The Chronicle of the Golden Orb: Chapter 8

[cinzazul]

Chapter 8
To the student of history, the role of the Golden Orb must seem a strange thing indeed. Appearing first in one place and then another, never acting quite the same way twice, first aiding one group and then causing another harm. Does the Orb itself spawn conflict or is it a tool of a higher power, a device intended to shape the order of the world or to ease the coming of a greater power? During the times when the Orb does not appear active in the world is it hidden in the possession of powerful wizards and warlords, or is it simply recharging?
In a time of nobility when a great king united many lands and peace spread across the length and breadth of the newly formed nation, there was a dark, black forest. In a time of chivalry, when armored knights would dismount to show homage and to offer safe passage to maidens, there was a dark, black cave in a dark, black forest. In a time of romance and intrigue, when crops were plentiful and bandits scarce, there was a wild man of dubious hygiene living in a dark, black cave in a dark, black forest. This wild man went by the name of Liebfel. He wore shirts woven of hair, and sandals made from stout bark shod his feet. In the dark, black forest in his dark, black cave the wild man sat and ate his dark yeasty bread and thin tepid broth. It was meager fare for one who once stood head and shoulders above any challenger on the field of battle. But the wild man had put that behind him now.
Life was good in the dark, black wood. All that was necessary for a long, happy life could be found here in the wilderness; animals were company and fellowship, the cave was shelter, and forage was plentiful. The memories of court life grew dim in the wild man’s graying head. The only memory that yet burned bright was that of a beautiful female face haloed by long, flowing, golden locks. When thoughts turned to this memory and this face, it took all of his discipline to stay his feet from leaving the dark, black cave and the dark, black forest and setting out to the southeast. But if he allowed his feet to lead him, would they be leading him to passion or to vengeance? There was too much of the holy in the heart of the wild man to follow, and too much of the profane in his memories to forget what made him want to go. The discipline of the soldier remained in his breast and pulsed with his heart’s strong rhythm. And so the wild man tended his garden of radishes, cabbage, and wild wheat and gathered berries, wild mushrooms, and herbs from the forest. There was contentment in a dark, black cave within a dark, black forest as the seasons changed, the nights grew longer, and the darkness grew more pronounced and more black.
In the capital city of the nation, a brave and wise king presided over a banquet to honor a gathering of the bravest knights of the realm.
“I have a tale to tell,” King Arthur proclaimed. “It is tradition for one to tell a story before we dine here at our Round Table. Tonight I will be the one to tell the tale. Yet it is greater than a tale for you all shall play a part in it.”
The king’s knights shifted in their seats, some arrested in mid-bite by the proclamation now swallowed and glanced at their fellows sheepishly.
“I forgot story time,” one knight whispered to another as he wiped grease from his beard.
“I was in the great forest hunting a White Stag that appears in this land once every seven years,” the King continued. “I became separated from my hunting companions and though I blew my horn, no response returned to me except for the braying of my hounds. The Stag was not far; it had disappeared into a thicket close by. I dared not halt my mount in the chase and wait for my men lest the Stag escape and I be forced to wait another seven years with the memory of my failure fresh in mind.”
A small serving boy stood with a wineskin half raised to refill a knight’s goblet. His eyes shone as he listened to the king’s tale. The knight, Sir Parlene, whose goblet waited outstretched, kicked the boy with his pointed boot and grunted, “Pour, boy, and mind you do not spill a drop.”
“In the clearing beyond the thicket there was a calm, beautiful lake. In the midst of this lake standing upon the very surface of the water was a woman of shining aspect and sparkling raiment,” the king paused and searched the faces of his knights. “Aloft in her right hand she held the sword you now see belted at my side. Its craftsmanship is unequaled in all the land, and my wizard has prophesied that as long as it remains unbroken this nation I have built will endure. In her left hand she held a Golden Orb perfect in symmetry and glowing with a light all its own. The White Stag I had sought lay in the grass before the lake, its proud antlers bowed in reverence before the heavenly beauty of the lady. She spoke to me then, and her voice was as the voice of many birds, achingly beautiful yet her words were clear, and it was as if she spoke directly in my ear.” A lone tear slipped from the noble king’s eye and ran down into his long flowing beard.
“She told me of three signs, two of which I have fulfilled, for all here know how I came to possess this blade and how this company was gathered together to fight for justice throughout the land.” The knights smiled at these words and some started to raise a cheer but Arthur was not finished. “Yet one sign which she told has yet to be fulfilled, and it is for this reason that I called you here today.”
The serving boy, his wine skin emptied, hovered near the wall hanging covering the entrance to the kitchen. He knew he would be beaten if he tarried much longer, but the chance to hear a tale told by the king was not a common thing.
“The Golden Orb, that which the Lady held in her left hand. This is the last sign and its absence could spell doom for us all. I have learned that others seek it. We dare not allow this sign of God’s favor to fall into the hands of those who do not prize justice and honor as dearly as we. I have consulted with my wise men and sent far and wide to the libraries of distant lands for knowledge and even rumors of this Orb. My wizards, my astrologers, and my alchemists cannot tell me the meaning of it, for there are only the slightest, slightest whispers of such a thing. The bones of chance have been cast again and again, but they fall on end and refuse to foretell what will come to pass. I would go out and search myself, but the Lady said it was not for my hands to find, but that one who came to my next feast would be honored to discover it. So I turn to you, my bravest knights gathered here today. The future of our great land is put in your hands. Rise up if you accept this quest!”
With a great cheer, the assembled throng of knights rose to their feet and pledged to right wrongs, serve justice, and to seek unceasingly for a sign of the Golden Orb. By the kitchen door the young boy mouthed the oath along with the knights before a fat hand snaked out and grabbed him, pulling him in to get back to work. Merlin, the chief wizard, imparted the things the knights needed to be aware of and precautions that must be followed to remain safe while on the quest.
“Beware of yellow-eyed youths,” said the Wizard. His own yellow eyes roamed around the circular table, searching the faces of the knights. “Listen for bells where there are no bells, and if you hear them turn aside from the path you follow until the chiming ceases. Stay away from rings of mushrooms or from unseasonable flowers growing in a straight line. This quest will not be completed in a week, or a month, perhaps not even in a score of years, so be aware of the dates of power and do as I counsel on these days. Do not venture out on the first day of May, and bathe once a week in free-flowing water whether you think you need it or not. The midst of August holds the most promise for success. If you hear the shuffling of a hedgehog in the underbrush, but when you examine the spot find instead a coiled viper, then you will know that the Orb will never be found by you and you must return to Camelot to report your ill-fortune.”
In the grand kitchen of Camelot the young serving boy, called by all Pips though that was not the name his mother gave him, swept the floors and did his best to keep out of the path of his betters, namely everyone. It was hard work at a moment’s notice he might be sent hither or thither to fetch or carry, stir or mix, chop or dice. But it brought many experiences that he never would have imagined if he had remained in the village; from an early age he had been exposed to many fragrant smells and interesting flavors. His gag reflex had been lost long ago while washing down the carts used to carry the swine to the butchery yard.
The same day that the king’s knights headed out on their great quest, Pips was sent out with a number of the kitchen staff charged with procuring supplies from a trading party that had come to the town. The trading party was a ragtag group of Gypsies who claimed allegiance to none of the great lords and came from nowhere in particular, at least nowhere they would admit to. They appeared and disappeared according to their whim and as such were not well trusted by those they traded with. But the quality of their goods and the rarity of the spices they sometimes brought was more than enough to pique the interest of the head chef of the king's kitchen.
Pips had never been to a Gypsy encampment before and the riot of colors decorating their strange wagons impressed the young boy, not to mention the effect it had on the huge chef who led the procurement party.
“Stay close to me,” the rotund gourmand commanded. “Do not touch anything, do not taste anything, and if you find a good deal count your money twice before returning it to your pockets.”
The various wagons held different amounts of interest for the different members of the group and it was not long before everyone had split off to a corner, here fingering delicate cloth, there sampling strange sweets. Left to his own devices, Pips drifted to a wagon with a large number of dogs chained up alongside. Most of the dogs were asleep but one whined as it licked at a forepaw, worrying at the padded dewclaw with sharp little snaps of its jaw.
“Hey there boy,” said Pips. “Let me see what you’ve got there.”
The dog quieted at hearing the soothing sound of Pips’ voice and allowed him to examine his paw. A long thin thorn was driven deep into the flesh between two of the claws. Pips murmured sympathetically and patted the dog’s head with his left hand while gingerly touching the thorn with his right. Touching a certain point on the dog’s neck caused the mongrel to stiffen briefly before lapsing into measured deep breathing. A quick jerk and the thorn was out, a few thick drops of blood began to course from the wound. Pips cupped the paw firmly in both hands and raised the injured limb to his mouth. Opening his lips slightly he blew on the leg for a moment and then let the paw fall back to the ground. The bleeding had stopped and there was no sign of the injury on the foot.
Pips rocked on his haunches for a moment before leaning back and sitting down heavily. His breathing was a little shallow but as he petted the dog his breath slowly returned. In a few moments he heard one of the other kitchen boys calling his name, so he patted the dog again and ran off in the direction of the voice. He didn’t notice a large Gypsy woman pick up the dog after he left, nor did he notice her carrying the animal into the largest of the wagons. Later, after the shopping had been completed and the haggling over the charges was finished the band of kitchen workers headed back towards the castle. No one noticed the small group of tatterdemalion men that followed at a distance.
That night, hours after he had gone to bed, Pips was surprised and awakened by a strong hand clamping down over his mouth. This was soon followed by rags which were shoved in tight when he tried to shout. His surprise mixed with terrified alarm when he opened his eyes just as a rough sack was slipped over him and he felt himself turned head over heels and slung across a muscular shoulder. His captors were incredibly quiet as they carried the struggling Pips out of the servants’ quarters and out into the stable area of the castle. There Pips was placed across the saddle of a pony, a strong animal just the right size for a runaway kitchen boy to steal along with the gold from the head chef’s storeroom and a week’s worth of provisions. That way everyone would think that he had run away and no one would suspect a sinister hand in the matter.
Just beyond the castle walls where an unconscious set of guards stood watch or more properly where an unconscious set of guards laid watch, the Gypsy men were careful to erase all sign of their passage save the hoof prints of the pony which one of their number led in the opposite direction from the encampment.
A search was mounted, but when the tracks led to a fast running river it was widely assumed that the stupid boy had drowned trying to force a fording at the wrong point. There was a hard winter coming and not much thought was given to the runaway kitchen boy save for a few curses at the loss of the gold and the pony. The Gypsy encampment remained in place for a week to ease suspicions that they might have harbored the youth. But then one day the wagons were closed up, hitched, and pointed towards balmier climes.
Throughout the land the king’s knights searched for any sign of the Golden Orb. Sir Venarast returned in mid December suffering from frostbite with wild tales of a band of yellow-eyed children running through the woods and howling at him. Sir Balast returned in early February with battered armor and a sour disposition. He was reticent to speak of his failure but eventually told of an upside-down monastery where demons stole his clothes and tempted him with carnal pleasure. Most of the court quietly laughed at this story for among the knights Sir Balast was widely considered to possess the ugliest face and only a demon would ever tempt him with carnal pleasure.
Spring came and the dark, black forest grew lighter, new leaves appeared and the wild man came out of his cave craving meat and new garments. On his back he slung a hunting bow and a quiver of long fletched arrows. He melted into the forest like a spirit and stalked an old buck past its prime, on feet that did not break even a single twig.
Liebfel crouched in the brush, his brown garments newly patched with green leaves tied by strips of grass. His breathing was quiet but his eyes were fast darting every which way to be sure to block his quarry’s escape.
The old buck raised its broken antlers from the brook where he had been drinking. Liebfel would not kill near the water because the scent of blood and signs of struggle would keep other animals away from the watering spot, and he knew other hunters than he used the spot. The sunlight shone down through broad leaves and cast swaying shadows across the surface of the running water. The buck turned its wide face and pawed at the mud of the brook bank. Quickly turning, the buck leapt between two trees and flashed off down the trail. But Liebfel was already quick on its heels dashing from tree to tree keeping the deer in his sight. For at least half a mile he followed close enough to see his quarry, but despite its age the buck was fleet and soon Liebfel fell back on following the tracks along the trail. On the edge of a clearing the buck stopped, drawing up close at the unexpected presence of garishly colored wagons and the sound of busy men.
The buck stood silent, wondering if it would not be best to return the way it had come, but it took too long in its deliberations and the pointed shaft of a long arrow sprouted like a summer rose from its lithely muscled neck. The buck sank to its knees as its lifeblood ebbed out like a gushing fountain. Suddenly Liebfel was upon it twisting the noble head quickly to the side to end the beast’s suffering. It was poor luck, Liebfel thought to himself, that had brought the buck to this clearing. Poor luck for the buck because now it was dead, but poor luck for Liebfel as well, for the company of his fellow men was something he had given up by choice. The killing of the deer had already brought curious Gypsy folks out from their wagons to offer a hand and no doubt claim a portion of the meat. He would not begrudge them this, for it was the wild man’s way to always be hospitable to those he came across. Still he gritted his teeth a little as a group of Gypsy men approached.
“Hail, wild man,” the leader of the group cried. “Need you help in preparing your kill?”
“I am capable,” Liebfel replied. “But I am oath-bound to never rebuff a hand raised in friendship. Come, and as we share the labor so shall we share the meat.”
The Gypsies and Liebfel made short work of skinning and quartering the carcass. Large stew pots were pulled down from the tops of wagons and many vegetables and spices were added in preparation for a large dinner. Ah well, Liebfel thought as he saw the number of people in this encampment, I can always hunt another day. Perhaps it has been too long since my voice was used to speak to other men, and my ears do grow weary hearing only the music of the forest. Mayhap these fellows have a fiddle or two among them.
The idle musing proved prophetic in its understatement. Fiddles and pipes and instruments that Liebfel had never heard before produced music that the Gypsy folk danced and sang with. They were a dark skinned people, with long flowing hair prominent on both the men and the women. Facial hair was sparing among the men, but the eldest had long mustaches braided and tied below the chin. Liebfel felt out of place and his face was the palest he saw save for one, a young boy who kept the company of the camp dogs.
“Surely,” Liebfel asked the man who had first approached him. “he is not of your kin. For his features are too light and his hair too fair.”
“We are the guardians of this boy,” replied the Gypsy. “He bore the signs that we were long ago told to seek. And when we found one such as he we were charged with delivering him to a certain place, on a certain night, when a certain wild man of the dark, black forest would come and pay for his passage with the flesh of the king of the deer.”
An old woman came from the shadows that gathered beneath the largest wagon. “That night is this night. That place is this place. That wild man is you. As it was foretold so we have done. We thank you for your offering, although you did not know what you gave. We entrust you with this boy, although you do not know what it is you take. Soon all will be revealed and you can rest from your labor, wild man of the dark, black forest.”
So saying, the old woman drew Pips away from the dogs that he had cared for these long months and put his hand in the hand of the stunned Liebfel.
“I had not hoped my duty would be discharged so soon,” Liebfel mumbled to himself. “Two hundred years is a short guardianship indeed. Yet I do grow weary, and from these events I am assured that a higher power is looking down and smiling upon my service.”
In the morning, the wild man and the young kitchen boy left the Gypsy encampment together. The Gypsies returned the money they had stolen into Pips’ purse but asked him if he would not tell the head chef who it had been that had spirited him away, for the Gypsies were careful never to sour a business relationship if they could help it. Pips walked through the forest, his head held high, with a feeling of supreme contentment. It was as if his entire short life had been building up to this moment. All the hardship of kitchen life, all the disappointments that had been visited upon his small frame seemed to melt away in the early sunlight. The world was good and it was good to be in the world. Liebfel said nothing as they walked but tears glistened on his cheek and ran into his long unkempt beard. He sensed the pureness of soul possessed by the young boy and was at once glad and sorrowful that his charge was being passed on to one so young.
It was mid afternoon when they reached the wild man’s cave. Liebfel struck sparks with flint inside the entrance and lit a torch illuminating the inner recesses of the cavern. The cave floors and walls were richly furnished with fine rugs and tapestries. Furniture made of cedar wood and covered with silken pillows decorated the living space. Pips stood with his mouth agape staring around in wonder. He turned back to the entrance of the cave but discovered that what had once been a stony hole was now a large brass entranceway with a heavy, intricately carved door in the center. Turning to Liebfel he no longer saw the shaggy woodsman that had brought him here, but instead a fine-featured youth, tall in limb and fair in face.
“Do not be alarmed,” said the figure. “I am Liebfel, the same wild man that led you here. Fate has chosen you to carry on a great and sacred charge.”
Liebfel opened an ornate box set on a pedestal in the center of the room. From within the velvet-lined chest he drew forth a gleaming Golden Orb.
“This is called the Orb of Life and the Sun Ball, the Gleaming One and the Desire Sphere, it has many names. It has been sought for generations and I myself have guarded over it for two hundred years. It has been revered in pagan temples and depicted on tapestries of the life of our lord. This do I impart to you; you are its guardian, not its master, remember that one thing and life will be good and long for you. Those you bless will be blessed indeed, and those you curse will bear the shame of it for seven generations.”
Liebfel placed the Orb in Pips’ hands.
“There are many who would kill to possess this,” Liebfel said with a sad look in his eyes, “but I give it freely to you. As you too must someday freely pass it on. The manner of the passing will not be the same as it was for me, perhaps you will have a son and he will carry on the charge. I once thought that would be my fate.”
The sad look in Liebfel’s eyes deepened as he remembered the woman’s face that had long haunted his dreams. Now he could turn his feet to the southeast without guilt. Not for vengeance but to pay final respects at the grave of her whom he had lost.
When Pips took possession of the ball it was as if a sluice gate opened in his mind. Knowledge and secrets spilled into him like water into a bottomless hole. He remembered the king’s words from the banquet hall that night and knew what he had to do. Taking his leave of Liebfel, he walked with confidence through the dark, black forest towards Camelot.
Pips went first to the head chef and returned the gold that had been stolen. The chef was incredulous about the story Pips told of being captured by giants and locked up in a dank tower. But when he produced the Golden Orb as proof of his escape the chef informed the head porter who informed the king’s cup-bearer who informed the king that the great quest had come to an end.
The knights that had undertaken the quest were surprised and Arthur incredulous at seeing the former kitchen boy carrying the golden Orb that they had long sought. Merlin looked into the eyes of the boy and proclaimed that it was what was meant to be and that truly the boy was the rightful guardian of the Orb. Arthur embraced him and declared that he would be the royal standard bearer until he was of the age to be trained as a knight of the round. For he had proven his valor. Merlin winked at Pips when the story of the giants was told and took him aside to ask if the Gypsy encampment was still home to a young woman named Nimue.