Читать книгу Jovan's Gaze - Aaron Ph.D. Dov - Страница 8

The sun. I never thought I would view the sun as an enemy. It hung overhead like the great eye of some cyclopean beast, burning with anger at my trespass. The harsh yellow eye gazed down upon me, and I felt its hate. The sand around me, endless and harsh, reflected the heat and warped the air before my eyes. The great, angry eye seemed intent on burning me to the ground. So intent indeed, that it would lure me to my death by making the world about me impossible to navigate.

The sun was not really a beast, of course. Once, before the days when men built great castles and keeps, and raised their standards upon them and declared the world theirs, our ancestors believed that the sun was a god. They prayed to it, offered it wheat from the fields and fruits from the vine, and sang it to its rest every night. In the mornings, they offered it a welcome, crying out upon first seeing it.

"Welcome, father of the stars," our ancestors would call out. "I thank you for your warmth, and pray that you will stay with my family, though yours is far away."

A traditional prayer, offered to a warming God in the Sky. He danced with the Moon goddess in romantic embrace, and their children, the stars, hurried off into the great unknown. Now, they could only be seen in the distance, at night. The Moon, weeping at the flight of her children, refused to speak to her mate, and so fled from him. She appeared only at night, so she could gaze up at her children. Every month she reached out to them, and slowly disappeared from view. Then she grew tired, and returned to us. Our ancestors always thanked her for returning to light our nights.

That was all long ago. Our great mages, wielders of magic, had long since determined that the Sun and the Moon were not gods. They were not alive at all, but merely great bodies in the sky, revolving around our land, Theris, as it rested upon the Fountain of Life. Foolish ancestors. Suns and Moons cared not for our prayers. Even the gods who replaced them in our prayer, the evil gods of the sky and the benevolent gods of the earth, had drifted out of favor among many. Ours was an enlightened age, our knowledge great and far reaching.

Our knowledge had brought us the secrets of construction, metal, medicine, and magic. Our knowledge had also brought us evil, and corruption, and war. A thousand years of all that, and at its end, the end of our world was at hand. Magic plagues, corpses that moved, men who became wolves, and even grass and wind that sought our end; these were the things our knowledge had wrought. The world had turned its back on us, taken from us the magic we used to destroy each other, and used it to wipe us from its surface like the blemish we were. Those of us who had chosen to stay, to ignore the call to exodus, were only delaying that which could not be stopped. We would all die, one by one, until there were no more of us. If there truly were gods watching us, I wondered if they felt disgust or amusement at our extinction.

I was next. I welcomed death. What else was left for me? My refuge, Clearlake, had turned their eyes from me, replaced with the terrible eyes of that horrid statue. Jeannine had turned away, and Erik as well. Only the accusation of a terrible crime remained. And those eyes. Those angry eyes. They stared at me now every time I closed my own eyes. Why suddenly, was this so?

I encountered the courtyard and its statues years ago, on my first visit to Skyreach. I had walked through the ranks of statues many times. I had stopped to read the inscriptions more than once. I had stared upon the nameless, unknown Dark Lord often enough over the years. Why now did it suddenly haunt me? What had changed? Had the keep simply had enough of my constant trespassing? Or was it something else? Had someone or something followed me back from the keep this time? Or was it truly me? Had I become a Kronan monster? Had I killed Gern, and simply hidden the knowledge from myself?

Too many questions. Too many questions needing answers, and I was without a single solution. Death was the only answer I could find, and it seemed to seek me out as quickly as I sought it.

And so I walked.

I walked through the endless desert, watching the sun rise from its rest, burn me, set, and rise again. I did not eat or drink, though thirst and hunger licked at my insides. I did not cover my head, though my face burned under the angry glare of the sun. I did not stop for rest, though my legs screamed for even a short sleep. I marched forward, into the deepest heart of the desert. Would I find it? Was there a heart in an endless desert? Would the paradox of a world resting upon a fountain, yet containing an endless desert, solve itself before my eyes?

More questions. Walk, Jovan. Just walk. Let the questions burn away under the hot sun. Let the harsh sands scrub away your doubts and sins, along with your flesh and bones.

And so I walked.

On the second night of my journey, cresting yet another dune in a desert where they stretched out in all directions, I lost my footing. I struck the sand and slid back down the dune, coming to rest at the bottom. I lay there, half buried by the sands as they slid down the dune. I lay silently, calmly. The moon looked down upon me, its full brightness allowing me to see my surroundings.

The desert was a beautiful place, really. The dunes were like waves upon the great waters of the west, yet I could walk upon them. The sand in the air was like the water-mist, yet it did not soak me down. There was a sort of serene, severe beauty to this place. I wondered if, in our distant past, anyone had ever attempted to make a home here. I shook my head. That would be foolish. What water or food was there, but what was carried?

I lay there for hours, watching the moon slowly creep across the night sky. The stars were beautiful, so clear and bright. They twinkled. I watched a shooting star, and then a second. Then two of them seemed to streak across the sky together, side by side, until at the last moment, they parted ways. One seemed to pull away from its mate, and seek a more easterly route from its northbound fellow. I had never seen a shooting star do that, but perhaps the desert heat and the lack of food had simply made it seem so. Of course, until the magic plagues and the exodus, I had never seen a shooting star at all. Even the stars were dying, thanks to our foolishness.

I pulled my pack from my back, and taking out my still-full water bladder, washed down a small gulp of water. It felt good, and though warm, the feeling swept down from my throat. I re-capped the bladder and lay back against the dune. I closed my eyes.

And so I slept.

When next I awoke, the sun was just beginning to set in the west. I could still see the mountains, and the sunlight danced upon their peaks. It reminded me of a castle's ramparts, ablaze, though at the same time it all seemed so very peaceful. I had slept through the night and most of the day, but to wake up to the sight of those mountains was worth it. I might never have looked back, had I not lost my footing and chosen to rest. It was a small comfort.

My skin thought otherwise. It was parched, dry, and peeling. I felt as though I wore a stinging, burning mask. My throat was likewise scorched. I reached for the water bladder, but it was not there. I felt a strong surge of panic race through me. I looked about me, and saw my pack. It was half buried. I reached my right hand down into the sand, and there, thankfully, was the bladder. Even the desert sands would try to take my life.

Yet, was that not what I wanted? For some reason I could not discern, I heard something within me cry 'No!' No, I did not want death. I had nothing to live for, and yet my instincts demanded that I push onward. I did not know why. What possible life was there for me? I could not return to the west, and to the east was only death.

It was then that I realized that my dreams had been different during the night now past. Though I could not recall their details, I knew one thing for sure. The eyes of the statue had not haunted me. I took that as a sign, encouraging if not entirely positive. Something had changed. Something.

I stood up, and replacing the water bladder in my pack, turned to the east. I put on the pack, and with a nod, started to walk up the dune. I took a step, and another, each step a confirmation that I had chosen life over death. Each step took me upward, until I stood atop the dune which had thrown me from its crest the night before. I reached its top, gazed outward to the dunes before me, and looked toward my future.

It was then I saw them. Lights. They were off my left shoulder, far to the north. The swirling sands, cast about by the slight wind that always seemed to find me, hid their origin. Still, it was unmistakable. Lights. Three of them, arrayed side by side. I was reminded of the torches atop a tower, or the ramparts of a castle. They did not flicker as torches did, but at this distance, I might not see that anyway. They seemed to pulse on and off. I nodded. Patrols, soldiers pacing out their routes, passing in perfect timing in front of the torches. That was likely what I was looking at.

There was something out here after all. I had found life, though I knew not what. Surely our people, in a mere fifteen years, had not crafted walls and ramparts. From where would they find building materials? I could not imagine that even the mages could conjure brick from sand. Still, there was the evidence; three lights. No doubt as I approached, the details would reveal themselves.

I made my way northward, and yet I felt a terrible unease begin to grow inside of me. I felt watched, the way a soldier on patrol knows the enemy's scouts are nearby. I felt eyes upon me, watching, listening, waiting. After perhaps ten minutes of walking, I heard a terrible metal groan. I stopped. I reached for my sword, but of course it was not there. I was unarmed. I held myself silent, and unmoving.

The groan came again, metal against metal. Then there was a rumbling, and the ground began to shake. The sands shifted, and I started to slowly slide down the dune as the sand was rattled loose. I steadied myself. I did not know of anything which could cause such a rumbling, save perhaps a great army. The groaning? Was that some great war-machine, like the siege towers I saw used to assault Krona's great eastern fortress?

The rumbling did not go away, nor did it increase. Still, it was there. I started to back away. Suddenly, the prospect of seeing the lights and their owners up close did not seem so appealing. I started eastward at a good pace. I did not run, lest whatever lay off in the distance decide to pursue. I did not want to provoke it, whatever 'it' was.

I walked briskly, not stopping my journey all the night long. The lights always seemed the same distance away, yet the groaning did eventually stop. I started to wonder if I was being stalked by some massive beast, with three glowing eyes to watch me from a distance. Did it blink from the sand, as it kept its eyes upon me?

By the time the sun lifted out from below the underside of Theris, the wind had whipped itself up into a terrible storm. I could barely see beyond my hand. I removed my shirt and wrapped it about my head, lest my eyes and throat be smothered by the swirling, harsh, burning sands. The wind howled in my ears, roaring its displeasure. Still, I pushed on.

Every so often I looked off my left shoulder, northward. The beast was still there. The ground still rumbled, and once in a while the beast let out a groan. I would increase my pace, or turn slightly to the south, yet it was always there. I was indeed being stalked, and I could do nothing about it. So I plodded eastward, hoping that eventually the beast would give up and turn away.

During the daylight, when the winds seemed most angry, I began taking shelter against the sides of the dunes. I draped my jacket over me, and waited for the night. The winds would roar and the sands would grind against me, such that I feared I would awake from fitful sleep to find my skin burned away, my body left raw. Yet every evening I awoke to find myself more or less intact. The sun would be gone, the moon overhead, and the beast in the distance. Always, the beast was there. Always, it watched me with its three blinking eyes.

I walked through the nights, careful to ration my water and food. After four days of this, with the beast still stalking me, I squeezed out the last drop from the water bladder. A day later, the food ran out.

The dunes to the east still seemed endless.

The beast was still there, in the distance. Its three pulsing eyes watched me, blinking.

As the sun set, I once again began to walk. The beast was still there, and so were the winds and the sand. Still, I walked eastward. Without water, I had no more than four days left to me. I could not waste it sitting idle. If I was to live, to defy the sands and the wind and the beast in the distance, I would have to walk.

I walked. I was careful to avoid climbing atop steep dunes, and when the wind picked up, I took shelter. These things would sap my strength, a resource which was now waning, and very limited. I slept as much as possible, and kept my shirt over my mouth to conserve moisture. Still, it was a battle I would not win.

Two days after my water was finally consumed, I felt not a bit closer to finding life in this sandy wasteland. I crested a dune, tapping my slight reserves of strength. I needed to see into the distance, even if the struggle upward would tire me all the more.

From the top of the dune, I looked about me. I saw that the beast was still off in the distance, watching me with its three blinking eyes. It seemed further away, as if it were backing off. To the south, there was not but dunes. To the east, I could see little, save the clouds of dust whipped up by the wind. Yet there was something there. I breathed in. I tasted salt on the wind. Salt.

I tore the shirt-mask away from my face and breathed deeply. Yes, salt. The breeze, flapping my shirt about as it hung loosely from my head, was ever so slightly cooler than the harsh heat that had become my constant shadow on this journey. Salt. That meant water!

I hurried forward as fast as my exhausted, parched body would allow. I paid no heed to my scorched skin, or to the cracked, bleeding lips as I tried to lick them with a dry tongue. They did not even bleed anymore. I did not care. I hurried onward, pushing toward the ever-increasing smell of salt upon the wind.

I must have pushed on like that, half-dead and entirely desperate, for hours. The moon swept overhead, and it seemed as though it were moving faster than normal. It was my perception, nothing more. By the time the sun arose to greet me, I cared not that it nearly blinded me with its rising glare. I pushed onward, up and over the dunes, until finally the smell of salt was overwhelming, and the winds and sands could not hide the scent or sight of what I sought.

I came up over a set of dunes, and there, not one hundred paces away, was the source of the smell. The moist wind washed over me, though I could barely feel it through my wrecked skin. It was like some grand illusion, yet I knew it was real. There it was, disproving the old belief in the endless desert. There it was, welcoming me into its depths. There it was, and it would not save me. It had drawn me here, tempted me with salvation, and yet it offered none. I could not drink salt water. It was sure death.

The sea before me was calm, with clean, foaming waves lapping up on the sandy shore. It welcomed me, called me to its embrace. Water, yet I could not drink it.

I did not even have tears left to cry.

I staggered over the dunes, and onto the beach. More sand. I stumbled across the beach, my vision failing me as the lack of water finally brought me to my knees.

The shore stretched north and south before me. I was in a bay of sorts. Through my ever-increasing death fog, I could see the beach to the north curve eastward. There were a few trees scattered about, bizarre things with long trunks, and wide leaves at their tops. They all leaned this way and that. The seawater washed up onto the shore before me, as if to remind me that I could not drink it. I felt the wetness in the sand. It felt good to the skin, though the salt burned my scorched skin. I did not care. At least I could still feel something.

I lay down where I was. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. I pulled the pack from my back, and pushed it aside. I let my back sink into the wet sand. I looked up into the clear blue sky. It was beautiful. The sand storms did not harass my sight. Instead, only a few wispy clouds moved overhead. In other circumstances, I would have enjoyed the sight, and lay here to take it in. Now though, I was watching my very last sights.

I was going to die right here in the sand.

I looked to my left and right. My sight was failing me faster and faster, likely a combination of the grinding sand upon my eyes, and the dehydration. To my right, there was nothing but beautiful beach and untouchable water. To my left, the same, except...

Wait. There was something. I could see it, standing beside one of those odd, leaning trees. It was white, round, and supported by stilts. I sat up and shielded my eyes from the sun, all to get a better look. It was shaped much like the wooden vats brewers used for their spirits and wines. I felt my failing heart pump full of life once more.

I tried to stand, but could not. I crawled. I dragged myself. I bared my teeth, and through a parched throat, growled out my defiance.

"Move, Jovan." I snarled at myself. "Move... your... body!"

I dragged myself across the beach, with the pitiless sea to my right, and the sun rising overhead. I felt myself losing strength, but the fire inside me burned fiercely. I would not die here. Not yet.

I hauled myself across those many paces, my legs barely working, my arms taking up much of the effort. I was a pathetic sight, surely. My leather jacket was worn down, my shirt upon my head, and my skin looking worse than any of that. I knew my eyes would surely look wild. The skin on my hands, stretched out before me as I crawled along, was deep red and brown from the sun. I felt my boots fill with sand, and one of them slid off my useless foot.

I dragged myself closer to the white vat. As I grew closer, my failing eyes focused on the curious object. It looked metal. It was much like a vat indeed, though laid on its side and supported by stilts. It was a brilliant white. I could see the spigot in the middle. Was it wine? Spirits? Water? I did not care.

After what was surely an eternity, I finally dragged myself underneath the shade of the tree and the white vat. I lay beneath it. There was writing upon in, written in black paint. I could not read it, though I was not sure if that was because the language was unknown to me, or because I was simply too ill and far gone to read anything at all.

The spigot was above me. I reached upward. It took every last bit of my strength. I cried aloud, as though I were trying to move a massive stone, or haul down some great wall on my own. I cried out, my hand reaching high. I felt my fingers touch the tap. It was metal, and some odd, smooth material I could not discern. I did not care. I turned the tap.

The water poured out of the tap, washing over my face. It was cool, and wet. I tasted it. Fresh water! I lapped it up, as it poured out of the tap in a slight, endless stream. I felt the sand wash away from my face. I tore the shirt from my head, and felt the water soak my brow and hair. The cold water felt soothing on my leathery, torched skin. I drank some more.

After an eternity of drinking, I rolled aside. The stream continued, a pool forming in the soaked sand beside my head. I laughed. So much water. If this vat was full, I could live for months on it. I reached up, and with my strength slowly returning to me, I was able to turn off the flow. I collapsed into the sand once more.

I laughed. I was going to be alright.

Water.