The old merchant

faded back into the forest,

and Zolantos

proceeded once again,

this time with the

reassuring knife

clenched in his fist.

Zolantos came to a path,

and followed its rhythm

through the forest,

stepping over rocks,

up and down the

wavelike topography

of the forest floor.

The forest thinned.

Daylight of some sort

peeked ahead through the tree trunks,

Zolantos pushed past a bushy fern,

and came to a trapezoidal meadow

filled with an ominous

fortress.

The fortress

loomed over Zolantos

like a dark, heartless storm cloud,

with wide, tall, baleful turrets

and impenetrable stone walls

more unbreakable

than the unrepenting bedlams of history.

Zolantos examined its perimeter —

there were no windows,

no doors,

no gate of any kind.

The fortress stood

unassailable,

a horrible fact hidden beneath hope.

But on one side,

there was a small sculpture

of a near formless human face,

engraved with the words,

“Here Stands the Maze of Ixion —

Abandon Your Despair

To Enter the Stone.”

Zolantos could hear

the muted whimpering

and weeping

of a young child.

He furrowed his brow

and looked at the fortress,

the maze,

again.

Though tall,

the walls possessed

little nooks where one might

gain hold

to climb the fortress.

Zolantos gently touched

the stone with his fingertips.

The surface was rough,

eroded, but still invincible...

He reached out,

grabbed hold of the wall,

and began to climb.

When Zolantos reached

the top of the fortress,

he could still hear the child,

but he could not see any windows or doors.

There was no access inside of any kind.

He walked across the stone roof.

He knew the child in distress

was trapped inside.

But how did he get in?

If this was a maze,

the secret wasn’t how to escape;

but how to enter.

His eyes fell on the four turrets,

also shaped out of thick stone.

He would just

climb them

as well.

Zolantos climbed

all four of the turrets.

There was nothing there either.

Above, a river of stars

swirled through the night sky,

its whispering starlight

tenderly magnificent.

Zolantos could still hear the weeping.

He lowered himself back to the roof,

and calmed himself,

closing his dream eyes

and reaching out with

his Cosmic Paranoia.

His perspective flew,

over the forest,

gliding over the trees,

to the land beyond,

where a group of camel-mounted

androids

approached the wood’s edge.

Zolantos knew these men.

They were Bleed Masters —

fanatical desert warriors

known for their

eviscerating razor-hands,

who survived only

in the most ancient

and most preposterous

myths.

But what were they doing here?

“Help me, please... help...”

the child’s voice,

closer now, louder,

brought Zolantos back to the fortress.

He looked down,

and between his two feet

was a grapefruit-sized hole

peering down into the castle fortress.

The child’s voice emitted from

this narrow passage through the stone.

A young boy’s face

appeared at the bottom

of the shaft,

his lips turned down in despair,

his cheeks red from tears.

Zolantos fell

to his hands and knees,

pressing his face

against the stone

so he could see the boy’s

face, which was

so like his own,

and so like

hers.

For a frantic moment,

Zolantos beat at the stone

with his fists,

knowing who this boy was,

a boy who had never existed,

an idea tormented eternally

by the wheel of time.

Zolantos awoke,

taking a deep breath

as the dream rushed out of his mind.

He could hear the lapping water

of the lake.

The sun was coming up.

The wind was still.

He could sense Ionelle

standing in the shallows,

her back to him,

the cold water between

her ethereal toes.

Zolantos spoke —

“You were with child

when you were killed.”

“Yes,” she responded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to surprise you.”

Zolantos took a breath.

“Why haven’t you told me since?”

The spirit turned around,

her eyes pleading.

“How could I?

I... knew I was

going to have a son.

I knew...

what that meant to you.”

“He would have been

... born free,”

Zolantos said, his voice breaking.

“I am sorry, Zol.

I told you not to follow the stag.”

“I will always follow such things,”

Zolantos admitted.

“I know,” she said.

“I know.”

to be continued...