The Demon Awakens

"How many lights do you see?" The words were spoken in the elvish tongue, one that Juraviel was using more and more with Elbryan. The young man knew all the word's, all the common phrases, now, after five years in Andur'Blough Inninness, and only his inflections still needed perfecting.



Juraviel held a candle, as did Elbryan; and a couple of stars had appeared in the sky, the sun just gone behind the mountainous western horizon.



The young man spent a long moment studying Juraviel. Elbryan's lessons had turned more toward philosophy during the fall and winter of God's Year 821 to 822, and he had learned that even the simplest questions carried, many layers of subtle meanings. Finally, convinced that this was but a prelude to his lesson, and nothing dramatic, the young man looked up and did a quick count of the stars, noting four.



"Six," he announced cautiously, adding the two candles.



"They are separate, then," Juraviel stated. "Your light and mine, and those of the stars."



Elbryan's brow furrowed. Slowly, hesitantly, as if he expected to be rebuked, he nodded his head.



"So if you pinched the light from your candle, you would stand in darkness," Juraviel reasoned.



"More than now," Elbryan was quick to reply. "But still I would have some of your light."



"Then my light is not contained within the flame," Juraviel went on, "but rather, it spreads far and wide. And what of the light of the stars?"



"If the light in the stars was contained within the stars, then we would not see the stars!" Elbryan growled in mounting frustration. There were times, such as this, when he hated simple elven logic. "And if the light in your candle was contained within the candle, them I would not see it."



"Exactly," replied the elf. "You may go now."



Elbryan stamped his foot as Juraviel turned away. The elf was always doing this to him, leaving him with questions that he could not answer. "What are you talking about?" the young man demanded.



Juraviel looked at him calmly, but made no move to respond.



Elbryan took the cue -- it was his lesson, after all. "You are saying that the light, since it is not contained, is a shared thing?"



Juraviel didn't blink.



Elbryan paused for a long while, backtracking the conversation; considering the options. "One light," he said finally.



Juraviel smiled.



"That was the answer," said Elbryan, gaining confidence. "One light."



"I count a dozen stars, at least, now," replied the elf. Elbryan looked up. It was true enough; the night was fast deepening, the stars coming out in force.



"A dozen sources of the same light," Elbryan reasoned, "or of different lights that all join together. Because I see them, they blend. The lights become one."



"One and the same," agreed Juraviel.



"But must I see them for this to be true?" Elbryan asked eagerly, but his anticipation dissipated as he saw the frown immediately come over the elf.



Elbryan paused and closed his eyes, remembering his earliest lessons, the axioms the elves had put to him so that he might view the world in a completely different manner. In elven philosophy, the first truth, the basis of reality was that the entire material, physical world was no more than the collection of perceptions by the observer. Nothing existed except in the consciousness of the individual. It was a difficult concept for Elbryan, because he had been brought up with the idea of community, and within that concept, such elevation of self was considered the worst of sins: pride. The elves didn't see things that way; Juraviel had once asserted to Elbryan that everything in the. world was no more than a play put on for Juraviel's benefit. "My consciousness creates the world around me," the elf had proclaimed.



"Then I could never defeat you in battle unless you willed it so," Elbryan had then reasoned.



"Except that your consciousness creates the world around you," the elf had replied, and then, typically, he had walked away.



That seeming contradiction had left Elbryan in a quandary. What he came to understand from that viewpoint was a sense of self he had never before felt free to explore.



"The stars and my candle are one because I can see both," the young man said conclusively. "I make the world around me."



Juraviel nodded. "You interpret the world around you," he corrected. "And as you heighten your senses to become aware of the slightest details, your interpretations will grow, your awareness will grow."



Juraviel then left him, sitting in a field, holding his candle and watching the birth of so many stars, heavenly fires to join with his own. That simple shift in perception, that all the lights were truly one, gave Elbryan a sense of oneness with the universe that he had never truly experienced before. Suddenly the heavens seemed closer to him, seemed within reach. Suddenly he felt a part of that vast velvet canopy.



All through the rest of that year, and through the months of God's Year 822, Elbryan learned to view the world as an elf, to find a paradox of individuality and community, an elevation of the self, yet a oneness with all about him. The tiny shifts in perception brought on so many new experiences, allowed him to see flowers where he never before would have looked, allowed him to feel the presence of an animal -- even identify its approximate size -- by subtle scents and vibrations in the living world about him. He felt like a great empty sponge being dunked into the waters of knowledge, and he absorbed so much, taking incredible pleasure in each lesson, in each word. His entire concepts of space and time altered. Sequence became segment, memory became time travel.



Even Elbryan's sleeping habits changed, shifting to a more controlled, meditative process than a lumped time of uncontrollable unconsciousness. "Fanciful musing," the elves called it, or "reverie." In this semidream state, Elbryan could tune out his sense of sight, yet keep his ears and nose keen for external stimuli. And he replaced much of his dreaming with time travel, moved his mind back. to another place in his life that he could replay the events about him and view them from a different perspective, and thus, learn from them.



Olwan was alive to him on those nights, as was Jilseponie, dear Pony, and all the others of Dundalis. Somehow the perfect recollections gave Elbryan a sense of immortality, as if all those people really were alive, just locked away in a different place to which his memory was the key.



He took comfort in that. He found that much of elven philosophy gave him solace, except that he could not really change what had happened, could not alter the past.



The pain remained, the horrible screams, the desperate fights, the mounds of bodies. On Juraviel's instruction, Elbryan did not avoid the anguish, but went to that terrible place often, using the harsh reality of the death of Dundalis to strengthen his nerve, to harden him emotionally.



"Trials past prepare us for trials future," the elf often said.



Elbryan didn't argue, but he wondered, and almost feared, what future trials could possibly match the pain of that awful day.



He stood atop the treeless hillock and he waited, his eyes glued to the eastern horizon, to the tiny sliver of light heralding the approach of dawn.



He was naked, every hair, every nerve feeling the tickle of the chill breeze. He was naked and he was free, and as the horizon brightened a bit more, he lifted his sword, a large but well-balanced weapon, into the air before him, both hands clasping its long hilt, the muscles of his arms bulging.



Elbryan brought the sword across in a gentle sweep, his weight lifting gradually with the movement of the outstretched blade to keep his balance perfect. Up went the blade over his left shoulder. He stepped right foot forward, then brought the sword back, again slowly, perfectly balanced. His left foot came forward, then went out to the side, blade and right foot following, turning the young man as if he were now facing a second opponent. Strike, parry, strike, all in harmonic and slow motion, and then he dropped his right foot back, coming around in a fluid movement to stalk back to the left. Strike, parry, strike -- the same routine.



Then he dropped his right foot back again and half pivoted, so that he was facing exactly opposite from where he had started. He came ahead in three strong strides -- strike, strike, strike with the blade as he moved, then repeated the same motions he had used, left and right, from this new position.



"Bi'nelle dasada," it was called, the sword-dance. The young man continued for nearly an hour, his arms and weapon weaving ever more intricate patterns in the empty air. This was the bulk of his physical training now, not sparring but gaining a memory of the movements within his muscles. Every attack and parry angle became ingrained in him; what had been conscious battle strategy melded into a reactive response or an anticipatory strike.



From the trees at the base of the hillock, Juraviel and some others watched the sword-dance in sincere admiration. Truly the muscled young human was a thing of beauty and grace, a combination of pure strength and uncanny agility. His sword swished with ease, as did his long and wavy, wheat-colored hair. Never losing the slightest edge of balance, Elbryan's muscles worked in perfect harmony, perfect fluidity, none battling, flexing and complementing each move.



And his eyes! Even from this distance, the elves could see the olive-green orbs sparkling with intensity, truly seeing the imagined foes.



The young Elbryan's movements improved with every day, and so Juraviel gave him more of the sword-dance, the most intricate battle movements known to the elves, who collectively were the finest swordsmen in all the world. Elbryan mastered the intricate movements, every one, soaked them into the sponge he had become and held them fast in his heart, mind, and muscles. No longer did any, even Tuntun, question his prowess or his bloodline. Never again in Andur'Blough Inninness were the words "blood of Mather" spoken derisively where young Elbryan was concerned. For he had passed through the "wall of nonperception," as Juraviel called it, had shrugged off the human societal inhibitions of consciousness, had become one with the greater powers, the natural powers, about him.



On those occasions when he did spar, he not only understood how to defeat any attack, deflect, dodge, or block, but also knew which tactic would offer appropriate counterattacks or would keep his defensive posture strong against subsequent attacks from that foe, or even from others. Elbryan now won far more often than he lost, even held his own when battling two against one.



His routines became more varied, more deadly, resembling in many instances the motions of an animal predator. He could put a dagger in his hand and curl his arm in such a way that he might strike as the viper. Or he didn't even need the dagger but could stiffen his fingers that he might drive them right through any obstacle.



And every morning, before the mist veil blanketed Andur'Blough Inninness, Elbryan came to this spot and watched the dawn, weaving his sword-dance, building the memory.



The blood of Mather.



The gifts -- a heavy blanket, a small chair shaped of bent sticks, and a wood -- framed mirror -- surprised and confused Elbryan. The mirror alone was very expensive, he knew, and the craftsmanship and incredibly light wood of the chair allowed it to be folded and easily carried, but the only one of the three presents that made any sense to him was the blanket, a most practical item.



Tuntun and Juraviel let the young man look the gifts over for a long while, let him test the chair and even study his own image in the silvery mirror.



"My deepest gratitude," Elbryan said sincerely, though his measure of confusion was clear in his voice.



"You do not even understand the significance," Tuntun replied distastefully. "You believe that you have been given three gifts, yet it is the fourth that is most precious by far!"



Elbryan looked at the elf maiden, studied her blue eyes for some hint.



"The mirror, the chair, and the blanket," Juraviel said solemnly. "The Oracle."



Elbryan had never heard the word before; again his confusion showed clearly on his face.



"Do you think that the dead are gone?" Tuntun asked cryptically, apparently enjoying this spectacle. "Do you think that all there is is all you see?"



"There are other levels of consciousness," Juraviel tried to clarify, casting a stern glance at his teasing partner.



"Dreaming," Elbryan offered hopefully.



"And the memories of fanciful musing," Juraviel added. "In Oracle, the musing combines with the consciousness to bring the memory to the present."



Elbryan's brow furrowed as he considered the words, as their implications began to unfold before him. "To speak with the dead?" he asked breathlessly.



"What is dead?" Tuntun laughed.



Even Juraviel couldn't suppress a chuckle at his elven companion's unending games. "Come," he bade Elbryan. "It would be better to show than to tell."



The three left Caer'alfar, moving purposefully into the deep woods. The day was not bright above them, even darker than usual with the misty blanket, and a light rain tickled the forest canopy. They walked for nearly an hour, no one talking except Tuntun, who offered an occasional verbal jab at Elbryan.



Finally Juraviel stopped at the base of a huge oak, its trunk so wide that Elbryan couldn't put his arms halfway around it. The two elves exchanged solemn looks.



"He'll not do it," Tuntun promised, her melodic voice rising singsong.



"Nor could he ever defeat you in battle," Juraviel was quick to respond, drawing an angry stamp of Tuntun's delicate foot.



Elbryan took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. So, this was but another test, he thought. One of his will and mental prowess, no doubt, considering the three gifts he carried. He was determined not to disappoint Juraviel and not to let Tuntun be right about anything.



Around the back of the tree, Elbryan saw there was a narrow opening between the roots, a tunnel that seemed to widen as it descended at a steep angle.



"There is a pedestal of stone inside on which you must place the mirror," Juraviel explained, "and a place before it where you might set up your chair. Use the blanket to cover the entry, so that it becomes very dark within."



Elbryan waited, expecting more instructions. After a long moment, Tuntun nudged him roughly. "Are you afraid even to try?" she chided.



"Try what?" Elbryan demanded, but when he looked to Juraviel for support, he found the elf was pointing to the narrow opening, indicating that the young man should enter.



Elbryan had no idea what they expected, what he should do, beyond the simple instructions Juraviel had offered. With a shrug, he took up his items and moved to the opening. Getting in would be test enough, for the cave was far more suited to one of elven stature. He slipped the chair in first, easing it down as far as he could reach, then closing his eyes and letting go. From the sound of its descent, the floor of the cave was not more than eight feet below the opening, he figured. Next he lay the blanket along the bottom of the shaft, using it to cover uneven jags of roots, that he wouldn't hook his clothing, get stuck, and look completely stupid in Tuntun's always judging eyes. With a final glance at Juraviel, hoping futilely that some further information would come his way, Elbryan closed his eyes and started in, going headfirst and protecting the mirror with his body. As soon as he crossed under the tree, he opened his eyes, now more sensitive to the darkness, and scouted. A bear or a porcupine or even a smelly skunk might have slipped in here, and it was with great relief that Elbryan found the cave apparently empty, and not so large. It was fairly circular, perhaps eight feet in diameter. As promised, a stone pedestal rested near the wall just to Elbryan's side, and hooking his arm around a root in the ceiling, he turned right side up and swung his feet to the pedestal, then stepped down easily to the cave floor. A bit of water had accumulated in one low spot, but nothing threatening or even inconvenient.



Elbryan quickly set the mirror on the pedestal, leaning it against the back wall of the cave, and opened his chair; placing it before the mirror, as instructed. Then he went about draping the blanket over the cave entrance, darkening the room so that he could barely make out his hand if he held it in front of his face. That done, the young man felt about, found his chair, and slipped into it.



Then he waited, wondering. His eyes gradually adjusted so that he could just barely make out the larger shapes in the room.



The minutes continued to pass him by; all was quiet and dark. Elbryan grew frustrated, wondering what test this might be, wondering what purpose could be found in sitting in the dark, facing a mirror he could hardly see. Was Tuntun right in asserting that this trip was a waste of time?



Finally Juraviel's melodic voice broke the tension. "This is the Cave of Souls, Elbryan Wyndon," the elf half spoke and half sang. "The Oracle, where an elf, or a human, might speak with the spirits of those who have passed before them. Seek your answers in the depths of the mirror."



Elbryan steadied himself with the breathing routine of bi'nelle dasada and focused his eyes on the mirror -- or at least on the area where he knew the mirror to be, for it was hardly discernible.



He brought out a mental picture of. the pedestal and mirror, recalled the image from the few moments before he had draped the blanket. Gradually, the square shape was visible, at least in his mental image, and so he sent his gaze within the frame of that square.



And he sat, as the minutes became an hour, as the sun behind the elven mist and the clouds made its way toward the western horizon. Boredom crept into his concentration, along with the frustration of realizing that Tuntun might be right. Still, no further calls came from beyond the cave, so the two elves, at least, were apparently being patient.



Elbryan dismissed all thought of the elves, and each time one of those distracting notions -- or any other thoughts from outside this one room -- came back to him, he fought it off.



He lost all sense of the passing of time; soon nothing invaded his focus. The room darkened even more as the sun moved westward, but Elbryan, his eyes long past the gloom, didn't notice.



There was something in the mirror, just beyond his vision!



He slipped deeper into his meditative state, let go of all the conscious images that cluttered his mind. Something was there, a reflection of a man, perhaps.



Was it his own reflection?



That notion stole away the image, but only for a moment.



Then Elbryan saw it more clearly: a man, older than he, with a face creased by the sun and wind, a light beard trimmed low to follow the line of his jaw. He looked like Elbryan, or at least as Elbryan might look in a score of years. He looked like Olwan, and yet it was not, the young man somehow knew. It was . . .



"Uncle Mather?"



The image nodded; Elbryan fought for a gulp of air.



"You are the ranger," Elbryan said quietly, barely finding his voice. "You are the ranger who went before me, who was trained by these very same elves."



The image made no move to reply.



"You are the standard to which I am held," Elbryan said. "I fear that you stand too tall!"



Something seemed to soften in the visage of the spirit, and Elbryan got the distinct feeling that, in Mather's eyes at least, his fear was misplaced.



"They speak of responsibility," the young man went on, "of duty, and the road that lies before me. Yet I fear I am not all that Belli'mar Juraviel believes me to be. I wonder why I was chosen in this -- why was Elbryan saved that day in Dundalis? Why not Olwan, my father, your brother, so solid and strong, so knowing in the ways of battle and the world?"



Elbryan tried to pause and collect his thoughts, but he found the words kept coming out as if compelled by the spirit, by this place, and by his own state of mind. Even if this was his uncle Mather, he realized he was speaking to the spirit of a man he had never known! But that fear couldn't hold against the river of his own soul, pouring forth in great release.



"What height must I attain to satisfy the judgment of Tuntun and the many other elves of like mind? I fear that they ask of me the strength of a fomorian giant, the speed of a frightened deer, the wariness of a ground squirrel, and the calm and wisdom of a centuries-old elf. What man could measure such?



"Ah, but you did, Uncle Mather. By all that they say of you, even by the look in Tuntun's eyes -- one of sincere admiration -- I know that you were no disappointment to the fairy folk of Caer'alfar. How will they judge me twenty years hence, a mere day by an elf's measure?. And what of this world I will soon know?"



Terrifying images, mostly of other humans, flitted across Elbryan's vision, as if they were flying across the face of the mirror.



"I am afraid, Uncle Mather," he admitted. "I do not know what it is that I fear, whether it is the judgment of the elves, the dangers of the wilderness, or the company of other people! More than a quarter of my life has passed since I have seen another who stands as a human, who sees the world as a human.



"But then," he continued, his voice dropping low, "I fear most that I no longer see the world as a human, nor can I truly view it as an elf might, but as something in between. I love Caer'alfar, and all of this valley, but here I do not belong. This I know in my heart, and I fear that out there, among my own kind, I will not be among my own kind.



"Kin and kind," Elbryan decided, "do not always go together. What is left of me, then? What creature am I that is neither elf nor human?"



Still the image did not answer, did not move at all. But Elbryan felt that soft feeling -- that sympathy, that empathy -- and he knew then that he was not alone. He knew then his answer.



"I am Elbryan the Ranger," he asserted, and all the implications of that title seemed to fall over him, their weight not bowing but bolstering his broad shoulders.



Elbryan realized that he was bathed in a cold sweat. Only then did he notice the room had darkened almost to the point of absolute blackness. "Uncle Mather?" he called in the direction of the mirror, but the image of the specter and even of the mirror itself was no more.



Juraviel was waiting for the young man when he crawled out of the hole. The elf looked as if he meant to ask some question, but he stared instead at Elbryan's face and apparently found his answer. They said nothing all the way back to Caer'alfar.