Startaker: Under the Shadow of Thy Wings by Marian Goddard
The camels were indeed swift and after two days hard riding through the blazing days and freezing nights, they came to a small town at the foot of a slate coloured ridge, hardly to be called a mountain at all. Damcar.
It looked to be a town like any other, with white minarets dominating its squares and small, dun coloured houses but the looming grey peak seemed to absorb all the light around it, leaving the buildings awash with gloom even in the light of a fiery afternoon sun.
Christian’s head ached and the hollow gouged from his leg felt raw and open as if the flesh had just been flayed and not months in the healing and as he sat looking down from the camel’s back, he began to feel a deep sense of foreboding. The camel driver would go no further and as soon as Christian dismounted, turned his beasts’ heads for home, without farewell or good wishes, a rare breach of manners in this polite and generous land.
There were no gates and he walked into the city as the sun began to go down behind the mountain, leaving only dismal shadows on mud daubed walls and empty streets.
He wandered along, seeing no-one, hearing nothing but the dry rustling of the trees standing like half fleshed skeletons at the edge of the roads. He turned down deserted laneways, his ears pricked for any sound, any movement but even the birds seemed to have fled this strange place. He reached for his water-skin knowing already that it was empty. He’d found no water in the wells and his mouth tasted ashy with thirst.
Then he heard it clearly, a high pitched pitiful wailing, carried on the wind, growing louder, changing to howling, rising to a screech as it came closer, an eerie, primitive noise. And then it began to whirl around him like windblown sand.
All his life he had heard screams, of pain and terror and in the depths of despair but nothing like this anguished, unearthly sound. It filled his ears, rippled the dry air. He felt his hackles rise and sweat begin to trickle down his spine.
Since he had been a small boy at his father’s knee, in times of fear and uncertainty, he had asked of the Lord, His guidance and he asked for it now. He knelt in the dirt at the side of the road, bowed his head and began to pray…”Oh, Lord protect thy faithful servant…” And the words of a psalm came to him, soft and comforting “Yea, tho I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me…” and slowly his heart stopped its hammering and his mind stilled. He heard the screeching now as from a distance, retreating further as the heartfelt words formed in his mouth and went flying into the wind.
He stood, unsteady and carried on. No-one showed their face at a window, no familiar smells of cooking teased his nostrils. He walked through arches festooned with the dry, brittle canes of roses, the flowers long since gone, the hips shrivelled to acorns on the vines. Dusty fountains and broken marble hinted at the pretty place it must have been but now it was desiccated and lifeless, a place for wraiths and djinns and unformed beings.
As darkness descended he huddled in a doorway and listened as the wailing began again. The screeching rose in pitch and volume until it became a mournful cacophony, surrounding him. He put his hands over his ears to shut out the sound but it was as if the noise came from within him as well as without, chilling his blood.
The strings of the instrument Ishmael had given him thrummed at a chance touch of his elbow, sending its soft vibrations up his arm. He took it up. He’d learned to play a lute in the monastery and he strummed on the strings. Instantly the air was filled with sound, a deep, melodious hum, of no discernable pattern but flowing and ringing all at once. He fingered the long neck, experimenting with the sound the strings made, each one distinctly different but coming together in a soft harmony.
Christian’s dry lips cracked into a grin. It was the sound of the marketplace and the mosque and children laughing. It was the church bells in the town and the tinkling songs of girls and Andre’s deep, calm voice, all mingled together. He fell asleep holding it to his breast, willing the music to go on. And in his dreams it did. He was home, with Mistress Berta and hot, steaming dumplings and Andre’s good natured smile and the gentle voices of the monks rising to heaven in homage to God.
He woke to a harsh dawn, the mountain a black shadow across the town and the wind still rustling in the trees. But he was refreshed and able to think more clearly. What had happened here?
Artephius told him the magicians of Fez conjured elementals to do their bidding. What of Damcar? Was that unearthly howling a being from the otherworld conjured up and set free to wander? He decided it was all too fantastic to be believed. Perhaps tales of Damcar had been embroidered and exaggerated to hide its decay.
He wondered where those who remained would abide in this desolate place. There were no footprints or wheel tracks on the roads. It was as if everything had been swept clean by the wind. He found a well in the square but when he dropped a pebble down, no sound came back.
A new fear began to form in his mind, of wandering alone with no food or water, no travellers passing. How long could he last without water? He could not believe that Artephius, good Artephius would send him to such a lonely, fearful death. He reached into his pouch and took out a small parcel of dates and ate them slowly, with no spit to swallow them.
He looked for an inn or a hospice and finding none climbed the minaret to look out over the houses. Still he saw no movement, no animals grazing. He stumbled on the loose stone steps and almost toppled over the edge in his haste. He felt sad to see this magnificent tower fall into such ruin. It must have been many years since the beautiful chants of the muezzin had been heard calling the faithful to prayer.
And then far in the distance, on the side of the mountain, he saw a large cave and a path leading up.
Had the people abandoned the town and taken refuge in the cave? Perhaps the plague had come? And as Christian’s eyes focused on the yawning black maw, he fancied he saw a man standing at its entrance, beckoning.
He hurried on through the town and upward, slipping on the crumbling shale. He felt again that dismal heaviness, as if the mountain itself threatened to crush him. The closer he got to the cave, the more leaden his limbs felt. His leg flared and burned with pain, his eyelids scraped against his dry eyes.
He reached the entrance just as the grey light disappeared into darkness. It had taken him the whole day to climb that small distance. It seemed as though time had slowed under the heavy pall of dread that enveloped him. He put down his remedy box and mandolin and peered down at a set of stone steps neatly laid one upon the other, ending in pitch blackness below.
There was a small hollow beside the cave and he stowed his belongings there, taking only his fathers’ satchel, the astrolabe and empty water-skin. He’d heard travellers’ talk of finding cool running streams in the depths of caves.
The steps were precisely cut into the rocks and once he’d lost sight of the opening, surprisingly easy to descend. As he made his way down, he realised that while he could not see his hands in front of his face, or the tiny bats that fluttered against his cheeks and tangled their claws in his hair, he could see the steps, lit as they were by a glowing crystalline substance in the rock itself. Excitement mounted with every step that he took, his thirst forgotten. Then the stairs ended and he found himself in a vast grotto, the same twinkling crystals lighting the walls and rock ceiling far above, a soft breeze blowing against his skin.
He could see quite clearly. It was a beautiful natural formation…but it was empty.
Christian slumped against the wall. He’d been moving all day and the day before with no water and little food and he did not have the strength to climb back up. His skin felt stretched across his face, his teeth catching on his dried out lips. He began to shake, wanted to cry, but no tears came.
He was going to die here, his dream would end and for the first time, he did not care.
Let another bear this burden. There would be others, men and women who would live in other times and places, searching for truth and reason, offering their light to the world. What was he,
Then he heard it again, at first from afar, then closer. He stopped his foolish sobbing to listen to the howling screeching wind. Or was it the wind? It came nearer, surrounding him and shrill, mocking words formed in the maelstrom. He could hear whispers hidden in the turmoil, muffled cries and jeering taunts “Puny being…did you think the devil would not find you?” he heard it in the language of the street vendors, then his native German “ You are nothing…die!” now in the Latin of his schoolbooks “Pray to your God now…coward!”
And a woman, her lilting, soothing tones so different from the others “Come child…I know what ails thee…Thou art almost a man…come… and a man’s pleasure shall be thine…”
Then another, scornful deep and sly “Yes, boy…become a man in the arms of Lillith and surrender to the queen of misery!” and laughter, sharp and cruel washed over him.
This time he was too weakened to fight them with prayer. He covered his eyes with his hands in childish terror and the multitude carried him away.
*
It was cold, colder than he had ever been. Blackness enclosed him and silence, deep as the grave. He could feel nothing, except the icy stiffening of his limbs.
Had death visited him at last? He lay still and waited. For angels to bear him to heaven on softly feathered wings? Or for the leathery feel of demon claws grasping and dragging him down to hell? His imagination painted pictures on the black of the darkness. He saw eyes watching him, spiders scuttling up his arms to disappear inside his clothes, small animals and other, stranger things creeping across the floor.
He wrapped his arms about himself and marvelled at the good, simple pleasures the Lord had given him, the blue sky and a warm hearth, a snatch of music, a cup of cool water or a juicy pear. Things he took for granted until they were missing.
He was not dead. He still longed for the comforts of this world.
He pushed himself to his feet and felt his way carefully until he touched the rock. He must have run in his fright and lost himself somehow, although he’d seen no other openings in the cavern walls. The air smelt fresh and he could feel a breeze ruffling his hair. He inched his way along the wall until his eyes grew accustomed to the dark.
It was a tunnel with a low ceiling and smooth walls. No light emanated from the rocks but he could feel the tool marks left by workmen and the unnatural angles of the roof. He decided he would find his way out and persevere in the town. Water now, was the important matter.
He wended his way through twisting, endless passageways for what seemed to him an eternity, despair beginning to drag him down, slowing his pace. He was lost.
Then he turned a corner and another and saw light…a lantern set into the wall, illuminating a heavy wooden door. Hope spurred him on. He banged on the wood, calling out, his voice rasping “Please, I beg you. Open the door! If there is someone there…please!”
There was no answer. Christian hammered until his strength was gone, called until no words came. He turned wearily and began again to feel his way back, to look for another way out.
And the door creaked and groaned on its hinges as it slowly opened inwards and a brilliant light blinded his dark adapted eyes.
*
He heard voices, cheerful, friendly, speaking quickly. Sweet familiar aromas wafted round him, cloves and garlic, cinnamon and the sharp tang of burnt butter.
Hands guided him through the door and led him to a stool, a cup of cool water placed in his hands. He drank greedily, begging for more. Another was offered and he drank that too, not wasting a drop.
More hands grasped his shoulder or gently patted his head and though his weak eyes were still unable to focus, he listened to the words being spoken around him.
“It is he. At last!”
“Such a young man…such a journey.”
“Yes…Yes Hassan. I see the light. It burns like fire around him!”
“It is as foretold in my dream Omar, here on his chin, the lash that left its mark ‘ere he was delivered unto our brethren.”
“Pity…pity for the poor child to be treated so, when such as he are all the hope we have.”
“No, dearest, we must wait until he regains his strength. Pray, allow him to rest. His ordeal has been long and without let. He is but a child.”
And another, deeper, stronger “We have awaited thy coming for some time now, Christian.”
He could not fix in his mind the inflections in the smooth, well formed words. It was as if the strains of all nations could be detected there. The voice went on “It is by the grace of the Great Immensity that you are delivered safely unto us.” He allowed himself to be led to a couch but could not rest, his mind was reeling. How had they known? What was this magic? He sat up and opened his eyes.
And there they were, arrayed in a circle around him, watching him intently and smiling, robed and turbaned men, others in shirts and mantles and wide pantaloons and some in sombre coats and plumed hats. He saw the flattened cap of a scholar, the conical hat of an astrologer and the shaven tonsure of a monk.
And a woman, dressed in pristine white robes, her grey hair coiled in intricate plaiting, sitting in stately majesty in the midst of the rest. She reminded Christian of a painting he’d seen in Cyprus, of the oracle at Delphi atop her golden tripod. He watched them as they watched him and he felt the glowing warmth of their regard.
He spoke, his voice still hoarse and feeble “I thank you all for your solicitude. I am very glad to be back in the light.”
He looked around. He was in a large cavern, with arched roof beams towering above. Great torches set into the rock lit up bright frescos adorning the walls, one a picture of emerald trees and twisted vines, flowers and soft grasses, a Garden of Eden.
On another, a city, its gilded buildings set like jewels between green valleys and azure skies. And beside it, that same city, broken and rent by a massive fissure in the earth, tumbling into the abyss, the ominous mountain behind spewing fire and ash into the air.
And on this wall a man, a winged helmet on his head, wings on his heels, holding the twin serpent staff of Hermes in one hand, in the other a green, clear slab of stone, etched with hieroglyphs. And crushed under his feet cowering like a dog lay the monstrous Typhon, destroyer of souls. If Christian could have seen his own face, he would have seen the childlike wonder shining there. But those seated around him saw it plainly and rejoiced.
One by one they presented themselves; a laughing, dark eyed man in a starry robe of midnight blue, bowing low “Salaam Beloved. I am Omar Billah, come from the great city of Bagdad to impart to thee the wisdom of the sages.”
And another, a white shawl edged in blue about his shoulders “Shalom, friend. I am Rabbi Jacob and I have journeyed from Jerusalem, to teach thee the mysteries of Cabala and the language of the angels, for thou wilt need converse with the messengers of heaven.”
And another stepped forward, plump, pink, tonsured and beaming with joy “Welcome friend. I am John, of Norfolk. I am to instruct thee in the good governance of nations, for this lack is the cause of much misery to the common people.”
Next, a giant of a man, shaven bald and rippling with muscle, “I am Zosimos. I will teach you the sacred knowledge of Al-Khem, which to you is known as Egypt, and the science of Chaldea, India, Persia and Babylon. To you will be given the art of transmutation and the secret of the stone.”
Then the woman glided toward him, her head held high, serene and smiling “I am Theresa. I will show thee the magic of numbers for, according to wise Pythagoras, it is mathematics which brings order to the universe.
And another, upright, bearded and grey, his plain brown robe girded about with a white cord. He took Christian’s han
And on until the last, tall, brown skinned, his eyes piercing bright and resting steadily on Christian’s. “I am Althotas.” his was the voice he had heard above the others. “When my brethren have instructed thee in the mysteries, I will unveil to thee a greater mystery still…the power of Mind.
Moses’ staff became a serpent in the mind of Pharaoh and the Master known as Yeshu’a wrought miracles by his command of it. It will be thine also.” He pointed to the painting of the ruined city “When the great lands of Poseidon sank below the sea, its high priests brought knowledge of its arts to Egypt, then on to other lands. Tho’ this knowledge lifted men out of the mire of ignorance, it could not save Atlantis, for its people had sunk into superstition and unclean ways. Wisdom is a flower from which the bee makes its honey and the spider poison, each according to his own nature. It must be guarded closely.”
Althotas came to stand beside him “There is another, one who would teach thee the virtue of compassion. It is this one who is to be honoured above all others, for she represents the multitude, which thou hast offered the days of thy life to serve.” And their heads bent in reverence as an old woman shuffled forward, dressed in rags, her feet wrapped in bandages, most of her nose and part of her lip rotted away. A leper.
Christian stood as she came closer and bowed also. She was so small her head came only to his shoulders. Between the withered stumps of her hands she carried a small parcel wrapped in linen and she offered it to him, smiling crookedly, her deformities grotesque to look upon, the rank odour of her affliction permeating the space between them.