The Hekamon (56 page)

The rushing sound of air was replaced by something else,
not quite silence but something just a whisper from it. It was the
sound of the forest at night, it was alive and it was awake.

There
came another sound, something that didn't belong. Quietly at first
then growing louder, a rustling, thumping sound. It echoed around the
hills and reverberated off the trees. It was accompanied by a sound,
not unlike that of a sobbing girl. While along with it, and from high
above the branches, the fluttering of bats.

Then, the sound of an owl
hooting. An owl that sounded very close for good reason.

There was never a moment of realization, she had known
all along, but the sound of its voice was a welcoming confirmation.
This mind she was more comfortable with. The raven had been solely
interested in dead things and shiny things. While the owl was curious
about so much more, although the dead mouse in its talons was on its
mind, too. Just not at the forefront, not yet.

The owl turned its head, and the noises became instantly
louder. She would have sworn it was a stampede, if the equally
effective eyesight was not telling her it was just two people.

She
could hear their heartbeats, loud, pounding. While their heavy
footsteps were, by comparison, a cacophonous wall of noise, like
thunder rolling overhead, or a hailstorm of giant boulders.

The pair ran directly beneath her, with the fiery glow
from a burning torch they carried, casting them in a brilliant light.
To these eyes, the torch burnt as brightly as the sun. Eyes that
could see the light of the flame and, in some curiously ethereal way,
the heat of it too.

To the running shapes below, she knew the forest would
seem dark and forbidding with their inferior senses.

The one behind,
without the torch, stumbling along in heavy boots, her long hair
flowing behind, breathing heavily from the exertion of running. Her
quiet cries, sounding like earth rending shrieks to the observers
keen ears. What were they running from, or to? She didn't know, but
she had seen her first Fennreans. And since they were from the
marshes, maybe that's where they were heading.

The man, the torch bearer, the one leading the way into
the darkness. He was a Fennrean at least. More than that, he was a
ferguth. She had heard of their tattoos, and the man's face was half
covered by symbols and motifs.

Was the necklace his? No, definitely
not. Was it the girl's?

The two of them continued on and the owl's gaze followed
them for a while, before it seemed to turn its attention elsewhere.

The moment it looked away, the sound of the noisy intruders
diminished and the ambiance of the forest returned.

The glades were alive.

More than that, it was a single
living entity. With each of its souls part of something greater.
Fluttering sounds, rustling, scurrying and heartbeats everywhere,
most were quiet and barely audible, but they were all around and the
owl could hear them.

That's what had given the mouse away. It had been
betrayed by its heart.

At that moment, the owl seemed to focus on something up
on the hillside, an outcrop of rock, just visible through the
branches of the trees. It looked like some caves. Where did they go?
Did they lead into the mountains? Into the very heart of the Hekamon?

Whatever their significance, the Owl seemed to remain transfixed on
that point for sometime. Watching, but seeing nothing. Listening, and
hearing…what could the owl hear?

Brigantia listened as well, and thought she could hear
something, faint but recognizable. It sounded as though the
mountain itself was alive. Or was she imagining it. Was it just the
sound of her own breathing and heartbeat, slow and rhythmic in her
dreamlike state.

It was then she realized something about owls that she
had never guessed at before. Their talons grip tightly when relaxed.
It takes an effort to open them, as the owl did now, to pass the mouse
from claw to mouth. Bringing nourishment. One life sacrificed to
sustain another.

It made perfect sense to her, feeling the necklace in
her hand. Why would she want to let go? It had found its rightful owner.
It belonged to her now.

For eons water had
cascaded through the mountains, dissolving some rock away, while
elsewhere it remained steadfast. Water, the life force of the
mountain. Shaping, transforming and bringing it to life. The solid
taking on structure, the seemingly inert alighting with vigor.

The energy of the
earth that builds the mountain, then bears the burden of its existence, as it
does for all things.

Life can be
sheltered in the mountain, but held in the darkness, carried by streams into the
light once more. Ferried by the tributaries which nurture and nourish the land. Channelling the
seemingly dead and lifeless elements from which all living things
grow, reborn and reawakened.

The most precious
veins in the rock are not those that can be shaped by fire and force,
but those that are nurtured and molded by nature. The hearth that is
the sun, the anvil that is the land and the forge, life itself. Their creations
brought forth by the craftswoman whose skills outweigh all others.

That which is born
from the rock, is returned to the earth, imbued with some of its
strength. Sharing the spirit of the land and the beating heart of the
mountain.

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