The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (27 page)

It was virtually impossible to continue her journey without light. Sulaf could hardly see the back of her hand, let alone the stone path from which she had wandered. With no other option, Sulaf decided to stay where she was. She lay down on the uneven ground. It was damp, and her cotton shawl absorbed the moisture, making it extremely uncomfortable. She tried to sleep, but she kept thinking about everything the guide had said. He was clearly frightened by the mountain; she wondered what kind of stories he had heard. The more Sulaf thought about it, the more alarmed she became. She shook her head, trying to push out every scary thought. All she wanted was to fall asleep, but it was too cold. It was obvious that she was ill-prepared; if she had known that the guide would abandon her here, she would have thought twice about coming. Sulaf wished she had taken the sheepskin blanket, but it was too heavy so she had left it.

It was so cold. The chill winds climbed up the mountain, becoming stronger as the night passed. Her muscles tensed up; they felt hard, like blocks of ice, and she was shivering uncontrollably. Sulaf placed her goatskin bag beneath her head, using it as a pillow. ‘Even love can turn to poison,’ she murmured to herself. The words of her dead father echoed in her mind, for reasons she could not understand. Each word he spoke was like a knot in her throat being untangled and tugged at by her reason. Her only source of comfort was the knowledge that Marmicus would fall in love with her, thanks to the oracle’s powers. Just as she drifted into the realm of sleep, a faint noise came from behind her – the sound of leaves being crushed underfoot. Sulaf wanted to turn around; she knew she should, but in the dark she lacked the courage. Instead she shut her eyes, closing them so tightly that it was painful. She hoped that, by ignoring the noise, it would disappear.

Sulaf remained still, every muscle in her body clenched like a rope being twisted to breaking point. She heard another movement, this time louder. And closer. Sulaf felt helpless. She could see nothing: even if she plucked up the courage to turn her head, she would not be able to see what was behind her. Her instincts were telling her to remain still; perhaps the presence would not see her and would disappear. Then she felt a warm tingling sensation that seemed to brush against her neck. It was someone’s – or something’s – breath.

Sulaf slowly turned her head, her heart pounding so violently that she felt a cramp in her chest. It was the last thing she had expected to see: standing next to her was a child no older than eight, watching her intently. Her skin was white, almost glowing, as if illuminated by the purest light. The child smiled as she got up, and held out her hand. Oddly, her bare feet appeared clean, as if the soil could not stain her skin. Whoever she was, she did not belong in the wilderness.

‘Come,’ the young girl whispered as she held out her hand. ‘The oracle awaits your presence.’

The child guided Sulaf up through the Black Mountain, passing large stones that resembled the figures of men, women and children. The final steps, the little girl told her, were to be walked alone. Sulaf crossed a small stream, walking slowly towards a wooden shack that stood alone in the wilderness. A dim light coming from the windows guided her towards it. Finally she reached it. She pressed her hands against the wooden door and it creaked open. She had been surrounded by darkness for so long that the rush of colour from the light instantly burned her eyes. She entered the shack, and the wooden door shut behind her with a loud thud.

‘Is anyone here?’

There was no answer. A tight feeling gripped her; she felt claustrophobic and scared. It was the kind of feeling a child has when they enter a new place alone. Sulaf looked up at the ceiling. There were small straw dolls hanging from hooks let into the timber roof beams. They were tied by the necks with horse hair and an all-seeing eye had been painted on their heads, and words stitched into their bodies. They twisted eerily in slow spirals. Sulaf looked at them closely. They were each a different shape and size; it looked as though they were in pain, from the way they hung by their necks, each one glaring at her with its painted eye. Sulaf crouched down, trying her best to avoid hitting them. They covered the entire ceiling, and crouching seemed to make no difference at all; they were everywhere, clawing at her head and catching her hair as she walked below them.

‘What is this place?’ Sulaf whispered. She pushed aside some of the dolls, trying to make a path for herself, and it was then she realised that what appeared to be horse hair tied around their necks was altogether finer.
Human hair?
Sulaf looked at another doll – one which caught her attention. Unlike the rest, its hair was blonde, and unlike the rest, upon its chest were the words ‘jealous soul’. It was staring into Sulaf’s eyes, as though it was a reflection of her inner self.

‘You must learn to control your curiosity, Sulaf; it has always led you into trouble,’ croaked a voice. Sulaf turned around, her spirit almost escaping from her body as she looked at the hideous creature hiding in the shadows. Lying on the floor was what Sulaf assumed to be the oracle; no amount of darkness could conceal her ghastliness. Her back was hunched, like the crescent moon. Sulaf tried to control her reaction; she tried to keep her eyes on the oracle’s face but they naturally slipped to the rest of her body. Her legs were most frightening of all: they were long and deformed, appearing as the twisted roots of an oak tree, flowing free from her body in either direction.

‘How do you know my name?’

‘I know much more than that, my child …’

The oracle neared Sulaf, dragging her body across the floor like an animal that had lost the use of its hind legs. Her sharp nails scraped against the ground, making a dreadful splintering sound. Sulaf tried her best not to be frightened by her ghastly appearance, but it was hopeless; she could not conceal her fear. The oracle’s eyes were a clouded white, with neither pupil nor iris. Sulaf thought she must be blind, but oddly, the oracle appeared to be glaring at her, as if she could see her clearly. The oracle dragged her body further into the light, her hideousness becoming more apparent. Her lips drooled with thick saliva and the muscles of her eyes seemed to be in spasm. She had no trace of beauty; instead, there was only ghastliness to shy away from. Her fingers were deformed. They were long and thin, curling round, like her feet, the joints bulging out like the stumps of withered limbs.

‘Will you help me to my seat, dear child?’ the oracle croaked. Her breath poisoned the stale air. Sulaf clutched the old woman’s hands; she felt the oracle’s long, dirty nails dig into her skin as she did so.

‘Who told you I was coming?’

‘Why, it was you! Or have you forgotten all that was said between us?’

‘You’re mistaken. This is the first time I’ve ever met you,’ Sulaf said, lifting the old crone from the floor and helping her to sit on a wooden log that had been carved into a seat.

‘That may be, but I’ve met you many times before this moment – in spirit.’ The oracle whispered the words, almost in a hiss. She directed Sulaf to sit beside her on the floor.

‘I’ve no memory of our encounters.’

‘No memory?’ the oracle shrieked excitedly. The muscles of her eyes flickered madly; her spit burst out of her mouth. ‘Do you remember your infancy?’

Her question seemed bizarre.
Perhaps she is mad …

‘No, of course I don’t. Few do.’

‘Then how do you know you’ve lived through it, if you can’t remember all of it? Memories mean nothing; we only remember what we choose to, and never the whole journey of our lives.’

‘That doesn’t explain how you know my name, or that I was coming.’

‘I heard your voice in my dreams, just like all the others who call out to me,’ the oracle whispered as she traced her dirty nail over Sulaf’s cheek. ‘You see, my dearest, when a mortal sleeps, he does not die, nor does he live; instead, his spirit wanders across the earth, looking for something that will guide it to its destiny. Some spirits wander into peaceful sanctuaries, thinking of places they’ve seen or lost; they find comfort in these petty things. But other souls, like yours, wander further, into places that call out to their desires. I call them the wanderers of the night, for they are lost, and the only power that can bring them back home is the fulfilment of their desires. So you see, my child, I know everything about you. I summoned you to come to me so that I may free you.’

As Sulaf listened intently, she understood what the oracle had meant: she had become so consumed by Marmicus that she depended on him entirely, needing his love simply to survive. Every day she yearned for him, both awake and asleep.
As long as the princess remains alive in his memories, she will drag his heart to the bottom of the sea and he shall never come to know the pleasures that lie upon the shore
.

The oracle watched her attentively. Unbeknown to Sulaf, she possessed a rare and powerful gift; the oracle could hear Sulaf’s thoughts as if she were speaking aloud. She had been born with this gift, and curse; it was the strongest weapon she possessed, for it allowed her to sift through past memories until she found a person’s greatest weakness. Sulaf turned towards the oracle, her heart awakening with new hope. She would seek her powers to grant her the man she adored.

‘Then you know why I’ve come here.’

‘I do, but you must say it out loud so that you give me permission to convince the forces of our universe.’

‘I will,’ said Sulaf. ‘I want you to free the heart of the man who clings to the love of another woman. Kill her from his memory, so he doesn’t think about her or feel for her any more. Let her die in his mind, just as she has died in spirit, and in body.’ Her voice trembled in desperation.

‘Is that all you wish for?’

‘No. Give me his heart, and make him become mine. I want him to fall in love with me and desire me, just as he loved her. Give me his heart, and I’ll reward you with all the gold I have.’

The words have finally been uttered
, the oracle thought.
Her soul shall soon belong to me …

‘Come, dear child, lay your head to rest upon my lap. I’ve always longed to be a mother and tonight I am proud to be one,’ hissed the oracle. Her smile became all the more frightening for her display of affection. Sulaf began to lower her head. As she did so, she heard a voice crying; it sounded like the girl who had taken her up the mountain. She was calling out to her, warning her to leave this place now. But Sulaf was focused on getting what she wanted, and she would not leave without the oracle’s blessing. The crying ceased as soon as she laid her head upon the oracle’s withered lap. The foul stench of her body pricked her nostrils, but Sulaf would tolerate it as long as the oracle granted her what she desired. She would even come to love her as a mother if she offered Marmicus’s heart and placed it in her hands.

‘Listen carefully, precious child. The man you love is like no other soul that breathes. His soul is chaste and his heart is pure. He’s true to his heart, just as he’s true to his Sword of Allegiance.’ The oracle gently ran her bony fingers through Sulaf’s hair. The dirt from her nails trickled into her hair. ‘The love this noble warrior possesses is rare. It cannot be destroyed or tainted with black magic, for wherever there is true love, my dear, magic has no power or place. As long as the Gallant Warrior thinks his princess to be dead, he shall love and cherish her memory as if she were alive. But the Gallant Warrior carries a guilt which should be laid to rest, for the woman you hate is in fact still living. The princess is alive and she will return to him soon – if you stand back and do nothing.’ The oracle’s thin whisper was barely audible, and she poisoned Sulaf’s ear with her foul breath.

How could the princess be alive if I’ve tossed petals at her burial chariot? The oracle’s lying; she’s deceiving me …

‘Wretched girl, I’m no liar!’ screeched the oracle, in a rage. Sulaf jumped back. The oracle’s murky white eyes filled with blackness, and her long, knotted hair rose up as if caught by a gust of wind. Sulaf wished she could take back her thought. The straw dolls swung erratically, twisting and shuddering as if they were in pain. Their painted eyes were fixed on her, as if trying to warn her not to anger the oracle.

‘Forgive me for thinking that; I’m just desperate for his love,’ Sulaf cried. Begging for forgiveness, she kissed the oracle’s deformed hand. The moment she did so, the oracle’s eyes reverted to their colourless shade. The dolls were still turning.

‘A mother always forgives the wrongs of her child,’ said the oracle as she lifted Sulaf’s chin with her long fingers. ‘Tonight you have become one of my own …’

In the blink of an eye the oracle’s anger drained away as though it had never been. It unsettled Sulaf, who tried her best to hide her inner thoughts, but the oracle seemed to possess a sixth sense that could catch her by surprise.

How could the princess be alive when I saw her lying lifeless?
Sulaf wondered.

‘Is it so hard to believe in miracles, my child?’

The oracle dragged her deformed body across the floor until she reached a low wooden table in the far corner of the shack. Her long arms pulled the weight of her body, causing her twisted legs to fold over with each movement.

Miracles are words used by those who believe in the gods, not for those who practise the dark art of demons.

‘You’re surprised by my choice of words?’ the oracle mused, turning her head. The bones of her neck cracked like twigs being broken.

‘I’m just a little confused. I never imagined you to believe in the gods or their miracles.’

‘What an absurd remark; every sorcerer believes in the gods, and those who don’t are foolish creatures indeed.’

‘Then why do you practise the art of black magic?’

‘My dear child, I said I believe in gods – but I didn’t say that I side with them. There’s an unseen war going on between gods and their angels, one that shall continue to be fought until the fire of our sun dies out,’ said the oracle. The muscles in her face were twitching. She rested her hands on the wooden table, upon which was a large basin, filled to the brim with water. ‘Come close to me; the time has come for us to call upon the angels of the fire for guidance.’