neetha Napew - The Time Of The Transferance

The stallion’s wing beats slowed. They fell in a descending spiral until he touched down gently on the apex of the ancient pyramid.

From the ground the lost city was more impressive than it had been from above. It extended an unknown distance back into the dense jungle, where the vegetation was so thick it was impossible to tell where city ended and rain forest took over.

A small building sat atop the pyramid. They entered in hopes of finding some clues to the nature of the city’s builders and their fate, but there were none to be seen. No bas-reliefs, no sculptures, no chipped friezes. Jon-Tom found the complete absence of any informative or decorative arts disturbing. It was almost as though the former inhabitants had made a conscious effort to maintain their anonymity down through the ages. All they found were some traces of tempera-painted plaster which mold and moisture had obliterated. Jon-Tom touched a fragment of blue and pink color. It crumbled to powder at the touch of his finger. “Jungle’s destroyed everything that wasn’t removed. It would’ve lasted in a desert climate, but not here.”

“Not everythin’, mate!” came a shout.

Mudge had crawled beneath a fallen beam. Now his voice echoed from beyond. “Come see wot I’ve found.”

One by one they slithered through the opening. It was a tight squeeze for Jon-Tom. Teyva’s passage was out of the question. He remained outside, waiting on them.

The chamber Mudge had discovered was in a much better state of preservation than anything they’d yet encountered. Perhaps it had been sealed for years and only recently exposed to the air. The plaster frescoes were intact. There were finely rendered scenes of ocean and beach, perhaps the very beach visible from the top of the pyramid. Fish cavorted in the shallows. There were scenes depicting cultivated plants, and weather, and mysterious imaginary beings, but no portraits of the city’s builders. They were anxious to illustrate the world in which they lived but downright paranoid about exhibiting themselves to posterity. Jon-Tom could think of one or two cultures in his own world that had phobias about rendering exact images of themselves.

Besides the frescoes the chamber held several relics. A beautifully worked dressing table or desk with matching chair stood against the far wall. Both had been cut from some purplish wood that proved to be as hard as steel. In the center of the desk was an age-stained mirror. Shoved into the back of the chair was a sword that might have been forged yesterday. The handle gleamed like chrome. An indecipherable script covered the visible portion of the blade.

On the dressing table to the left of the mirror sat a golden goblet. Closer inspection revealed that it was full of water and that the base was of pure rock crystal. Anyone drinking from it would be able to see through the transparent bottom.

Except for these singular objects and the wall frescoes the room was bare and plain. There were no windows. The ceiling was fashioned of exceptionally thick timbers of the same purple wood from which the dressing table and chair had been carved. Slate and straw littered the floor, having fallen from overhead.

Weegee shivered slightly. “It looks like somebody just stepped out.”

Mudge put a comforting arm around her. “Glad they did. This is where fortunes are made, luv.”

“I don’t see no fortune,” said Cautious. “I see a desk and chair, pretty but not special. Maybe the goblet and sword worth some money, maybe the gold fake.”

Mudge approached the dressing table and picked up the goblet. Weegee sucked in an anxious breath, but no ghosts appeared to defend their property. The otter inspected it from every angle, holding it up to the light.

“If this ain’t real gold I’ll eat me tail. Why don’t you ‘elp yourself to the sword, Jonny-Tom?” He gestured magnanimously at the chair and the weapon half buried within.

“Thanks, but I’ll stick with my ramwood staff.”

The otter shrugged as he walked over to the chair. “Don’t say I didn’t offer to share.” He spat into one paw, rubbed it against its counterpart, and grabbed the sword handle with both hands. As his skin made contact with the metal it began to speak. Mudge jumped three feet. A faint yellow luminescence appeared, traveling from the handle down through the blade until the entire chair was glowing brightly.

Weegee was backing rapidly toward the crawlway. “Mudge, you put your hands on too many things.”

The otter hesitated, then stepped back to the chair and resumed his grip. “So wot? It ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

“It spoke. I heard it.”

“I heard it too,” Jon-Tom said.

“I ain’t afraid o’ no sword voice. Tis the edge that concerns me.”

“Higher,” said the sword.

Mudge licked his lips, feeling suddenly less bold, but followed the weapon’s instructions by sliding his paws upward a few inches.

“That’s better.”

Like a recording, Jon-Tom thought, moving closer. Same inflection, tone, and decibel level as the first time. Not a suggestion of intelligence so much as programming. It reacted to the touch of a living creature, no more.

“I sense and I respondeth.”

Mudge let go of the shaft, but this time the glow didn’t fade.

“Respondeth? Wot the ‘ell kind o’ talk is that?”

“Hush,” said Weegee. The sword continued.

“Knoweth all who stand before me that I am the One and Sole True Sword. This chair is my home and I standeth guard o’er it for ever and ever.”

“Wot, not forevereth?” Mudge said sarcastically. The sword ignored him.

“Those who placed me here did so in the full knowledge that only a true hero can remove me from my home and take me out into the world where I may defend and profit such a hero greatly.” Now voice and luminescence faded together, but a faint aura clung to the weapon’s haft.

“Pagh!” Mudge stepped back. “That’s a waste, then. Of no use to anybody.”

“How do you know?” Weegee looked at each of them in turn. “We should try to remove it. Maybe there’s a true hero among us.”

Mudge found this vastly amusing until she batted her lashes at him. “You first, Mudgey. You’re my true hero no matter what happens.”

Mudge swelled with self-importance. “That puts a different light on it, luv, though I think I’m wastin’ me time. Never let it be said I let a request from a lady go unattended.”

He walked back and studied the sword from every possible angle while his companions looked on anxiously. At last he hopped up into the chair, reached over and grabbed the handle of the sword with both paws, and heaved mightily. His whiskers quivered and the strain distorted his face. “Is it coming?” Weegee asked anxiously. He finally released the sword, let out a gasp and slumped over. “Is wot comin’? The sword, or me ‘ernia?” He climbed down. “I told you I weren’t no ‘ero, much less a true one. Never ‘ave been, never will be, an’ furthermore I don’t aspire to it. I’ll settle for bein’ yours, luv.” He looked to his right. “Why don’t you try it, mask-face?”

“Be some surprise for sure, but why not?” The raccoon hopped up into the empty seat and gave a tug on the sword. He didn’t strain himself. “Sorry. Doen have the strength to be hero.”

Jon-Tom was studying the chair. “Maybe brute force would work. I wonder if we could knock the chair over and let Teyva have a go at it.”

“Not me,” said the flying horse from beyond the crawl way. “I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t want the responsibility. All I want is to fly. Speaking of which, could you hurry things up? I feel like I’ve been standing here simply for hours.” It had only been a few minutes, but the stallion was idling in overdrive.