Chapter 18

Now glance a moment at Sofi across the way. She’s conversing with someone on her phone. And I wonder who it could be. I doubt this is any random hello from a friend—look at how her eyes are suddenly fixated on her wineglass. She must be hearing something important, some valuable jewel of information. And look! What a surprise to her ears—she has not heard this before; her lips open and close in indecision. Perhaps a breath of hope has entered her soul? Perhaps the final dagger of regret has plunged into her depths—either way, she won’t last long there at her table. I must continue my tale before she leaves and plummets into despair.
All you need to note is the sheer opposition a few years have made in Sofi’s story. She’s now a wisping, smoking candlestick in danger of growing forever cold—just a remnant of the brightly burning flame in her soul that hour in the depths of the harpy’s den. But how lovely she was to look upon there in Warren’s arm. Not to take anything from our hero. His heart had been shattered and his love burst forth in what could have been tangible rays of warm, overflowing light. And so the two stood and cradled the other in a slow, rocking waltz to the music of love—which both heard so clearly in the relative silence.
Between the reverent pauses for love, they whispered to each other of the day’s immediate events. Sofi revealed that the only members she knew were alive were Livingstone and Old Fred and Warren told her of his abduction—she of course inspected his wounded shoulder. Warren melted at her tender touch.
But all too suddenly, the echoing flaps of the harpy’s wings caught their ears and she was upon them. Warren jumped when he saw her—her feathered body had his mother’s face. The harpy landed and folded her wings, a sly grin on her lips. “Are you ready for your next task, Warren?”
He nodded and bit his lip, hoping he could pull another miracle out of his pocket like he had with Sofi. The harpy shook the feathers from herself and became Warren’s mother completely, beckoning him to a faint outline in the cliff wall with splayed fingers. Warren followed obediently, Sofi clutching his waist. The harpy pressed on the stone and a door slid upward, vanishing into the rock. Warren’s eyebrows shot up with it and followed her through the doorway.
The hallway was a pristine, white passage with several tinted windows lining both sides. Sylvara strode down the hall with a fascinating pace, and the tangled pair of Warren and Sofi fell behind. But the harpy turned to her left just a few yards ahead of them and opened another door. She turned and extended her right hand. “Please, in here.”
The room was empty—no big surprise for Warren, who had scarcely seen an inhabited or even furnished room since his rescue from his own home by Livingstone. But Sylvara pointed to the far end of the room, where Warren saw a recessed, glass cage. He approached it slowly at first, but recognized the inhabitant of the cage, Ali. She stretched her paws as high on the glass as she could, sniffing for any kind of exit.
Warren dropped to his knees to level himself with the cage. “Are you okay, Ali?” he asked, hands planted on the glass. She squeaked and clawed at the glass.
“We purged the demonic essence from her system—so she won’t answer you,” Sylvara stated, winking at Warren. “At least not in your own language,” she thought to add. “However, your test for Ali’s life is simple: you must retrieve her key from my nest.” Warren dropped a questioning eyebrow. “It’s in plain sight,” she laughed, “an my nest is the biggest one in the middle.” But as Warren turned to go, she cautioned him. “But! You will not be going as yourself; and remember, if you die, the rat dies. If you come back empty-handed, the rat dies. If you succeed, she will live,” she warned him, all the time stepping closer to him. “Now be off!” she said and seized Warren by the neck. He struggled to pry her hands from him for a moment, but then she released him and stepped backwards.
Sofi gasped and turned. In just a few moments, Warren had fallen to the ground, sprouted hair and claws and whiskers. Sylvara smiled at the transformation when all that remained of Warren was a squeaking, terrified rat on the white tiled floor. She opened another door and pulled two collapsible chairs from the closet. “We shall wait here for him, dear Sofi.”
Once Warren had registered the change brought upon him, he had to adjust himself to the drastic changes—mostly in the world of his senses. Smells hung in the air like levitating streams; a barrage of sounds overpowered him at first. But bit by bit, Warren accustomed himself to this new manner of perception and gathered his wits. He had to find the nest, the key—for Ali’s rescue, for her freedom, for her life.
He scurried out of the room and back down the hallway they had come, through the doorway and into the cavernous abyss beyond it. A whole host of streaming smells accosted his nose. But the one belonging to Sylvara was quite keen.
It didn’t take Warren long to find a scrambling path up the cavern wall to the largest of the myriad of woven nests constructed with a motley blend of sticks, plastics, and mud. He scurried into the nest and gave it a quick look over—checking for anything that might resemble a key. But the place was a veritable treasure chest of miscellaneous items. A violet rubber ball, an oval mirror, several loosely rolled wool blankets, a golden pocket watch, a conglomeration of pens, a jar of paper-clips, a spatula, a decorated teapot without a lid, several lighters, a metallic toy plane, two pairs of sunglasses, and a whole host of other items he didn’t recognize.
What he did recognize when it happened was the sound of flapping wings. Warren’s rat eyes searched the thick cavern air momentarily—a winged terror dove towards him, talons outstretched. His instincts took over and he found himself scampering for cover. He found a slight opening between the nest and the cavern wall into which he ran quickly—and just in time, as the harpy slammed against the rock and started to scratch and dig after him.
Warren squeezed himself down through the tangled mess, his heart pumping as the talons tore after him. Then shrieks seemed to multiply around him and the commotion above him increased exponentially. Yet further inward he burrowed, where he found a small cavity. He couldn’t control his shivering and shaking, or the rapid beat of his heart. Sounds of ravenous harpies clawing at the nest moved around him. He searched around frantically for any route of escape—each passage only carried reverberations of doom through it.
Then a soft yellow form caught his attention, creeping through the maze of sticks. It was a moth with restless, fluttering wings. Warren stared at it for a moment while it crawled up to his twitching nose. Then, apart from all the sounds of the world, a thin, fine voice curled itself around his mind. “You will die,” it stated affectionately. Warren recoiled. “Yes, the harpies will find you and dismantle you. Sylvara is a cruel being, exiled to this bottomless pathway of guttural moods and fierce passions. She suffers the torments of her mind, her conscience in this bleak, dying history.”
Warren crouched and thought, “Who are you?”
The moth twitched a furry antenna. “How does my appearance deceive you? Have you so quickly forgotten?”
“What is your name?”
“Unimportant. But if you must have one, I will give you one: call me Thandris. Now, little one, listen to me before hope is lost. Sylvara has been condemned among the living and the dead, the pure and the corrupt. Pay her no heed, for she will delight in your ecstasy and your pain alike—give her no reason to indulge in either.”
“What should I do?”
“Accept my power—I have little to give you now and it will wane with time. But find her key and return to her quickly. She will sense my presence and agree to any demands you make of her—especially if you make an example of one of her minions.”
Warren spun in a circle and looked at his rat-paws, “How?”
“Allow me,” said the moth, which climbed onto Warren’s back. A jolt of energy entered his spine—and Warren felt himself growing, he squinted as light surrounded him and seemed to blow the nest away, like the breeze would a plume of desert dust. Wingbeats surrounded him, but the intensity of the light around him kept the harpies hidden. When the light began to fade, Warren found himself standing on a small ledge of the nest, a strange, blue-steel colored object at his feet: the key. He picked it up with human hands.
At last the light was gone and a hundred glowering harpies flapped in obvious irritation around him. Warren’s confidence soared and he stepped lightly off the nest onto the air. He strode towards one burnt-orange winged fright and without a thought stretched out his hand. The creature struggled with powerful strokes to get away, but had been shackled in place by the air itself. When Warren’s outstretched finger touched the frenzied being, it exploded into a thousand drifting embers.
An echoing storm of shrieks erupted immediately and the creatures fled to the depths of their nests. Warren ran now on the cavern winds, cursing himself for having left Sofi with that monster in the first place. Back down the brilliant hallway and through the door he stormed, the energy of the demon coursing through him.
At first glance, Sylvara screamed and cowered in the corner. Warren stared her down as he walked to Ali’s cage and freed her. The rat delighted in Warren’s smell, his touch, and raced up his arm to his shoulder. Warren smiled and stroked Ali on the head. “You’re safe again now, girl.” Then he turned to Sofi, whose face showed relief, but whose shoulders demonstrated anxiety. “Are you okay?” She nodded.
Halfway satisfied, Warren turned his attention to Sylvara, who gulped and scrambled to the corner, hiding herself with her wings. “Where are the others?” he demanded of her.
“I will kill them if you touch me,” she warned.
“Where are they?” Warren commanded, stepping closer.
“Keep away from me, demon, and I will tell you,” Sylvara hissed. Warren stopped and she glanced at him from behind a veil of feathers. “Next door on the right,” she said, grinning a wretched smile.
Warren followed Sofi, who was already out the door. Sofi struggled with the door, then turned to Warren. “Locked,” she said. He grasped the handle and the lock split open. Warren smiled; the harpy hadn’t lied. There, in shackles, lay Livingstone, Trent, and Old Fred. Sofi bounded in behind him and sighed. “Get up guys, time to go,” she said and gave Warren a little push from behind to free them.
He came first to Livingstone and touched his chains, which fell from his wrists and ankles like liquid. With such simplicity, he freed the other two, who patted him on the shoulder and thanked him. “Where are the rest?” Sofi asked. Old Fred shook his head with downcast eyes. Warren shivered at the fates of those poor soldiers. Livingstone’s poker face, however, hadn’t changed a bit. Warren knew he wanted the story behind his powers. But Sofi was not in the mood for discussion and urged them out of the room, like a mother hen escorting her chicks.
As they sprinted down the hallway, Trent pointed to a red door ahead of them. “I remember seeing them store our weapons there—before the drugs took complete effect.” Warren nodded, slid to a stop, and opened the door. Old Fred went in and started handing out the goodies. Warren couldn’t help but envision him as a jolly but dirty Saint Nick passing out presents. But not only were their armaments piled in there, but those of other victims as well. Perhaps expeditionary teams into what the demon had told Warren was an asylum for exiles. Old Fred grinned when he picked up an ancient, but powerful shotgun and slung it over his shoulder. Livingstone rolled his eyes and grabbed a sheathed katana. “Oh is that right, Samurai Jack?”
A smile almost crossed Livingstone’s lips, “Yes, indeed. And you’ll thank me when you run out of shells.” He winked and Old Fred shook his head. When the group had re-armed themselves, they pressed forward again, searching for an escape from the tunnels. Trent led the party, looking at his watch as he jogged ahead.
“I think there should be a passage to the surface just on the other side of this wall up here. If we could…” he began, but a spine-tingling screech echoed down the corridor, effectively silencing him. Four of the five slowed and turned to check behind them, readying their weapons.
Only Livingstone kept moving, yelling back to them, “I wouldn’t stop there if I were…” But before he could finish, the floor fell out from under the four. They plummeted down a short shaft and landed on an incline, spiraling downwards. A small, circular outlet door opened and spat them out into a warm room, lavished with soft red carpet, pink suede pillows strewn about the room like autumn leaves, and what seemed to be giant lava lamps populating the perimeter of the circular room. But far more curious to the four was the thousands of butterflies flitting about the room, dazzling the air with swirling color.
Sofi was the first to stand, followed by Trent, while Warren and Old Fred only propped themselves up on their elbows to gaze at the spectacle. “My God,” Fredric stammered. “What is this?”
Warren laughed to himself in the irony that Livingstone wasn’t present to point out the stupidity of asking such a question. But if anyone were to ask it, it would have to be Old Fred. But as he looked through the haze of butterflies, he saw silhouettes—figures bending, stretching, squirming. “Do you see those…?” he began and Sofi nodded, squinting beside him. Now Warren stood and helped the old man to his feet.
Trent was already several paces away, heading towards the shadowed people with his pistol drawn. Warren reached for Sofi’s hand—whether for his or her comfort, he couldn’t say—and followed him. Old Fred hobbled after them, a hand on his back, the other clutching his shotgun, which he employed as a walking stick.
Across the pillowed, carpeted floor, through the butterflies and the soft crimson glow, the oddly-moving figures huddled—perhaps five or six of them—and every now and again, one would flail its arms backwards, splayed out like a kitten stretching for a piece of string just out of its reach. When Trent was within twenty yards or so of these blossoming figures, he called out to them.
“Hey there!”
Warren watched as they paid not the slightest heed to Trent’s greeting, and kept undulating from their knees. They were women—or at least had the feminine figure, Warren clarified in his own thoughts. He imagined they were trapped in a ritual of some sort—he began to discern chains around their waists and wrists. Through the clouds of butterflies, he also found a distinct, pale sort of mist rising from their midst.
“Are you okay?” he heard Trent ask again, his handgun still leveled at them, but irritated at their ignorance of his questions. “Are you slaves of the harpy?” He stopped a couple feet from them and Warren and Sofi joined him at his side. The girls wore paper-thin purple garments, which hung on them like moss an old withered tree branch. They were chained to the floor in a semi-circle, but seemed unaware of their bindings—each focused on the space between them, each had a dark, glazed pot of liquid and a sponge in each hand. In a waving sort of dance, they stretched skyward with their sponges collapsed down to the floor, eyes and noses only inches from the surface, then they would twist sideways and soak both sponges in the pots and repeat the process—but never at the same time; they alternated with an inconsistent rhythm.
Warren craned his neck to see what they bent over to scrub while Trent kept the torrent of questions raining on these unresponsive beings. Old Fred, however, simply walked up to one, cupped her chin in his hands and twisted her face towards him. Dark blank eyes stared at him, as if she couldn’t quite pinpoint why the rhythm of her life had been interrupted. Then she squirmed from his hands and fell back over to the floor. That’s when Old Fred gasped and motioned for Warren and Sofi to step closer.
There, resting in the floor, was a sliding glass door, with a luminescent glow—so out of place with the rest of the room—like a lemon among cherries. Warren also noted that the butterflies seemed to gravitate away from the radiance of the door. But as he inspected the glass, he saw, in a brilliant lime-color, a loopy handwriting scrawled across its surface. It reminded him of Sylvara’s note. He dropped to a knee, next to one of the slaves, squinted, and tried to read the writing. But the interference of the sponging girls made it almost impossible. He looked up to the others.
Trent was walking from each to each, looking for the spark of intellect in any pair of eyes—and evidently failing to locate it. “Hello? Can you hear me?” he yelled in obvious frustration, yanking on their arms or hair. “Anyone in there?” Still he tried, and still they stretched, searched, flopped, and scrubbed. “It’s like they’re zombies or something,” he stated, “only instead of the crazed, bloodlusting frenzy they’re just on a cleaning binge.”
“Perhaps we have to figure out what’s written on the glass, first,” Warren volunteered.
“Let’s make sure the room is secure first,” Old Fred suggested. “We don’t want to get jumped by that harpy and her minions again.”
Sofi nodded, but added quietly, “I think Oscar might be a preoccupation to them right now.” Trent shook his head and placed his hands behind his neck.
“After all,” Warren suggested, “We can’t assume that Sylvara has complete control. She might just be a force who has no choice but to make her home in this dangerous pathway. The ‘demon,’” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “told me she had been exiled here. Who knows what other forces are at work here besides the harpy?”
“Right,” Sofi decided, “Trent and Fredric, sweep the far side of the cavern, Warren, you and I will check back that way. We’ll meet back in the center. Good enough for a start?” Everyone nodded and left the imprisoned girls to their impossible task in the middle.