Chapter 2-2
1026 Words
The sharp piping of the oystercatcher penetrated her mind, and she struggled through the golden mist. The second stack remained as it was, stark, bleak, cold, with the battered sword thrust into that block of rough-hewn granite.
Melcorka took a deep breath. Which was her destiny? What should she choose? She looked past the sea-stacks to where the ocean met the sky in the hard line of a horizon unbroken by land or sail.
The oystercatcher fluttered around the cavern and landed at her feet.
"Well, black and white bird," Melcorka said, "I thought you were going to guide me?"
The oystercatcher gave its high-pitched, piping call and did not move. The music from the harp grew louder, enticing her to look once more at that platform. The god-man lay on the shimmering couch, sipping from a golden goblet while his left hand idly strummed the harp. He looked at her, smiled and motioned her close.
For a moment, Melcorka allowed her eyes to wander over his body, lingering where they wished, and then she stepped back.
"No," she said. "I was not brought up in idleness and dissipation." She stepped away and headed for the right-hand stack, where the sword remained in place, unadorned, uninviting: ugly.
Melcorka took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and marched along the foot-wide bridge to the platform. As she moved, a rising wind plucked at her, flaring her leine so it ballooned around her waist and tossing her hair into a mad black frenzy around her face.
Melcorka straightened her leine, flicked the hair from her face, stubbornly held it in place with her left hand and strode on. She had made her decision; there was no going back. As she stumbled, the ground crumbled beneath her feet, with pieces of rock breaking from the edges of the bridge to fall, end over end, down to the sea. Melcorka watched one fist-sized boulder slide away and unconsciously counted the seconds until it vanished. She did not see the splash.
This bridge is disappearing, Melcorka said to herself. She lengthened her stride and nearly ran to the sea-stack.
This bridge is disappearingThe sword remained where it was, uncompromising, static in its granite bed, with the sharkskin grip on the hilt part unravelling and flapping in the gusting wind.
"Here I am!" Melcorka shouted. "What happens now?"
There was no answer.
"So where is my destiny?" Melcorka looked around. "Is this it?"
Nothing appeared to have changed. The rock stack still thrust upward from the sea, connected to the island by that slender bridge of crumbling rock. The wind still blew… Melcorka suddenly realised that something had changed. She looked to the second stack where the god-man had sat on silken cushions and strummed his harp. Mist coiled round and round the stack, rising from the sea like a grey snake that opened its mouth to envelop the column of rock. As Melcorka watched, it covered the god-man, who aged before Melcorka"s eyes.
hadThe young man thickened around the waist; his hair thinned and greyed. His shoulders stooped, his belly bulged, and then he was middle-aged with pouchy eyes, and suddenly he was old, while the gold flaked from the harp and the silk faded to a lifeless grey.
"So what now?" Melcorka asked, as the other stack disappeared behind the screen of mist.
"It"s your destiny if you grasp it." The voice was clear in her head.
It"s your destiny if you grasp itMelcorka took hold of the hilt of the sword. There was nothing else to grasp. Immediately she did so, the granite in which it was embedded began to move. Melcorka stepped back as the rock split, with the top opening up and the lower section remaining fast to the stack. The sword was merely a lever; reality lay inside the rock it had opened.
Melcorka stepped closer. Within the solid granite sat her destiny. It lay on a bed of chain mail, five foot in length with a blade of burnished steel, a hilt of ornate bronze with upturned quillons and a grip of polished sharkskin. She lifted it, marvelling at the balance. Her hand fitted around the grip as if she were born for it.
"I am Melcorka." She spoke her name softly, and then repeated it, louder. "I am Melcorka of the Cenel Bearnas." She lifted the sword high, testing it for weight as the blade sang a song that seemed familiar, yet thrilled her with a new sensation. The surge of power that ran up her arm infused her entire body, so she smiled, and then laughed with this new feeling.
"I name you Defender," Melcorka said, as she swung and thrust as if she had done so all her life.
She looked back into the granite box, lifted the mail shirt and immediately slipped it on; it was as light as a second skin. She twisted left and right, surprised at her ease of movement. There was also a helmet of plain steel that fitted close to her head and a long-bladed dirk that she secreted under her left arm.
Now I look like a warrior, Melcorka said to herself. All I lack is the skill. She looked around. But how am I to get off this island?
Now I look like a warriorAll I lack is the skillBut how am I to get off this island?She saw the grapnel land a few steps from her feet. The hooks scrabbled on the surface and then held. A hand appeared, and Oengus" head bobbed over the edge. "Here you are then, Melcorka." A grin spread across his grizzled face. "Bearnas said you would choose the sword."
"You knew about all this?" Melcorka indicated the twin stacks with their contrasting contents.
"All Cenel Bearnas has been through it," Oengus looked her up and down. "You look good in chain."
"What would have happened if I had chosen the harp?"
"Oh, you"d be dead by now," Oengus said cheerfully. "Are you coming down, or do you prefer to remain here and play with your new toy?"
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