Toruk stopped. Though he was just yards away from the River, he abruptly stopped when he heard a strange sound, like that of glass popping and crushing beneath someone’s feet.
“Hello?” Toruk said, turning his ear in the direction of the noise which was behind him to his left.
The sound briefly stopped then resumed, growing louder with each strike as if someone was angrily stomping upon glass.
“Hello?” Toruk repeated, his voice quivering.
The sound was coming from the Shadow though Toruk did not yet know it. The creature had been watching Toruk since morning, hiding behind the rustling trees, tracking him through Rame and the hawks while quietly calculating how to permanently sever Toruk from his journey to find the Waterstone.
Though the Shadow was a horrid, despicable creature, he possessed many unique powers, one of which was the ability to elicit awful, maddening sounds through the air designed to startle, confuse then eventually capture his unsuspecting prey. It was a peculiar power, for only the Shadow could mimic nearly every sound and voice in existence, copying the tone and tenor from the gentlest of whispers to the piercing of haunting shrills. He simply opened wide his expansive mouth filled with filthy lion sharp teeth and a snake-like black tongue, and expressed various nefarious sounds throughout Satqin, confounding and disturbing its inhabitants while boldly threatening newcomers.
The Shadow, salivating with delight, mercilessly increased the glass-crushing sound’s decibel, intentionally torturing Toruk with it, causing the young Lijian to cover his ears in agony while backing away from the direction of the River. In his delirium, Toruk inadvertently stumbled off the chosen path and began wandering in the Forest, desperate to get away from the sound, his head pounding with ache, his stomach turning with nausea, his teeth grinding in agony.
Toruk was not relying on his senses as he used to, as Uncle Quinn had warned him to. Instead, he mindlessly traveled east, first through a dense cluster of wintered trees, then turned slightly north, stumbling up and down a gentle hill as the unbearable sound intensified in his ears. He did not hear the little Forest animals scurry out of his way nor did he notice the smell of the pure Chena River fade away. He was likewise oblivious to the sudden silence of the hawks, for they had abandoned their overhead surveillance, satisfied that their job of alerting the Shadow to Toruk’s location was successful. Toruk was focused only on the sound and the excruciating pain it was causing his head.
“Awww!” the young Lijian cried, cringing in pain, not realizing he was now over four miles from the River, unknowingly standing at the edge of the Meadow of Memory.
Hundreds of thousands of years ago, the Voice Upon the Mountain had set aside nearly 20 acres of pristine land within Satqin, planting seeds of herbs, flowers, vegetation, and wild grass to primarily serve as a place for animals to graze. As the grassy lands appeared, the Meadow of Memory bloomed with layers upon layers of rich, natural color. Its floor had been a bright green most seasons. Littered throughout the vibrant Meadow floor were herbs such as wild translucent dandelions, white and black mushrooms, green sage, dark brown clovers, purple bergamot, bright red bee balm, creamy white beargrass, and even white garlic bulbs clustered near beds of wild flowers such as yellow sunflowers, white and pink trillium, soft purple rhododendron, dark purple alfalfa, golden tickseeds, forest green liverwort, creeping blue phlox, white lilies, and spectacular blue irises all sharing the Meadow’s lush vegetation of orange butterfly weeds, evergreen boxwoods, lilac shrubs, and light blue snowbelles.
Animals of every kind used to frolic as happy babes within the Meadow, grazing upon the bright green grass, sniffing the wildflowers, or feeding on the wild mushrooms. Butterflies of every species used to flutter here and there in the Meadow, their beautiful wings adding to the dizzying colorful array. During the day, the rainbow Meadow had been lit with magnificent golden glory from the sun, its hazy golden hues dappling across the landscape, hovering over the vegetation like an angelic halo. At night, the Meadow had turned silver beneath the moon, its plants softly swaying to the moonlit breezes whether in summer, spring, fall, or winter.
It was the artistry of the Voice’s finger that had designed the Meadow of Memory. In those early days, he had often visited it, strolling across, gasping at the Meadow’s burgeoning beauty, his toes sinking into the soft grass, his nose enjoying the delicate fragrances of the wildflowers, his hair tussling within the breezes.
And it was then when the Voice Upon the Mountain enchanted the Meadow, filling it with the power to evoke beautiful, loving memories in the minds of anyone passing through. He began by whispering out into the Meadow of Memory’s air some of his own fond memories, that of the day the Chena Sea sacrificed himself to become the Chena River in order to save the people of Ceto, or that of the moment the Yuli Wind was born, a little sputtering torrent at the time, spinning and churning with the great love the Voice and the Chena had expressed to each other as a benevolent father and son duo, sitting on the same side, working together, locked in solidarity and heartfelt fidelity, or that of the day, flanked by the Yuli Wind and the Chena on either side, the Voice looked into the future and happily finalized his great plan to eventually lead all people to the Peak and live with him there.
The Voice had ordered the Meadow to allow such good memories and more to swim within its essence, to penetrate its atmosphere, to cling to the flowers and plants.
“Ba shlua a opvi (Bring healing to the people),” he had commanded the Meadow in Vana, the language of the Voice Upon the Mountain, the language of love. “Let them enjoy abundant peace and security of mind.”
Bowing in obedience to the Voice Upon the Mountain, the Meadow had initially agreed. Thus, when a person had later entered the Meadow and breathed deep the delicious air or touched the flowers or shrubs, beautiful, truthful memories of that person’s life would miraculously flood their mind, uplift their mood, and heal their heart.
Cetan singers had sung many songs about the spectacular Meadow. Books were written about its unseen powers. Even Cetan counselors had recommended excursions to the Meadow of Memory to couples struggling in their relationships, for all knew that once in the Meadow, memories of love, joy, and happiness would swiftly return, filling human hearts with compassionate, healing sentiments.
The Meadow was steadfast in keeping its agreement with the Voice, vowing to never stray from his commands. Likewise, the Voice was overjoyed with the Meadow, for the grassy space provided a beautiful place for a person to heal their troubled minds and renew broken relationships. And it was to one day serve as a hopeful catalyst to journeying to the Peak, a place where healed souls would look to the Mountain Peak in the distance and wonder if it was just as beautiful and healing as the Meadow. The Voice had hoped such souls would then venture to Matla Mountain seeking to reach the Peak where he was, seeking to encounter a life filled with joy, happiness and love, a life of never-ending beauty, a life instilled in the richness of wisdom, wealth and good company. Such was part of the Voice Upon the Mountain’s great plan.
But the Meadow of Memory later broke its vow. It was corrupted by the corrupting Shadow who, after entering Satqin, found the grassy plain and set his monstrous, wayward feet upon it, instantly killing the grass, most of the herbs, and some of the flowers and other vegetation. Only a sliver of the Meadow’s beauty had survived the Shadow’s presence. Yet instead of the Meadow calling upon the Voice for help, it sadly learned the Shadow’s Olc language before making a deleterious deal with him, offering the creature its power to infiltrate and influence human minds so long as the Shadow did not destroy the scant remnant of the Meadow’s beauty.
Little did the Meadow know that nothing good nor beautiful could ever survive the Shadow’s presence for long, for soon after the Shadow had agreed, the remainder of the Meadow’s beauty swiftly died, resulting in brown, withered flower stems, brown bushes rotted to their roots, and the ugly brown refuse of once-green grass. The Shadow had laughed at the Meadow’s misfortune, smugly shaking his fist at the Mountain Peak in the distance while he poisoned the Meadow’s air with his own dark memories.
He commanded the Meadow to influence people’s mind with darkness should they dare to venture through. The Meadow had no choice but to agree. When unsuspecting souls later stepped into the Meadow, thinking it was still imbued with the Voice’s benevolent power, their minds were swiftly overpowered by the Meadow’s now dark power which attacked them by filling their minds with fake, troubling dark memories. Many victims had afterward sunk into depression and sadness, or gone mad with mental disease, unable to care for themselves. They were filled with self-loathing and hateful suspicion of others, returning to their homes after mindlessly wandering in the Forest for days, months, even years.
“Whatever you do, sijn (son),” Tofer had warned Toruk one day when they were hiking through Satqin, “stay out of the Meadow of Memory. It’ll distort your own memories and turn them against you. And then you’ll get lost.”
“Where is it?” Toruk had asked him.
“Where the Forest dips and turns into a big plain. The grass used to be soft there, but now its dead brown. Everything’s dead in the Meadow, son. Everything.”
“Do you think the Waterstone would be there, jijpi (mother)? Hiding where we least expect it?”
“No, son, I don’t. Nothing good comes out of the Meadow anymore, only madness.”
“But jijpi, maybe we should look just in case. We haven’t found anything and-”
“Toruk Tal!” growled Tofer. “Listen to me. Despite whatever you may possess in life: love, food, shelter, money or friends, none of that matters if you’ve gone mad. Your mind is what steers the heart, son. It’s what tells your feet where to go and not go. It’s what tells your hands what to do and not do. Without a clear mind, you are lost, son. You are lost in the past, lost in the lies filling up your mind, lost in darkness. You can’t think straight. You can’t live right. You’re just lost. Do you understand me? Lost!”
Yet there Toruk was, unknowingly standing in the middle of the Meadow, his hands pressed against his ears, his eyes squeezed shut, his body doubled over in agony at the unrelenting glass-crushing sound permeating the Forest.
Rame and the hawks began squealing with excitement, wildly flapping their wings, waiting for the Shadow to finally pounce upon Toruk. But once the demented creature was satisfied that he had successfully pushed Toruk off his path, he abruptly ceased the glass-crushing sound, then hid behind a tree to watch for a time, certain that the young man would swiftly crumble beneath the Meadow’s cognitive-inducing madness.
“Who’s there?” Toruk asked after the glass-crushing sound suddenly stopped.
He paused to gauge where he was, listening, feeling, smelling. He sensed the frozen ground beneath his boots were crisper than he expected. Toruk slowly realized he was standing atop snow-covered dead grass. He could not hear the usual whisk of icy wind tunneling through and around the dense Forest trees, convincing him that he was somewhere in an open plain. And as he thought about the entirety of Satqin Forest’s landscape, its fields, its hills, its open and closed spaces, every inch of the land he had traversed with his father, Toruk finally realized he had wandered into the Meadow of Memory.
“I need to get out of here,” he mumbled to himself as he quickly turned around, hoping to catch a whiff of the fresh clean air of the Chena River in order to guide him back in the direction he should go.
But the Meadow was alive, filled with its corrupt air hovering just above the ground. Its brown expanse was void of vegetation, rebellious to the Voice, fully bent to the Shadow’s whims. The Meadow had quietly watched Toruk wander into its territory, his steps uncertain and sloppy. Then it waited for the Shadow’s signal, a prearranged secret call the Shadow had vowed to make once Toruk was where he wanted him. The Meadow allowed Toruk to move deeper, step by step, unwittingly coming closer to its most concentrated darkest part where the Shadow had initially entered long ago, pouring out his wickedness, fouling the Meadow’s air. And once Toruk reached it, the Shadow, bellowing in Olc, swiftly sent a silent call outside of Toruk’s hearing to the Meadow.
“Gik ke! (Get him!)” ordered the Shadow. “Destroy his mind!”
Suddenly, Toruk felt a puff of foul air burst through his nose and mouth. He gagged at first, coughing, wiping his nose, sneezing, thinking a winter breeze had blown by carrying some mild Forest debris that perhaps had come too close to his face. It was not a breeze but the Meadow who had done it, channeling its most concentrated, poisonous aerosol up and in Toruk’s orifices, giving him no choice but to ingest it. He tried to fight it, first coughing and sneezing it out, waving away what he believed was Forest debris, then turning around in hopes of giving his back to what he believed was a wayward breeze.
Yet his efforts proved useless. Toruk could not help but to breathe in the Meadow’s air. Almost immediately he became confused, unsure of what he was doing and why. Scents and sounds began swirling around him, disorienting him, causing him to stagger like a drunken man. He attempted to feel around his surroundings for something to lean against, a tree, a bush, a rock, but found nothing. He inadvertently dropped his bag. His stomach tossed with queasiness. His headache fiercely pounded. His heart began beating wildly as he struggled to breathe. He felt the air turning colder, icier, stiffening his fingers, and stinging his exposed ears and nose. Toruk tried to speak but felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He could not say what he wanted to say. He could not move where he wanted to move.
Then when the Meadow of Memory finally succeeded in suppressing Toruk’s consciousness, his subconsciousness mysteriously awakened, involuntarily turning him inward as both real and unreal memories suddenly began to play in his mind.