Spirit and the Tree of the Meridees
In a world so far, yet so much like your own, there reign six gods. At one time their power was in your world, but when their people were driven out by humans who valued their horns and feathers more than their friendship, they left with them. In their new realm they divided the world into four parts, Sky, Earth, Sea, and the Underworld. Their followers called themselves “Na Únami”, meaning in their language “The People”. Humans called them Winged-Unicorns, but they found it very degrading and unimaginative. They were built like fine horses with long spiral horns sprouting from their foreheads. They also had long silken wings growing from their shoulders where a human’s arms would be. Being shape- shifters (meaning they could shift from one animal or human shape to another), they could make their wings into arms. On Earth, they used this talent to hide from humans who wanted to capture or kill them. They could out live any human at nearly 200 years.
The rarest of the god’s children were the Karkans, or almost-gods. They were full-blooded gods born from the womb of a mortal mother. They had the barest traces of mortal blood in their veins that kept them mortal. They were born in times of great turmoil in the herd to help restore peace. Often their coming was foretold hundreds even thousands of years ahead in prophecies. The prophecy of the Sun Child was one of the most anticipated and most disregarded ones. Told by the prophetess of the ancient goddess called The Voice, the prophecy ran: A child of gold with a fiery eye, Swifter than the light he runs by; A warrior, a healer, a leader he’ll be, A powerful figure with the gift to see; swift as a coursing river, with all the force of great typhoon, with all the streangth of a raging fire, mysterious as the dark side of the moon; He’ll drive out evil with a just hand, He’ll bring back the Lost Ones and unite the band; A dreamer of dreams, a lover of art, A humble figure with a hero’s heart.
But years past and the prophecy had not been fulfilled. Over 1,000 years past and “Na Unami” regarded the prophecy as nothing more than a silly dream. But the words of the gods are not to be taken lightly. The prophecy would not be fulfilled for 2,000 years; by a son from the line of Yésu… this is his story. Ok, my story. My name is Tíkára ün na Ímaráe, which, in your human language means “Spirit of the Gods”. You can just call me Spirit. Everyone else does. I used to live with my family and friends in Caledonia, our home, a huge valley in the crater of an extinct volcano. But now I am an exile, banished from my home, turned out with nothing more than the knife I had made and unintentionally magicked and my training and instincts.
So I travel with my teacher Mústáré (he never told me his name, so I just call him our word for “teacher”) waiting for the day I can return home. He and I have traveled farther than any of my people had ever imagined. We have had many adventures together; one I remember well is when we traveled to the glittering ocean in the west…
* * *
“Tonight we rest here, tomorrow we will reach the seacoast,” Mústáré said, leaning on his wooden staff.
“Can’t we try to get some more distance behind us,” Spirit asked, coming along side him, “there’s a full hour of daylight left.”
“We need time to make camp, and besides; we still need to practice and you need to add today’s journey to that map of yours.” Mústáré slid his pack off his back, set it on the ground, and began rummaging through it. “Why don’t you go and find some firewood, nothing off any trees mind you, only bring wood you find on the ground.”
Nodding, Spirit dropped his own pack on the ground and set off into the woods. His rook familiar, Ishtar, flew over to him. He was a sleek black bird about the size and shape of a crow with a white V on his chest and white head markings and an intelligent gleam in his eye. The wise cracking, yet cautious, young bird, whom Spirit named for the Earth/Sun god Taros’s famed Sunhawk familiar, was Spirit’s constant companion. Spirit held out his hand and Ishtar smoothly landed on it. “Is this it,” he asked, “aren’t we going any farther? There’s still plenty of time until the sun sets.”
“Mústáré says this is it for today,” Spirit replied, “come on, be useful for a change and help me find some firewood.”
“Did he give you the usual shpeal about only using wood off the ground and not off the trees?”
“Yeah, every night he tells me that, but I already know to do that, he doesn’t need to tell me a million times.” They scanned the ground around the bases of trees and under bushes, seeking and gathering any dry wood they found; after a few minuets they had gathered a nice sized pile. “That ought to be enough, come on Ishtar, let’s get back to camp.”
Holding the wood under his arm, Spirit turned to go but paused, head high, smelling the breeze. His bright yellow-gold coat seemed to glow faintly in the dappled light of the forest. His dark brown stockings, muzzle, mane, and tail blended in with the bark of the trees around him. As a three-year-old, he was still pretty gawky and lanky, with legs that still seemed a bit too long for his body and a wedge-shaped, Arabian head that seemed too small. But he had filled out a bit, now that he was 3; his muscles had developed more, his mane and tail had gotten longer and thicker. His travels with Mústáré and his rigorous training had slimmed him down until he nearly had 0 fat on his entire body. As Mústáré put it, he had the brains to balance out the brawns, and would be quite a handsome stallion when he grew up.
Now, his lean, muscular body was ridged, as he strained to suck in as much of the scent as he could. Even though they were still at least a half days journey from the sea, he could smell its sweet-tangy scent quite clearly. The smell filled him with longing; he had never seen the sea before because his people rarely (if ever) left Caledonia. He had heard plenty of tales about the sea, seen pictures drawn of it, but had never seen it in person.
“Come on daydreamer,” Ishtar griped, pulling at Spirit’s mane, “we need to get back to camp.”
Spirit snorted crossly, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Shifting his grip on the wood, he made his way back to camp with Ishtar flying a short distance ahead.
As they came back into camp, Mústáré was already warming up with a wooden sword. “Put that down and grab your practice sword and get warmed up,” he said. Spirit set the wood aside and pulled his practice sword out of his pack. Mústáré had carved it for him with a hollow handle so he could add lead weights until it was balanced the way Spirit liked it. Taking a deep breath, he imagined an opponent in front of him and began warming up by going through the different blocks and attacks. Motions repeated so many times that his body moved on instinct.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched Mústáré. The older stallion was going through the motions just as Spirit was, but with the ease of a master. Watching him now, it was hard to think of him as old. Mústáré was over 120 years his senior; his silver coat was dulling and growing white around his mouth and eyes, but Spirit knew from experience that he was as agile as any colt in combat. The limp in one of Mústáré’s hind legs that plagued him on a daily basis seemed to vanish while he fought. He was a strict, but kind master, and Spirit had grown used to his style of teaching. Mústáré didn’t go easy on Spirit just because he was young, and wasn’t afraid to ruff him up a bit. In fact Spirit judged his improvement on how many fewer bruises he got.
“Are you ready,” Mústáré asked patiently.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Spirit replied.
“Then take your position.” Mústáré pointed at the ground and a white stream of light (his power) flowed from his finger to form a circle roughly 20 feet in diameter, forming their practice ring. Spirit approached the circle and paused to gather himself. After a few brandishes and a few deep breaths, he was ready. He stepped inside the circle and took his ready position, sword out, sword point up, other arm out and slightly behind for balance, legs out slightly and bent a bit for stability.
They began to circle, Spirit had learned not to attack first but wait for his opponent to strike first. It was a matter of patience, but more often then not, Mústáré’s patience won out. Spirit watched Mústáré, searching for an opening, then he felt rather than saw Mústáré’s guard fall and he struck. By some miracle he managed a touch on Mústáré’s shoulder, which shocked him because he had never scored a touch on Mústáré before. In fact, Mústáré didn’t even seem to be paying attention. He was staring with…was that fear and worry… in his eyes at something behind Spirit. Spirit turned in the direction Mústáré was staring and saw nothing unusual. But he got the feeling that there was something out there, some old and powerful alien-ish conscience. “What is it,” Spirit asked.
Mústáré blinked as if he was coming out of a trance, “it’s nothing, come, w…we need to practice.”
Though he seemed sincere enough, Spirit detected a slight tremor in his voice that told him Mústáré hadn’t completely dropped his concern. But before he could say anything, he got a smarting whap on his leg. “Come on, no daydreaming,” Mústáré said in his ‘no nonsense’ voice, “on guard.” Spirit had to quickly raise his sword to avoid being smacked upside the head.
He had no time to think about Mústáré’s weird behavior now. All he could do was keep his mind on the fight. The moment his mind strayed he would get a whap and a reprimand, “keep your guard up”, whap, “not that far up”, whap, “now block”. By the time it was over Spirit was panting and beginning to sweat hard. “All right,” Mústáré said, “at ease; that’s it for today. You can go rest now.” But before he let Spirit leave the circle, they stood at attention, with their swords, edges facing out, in front of their faces and bowed deeply to each other; the traditional finish to a duel.
By then the sun had long set and darkness was closing in fast. While Mústáré turned his attention to setting the protections around their camp, Spirit sank down next to his pack, completely worn out. Ishtar sailed in from his refuge on a near by tree to land on his usual perch: atop the high point of Spirit’s crest, close to his ears. “Come on,” he whispered in Spirit’s ear, “get out your map so we can add today’s journey.”
“All right,” Spirit replied with a yawn. He rummaged through his pack and pulled out a roll of parchment and a bit of wood carved to be used as a pencil. Using his knife, he sharpened the tip into a fine point. Mústáré, having finished setting the protections, arranged the firewood Spirit had collected into a carefully organized pile.
“Spirit,” he said, “can you please light the fire?”
Nodding, Spirit snapped his fingers; a small spark leapt off them and burrowed into the dry wood, quickly growing until a nice sized fire was burning. This was just a small part of his powers, powers he had hardly known how to control until Mústáré had helped him. His powers consisted mostly of Fire magic, mixed with Earth magic, and a little bit of Water magic thrown in. The Fire magic part of his powers was a special kind called Invisible Fire. It was so rare and hard to see in the early years that it is invisible to all but the most powerful Magic Seers, so it was never identified until it began breaking out violently. It was also, in a way, the cause of his banishment because of a particularly destructive outburst that scared the entire herd into pressuring his father, the King, into banishing him. Shortly after he left, Mústáré found him and, recognizing his powers, taught him how to use them.
Spirit had found he could create and control fire and control plants. Using the Invisible Fire, he could see what others could not, make himself or what ever he wished as invisible as he wanted, or even make it eat an opponent’s magic the way fire eats wood. Because his powers were so deeply ingrained in him, he was inflammable, meaning he could not be burned; he could also breathe underwater, gallop through the air as easily as hot air rises. The bit of Water magic strengthened his magic, so no normal water magic could defeat it. He also had several, as he called them, “useless powers” because they didn’t seem to have any other use than for entertainment. The most prominent ones were conjuring and slight-of-hand; the powers you most often find in the best magicians. Mústáré said he had never seen someone with as tremendous powers as he did and felt that he had other powers that were yet to be discovered. Spirit knew though he still had to practice more since he didn’t have a strong enough grip on them yet.
Now that the fire was burning, he burned the tip of his pencil until it was blackened all the way through. Then, unrolling the parchment, he began to draw in their journey. He and Mústáré had been traveling together for several months and had covered more ground than any of his kind had in near 2000 years. Winter was drawing close, having already arrived in some places, so Mústáré said they were going to the seashore because there it was like summer all year round; the perfect place to wait out the winter. Spirit didn’t object because it was the last part he needed in his map, he also wanted to see the ocean for himself, and lastly because he would rather stay with Mústáré than be left alone in unfamiliar territory.
He and Ishtar bent over the parchment, conferring together to add in the lay of the land accurately. What Spirit could not see with his eyes, Ishtar found, to make sure no gaps were left in the map. Spirit had done this faithfully every night in the hopes of bringing back the first complete map of the new world his people had landed in so long ago. But on nights like tonight, when he was especially tired, only Ishtar’s constant sharp pokes in the tender spot behind his ears kept him awake.
Finally he was finished; he rolled up the parchment, trimmed away the burnt tip of the pencil, and tucked it all away in his pack. He stood and stretched his entire body while yawning a huge yawn. Then he turned ‘round three times, and settled down in the thick moss and grass. Settling his head on the ground, he stared into the fire while Mústáré blew a quiet tune on his flute. Ishtar fluffed and preened his feathers a bit then tucked his head beneath his wing. Spirit’s eyes grew heavier, and heavier as he listened to the reassuring crackle of the fire and Mústáré’s soothing music until finally they closed and he slept.
* * *
“Come on Spirit wake up.”
Mústáré’s insistent hand shaking his shoulder forced Spirit to open his eyes. It was still dark out as the sun had not yet risen, but the glow from his glow-stone was enough to illuminate Mústáré’s face. “Come on,” he repeated, “we need to get going.”
Spirit yawned deeply, “it’s a bit too early to be up and moving don’t you think?” he muttered sleepily.
“Not for us it isn’t; now get up.”
Spirit yawned again, “even Taros the Early Riser has the sense not to be up this early.”
Mústáré chuckled, “he still has to get up early enough to get ready, now come on. If we get going we can reach the seashore by sun-up.” Spirit yawned again and reluctantly got to his feet. He gently prodded Ishtar awake and gathered up his pack. It was apparent that Mústáré had been awake for some time because the protections that they used to protect their camp at night were taken down and everything was packed away; ready for them to grab and go.
“Geesh,” Ishtar muttered softly in Spirit’s ear, “how can he be cheerful at this time of the morning?”
“By going to bed on time and not staying up half the night,” Mústáré countered. That silenced Ishtar; no matter how quietly they spoke, Mústáré always heard them, he had radar ears.
Soon they were on the move, traveling single file with Mústáré in the lead. Spirit followed close behind and Ishtar meandered to either side of their path; just out of Spirit’s sight but not out of mind range. The smell of the sea pulled them on westward like a rope, though the sun was still only a faint, glowing promise on the horizon. Soon, as the sky grew lighter, the land changed from thick forests to open sandy plains dotted with dunes and carpeted with salty sea-grass; a sure sign, along with the warmer temperature, that they were nearing the sea. As the sun broke over the eastern horizon in a blazing flood of light, they crested a particularly tall dune and for the first time, Spirit saw the sea.
It was like a glittering, shiny rug; spreading out from the sandy shore as far as the eye could see. It reflected the bright oranges, reds, and yellows of the rising sun and would turn a deep blue latter on in the morning. The salty sweet smell was almost intoxicating. The light breeze kept off the worst of the heat without making it too cold.
A slight excided whinny escaped him and he raced onto the sandy beach. Mústáré watched, smiling, as Spirit splashed in the shallows like a young foal. He galloped back and forth across the beach; whinnying, bucking and kicking up spray. Ishtar sailed about, riding the breeze and spinning himself dizzy on spiraling updrafts.
When they finally were finished with their fun, Spirit’s coat was very damp from the salt water and Ishtar could not keep still. They went up to Mústáré who had found a small cave by the shore, high above the tide line, and had unpacked his things. “I love this place,” Spirit breathed excitedly; “I don’t know why we didn’t come here sooner!”
“I’m glad you like it,” Mústáré said, “why don’t you give me your pack and go explore some more.”
Spirit eagerly relinquished his pack, only taking his map and writing tools. For the rest of the morning, he and Ishtar worked together to add in the entire coastline; from the southern crags to the northern mountains. Ishtar flew as far as he could, relaying the information back to Spirit, who worked furiously to draw in the new parts. At noon they returned to camp with a completed map. Mústáré greeted them warmly and as they ate the lunch he’d prepared, Spirit told him all about what they had seen that morning. “It was wonderful Mústáré,” Spirit told him breathlessly, “shallow bays and rocky inlets, places where the waves crashed twenty feet tall against the cliffs like thunder, golden sand stretching as far as the eye can see!”
“I can see that I made a good choice to come here,” Mústáré said with a smile. “What do you plan to do this afternoon?”
“We’re going to a small bay around the bend to explore the tide pools. The tide is just low enough for us to get a clear view of them.”
“Well enjoy yourselves then, if you can stop talking long enough to finish your lunch first.”
Spirit smiled and settled down long enough to quickly finish his lunch. Then he and Ishtar were off again. They explored the rocky tide pools, chasing small fish, catching hermit crabs, and stick fencing with a large lobster. As they played they didn’t realize that a great danger was drawing closer by the second. As Spirit was holding an extremely large starfish in his hands, a monstrous bellow echoed from down the beach, followed by the clear sounds of a battle being fought. It was coming from the direction of camp! Spirit quickly put the starfish back and raced towards the ruckus.
As he rounded a bend he stopped short and stared in horror. Mústáré was bravely defending their camp from a gigantic monster. This monster wasn’t just gigantic, it was enormous, humungous; even those words didn’t seem to cover how huge it was! It towered over Mústáré like he was smaller than an ant! Mústáré wasn’t even as tall as its’ little toe! It was UGLY, and with a capitol “U” too; its’ big body covered with rolls of blubbery fat; with scaly skin so dirty that it looked as if it was beginning to mold! Its’ boulder sized hands with dirty fingers (if you could call those fat sausages fingers) ended in dirty claws as long and as sharp as the blades of twenty swords! Its’ huge, vaguely serpent like head (hard to tell under all that fat) was just as dirty, and even more hideous! Its’ yellow slit pupiled eyes were each four times the size of a shield! Its’ disgusting, slobbery mouth was filled with sharp yellow teeth as long as sabers and four fangs each as tall as Spirit or taller! This was the monster of legends, the monster who’s deeds were fed to the youngsters of Spirit’s kind with their mothers milk. It was the monster Typhaeus, the father of all monsters who, ever since his escape from his prison, had sought to destroy the gods for locking him up. Even the gods themselves feared him! Just the sight of him was enough to strike pure, unbridled terror into the bravest hearts.
As Spirit watched, Mústáré dashed and leapt about; fending off the monster’s huge claws with his sword (it doubled as his walking stick when in its’ sheath) with great skill. Suddenly, the beast made a swipe that struck him; only a bit, but a slight wound from those claws was like a direct stab from a super sharp sword.
“NO,” Spirit shouted as he saw Mústáré fall. He reached for the small waterproof sheath he always wore strapped to his foreleg. Undoing the tie that held it closed, he lifted open the top and pulled out his knife. It was six inches long from the base of the blade to the tip and deep black with spots as red as blood that glowed like fire. He had made it from a piece of obsidian when he had been denied a knife at home; chipping away, honing it down until it was sharper than any metal knife. In the forges, he had attached a metal handle he had formed in the shape of two entwined dragons, mouths clutching a ruby. At the time he had been unaware of his powers and so during the concentration of making, it he had unintentionally magicked it.
With this knife in hand, he charged the monster; fueled by the fury of the injury inflicted upon his teacher. The beast sluggishly turned to face him but before it knew what was happening, Spirit had sprinted up its’ back like a gazelle and had driven his knife into a chink between it’s scales. The beast roared with anger, but Spirit attacked again, this time throwing his fiery magic down its’ throat. The monster dove for the sea to try to stop the fire in its’ throat. The two of them hit the sea with a tremendous splash as the beast desperately swallowed water to put out the fire. The salt water seemed to sharpen Spirit’s senses and somehow he knew what to do. He threw out his magic and shouted “WAVE”. Part of the water suddenly receded like a carpet being yanked away, and came roaring back in the form of a huge tidal wave, even taller then the monster and just as wide. As the wave struck the brute, Spirit leapt up on the tremendous pressure and landed just behind it on the sand. The creature sputtered and choked on the salt water as the remainder of the wave drew back into the sea. Taking advantage of its’ disorientation, Spirit leapt in close and slashed its’ ankle; then raced up its’ back an hilt slammed its’ head.
This was the last straw for the already startled beast; it turned and ran over the dunes, roaring pitifully as it quickly disappeared into the distance. Spirit raced over to where Mústáré lay. His breath was coming in sharp, ragged gasps and a trace of blood stained the sand in front of his mouth. The wound was a long slash along his ribcage surrounded by a purple-black bruise. “Spirit,” Mústáré gasped as his eyes fluttered open.
“Shhhhh, don’t talk,” Spirit told him softly, “let’s get you inside the cave.” He carefully rolled Mústáré onto his side and lifted him to his feet. Mústáré groaned and moaned with every step as Spirit helped him into the cave and helped him lay down. “Don’t worry,” Spirit told him, “I’ll have this wound healed up in no time.” Lowering his horn to the wound, Spirit began to heal it. The broken ribs caused by the impact of the monsters’ claw were easy to fix. The torn lung that was punctured by a broken rib was a little harder, but still fixable. But when he tried to pull the wound closed something was wrong. It was the wound; it just refused to close. Finally Spirit had to stop; the bleeding had lessened to a mere trickle, but the wound was still wide open.
“Spirit,” Mústáré breathed, “in my pack… some bandages… main pocket.” Spirit opened Mústáré’s pack and pulled out the rolls of linen bandages. As he brought them over to where Mústáré lay, he noticed a slightly putrid smell coming from the wound. Shockingly, the wound was already festering!
“How,” Spirit breathed.
“Its’… because of… the monster…. ‘s what happens… to any wound… it inflicts.”
“No, I won’t let you die!” Spirit raced to the sea with a bowl and brought back some salt water and washed out the wound. He then wound a bandage securely around Mústáré to pull the wound together and tied it tightly.
“Spirit,” Mústáré groaned.
“What is it?” Spirit asked.
“I know…none of… what we have… will heal it...”
“No, don’t talk like that! You will be alright!”
“Only one thing… will heal it…but it is… hard to find…”
“What is it?”
“A golden apple… from the tree… of the Meridees…”
“The Tree of the Meridees,” Spirit breathed, “how do I find it?”
“In my pack…in the big pocket… you’ll find a… smaller one… Inside… a folded piece of… old parchment…get it.”
Spirit found the old piece of parchment just where Mústáré said it would be. It was old and yellow but in other wise good condition. “Here it is Mústáré,” he said, kneeling next to him.
“Open it.”
When Spirit unfolded it he was amazed. It was a map, just like his own, but it included places of magic, even the Mull of Kintyre, the “Palace of Mist”, the home of the gods. “What is this,” he asked.
“This is… made by your ancestor… Yésu… shows all… places from our… legends. Find the coast… on the map.”
Spirit searched the map and found the coast, “yes what next?”
“Follow it to… the north… find the… Garden of Twilight.”
Spirit found a spot on the map, close to the coast, marked as the Garden of Twilight; around the base of a tall, thin mountain. “It’s not that far from here,” Spirit said confidently, rolling up the map, “I will be back with an apple in no time.”
“NO,” Mústáré said firmly, pushing himself up, and immediately groaned. Spirit helped him to settle back into a reclining position. Once he was settled, Mústáré spoke once more, “you can only enter the garden… at twilight… You have to wait until… just before… It is surrounded… by magic mist… focus on your destination… and nothing else… until you reach it…”
“So, it won’t be that hard to go in, pick an apple and go.”
“You can’t… pick the apples… yourself… Only and immortal… can… The tree is guarded… by the serpent… Laedon…Will kill you… if you try…”
“But if I can chase of the Typhaeus I can kill Laedon.”
“NO… don’t even try… besides… if you do… kill Laedon…if you try to pick an apple… you will die instantly…”
“What about the Meridees, the nymphs who tend the garden? Can I get them to pick me some apples?”
“No, they will not… show themselves… to you…. Your only chance… is the Tiatan Atlayr… he is the father… of the Meridees…”
“But how do I convince him to help me? And besides, he carries the weight of the sky, he can’t go to them.”
“Go to him… on the mountain top… take the sky… so he can go… to his daughters…”
“But he’ll never take it back once he gives it to me.”
“You’ll have… to trick him…”
“All right, you rest and just before twilight, I’ll go get your apple.”
* * *
Spirit walked quickly up the shore, as the sun was beginning to set. Mústáré had convinced him to go now, saying he needed the extra time to reach the garden. It had been hard to leave his teacher when he was in such bad condition, but Mústáré had assured him that he would be all right.
He paused, unsure of what to do. “Hey what’s the matter,” Ishtar said from his perch on Spirit’s neck, “getting cold hooves or something?”
“I don’t know if I can do this Ishtar,” Spirit replied nervously, “Atlayr is thousands of years old, how can I possibly trick him?”
“Hey, I know that when the opportunity arises, you’ll get him. Remember what Mústáré said about him? He has plenty of muscle, but not enough brains. You have the brawns, and the brains. Remember, even strength has to bow to wisdom sometimes.”
Spirit smiled a bit, “you’re right Ishtar, let’s go get him!”
Ishtar took off and they continued their trek up the beach. As the sun was almost ready to disappear over the horizon, they reached the spot marked on the map as the entrance into the Garden of Twilight. Two willow trees that curved together to form an arch with their leaves as a shimmery curtain. Between the leaves, Spirit could see the magic mist that surrounded the garden. “It’s almost twilight,” Ishtar said, landing on Spirit’s neck. “Remember; the trees will turn silver the moment twilight hits, and then we can enter.”
Spirit nodded, he could see that the trees were now veined with silver, as if they were eager for the sun to set so they could be all silver. The sun slowly ticked below the horizon like a countdown, “five, four, three, two, one…”
The sun finally settled beneath the horizon and the two willows blazed silver. “Come on Ishtar,” Spirit said, “let’s do this.” Spirit pushed aside the curtain of leaves and stepped into the mist. It was impossible to see anything but a solid grey wall. But Spirit kept walking in a straight line, the name of his destination pulsing in his mind like a chant, “Garden of Twilight…. Garden of Twilight…. Garden of Twilight…”
Just then the mist rolled away like a curtain being drawn aside, and Spirit found himself standing at the edge of a most beautiful garden. The trees shimmered in shades of silver and gold and the flowers glowed like a sea of gems. And in the middle of it all was a magnificent old apple tree. It was the only somewhat normal looking tree in the garden, with dark brown bark and bright green leaves. The only difference was that the apples the hung from its branches were gold, a beautiful, bright, glowing gold as if they had been covered in gold leaf. The only problem was what was wrapped around the tree’s trunk. Laedon, a huge serpent with golden scales and a golden crest, and he was staring right at him! Laedon snapped his huge jaws at Spirit, with teeth the size of swords. His whole body wrapped around the tree twice with plenty to spare. But Spirit knew Laedon would not leave his position to chase him if he could not reach him. And besides, he wasn’t heading for the tree. Spirit turned and headed up a small dirt path that wound up the tall mountain spire at the far edge of the garden. At the top he could see where the sky seemed to dip down to touch the earth; where the Tiatan Atlayr held it up.
Once he reached the top of the mountain, he came face to face with Atlayr. Atlayr was a heavily built, battle-scared stallion with a coat the color of smoke stained iron. His huge muscles rippled beneath his coat as he strained to carry his heavy burden. He had been the Tiatan’s general during their war against the gods, and as punishment, he was forced to carry the sky for all eternity. Atlayr turned his large head in Spirit’s direction and glared at him. “What do you want mortal,” Atlayr growled, “have you come to mock me in my suffering?”
“No,” Spirit replied, glad that his father had made him learn formal talk, “actually I’ve come to ask of you a favor.”
Atlayr growled; he seemed untrusting but willing to listen. “What do you ask of me?”
“I need one of the golden apples from your daughters’ tree and they won’t show themselves to me. So I was hoping that you could ask them to pick one for me.”
Atlayr smiled; but it wasn’t a happy or nice smile, it was a cruelly calculating smile. “All right, I’ll go ask them for you. If, while I am gone, you will hold the sky in my place.”
Spirit knew that he might not even come back, but it was the only way for him to get the apple. “All right,” Spirit conceded, “if you go and bring me back one of your daughters’ golden apples, I will hold the sky in your absence, I swear by all the gods.”
Atlayr repeated the oath, swearing by all the gods that he would do as Spirit had asked. Then he stood up a little bit so Spirit could move in to take his burden. Spirit put his hands where Atlayr had his, set his stance, and Atlayr took his hands away and Spirit then felt the full weight of the sky.
It was the heaviest thing Spirit had ever held. If you took the weight of the heaviest thing in the world you could think of, and multiplied it by about ten bagillion trillion, then you would have a close approximation of the weight of the sky. Atlayr stretched luxuriously, rolling his shoulders and working the kinks out of his neck. “I’ll be back as soon as I can with your apple,” Atlayr said smugly, “try not to die while I’m gone.” Then he was off down the mountain and Spirit was left alone straining with his burden.
Ishtar urged him on from his perch on a small rock, but Spirit hardly heard him. His whole body was straining to hold the tremendous weight. His mind was screaming at him, “STOP, this is CRAZY, LET GO!!!”, but he kept on going, forcing his body to hold out.
After what seemed like ten million forevers, Atlayr returned carrying a golden apple. Spirit shook his mind awake so he was ready for any tricks Atlayr tried, or that he needed to try. “Here is your apple,” Atlayr said, then added smoothly, “you know it would take me less time to deliver it than it would you. Why don’t I deliver it for you, then come back and take the sky?”
Spirit knew that he wouldn’t come back if he let him go; he would go and release the other Tiatans instead. Atlayr wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid; to trick him he had to be an even more believable liar. Spirit knew that it was time for him to make his move. “Thank you that would be wonderful,” he said, keeping his voice even and complying. “Though before you go; I’ve got this load shouldered in a most uncomfortable position. If you could take it for just a moment, I could position myself so I could carry it for however long you needed.” He added the last part to sweeten the sound of the deal for the Tiatan.
Atlayr seemed quite pleased with the deal; he put down the apple and took the sky back from Spirit. As soon as the weight was transferred over, Spirit zipped away and snatched up the apple. “I thank you for your kindness,” Spirit said in a slightly mocking formal tone as he bowed to the newly entrapped Tiatan. “But I fear I can not intrude upon your hospitality any longer. So I am afraid that I must take my leave. Farewell.” He mock saluted him; then raced off down the path as fast as was safe as Atlayr roared with anger and frustration at his own stupidity.
* * *
As Spirit approached the cave where he had left Mústáré he saw some blue armored figures slip into the sea and a few green and tan armored figures disappear over the dunes. It was as if they had been protecting Mústáré until he got back. Then he heard Mústáré moan and forgot about the strange figures. He trotted into the cave and knelt by his side. Mústáré weakly opened his eyes and raised his head. “Spirit,” he whispered weakly.
“It’s all right Mústáré,” Spirit told him gently, “I’m back. And I’ve got the apple,” he held up the apple so Mústáré could see it.
Mústáré smiled, “good job Spirit, I knew that you could do it. I just need for you to cut it up for me, and then I’ll be able to eat it.”
Spirit quickly cut the golden apple into small slices with his knife. Then, one by one, Mústáré ate the golden apple; gaining strength with each bite. As he ate, Spirit told him how he had won the apple. When the whole apple was gone except for the stem and the seeds, Mústáré was back to his old self. “You did good Spirit,” Mústáré said, pushing himself into an upright position. “I am very proud of you. You took the advice I gave you and used the knowledge to your advantage.”
“Thank you Mústáré,” Spirit replied, “that means a lot to me. I’m just glad I survived holding that sky.”
“It takes more than a strong body for a mortal to hold the sky; it takes a strong will and mind. If your mind gives up and your will is not strong enough to keep you going, then you will fail. You had the will to keep going even when your mind was telling you to stop. As I knew you would; you’re too stubborn to give up.”
“Thanks, I know that I’ll never forget what happened.”
“And every time you look in the mirror you will remember.”
“What do you mean?”
“See for yourself.”
Spirit walked to the shallow pool in the cave and looked into it. What he saw surprised him. He looked as if he had aged ten years; his body was thinner, more muscular, and his face was sharper in places, smoother and thinner in others. And in his forelock… in his forelock was a small streak of grey. “You’re right Mústáré, I will never forget this.”……






…and I never did. I went on to have many more adventures with Mústáré. And I eventually did return to my home, but that’s another story. But I never forgot Mústáré, my teacher. And every time I see that streak of grey, I think of my quest…

…For a golden apple…

…from The Tree of the Meridees…