Dargonzine 24-1 (long)

[dar...@dargonzine.com]

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DargonZine Distributed: 6/5/11
Volume 24 Number 1 Circulation: 646
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Contents

Editorial Jon Evans
Undercurrents Rena Deutsch Seber 21, 1018
Facing Fears Jim & Naomi Owens Seber 14, 1018

========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dar...@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted
to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

DargonZine 24-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright 5 June, 2011 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Jon Evans <thego...@verizon.net>,
Assistant Editor: John White <john....@DREXEL.EDU>.

DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-
NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute
unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions
of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA.
========================================================================

Editorial
by Liam Donahue
Liam_t...@dargonzine.org

Welcome to Dargonzine's new website! As you can see from the
"Pardon Our Post" post to the left it is still very much a work in
progress. Or, if you're reading this editorial as part of a full-text
email or RSS feed of this issue, you have no idea what I am talking
about, and might feel inclined to scroll right past this to get to the
great new stories in this issue. If that's the case, I would encourage
you to visit our new site at www.dargonzine.org. In either case, I would
like to take a moment to acknowledge Victor Cardoso's hard work in
dragging us kicking and screaming into the current decade (thanks,
Victor!) and begin the grand tour.
The first thing you'll see is that there are no more issue pages. The
current issue will always be front and center on the home page. There
are some important links to the right, and some other recent stories
off to the left. You can find older stories in the DZ Archive, using
the link above. The transfer process is still going, though, so if you
don't find the story you are looking for there, there's a link from
that page to our old back issues page. You may notice in the new format
that the hyperlinks to the Dargon glossary and no longer included in
the stories. Never fear, you can find the full list of Dargon things in
each story in a column to the right, with links to our glossary of over
3600 items. In fact, moving our stories to the new format will create
glossary links even for our old stories which were published without
hyperlinks (yes, we pre-date HTML).
I'll leave it to you to explore the rest of the site, because I'm sure
that you are tired of reading about HTML and want to get to the new
stories in the issue. If you run into any problems on the site, or
would like to provide feedback (positive or negative), we would love to
hear from you. Please simply post a comment to this editorial, or send
an email to dar...@dargonzine.org. Now, on to the stories. First up, we
have Facing Fears by long-time author Jim Owens, and first-time author
Naomi Owens. This tale links closely with the story Fears by Dafydd
Cyhoeddwr, which appeared in Dargonzine 19-8. There's also
Undercurrents, a short tale by Rena Deutsch, which continues the
adventures of Nilson from Rena's Uprooted in DZ 21-3.
We hope you enjoy. - L

========================================================================

Undercurrents
By Rena Deutsch
Luv2...@dargonzine.org
Seber 21, 1018

Nilson kicked a piece of wood the size of his fist with his right
foot as he made his way along Main Street. It flew several feet forward
and nearly hit a bulky man walking in front of him. When he reached the
piece of wood, he kicked it again. This time it hit a tree by the side
of the road.
"Watch it!" a voice behind him called out, but Nilson paid no
attention. He kicked the wood again when he got to it and made it shoot
forward like a galloping horse. This time it hit one of the buildings.
It made a loud noise as it collided with the house and the man in front
of him jumped. The man turned around and raised his hand. Nilson quickly
stepped aside to avoid getting hit. He'd had enough problems this day;
nothing had gone right since he debarked at the ferry dock this morning
with his father.

His father had sent him to Foxmarten Square on an errand and given
him enough coins to even pay for his lunch, because he had to make his
way across town and then back. After leaving the shop, his purchase
securely wrapped, he'd been accosted by four boys.
"Hand that over," one of the boys demanded as he yanked him into a
side alley near the shop. Nilson clutched the parcel tightly to his
chest.
"That's for my father. You can't have it!"
"It's for his father and you can't have it," the boy mocked and
stepped on Nilson's foot. "Give it here!" he demanded.
"No!" Nilson said firmly.
"We'll just see about that," the boy replied and his fist connected
with Nilson's lip. Nilson kicked the boy's shin and made him stumble.
The other three boys grabbed Nilson and started hitting him with their
fists and feet. At some point, one of the fists connected with his eye
and at the same time the back of his head hit the wall and the world
went dark. When he awoke, he found the boys had taken the parcel for his
father, his remaining coins, as well as his shoes and vest.
It had taken Nilson nearly a bell, before he felt able to stand up
and get cleaned up. His head hurt, his nose had stopped bleeding, and
one of his eyes was swollen shut. Every breath he took hurt. He hadn't
taken three steps when he rid himself of the remnants of his breakfast.
Still feeling nauseated, Nilson made his way towards Commercial Street
and the docks where he could find a place to clean up, avoiding eye
contact with anyone on the street.
Nilson found a small beach just north of the dock and carefully
stepped into the cold water.
"Ouch!" Nilson flinched as the salty water burned in an open wound
in his face. Gingerly, he felt his swollen lip and found fresh blood on
his fingers afterwards. He ripped a piece of cloth from his torn shirt
and pressed it against his lip. When the bleeding stopped, he continued
cleaning up. In the distant, he heard the fifth bell of day chime.
Sighing, he decided he had a bit of time to rest and dry his wet
clothes; he stretched out on the grass behind the beach. In the heat of
the sun, Nilson fell quickly asleep.
A gust of cold air sweeping over his bruised and battered body woke
Nilson. As he looked at the sun, he heard the seventh bell of day chime.
"Turdations!" he exclaimed and scrambled to put his now dry clothes
back on. A wave of nausea hit him, but he had nothing left to throw up.
His father had asked to meet him at the dock at seventh bell, so they
could take the ferry across the Coldwell, back to the old part of Dargon
where they lived. He was late, and his father had made it quite clear,
that if he wasn't at the ferry on Dock Street, by seventh bell, he'd
have to find his own way across the Coldwell. Running was out of the
question. His head and stomach wouldn't be able to take it, but he was
breathing without pain and could open both eyes. As he carefully touched
his lip, he felt a scab. Angry about having to miss the ferry and
dinner, Nilson made his way back to Dock Street, kicking a piece of wood
he'd found on the beach ahead of him.

How he would talk his way onto the ferry, without a coin to his
name, was still a mystery to Nilson when he finally arrived at the dock.
As he approached the ferryman, he heard him arguing with one of the goat
herders.
"The keep's cook bought two goats, I can't pay for thirty goats to
go across just to drop off two and I can't leave the others here. You
know that as well as anyone else," the goat herder shouted.
"I'm not taking two goats across alone. Who's going to pick them
up? We can't land at Keep's ferry point this time of day, the current is
too strong. We'll have to go to North Beach. I doubt the goat will find
their way to the Keep's cook on their own," the ferryman retorted.
"Either you go with the goats or the goats stay here!"
"How am I to make a living with the causeway broken? I can't just
make the goats swim across and the next bridge is leagues upstream."
"Not my problem," the ferryman said and pushed the goat herder
aside. "Let the paying customers get aboard so I can set across the
Coldwell."
Nilson made his way to the goat herder and tapped him lightly on
the arm. "I can help you get the two goats across. If you pay for my
passage, I'll make sure the cook gets the goats."
"Who are you?" the goat herder asked and looked Nilson over from
head to toe. "You've no shoes or vest, and you look like you were in a
fight, one that you lost. How do I know you're not taking off with my
goats?"
"I'm Nilson Fletcher, my father is a guard at the Keep and my
mother works at the Keep. I missed my father at seventh bell, and now I
need make my way across, except I've been robbed and have no more coin."
"You're related to Anselm Fletcher?"
"My grandfather."
"And your father is a guard?"
"Straight, that he is. Jared Fletcher is my father." Nilson looked
at the man hopefully. Maybe he could get passage on the ferry after all.
The goat herder seemed to think things over.
"Very well then, I'll pay the passage for you and the two goats,
and you will take the goats to the Keep's cook. Do we have a deal?"
"Deal!" said Nilson and shook the man's hand. He watched as the
ferryman was paid and then took hold of the rope attached to the two
goats and walked aboard. A sigh of relief escaped him as the ferry
departed. He would get home, at least in time to sleep in his own bed.
As the ferry made its way toward the North Beach dock, mostly
drifting with the outgoing current, Nilson made himself comfortable
leaning against the railing. The ferry bobbed up and down and swayed
left to right. The further the ferry progressed the more it was affected
by the incoming tide. As the movement of the ferry increased, water
started splashing over the railing, soaking the passengers. The rocking
and swaying of the ferry made Nilson rather nauseated.
"If you're going to throw up, make sure you do it over the side of
the boat!" the ferryman shouted. Within moments, not only Nilson
followed the advice of the ferryman.
"Hold on tight everyone, it's going to ..." Those were the last
words Nilson heard before the ferry was lifted high up and then dumped,
upside down, back into the river. He fell into the cold water of the
Coldwell, the rope that held the two goats wrapped around his arm. He
went underwater, swallowing a large mouthful of brackish water. Nilson
panicked and in his struggle for air, managed to surface and take a deep
breath. Next to him, both goats bobbed up and down, bleating their
displeasure. Other people, too, were coming up for air.
"Swim ashore," they started yelling, "Swim ashore!" Another wave
crashed over them and Nilson swallowed more water. Coughing and
sputtering, he began kicking with his legs, the way his father had shown
him, this at least kept him afloat. He struggled to unwrap the rope on
his arm, when he noticed the goats didn't seem to have any trouble
swimming. He let the rope be and fought hard to swim between the two
animals and place one arm on each goat's back. It was then, that Nilson
heard the voices. They were sweet and alluring and seemed to be coming
from beneath him. He looked into the water and saw several faces
surrounded by long black hair that seemed to be drifting in all
directions. The hands that reached for him seemed to have tissue between
the fingers. And then he felt a drag on his legs, pulling him
underwater.
"Come, play with us," the voices said. "We'll have fun in the sea."
"I can't breathe underwater," he attempted to say, but only bubbles
left his mouth. His hands tried to find hold in the goat's fur, but he
didn't succeed. Only the rope connected him to the animals as he
continued to slip underwater. He struggled to reach the surface, but to
no avail. "Please let me go," Nilson attempted to say as the last of his
air left his lungs and he passed out.

The sun rose over Mermaid's Lair and colored the sky orange and
red. Amidst the seaweed that had washed ashore were two goats nibbling
on the fronds, and tied to the rope connecting the goats, was the body
of a boy in torn clothing. Small waves washed over his body. Sputtering
and coughing he pushed himself in onto his hands and knees and vomited
a large amount of sea water. When he felt better, he lay on his back
and let the sun warm him for a few menes before he struggled to stand
up.
"I'm alive," he thought, "I'm alive." Then Nilson turned to the
ocean and shouted, "Thank you for my life!"
Unnoticed by Nilson, four figures nodded and started diving.

========================================================================

Facing Fears
By Jim and Naomi Owens
gym...@yahoo.com
Seber 14, 1018

"How have they driven away their fear?"
Cefn an'Derin paced back and forth in his small library. His gaze
swept back and forth across his collection of books, scrolls, tablets,
and other documents. He knew that the answer he was looking for was in
one of his many manuscripts, but which one?
Cefn had witnessed a man dying in the street, right before his
eyes, apparently from sheer fear. He had also witnessed very unusual
behavior from a number of the city's infamous "shadow boys", behavior
that indicated a pathological recklessness. On one side was an
all-consuming fear, on the other, a total lack of it. Neither was
natural. Cefn had known fear, and he had ruled it. That was his
training. This was something different.
These thoughts triggered a memory in his mind: a memory of
something that connected these events. He knew that in his library was a
manuscript that would explain it. But which one? Cefn began to look. He
had many tomes, and many indices. Menes turned to bells as he searched.
As he searched a clay tablet caught his eye. He picked it up. It was an
ancient artifact that he had found himself, buried in the ruins of a
city in the distant desert. It told, in a long-dead language, of a
secret sect that existed to maintain order in the world of magic. Cefn
grinned. He knew the tablet spoke the truth, for he had been taught by
that hidden cult. What it spoke of in tones of awe and dread he recalled
with gratitude.
There are many ways to access power, and many ways to use it. Cefn
had learned methods that could reveal to him the answers he sought. But
with those answers would come a price Cefn was loathe to pay. Surely a
riddle this simple would not require such drastic measures. Simple sweat
and toil would suffice. Laying aside the tablet he persisted, moving
throughout his collection, examining years of collected knowledge and
experience. He saw many things he had forgotten, and he remembered many
days and weeks that had passed away. He did not find what he was looking
for, however. Frustrated, he considered the hard methods, but again
turned away. There were still other methods.
Cefn reached into a fine wooden cabinet and withdrew a scroll. He
unrolled it and held it before his face. It was blank. The scroll could
not tell him the answer, Cefn knew, but perhaps it could jostle his
memory and help him find it. Taking a deep breath, focused his mind on
the place where he had been trained, so long ago. He visualized it as
best he could, picturing the rooms and aisles of that facility. As he
remembered, he began to speak words of power. As he did, he could see an
image forming on the scroll. It was one of the classrooms he had spent
so much time in as a child. As the image solidified, Cefn turned around,
still holding the scroll before him. The image wrapped around him until
it was as if he were actually in the room, as a student again.
"Cefn! Concentrate!"
Cefn looked up to see his teacher, Elder Birre. He immediately knew
that was the wrong thing to do. There came the clatter of metal against
glass as the delicate arrangement of goblets and knives he had been
constructing suddenly collapsed. He was barely able to prevent the
goblets from shattering. As an adult this task would have been trivial,
but Cefn was in the memory now, and he was a student again. He looked up
at his teacher, feeling that familiar trepidation once again.
"No, no," Birre fumed. "'Concentrate' means *don't* look at me!" He
sighed. "This is a simple lesson! You've mastered all these skills
individually! We're merely orchestrating them together!"
"Yes, Master Birre," the young Cefn replied. The adult Cefn was
still there, but he was feeling the young Cefn, watching and listening
inside the memory. In a distracted sort of way, the older Cefn wondered
briefly what this memory had to do with the library, but he had used the
memory scroll technique before, and while all magic was unpredictable,
he trusted this particular method.
In the memory Elder Birre sighed. "Straight, so do it again.
Concentrate on the project this time!"
"Yes, Master Birre."
"Ah, Elder Birre!" Cefn glanced up to see the jocular form of
Master Shawlp appear in the doorway. "I'm so glad I found you. Master
Ilowen asked me to tell you, if I saw you, that he would like to speak
to you."
"Ah!" Birre stood suddenly. "That's right. I should go." He turned
to Cefn as he was leaving. "Go to your room and drain some darih-wae
into the crystal wall, then return here and try again. I'll be back
after a bit."
"Yes, Master Birre."
Cefn and Shawlp watched Birre leave. Cefn stood and began to
collect the objects as the older man watched.
"You know, I think I know of a yilred that tells of how to do
almost exactly that," Shawlp commented.
"You do?" asked the young Cefn hopefully. The older Cefn winced at
his younger self's naivete but had no choice but to continue in the
memory.
"Indeed," continued Shawlp. "I seem to recall reading it in a
scroll just the other day, just before I returned it to the library."
"The library?" Both Cefns perked up a bit at that. Shawlp seemed
not to notice.
"Yes, the library." Shawlp looked up the corridor. "Elder Birre
will be gone for a while. Why don't you run up to the library and see if
you can fetch that scroll for me? Someone there will know of it."
"Yes, Master Shawlp!" Cefn was moving towards the door before he
even finished speaking.
Even as a lad Cefn had liked the library. As a young man Cefn liked
the assistant librarian even more. She had been unlike the other Elders.
She had not seemed as focused or intense. She was slight and graceful.
The most amazing thing about her, to the young Cefn at least, had been
her manner of dress. She had eschewed the floor-length robes the other
Elders wore, and instead preferred short, colorful outfits that usually
did little, if anything, to conceal the outlines of her body, and in
fact often revealed quite a bit more than mere outlines.
Cefn an'Derin had lived among the Elders, who helped him as he
wrestled with the wild magic that lived within him. In addition to this
strange power, Cefn also struggled with all the normal conflicts and
desires of a lad of fifteen summers. His studies had mostly kept him
isolated and occupied, but this did not always keep his restless mind
from the natural curiosity of adolescence. More than once he had
wondered what lay under those beautifully dyed fabrics and intricate
laces the librarian wore. In the memory he ran back to his room,
deposited the goblets and knives, then sprinted to the library, taking
the older Cefn along.
As he passed through the ornate entrance to the main reading room,
the young Cefn slowed to a walk. Covering the walls were intricately
carved friezes and faded murals, and there were benches scattered about.
The older Cefn knew that normally there would be people reading here,
but to the younger Cefn it had appeared empty. Cefn passed through that
area and headed for the main workroom, the place in the library where
the librarians worked on restoring and repairing old documents and
books. He saw no one. The younger Cefn paused, looking about. The
library was a rather large place.
A splash of color and gold caught his eye. A large book lay open on
a table beside pots of ink and leaves of gold. It was well illustrated
with very vivid images of people in very dire circumstances. Cefn's hand
seemed to move of its own accord, reaching out to lift the pages, taking
care not to lose the current place. The book seemed to be a catalog of
dangerous magics and artifacts. There was a description of lycanthropy,
a warning against necromancy, as well as a description of an ancient
device to drain away a man's fear. The older Cefn wanted to stop right
there, but in the memory the younger Cefn read through a dozen or so
pages before he replaced the book and moved on.
Leaving the workshop behind Cefn moved out into what the librarians
referred to as "the bins'. This was where most of the documents were
kept. It was a dim place of musty odors and shadows. The young Cefn
wandered down one of the main aisles, the older Cefn a bit at a loss of
as to why he was still caught in the spell after having found what he
was looking for. The young wanderer hadn't gotten far when a hint of
movement caught his eye. He slipped down a cross aisle just in time to
see a colorfully dressed figure turn a corner ahead.
Even years later and leagues away Cefn could feel his young heart
skip. There are mysteries that every lad of a certain age longs to plumb
without even knowing what they actually are. These urges defy logic or
reason. Without really knowing why, the young Cefn moved quickly but
quietly in the direction of that furtive figure. He had almost reached
the corner when a flash of color from his left drew his eye. Through a
latticework wall he could see the assistant librarian moving in the
opposite direction. Cefn doubled back, catching the occasional glimpse
of her. Her arms were moving about her, and Cefn realized she was taking
off some sort of jacket. Then the lattice wall turned solid. Cefn
hurried back to the corner and around, but when he got to the other side
she was not to be seen.
The young Cefn wandered up that aisle, with the older Cefn noting
that this area was particularly dusty, even cobwebby. Some parts of the
library were used more than others, he knew. He wondered what was kept
here. The young Cefn reached an alcove where there was a simple desk.
This desk was clean, and on it rested a multi-hued jacket. Under it was
a pair of simple shoes. The older Cefn felt a tug at his memory when he
saw those; the young Cefn kept moving, checking each of the aisles for
his prey. When he reached the end of the aisle he came across another
such table. On it rested a red and yellow blouse.
The older Cefn's heart began beating faster. The spell was
preventing him from recalling the end of this event, but even as an
adult the idea that she had left behind several items of clothing was
very potent. He had no idea how much time he had spent in the library,
but somehow that wasn't all that important. The idea of the librarian
shedding her clothes drew him on, both as an adult and as a youth. He
couldn't leave now. He had to press on.
Cefn turned the corner and walked down the aisle. An odd sound,
very faint, came from his right. When he looked he only saw dusty bins.
Another sound came from ahead to his left. More bins. Still he walked
on. There were odd scents in the air, and Cefn was sure the light was
somehow different. He passed a potted plant, the first he had seen in
"the bins". The aisle turned to the right beside another desk. This desk
had another potted plant on it, as well as something that Cefn was sure
was a blue and green skirt. The faintest of breezes touched his face.
The strangeness of the whole event was pressing on him, along with the
fear of discovery, but still he couldn't resist the pull, the lure she
presented.
Cefn was almost ready for the sight that greeted him as he turned
the next corner. The aisle was lined with potted plants, normal sized at
first, growing in size as the aisle progressed until the far end was
almost entirely wreathed in green. The leaves of the plants waved in a
breeze that had no obvious source. Movement was there everywhere, even
though Cefn was unable to spot any of the actors. Again, directly ahead,
the figure of the librarian turned around the corner and vanished. Cefn
hurried ahead, quietly. At the far end the bins were still visible
beneath the greenery, but just barely. A pair of cloth strips were
hanging from a low branch. The young Cefn had no idea what they were,
but when he touched them they were warm. The older Cefn knew what they
were, and his breathing deepened slightly.
Cefn turned slowly around the corner. As he now expected, all was
green. Now he could see what was moving - it was the plants themselves.
Except now that he stopped and actually looked at the leaves, he could
see that they had writing on them, as if they were actually the leaves
of a book. There was a path through the plants, which were trees now,
with strange sunlight filtering down from above. Sensing that his quarry
was now near, Cefn did not follow the path. Instead he cut off to the
side and quickly scaled a small hillock. At the precipice he stopped on
hands and knees and parted the foliage until he could see.
The librarian was seated crosslegged at the side of a stone-lined
pool. She was dressed only in a short, plain tunic that barely reached
her hips. Crossing her arms over her breast, she began to gaze at her
reflection. She sighed heavily, allowing the day's tension to escape
from her visage. Her mouth relaxed and her eyes closed briefly. She drew
in a deep breath slowly and exhaled forcefully. Cefn watched the
librarian begin a routine he himself had performed a thousand times.
The process was simple. She would release her worries, let go of
distractions, and let her mind wander. Thoughts would surface. She would
listen, letting each one pass without judgment or censorship. Leaning
forward until she could see her reflection, the librarian began to chant
the age-old mantra the Elders taught all initiates.
"All is not self, self is for all. Mind is not all; all have not
mind. Fear is not all; fear will not rule. All is not self, self is for
all. Mind is not all; all have not mind. Fear is not all; fear will not
..."
"And what do you know of fear?"
Cefn jumped. He stared at the tableau before him. The voice had
come from the reflection, which was now staring back at the librarian
with an attitude and posture that was independent, sentient.
"Come forth," the librarian said calmly. Suddenly the image in the
water rushed upward, erupting from the pool in a fountain. It was a twin
to the librarian, identical in form, color, and dress, but alive,
separate. It stood, water pouring off it, immediately before the
librarian.
"What do you know of fear?" it repeated.
"All is not self," the librarian began to chant. "Self is for all.
Mind is not all ..."
"Mind," the shape hissed, writhing sinuously, its face twisted in
contempt. "You can lose your mind in this place. You can become like --
an animal!"
Suddenly the figure was reptilian in aspect. It lashed out with a
talon-terminated arm, slashing the librarian, shredding her tunic and
spraying blood through the air. The librarian recoiled for a moment,
then leaned forward and seized the beast. She throttled it as it bit and
clawed at her. The librarian continued to chant.
"... self is for all. Mind is not all; all have not mind. Fear is
not all; fear will not rule. All is not self ..."
"All?" hissed the beast. "There is no all." Suddenly the beast was
gone. In its place was the librarian again, but dressed now in military
finery, the insignia of high rank on her epaulets. "The masses are
cattle. We have the knowledge; we have the power! We should rule!"
The librarian maintained her grip and continued to fight. The
figure drew knives and slashed and punched. As she struggled the
librarian continued to chant.
"... is not all. Mind is not all; all have not mind. Fear is not
all ..."
"And what do you know of fear?" The figure looked again like the
librarian. "What do you know of responsibility?" A fell glow grew in its
eyes, and its voice deepened and grew. Lighting crackled across its
fingertips and sulfurous blasts of flame burst from its nostrils. "You
will use your power to rule, to steal, to destroy!" The demon laid hands
on the librarian and blue arcs of power crackled and snapped. A sudden
wind howled through the trees. The librarian did not release her grip,
nor end her chant.
"... self is for all. Mind is not all; all have not mind. Fear is
not all; fear will not rule. All is not self ..."
And now the figure was her own again.
"You rule your mind, your fear, your ambition," the doppelganger
intoned. "You live to serve. But it's meaningless." As Cefn watched the
figure aged, wrinkling and shrinking, its voice growing old and faint.
"All your effort will be gone in the winds of time, wasted, futile."
"All effort is fleeting, and life inconsequential," the librarian
replied, continuing the mantra past the version used by novices and
moving into the version taught to older students. "My life belongs to
the ages." The figure shriveled into a dried cadaver and crumbled, the
ashes blowing away in the wind. As it did so the librarian opened her
hand, allowing the last of the dust to flow through her fingers and
away. As she did so she spoke, adding in words that the young Cefn had
not yet heard: "I release my soul to the wind."
A sudden gust of wind filled the air with leaves. Cefn covered his
face with his arm, to protect his eyes. When he lowered his arm, the
greenery was gone. He was no longer in a forest; instead he was now
perched on top a wooden cabinet crouched behind a small potted fern. He
blinked, dazed. He was at the end of a long aisle of "the bins" that
ended at a plain stone wall, at the base of which was a simple fountain
that emptied into a small, shallow basin. The assistant librarian sat
crosslegged beside it. She was staring up at him with a calm, expectant
expression. Her tunic, which a moment before had been a shredded wreck
of bloody fabric, was now again whole, although soaked with sweat.
"And you, Cefn an'Derin?" she asked. Somehow the older Cefn knew
she was speaking to both of him. "Did you find what you came seeking?"
"Uh, ..." the young Cefn stammered, climbing down from his awkward
perch, "I -- well ..."
"I see." She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath,
then unfolded her long legs and stood. Turning with a dignity that
belied her state of disheveled undress, she headed back up the aisle.
Without looking back, she spoke. "Come with me now, Cefn." The younger
man stood still, temporarily paralyzed by her physical graces and poise.
"Now." The order snapped him to action, and he ran to catch up with her.
"What happened back there?" the older Cefn heard himself ask.
She did not dignify him with a look. "Your invasion of my midday
meditation drew you into my glamor," she said, striding elegantly back
the way they had come. "As a young man you seek to find those things
that are not yet open to you." She looked directly at him now, and he
turned away. The older Cefn could feel his young cheeks flaming with
embarrassment. "As you grow, more and more things will be opened to you,
and you will need to know how you will deal with the new power these
openings will bring. As with the chant, first we must learn to control
ourselves: our mind, then our fear. There is much to fear. We fear loss
of our minds, loss of our morality, loss of our humanity, loss of our
very lives. If we are to serve the world, we must control ourselves."
The older man echoed those words in his own mind.
By this time they had reached the corner. Gone here also were the
plants, save for a few small houseplants. In place of the tree there was
now a simple desk. On it laid the two strips of fabric. The librarian
stopped there, looking down at the mysterious articles.
"You have much potential, young an'Derin. You also are in much
peril. You will need to learn when to walk forward, and when to hang
back. Some things you are not always permitted to know. Yes?" She
glanced at him, and the young Cefn nodded vigorously. "Some lessons are
learned the easy way. Others can only be learned hard. One day you may
think the days of learning lessons are behind you, but that is never
true, for to serve we must always be ready to learn, even to the very
end. Remember, we do not live to take from the world , but to give to
the world, even our very lives." With this she fixed him with her gaze,
and he felt her ire, and cringed. She looked away, up the aisle and then
off into the bins. Cefn somehow knew that she was looking at something
not too far away that he could not see. "If you wish, the scroll that
Master Shawlp borrowed recently is sitting in a small brass bucket on
the front desk in the work area. You may take it back to him, and
he will dispose of it afterward." She smoothed her hands across her
tunic, then lifted it her nose and sniffed. "This is wet and soiled."
With a single movement she stripped it up and over her head, then threw
it in his face. "Wash it, along with the rest of my laundry and linens.
By morning. Now go." With that she took up the first of the fabric
bands. The young Cefn did not wait to see what she did with it.

The scroll in Cefn's hands was again blank. Cefn, again an adult,
nodded silently, honoring the memory of a lesson given so long ago.
Feeling chastised both in the past and the present, he rolled the scroll
and set it aside. Doffing his cloak and his jacket, he settled himself
crosslegged onto the floor. He closed his eyes and began to chant the
words of the Elder's creed, as the librarian had so long ago. Anyone
watching would have seen nothing but a solitary figure, struggling
within himself, and would have no explanation for the sweat that was
soon rolling down his neck and soaking into his tunic. It was several
menes before he breathed the last stanza, and slowly stood. On trembling
legs he resumed his search. Soon had a familiar bound volume in his
hands. He opened it up to colorful illustrations. He uttered a simple
word of thanks to the librarian long ago, and began to read about the
artifact known as the "crucible of fear".

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