Bronwon

Through the late night gloaming Bronwon warily skimmed his Pterak over the trees and toward Captive Mountain where dwelt Shiksis. Just ahead the peak loomed, dwarfing its brethren of the same range—august in height, an immense fang of the earth. Indeed the rest of the Basking Mountains were humbled by the colossal elevation, small bumps in comparison. Nervously Bronwon glanced to the eastern horizon, aware of the imminent sunrise and the exposure to any number of inquisitive eyes, the very possible agents of Shiksis. As he had been instructed, he kept to the treetops after crossing the Valdz River around midnight, but his beast was tired and hungry. Even now she labored, now and again purposefully gaining altitude so she could glide and rest, and Bronwon had to struggle to keep her tucked just above the trees. He reached down and hugged her leathery neck: "Only a little further Chersha," he cajoled, drawing comfort from the animal’s great dauntlessness. "Just a little further." But for a moment the Pterak reared back her head and cast a resolute eye at him, and, as if to test his own fortitude, she brayed, plunged her head forward as though the destination was now known, and dove into the night in an incredible burst, nearly tearing the reins out of Bronwon’s hands.

As he always did, Bronwon reveled in Chersha’s speed; he gave her rein and his knees tightly gripped the great respiring flanks that rose and fell in their pulsations. Her wings beat the late autumn air, her nostrils steamed, and the treetops shivered in her wake as her great boned forehead cut through the crisp night like a staunch prow of the high seas. He leaned forward, his anxiety lost in this magnificent concluding dash, and he molded his torso to the bony apex of her back. Against Bronwon’s well-used face the wind stretched his skin taut and his long tawny hair flowed behind him, exposing his ears from which matching emerald earrings dangled and paralleled his hair in their drag. He was dressed warmly, having anticipated the wind’s bite, in underclothes and in an outer shirt and pants of a heavy green cloth, a fur-lined leather jerkin, and knee-length calfskin boots with wrap around ties. Just behind him, snugly strapped to Chersha’s girth, were his equipment and supplies in two light wicker chests. He was twenty-eight years old and, physically, in the prime of life.

The forest below began to recede and Bronwon knew he was getting close. He thought back to the day, a week ago, when he had set off from the capital city of Demtrow on this arduous journey, and old Dastagar’s supplicating admonition: "As you approach, veer off to the left and come in from the east. This way will give as little warning as possible. I can’t warn you enough of her treachery!" Bronwon smiled grimly as he recalled the way the endearing old man had fretfully wrung his hands after Bronwon had mounted Chersha. "Oh, if it was only possible I might go!" Dastagar had then lamented with an uncharacteristic loss of control; he had practically seized Chersha’s reins from Bronwon’s hands. "It is I who best knows how to deal with her!"

"But you are old Menta!" Bronwon had said, gently cuddling the reins to himself and using the title of utmost respect among Bards. "Meaning no disrespect, but your time has passed. Have faith in me and how you have taught me! Remember how I swooned the Dworkin Spirits? You yourself said it was flawlessly done!"

"Shiksa is no Dworkin!" Dastagar had tartly replied. "She is ancient, and will never fall for such a ruse! Yes, be confident Bronwon, but overconfidence breeds carelessness! There is no room for error here! You will die at her whim!" Never had Bronwon seen such anguish in him, he had been as one deprived of the chance to fulfill a lifelong quest. Dastagar had then seized Bronwon by the arm, pulling him close. "Take this," he had urged, and with his free hand he had reached around his own neck and removed an amulet, and had hung it around Bronwon’s neck in an instant. "It will render an unexpected service! And remember: don’t listen to the king and those lackey advisors of his! You must be yourself!"

But Bronwon had not heeded the entirety of Dastagar’s sermon. "What service Menta?" Bronwon had then pressed him, yet he had immediately regretted the question, realizing too late that if Dastagar had deemed it, he would have told him outright.

Dastagar had looked upon him with a mingling of disappointment and despair, as though his years of tutelage had been for naught. "Patience!" he had rasped as though for the thousandth time. "Patience, patience, and you must not only hear but listen! Use your head, not your mouth! The mouth is secondary, merely a conduit to the world from the mind! You cannot make that mistake with Shiksa! She must be impressed if she is to be our ally! Rest assured the Gamorites will be making their own entreaties to her, if they haven’t already! And mark my words about King Bonerick and his advisors! They don’t know what they talk about! They have never been there!"

The Gamorites, Parlandia’s enemy of generations. The two countries of Gamor and Parlandia had been at war, on again, off again, for year uncounted. The recent battles had spilled northward, into the regions beyond the Valdz River, and most recently under the eaves of the Basking Mountains. Both countries knew the strategic importance of this high ground, but it was the domain of Shiksis, the great mountain spirit, who held sway from her home on Captive Mountain. A month before, a military sortie from Parlandia had been sent to secure an outpost on the second highest mountain of the range, in deference to the domain of Shiksis, but the expedition had disappeared with no trace, two-hundred men strong. So the king, this time rebuffing his military counselors, agreed with his sages to diplomatically approach the capricious Shiksis, a course of action that had been tried before with no success. Over many others, Bronwon had been chosen, although the decision left no unanimity among the counsels of the king.

Bronwon tightened the reins, and Chersha slowed. He banked her left and headed for a spot half a league east of the mountain.

Spying a break in the trees, he guided her earthward, and she alighted gracefully in the lee of a small mountain, touching down on two three-toed feet, her huge bat-like wings elegantly folding behind her. She lowered her neck in anticipation, and Bronwon descended. He went forward and, holding Chersha’s head in his arms, whispered to her: "We will rest for a while and take some food Chersha. We must be completely sound very soon!" Lovingly, he stroked her head, and thought back to ten years ago when he had perilously scaled the Lyatic Cliff to take her egg. And now they both faced their greatest peril. He suddenly felt guilty, wondering if he had such a right. Chersha nuzzled against him; he was the only parent she had ever known.

He tore himself away, untied the wicker chests and set them on the ground. From one he withdrew a haunch of beef, specially prepared and blessed by the priests of Parlandia. From the other came his flute, his armor, a belt, and a long knife. He cut himself a generous portion of the beef, and gave the rest to Chersha. He devoured his helping, not wanting to risk a fire to warm it, yet it was still delicious and he sensed an added fortitude begin to course through his veins. Chersha too ate ravenously. Bronwon looked to the east. The sun was just beginning to crest.

He donned his armor, the thick leather fitting him well. He belted it, and hung his knife and flute from the belt. He inventoried himself, and then remembered the amulet.

He reached inside his shirt and withdrew the elliptical object, the solid gold suddenly seemed hot in his hand but did not burn. Set inside was a large, many-faceted emerald, the gemstone treasured by Parlandian Bards as a Talisman, and it caught the first light of the morning and gleamed back at him. As if the amulet had animated him in an odd way, he turned to the east, to study the new sunrise, to bask in a new perspective that this particular sunrise was able to render. For he saw this sunrise as the sunrise of that day, not a replication of any previous sunrise and one never to be repeated again. This moment, this sunrise was unique, and not to be taken for granted. The words of Dastagar thronged through his head: "Use your mind Bronwon. The mouth is secondary!" The mind, thought Bronwon. I must think clearly. Clutching the amulet to his breast and facing this sunrise, he bent his legs under himself, sat on the ground and, for a brief period of time, meditated.

He rose and approached Chersha. She watched expectantly; she noted that Bronwon had attained a posture most becoming of her master, there was purpose in his step and wisdom on his brow. She herself felt remarkably refreshed after feeding, yet these untoward preparations spoke to her of a dire circumstance. She was incapable of understanding her own death, she did not know herself capable of dying like the game she would hunt, but her master’s stern, foreboding countenance unsettled her while at the same time bestowing a great sense of fearlessness. She knew a moment of tremendous import was at hand, and lowered her neck to accept him.

Bronwon eased himself on to her back, and took up the reins. He left the wicker chests behind, they would be nothing but a hindrance. He flicked the reins, signaling an ascension, and with a strident leap and several powerful beats of the wing, they were airborne.

The sun was now full above the eastern horizon, but still well below the thin wispy clouds that hung at the snow-capped summit of Captive Mountain. It rose before them, twisting, conical, as though the earth had disgorged it in an upheaval of gigantic convolutions.

Chersha climbed, higher and higher. The amulet warmed over his heart, and Bronwon gripped it with ardor "Go to the apex Bronwon," Dastagar had said, "She will find you before you get there!"

Without warning, a flock of crows took wing from the side of the mountain, cawing frantically and dispersing at random.

They reached the halfway point, the air had begun to thin. Never had Bronwon taken Chersha so high, and he shivered as the temperature dropped. All of a sudden, on a ledge not fifty feet above them, from a crack in the mountainside out stepped a many-hued, shimmering figure.

At once Bronwon was transfixed, the colors intermingling in a scintillating and irresistible array of movement. But the wherewithal to simultaneously seize the amulet was his—the amulet’s heat rushed through his body and another of Dastagar’s lessons presented itself to him: "See through the surface of things Bronwon, look to the core!" Intently he peered at the figure and lo! he beheld two piercing, gleaming eyes set among the chaotic colors, and on to these he latched his own. He fought off the spell!

But not Chersha. Like a helpless thing her head lolled and she drunkenly flew to the ledge. She landed badly and toppled over, slamming Bronwon against the mountainside.

He gained his feet quickly and adroitly, the pain in his shoulder and neck put in a compartment: "Shiksis," he cried, intrepidly holding the awesome spirit’s terrifying gaze. Indeed behind those electric, exotic eyes Bronwon sensed a wrathful power set to lash out with the least provocation. "I come as an emissary, I come to parley!"

The spirit’s shifting colors slowed and began to meld into one, a whiteness, yet still Chersha lay feeble on the precipice of the ten foot wide ledge, in total danger of being dashed on the rocks below. At last, the spirit arrived into corporeal form. She was completely white, a stark, bone white, save for the eyes, which were a brilliant blue. She wore no clothes, but knew no nakedness either, for her body was sexless yet her entire countenance conveyed a profound femininity. With undecided anguish, Bronwon dropped to his knees to help Chersha, fruitlessly trying to coax her great weight away from the brink: "Chersha, Chersha, wake up, wake up, you must wake up!" But the addled, incapacitated Pterak still teetered on the ledge, oblivious to her master’s pleadings.

Shiksis waited patiently—indifferently it seemed, frozen in place like a column, undisturbed— even her hair remained still as a light mountain breeze traveled by. At length though, she raised her left hand and spoke strange unintelligible words, her voice a distant, canny echo as though emanating from faraway. At once, the ledge grew out from under Chersha and extended passed her in such a way that the danger of her falling off ceased!

Bronwon gasped. He had known magic but nothing like this. Slowly, respectfully, Bronwon rose from his knees, bowed his head, and extended his hands in obeisance: "My name is Bronwon, and for what you just did I am forever at your service!" He kept his eyes downcast.

After a prolonged moment Shiksis replied in the same tinny speech, the words steeped in vicious sarcasm, as though the notion was beyond consideration: "What service might I desire from a Parlandian?" Yet her face had remained stony and calm.

Of course Bronwon had been briefed on what to say, the Parlandian intelligentsia had drummed the response to this question into his head: "’Tell her we will pray to her,’" they had decided after long debate, "’We will offer sacrifices, whatever sacrifices please her. We will protect her, and cultivate her lands. We will fight her enemies, seek them out even!’"

The amulet blazed on his chest, yet Bronwon resisted the beckoning burn, somehow understanding that the mark to be made needed to be his alone. At that moment it became clear to Bronwon what the purpose of the amulet was. Ruefully and steadfastly, and careful to touch only the chain around his neck, he ripped the amulet off and flung it into the void.

Immediately Shiksis asked him: "Why did you do that?"

"That was a device given to me by a learned man, my mentor, who wished to impart his wisdom to me."

"Is that the answer to my question?" the voice hissed.

Careful, Bronwon thought to himself. "No Shiksis, forgive me. It was a tool to deal with you that I choose not to use."

"Why?"

"Because I sense that ultimately it would lead to my downfall, and true trust will be better served if I am who I am."

"Who is this man, your teacher?"

"His name is Dastagar, Shiksis."

The first detectable emotion traveled across her face, an ephemeral pulse, but Shiksis quickly recovered: "Again...what service might I desire from a Parlandian?"

"I do not know Shiksis. I have been told what others think you may want, I have even been told how to answer that question. Yet I resist. I suppose, then, that I am a very poor representative of my king and country."

"It would seem so," Shiksis replied after a long moment during which her intense eyes had bored into Bronwon. "I care not for Gamor or Parlandia, until they set foot in my realm, which you have done!"

"I ask forgiveness then. I ask to come to know you, to understand you so my Parlandian service may seem of value to you."

"You mock me!"

"I simply impress on you how worthwhile it could be! You harbor ill will toward my country, and whatever has in the past caused that I am sorry for!"

"The past? Only one moon ago your soldiers camp on my doorstep! And now you have the impertinence to enter my home, disturb my minions, and treat with me?"

"Yes," Bronwon simply replied.

"Why should I not cast you and your beast off this ledge? Your bones may wed with those of your Gamorite counterpart!"

"I cannot convince you otherwise. That is a question you will answer yourself."

Bronwon sensed a great fury well up in Shiksis, only to be frustratingly restrained ere it erupted. Yet he felt he had accomplished something, had passed the first test as it were, and had, so far, staved off the destruction that had been planned for him. That Shiksis wanted to end him was all too apparent, yet it was as if a constraint was in place, a constraint that Bronwon had yet to violate.

"Tell me Bronwon," Shiksis began differently, almost placatingly, "What did your king tell you to offer me?"

"That we will pray to you," Bronwon recited, "We will offer sacrifices, we will protect you and cultivate your lands, we will unearth and fight your enemies."

"So your kings have always tendered. Time passes, yet little wisdom gains among the House of Bonerick. Even Dastagar, who has so little confidence in you as to see fit to supply you with counterfeit aid; has he become addled in his dotage?"

"I beg to differ Shiksis, it was not counterfeit. Dastagar is wise. In this matter, perhaps, he can be faulted for being overly concerned."

"The pleadings have not changed," Shiksis asserted.

"You speak as if you know Dastagar," Bronwon said coaxingly.

"The Gamorite and Parlandian Bards have courted me every time this childish conflict touches on my mountains," she replied. "You are the first to arrive on such a mount." She indicated Chersha. "Dastagar arrived on foot, and had the audacity to climb my mountain! I sent him away, his errand a failure. He promised a change in the House of Bonerick. In this too it seems he has failed."

"How would you have us change?" Bronwon asked precipitously, apprehending too late the question’s naiveté and regretting that he did not delve for the answer he knew to be there.

"You are a fool to ask such a question! Are Parlandia and the House of Bonerick in need of such guidance? It is obviously so. Have the long years yet to impart understanding? You at least have reaped nothing but ignorance!" She waved her hand as if to slap him.

The powerful invisible stroke caught Bronwon smartly on the cheek, violently twisting his already injured neck and rattling his teeth. He had no time to stifle his exclamation of pain, and only his fine dexterity kept him on his feet. Staunchly, and as though in acceptance of his comeuppance, he squared himself to the imposing spirit, realizing that the blow was delivered in such a way that a wicked welt would be its only legacy. Placed anywhere else about his head, he knew, would have badly injured or even killed him. And yet this meant something—the punishment fit the transgression. In a remote recess of his mind, as if it were a seed elusive to grow, the true and fitting aim of Shiksis began to take shape. With a difficult composure, Bronwon held her gaze.

"It is unfortunate you must suffer for your people," the adamant spirit said. "Yes, you are a fool. A well-meaning fool, but still a fool."

"I, we will improve!" Bronwon ejaculated with passion. "Even now I begin to sense the traces of your desires. You seek a long-lost harmony that has been savaged by the races of men!"

For the first time Shiksis allowed her entire being to relax and her face softened. She shook her head, almost sadly it seemed, and spoke clearly, as if she had stepped out of the spirit world: "Go now, and I will tell you what I told Dastagar: You shall tell no one of our meeting, only that you sought me out, and I did not appear. If it is otherwise, the visit of your next generation will be a disaster. I will await the next generation’s visit. But I will give you this." Shiksis reached into the side of the mountain and extracted a pinch of stone. With both hands she molded it into a ring and handed it to Bronwon. "A memento," she said, "That you have earned. Almost I gave one to Dastagar. It may impart earthly wisdom to you—to you alone. Wear it well young Bronwon!" She reached out her hand, and Bronwon stepped forward and accepted the ring. He slipped it on, and at once a strange, latent enlightenment came over him, as if he suddenly had the rudiments of some elemental terrestrial language. Before he could thank her, she rapidly receded into a nothingness; all the remained was a hint of her effervescence on the mountain breeze.

*

A disquieted Dastagar sat on the lush hilltop that overlooked Demtrow, enduringly scanning the northern horizon, while the young prince busied himself by kicking furrows into the small yellow dandelions that dotted the side of the hill. Already that morning the boy had completed a triangle and a square and was in the midst of a circle when, exasperatingly, he called out from down below: "How much longer Dastagar?" For the past day they had waited so, and on this second day the prince, a boy of nine years, had grown tired and irascible over the tedious vigil. Dastagar himself had spent the last week in a state of quiet but intense anxiety, ever since his nexus with Bronwon had given way. All manner of tragedies beset him, yet he grimly persevered.

"I do not know Your Highness," Dastagar answered without looking at his young charge.

The boy trudged up the hillside and dropped down next to Dastagar, wondering how the old man could stare so fixedly at one spot. "I thought this might turn out to be fun," he chided, hoping to provoke some sort of reaction.

But for a moment Dastagar obliged, and looked down on his country’s future king. "I convinced your father to keep you out of school for this. This is not meant to be fun Your Highness. The man we await will be the wisest of your counselors, and I very much desire you to be the first Parlandian to greet him after the momentous quest he has undertaken. In your time as king he will have known not only the arts of war but the arts of peace and conciliation. As king, you may have to take Parlandia to war, even send your friends to do battle. A great counselor may guide you in such a way that battle may never be joined, or the tide of battle would be yours before the first sword is crossed. That will mean much to your people Your Highness."

"Yes, I guess," the boy intoned in an uncertain manner. "I have seen him before, this Bronwon. He is a Bard too?"

But Dastagar did not answer, for he was on his feet, staring excitedly at a distant speck that had just crested the remote line of hills. "Your Highness, if you please! Your young eyes are keener than mine!" Without waiting for an answer he picked up the boy and set him on his shoulders. He pointed in the direction of the object. "Tell me Your Highness, what do you see?"

The young prince raised a cherubic hand to his smooth forehead and shaded his eyes against the low morning sun. After a long moment he said in an important voice: "It looks like a Pterak Dastagar!"

"It is him!" Dastagar cried delightedly. "Oh Mergolin," he practically crowed, improperly invoking the first name of the prince and setting him on the ground, "This is wonderful news for what will be the reign of King Mergolin Bonerick!"

The prince looked up at the patchy and splotched gray head, the emerald earrings, the old ruddy face, and the long sparse whiskers, and determined that his father’s old and trusted counselor was not quite modern enough. He thought Dastagar a kindly man though, so he chose to ignore the slight, and, to humor him, joined him with beaming face to welcome their approaching countryman.

The Pterak and its rider, as if predetermined, made straight for the hill and when it became apparent to Dastagar that this was indeed Bronwon he clasped a reassuring hand on the prince’s shoulder. The prince accepted the gesture, although it was far from proper. With his free hand Dastagar began waving mightily. To the prince such unbecoming behavior merely confirmed his suspicions.

The rider waved back, and the prince felt it appropriate to return the salutation. The Pterak approached rapidly but began to slow, and the rider banked the great creature, circled once directly over their heads, and the two landed with a graceful unison that the prince found rather impressive. At once Dastagar, indicating in word and deed for the prince to follow, shuffled over to the newcomers as rapidly as an old man could.

"Bronwon, Bronwon, you have made it! Tell me what happened!"

Bronwon, still favoring his shoulder, reached down from his perch and hugged Dastagar about his head. "I sought her out, but she did not appear," he said overly loudly, for the first time taking note of the royal dress of the young boy.

"Is that so?" Dastagar happily countered with a gleam in his eye. "Come down here, let me see you!"

Bronwon climbed off his steed. The young prince thought all this pointless, and judging by the conversation, Bronwon’s mission a failure. He was more interested in the Pterak, for he had never been so close to one. Chersha too seemed obtusely interested in the boy, she cast a somewhat curious eye on him.

"Your Highness, I want to introduce you to Bronwon. And his Pterak’s name is Chersha."

Bronwon bowed. "Your Highness," he politely said.

"Hi," the boy said rotely. "Your Pterak is swell! But it smells!"

"Perhaps I can bathe her, then perhaps you would enjoy a ride?"

"Yes I would!" the prince eagerly replied.

Bronwon solemnly turned to Dastagar. "Menta. It is a long trial Menta. The understanding comes hard and slow. We are but forebears. Even now we must choose the next emissary!"

Dastagar appraised his protégé, noticing the weal across his cheek and the way Bronwon had favored his shoulder. And no longer did the brash demeanor present itself, no longer did his eyes rove the present, blind to the future and the past. The amulet was gone, as he had suspected. His own eyes brimmed with tears as Bronwon made a fist, showing him the stone ring. "Almost this was yours Menta! The task now falls to me!"

The prince, lost in this discourse, interrupted: "So you didn’t find Shiksis? Why do we keep trying?"

"Because she is a spirit Your Highness," Bronwon replied, "That the race of man finds very hard to understand. That is what makes it so difficult to find her. One day we will, and you and I must work to see that it happens during your reign."

The young prince, blithely pretending to comprehend, reached for Chersha’s head, curious how it would feel to pet her regal crown.

"I'm 42 years old, and a co-habitant in Coopersburg Pa. with my girlfriend. For 14 years I've worked for a financial services company. Fantasy writing for me is an escape, but why not? Why not journey in a place of your own making?"

E-mail: stvoll@aol.com

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