The Sky Lily
The Ayslander Sagas (2)
Given the task by his master, Renwulf, Otzi set about performing the first test toward his ascent to manhood. His fifteenth winter was close approaching. An auspicious time in the life of a shaman, when he would partake of the dew of the sky lily. Deep in the Pedwar mountains, the lily grew, far beyond the little valley in which his sleepy village lay.
“Child,” Renwulf said, “you have never ventured far from home. The safety of kith and kin is a luxury the shaman cannot afford. We travel the middle path between life and death. Between gods and men. Yet we live apart from them all. With the dew of the lily, your eyes will open. You will fly among the eagles and through the depths of the underworld. Nothing will ever be the same.”
“What must I do?” Otzi asked.
“Alone, you will travel. Carry no food or drink, only your medicines and tools. Eat only what you catch for yourself. Up the mountain to the mouth of the river, at the cataract, you will find it. But beware, that which guards the lily will not give it up easily.”
The journey up the mountain took three days. He followed the river, spearfishing trout for his dinner. At night he built a fire and slept on a bedroll out in the open. The howling of wolves and the cracking of branches under heavy snow woke him. He carried his fatigue along with his spear and his medicines. The snow fell heavier as he trudged higher. The sun set behind the cliffs and cast deep impenetrable shadows. Silence lay heavy upon the air. His thick bear fur cloak kept the cold at bay but the icy stillness made him shiver. When Otzi heard the distant roar of the cataract, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Water thundered down from a great rocky crag, spilling over a ledge hundreds of feet in the air above him and crashing into a large pool below. The water rippled out, pushed by the force of the falls, and was channeled into the river that fed his little village. A feeling of wonder washed over Otzi, taking his weariness with it.
In the middle of the pool, he spotted his quarry. Between two large rocks a single flower grew, blue as the sky, dotted with specks of white like tiny clouds. Otzi removed his boots. The chill of the ice-cold water made him wince as he pressed forward into the pool.
“Lo, there do I see a son of man,” came a deep resonating voice, “come trespassing upon my land.”
Otzi stopped in his tracks. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
The voice laughed. “Born of mankind’s woes, I am that which hatred grows. Chained here by ancient sorcery, I guard this flower against burglary. Now, mortal, stand and fight. Your life is forfeit on this night.”
The waterfall parted and out stepped the source of the voice. Otzi clutched his spear tightly. He felt his knees go weak. The thing was massive, like a section of the mountain had come to life. Gray, rocky, and lichen-covered, it was twice Otzi’s height and three times his width. The ground rumbled beneath its feet. It grinned down at him. Its mouth, full of sharp flint-like teeth and its bright eyes, pale as the moon.
It lunged at him. Water surged across the surface of the pool, compressed along the arc of its swing, and sprayed out in a gigantic wave. Otzi dove out of the way but it was too late, the monster’s rocky hand smashed into his shoulder and sent him flying. He hit the pool, skidding across the surface. He plunged beneath the water and it filled his nostrils, choking him.
Otzi struggled to his feet, coughing, and searching for his spear. The thing stood by the flower, unmoving, continuing to grin at him eagerly.
“Come, little man, on thy feet. I’ll separate thy bones from thy meat.”
Otzi watched the thing warily. It did not move past the flower. That was when he noticed it. The great rocky beast cast no reflection. This was not a being of the natural world. Otzi reached into his bag and pulled out a bundle of herbs. Thankfully, they had not gotten wet.
He knew that he could not match the thing’s strength but perhaps he could exorcise it. He closed his eyes and breathing rhythmically, dove deeply into himself. The little bundle of herbs began to smoke. He blew into the bundle and the smoke filtered out, spreading until it covered the entire pool.
The nature spirit stepped back warily. “What hast thou there? Trickster! What foul mist fills the air?”
Otzi let his mind travel outward through the smoke, as Renwulf had taught him. He could see the spirit as it truly was, a bright shining mass of light, and around that light a cord that stretched out behind it, tying it to the waterfall. Chained by ancient sorcery, indeed. How long had the spirit been imprisoned here, he wondered, forced to do man’s bidding?
Otzi tossed the burning bundle aside and reached once more into his pack. He pulled out a sprig of an evergreen tree and, chanting, dipped it into the water.
“Such a puny weapon dost thou wield, ” the spirit laughed. “Wouldst thou test its metal upon this field? Surely, it is death thou seek and thy demise, I shall wreak!”
Ignoring the spirit’s banter, Otzi approached, letting power beat within him. The great rocky beast raised an arm and as it came crashing down toward Otzi’s head, Otzi flung the limb forward. Droplets of water launched out of the evergreen needles like slingshots. Filled with Otzi’s energy, the droplets hurtled toward the spirit, slicing through the cord that tied it to the mortal world. The spirit gasped, stumbling back and falling to its knees.
“Thou hast freed me, mortal man, now take thy due. Sip from the lily’s morning dew. Fly thou to heights as yet unseen and to those worlds in between. But take only what thou need. Protect the flower from human greed.”
No longer tied to the mortal world, the spirit began to fade. Otzi bowed in reverence. He waited until the sun peeked over the mountains. Then, taking the head of the flower, he squeezed it gently. Milky white drops of dew trickled out and fell into a small tube made of river cane. Replacing the stopper, Otzi held it up to the sky and smiled. With this, he would take his first steps toward becoming a full-fledged shaman.
The trip back down the mountain felt quicker than the trek up. When he reached Norska, Renwulf wasted no time in preparing the elixir. He ushered Otzi into a dark corner of the hut and had him lay on the floor. Renwulf dipped a conch shell into the brew, allowing it to drip into the boy’s mouth from a small hole drilled into its apex. The elixir numbed Otzi’s tongue and within minutes his mind opened to the universe.
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