by Seth Mullins
From the Journal of Enofor Hunlaftar:
Fairest of all joys, to me, is the wonder of remembering: it is to peer at an unutterably vast and heavenly light, hear the celestial music pouring from it as if from a thousand Seraphim, and to think, “I know this place. It is from here that I came, and to here that I will return.” And then to carry this conviction through all the travails of one’s life: “No matter what befalls me, today or tomorrow, I know in the end I will be returning Home.”
I have always disliked the intellectual airs and the pretense common amongst civilized folk. Such ways are foreign to me, and I have tasted self-disgust and gall on the few occasions in my life when I’ve tried to emulate them. For this reason, I would never speak or write of the miracle of redemption or the wonder of the soul if I had not experienced such things for myself. Thus I have delayed writing of my experiences for so long, though Sirrus has urged us to do so from the beginning.
And who is Sirrus? Doubtless you have, by now, read other accounts of him; but I will say here that when I first met this diminutive old man I believed him a creature sprung straight out of legend. He is little more than four feet tall, bearded white down to his chest, with outrageous dress sense (“gaudy”, as my wife Brieran describes it) and the kind of frank audacity that could make a soldier blush. Sirrus has become our spiritual guide and mentor, and the crowning achievement of his art – which he learned from a now-extinct order that he calls the Draymes – was the fashioning of a Mirror that reflects, unerringly, the true picture of one’s inner, spiritual condition.
But I have not always believed in the Mirror, or Sirrus, or the path that he has laid out before us. For a time I distrusted our dwarfen mentor, so much so that I sought to separate him from his Mirror in order to ascertain which was the true oracle. In order to purge myself of guilt for my lack of faith, I want to recount that story here in full.
I had often been plagued by such questions as this one: How could Sirrus claim to know so much about our struggles, and the places of shadow within us, on the basis of the brief and ambiguous hints provided by the Mirror’s visions? I was pestered by doubts. It seemed to me that a pictorial symbol or metaphor is not only wide open to interpretation but also vulnerable to manipulation by someone who has a hidden agenda. Was Sirrus nothing more than a clever hypnotist? I had to know – not only to assuage my own fears, but also (I believed) in order to protect those under the dwarf’s influence whom I cared about.
The problem was, I knew there’d be no way of getting the Mirror away from Sirrus (or Sirrus away from the Mirror) without arousing the old dwarf’s suspicions. A wary opponent is twice as deadly.. But I had an inspiration. Might I not be able to make a mirror of my own, and seek visions privately – apart from him? I’d already conversed with him several times about the Mirror, asking after its respective materials and the manner of its creation, so I imagined that further inquisitiveness on my part wouldn’t put him on his guard.
Well, I was shocked when Sirrus proved direct and ingratiating with his replies, and even went so far as to suggest that I build a mirror for myself, with his assistance. As if to prove himself innocent of subterfuge, he lent me a book that was composed of documents and notes written by original members of the Draymes’ order. Sirrus said that I should choose the style of mirror (and method of making) that most suited me.
What manner of game is he playing with me? I wondered.
Leafing through the old, heavy tome with its dusty leather jacket, my eye was caught by a style of mirror fashionable amongst the earliest Draymes. It’d been fashioned by pouring a sheet of glass over polished obsidian; and I knew where to find obsidian in copious quantities – on and around the great rise of Monasa, which had been an active volcano in earlier centuries.
Sirrus shared in my enthusiasm when I showed him my find. He told me that I could lend sand a lower melting temperature by mixing in some wood ash, but informed me that, nevertheless, the great stove in my hall would not suffice and we would have to build a proper stone furnace. We enlisted the aid of several other men in the group, and finished the task in under a week’s time. So much for stealth! In the meantime I’d also managed to collect obsidian, which I sanded and polished to a fine reflective surface.
Making a mirror, Sirrus insisted, was an art form that finely balances concentration, love, and intent. It was for this reason that I couldn’t have used, say, the kind of cylindrical glass that they mass-produce in Ingmitn. My hands and will needed to be intimately involved in every step of the process. I have to say that I enjoyed this immensely, though I’ve always considered myself more a hunter than a craftsman. I was proud of my mirror, when it was finished; and in that pride was, perhaps, a clue to the ugly vanity and egoism that I was soon to be confronted with in myself.
Three feet tall and half as wide, it was, and felt as heavy as a young ox. Sirrus suggested that I build a false panel in a rarely used storeroom in my house, behind which to hide it, and he even whispered that I should keep my doings a secret from my wife and children. So seduced was I, now, by the allure of rare knowledge and power that I felt no suspicion upon hearing these words. When my great alchemical work had been brought to completion – so I rationalized – then Brieran would understand how necessary my secrecy had been.
Truth: I told myself, again and again, that this and only this was the object of my quest. So, with a head full of righteousness, I embarked upon long sessions of twilight scrying. Before long, an apparition made itself visible to me. Lean, with defined musculature, naked, winged and indescribably beatific, this entity called himself Aziel. ‘So,’ I thought, ‘the mirrors are not only gateways to Oloron and Alanna, the male and female Powers. In this, at least, Sirrus is mistaken – or else he has deceived us.’
Aziel spoke to me. There were no shadowy scenes to interpret or riddles of symbolism to unravel. He stood before me in the mirror and spoke plainly. “You are great, Enofor,” he told me, “and wise to fear. With your natural leadership, you could’ve drawn to you men in such numbers – such an army – as to insure peace in the untamed land. But look about you: instead of preparing for war, the few people who would heed you are lost in their wounds and their regrets. They are unfit even for living, much less resisting. And why should Sirrus be concerned? He knows that his time is short, and that the ills of this world will not be his to inherit.”
Hearing this, I realized suddenly how a part of me had always resented Sirrus, and the way the caustic dwarf had insinuated his way inside my family. I had believed my own power sufficient to protect us – after all, I could commune with the wild, whereas Sirrus communed with entities that seemed far removed from earthy affairs.
Aziel concurred with this opinion. “It is because of your eyes and ears amongst the beasts that your loved ones are kept safe.” And I continued to meet with him, night after night, as a terrible purpose took hold in me: to steer my people away from Sirrus the deceiver and win their utter faith in me.
Part of me knew the hubris and lunacy of what I was doing. But I was so frightened for the safety of my family, and made more anxious with all the tidings of soldiers and marauders that reached us in Aspen Meadows, that I quite forsook reason and stability.
I can recall quite clearly the last night I spent in my candlelit study, communing with Aziel. By this time, the moments that I spent in front of the mirror seemed all that I lived for. The demon that I mistook for an angel was advising me about how I could move beyond merely communicating with the animals of the wild – how I could, indeed, hold them in thrall and use their concerted might to destroy my enemies. Aziel spoke of sorcerers of vanished times who’d been able to discard the human mold and assume the forms of wolves, bears, bats and serpents. I felt a sickly thrill with every word. What power! What an untapped and wholly unsuspected resource!
Then, as there was a sound from the closet door, Aziel hissed: “We shall speak of it later!” and promptly vanished. Blank shadows stared back at me from the mirror. When I turned I saw my youngest son, Jin, emerging from the place behind the door where he’d been hiding.
And here my unhinged temper brought me to my senses at last, because I cursed him. I accused him of betrayal, of spying, and then could only gape at this fresh evidence of my cruelty and vehemence. Never before had I yelled at any of my sons unless they were in danger. Tears were streaming down my face as I apologized to him. Then, in my hysteria, I turned and hammered the mirror with both fists; but so sturdy was its construction that I achieved naught but bleeding knuckles.
After a time, Jin said, “We’re just afraid that you’re going somewhere where none of us can follow, father.”
That soft-spoken appeal broke me more surely than any amount of anger could have. I cried aloud that I was a sham, because everyone believed me a humble and honest man – I even had believed this myself – and yet all the while I’d been jealous of Sirrus, resenting how he’d undermined my eminent place. I had aspired to be – and always remain – the one who was most knowledgeable about the Guardians.
But Jin argued that the Guardians would want me to learn from this grief and renew my commitment to the Way, whereas the Adversary wanted me to wallow in shame for it until I lost sight of all hope and conviction. I knew that he was right, that it would achieve nothing for me to compound my blindness with guilt.
“Jin,” I urged him, “you must summon Sirrus, if he hasn’t already retired! I haven’t the heart to go before anyone like this.”
Jin assented with a bow, and hastened away.
Sirrus answered my summons promptly. But he insisted that we should peer into my mirror together, before I told him about anything that’d transpired, “in order to have a proper reading of the vision.”
So we approached the mirror, which remained untarnished in the wake of all my violence. The vision it gave me was immediate, and moved in such bright contrast to all my shadowy visions of Aziel. It was of a young boy of four or five years who played among the stones of a shallow river. I laughed aloud as soon as I saw him.
“You needn’t tell me, Sirrus!” I said. “I have heard my wife speak enough about the deeper places of her journey. I know who this boy is – he is my lost soul.”
“I think it’s time the two of you got better acquainted,” the dwarf responded.
I nodded. Then he encouraged me to tell him everything that I’d involved myself with since fashioning my mirror. The mere act of recounting the tale unburdened me of a lot of shame.
“There is one thing that I don’t comprehend, though,” I confessed. “Is there a flaw in the construction of my mirror? Because you told us that the visions we see are the creation of the angelic male and female, Oloron and Alanna. Yet I found a demon in the reflective glass instead of a Guardian.”
“You saw a Guardian portraying the demon, revealing its seductive power over you,” he corrected me. “Never forget that the Adversary strives always to hide its hand in every deed. It can do so much more harm from the shadows, and for this reason it fears discovery. Consciousness is its mortal enemy, and thus to witness it at work is to deal it a grievous blow.
“No, my friend, what you saw was a drama – veritably like a play upon a stage – which showed you all the things that the dark forces love to whisper to you from out of your places of blindness. And the monster upon that stage was played by the most consummate actor of them all, Oloron himself.”