WILLIAM DAVEY
I thought it possible that Dupotet might have planned my route so that I could experience something in Malta, but I ultimately discarded the notion as the workings of my own suspicious mind. After all, Leconte de Lisle’s warning—as well as my own observations—had shown me that Le Maître had indeed changed, but the gravity of the threat and his ready acquiescence to my need for assistance suggested that he did not seek to provide me any particular epiphany. Therefore, as far as I could tell, Charles Dupotet de Sennevoy had not arranged a learning experience for me.
But as we anchored in Grand Harbour, the beautiful port of Malta’s principal town, Valetta, I still lacked the answer to what had caused the sensations I still felt—and what I had seen when gazing through the Azure Window.
We made port late in the morning and were not scheduled to depart until the next day after the ship recoaled. Those passengers who chose to do so could disembark and spend the day and night ashore, with the strict admonition that they should be aboard by eight o’clock the following morning. I concluded that I could use a respite from my cramped quarters and the full heat of the day on the ship’s deck, and went ashore along with a few others. I engaged a room at a small hotel in Birgu.
Malta was a colony of the British Empire, but that was a relatively recent evolution in its history. For a few centuries, it had been the home of the Knights of St. John, a military order that dated from the Crusades; they had taken up residence on these barren rocks after the Ottoman Emperor Suleiman had ejected them from Rhodes in 1530. Their occupation of the strategic little island chain and their zeal as corsairs annoyed that prince, causing him to invade it thirty-five years later to further dislodge them. While most of the Christian world remained on the sidelines, a handful of Knights and a few thousand inhabitants had prevailed against absurd odds; their resistance to the might of the Turk conjured up images of superhuman—and perhaps supernatural—bravery. Only Napoleon—not his lesser nephew who led France at the time of my journey, but the great one who had conquered most of Europe—had managed to overcome these knights, seizing Malta in 1798. After the tyrant was finally deposed, the islands became property of the British crown.
Other than its history, I knew blessed little about Malta—in the middle of the century, as at present, the British Union Jack flies everywhere in the world: on every continent, on the shore of every sea, fluttering in every wind. Malta was just another colony, though one that—like Gibraltar—was close to the home islands and in a particularly strategic location. If it had not captured my attention, I might well have simply passed it by on my way to more momentous things.
A little after noon, with most of the town dozing through the midday hours, I began my journey away from Fort St. Elmo. I felt the unusual tugging of the strange phenomenon as I walked slowly, stick in hand, across the broad peninsula of Mount Sciberras. I had not chosen to hire a guide to share my journey, despite many offers of the same; I assumed that I should not need one, given the size of the island. In any case, I preferred to be alone for my explorations. As I had departed Birgu to be rowed across Grand Harbour, numerous residents had looked askance at me—certainly I did not look the sort who could survive crossing the water, much less a hike across the vast limestone hills of Malta: but like most natives in most places, they assumed that I would receive my due comeuppance.
A mile or so from the fort, with the Mediterranean still well in sight, I came upon a narrow footpath that led me to a small defile. I scrambled down, heedless of the obvious fact of which the average Maltese was aware—that were I to fall and injure myself even this close to civilization on this small an island, I would lie uncovered and subject to the elements for some time at best, and perish ignominiously due to exposure at the worst. Nonetheless, I managed the descent without incident and shortly found myself confronted with a rock overhang beneath which I could see a concealed cave mouth.
I had thoughtfully packed a lantern for just such an eventuality. A torch might have been better; but though pitch was a readily available substance on an island full of sailors, wood was still at a premium. Thus, the lantern. I struck a match and lit the wick, shielding it from the stiff fresh wind that blew even into the defile where I now stood, and prepared to enter the cave.
Once again, had I considered the possibility that I might somehow become trapped, alone and at some remove from the towns of the island, I might have reconsidered my precipitate action. Of such sturdy foolhardiness are heroes made.
I thus bent down almost to my knees, my lantern held out in front of me like Diogenes, and moved under the rock overhang and into the narrow cave entrance. Just beyond, I discovered that I could stand almost upright; I found myself in a narrow gallery that sloped slightly downward, agreeably to the incline which my perceptions indicated. After ten or fifteen feet, the passageway bent sharply to the left, cutting off my view of daylight; I stepped forward carefully and found myself in a larger chamber, one which afforded me the ability to stand fully erect.
No sooner did I do so but a strong gust of air from somewhere put out the light of my lantern, leaving me unexpectedly in darkness.
With my light suddenly extinguished, I was seized with a panic that prevented me from drawing breath for several seconds. As I knelt and fumbled for a match to reignite the lantern, I was able to discern that the darkness around me was far from absolute: there were faint glowing spots visible on the walls. I also noted that the chamber was much more vast than I had originally thought—I stood on a sort of balcony, and it extended some considerable distance up and down from my current position.
It was also apparent that this place was the source of the feeling that I had experienced from the time we had rounded Sicily. This was the location that had drawn me.
And finally, I realized that in that chamber there was a presence—perhaps several presences—that was so strong that I was almost unable to rise from my knees. Were I of weaker character, I might not have been able to stand at all: I cannot imagine the consequences of that circumstance.
Instead, I left the lantern where it was and got to my feet.
“Who is it—” I began.
Man, a soundless voice said. Man.
I felt rather than heard it, echoing throughout the chamber, not all at once, but slightly out of phase. As the word was spoken, each of the glowing patches seemed to become brighter for a moment, then returned to its former state.
“Yes.” I glanced behind me: the corridor was there, daylight was only a few dozen feet away. “And you are not.”
It is far from what we are, the voices managed simultaneously.
“I should like to know with whom—with what—I am speaking.”
That is not under discussion at this moment, Man, the initial voice said, the one that all the rest had echoed. We deliberate on quite another matter.
I strongly considered retreating; once again I felt as if I should be driven to my knees by the voices in the chamber, and suspected that retreat was not an option.
“I should be honored to know what you discuss.”
It is your demise, man.
“I do not take lightly to the idea that others are deciding my fate,” I said.
We do not care about your opinion.
“Clearly you do,” I ventured. “Or you would not trouble yourselves to keep me informed of your discussions.”
I believe that it goes without saying that I was frightened. I am more than willing to admit that fact. But it occurred to me at that moment that if these beings—whatever they were—wished to simply slay me, they could have done so without the trouble of deliberation or debate. I told myself that I therefore remained safe as long as they kept talking. Their silence, not their speech, was dangerous.
You are bold to speak thus, man.
“I shall even be sufficiently bold as to introduce myself.”
Why do you suppose we care?
“It is merely rhetorical. For convenience and courtesy. And I would have your names as well, should you possess them.”
You would be better served to explain why you are here, man, than to trouble us with meaningless identification.
“Nonetheless,” I continued, “I have the honor of presenting myself. My name is William Davey, and I have come here because I sensed your presence. I think—I believe I even saw you from far away. Through the Azure Window.”
Curiosity.
“Just so.”
A weakness of men. What do you want from us, William Davey? Or is your curiosity satisfied?
“I should think that it is not. I want, however, only to return to the light. Other duties await me.”
Should we permit you to carry them out.
“I hope that I might have some say in the matter. Again I ask you—how are you called?”
Names are unimportant, the voice replied. In any case, our race is long forgotten by yours. We were old when nations of men you no longer remember were already dust. Your most ancient accounts bear only the smallest hints.
“Are you stoicheia, then? Elemental spirits?”
I felt a wave of resentment—possibly even anger—that made me unsteady on my feet.
They are children compared to us. Willful, arbitrary, cruel and quick to anger. They play at the games of men for their own purposes. But … we are not like them.
“I meant no offense.”
We do not care about your courtesy.
“What do you care about? Is there something you want? From me?”
It is possible.
It was the most interesting response I could have imagined.
“And what should be my reward for this service?”
We would not terminate your existence.
I squared my shoulders and took a breath. “While I am most gratified that you should grant such a favor, I do not believe that is in the nature of a reward. If you wished to slay me, you would have done so. If you do not wish to offer me something for my service, you should perform the act yourself and I can be on my way.”
I attempted to step back, but found my feet rooted to the spot, as surely as if a powerful practitioner of the Art had commanded me to stay in place.
We have not chosen to do so, the voice said at last. We remain here at the magnetic antipodes. It is surrounded by the sea in the middle of the earth. The child spirits do not dare to come here.
“Why?”
They are afraid of us. They are capricious and flighty. They create without heed of consequence; they destroy without a thought. They do not know what they do—and they do not know at whose bidding they act.
I felt a chill run along my back.
“And you do.”
Yes.
“They are more powerful than I am,” I said carefully. “If you want me to move against them, you must realize that I am a poor instrument.”
You underestimate yourself, William Davey, the single voice said. You have survived this long for a reason.
“I am careful and plan ahead.”
We mean, the chorus of voices said, you have survived this conversation for this long for a reason.
I paused for a moment, and then replied, “You have given me no choice.”
There is always a choice.
“What would you have me do?”
You must stop the power that controls the spirits you call stoicheia. It is known to us—and to you.
“By which you mean the statue.”
That is not quite correct.
“I await your explanation,” I said. I did not know if I was antagonizing them by my banter, but as long as they were still talking to me, it gave me some illusion of control over the conversation.
The statue is not the power that controls the spirits, the voice said. It is a prison that contains that power. There is a being trapped within the statue: an adept from the civilization that created the statue captured the being and rendered it powerless.
“How did he do that?”
It was a moment of weakness. The being was not the most skilled among us, and the adept was the most skilled among them.
It took a moment for that to sink in. “You mean—that the inhabitant of the statue is one of your kind?”
Yes.
“And you want me to rescue it?”
Certainly not, it far exceeds your capacity.
No: it was trapped—let it remain so. It is not the being’s entrapment that causes our attention; it is the possibility that it might escape, despite its long imprisonment. When it was trapped, we did not care. Only when it evolved a scheme for escaping did we take an interest. For you—or any man—to thwart it would be far better than if we were roused to action.
“And if I choose to decline this singular honor?”
As you observe, William Davey: there is always a choice. But know this. If we were roused to action, we would be indifferent to any consequences that might affect you, or the stoicheia, or anyone or anything else. It would be better for you if this problem is solved without our intervention.
“Better that you remain here in this cave.”
That is not quite correct.
“That it’s better?”
That we are here in this cave. This is for your benefit. All the voices chimed in at this sentence.
I did not quite know what to make of the statement.
We will not warn again, William Davey, they said, and the ground around me began to shake.
I found myself able to move, and without hesitation I turned and ran back along the tunnel’s brief dogleg. Dirt and rock were starting to fall even as I ran upward along the passageway, which I seemed to do at an agonizingly slow pace, as if I were running uphill into a strong wind. I ducked barely low enough, diving through the short opening below the overhang, then crawled on hands and knees as quickly as I might manage.
Some piece of falling rock must have struck my head at some point; when I next possessed my senses, day had turned to night. My vision was blurred, my eyes were watery; I reached into a pocket of my coat and drew out a kerchief. There was a nearly full moon partway up in the sky.
Behind me there was no trace of an overhang, a cave or any sort of rock formation. The feeling that I had experienced for the last few days remained, but it was muted and dim—the aura of the anti-magnetic island and its elemental inhabitants had been muddied.
At every turn, the tale seemed to be getting more complex. As I picked myself up and prepared to make my way back, I allowed to myself that I might, indeed, have had a very close brush with death.