The Lotus

“Blue may be nice. No. Better a light green, or a dash of white. Oh, I don’t know. A bit more red, perhaps”, Alane thought to herself before hastily dabbing the paintbrush on the edge of a blob of red paint, without noticing that the brush had also picked up a small yet disastrous quantity of the neighboring green.

A quick stroke across the canvas was all that was needed for a dreadful arc of brown to invade the sweetly stimulating reds, yellows, purples and pinks combined to form a lotus flower. A shocked gasp escaped Alane as her hand froze in midair, tightly gripping the brush in a white-knuckled fist. In stunned silence, her wide unblinking eyes followed the thick line from one side of the canvas to the other, even though she was, in fact, struggling with an intense desire to cause infinite destruction, either to the painting itself or anything from her immediate vulnerable surroundings.

The room she was in had the distinctive character of an artist’s workshop; an utter disarray of paper and brushes and paints of all sorts and sizes, colourfully blotched clothes and cloths, a variety of tools and forgotten plates or cups, and all this chaos scattered over dusty, dirty surfaces and floors. The only vague sign of order was the separation of the canvases; in the corner of one wall the blank canvases stood, whereas the used ones were placed against the opposite wall in two rows, one for the failures and one for the hopefully potential. Next to the latter was a French window that led onto a tiny balcony, through which the only natural illumination granted to this gloomy hole of a room would enter. That was not the case at the time, however, for a particularly dark and windy night reigned outside; it was well passed five o’clock.

Alane’s paintbrush tapping against her pallet and then encountering the canvas with abrupt, agitated strokes were the only discernable sounds, apart from her own irritated sighs. Amidst the limited light two wall-lamps had to offer, Alane did her best to conceal or, at least, camouflage the mistake.

She had come to love the rejuvenating character the painting had been growing into. It was as if the paint had been guiding the brush and that, in turn, had been controlling Alane’s hand. She could not bear the mere thought of discarding this piece that had become so precious to her.

Eventually, she managed to blend the ugly streak in with the rest of the painting. Regardless, she could still see that stain. Even if she couldn’t, she knew that it was there; its disruptive presence taunted her. Intentional or not, the painting was simply not the same.

A loud thud filled the silence. Alane nearly jumped out of her skin from fright as she spun around, almost dropping her pallet. It seemed that the sneaky wind outside had quietly nudged the French windows open, until one of the doors had touched the row of canvases beside it, one of which had fallen over and now lay face down on the floor.

“Damn it”, Alane growled at the glass doors and strode towards them, while continuing to curse under her breath.

She shut them and approached the fallen canvas. When Alane picked it up and propped it against the others, she found it to be one of her favourite fairy paintings.

In front of a spiral background of earthy browns and ethereal blues, four women were depicted in positions of flight. They all had wings of light ornamented with thin strands of colour, different for each fairy.

Starting from the left, the first woman had her arms stretched back and her knees bent close to her chest, as if preparing to rocket through the sky. Alane, having actually named the four fairies, had called this one Castea. The eagerness in the fairy’s posture was emphasized by the glint in her large grey eyes and the excited grin that split her flawless face in two. A wild fan of dark green-hued hair flew around her head. A pale blue wrap bound her petite torso and came to be knotted at the small of her back, from where the rest of the garment hung freely. White knee-length trousers covered her thighs, but the rest of her legs to the tips of her toes were free to enjoy the invigorating touch of rushing wind, imaginary as it may be. Purple was the colour that streamed through her luminous wings.

The next fairy was fierce Rinnese, whose wings were dominated by blood-red jagged lines. Her burgundy curls cascaded down her back, framing the sinister expression that dramatically conflicted with her almost angelic features. A pair of harsh golden eyes stared at Alane amidst porcelain-like skin. She wore a flowing long-sleeved black dress with a wide neckline that cut across the shoulders and a bodice, also black and accented with lace, hugging her chest. Her whole demeanor exuded perilously sensual yet scornfully indifferent self-awareness.

The third fairy seemed to be the exact opposite of Rinnese. A charming smile made Ayla’s sweet hazel-eyed face even more heart-warming. Most of her golden hair was plated into numerous braids of varied lengths and sizes. Her attire consisted of a fitted strapped top of green that reached just below the bosom and a long two-layered skirt; the top green layer had hip-high slits down the sides, through which the bottom layer’s white silky fabric could be seen. An intricately patterned web of the same white material connected the two green parts, thus creating a truly fascinating outfit. Behind Ayla’s elegant posture, her fairy wings were spread and waves of electric green flowed through them.

Last but far from least, came Anashi. Her body and face were endowed with a certain calmness yet her sharp green gaze bore a shrewd intelligence, while the slight, almost indiscernible, smirk on her lips hinted toward a hidden wit. She wore a thin cream-coloured jerkin with a vast tail, all of which was embroidered with brown and black patterns. Under that she had on a pair of white tights that, about half way down the thighs, broke into spirals that wound down her legs. Anashi’s pure white locks were gathered into a long ponytail and through her own wings shone coils of gold.

The wind outside was swiftly growing in intensity. The windows would tremble now and then, but Alane paid them no heed.

She felt a hint of fondness toward the four fairies as she silently studied them, her head tilted a little to the side and her fists firmly planted on her hips. It was not them specifically that this affection was directed at, but rather what they, along with all their mythical kindred, represented.

The windows shuddered from the force of the now howling wind. Regardless, Alane’s contemplations did not waver.

Imagination, creativity, boundless vision and inspiration; to Alane, all these qualities were forms of magic. Their ways of motivating one’s heart and guiding those loyal to them have always been extraordinary and, on occasion, delightfully mystical.

Through her stream of thoughts, the windows’ violent shaking finally drew Alane’s attention. She was turning her eyes to them, when the wind rumbled and, as if punched, the doors burst open with a terrifying crash. Alane yelped as glass flew. She leaped backwards, while shielding her face with her arms. Something solid obstructed her step and she tripped. Unable to regain her balance, Alane stumbled and plummeted to the floor. Her fall was broken by what seemed to be cardboard boxes, but not enough to safely avoid a painful impact. A grunt was knocked out of Alane when her head struck stone. Back her eyes rolled and deep into darkness her mind dove.

…

Alane twitched. She felt herself stiff yet surprisingly weightless as she slowly moved her limbs. It took her an indistinct amount of time to notice a strange soft substance touching her skin and being easily swept around by the weak motions her arms and legs made. Alane blindly inspected the substance by rubbing it between her fingers, immediately assuming that it was dust, and lots of it. She opened her eyes. Her vision was bleary at first, but it gradually cleared and came into focus, at which point Alane realized that she was no longer in the dark room.

A light blue with hints of white was spread above her like a clear morning sky. Alane slowly rose as she searched her surroundings, when she abruptly stopped in shock. Her eyes bulged, her jaw dropped and her body turned rigid. Alane lay supported by her elbows, while she gawked dumbstruck at the madness she found herself in.

The sky, if that was truly what it was, stretched endlessly on every side of her, as did the floor below, depicting huge spiraling patterns of blues, browns and reds. Neither side was still; they both seemed to flow like waves and whirlwinds dancing at a leisurely pace. As Alane gazed into the distance, she could discern where the “sky” merged with the floor through blue and white streaks like kyanite crystals. Directly in front of Alane, the lotus painting was resting on its sturdy wooden easel. Just like their environment, the paints on the canvas were shifting and merging with each other, except for the flower’s form that remained unchanged. Alane’s eyes drifted down the easel’s legs to find smoke rising from them. Then she saw what she had previously mistaken for dust to be layers and layers of silvery grey ash that covered her body and a large part of the floor around it.

 

Alane stood up and brushed the ash away, although some remained smeared on her clothes. Thin tendrils of smoke encircled her, but they lacked that thick, pungent smell. On the contrary, occasional wafts of a sweet flowery scent reached Alane’s nostrils. She was thankful for the comfort it offered, as limited as it may be, against the overwhelming sensation that this place was either an incredibly vivid dream or a first taste of insanity.

Alane stared aimlessly at her swirling painting; the dark stain slithered amidst the brighter colours. The familiar feeling of distaste toward the irritating mistake was just resurfacing, when that lovely aroma like freshly picked flowers returned. Alane thought that it was more potent than before and it lingered longer. Then a soft fluttering sound was heard. Alane glanced to the right, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, or, at least, no new peculiarities. The fluttering, though, was still there. She turned left and did a full rotation in search of the sound’s source. Again, apart from the colourful surroundings, Alane saw nothing. When she turned to face the painting once more, expecting to see that, she instead found a dazzling light flickering before her. She squinted in an attempt to make out what the thing was, something that she already knew was impossible, blinding as it was.

“Oh! Forgive my rudeness”, a high-pitched voice emerged from the light before it began to dim.

Alane watched as a tiny form slowly appeared. The figure became clearer and Alane gasped; her eyebrows shot up and her eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Alane unwillingly recognized the minuscule person. Her lips trembled as she tried to utter the name, while the figure’s pale hands were clasped over its green clad chest in an affectionate gesture.

“You came”, the little voice exclaimed. “We hoped we’d get to meet you in person, at least once, and now our wish has been granted”.

Alane took a deep breath and exhaled, “Ayla”.

The painter’s knees buckled and she dropped to the floor. There was no doubt about it; she had finally lost her mind. Alane sat on the ash-covered floor and crossed her legs with elbows resting on her knees and face buried in her palms. She heard the fluttering wings of the approaching fairy, until their light snuck in between her fingers and touched her eyes.

“It’s a dream”, Ayla’s gentle voice tried to reassure Alane.

Her fingers parted enough to peer through. Ayla hovered behind them with a compassionate expression on her beaming face. She was exactly as Alane had painted her, although seeing her face to face was a completely different experience.

“And I should trust you?” Alane grumbled.

It was another voice that answered; this one was hard as stone, “Would you prefer being insane?”

Judging from that cruel tone, Alane knew that it was Rinnese. As the painter lowered her hands to reluctantly look up at the black-clad fairy above her, Ayla released an appalled gasp and scowled at Rinnese.

“Show some respect! She is your creator!” she squeaked and fluttered to Alane’s right hand, whereon she landed and smiled sweetly at the painter; she was so light that Alane could barely feel her standing on the back of her fingers.

“Indeed she is, so don’t blame me for the way I am”, Rinnese retorted.

The fairy flew closer and fixed Alane with a taunting stare.

“Tell me, oh great creator, what’s on your mind? Do you really believe this is a dream? How do you know for certain that you aren’t witnessing a reflection of your own confused soul? Are you really going to trust the kind words of a being that is, in reality, nothing more than paint?”

Rinnese approached her a little more. Alane could clearly discern the spite in her eyes and her twisted mouth.

“Tell me”, the fairy hissed, when a flash of light crashed into her and blinded Alane.

Startled she jerked backwards, jolting Ayla from her perch. Alane squeezed her stinging eyes shut, while the light gradually subsided. When she deemed it safe to open them again, Alane beheld an amusing sight.

None other than Castea clung to Rinnese’s back, arms and legs wrapped tightly around her. One of the mischievous fairy’s hands was clasped firmly over Rinnese’s mouth, whose golden eyes blazed furiously. While Rinnese squirmed violently to break free from Castea’s clutches, the latter spoke in an endearing yet challenging manner.

“My poor little sister. You never could control your temper, or your tongue. You’re so funny with that permanent scowl of yours”, the playful tones in her voice emanated her soul’s exuberant nature.

By then, Rinnese was kicking and twisting and spinning with even greater ferocity. Castea tightened her grip, but she seemed to be having trouble holding on. Nevertheless, she giggled excitedly as she continued provoking Rinnese amidst a frenzy of light and colour; their scarlet and green hair, the red and purple in their wings, the black and the blue and the white of their clothes were all mingled in the flurry.

“You are also made of paint, sister”, Castea shouted with mirth. “You are just as insignificant”.

Castea released Rinnese and shot up toward the “sky” in a luminescent purple streak.

“Get back here, you impudent imp”, Rinnese shrieked and sped after her.

The plane rang with Castea’s gleeful cackles, while the chase raged on in every direction.

“Nothing can confine the mind’s freedom”, the spirited fairy bawled.

“There she goes again”, Ayla sighed from behind Alane before she flew toward the still smoking painting.

“Nothing can hinder its evolution”, Castea was passionately declaring, while Alane scrambled to her feet and followed Ayla.

It was only then that she noticed the fourth of her fairies sitting cross-legged and elegant on the top left corner of the canvas. Ayla landed on the other side and started grooming her beautiful braided hair. Anashi’s calm calculating eyes of green watched Alane approach. When the painter halted in front of her creations, Castea’s voice exploded once more above them.

“Nothing, but the mind itself!”

“You’re a lunatic, you know that?” Rinnese’s roar ensued.

“They both have a point”, Anashi chuckled; her voice was deep and soothing.

The golden light from her quivering wings bestowed a captivating glow upon her white hair; they looked as if the palest part of the moon had been molded into locks so fair and radiant that the sun was trying to obscure their beauty, only to render them even more splendid. Alane marveled at them and the fairy’s overall composure.

“I hope you can give me a better answer”, the painter expressed her anticipation as politely as her despair would allow.

Anashi lifted an eyebrow and unhurriedly replied through her quizzical smirk, “It depends on your question”.

Alane gave her a flat stare and pursed her lips.

“Where am I?” was her immediate heated question.

“In your mind”, Anashi casually responded, seeming oblivious of Alane’s tone.

The painter sighed heavily.

“Does that mean I’m asleep or crazy?” she asked coldly.

“Neither. It means that you have, unintentionally, reached a state of introspection. Therefore, this being your mind, nobody other than you can realize why we are all here”.

Anashi’s riddled response confused and angered Alane even more.

“Can you help me realize it?” she requested through gritted teeth.

“We can… hint toward the correct direction”, was the fairy’s careful answer, at which point Castea whizzed passed them.

Rinnese followed close behind, but, in regretful defeat, she came to rest between Ayla and Anashi.

“Given up, have you?” Ayla teased.

Rinnese sniffed haughtily and took her frustration out on her dress as she straightened it out.

“Castea is older than you, Rinnese, and her speed and energy are superior to your might”, Anashi stated matter-of-factly, making the sour fairy harrumph and cross her arms.

Alane frowned at Anashi’s words, and Castea’s before her.

“How is she older?” she wondered. “You don’t have an age difference”.

Rinnese instantly blurted, “She’s brainless”.

“Rinnese!” Ayla squeaked. “How could you say that?” she whined, seeming truly astounded by the insult.

Only a chuckle was heard from Anashi before Castea popped up in front of Alane’s face, almost frightening her to death.

“I’m the one you painted first, magical and free”, Castea chanted as she danced in the air inches from Alane’s nose.

“Then came wise Anashi to rule my ingenuity.

  Third was pretty Ayla born, she of love and purity.

  Yet one more gift you granted us, fairies of your fantasy.

  A little flame called Rinnese to keep us safe from villainy”.

Castea then shyly turned to face Rinnese, whose expression was a mixture of reluctant appreciation and suspicion. Castea blew her sister a kiss before taking a deep breath and screaming at the top of her lungs.

“But not her grouchy personality!”

“Why you –”, Rinnese growled, shaking a threatening fist at the already vanished Castea.

More thunderous giggles filled the plane, while Alane recovered from the fairy’s performance.

“But those were not my intentions when I was painting you”, she objected.

“Of course, why would you care about the things you created?” Rinnese fired back. “You only think about yourself”.

“But if she didn’t care about us or herself, we wouldn’t exist, would we?” Ayla pointed out.

Alane’s frown deepened and she was about to ask what she meant, but Rinnese broke in.

“How could you be so naïve?” she snapped. “If she cared, we’d be hanging on a wall to be admired, as we deserve. Instead, we were stacked aside like all the other mediocre garbage”.

Alane opened her mouth to protest, but no word would come out for she still could not understand what they were talking about and how they knew where their painting was in her workshop.

“Rinnese, do not judge her in that way. She is simply unaware”, Anashi strictly remarked.

“Of what?” Alane erupted, unable to restrain her irritation any longer. “What did Ayla mean by, you wouldn’t exist if I didn’t care? What is going on?”

Her head swam from the overwhelming anxiety. Alane strongly believed now that her fantasy really had consumed her. This was no dream. Her breathing hastened as the truth dawned on her. As if that wasn’t enough, Castea’s voice exploded around them.

“Art is part of the artist!”

“What are you talking about?” Alane screamed to the “sky”.

“Every artist imbues a part of himself into his artwork”, Anashi’s calm voice explained.

Alane closed her eyes and shook her head angrily, for no apparent reason.

“But, no matter what part of yourself you have given, a piece of art, regardless of its form, is to be loved and acknowledged as the materialization of an aspect of you”, Ayla said in a comforting breeze of a voice, but it still disturbed Alane.

She felt her face hot. Tears swelled on the borders of her eyes. The shaking had taken over her entire body.

“Even the cruelest parts of you, will destroy you, if you don’t learn to face them”, Rinnese’s harsh voice purred.

Alane’s battling emotions broke out in a torrent of tears and wails.

“Don’t hide!” Castea shouted from above, not in resentment but rather in stern encouragement. “You have found the way to express our inner desires and qualities. You need nothing but to see it, now”.

An unseen hand gently lifted Alane’s head. Her numb arms dangled at her sides. She looked at her ruined painting that was being engulfed by the smoke. Her sobbing would not cease, but she made herself see through her teary eyes and focus on her beloved lotus.

“Watching it flourish gave me happiness”, she whimpered and heard Ayla simultaneously speak the same words.

“Together, my lotus and I, created beauty”, the painter muttered in chorus with Castea’s thrilled gasp.

Alane’s gaze fell upon the dark mark. Her stomach churned as she observed the cautious curling motions it made to creep through the painting. Even in the depths of her mind, it would always exist to remind her that something as dear as that painting could lose its charm from a single wrong move.

“There’s nothing to be done, is there? Why carry on fighting the possibility that things may get worse? Better avoid greater troubles”, Rinnese and she suggested, but Alane did not want to abandon her efforts for the sake of her own suspicions.

Also, as Ayla had said, the lotus was a part of herself worth remembering, no matter the circumstances.

“It may have changed, but I shall keep it close to my heart”, she declared confidently in unison with Anashi.

Alane placed her palm on the canvas’s rough surface and, dry of tears, said, “There is no reason to burden each other any more. You’re free”.

Instantly, the silvery smoke ignited and the cleansing fire engulfed the whole painting. The fairies were nowhere to be seen. The floor cracked beneath the easel and rapidly broke into countless vast chasms. Alane, dazed by the roaring flames, the smoke and the shaking plane, was unable to react when the ground crumbled under her feet. She started to scream, but not a single sound emerged from her throat. Her hands desperately searched for something to grab onto. The terror forced her heart to beat painfully faster and all thought to freeze. Alane tumbled. Deeper the darkness took her. Further into nothingness she fell. Silence. Blackness. Lifeless. Calmness. Light. Air. Breath. Pain.

…

Alane groaned. Her throbbing head and back induced her swift awakening once she had regained a tiny portion of her consciousness. The hazy yet still intense memories of the dream clung to Alane’s mind and trembling body. She carefully pushed herself up to a sitting position and massaged her aching scalp, while glancing around at her now sunlit workshop.

The warm rays streamed into the room through the open windows. A soft breeze stroked Alane’s sweat-drenched hair. Her squinting eyes, eventually, rested on the painting of the four fairies, they who had accompanied her in that peculiar place. Whether a dream or an enlightening vision, it had offered a unique insight into her own psyche. Those four little spirits were no longer painted shapes on a canvas to her, but rather guardians that would shine the way through the greatest journey of all, that of life.

Ignoring her pain, Alane bounced to her feet and scurried around the room. With hammer and nails in hand she set to work on her new purpose. A few hours, and a chaos of dust and clamoring, later, Alane was done.

She paused in the centre of the room with her fists on her hips proudly admiring the walls, whereon all her paintings now hung. On the most prominent and illuminated section, Alane had placed her guardians and the wounded lotus, side by side. A tender smile grew on her lips as she went to stand before them. She laid a caressing hand on each one and then raised her eyes to the lotus.

“You will never be forgotten”, she assured her most treasured flower before turning to the fairies and promising, “Neither will you. Never again”.

A happy tear rolled down her cheek. Through her blurry sight, Alane thought, for but a second, that she saw Castea wink.

Certain that it was her imagination, Alane grinned at the cheeky fairy, “We’ll play again tomorrow”.    

The Spear of Athena

I can hear them. The Furies. They’ve come for me. The ceiling above my head creaks beneath their footsteps. Dust rains down upon me, a gentle annoyance compared to the retribution that awaits me. I know that they have come to cut me down, but I will not fall so easily.

I have managed to survive in this basement with walls and floor of harsh cold stone, air as dry and unwelcoming as that of a coffin waiting within its deep hole to be buried along with its corpse. This has been my home and my hell. To me, luxury is my rickety bed, the tiny bathroom behind a wooden door in the corner of the room and my two daily meals. A flickering light bulb that hangs from the ceiling replaced the sun, but not its warmth. As my body matured the pain and the violence intensified, slowly stripping the innocence from this flesh. I have tried to escape countless times, but he would always catch me and throw me back in here. It was as if he could foresee my every move.

In the beginning, my mother would visit me in secret to bring me comforting words and cuddles, treats and things to distract me from my misery. A couple of times she had attempted to rescue me, but he constantly managed to be one step ahead of us. I don’t know how long it’s been since the last time I saw the haunting terror in her eyes as she was being dragged away. I could hear her screams, a ruckus of things falling and smashing, and then silence. For all I know, she could be locked up somewhere as well or perhaps he had finally decided to get rid of her once and for all. I can still recall a different side to my father - gentle, affectionate, protective, just as he should have been. But I also remember when the façade began to crack, revealing the twisted man I came to know too well. Regardless, I would catch myself still feeling hopeful that his love would miraculously resurface and that he would take pity on me. I kept thinking that he still cared for his daughter, as she yet believed in him. My bitter mistake was repeatedly proven to me, until I forgot the meaning of faith and time. They were irrelevant down here. They didn’t exist. Only memories and dreams; sometimes intertwined like a cobweb but lacking its symmetrical beauty.

I feel my body tremble. Whether it’s from the cold or my fury, I don’t know. As I shift one of my feet it touches something on the floor. I glance down and see a large book. A weak smile grows on my lips as my eyes linger on its leather-bound cover, for the pages it holds have been my fondest companions and the last my mother had given me.

Within this book the wonders and tragedies of Greek mythology unfold. Into it I lost myself day after day and came to know the numerous Gods and deities, their fascinating tales and complex characters. Valiant heroes, the offspring of Gods, and their great accomplishments made my imagination run wild. I fantasized myself as the daughter of a God; lost and adopted by mortals. For a time, I pretended to have superhuman powers and those I would use to escape my prison; dreams quickly shattered when my father reminded me that he would always be the strongest. I wished for the terrible creatures in the book to jump out of the pages and rip him to shreds, but no matter how many times I saw it over and over in my head it was never going to happen.

Amidst my endless despair I began to bond with Athena, the Goddess of wisdom and justice. I clung to her like a child hiding behind its mother’s skirts. During my father’s tortures I would seek refuge in my mind where I built her a magnificent temple, marble stone by marble stone. I took special care with the intricate gold patterns I drew on the walls, many in the shape of Athena’s sacred owl. The grand structure had no doors, but only pillars welcoming the brilliant sunlight that never dimmed. As for the statue, the most vital part of the temple, I chose to follow the description given by an ancient historian, Pausanias, of the great gold and ivory sculpture created by the Greek sculptor Phidias. But, in contrast to his giant statue, my version was only slightly larger than myself so that when I would embrace Athena’s awe-inspiring form it would feel as if I were hugging a living being.

I placed the Goddess in the chamber’s centre. Her regal posture and piercing eyes exuded the air of a powerful woman, further emphasized by her armour; a helmet, on the middle of which was a Sphinx-like figure flanked by two griffins, a spear on her left and a shield at her feet. The Aegis covered her shoulders, said to have been crafted from the scaly skin of the Medusa, with the Gorgon’s head depicted in ivory over Athena’s chest. A long tunic covered the rest of her body. A snake, most commonly named Erichthonius, was coiled near the spear and shield. Her right hand was outstretched and in her palm stood a small statue of winged Nike, as if the Goddess was offering me the victory I so desired.

I dwelt more and more in my dream realm wanting to escape, at least for a while, from the dreary dark basement. The temple, gradually, adopted a warm homely air. A forest began to grow around it and that was soon inhabited by a variety of creatures, real and mythological. I cared for that holy place as if it were my house by cleaning it every day and placing two small vases beneath the statue, which I kept filled with fresh flowers. Around the temple I planted and tended some olive trees. I would sit in their shade and marvel at my creation, contemplating all the while how to continue shaping it into my very own paradise.

It was a few days ago when Athena’s statue had come to life, as had Nike’s and the snake’s. The Goddess had laid down her weapons, while her two companions explored the temple. I stood petrified and breathless as she stepped gracefully towards me. Her ivory skin had turned into a radiant beige, her locks that escaped the confinement of her helmet and hung over her breasts became a light brown, while a ravishing blue softened her stern eyes.

“Kneel, child”, she had commanded in a reverberating voice.

Immediately, I fell to the floor and bowed.

“I can sense your anguish, as if it were my own. You have bravely endured ordeals inflicted upon you by a vile man. A father is not meant to harm his children, but to protect them. Envious Cronus had made the same mistake when he swallowed his progeny to avoid his prophesied downfall, but it was his youngest son, Zeus, who survived and made him pay dearly for his crime. Your loyalty and reverence has moved me and so I have decided that the time for your salvation has come. I myself shall not intervene. Instead, I will give you the tools to perform the deed. You must be my champion against your father’s degeneracy”.

I remember the torrent of joyous tears that ran down my face, as I looked up at the Goddess. I had attempted to speak, but my voice had abandoned me, overwhelmed as I was by my emotions; love and humility, awe and disbelief, fear, hope. I took a deep breath and tried again.

“Thank you”, I had gasped before going on in a fierce, emotional tone. “Guide me, Athena. I will be your hand of righteousness and your most faithful servant”.

Her stony face seemed to have softened slightly and the corners of her mouth had curved into an almost tender smile.

“Then rise, daughter. You have much to do”, Athena told me and I listened intently to her instructions.

Led by the Goddess’s blessing and urged by my father’s cruelty I now stand over the smitten fiend. Athena is still with me. I sense her mighty presence as she whispers to me soothing my scarred soul and filling me with strength to face all who wish me harm. She holds my fist tight around my spear. Its shaft is a thin broken heating pipe and its point a shard of a glass I had recently shattered in my struggle to defend myself from one more of my father’s assaults. A bit of cord, the first means he had used to restrain me, holds the two parts together. It is a flimsy weapon, but it got the job done. I find it hard to keep my eyes away from his blood, which drips from the spear’s transparent blade. The same blood I wear spattered on my hand, chest and face. I tore away his life just as he relentlessly forced my heart to change its beat. No emotion drives it any more, apart from a cold anger and a fierce determination that compel me to even give my life in order to avoid being caged or manipulated ever again.

The Furies are drawing close. I can hear their muffled talking. I recognize the creaking sound of a door opening just beyond my prison’s entrance.

“He’s down there with her! Please, hurry!”

That voice. It can’t be. My mother is dead. Athena wouldn’t lie to me. It is a trick meant to confuse me.

I hear another woman growl, “It’s not safe for you. Get her out of here!”

Desperate protests reach my ears from the creature mimicking my mother’s voice. Those cunning Furies are still trying to deceive me.

Footsteps descend the staircase. They are here. I heft my spear preparing for my final battle. They unlock the door, push it open and step inside. In the dim light I can make out a number of large forms clad in clothes of dark blue. A disguise, I’m sure. Their eyes are upon me and my father’s corpse at my feet. With delight I see them freeze. I lift my spear before me wanting to increase their fear. One of them raises its hands in a defensive gesture.

“Calm down. We’re not going to hurt you. Your mother escaped and called for help”, it tells me, but I know it lies.

This must be Tisiphone, the Erinya that punishes the murderers. Athena silently confirms it. The tricky Fury speaks again.

“Emma, put down the spear. You can trust us”.

The name. It tingles my memory. I feel like I should know it, but it means nothing to me. Tisiphone is trying to throw me off guard. It will not work. I can trust no one.

“You will not fool me”, I scream at the Fury and clasp the spear with both hands.

“Emma, no”.

“I am the hand of justice”, I continue to shout taking my offensive position with the spear pointed at the invaders.

“Emma, please”.

“Athena, protect me”, I shriek at the top of my lungs as I charge.

Time stops once more. I hear nothing, but my beating heart and hastened breathing. I feel hot, as if the pits of Tartarus are smoldering within me. But hell is not where I belong. Athena awaits me in our temple. I go to her now to rest in her loving embrace and she will be proud of her servant, her champion, her daughter. 

Step After Olympian Step

The journey has begun, guided and watched by my gods. My feet are bare, but I feel them light as if they hover over the path caressed by Hermes’s winged sandals. He, the God of travelers and those brave enough to venture over borders and obstacles, gives me the courage needed for my troubled mind to overcome its doubts and fears. I know that the road I follow will be harsh and confusing at times, but my soul has been touched by Apollo. Denying his illuminating artistic presence would mean rejecting my very nature. He is the sun that glows high above my head urging me forward, for the better or for the worst.

The moon, Artemis’s jewel, accompanies Apollo side by side on the wall of Zeus’s realm. Beneath its royal blue brilliance and around me lies the Huntress’s playground on the face of Demeter’s earth; rolling hills and mountains, boundless forests dominated by cypress trees wherein her sacred stags roam. Far to my west in between two mountains I can barely make out the sparkling blue of Poseidon’s kingdom. As my eyes lift I notice a foreboding grey mass of clouds moving slowly towards me. I know them well. Countless times they have shrouded my way faltering my steps, but now and then I manage to rise above them and see reasons to keep on going.

Now I hasten my stride hoping to outrun the approaching storm. I summon jovial Dionysus to share his sweet wine and merry company with me. We laugh and dance along the road, while I listen to shocking yet hilarious stories of festivities he had hosted, during which ecstasy would usually overcome logic. We soon change the subject to theater, music and all our beloved arts, when suddenly Hephaestus joins the conversation in his deep voice that sounds surprisingly similar to a rumbling volcano. The great blacksmith begins his rambling about the arts of technology and craftsmanship and sculpting. A debate takes place between the two Gods escalating in intensity, until all I can hear are heated yells and insults. I roll my eyes and leave the fighting pair behind.

My gaze wanders once more toward the sea to behold the intimidating storm just floating over the mountainous passage. Dread strikes me for I know that it will reach me sooner or later. Turmoil is inevitable.

Sometimes I catch myself cursing the spirit that lives within me for rendering me different from others, out of place, misunderstood, filled with conflict. I often imagine another road I could have taken. One dedicated to normality and profit with golden pins occasionally strewn across its concrete surface and flanked by masked smiling faces bearing gilded tiaras, fancy hats or ragged hoods.

Alas! That wisdom eludes me. I prefer feathers of a phoenix upon my head, fairy dust sparkling on my body and dragon wings on my back that help me soar over undiscovered lands and stories only narrated by my pen.

I can almost hear Athena’s amused chuckle as I return my attention to the path ahead progressively sheltered by the beautiful trees. I feel a rekindled confidence blooming with every step I take. Walking amidst the source of my strength and inspiration my feet perform a jolly skip. My heart swells with pride and a new determination drives my legs, pushing me closer to the realization of my dreams.

A flourish of colors among the trees draws my sight and I spot a majestic peacock strolling gracefully alongside me; its tail-feathers are fanned out as it turns to stare at me. I hope this is a sign that Hera, the ultimate power-woman, is watching over me on my journey. I don’t need godly abilities to foresee that countless surprises will be lurking around every corner of the risky life I lead.

All of a sudden, a bolt of lightning rips the sky halting me in my tracks. It is as if Zeus has heard my thoughts and is challenging me, putting my courage and will to the test. I retreat a few steps just as the first dark clouds roll into view over the treetops. I recoil in fear before the brothers’, Zeus and Poseidon’s, wrath. They start to boast by launching more thunder and lightning, while battering me with rain and howling winds.

My blood turns to ice. I stand hunched and shivering. I am unable to fight back the tears swelling on the borders of my eyes. Despite the rain, I can feel them streaming down my cheeks. A few touch my lips and their salty taste only invite thousands more. My knees buckle and I fall as I hear the peacock’s shrill cry. It sounds angry, but whether its fury is directed as me or the Gods tormenting me I cannot tell. As I am about to abandon all hope, a different sound reaches my ears. I look up wearily to see a white owl perched on a branch. Its wise knowing gaze lingers upon my pained face. A momentary sense of comfort lifts me higher. The bird calls to me and spreads its great wings making me rise from the thick mud. The owl leaps from the branch and flies swiftly over the path defying the raging storm. I clench my teeth and release a fierce scream as I sprint forward after my guide.

The wind roars and swirls around me trying to throw me off balance. I trip and stumble, but my desperate desire to prevail over the rampaging Gods preserves the strength in my legs and I keep running. Lightning flashes amidst the clouds; a warning of worse things to come. The downpour hinders my vision yet the small white form is easily discernable fluttering a short distance ahead. I try to ignore the rocks digging ruthlessly into the bare soles of my feet; they’re cold and covered in muck.

Zeus sends forth another lightning bolt, but this time it streaks down and strikes the path between the owl and me. I skid to a stop in shock as the path erupts in a shower of mud and stones. With my arms shielding my head I can make out through squinting eyes a large chasm that has ripped the path in two and the forest on either side of it. The massive rift runs on through the dense trees and, to make matters worse, in the confusion I have lost sight of the owl.

A lengthy cackle of thunder fills my ears chilling me to the bone. I scowl with discomfort at the mocking clouds. I grind my teeth in anger and take a deep breath before screaming to the skies.

“That’s enough!”

I can feel my heart racing with exhilaration when I hear the ferocity in my voice. A numb rage and something close to insanity grips me as I bolt toward the chasm without thinking or caring whether I’d be able to reach the other side. No feelings burden me nor do any regrets hold me down. The only sensation remaining is the intoxicating energy of an intense, unwavering determination to win the Gods’ game.

I am near the edge and for a split second my hard gaze passes over the broken earth; my heart skips a beat. It is too late to stop. I feel the ground crumble beneath my right foot as it firmly lands inches from the edge and I leap. It is not winged sandals or a god’s hand that helps me soar, but my power alone. A gust of wind attempts to push me back, but it is not enough to prevent me from safely stepping onto the path once again. I totter a little before swirling around to gawk bewildered at the rift. I bark a disbelieving laugh and skip in a circle with joy.

My enthusiasm is cut short as the sky explodes in a multitude of blinding bolts of lightning that branch out all through the dark clouds and down towards me. I reel around and dart along the path. The ground trembles from the lightning’s impact, but it is no hindrance any more. I hear the owl screeching over my head and I look up to see it flying in circles above me before taking the lead once more. We try to flee the storm, but the clouds are too vast and the violent gale pushes them after us swifter than normal. As my fearful gaze stares ahead I see a peculiar site in the distance.

The path is split into two smaller ones that encircle a huge ancient olive tree. Its thick richly leaved branches are spread wide forming an impenetrable shelter, from where myriads of ripe green olives hang like jade earrings. At the tree’s base are magnificent rosebushes, explosions of red, pink and white flowers.

I see the owl head straight for the tree and disappear into the foliage. I push myself to run faster, until I finally enter the safety of Athena and Aphrodite’s sanctuary. The storm rumbles, but it can no longer reach me. Rain and lightning continue to threaten me yet the serene beauty that stands before me has enthralled my senses. I approach the rosebushes, wary of their thorns, searching for a place to rest. As I walk around the guarded olive tree, I finally discover a clear patch wide enough for a single person to lie on and covered by the tree’s fallen leaves, as if Athena had anticipated my arrival and had laid a bed just for me amidst the enchanting roses. I sit against the sacred bark inhaling the rejuvenating mixture of aromas, the tantalizing smell of roses and the earthy sweet scent of olives. I hear a rustling above my head and look up to see the white owl staring down at me as it sits snuggly on a branch. I gaze mesmerized at the curtain of rain falling around the tree’s roof, while strength slowly returns to my weary being with the soothing help of love’s blossoms.

A large dog then appears between two trees on the other side of the path before me. Its muscular body is covered in thick dark fur and plates of armor protect its thighs, shoulders and head. I meet its fierce fixed stare and feel a shiver down my spine, for I know that this is no common dog, but a hound of Ares. The God of war has joined the game, possibly intending to bring hostility and discord into my life. A second dog struts up to sit proudly by the first one’s side before two more join their watching brethren. They make no move to enter the sanctuary; they patiently wait for a chance to strike and sink their greedy fangs into my unsuspecting flesh. 

My future of irrational choices and unusual ideals may be doomed to crumble beneath the conflict, the manipulation and the sorrow it will inevitably draw. For now, I shall remain in Aphrodite’s comforting embrace, surrendering myself to the numbing charm of the passion and the love that she has offered me. The pen will still stubbornly shape its stories and craft its worlds, awaiting Apollo’s call for me to take my next steps. Whether I will make it to my dreams or not, only the Gods may know. I, a simple mortal with silver clouds drifting across her eyes, boundless possibilities clamoring inside her head and dazzling magic caressing her aching heart, can only hope and do my best to achieve what I believe my destiny is. The path of the artist and all its mind-staggering splendor.     

             

   

The Drifter

The pure yellow glow of dawn shone through the windows of a hotel-room in Belford, England. A range of red and orange hues dominated the walls, the sofas and the large bed, only broken by hints of white. The small coffee table sitting between the sofas was made of oak, as were the nightstand and a table surrounded by cushioned cozy-looking chairs. A black suitcase was lying open on the bed, while a man rushed to and fro gathering his clothes and belongings and stuffing them carelessly into the valise.

Small creases had formed on his brow as he frowned, deep in thought, obviously in a hurry to leave the hotel. He was tall and lean, dressed in jeans, a black woolen long-sleeved top and sturdy hiking shoes. White strands could be seen amidst his dark chestnut hair, which, along with his stern, lined face, betrayed his age.

A sudden knock on the door made him halt. He glared at it with the last of his jumpers in his hand. Hesitating before tossing the clothes into the suitcase, he walked slowly toward the door. He stood behind it and grasped the pommel. After taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and opened the door wide enough for him to peer into the hallway.

A man stood before him who looked to be in his mid-twenties with shoulder-length black hair and lively eyes of green, but beneath them were dark circles, the result of many sleepless nights. A rucksack was slung over his leather-clad back and his worn out trousers gave him the appearance of someone, who spent most of his time away from home. The stranger leaned toward the opening, his inspecting eyes studying the older man’s face as he spoke in a charming voice.

“Mr. Zack Alvar?”

The hard-eyed resident of the room took some time to respond flatly.

“That’s me”.

“May I come in? I’d like to talk, if you don’t mind”, a friendly smile formed on the other man’s lips, but there was something impish about his grin.

“Who are you?”

“I’m a journalist. The name’s Sean Cale. I’ve been looking into a… unique story, which happened to direct me to you. I was hoping you could shed some light”.

Mr. Alvar’s eyebrows rose in what looked like surprise, while Sean reached into his jacket and pulled out an old notebook with a dark beige cover adorned with a black tribal pattern shaped like a dragon. A strip of black leather tied around a large brown button  kept the booklet closed. The journalist presented it to Mr. Alvar and saw the wide-eyed reaction he had been hoping for.

“I believe you’ve heard of the Drifter?”

Mr. Alvar nodded, if a little reluctantly, and pulled the door further to let Sean in. The journalist stepped into the room and immediately spotted the suitcase.

“I came right on time, I see”, he mused, but Zack slammed the door and strode to his suitcase with an emotionless, “Yes”.

Detecting the outright hostility in the man’s voice, Sean cleared his throat and went straight to the subject that had led him to that very unwelcome room.

“So, what can you tell me about the Drifter?” he asked just as Zack closed his bag with unnecessary force and turned slowly around to face the journalist, fixing him with a cold stare.

“Not as much as you’d like. Where did you find her journal?”

Sean glanced down at the book. His gaze showed a peculiar fondness for it.

“It was given to a friend of mine, a fanatical collector of strange writings, as a gift during one of his parties. I found it and was so riveted by its extensive claims of the existence of parallel worlds that I started researching it. You can imagine my surprise when, after a lot of digging, I discovered that its owner, The Drifter has been vanishing and reappearing for over a hundred years.

“There are statements, photographs and videos of her taken over the years and in them she seems to be aging, how shall I put it, unnaturally. In the very first records, when she actually existed, she was no more than twenty when she disappeared, only to return about ten years later looking almost exactly the same. I didn’t really think about it, but that changed when more random photos kept surfacing taken during the past two decades where she looks either not as old as she should be or, believe or not, younger than she was in the preceding picture. In her journal, between the few dates that match her appearances, there are… vivid descriptions of worlds and things that could only exist in dreams or the head of a mad woman”.

Sean paused, frowning at Zack, desperate to find a logical explanation somewhere on his face. He shook the Drifter’s journal at him.

“In here, she claims that you are one of the few people she can call friend. You must tell me what it all means or at least help me find her”, Sean requested while trying to control the plea in his voice.

Zack’s eyebrows were furrowed. He kept glancing from Sean’s troubled face to the journal and back again. Then his face softened slightly, as if sympathizing with Sean’s fascination.

“I will… enlighten you with the limited information I can give you, but I want something in exchange; my information for the journal”.

Sean scowled, taken aback by the man’s bold demand. His grip on the journal tightened, as he brought it closer to his chest protectively. He glanced at it a few times struggling to make up his mind as to what was more valuable; the Drifter’s writings of the past or her friend’s knowledge of her present whereabouts? Finally, he sighed heavily and nodded. The edge of Zack’s thin lips twitched into a brief smile, which then disappeared as if it had never been.

“You might want to sit”, he proposed and Sean immediately moved to one of the couches and made himself comfortable, while Zack sat opposite him.

Sean rested his helmet and the journal on the seat before removing the rucksack from his back and placing it on the floor next to his feet. He then unzipped one of the pockets and pulled out a portable audio recorder. After activating it, he positioned it upright on the coffee table and turned his attention to Zack Alvar, who was lying back leisurely on the couch with his intimidating eyes watching Sean like a hawk.

“So”, the anxious journalist began, leaning forward. “When was the last time you saw her, the Drifter?”

Zack’s expressionless stare never changed, as he calmly replied.

“Last night”.

“Where?” Sean asked excitedly.

“Loch Ness”, Zack said and smirked at Sean’s amused expression.

He was certain that the journalist was aching to burst out the door and run, on foot if need be, to Scotland.

“What were you doing there? Is she still in Scotland? Is she interested in the lake?”

Zack chuckled. He answered in a sarcastic tone.

“For someone after the most untraceable person in existence, you’re very impatient. Time and endurance are the most important parts of your journey, if you really want to find her. Now, stop interrupting and let me do the talking”, he snapped.

Sean met his flat stare and worked his jaw irritably, but did not say anything in return. He crossed his arms and sat back, as Zack began his narration of the previous night’s extraordinary events, picking his words carefully.

…

Zack trudged along the shore northeast from the Dores Inn. Far to his right a vast stretch of fields ended where a dense forest began. On his left Loch Ness flowed serenely beneath the late evening sky. Behind him was the village, Dores, becoming smaller the further along the beach he and his companion walked.

She waded through the cool water, barefoot and boots in hand. Her sharp hazel eyes stared aimlessly at the lake, as if she could see through its quiet darkness. She wore a buttoned down short-sleeved shirt of dark brown over black trousers that covered her thighs to the knees. A leather strap was fastened around each thigh holding two steel daggers and a leather pouch hung from her belt, its contents jingling. Her lustrous dark hair fell to her waist. A leather backpack hung from one of her shoulders.

“The portal’s in there, somewhere”, she said absent-mindedly.

Zack studied the lake.

“And how are you planning on getting there?”

The woman turned to look at him, a mysterious smile forming on her lips.

“Ever heard of Nessy?” she asked playfully.

Zack barked a laugh thinking that she was joking, but when he saw her risen eyebrow his smirk melted away.

“Wait, you’re serious?” he exclaimed.

“I doubt it’ll be the same creature, but yes”, she replied and stared at the lake again, as she went on. “Every portal in every world has a guardian. If I’m right, the creature will recognize the Key and then take me to the portal”.

“What if the portal is too deep? You might drown”, Zack pointed out, still trying to grasp the fact that the Loch Ness monster was in fact real.

“Don’t worry. I came prepared”, she simply said, but didn’t elaborate on what she meant.

They walked on in silence. The beauty of her youthful face was intensified by the dim yet radiant fiery colours of the setting sun, but her hard eyes bore the wisdom she had earned from venturing through realms and times other humans could not even begin to imagine or understand. Zack’s affection for the woman, known by the few as the Drifter of worlds, was always marred by the intimidation he felt.

Nightfall was finally upon them, when they reached a point where the beach curved to the right. The shore there was hidden from the village by the trees and the only light available was that of the moon and starlit sky. The Drifter suddenly stopped, dropped her boots and slid the bag off her shoulder before handing it to Zack.

“Could you keep this safe for me, until I return?”

“Of course”, he replied and took the bag. “Do you know how long that’ll be?”

She shrugged, too indifferently for his liking. Opening the pouch she reached inside to retrieve a strange-looking device of entwined tube-like metal that resembled amber, but was in truth of a mineral found only in a dimension more easily characterized as Hell. The intricate pattern looked like a spiral circling the centre where a conical formation of the same metal protruded into a sharp point. On the back of the device were four curved strips like hooks, which snuggly fit in between her fingers of her right hand. As soon as it was firmly positioned against her palm, an amber-coloured liquid began to materialize from the bottom of the device flowing and solidifying into a fifth hook under her thumb to the back to her hand, while the other four grew longer, until all five hooks met and merged to hold the peculiar contraption in place.

Although little could be seen in the dark, Zack studied the Key closely in fascination. The Drifter muttered something in a strange language, “Anhayrih girhal”.

Suddenly, the device shivered as it began to emit a vague golden glow. A red line like a burning vein appeared within the curling tubes, but gradually expanded, until the spiral was pulsing scarlet. The cone abruptly cracked open and its rounded triangular fractures tilted outward revealing a deep purple stone nestled in its centre.

Zack gasped as the Drifter turned toward the lake and stepped into the cold water. She squatted and submerged her equipped hand. A vague hum could be heard from the immersed device and rippling rings formed on the water’s surface.

She crouched there motionless for some time, her hand glowing red, but the lake showed no sign of movement or any reaction from its depths. A few minutes went by before she stood back up, clearly disappointed. She sighed and dragged her feet out of the water to join Zack. She glanced around at the quiet lake once more and scowled before she let herself drop onto the sand. She gathered her legs against her chest and slumped.

“I guess we have to wait”, she grumbled, while Zack sat beside her chuckling.

Regardless of her many years’ experience and wisdom, there was always a fresh, almost childish quality, to her, something that he always found delightfully endearing. The brief moment of sulkiness came to an abrupt end however, when she turned to him with her usual sharp, mysterious stare.

“Thank you, Zack, for coming with me. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have some pleasant company for a change”.

He smiled and wrapped his arm around her shoulders squeezing her fondly.

“It’s always good to see you, my hyperactive friend”, he responded, making her giggle.

“Helping you has been far from boring. The mere fact that I play a part in saving worlds and maintaining the balance makes the discomforts and life-threatening situations all worth it”.

She twitched and, when he looked at her, a solemn expression of guilt was drawn across her face. He shook her gently.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry. I’ve never regretted meeting you or doing anything you’ve asked of me. I am happy and proud to be one of the few who know and protect you and your secrets. Until I die I will always be your ally, your friend”.

Zack’s stern yet warm eyes would not move from her face, until she nodded weakly, smiling with gratitude. When next she spoke, Zack detected a nostalgic, tiredness in her voice.

“One day we should sit and talk like normal people. I can tell you all about the worlds I’ve visited and my adventures. After… misplacing my journal, I desperately need someone to talk to”.

Zack’s face brightened.

“I’d love that”, he replied enthusiastically, just as she inhaled sharply.

“I almost forgot!” she exclaimed and her strong eyes bore into his. “In my bag is a letter. I need you to deliver it”.

“To whom?”

“The name is on the envelope. I don’t know the exact location, but I’m sure it won’t take you long to find him”, she exuded a peculiar certainty.

A sudden disturbance was heard from the water and they both froze. They turned their heads and squinted at the lake. Zack took a deep wheezing breath as he noticed in horror a dark shape protruding from the water that had not been there before. In the limited light they could only make out a smooth semi-circular outline with a thin protrusion on the top. She hesitantly lifted her right hand, on which the Key was attached, with her palm open and directed it at the shadowy mound. The device’s glow reflected on a pair of large pale-blue, almost white, eyes over the slightly clearer shape of a long muzzle.

Zack sat stiff, while he listened to the Drifter’s quick breathing as she pushed herself upright. Walking slowly toward the water, she muttered under her breath. Her skin began to glow a luminescent white. She stopped in her tracks and his jaw dropped as her light grew stronger, forcing the darkness away to reveal the huge scaly head of the Loch Ness creature surfacing a short distance ahead of them. Its hard skin was of a grey-blue and a narrow membranous fin began on the back of its head and disappeared into the water. The black slits it had for pupils were fixed on them and their every movement.

The Drifter lowered her eyes and took a deep respectful bow. Zack watched the creature tilt its head sideways in curiosity. Then it scanned the area as if making sure that no other human was around. It waited for a couple of seconds and then started lifting its head out of the water.

Zack’s mouth widened even more and his eyes were bulging as he gaped at the thick muscular neck supporting the heavy head, which now loomed over them at about six feet from the water’s surface. The creature then bent its neck to come face to face with the Drifter, who looked breathless yet collected. Suddenly, her face was split in two by a broad grin and her eyes gleamed with exhilaration. The creature’s nostrils flared and snipped at the woman seeming indecisive as to what to make of her. She licked her lips nervously and conveyed her thoughts to the waiting being.

“I need to get to the portal. I was told that you can take me”.

The creature’s eyes narrowed and it moved its head sideways weighing up the puny person. She lowered her hand toward her pouch, but a warning growl was heard. The Drifter made reassuring motions, while her hand continued on its way and pulled out another unfamiliar item. It looked like the part of an oxygen mask that covered the mouth and nose, but this was shimmering white and on either side was an aquamarine strip of an unknown material with short horizontal gaps like gills. She presented the item to the creature and, as soon as it smelt it, a drone came from its throat that sounded like a purr. Its wide, peaceful eyes looked up at the Drifter and it pulled back the corners of its mouth to show rows of long white fangs in what Zack was shocked to recognize as a scary attempt at a smile.

“A gift from Atlantis”, the thrilled woman said to both the creature and her friend.

Zack stood up leaving the bag on the ground. They dove into each other’s arms as they had done so many times before at the start of one of the Drifter’s journeys.

“Take care, my dear”, Zack whispered into her soft hair.

She gradually stepped away and smiled up at him.

“I’ll be back before you know it”, she replied confidently, but Zack was doubtful knowing by now how unpredictable ‘drifting’ can be.

He silently watched her as she fitted the mask onto her face, which stuck there, as if by magic. She waded through the water toward the massive creature’s back and climbed onto it. A familiar sting of sorrow and worry wounded Zack’s heart as ‘Nessy’ turned around swiftly and with a single splash vanished head first into the lake that shimmered in the moonlight. Its large fish-tale rose from the water before diving after the rest of its body carrying the Drifter away. Zack sighed heavily. He stood alone in the dark staring aimlessly at the Loch, still and serene once more.

…

Sean was leaning forward with his hand clasped tightly over his mouth. He studied Zack’s solemn face and clouded eyes.

“You love her”, Sean speculated.

Zack woke from his trance to glare at the journalist, but his defensive stance was quickly overshadowed by an air of weariness.

“It’s hard not to”, was all he said and stood up from his seat.

“So there are actual parallel worlds”, Sean mused not knowing what to think or feel.

His mind screamed not to believe such ridiculous ideas, but his wildly beating heart agreed with the turmoil in his clenched stomach that it was all true. The discovery of the Drifter had now become his greatest goal. Sean pressed the stop button on the recorder and glanced at Zack to find him standing quietly over his suitcase. From the corner of his eye he noticed something brown on the floor beside the bed. When he looked, Sean saw a backpack and immediately assumed that it was the bag entrusted to Zack by the Drifter. An overwhelming desire to get his hands on it ran through him, but the other man’s stern voice interrupted his thoughts.

“I’d appreciate it, if you’d give me the journal now”.

Sean frowned.

“I’ll need more information than that”, he protested.

Zack took a step closer to Sean. The journalist grabbed the recorder and the book, stuffed them into his rucksack and jumped to his feet. He turned to face Zack, who was standing calmly in the middle of the room.

“I’m sorry that you’re not satisfied with what I’ve told you, but that is all I have to offer. 

"We had a deal”, Mr. Alvar sternly reminded Sean.

“How can I find her?” Sean asked retreating slowly toward the door.

“You idiot!” Zack growled, finally losing his patience. “It’s no use getting obsessed with her. You can’t follow her, because she has the only Key. There is nothing you can do short of waiting around for her to return or going to every rumoured portal and hope it opens for you. Even if you do get lucky, there’s no telling where you’ll end up. I believe I mentioned Hell earlier!”

Sean scowled. A whirlwind of emotions and fears made his head throb. Zack’s disheartening words lingered in his ears. He felt drawn to this mysterious quest, but dreaded the disappointment and the likelihood that his hunt for the Drifter would prove futile. Nevertheless, the stubbornness he was known for kicked his doubts to oblivion. He lifted his determined eyes and met Zack’s threatening glower. He straightened up and pulled the rucksack onto his back. The older man’s stony face became even harsher.

“I’ll risk it”, Sean declared and turned on his heels making for the door, when Zack’s regretful reply filled the room.

“I’m afraid not”.

Sean’s hand was about to grasp the handle, when a sudden spell of dizziness hit him and he collapsed. His eyesight rapidly darkened. Footsteps were heard from somewhere close, but his inexplicably skewed brain prevented him from even recognizing the colours around him. It took but a few seconds before his consciousness abandoned him to his uncertain fate.

…

Sean came to feeling sick and confused. He gradually opened his eyes and was slow to remember where he was. He lay face down on the carpet of the hotel-room, but Mr. Alvar and all his luggage were gone. Sean groaned in pain as he forced himself to his knees. In his dazed state he thought the rucksack felt lighter than it should, so he clumsily let it fall from his shoulders and then dragged it before him. He searched inside to discover that the journal and the recorder were missing. Sean ground his teeth and swore under his breath, but suddenly spotted a letter on the floor next to him. He frowned in puzzlement and picked up the white envelope. His name, Sean Cale, was written on the back in small elaborate handwriting. Sean opened it and pulled out the parchment that was sitting inside. He dropped onto his back, unfolded the letter and read.

Dear Sean,

I must apologize on my friend’s behalf. He does not know what I have seen and it was necessary for him to play his part as was predicted. I am sorry for the loss of your proof and the journal, but it is important that all documents regarding our ‘worldly’ affairs are kept in safe hands. You must understand that our people are not ready for the truth.

As for you, I hope you have not lost your appetite for adventure. I am honestly looking forward to meeting you one day, but that is what you must work on. If our paths are to be joined, you have to be brave, resolute and above all patient. These are the qualities you must master or you will never achieve you destiny. I was given the opportunity to glance into a part of my future and I saw you following in my footsteps. Do not give up or despair, for you are the next Drifter.

Guess who…