Читать книгу The Raven's Warrior - Vincent Pratchett - Страница 23

Dreams

Merlin’s return was marked by a kiss from his daughter. If they had heard my submission they made no response. His sharp eyes smiled to me warmly. His hands were blackened and his clothes held the odor of a clean fire’s smoke. As he prepared to wash, the Sea Lass threw in the finishing spices to the evening meal and bid me set the bowls on the large round table.

While we ate, the Sea Lass talked to her father happily about her day. She pantomimed as she spoke, so that I could guess her meaning. I was entertained by her gestures as she spoke about the state of the animals, the eggs collected, and the sudden downpour. The food that we ate was fresh and hearty, flavored artfully with spices the likes of which I had never before tasted. Sharing a family meal was also something I had never tasted, and I was grateful to be part of it.

Eventually the animated conversation came my way as Merlin knowingly caught my eye and asked, “Vincent, what did you dream last night?” I felt like one struck by lightning as the memory of my night visions flooded back into my consciousness.

I gathered the details in my mind and prepared to speak my dreams. “Merlin,” I began, “I dreamt of a mountain of fire. The three of us were strangely walking toward it instead of running away. We could see the smoke rise up and darken the sun, and we could hear the mountain roar and cry out with the pains of birth, and in our legs we could feel the earth beneath us tremble and shudder. The wounds in its peak and sides oozed thick molten blood that ran down beyond its base like a slow moving river. We could feel its oven’s heat on our faces, and white ash was landing on our clothes like a new winter’s snowfall.”

There was a deep silence at the table as Merlin and Sea Lass collected their thoughts. It was clear that my dream meant more to them than it had to me. The Sea Lass poured steaming tea into three small cups. Merlin sipped quietly before he spoke, and then he said only, “Your dreams are strong.” With a wave of his arm they rose and proceeded down a large hallway. I followed them out and into a sparse lamp lit room.

The sword in its sheath lay alone upon a great oak table. The hollow shelves hewn in the stone walls were filled with parchment, leather, silk, and scroll documents of an age as great as the stones themselves. I had no words to speak and felt like a man cleaved in two. My hands and body reached to touch the star sculpted on the sword hilt, while my eyes and mind reached out to the shelves to touch the ancient words and symbols that I could not read or understand. It was the sound of Merlin’s voice and the sight of his daughter’s gentle face that brought me back to myself, whole once more. Nodding towards the weapon, “It knows you,” he said.

I watched for permission in Merlin’s eyes, as I lifted sword from table and drew it half way to study its blade. The steel was layered in a pattern of strength and beauty. Its flowing design spoke to me of chaos folded into unity. Its polished surface suggested the texture of boundless ocean waves and endless desert dunes. It was amazingly light of weight yet substantial, and as I held it, it became an extension of both my arm and mind. I could almost feel its birth and pulse, the clang of cold hammer on white hot metal that gave it life so long ago. I slid it back into its sheath reverently and set it down.

We all retired to the main room and sat by the earthen hearth, but the feeling of the monk’s sword did not leave my hands. I watched the fire play and roll along the soot covered bottom of the large kettle, and listened to the steady clanging of its lid as the water within it boiled and bubbled. I scanned the hearth from bottom to top. I saw the hearth’s earthen floor, its burning wood, the nimble flames, its silver kettle, and its bubbling water, and I wondered to myself what would happen if the lid could not rise up to release the pressure.

The Sea Lass broke my thoughts with, “Father made the kettle.”

“I know,” I said dryly, “your father is a master.”

It had been a long time since I had heard the sound of my own laughter, and as Merlin and Sea Lass added theirs, I felt warmed and comforted by much more than just the glowing hearth.