Mac Rebeli [a fairy tale]

3: Swallowtail

In the dark, our pace in the river was near indeterminate- and even if the GPS in my phone hadn't been destroyed by now, I wouldn't have had any idea where we were. A forest path everywhere and nowhere.

What did that mean the river lead to?

I'd barely had time to ponder the answer when the moon and every star vanished from the sky- vanished, because a mountain had consumed them all. The river rushed forward, always forward, hurtling us towards the peak's stony roots- and then we were under the mountain, in pitch black, a thunderous roar amplified by cavernous walls. For several long minutes my eardrums pounded in cold darkness, and then the air warmed.  The river slowed- a fast current below, but deceptively silken at its light-spattered surface.Lively balls of chartreuse fire zipped through the air on burning, gossamer wings.

A firefly passed against my arm as the otter made an abrupt turn at the river's fork- a jeweled teal insect possessing an abdomen wreathed in harmless, smokeless fire. The river's path turned past glittering gemstones and diamonds (brilliant resting places for the bugs as they skimmed the surface), embedded deep in chunks of a blueish stone a well-schooled petrologist like myself couldn't immediately identify. I wanted to stop, to examine the walls, to maybe take an example back to the lab for analysis, but we moved on until the river came past blue sand shores and a tremendous cavern. There, beyond the shore, hung to either side of an enormous stone doorway, stretched the long shadow of torchlight.

The otter pushed his thick claws through shifting sand and hauled himself to shore. I dropped off, squatting, and let the coarse, river-washed sand run between my thumb and forefinger. It was easy for me to assume the work of drugs, but the sand felt so real, and the clothes, and the Satyr...I rubbed my arms against a strange thrill, trying to forget him. "Where are we?"

"The king of stone."

"Well isn't that an advantage to him. I study rocks for a living," I paused, admiring the foreign walls once more. "And I do not know what these are."

Water rolled from the otter's bloody shoulder as he shrugged. "You study rocks?" he asked, bristly whiskers twitching in a confused grin. "But they do not move or breathe or say a word.  What is there to know? You cannot eat them, or fight them, or make love to them."

"They say a lot, if you understand their language. They're the greatest historians."

"Hurry on to the king," he huffed, clearly not in the mood to debate me on rocks as he rested his belly on the cool sands. His rudder-like tail twitched towards the tremendous gate. "He is one for timeliness."

"I'm still not convinced that this isn't some drug-induced nightmare, but if this is real, I have to take it seriously," I began, turning back for him. "And that starts with that arrow in your shoulder."

"I'll live." Raising an ottery brow, he stretched and licked dark blood from his fur. "The King will not be happy."

"The King can speak for himself, river dog." The voice rumbled like an earthquake, robust and dominant. Across the way strode a man who was his own mountain. He did not need strange jewels and finery to announce his presence and indeed wore none. His robes were the color of iron and rust, solid and rich in their own way.  

And he was a giant, almost almost three times my height. His skin was blue as the mountains, flushed with life in rose and peach along his cheeks and what veins were visible in heavy, muscled arms. The face he wore was handsomely square and human: a strong jaw, nose, brow- that served to highlight the  depth of shining crimson eyes. Thick black hair hung in a braid down his back, a braid that swung towards me as he bowed.

"My lady," he rumbled, reaching for my dripping hand. He took it in his own -cold and hard as rock, though not unpleasantly so, I noted, feeling suddenly warm- and kissed it. "I am Ilios, king of hearth and stone. We do not have long together, you and I. If you would please come this way."