Chapter 61: Sáeril – The Impossible

The War’s darkness weighed more than an entire ocean on Sáeril’s shoulders. He built himself a magic atmospheric diving suit, a frail protection against that kind of darkness. He had to find that man who still remembered his name and leave before he got crushed. Sáeril could see little and it was hard to breathe, still he called:

‘Neville,’ and again, ‘Neville.’

The darkness stirred in a thick wave. Sáeril followed it. Every step he took was a step farther away from his own survival. Sáeril hoped he wouldn’t have to cross the point of no return, but then he saw that the disturbance in the darkness was much deeper than his limit.

Much deeper than any limit. Sáeril stopped. Death was on his next step. Neville was way beyond death. Sáeril took another step. Everything inside him twisted, his magic suit cracked, two oceans weighed him down, and he fell on one knee, but stood up again with a grunt because Neville still knew his own name and, in that depth, this was impossible. The only power stronger than magic, darkness, time and every Mystery was the Impossible. The impossible belonged to Nuille.

There was Neville, twisted like a worm, eyes wide open, drowned but unable to die or scream. Sáeril took him by the nape. Darkness filled Neville, pushing the blood out of his veins, filling his lungs, pullinb bones against skin.

Sáeril opened Neville’s mouth, pushed his fist through Neville’s throat, clutched at the darkness. Neville thrashed about, but Sáeril held his head in place. Then he pulled. Darkness gushed out through Neville’s throat, slick like wax. They resisted Sáeril with the tenacity of maggots biting into dead flesh. Sáeril’s arms began to tire, every muscle hurt, and still darkness streamed out of Neville’s mouth.

Sáeril’s suit cracked further. He put a foot against Neville’s shoulder and pulled with his whole body until the last inch of darkness came out of the archer’s body. Sáeril’s suit cracked in two new places and darkess began to leak in through the tired magic. Neville coughed.

‘You have colour,’ he said. For he had lost all his colour to darkness.

‘For now,’ said the Wraith.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Sáeril Quepentorne.’

They shook hands. A very unusual thing to do in the heart of darkness.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Neville.

‘Looking for you.’

‘You saved my life.’

‘Not yet. We are far from safety. All I did so far was put myself at risk.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Because you still know your name. This deep in darkness you shouldn’t even know that you were somebody, not to mention who. Something is not letting darkness dissolve you completely. That something might have the power to pull you out of here.’

‘What something.’

‘I was hopine you would tell me,’ said Sáeril.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Then we have to find out together. Or stay here forever.’

Sáeril helped Neville to stand up. The mortal man moved as though all the bones in his body were broken.

‘Hang on,’ said the Wraith. ‘Recovering your existence entails facing all the consequences. Lean on what little hope we have.’

‘What hope?’

‘Your memory, Neville. The darkness couldn’t erase your memory. That’s where the power hides.’

‘I don’t remember any power. Wait!’ He took hold of the long bow he carried on his back. ‘There’s something I remember.’

Neville’s memory ran away to a city turned into ash. Sáeril smelled magic and darkness, heard the broken echo of a dragons scorching scream. Then, in the middle of the grey, he saw a man. An old man with chaotic white beard and hair, little yellow eyes, more wrinkle than skin

‘Fregósbor?’ Sáeril never imagined he’d meet his apprentice in Neville’s memories.

‘Fregósbor,’ said Neville. ‘So that’s his name. I met him thrice. He’s the one who gave me this bow, and I know he’s looking for something.’

The memory ran closer to the old man with chaotic white hair.

‘A storm of fate,’ Fregósbor told Neville. ‘You are one of the waves, but not the storm. Where is the story? If I find it, maybe I’ll find myself.’

Sáeril shook his head.

‘This is not the real Fregósbor.’

‘He spoke to me. Three times.’

‘No, Neville, what you saw was Fregósbor’s dream, for mages often dream of reality and Fregósbor is the Master of Dreams. He dreamt with you, but he is not our answer.’ Sáeril pulled Neville away from that memory.

‘There is nothing else,’ said Neville. ‘I met with magic three time sin my life, and Fregósbor was always there.’

‘That is not true,’ Sáeril pointed at Neville’s bow. ‘You carry magic in youtr hands every day. But magic cannot take us home or I would do it myself. Think, Neville, search. There is something else in your memories, something that says your name, something so strong that all the darkness in the world can’t erase it; something impossible.

‘Death is release,’ came a woman’s voice.

‘Who said that?’ asked Sáeril.

‘I don’t know,’ said Neville.

Sáeril’s boot met wet stone and in front of them there was a long, narrow corridor with cold leaking down the walls. A door poured red light on the icy wall.

‘Where are we?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Neville.

‘Then this memory doesn’t belong to you.’

‘Then why do I see it?’

‘The barriers between people desappear in the darkness. The grey dissolves us all together and the crumbles of our existences get mixed up. It’s treacherous, the darkness; it tries to distract us, but what we need isn’t in someone else’s memory.’

‘Look,’ Neville pointed at a grey, unconscious man floating in the darkness beyond the corridor. ‘I know him. He is the man I found in the grey forest.’ He took a step in that direction, but Sáeril held him back.

‘He is too far.’

‘He’s right there.’

‘That man is much farther into this abyss than we are. The darkness is trying to lure us away from our purpose. Focus, Neville. Focus on your name. Memories that don’t say your name are useless.’

‘I can’t. My name is nowhere I can see.’

‘It might be hiding it,’ said the Wraith.

‘What’s hiding what?’

‘Darkness sometimes works in a perfectly organic way, like a tree.’

‘Right. A tree.’

‘Imagine that na axe got stuck against a tree trunk. The tree can’t remove the blade, so it grows around it. If milenia enough go by, the tree will swallow the entire axe.

Neville was silent for a while and Sáeril’s magic suit cracked won in three more places.

‘The tree and the axe,’ said Neville.

Through the cracks, Sáeril’s life began to escape, like smoke.

‘The tree,’ said Neville, ‘and the axe. The tree… The tree!’

Sáeril found it difficult to focus.

‘This bow isn’t painted black,’ said Neville. ‘It’s wood is naturally black and there is a tree.’

‘Where is it?’

Neville looked around but darkness revealed nothing.

‘I think you’re right: darkness is hiding my memories from me.’

‘Search for where the darkness is thicker,’ said Sáeril. He was breathing hard.

‘What if we find nothing?’

‘We die. Nothing new there.’

‘Nothing new,’ said Neville.

Laying his on Neville’s shoulder, Sáeril let the other man guide him. It was easy to dive deeper into the darkness, follow the currents through drains of blackness. Sáeril’s magic suit was almost gone, his magic had spasms, like electricity in a storm. Every step he took made him greyer. He began to lean on Neville for support. There came a point when Sáeril became blind. His body made no more sense and the black coat began to unravel. The only thing he felt was Neville’s shoulder under his hand, and even that began to slip away.

Neville caught Sáeril’s wrist.

‘You’re falling.’

‘Your name, Neville. Where is it?’

The Wraith fell, writhed down to the ground. Neville tried to support him, but fell to his knees instead. And Sáeril knew that was the end. Sáeril Quepentorne, former elf and mage, now mystery and wraith, ended here, in darkness.

‘I am Neville,’ shouted the archer. The darkness ruffled and stirred. ‘I. Am. Neville.’

And a voice replied:

‘You are Neville.’

Sáeril summoned back his crumbling cloak and sank his fingers on Neville’s arm. The echo came back:

‘You are Neville.’ A young, soft, surprised voice.

‘I know this voice,’ said Sáeril.

‘If it’s my memory, you shouldn’t know this young woman’s voice,’ said Neville. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘Precisely!’ Sáeril held Neville by the shoulders. ‘Where is the memory, Neville? Where is the impossible?’

‘This way.’

Strong currents pulled the two invaders, who pushed, dug and finally found a huge yarn of darkness. The yarn was alive, each moment spinning another thread of darkness around it, making it’s huge body even bigger. Light and colour leaked through the threads. Light, colour and a name.

Neville touched the grey wool. The yarn dissolved, the threads shrinking like burnt hair. Sáeril was pushed back by an explosion of colour, sounds, smells. His suit exploded inside out with all the power Sáeril absorved. He felt like a withered leaf meeting the sun once more, rediscovering the flavour of sap.

In Neville’s memory a creek ran between high rocksin a small clearing surrounded by thin trees with white trunks and tiny yellow leaves. Grass full of weed, weed full of flowers, a bee.

‘It was the creek that called my attention,’ said Neville. ‘I was already lost in the grey when I heard the sound of running water and realized I was thirsty. Then again, I didn’t realize anything.’ He raised his bow. ‘I’m not the one who was thirsty.’

Leaning over the creek, clinging to one of the rocks with its roots reaching down to the water, was a black tree with a rich canopy of small, bery bright leaves.

‘That tree came from Sátiron,’ said Sáeril. ‘It is magic, but it only existed because Sátiron was the Land of the Impossible. Have you ever heard of the Order of the Gardners?’

‘I’ve seen mentions of them in books, but nothing much. I remember finding the name silly for an order of warriors.’

‘The gardners rode on black trees,’ said Sáeril. ‘It was the trees who chose their riders. This tree has chosen you and it brought you here, but it didn’t save you. It is magic, not impossible.’

‘I remember falling,’ said Neville, ‘and convulsing. Everything came back at once with the colours that blinded me. It wasn’t easy remembering who I was, everything I had lost and left, responsibilities, failures, betrayals. Outside this clearing the whole forest was grey. I put my hand on this rock, right here, for balance.’

Neville reached up and put his hand on the rock. The rock screamed, then a young woman jumped down into the creek, her hair whipping in the air like a fox’s tail.

‘She stood right there, with her feet in the water,’ said Neville. ‘Naked, surprised, scared. She said my name.’

‘You are Neville,’ said the girl.

‘I don’t know her, but she knows who I am. She told me we met when I am older. I was confused and it took me some time to see the sadness in her eyes. Look! Doesn’t it look like she’s about to cry?’

The girl in the creek had eyes the colour of honey and freckles on her thin little nose; a big mouth that hung open and it really seemed that she was going to cry.

‘I wondered if she was a mystery,’ Neville said. ‘It didn’t occur to me that she was mad, not here in this sea of colours surrounded by darkness. Madness didn’t fit here, but what did?’

‘The impossible,’ said Sáeril. ‘Lucille might be a mystery. She doesn’t know for sure, nor do I. All I know is that she travels with the greatest of all mysteries. Where is he, Neville? Where is the Impossible?’

Neville’s memory kept on rolling and even before he raised his finger to point at the rock on the other side of the creek, Sáeril felt the presence, the power. First he saw a black hat with a red plume, then the white shirt, green cotton trousers, black, worn-out boots.

We’re saved, thought Sáeril.

The mystery stretched. Long, green, bulbous fingers. The hat began to turn, revealing little by little a gigantic, lip-less mouth; the nostrils were just two tears on the skin, without a nose; black, wet, popped up, round eyes. The green head of a frog. Yellow neck, stripes of a darker green started at the nostrils and disappeared under the black hat.

The girl ran to him.

‘Is it time to go?’

‘She says that,’ said Neville, ‘and they go away.’

The frog’s eyes landed on Neville. Then, a moment before he turned, for a very brief moment, he looked at Sáeril. The Wraith lied down onto one of the sun warmed rocks and fell asleep.

When he woke up, Neville was standing near the rock that had hidden the frog/man mystery.

‘He looked at you,’ said Neville. ‘This is a memory, my memory. It has already happened. How could he possibly see you?’

‘If we knew how they do what they do, we wouldn’t call them mysteries,’ said the Wraith.

The buzzing of a bee melted in the gargling sound of running water and the sun was always at that cozy mid-afternoon degree, when the grass is greener and the flowers look like cotton flocks.

‘This is the answer,’ said Neville. ‘That mystery in the hat, this memory. We are safe.’

‘Safe but not saved. We have to find the one we left behind. The man in the corridor.’

‘Are you going to go get him like you came to get me?’

‘That man doesn’t have Nuille,’ said Sáeril. ‘The man in the cold corridor sank too far in darkness. The only reason he hasn’t disappeared yet is because you didn’t let him.’

‘Me?’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘Nakamura’s death! What else have I forgotten?’

‘Do you remember meeting Gregoire?’

‘No.’

‘There is a person watching over us out there,’ said Sáeril. ‘A young Frontier man, Gregoire. He is the one who found you, grey and roaming the Frontier road. When he found you, you dragged another man with you.’

‘The man in the corridor.’

Neville walked to the edge of the memory. Sáeril watched him. Would Sáeril refuse to dive once again in darkness to save the other man?

‘How do we do this?’ asked Neville.

‘You must go fetch him.’

Sáeril reached out to the black tree on the rock near him. His gloved fingers pinced one little bright leaf and pulled it. Instead of detaching from the tree, the branch grew and grew as Sáeril pulled it. The Wraith gave the leaf to Neville.

‘This will guide you back here.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’

‘This memory is yours, not mine. Therefore the power in here is also yours. I would be but dead weight and you would have to carry me as well as him, and that might overburden not only yourself but the black tree. This place is just a memory, even if a memory of Nuille. His power is diluted, which on one hand allows me to manipulate it, on the other hand makes it much weaker.

Neville took the leaf and branch.

‘Remember,’ said Sáeril, ‘Darkness will try to deceive you into going the wrong way.

‘If I don’t come back… How long are you going to wait for me?’

‘Forever. As I said, the power in here is yours. Without you I can’t go back.’

Neville clutched the black branch and went into the abyss. Impressive, his lack of hesitation. Which is why Baynard sees him as a hero.

Sáeril held on to the branch, that grew further and further as Neville went on. The tree leaned toward the abyss. The laughing creek waltzed on pebbles, tickling the rocks. The shadows sometimes changed position but the sun never moved. Neville’s name echoed with the humming of the bees. And the black branch still stretched further. Sáeril dripped some of his magic on the wood so it wouldn’t break.

How deep did Neville go? Could he find the man stuck in the corridor? Could he come back? Was Sáeril to remain forever in this memory that wasn’t even his? To escape death by darkness only to wither away in someone else’s memory.

The branch suddenly tensed. Sáeril put his foot on one of the rocks and pulled it until his arms and back burnt. Neville emerged from the darkness, which slid down his body like sand. He dragged along a man smaller than him, with stretched out legs and arms crossed on his chest. The black branch was tied with a knot around the other man’s arm. He wasn’t unconscious, he just wasn’t moving. Thin, he had na elegant chin, thin lips, no colour.

Neville pulled the man to the creek, then threw himself on the grass, exhausted.

‘Do you know who you are?’ Sáeril asked the man-burden.

‘Unfortunately.’

‘Then we can go home.’

‘Whatever for?’ asked the grey man. ‘All we are going to find is a war that nobody wishes to win.’

‘Many seek victory,’ said Sáeril, ‘but a war that is won is a war that is killed. And the War does not intend to die.’

‘Good for her.’

‘Can you take us back?’ asked Neville.

‘If you can’t, it’s all right,’ said the grey man. ‘I’ll just stay here.’

Neville stood up, then forced the other man to stand up.

‘We’re ready.’

‘As ready as a sack of potatoes.’

‘Take my arms,’ said Sáeril. ‘We’re going back.’

The black tree snapped its roots, let go of the white rock, then reached out and grabbed Neville, holding him up. Then it picked up Sáeril, and Neville pulled up the other man using the branch tied on the man’s arm. The man made a face and tried to resist, but the tree plunged out of the memory, and he was jerked like a fish on a hook.


Chapter 62