The Monument

 

The wizard unrolled the partly burned scroll, looking from it to the monument and back. The scroll was written in a flowing Elvenari script, and the wording was so old, he could barely understand.

His halting interpretation was: "Seek you the south bay whereupon stands the fox flame of Pamania. One whose art is pure may sense the power of the monument and be refreshed."

Many weeks of continuous travel, storms, and hardship had brought him south. Long had he sought this legend, finally to determine its power for himself.

His art was strong, but it refused to show him the way. Instead, he had to endure days of weary speech with suspicious villagers. None had heard of a place, god, or man called "Pamania." None seemed interested in the least in his origin or his quest. To the wizard, they were as witless as the cattle they tended.

Finally, he met an old woman at a lonely cottage on the edge of some nameless village. He sensed a spark of the art in her, though she seemed outwardly as dull as the scrawny cow she was milking.

"Aye," she said, standing and shading her eyes. "My Nan used to talk about the fox spirit called Palanium. It guarded the old forest three days south of here, and the Old Ones had built a monument to honor the spirit."

He thanked her and laid a charm on the cow to sweeten her milk.

Three days became five, then six. He had despaired of ever finding the monument, so he mixed and boiled herbs that would help him dream. He would pay the price the next day with a sour stomach and loose bowels, but he had become desperate.

On the seventh day he awoke, his guts cramping, and recalled his vivid, and disjointed dreams.

In the dreamland, he met a fox with a tail of flame. The fox spoke in an ancient Elvenari dialect, and the wizard giggled when he heard it.

"I come to those who are ambitious and passionate. Long I have watched you from the dreamland. You have worked without tiring, and you are almost ready to grasp that which you desire."

Guided by a tingle in his senses and heartened by the fox's words, the wizard stumbled south. Shaking and retching as if poisoned (for he was, slightly) he followed a narrow deer trail through scrubby trees scoured and shaped by the salty wind.

His art was positively tingling now. Something was ahead.

The trees opened into a circle covered in brambles and thorn bushes. He was amazed to see tall mushrooms, some taller than a man, in a ring around the clearing.

The monument was in the center.

The wizard unrolled the partly burned scroll, looking from it to the monument and back. In the margins of the flowing script, several pictures had been added. One looked very similar to the monument.

He approached the monument carefully as thorns grasped his cloak and clothing. Yes, there was power here. He looked at the scroll again. It spoke of touching and being refreshed. But Elvenari words were often subtle, and some had slippery meanings depending on context.

At last, all of his art and training left him with no better choice than to touch the thing and see what would happen.

He reached out.

He felt metal. Cool. Smooth. Amazing. How had the Old Ones forged such a huge thing?

He also felt power flowing gently through him; nothing dramatic, just a breeze ruffling his spirit. It was nice. No other herb or meditation had this effect.

He sighed with deep contentment. He could stay here forever.

And he almost did. He stood at the monument, smiling, eyes closed, power gently leaving his body until he was empty.

He collapsed among the shrubs that had obscured countless bones of his predecessors.

His last thought was how the scroll was right. This was quite refreshing.

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