THERE was an eerie sort of menace that Tūmbṃār felt in this new location. He was lost and found himself in a dark forest where blackened trees and cracked soil seemed to smolder from their holes. Tūmbṃār did not know where he was going and he continued to walk for what felt like ages. Every step he took seemed to tire him, and his mind was filled with anxiety for what potentially lurked in the shadows.
The air was thick with the scent of death. He had no recourse to turn, for the path behind darkened.
He was unsure of what to see or look for in this ill-boding place. The air was like ash and hard to breathe. And there was scarce he could do to let his mind not fill with anxiety. The gentler animals seemed to have deserted the region and whatever birds were above silenced their noise and only watched. Darkness was all about him; the thick canopy ensured scarce light would pass. When he looked below, he thought the soil would crack and fester and leak dark ejections. But at least it was clear of any holes, vines, and shrubs.
Soon he came to a hill, and on that hill were ruins. The worn structures looked aged and weathered by the cold air. Some held faded murals that were covered in black dust. But all about the forms were great, where broken pillars stood wider than one would initially suspect. Images of the Gods paraded on their lifeless forms. The edifices seemed constructed of massive blocks of stone, for there were hardly any traces of seams, save for the walls that were inset with many faded and cracked jewels.
Tūmbṃār looked to the sky and saw that the clouds became black. The sun was like a faded orb that now only emitted dim light. The beams and shafts of which could barely break through the cloud cover.
“This isn’t good,” said Tūmbṃār. “I wonder how long it’ll take to leave. I don’t wish to stay here.”
He moved through the ruins, looking to the great forms on all sides, and eventually arrived at the other end, where there was a cliff. Looking down, there was a great distance from his position to the bottom, and the lack of stairs made him uneasy. Looking behind, he felt a menace in the forest, one that had followed him out of the mist.
It would have been wise to have made out of the ruins, even under the cover of night, for the place bode too ill for his frail mind. But being afraid of what else lurked in the shadows, he, against his better judgment, decided to sleep in the ruins and hope the sun would clear in the day’s morn.
Night approached, and the animals stirred. He heard the hoots of owls and the howls of wolves. There was also the slithering of snakes, yet they were far and could not hurt him where he was. But then something ominous approached.
Tūmbṃār awoke from his sleep and he leaped away from his sheets. There was nothing there. He scratched his head, thinking he had gotten scared over nothing. Then hisses came and screeches, and his hair stood on end.
“What was that?” cried Tūmbṃār.
It came again. This time louder and sharper, and overpowered the cries of the animals. Indeed, they were all silenced and no other sound could pass through to the boy’s ears. He ran to his sack and drew a blade. But still, nothing came.
“Who are you?” he said, shaking with his sword. “I know you’re there. Come out!”
The shadows from the trees grew, and they moved toward the base of the ruins. And from the base, they rose over the stairs, and continued until they had surrounded the boy. From the shadows arose cloaked specters that hazed in the darkness.
They sought the boy to come to them and they showed their dark, emaciated fingers. Their fingers leaked with drips of black substance. Tūmbṃār knew they were not beings with which to associate.
“Get away from me!” he cried. “I have nothing for you. I don’t want anything from you. I have my journey to go on and more things to see. Your forms terrify me! Will you stop bothering me?”
But no words came from them, and their faces were blotted by the darkness underneath the cloaks. There was scarce a figure that Tūmbṃār could see. He turned his head ever so slightly and saw that there was an opening for escape. And so he dashed through the specters, who came fast in pursuit. He journeyed through the ruins, taking as many turns as he could to keep his pursuers at bay. But then he came to a wall, and the specters made close to him and drew great swords, ready to smite the boy.
Tūmbṃār issued the elements and seared the cloaks of the specters. But it did nothing, and they slowly came forward. The boy gave his cry, and though afraid, lunged to attack.
His alighted sword, blazing with the hold of fire and air, pushed the assailants back. But they within moments recovered and made fast to the boy.
Their swords came crashing from above, and Tūmbṃār deflected each of their strikes either with the hold of the elements or by the prowess of his swordsmanship. With all the might he mustered, it still proved of no use. The specters had nary a sign of damage, and their hisses and screeches grew loud.
They pushed Tūmbṃār to the wall.
Many more tricks and abilities he could have used, but his mind was covered in fear. He cowered as the blades of the specters came crashing down! But before they could reach lo! a great light came from the wall and forced the specters away.
They cried in distress, and a figure of light emerged to fend against the assailants. The specters ran away terrified and receded back into the darkness from where they came.
Tūmbṃār opened his eyes and saw before him a man whose face glowed as like the sun. He stood tall and proud and bore a mighty frame that could make one think he was a king. He kneeled to the boy and caressed his head.
Tūmbṃār said overjoyed, “Thank you, mister! I thought for sure I would’ve died, but you protected me! My gratitude to you!”
The man remained silent and simply smiled. As Tūmbṃār looked to him, he could see through his eyes a vision of many things: of a curse that was given to him, of his nation destroyed, of his sister kidnapped, and the destruction of the dark beings that wrought this.
The boy cried on witnessing this, and said, “How could you live with such terrible things done to you? You suffered so much. While you saved me, shouldn’t you be some place happier than here?”
The man still remained silent, but assured by thoughts alone that he was fine and that these were not things to worry about, for their part was done in his story.
Then, beside the man appeared a woman, and this woman was one whose beauty was unparalleled. Her eyes were like jewels. Her hair was like gold, and her face as fair as milk. She donned the raiment of nobility, and all across were symbols, sigils: the very embodiment of the gods themselves. It was as if these two had come from a time long past bearing the mark of the ancestors of all.
They bid the boy to follow, and he did so, not wishing to stay any longer in this place.
They brought him down the cliff side and continued for long into the night through the dark woods. The black cover in the sky slowly cleared, and the moon gave way. And when its beams surfaced on the land, Tūmbṃār felt the air of death dissipate. Lush trees replaced the dead wood and leaves, and the barren soil now produced green grass and brown dirt. The gentle animals that were seemingly gone now resurfaced, sleeping in their burrows or in the thickets.
They continued onward on the dirt trail, moving farther through the forest. Soon the canopy above began to lift, and when it did so, they found themselves on a vast plain.
“Wow!” cried Tūmbṃār. “Thank you, thank you for leading me away! I don’t how I’ll ever repay you!”
But they shook their heads. They bent down and kissed Tūmbṃār. And then they stepped away and vanished with a flash of light. No more could Tūmbṃār feel their presence. He turned and saw that there was a stone slab near to him. Reaching it, he saw their likenesses etched into the surface. Their names rendered in the old language reading the one of happiness and the one of purity. The two were at last together.
Tūmbṃār wanted to know their story; from where they had come. And the details of all they suffered. Yet it seemed whatever it was led surely at the end toward a happier conclusion. They were, after all, glad of heart to be with one another.
