Conservation Efforts of a Goddess

Jonas moved slowly through the old house. At his age, he felt lucky to move at all. The winter winds caused his joints to ache. The weather had been bad since Christmas. Since it opened its eyes. He reached the first door, one that might lead to a cupboard or perhaps an old sewing room. It was a door which had been replaced or repainted many times over the long years. It was a tricky thing to keep something unnoticeable, but the Wardens managed it somehow.

Before opening the first door, he stopped at a small closet, an actual closet. From within, he took out a set of black robes, a rosary made from the teeth of dead men, and a lantern which burned oil made from the fat of a king. Jonas did not normally wear the vestments when he visited it, but tonight, he thought whatever protection the old rituals might offer would be of use. Fully robed, he clutched the rosary with one hand, and raised the lantern with the other. He opened the first door and walked through a short hallway to the second.

This door was ancient, made of iron, and marked with runes and sigils from the elder days. Muttering to himself, Jonas touched the runes in a specific order, one first taught to him as a boy. To get the order wrong meant a small nosebleed. To get it wrong twice, a coughing up of three gallons of blood. No one ever lived past the second mistake. Jonas did not need to look at the runes, but simply recalled the pattern. His old arm moved between the symbols, feeling their slight warmth beneath his fingertips. After the last, the door groaned, and swung open. Jonas stepped inside and, for the first time in his life, did not close it behind him.

At the bottom of a winding stairway, Jonas came to stand in front of a cage welded into the wall. Within it sat a man, clothed only in a small cloth around his waist. Jonas knew the prisoner as a man, though, the man could have easily been a woman. Depending on how the lamp's light fell, he could see the curve of small breasts or the simple gaunt frame of a long starved man. Jonas's father said it was a man, and so that is how Jonas said it as well. Long strands of unchanging white hair hung around his head. He breathed, but it did not seem necessary. Jonas did not know the creature's name, but called it Odelhard. Jonas hung his lamp from the wall, walked to a small chair, and sat down with a long groan. Odelhard did not look at him.

"I have made a decision," Jonas said. "I'm going to let you out."

Odelhard's face remained placid, staring forward.

"I thought you'd say that," Jonas laughed. "Do you know, I have sometimes wondered whether you are real at all. You could be what they call a shared psychosis, something inflicted upon me by my father and upon him by his father and so on for six hundred years. It is convenient, is it not?, for you to never eat, never drink, never shit, never have a single reason for us to cross into that cage they put you in." His old fingers rubbed the worn teeth of the rosary. "I remember my father raging at you. Demanding you speak to him, when I was young and he was hotblooded. Did you speak to him? You could have, once, and calmed his soul for all I know. I have lived without him now for fifty years, and you have not said a word to me. You did open your eyes, though, didn't you?"

Odelhard did not move. It happened on Christmas night. With no one else, Jonas brought down his meal to sit with Odelhard while a small battery radio played a tape of Christmas songs. At the end of one of the jazzy American ones, Jonas realized Odelhard had moved. The creature's eyes looked out for the first time in recorded memory. It almost gave Jonas a heart attack.

"Do you want to know why I came to my decision? Of course you do. Is it because I am the last of my line? Because I have no son to teach these old rituals to? Or that I have no colleagues left, the other Wardens I knew gone long silent in their graves? Or because I feel the cold breath of death on my own neck? No, none of that. Is it because I have come to pity you, trapped in this cellar for more than ten of my lifetimes? No. No, that thought gave me pause when I was twenty, but at eighty, I find the argument lacks weight. Funny, you might expect the other way around. Perhaps I'm bitter I've spent my life caged with you, and you seem no nearer to dying than when I started. So not that either."

Odelhard's gaze drifted the slightest degree, but Jonas did not notice.

"The reason," the old man continued, "is because I don't know how many of you there are. Not you specifically, but things like you. My father told me of two others. One in South America, caged longer than you. Another in Russia. Are those still kept? I don't know. We are told of their existence, not their place or the markings which hold them. Surely, others have been caged as well. And surely some of those have escaped. Humans don't live long in the grand scheme of things, but you do. If you live and die at all. So I thought to myself, why bother delaying the inevitable. I am not a great Warden. I will not be remembered, even if I had someone to remember me. Will I get a mention in the pages of Fate for being one of the dozens of jailers for a greater being? No, of course not.

"Instead, Jonas the Liberator. I will free you, whatever havoc it may cause. Whatever just punishment you lay upon me. I will stamp my name in the annals of my order. Jonas the Oathbreaker, if it must be." The old man panted from the exertion of his speech. Odelhard did not react. "Fine, actions not words," Jonas muttered.

He got to his feet with some difficulty. He moved across the small room to an old box. Opening it, he withdrew several rotting tomes and put them aside. Reaching in once more, he scratched at the edge of the box's bottom until the panel came away. From within the hidden compartment, he took a key. Despite its age, it remained smooth and polished. No one had touched it since Jonas's father showed it to him sixty years earlier. Jonas moved over to the cage, hesitated, put the key in the lock, and turned. One old hand rested on the door and the other on the frame of the cage. Jonas wept, though he did not know exactly why. With his feeble strength, he pulled the door. It opened with an unearthly groan.

Odelhard's head turned. With some care, he stood up. Jonas stumbled back from the door, face awash with a maddened glee and terror. A breath caught in his chest, and the old man fell to his seat. With slow, padded steps, Odelhard came to stand before him. Light filled the creature's eyes, building from a flickering spark to burning white flame which curled out of the corners to lick at his temples. He stood and looked at the old man, expressionless.

"Tell me, at least, what you are? Why did they cage you? Why have we watched you for so long? Demon? Angel? What do I get for freeing you? Rewarded, hah! Or death?"

"Jonas Engel son of Heinrich Engel," Odelhard said, "for freeing me, I give you obscurity. The flame of your existence will flicker and vanish. You will be remembered for nothing."

The oil lamp went out. Jonas yelped with fright. He sat in the dark waiting for something, anything. Nothing happened. With great care, he rose to his feet and searched out the wall. Following it, he climbed back to the surface and collapsed in the hallway of his familiar home. He saw no sign of Odelhard's passing other than the front door of the small home being slightly ajar. Jonas got a flashlight and returned to the cell. He cleaned the broken oil lamp, mopped up the mess as best he could, and put a few other things back where they belonged. He spent a long while frowning at the empty cell before close the door and locking it.

For a long while after that, he sat and thought on the creature's eyes, voice, and words.

***

The being called Odelhard traveled a long while by the measure of lesser gods. For six hundred years, Odelhard waited with his flames at a simmer, but now they burned. They burned with the light of a foreign sun as he crossed a sea he did not know. Two footsteps burned into the sand of a beach where he alighted for only a moment to get his bearings, leaving a pair of glass feet to be found by a pair of idle lovers the next evening. Odelhard moved with urgency for he did not know how time passed between his world and the world of men. He had long worried of the state of his own. Yet, he paused, here and there, to marvel at the innovations of mortal humans. Again, mostly to get his bearings.

In a nondescript house, he slipped unseen by several guardians. Fae creatures who had long forgotten how to keep watch. One did notice him, but she chose not to say anything for reasons he did not understand. In that house, Odelhard found a door. Beyond that door, he found other doors. He followed the song of his land back through gate after gate until he stepped, at long last, back into Dothkern.

He looked on his kingdom, seeing it all in one moment from end to end. Tears of flame splashed down into the scorched earth as he wept for the pain of his subjects. He cast aside the mantle of Odelhard, becoming once more the Fire Mother, Laraiza. The formless body became one of immaculate fecundity, clothed in a robe of living, white flame. With one last expense of power, Laraiza leapt to the Castle Ulgort. She passed through the arches and into the vacant court where she found a scattering of papers and books. Among them sat the Skylark.

The Skylark peered at the sudden appearance of his mistress with the confusion one might have at seeing a cat clinging to the hull of ship. It was not something impossible, but wholly unexpected. "My Lady!" he chirped, scrambling to his feet. The Skylark was a bird in most ways. A large bird, roughly the size of a human, but shaped in the manner of small birds with a few exceptions. His wingtips became fingers, capable of turning the pages of books and other small motor skills. His legs had some girth to them, though they ended in the usual three toes and heel, which sported a long, thin spur off its back. Brown and tan feathers covered his head and back while white plumage adorned his front. On top of this, he wore a rather tattered waistcoat. On his beak sat a pair of spectacles that bent at right angles to cover both his eyes. Head cocked, he bowed low to Laraiza.

"Skylark, I have been long absent, and I sense a world in chaos. How is it that you remain here?"

"Where else would I go, mistress? I am but your Wit and Wisdom. I have stayed and kept the castle as best I could."

"How long have I been gone?"

"An age and a day," the bird answered. "The world has died. The Free Peoples are lost. Where have you been, Queen?"

Laraiza moved across the room, her robe flowing out behind her. She took a seat in a silver throne, the heat of her body burning away tarnish. "I have been trapped in the world of men. They snared me, shut the doors between worlds, and kept me prisoner for six hundred of their years. The doors have opened again. Few of them, but they stand ready."

"Men? But men worshiped you, mistress. They made sacrifices to your favor. You gave them gifts of pleasure. You gave them the Graces. Why would they betray you?"

"Men are fickle creatures, Skylark. It is why so many of my kind covet them. Do not give your concern to the world of men. We have our own world to look after. What happened to the Free Peoples?"

The Skylark adjusted his glasses and searched the ground for a piece of paper. As he held it, words appeared in fiery ink. "Ah, yes, well. With your absence, the Hoggen grew restless, as is their nature. For a time, they remained peaceful, but drought and famine drove them to war. The Jinla and Koapa united to fight them back. For a hundred years, they ravaged one another. I acted as envoy, milady, but with your statues gone cold, they would not hear me. The result was devastating."

"My statues are aflame once more Skylark, we will restore this world. Continue."

"Yes, of course. With the Free Peoples control reduced to near nothing, the Others spread unchecked. Your brother, Clansa, rules over them from the shoals. They are brutal and cruel, but even they have succumbed to the lack of your light."

"Without it, my brother has nothing to struggle against. It is not surprising they should wither. Very well, we will begin with the restoration of the Free Peoples. What are their numbers now in my lands?"

"Few, very, very few. The Koapa live in hovels in the western forests, perhaps a thousand. Many are old and sick with little memory of your Grace. The Jinla are reduced to several tribes in the plains bordering castle lands. Twenty thousand of a race which once numbered in the millions. Their lives have grown short and hard in your absence. The Hoggen suffered the most, first from their own doing, and then from your brother's. They are spread far and thin, living territorially for scraps. A hundred or two, withering each day. The young do not come easily and often exact a price on the mothers."

Laraiza considered her servant's report. "Very well, we will begin with the Koapa. They present the least challenge, and I am surprised their number has dwindled at all. I sense a faithful in this very house. Send for him."

The Skylark nodded. He snatched up another piece of paper, scrawled words on it, and sat it delicately in the air. After a moment, it whisked away. "It should not take him long to appear, Queen. I would ask a question, if I may."

Laraiza bowed her head to him.

"You are god-kind of this world. If you wish your people to flourish, could you not simply pull them up from the dirt. Did you not pluck me as a feather from your own breast and then give me life and thought?"

"Dear Skylark, you have been absent of thought for too long. It will all return to you in time. Your books will return to order. But no, I cannot scoop up new children from the clay. It is not in the ways of gods to make armies of dust. With concentration and effort, we can mold a life from Time. We, like the mortals, rely on more mechanical methods of proliferation. But, with those I can assist in some regards."

"Another question, Highness, if I may. What of the world of men, would you not enact some vengeance on them?"

"Vengeance, no. It is a peculiar desire to feel, but no, even if I could. I have little power in that realm and obviously am even at risk to step foot in that place. If those jailers snatched me from the sky again, this world would certainly die, and I would not have the strength to rebuild it. The world of men will not escape their betrayal unscathed, though. The old doors are opened, and I have some skill left in the old ways."

"Ah, here he is," the Skylark said, turning toward the door.

The creature looking up at his long lost god was roughly man shaped. After all, Laraiza modeled her races after herself, and all god-kind shared a similar structure and sense of vanity. Otherwise, Laraiza gifted the Koapa race with features suiting their kindred forests. Strong arms and powerful legs for jumping and climbing. A tail capable of lifting small branches, but otherwise used mostly for balance. The tail usually came out proportional to the rest of the Koapa, if pointed straight down reaching the ankles, but otherwise out a tilt. They were tall, to match the great forests of Dothkern, at seven feet by average. Across their bodies, Laraiza placed a thick coat of fur which would keep them warm in the cold and grow thin in the humid summers. The males developed wild colorings over the centuries while females adhered to a more muted coat. In the case of the Koapa stumbling forward to kneel beside the Skylark, a vibrant blue with white stripes across the eyes and down his chest.

The Koapa's almond shaped eyes fixed on a stone in front of the throne. A stone he had scrubbed himself many times in his short tenure at the Castle Ulgort. Eyes the color of the setting sun were rare among the Koapa, believed to be a sign of fate. One belief not entirely wrong, Laraiza considered. The Koapa looked handsome from what she recalled of the race's preferences in males. In a time gone by, she would fix herself a coat of fur and cavort among the spry males or the more seasoned ones as her mood dictated. This young fellow had a short snout ending in a black, wet nose. Were she to pull his tail, he would bare a set of sharp teeth meant for tearing tree bark, not flesh, but dangerous nonetheless. Ears, akin to a bat's, jutted out from the side of his head, tipped with wisps of fine blue hair which danced in the low breeze flowing through the throne room. He wore no shirt, but did garb himself in a kilt, split in the back where his tail could swing free. It was not custom for Koapa to wear clothes, but this one deferred to the rules of the castle he served. He was a fine specimen, Laraiza thought.

The Skylark gave him a solid kick in the thigh. "Go on, tell the god-queen your name."

"I am Belshen of the Plaet clan," he said in a slight squeak. "Uh...goddess."

"The Plaet clan still serves Castle Ulgort? Your kin have been at my side since the Koapa first filled the trees. I am glad to see you, Belshen. I have returned. I mean to set the world right once more. Would you help me?"

"Of course! Of course, Lady of Flame. It is the greatest of honors to speak with you, to be the first of my kind to see you in centuries."

"You so willingly agree to a task you do not yet know?"

"I am faithful, Lady."

"And for your faith, I can give you a boon. I can return your race to prominence, but it will require a certain service of you."

Belshen stole a glance up at Laraiza. "Service, milady?"

"You are a mature Koapa, are you not? Do you have a mate?" She observed the hair along the inside of his ears flush a dark shade of blue. "Oh, pardon my foolishness Belshen, I do not mean to embarrass you."

"No, Lady, I am without mate. My kind are few. Outside of my litter, there are none of my generation. I have sent messages to other clans in hopes of an arrangement to keep the Plaet alive. They do not get answered. It is risky to travel, and the other clans have their own worries."

Two tears, like molten steel ran down Laraiza's cheek. She wiped them onto her fingers where they cooled into a shining drop of silver. "Do not worry, Belshen. Skylark? Draft a message for me. The door to Faerie is still open. I have need of one of their kind. Give letter of passage to one who will serve at my new court. Now, I must prepare chambers for our new guests."

"Guests? Plural, milady? For Belshen alone? Surely there is another, less blunt method?"

She ignored the Skylark's words. Instead bending down to hand Belshen the two silver orbs. "These are mating stones," she said. "They will change you slightly, but our guests greatly. While I would be strained to create whole new life, I can alter life easily enough. I cannot alter feelings, though, and the creatures I will bring you are fickle things. Some will come willingly, others will not. When here, some will fall for you, others might resist for a time. I will build a house for you and fill it with rooms for your mates. From there, you will rebuild your clan and your race. Would you do this for me?"

Belshen looked to the Skylark for an answer. "Don't bother with me, young one. I am no mortal, and my feathers ruffle at the mention of...mating, tech!"

"Changes? What changes? Forgive me, goddess, but I am fearful of a god's sense of alteration."

"Then the Skylark has given you some of his wisdom. If you have no mate, do you understand the nature of mating, at least?" Laraiza smiled at the bristling of feathers her words produced. "When you hold the stone along with a potential mate, you will become more virile. They will become suitable to your preference as well as greatly fertile. Understand?"

"I think so," he muttered, still blushing. "What if she doesn't like me?"