stood on a smoother path below, somewhat overdressed in his fine riding attire, now coated with dirt and sweat.

“Come, Your Majesty,” Merlin said, holding out his hand. “I can support you.”

The king, using both hands to steady himself, climbed the rocky embankment, and as soon as he approached Merlin, he grasped the outstretched hand and pulled himself the rest of the way. “Master Merlin,” the king said, “your strength amazes me.”

“I have climbed many hills in my time,” Merlin replied.

Arthur gazed down the slope. “I’m not comfortable with this ruse. Devin is nowhere in sight.”

“He will come,” Merlin said, following Arthur’s gaze. The moonlight revealed scraggly trees and an empty path far below, but little else. “We don’t want him here too early. As long as he stays away from Bald Top, the plan will work.”

“I respect your courage and wisdom, Master Merlin, but would you have me march right into the dragon’s mouth? How can I be sure that he has forgiven my rash decisions?”

“You have to trust me. In spite of that trumped-up story about Andrew, you must believe that Clefspeare is not a danger to us.” Merlin hoisted his bag and continued the climb for a few more yards before stopping to wait again. When the king joined him, the two proceeded on level ground, Merlin again leading the way. After passing a few bare, stunted trees, the travelers faced the entrance of the cave. A gentle breeze blew from within, and then, seconds later, the breeze reversed, and the cave drew the air past their bodies.

“The cave breathes,” the king said, his mustache twitching, “but I smell no rotting flesh.”

“Nor will you.” Merlin filled his lungs and bellowed once again. “Hail! Clefspeare! It is I, Merlin, Prophet of the Most High. With me is His Majesty, King Arthur.”

Again he waited but received no response. Merlin squatted, picked up a pebble, and tossed it down the slope. “He must be in regeneracy.”

“Regeneracy?” The king stooped next to Merlin and peered into the shadows. “What is regeneracy?”

“You will see.” Merlin rose and walked straight into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he looked back. The king had fallen behind. “We must hurry,” Merlin warned. “The others will be assembling very soon.”