Chapter 23

Warren’s lack of musicality was not his own fault—he had tolerated piano lessons for two weeks straight in seventh grade! The math behind music intrigued him, and he was a scathing critic of it—if it were literature, his critical theory would certainly fall under the umbrella of reader-response. But he would never claim to be a musician. He knew music was beneficial, exciting, and necessary from experience, but what singing had to do with anything in a strange boat, in an unknown labyrinth, in a foreign history, Warren didn’t know. What he did know was that he would not be singing. He had told Ed so before and did so again.
“I don’t sing.” Ed pulled away quietly at the oars, his large eyes fixed on Warren.
“This may take a while then.”
“Why? What does singing have to do with anything?”
“We Tokleks were not gifted with song, as were the sons of Zoe. But there was mighty power in their voices, power to command the waves and tear through rock and stone.” Warren’s eyebrows raised in half-amusement, half-wonder.
“You see, the Reckoning wasn’t an apocalyptic judgment of Zoe, it was an anthem of praise from the sons—for themselves. They rose up against their great mother and sung themselves into oblivion, into the dark side of the world. The power of their song unchained them, and unsupported by the light by Zoe, they fell into ruin.”
“How did your kind fall with them then?”
“They listened to the song; they heard with wonder the claims of the sons against Zoe. And those who chose themselves over Zoe crossed into shadow. Alas, the great power of the Way Walkers was all they had seen, all the happiness they thought they had known came from them, and the lie of their song convinced them to follow in rebellion. There are few of us now left in the light—I credit the death of my father for preparing my heart for the Reckoning. When the song presented me with the choice for the sons of Zoe, or a great and mysterious mother I had never known, my choice was clear. I would have none of what the sons were, nor what they could do.
“So I ignored their song, and now row long weary days in the light—but I bear my lonely burden easily. I am content in rowing for Zoe—in fact, she sent me to fetch you, and she expects us. But if you could sing, we might make more haste—and perhaps bring a smile to her wondrous face as we arrive.”
This story intrigued Warren immensely. He wondered if Zoe were another demon, like Sylvara, exiled perhaps to an underground factory in a dusty corner of the garden. He was anxious to meet this being of “light” and so he fumbled through his memory searching for some simple song.
“What about a poem? Do you think that would work? I have a couple of those memorized…” he asked, but nothing registered in Ed’s eyes.
“What is a poem?” it asked.
This silenced Warren for a minute, trying best how to explain poetry to a creature who knew both song and story.
“It is rhythmic like a song, but more emphasis on the words, like a story.”
Ed snapped his beaklike mouth a couple times. “Well perhaps I will like this poem you speak of. Sing it to me?”
Warren collected his thoughts—with which would he begin? How about Shakespeare:

“When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

Warren glanced about. The concrete tunnels remained silent. The water slapped lazily at the side of the barge. Neither creature spoke for a moment. Then Ed shook his head, “I’m afraid there just isn’t enough song in this poem you spoke. It doesn’t have any power in it.”
Warren scratched his head. He remembered a friend’s poem he had memorized—the lyrics had been based off the rhythm of a song. The words were a long way off in his memory. He dove after them, closing his eyes, holding his breath. He found the first words—and after that they came back quickly. He started speaking:

“When will we
afford that it might seem
beneath fallen lightbeams
a statement of reverie…”

The water seemed to sway in response.

“…we stare as a star gleams
across moonlit paintings
of pale midnight meetings;
the water runs deepening.
we walk as if meaning
will find us retreating
from shadow’s brief gleaning
in bitter swamp sufferings…”

A groan erupted through the concrete above them.

“the dusk leaves us fleeting,
forever completing
this mystery of ceding

ourselves to our passions
declaring our actions
to fit preset fashions.
We walk nature’s mansion;
we break and we crash on
the simplest of bastions:”

Warren had closed his eyes and felt, rather than saw, a surge of water beneath the barge.

“our hearts beat between us
and lock to redeem us
from empty receivers
but wind has deceived us
with whispering breezes
and should fate retrieve us
to forge its own Jesus—
but who will believe us
when wolves finally seek us?
we waltz between seasons
abandon said reasons
to quit all our reaches.”

When a fresh breeze lit his face as poetry escaped his lips, and Warren opened his eyes. The tunnel glowed warmly, but passed by them quickly—they rode a wave of longing forward.

“We’ve lost our demeanor:
un-courtly procedure:
with what shall I please her?
a wink or a whisper?
the darkness which kissed her
has mirrored her grandeur;
my anxious behavior
requires a savior.

These raindrops are endless;
they add to an ageless
defeat of defenses—
her eyes are relentless
her beauty, her essence
lays siege to my senses.”

The tunnel suddenly vanished and the wave deposited them in a grand, circular chamber, where motes of light danced to the rhythm of his words. Warren dared not stop until he had finished the poem.

“a sodden reflection
of half-trodden sections
in marshy confections
completes our defection
to natural deception
our final election
of willful collections.”

Warren sat back, heart pounding from the effect of the words on the environment, on himself. He glimpsed his hands; they were aglow with a steady, warm light. He looked to Ed who seemed completely mesmerized by the occurrence.
“Are we here?” he whispered to Ed, who could only nod vaguely in response.
Then something across the calming waters caught his eye: a speck of dazzling light dancing on the surface. Warren squinted a little. The reflections of the water painted wondrous, flittering patterns on the seamless dome above them. Everything to him seemed golden—as if lit by something in the center, a light source not definitely above or below the waters.
“Row a bit more, Ed,” Warren instructed. The paddles dipped lightly and pulled them forward, generating small, glistening ripples which only slightly bent an otherwise glasslike surface. Warren clambered past Ed to the front of the boat, attempting to make out what approached them. He thought he heard a chime, or the ring of a bell, or the chirp of a bird—he couldn’t quite place it.
Then a clear, beautiful feminine voice filled the chamber, resonating into Warren’s very being. He sat back and listened, drinking it in like cool clear water. Every muscle within him relaxed in the reverberations. Then from the light before him appeared what he could only think was an angel. She hung in the air as a fish might in water—as if gravity hadn’t the slightest hold on her. Yet she possessed great white wings, outstretched but still, as if gliding on the light itself. A flowing, spotless silver dress clung to her figure perfectly, tapering to an end just above her toes, which were pointed down and just skimming the water’s surface as she walked forward.
Her voice quieted a bit, and she sang a sweet, simple melody. Warren felt her gaze on him alone, but it didn’t disturb him in the least. He watched affectionately her approach—found he looked into kind, caring eyes which returned his gaze steadily, without hint of anxiety, worry, or fear. He didn’t feel he should need to look anywhere but into those endlessly abundant eyes. Still her song wrapped itself around him, warmed him as if he had just come in from a winter storm and sat by a brightly glowing fireplace. She reached with firm fingers to his cheek and smiled. The song echoed into the waters and faded from his ears.
“You are the one called Warren?” she questioned him. She might as well have simply sung it, Warren was so delighted at the sound of her voice.
“Yes,” he answered and hated his own voice—so gruff, so brutal, so barbaric it sounded in this place of light and clarity and beauty.
“Welcome then, to the Fountain Cheriel; I am glad my servant brought you. We have much to discuss.” Then turning to Ed, she affectionately dismissed him. The creature bowed and began to row away.
But the lady of light took Warren’s hand, and he found himself rising with her from the deck of the barge. Yet he felt no profound tug on his arm; it was as gravity itself had given up on him. Near the center of the domed room, just below the ceiling, was a small circular patio, of what seemed pure carved crystal. They alighted, and she directed him to a small floating glass table next to gleaming silken sacks. Warren walked as lightly as he could, out of what he could only guess was courtesy, and relaxed into the chair—he had never felt so comfortable in his life. She came lightly stepping back to him, her wings now folded behind her. After placing two glasses on the table and taking one, she sat next to him.
“Your poetry was delightful,” she began, and then sipped from her glass. Warren smiled and bowed.
“Thank you; you do me great honor in saying so—your song, your self, everything about you is beautiful. You cannot be any other than Zoe.”
She smiled again with soft eyes. “You judge rightly, Warren Spicks. I am she.” Warren sipped at his glass. The liquid was cool and refreshing. He tried to say something about how he had come there, but found himself lost in her gaze. “Warren, I am glad to have found you,” she said at last. Warren’s eyebrows lifted.
“Oh?” was about all he could manage. A broad smile crossed Zoe’s lips.
“I am not as secluded here in the fountain as you might think; you have many hunters, though not all of them foes.”
“And which are you?”
“I am your friend and ally, Warren; I will help you on to your destination as much as I possibly can,” she soothed.
“I thank you, but I cannot go on without first going back for my friends,” Warren explained. Zoe’s eyes softened.
“I wouldn’t ask you to. The sweet, darling Sofi is a perfect match for you, dear Warren. And Oscar is a titan; no other bodyguard could keep you safer on your journey.”
“Wait, you know them?”
“I am kindred to those they serve; their goals are my goals, their losses my own. You must stick with Sofi and Oscar, as far as it concerns you from now until you arrive at your destination. As for the others, do not mourn their loss.”
“Does that mean you know what happened to Trent?” Warren asked.
“Such questions should not be bothered with at this time, Warren. For I will reveal only what benefits you. And that means you must finish your drink; for we must find Sofi and Oscar before they pass beyond my sight, before they drift too far into the shadow realm. But trust my song, Warren, and we will find them.”
Warren finished his drink as instructed and reached for Zoe’s hand.
“What will happen to Ed?” he asked.
“You mean my good and faithful servant? He will row proudly in the light of the fountain for ‘many tides’ in my service; I will cherish his presence until his death. Do not worry about him; he will be well taken care of, even after he departs my service.” She took his cup from his hand and set it on the table. “Shall we?”