Michael J. DeLuca

         Dribble Castle was crumbling. The wind wore at its towers, the sea clawed at its foot. The carven children who stood on its balconies, who once had gazed with sad eyes across the waves, now had eyes no longer. And the other children, those who still had eyes because they looked away from the sea, who danced with smiling faces on the walls or stood beneath the archways playing silent waltzes on pipes of stone, seemed foolish, and just as blind.

         Each speck of dust that rode away upon the wind was as a grain of sand in a glass. Each hour the kingdom's lonely isle grew narrower. Where could its people seek shelter once the castle was consumed? They had not the art or the power to build it again—for it had been made by the gods. And who could tell but that after the waves took the castle, they would roll on until nothing remained?

         From time to time, a hero set out to slay one of the armored monsters that lurked in the tunnels at the brink of the sea, in hopes that one might be the source of the curse that every day brought the castle closer to ruin. Some of these heroes returned triumphant, each bearing a gore-stained smile and a single great claw slung across his saddle. Such brave deeds met ovation from the people. Others were never heard from again, and no one bothered to mourn them.

         Still the castle slowly washed away.

         Now the greatest of these heroes was called Hermit, for he was both warrior and holy man, and had not only slain countless monsters, but had taken one of their own caves for his home. There he dwelt alone, where the intrigues of the court could not touch him. No reward would he accept for his great deeds, save the privilege of gazing from the mouth of his cave on the mystery of the endless sea, and on the distant walls of his beloved Dribble Castle, with the knowledge that he had done all he could to keep the one from destroying the other.

         Yet Hermit was the greatest of heroes because he was wise as well as strong. He knew the truth of his kingdom's plight. The wind from the castle carried grit and dust. It wore his face numb; it tore away what tears he might have shed. The fading faces of the statues filled his thoughts.

         So it was that when the Hermit saw the tiny brown bird flying out of the sun, in the sky where long no bird had flown, there came to him the gleam of hope, and he was not surprised when the messenger arrived, summoning him to audience with the king. A prophet had come to the castle from over the sea. She announced herself only as Plover, and would speak with none save King Whelk himself. At once, the hero readied his mount and set forth.

         Were it not for the wind, it is sure there would be tears in the Hermit's eyes as the Dribble Castle's highest tower rose before him across the sand—its oldest and highest, as well as its most loved. When the sky was clear, the whole compass of the bay could be seen from the Northmost Tower's peak, where elsewhere the arms of the land sank into the sea. The undulating repetitions of its shape seemed in stillness to reflect the waves' inexorable motion, and by the fathomless artifice of its architects, its myriad faces somehow collected and cast back the crash of the surf, so that echoes could be heard through the castle's every corridor.

         The people looked to the Tower as a marker for their fate; poets said the kingdom's history was written in its shadow on the sand. But the Northmost Tower weathered history but poorly. Already it rocked with the wind, a tired sentinel, falling asleep on its feet. Still, there were fools who laughed at those who foretold doom, and swore it would never fall.

         The Hermit shook his head as he passed beneath the castle's eaves—for he was among the wise.

         In the vast, open hall where King Whelk held audience, the entire court awaited. With a flourish of horns, the heralds announced the Hermit's name, and a cheer rang from the vaults. The hero dismounted. His armor, which he himself had crafted from the bones of fallen foes, shone in the sunlight. Brandishing the great lance Clawbreaker, three times his own height and tipped with the blue-green banner of the sea gods, the Hermit laid it gently at the foot of the throne. He knelt and awaited his sovereign's command.

         The prophet Plover arose with swift grace from the king's side. She cast back her cowl, her long robes furling about her like brown wings. The prophet fixed her sharp, dark gaze upon the hero, and he gazed back, stunned to silence in spite of his holiness and wisdom. The ocean winds that drove her to these shores, the same whose unrelenting hunger wore away the walls of Dribble Castle, had left no mark on the prophet's fair face save a distant aloofness, like that of a wild creature.

         The king spoke gravely. "Rise, good Hermit, and listen."

         The prophet sang. "I have sailed far across the water. In the skies beyond the sea, I have seen this land's salvation. The gods of sea and storm, those who forged this land from laughter, laid a destiny upon it: an augury of rain. In the east, a storm is growing. Waves will rise against the shore, and the Northmost Tower must crumble. No hope can come to Dribble Castle, and all fortitudes will fail, until a hero can be found to seek the Light Beneath the Sea."

         The prophet paused, her lips parted. The entire court waited, not daring to hope.

         Then King Whelk heaved a sigh. "That is all she will say," said the king, "save her name, and a promise—"

         "Wait for the Turn of the Tide," she intoned, then shrouded her head and returned to her seat. The audience room erupted into clamor.

         The king struck his scepter on the floor and bellowed for silence. "What say you, Hermit? This mysterious quest undoubtedly will mean great peril. There seems little chance of its success. But you are the greatest hero this kingdom has known. If any among us can succeed, it is you. Will you do it? Will you search for this Light Beneath the Sea?"

         The hermit bent to lift his lance.

         "I will."

         Again the great hall resounded with cheers as the people applauded their champion.

         "Then go with our blessings," shouted the king, "and may the sea gods' will go with you!"

         The Hermit rode from the castle with the kingdom at his heels, their cheers echoing from the vaults. But at the gates, the crowd halted. Already, storm clouds gathered, blocking out the sun. But the Hermit did not falter. Undaunted, he broke from the multitude and raced alone across the sand.

         And lo, just as the Hermit plunged into the breakers, there came a thunderous gust from the storm and a sound like children's cries on the wind. Dribble Castle shuddered like a castle of sand, and the great spiral seashell plunged from the summit of the Northmost Tower and speared like a lance into the sand.

         The Hermit fought to keep his mount from foundering in the current's sudden rage. Somehow, he made his way forward, until at last the waves closed above the sea-green banner of his lance, and the roiling surface faded into jade fathoms overhead. There, at the edge of the surge, he halted. Where could he go? Where should he seek, in this vast realm that belonged to the gods? In spite of all the Hermit's wisdom, no answer came to him. He could do no more than choose a direction without aim.

         At first, the bed of the sea was like the land—a barren desert bounded by blue, swept by eddies of whirling sand, and dotted with the tunnels of ferocious beasts. The Hermit sought no challenge with these creatures, for though he had fought them all his life, and knew they were dangerous indeed, experience had taught him that no matter how many he could slay, it would do nothing to save his home. They were the gods' creatures, after all, and most, like the Hermit himself, sought only to live in peace in their seclusion. Did they not have as much right to life as he?

         Still, the Hermit was trespassing in their domain. When one beast ventured forth to block his path, the Hermit did not shy from battle, though it bore armor of plates like walls of stone and fought with a dozen clawed limbs, swinging its long tail like an iron rail with stinging barbs. By the time the monster finally fell, the sea gods' banner was torn and stained with gore—but the Hermit held it high, for he could not very well go back for another.

         At the edge of the desert, the sea floor fell away into green canyons, and the Hermit descended into writhing forests of kelp. How strange, he thought, that beneath the surface the sea could be so placid and serene, when where it met the shore it could be a force of such destruction!

         Lost in the fronds, the Hermit came upon a great cloud of tiny silver fish, darting and diving as they fed among the weeds, like a cache of silver coins given life and taught to dance by some magician's spell. The cloud of fish divided at the Hermit's approach, and spun around him. "I am the hero Hermit," he said, "the defender of Dribble Castle, and its champion. I am looking for the Light Beneath the Sea. Have you seen it?"

         "Why, you have found it already!" they cried.

         For a moment, the Hermit's heart leapt, but misgiving overcame his hope. Could it be so easy? "Where?" was all he said.

         "Look!" said the fish. "Look at how the light glitters on our scales! We've said to ourselves many times it would be worth a pilgrimage of a thousand fathoms to witness such a sight. You'll be the first to have done so, of course. Truly, we are most flattered. What is it you wish of us?"

         "Can you stop Dribble Castle from crumbling?" he asked.

         The silver fish all stopped their constant motion and glanced at their fellows, as if one might know the answer. But though their scales shone like quicksilver, there was no light in their eyes. They shook their heads as one, like a storm cloud shaking the rain from its shoulders, and burst back into motion.

         The Hermit only nodded, and rode on.

         Reaching the canyon bottom, the Hermit wandered its winding ways. Shallow grottoes and towering formations of stone seemed to go on without end. The beauty of the intricate shapes that the ocean currents wore into the clay was lost on the Hermit; they only brought to mind the marks of the wind upon the castle walls.

         The Hermit traveled a great distance among the canyons before doubt touched him. But even the Hermit's great faith was not unshakeable.

         He climbed to the summit of a high promontory, close to the ocean's surface, where he could see the heave of waves lashed to frenzy by the storm. Behind him, he could barely make out the dark line of the forest at canyon's edge. Ahead, the maze of furrows faded on without end.

         At the sight of that bleak prospect, despair crept into the Hermit's heart. He could search the ocean floor 'til his arm had grown too thin to heft the lance, his faithful mount too frail to carry him, and Dribble Castle had become no more than a scattering of seashells and jewels across the sand—and still he would hardly have seen a fraction of the gods' realm.

         But just when it seemed his quest must fail, there came a ray of hope: far above, a break in the storm. A single sunbeam struck the roiling sea, sparkled there for an instant, then reached on through green fathoms, somehow undiminished, to pierce into the deepest part of the canyon.

         Surely, thought the Hermit, whispering a thankful prayer, this must be an omen, a beacon from the gods!

         Following the light, the Hermit's steps led him ever deeper. The canyon floor dropped away; shadows sprung up among the stones. The ceiling of waves and wind disappeared overhead. The blue waters around him faded to indigo, then to black—yet the gleam of the distant light stayed ever constant.

         Finally, he came to the place he had seen, where the light descended though a gaping hollow, into a cavern beneath the ocean floor.

         The Hermit could not know what fate that darkness might hold—but his faith, having wavered, was stronger now than it had ever been. He spurred his mount, and beast and rider leapt from the brink.

         Where the thin shaft of sunlight struck the speckled stones at the grotto's bed, the Hermit came to rest, his lance held low before him, the sea gods' banner flailing in the current. Heaps of bones and empty shells surrounded him in stillness, leavings from some savage feast.

         Suddenly, something leapt forth from the depths of the cavern, casting up a cloud of silt that churned the water to murk. A monstrous, octopoid shadow loomed above the Hermit, in whose center there appeared a great, cyclopean eye, a terrible orb opening in a wall of pregnant blackness.

         "Who dares to trespass in the Kraken's lair?" came a voice like the clicking of teeth.

         The Hermit stood firm. "I seek the Light Beneath the Sea."

         "Then seek no further," hissed the creature. "For what is light but that which casts shadows?" Even as it spoke, the gloom of the cave seemed to seep forth from the creature, clouds of inky blackness darker than shadow, denser than silt, consuming the one thin ray of light. There came a cruel chuckle. "Now," said the Kraken, snapping its jaws, "give me one reason why I should not devour you!"

         The Hermit gripped his lance the tighter, and readied his mount for the charge. "Because I am the hero Hermit," he cried, "champion of Dribble Castle, servant to the gods of the sea, and this is the great lance Clawbreaker, whose point no foe of mine has ever met and survived! Foul monster of the depths, have at thee!"

         The creature roared, the darkness surged forward, and the Hermit charged blindly. The hero's lance pierced deep into the Kraken's flesh, but its snaking limbs had already caught him. In death, the beast took on terrible strength. The Hermit fell. He felt its crushing weight upon his back, the insidious pressure of its claws, searching for the flesh beneath his armor. He thought of the prophet's clear, black eyes.

         When the Hermit woke, at first he thought himself at home, in his own cave on the beach by Dribble Castle. Then the memory of his quest returned, of the desperate battle that had ended it. Yet he found he felt no pain, and he could hear a mournful music. He wondered if this was the home of the gods. But no— around him he discovered a humble cave like his own, hung with the tools of a solitary scavenger. Looking down at himself, he saw that his armor was scored with the marks of the Kraken's claws—but it had held. He was alive.

         The music ceased, and a figure loomed—a creature clawed and armored, like the beasts the Hermit had fought in the deserts for so long. The hero started, reaching blindly for his lance. Then the creature spoke. "Have no fear, warrior. I mean you no harm. It was I who brought you here from Kraken's den."

         "You? You saved me? Why?"

         The figure laughed as he laid his instrument aside. "Not all who dwell in caves are monsters. Call me Fiddler."

         The Hermit rested for a time in Fiddler's care, and he told the old scavenger of his quest. He spoke of Dribble Castle's plight, of the prophet Plover, and of his search for the Light Beneath the Sea. "Have you heard of it?" he asked. "It is a treasure beyond price."

         But Fiddler shook his head. "The sea holds no treasures," he said, "save life and death. And those cannot be won by force of arms. But don't despair: perhaps we meet by more than chance." He would say nothing more, but took up his fiddle and went forth, and for a long time did not return. Mournful music lulled the Hermit again to restful sleep. The notes carried far through the waters.

         When next he awoke, the Hermit's strength had returned. Once again, the Fiddler leaned over him. "Come," said his host, with a mysterious chuckle. "You are healed! Get up, test your limbs, and see who has come to visit!"

         Rising from his long rest, the Hermit found his great lance leaning by his side, the tattered banner of his faith still somehow clinging to its point. Taking it up, and leaning on its sturdy support, the hero ventured to the mouth of the cave.

         Waiting outside in the waters at the canyon's edge was an enormous fish, so huge that the Fiddler beside it seemed no bigger than the palm of your hand. The huge fish smiled a giant smile, and the Fiddler raised an arm, beckoning the Hermit closer. "My friend," he said to the fish, "allow me to introduce the hero Hermit, the champion of Dribble Castle, and servant to the gods of the sea."

         With a flick of his great tail, he bowed, causing a current so strong it nearly knocked the Hermit from his feet. "I am honored," said the fish, in a voice as deep as thunder, rich as the rumble of the waves. "You may call me Bass."

         The Hermit bowed low.

         The Fiddler chuckled. "You should hear his singing voice," he said.

         "Now," said the Fiddler, "Tell the Bass, o Hermit, of your quest—for he has lived ten lifetimes, and seen wonders on distant shores that you and I can only imagine."

         "I search for the Light Beneath the Sea," the Hermit said, "a talisman of the gods, that the prophet Plover has promised will bring about the Turn of the Tide and save my beloved home from destruction."

         "Ho ho ho," the great fish chuckled. "I fear this Plover's words mislead you. No Light Beneath the Sea controls the tides' ebb and flow, but a Light Above it: the Moon is the magic talisman you seek. But look not so despairing," he laughed, "you need not call her down from the sky yourself. See! The Fiddler's isle already peeks above the waves. The Turn of the Tide has begun!"

         The Hermit's heart leapt when he saw that the words of the Bass were true: the undersea mountain where the Fiddler made his home was undersea no longer, but broke free into the air!

         Dribble Castle is saved, the Hermit thought, yet I have done nothing. He turned back to the Bass and the Fiddler, but could not find words enough to thank them. "I must return," he cried, "and bring back this joyous news to the people!"

         The Fiddler nodded sagely. "Your mount fell beneath the Kraken," he said. "So I took the privilege of arranging for another." And the Bass bowed low once again, laughing his great deep laugh, and tipped his fin for the Hermit to climb onto his back.

         So the hero Hermit rode home to Dribble Castle astride the great fish, and they came in sight of his home shores on the first waves of the ebb tide. The storm was already breaking overhead, and the rays of the setting sun reached down to anoint the waves as the castle's spires rose from the sea. With dismay, the Hermit saw the ruin of the great tower that lay at the edge of the sea, and the long column of refugees that even now were fleeing from the castle into the dunes.

         Leaping to the sand from the back of the fish, the Hermit raced for the castle, shouting the good news that the Tide had Turned and the storm was breaking. At first the people's haggard faces showed no understanding, and remained as cold and sad as the faces of the statues once had been. The hermit's shouts caught in his throat. Had he come so far, to be defeated by despair?

         Then one tiny voice from the crowd broke through the sorrowful silence. "Listen! The wind has died!"

         Cries of joy spread across the sand, and as the Hermit continued on towards the gate, a crowd, rejoicing, gathered behind him.

         When the hero reached the throne room, the king sat waiting—and beside him, the prophet Plover. At the sight of her, the hero halted. Her beauty had not diminished, but it was not this that stopped him. King Whelk said nothing, seeing the question in the hero's eyes. The thunderous cheers behind him lessened, and the hall was filled with waiting quiet. The Plover stood and cast back her cowl.

         "What did you expect to find, when you set out in search of the Light of the Sea? Some great pearl of luster so brilliant it could guide a castle through a storm? Or the beacon-torch of some lost ship, still burning beneath the waves? No lost treasure or magic talisman could have saved your people, O Hermit: the Light you sought beneath the sea was hope. The first passing minnow you met could have shown it to you, had you been ready to find it. Indeed, at the moment you left, you could have found it within the very walls of Dribble Castle."

         "Then was all my quest no more than a ruse? All the poor beasts of the caves that have died at my hands—my own faithful mount, who fell in the lair of the Kraken—did they die for nothing?"

         The Plover shook her head, and in her eyes the Hermit glimpsed a mysterious mirth. "The gods of the sea, those who made this castle with their own hands and set its king upon his throne, have no power over sea or storm. They are children: only children. Children grow tired, and children forget, unless you let them rest, and help them to remember. It's true: to keep Dribble Castle a little longer from the tide, your need never have left it. You had only to do as I said: to wait for the Turn of the Tide. But your quest, brave Hermit, was not in vain. What you did not know, but surely felt in your heart, was this: the gods of the sea were with you every step of your adventure. They watched when you battled the Kraken in his lair. They listened to the music of the Fiddler's mournful song. They are here even now. You see, the children who made Dribble Castle had gone away, and forgotten its story. But you, Hermit, have given them a new story—a new reason to care. The holy writs do not lie: one day, Dribble Castle will fall, and return to the sea from whence it came. But because of you, now Dribble Castle will not merely survive to the next tide's turning. If you are patient, if you wait and remember, one day Dribble Castle will be made anew."

         With a sweep of the wings of her brown cloak, the Plover led the people's eyes to the windows by the throne. In the clouds of the receding storm, the prophet caused a vision to appear: two children, beautiful and fair as the children of the statues, the children the holy men had dreamed of, the people had loved and the politicians despised, laughing and running at the water's edge, their footprints filling with water and with life as they passed across the sand.

         So King Whelk and the Hermit and the people of Dribble Castle waited. They lived their lives. Generations died and were born, and nothing changed, save for the sands shifting on the beach, and the waves, casting and receding. But finally, the prophet's words came true. A white ship appeared across the sea, and rode the waves to shore. The sound of laughter came to Dribble Castle on the breeze, as if the statues of the children on its walls had come to life. Then the gods appeared, leaping from the white ship into the shallows, and raced through the breakers to the shore, where pools of water and life swelled up in their path.

 

 

Copyright 2006, Michael J. DeLuca

Michael J. DeLuca would like to tell you he lives in a cave in Western MA, pronouncing false prophecy in exchange for such essential sustenance as food, water and wireless internet. However, such caves are few and far between, and often occupied by fearsome squatters. Besides, nobody would believe him anyway. So why not just visit his website? < www.michaeljdeluca.com >.