A Dangerous Glimpse: Part 4

The dimming blue sky was entering its eventide as Miss Yarieal reached the end of the long dusty road.  The guardian–Baas–had spoke truthfully about the distance but the young woman was not remotely an athlete.  Her feet were sore and numbing as the soft crunch of soil transitioned to the clopping of brick path.

Miss Yarieal had arrived at one of the planet’s cities.  She couldn’t read whatever language was on the occasional post and sign but learning its name wasn’t a priority.  She wasn’t disappointed by its grander but the excellence didn’t surprise her either.  Slate and tan architecture molded with the spreading moss of the surrounding jungle.  Many buildings were coated with vines and the firm trees divided roads when they weren’t built alongside/into.

Dangling from the sky were floating islands in many diverse shapes and sizes.  Some were far too high to distinguish but most were tethered by aged vines now anchored to specific plots.  Wooden stairways had been assembled to reach some of the larger islands for those lacking natural flight.  Something about seeing the occasional spritely figure zipping up freely to the cooler highs made Miss Yarieal grip her arms with discomfort.

As the night dimmed, it was contrasted by the overwhelming bounty of glowing orbs.  These too came in different hues and weights, being carried to the floating islands by nearly everyone.  In fact, the college student would only recognize the non-carriers as crowd controllers: indicating what paths were best for who.  And most dazzling–or concerning–were the angelic singing radiating from the glowing spheres.

Truly, it was a sight to behold but the masked student did not linger on admiring.  No matter the impressive landscape, she was stuck on an alien world with no guarantee that she could safely return home.  For all she knew, when she did get home, entire years might have passed.

Miss Yarieal hurried to one of the figures directing different groups.  He was this well-built man with long icy hair faded to white.  It floated in rhythm with his body and the half-torso toga he styled.  The muscular body exposed underneath made the approach slightly uncomfortable but not enough to dissuade the college student.

Miss Yarieal typed her greeting and held it out to the floating man.  She had his attention but the phone’s speakers were drowned in the crowds’ chatter.  The floating man was understanding enough to try and read the text instead but the phone was immediately knocked out of sight by a stray hand.  

The college student forgot all manners immediately.  She tore through the immediate obstacles walking past her, knocking a few travelers to the side on her way to where the phone went flying.  The floating man was quick to intervene before someone took enough offense to confront the masked woman but she wasn’t paying attention.  As soon as the floating man had caught up, he saw that the phone was located.

Miss Yarieal was on her knees, hunched over with her hands on her head.  The floating man saw the phone in her right grip: cracked and dented in.  It was simple enough to motion a few vendors nearby to take on the floating man’s position in directing the crowds.  From there, he carefully landed in front of the masked woman and waited for her to calm enough for discussion.

The crowds were too loud for a proper discussion, and the toga-wearing gentleman didn’t seem interested in raising his voice lest it agitate the visitor further.  Eventually, Miss Yarieal looked up toward him and he softly gestured for her to follow him aside.

The two had to walk a good thirty yards to find proper privacy.  Most of the businesses were closed for the event but there was a glasswork shop on the first level of some three-story building.  They were quite operational as they rushed to supply glass spheres to pour magic into.  When they saw the floating toga man, Miss Yarieal heard them call, “Aye, Morfacter?”

The floating man had a strong but wispy voice.  “A moment inside with this one if you could.”  The vendors nodded without hesitation: opening their stone gate and then the wood-stone doorway inside.

The interior was a workshop for certain.  Wood, stone, glass, metal, leather, and so on were molded into endless types of art.  Familiar and foreign simple machines populated most of the area along with the occasional stool lining long flat worktables.  The toga-wearing man sat Miss Yarieal in front of a table.  She placed her caved-in technology down and continued staring down at it.

“Much better in here, yes?” the toga man prompted.  Miss Yarieal just tilted her head up and sighed to respond.  The man moved past the pleasantries and cut to the chase.  “That was important to you.  It is a communicator?  I’ve heard about things like those.  Well, now that we can hear each other, you can tell me what you need.”

The toga-wearing man tensed as he saw the student’s fingers curl against the table but Miss Yarieal relaxed a moment later.  She made a motion with her hands, like she was writing.  All the while, she didn’t look to the man.  He could gather why.  “You… cannot speak?”

“I can talk…” she scratched out.  “Talking… hurts… a lot.”

The toga man didn’t waste time.  Parchment and pen were readily available and luckily, he recognized the language his visitor wrote in.  It took a few minutes for her to detail her predicament.  More than once, she had to wave her hands about to dull the strain.  But it was worth it.  Across two pages, she had explained her method of arriving in Aridin, her desire to return home, her encounter with Baas, and her attachment to the now dead phone.

After careful study, the toga man prioritized, “Baas, how far is he?”  The masked girl just shrugged with a faint gesture in the direction she arrived from.  The way her head turned about after pointing told the toga man that she wasn’t actually sure which direction was the right one at this point.  He continued, “Well, after the Tura Doraci is done, we can–”

Miss Yarieal shook her head rapidly.  “Now… or… tell more people now.”

“And in return, he will open a portal for you to go home?  What if he–” Again he was stalled by the visitor’s indignation: this time but a sigh and slouch.  Relenting, the toga man explained, “If you show me where you came from, I am sure a portal to your home can be found or made.  But you seem insistent on helping your friend.  If you will allow me, I can do something about your voice.”

This offer made the visitor stumble back off the stool.  The toga man insisted, “Temporary, I promise!  Only if you wish.  Besides, if you need to tell more people, being able to speak more will be necessary.”  

Still, she shook her head.  But she had the decency to partially explain in writing.  

“It won’t work.  If you’re suggesting magic.  It won’t work.”  She saw how this irritated her acquaintance and it was uncomfortable.  She held her arms like before in the unsettling silence until an idea struck.  She wrote again, “Maybe I can make it easier for you to tell the others.”  The toga-wearing man folded his arms and awaited elaboration.  The masked woman removed her right glove and held it out to him.

 

Some half hour later, the two were in the dense garden pathways atop a larger floating island.  Structures speckled the entire area with flat, floating surfaces orbiting overhead.  These had smaller gardens with trailing, magical steps behind them.  Covering everything that wasn’t path, light, or plant-life were these black marble posts with wide sockets at the top.  Atop these, the people offered their magical orbs.  Every time one was installed, its color spread out through the surface like veins and nerves before fading to the base of their respective posts.  However, at this point, there were no longer enough orb posts to offer to.  And that was what the toga man and Miss Yarieal had hoped for.

As one of the organizers, the toga-wearing man was permitted to fly himself and Miss Yarieal to one of the smaller platforms pathing circularly at the center of the island.  The masked woman, with her one bare hand, held her palm to the backside of the toga-wearing man.  A faint white shine spread between them as the man took in a breath, and called out, “Friends, may I have your time for a moment?”  It bellowed softly but loud, as if echoing in every part of the city and islands.

It took a strong minute before enough of the celebrators quieted down enough for the man to proceed.  Like at the glass shop, many addressed the man as Morfacter: asking what bad news he had.  But the toga-wearing man chuckled back, “No no, no ill omens today.  But I have noticed a great excess.  You have all demonstrated such…” he held up a tight fist with pursed lips, “firm dedication and appreciation for our great benefactors.  Grali Omt Telkail would surely grant everyone the strength to tread worlds for such pains as these…” 

The hand was lowered.  “But we have filled our capacity for these posts.  Would any of you feel it just to not be recognized for your labors?  Channeling your unique magic is one task, and then to contain it safely in a vessel and make the trek here.  But too many have been forced to plant their orbs on the surface when that is not our custom.”

The people were not yet arguing so after examining their expressions, this “Morfacter” continued.  “It will take time before more ceremonial islands are ready.  But for now, our offerings can be better spent purifying the soil of our roads.  There is a temple–one of our pantheon–not two hours from our city.  Its builders were faithful and we would do well to honor their dedication by bringing our remaining offerings there.  There is a great guardian in need at its entrance.  Some may recall the name of ‘Baas’.”

The toga-wearing Morfacter looked surprised when people actually seemed to recognize the name.  He felt Miss Yarieal’s power intensifying through him.  So he finished, “To those who may be reluctant, please, remain as you will.  No one may shame you.  But the night is young, and I will take all who are willing down the road.  For the guardian.  For Tura Doraci!”

And he had won them.  They had won them.  A notable two-hundred of the citizens and travelers from other lands and worlds swarmed to meet Morfacter and his mysterious ally at the edge of the city.  Sculptures, woodworkers, and powerful magic-channelers created new–if temporary–posts for the remaining orbs.  Far off at the ruins of the temple, with its stone statues, and lone guardian, the sound of song and footsteps in droves grew from a faint illusion to a roaring sound.

 

The guardian had been remembered.