In the Hall of the Mountain King
By Asso
Chapter Ninth
(The ninth, after the Prologue - The tenth, counting the Prologue)
Once again, even if slowly (please, forgive me) the story goes on, my friends, and little by little the whole scenario gets shown, but we are yet far from being able to know all of it; lots of things are to be revealed and comprehended. Be patient, please.
So let me see. We were talking of the devil, right? Oh yeah, because, apparently, this damn (it is appropriate to say) 'King of the Mountain' seems to have much, very much to do with the lord of Hell.
Okay, a tiny query, then. In your opinion, of what colour is devil's blood?
"Hey, Asso. What the devil do you mean?"
One moment, one moment please. Read and you will understand, my friends. For the moment let me just say that it seems it comes to a matter far from irrelevant.
And, by talking of not irrelevant things… one more time thank you, my dear Linda. The lands of darkness we are walking through, can have a little light in grace of the help you gave and give me..
In the Hall of the Mountain King
Chapter Ninth
I feel Mal's hand grasping mine.
I can not detach my eyes from the eyes of the living image that stands out, floating in the bright air of the room.
I can not detach my eyes from those large eyes and liquid that seem to look from a distance and a time infinite.
Lil's eyes.
T'Pol's eyes.
"The time had come."
The voice of the Sire of Bannerdas shakes me violently.
I turn swiftly, dragged out suddenly from my dumb wonder, and I watch him. He has the face congested, inflamed in blue; is altered, vehement, in the features and manners; his voice appeared as vehement.
He is unrecognizable. Mal stands between me and him.
He speaks again, crossing his arms on his chest, seeming to struggle to contain an agitation hard to be controlled. His abnormal squeaky tone betrays his inner fight.
"Before the Great Monarch once stood the horrible spectacle of the inert bodies, piled up and bleeding, of the women dead by the hand of the Dark Sire.
On the marble altar it lay, the inert body and lifeless of Lil, the woman of his race, who a demonic love and insane had pushed into the arms of the Grand Enemy and who had died by the fratricidal hands and vengeful of her sisters by breed.
On the floor, against the wall, lay the inert body, still beating with the last tremors of a life incapable of pretending to be won, of the most noble of his Warrior Princes, of the doleful father of Lil.
And in front of him... still strong, proud, powerful ... maybe – hopefully - on the verge to be won, at last, but alive yet, and mortally dangerous... mad with crazy wrath and cruel ... He ... the cause of everything.
Of all evil.
Of every evil.
The King."
The gaze of His Excellency envelops us with impalpable anger, and rage, and violence.
He repeats - and relives - the anger, rage and violence that had had to stir, at such times, in the Great Monarch. His voice, his words, are those of that Grand Sovereign, of his... precursor. In them resounds the finally freed wrath and livid, exploding at last with a violence impossible to restrain, of his great ancestor.
"The Grand Monarch turned his eyes to the monster in human form that stood before him.
The two Great Adversaries stared at one another, for the first time the one in the presence of the other.
For the first time.
And for the last.
Because there wouldn't be another time.
Never again.
It wouldn't have been possible to see them together one more time.
Because the time had come.
Our Great King, moved slowly.
He advanced gravely towards the Great Enemy.
He did not speak, no sound flowed from his clenched lips.
Now the word would be of his sword, glittering, coruscant, in his hand.
Everything was still, around.
Friends and enemies.
Beasts and warriors.
No man breathed.
No Ghoul growled.
Not a weapon acted.
All were silent and motionless; all watched.
All aware, beasts and warriors, that the time had come."
His Excellency stops his story. Seems to have regained his usual calmness, his confidence. He looks at us thoughtfully before speaking again.
"How many times, my friends - let me call you so - I saw this scene represented in our theatres. How many writers, dramatists have ventured in the transposition onto the stage of the mighty power of this our ancient ... - A wry smile curls over the face of his Excellency - … of this our ancient legend. How many writers and poets have tried to infuse the blood of their creative flair into this story, this saga of love and death that for us is ... - Another pause, again a smile, derisively ironic; toward himself; nearly of self-pity, for himself and for his countrymen - …or should I say 'that was for us', the mythical transfiguration of our history, of the most recent part of our history, of the whys and the wherefores we are now here, far away from where we are born and came from, by cause of that night and... in the fear of a night darker than that."
The old Bannerda, solemn, turns around, restless, walks away, giving us his back, then turns again and lifts up sadly his eyes at us. He seems as fatigued. His expression is… I don't know… It seems as if he had a look of contrition in his eyes, of… of mute apology, like he was searching to be forgiven. It seems to me that this is the right word. Forgiven. For what? Why?
"Why is this absurd old legend still so alive in the hearts and minds of our people? Why have so many wits wanted to rewrite it and make it relive in so many ways in our texts and our poems? Why is it such a powerful emotion, one that so inspires us that it compels us almost to hold our breath, just by hearing about it? Irrationally, illogically, as if we were a race still in diapers, prey to fantastic beliefs, unable to find answers to the phenomena of the real world except in the lively fancy of our imagination. Why are we - we, so ancient, so full of antique wisdom, so logical and cunning - unable not to shiver, maybe ... possibly by fear and ... by fault, when, incapable of resisting its siren call, we dive - again and again and again - into the timeless pages that tell of what happened that fateful night?"
The eyes of His Excellency are like two imps without peace. They stare at us and immediately after they avoid us; they search us and immediately after they escape us.
At last, they rest on us.
"Why?"
The old Bannerda hissed out that 'why'. Vehemently. Violently. Angrily.
"Excellence ..."
"Excellence ..."
Malcolm and I talk together, simultaneously, excitedly, trying to bring back to his calm composure, our interlocutor. And trying to bring a bit of calm composure even to us. Because, now, we begin to understand. Because ...
"Because, as I said, as it's now patent, it is not a legend; and because…"
The words, choked, His Excellence said in a low voice and yet sounding as shouted, whip us, bring to full light what, now, we both think of perceiving - and of fearing - is laying inside his such long and contorted approach to the core of the whole issue.
"And because, my friends, my… my children, the faults of which we are flicked with through that night, by slaughtering mercilessly our enemies, falling in the same wickedness of which those ones were the standard-bearers; the faults with which our women have soiled their hands, by murdering Lil with pitiless vindictiveness; the faults of the Grand Monarch himself, for what that night he didn't succeed in accomplishing to the full; and the faults, yes, even those of Lil's father, for what, on the contrary, he, in dying, ended up doing; and perhaps, who knows?, even the faults themselves of Lil, who, as far as Love is a force nobody can thwart, hadn't been capable of not yielding to the recall of the haunting attractiveness of evil and had become the origin and... - a look, swift and meaningful, at the image of Lil-T'Pol - …yes, now it's clear, the end of everything…"
Now the Bannerda's eyes show inside something that sounds definitely like a shadow of guilt.
"These faults are all true, and now ..."
"And now, Sir?"
I have spoken, almost unconsciously. And now I expect an answer I already know.
"And now these faults are yours."
"Ours!"
I turn to Malcolm, on hearing that word he said, like a reverberation of the last one of the Bannerda. Mal has said it as to try to understand, or rather to convince himself. But he doesn't need it, in reality. Even he has understood. Even he knows.
"And you, you, who are our children… you are now forced to pay the penalty."
I take a few steps forward, toward His Excellence, while the echo of the last words he said goes off, heavy, in the air.
Yes, now I understand, and also my Mal, I know. The outlines of the whole are finally sufficiently delineated, although still the exact substance, the content, appear confused and although not yet we know the precise reasons why the two of us are here. But I'm starting to get quite clear ideas, even in this regard.
I no longer feel the absurdity and unreality of what is happening to us. Maybe I ended up getting used, or perhaps, quite simply, I began to realize that there is nothing absurd or unreal about all this. Sure, we're talking about facts, things are being revealed to us, that seem absurd and unreal, but in reality they are not at all. Absurd and unreal it is the way these things, these facts, have come to us, hidden in the pages of a text of legend, and the way, still not understandable, by means of which it was dug up from the darkness it was laying in, and taken back to the Bannerdas and… to us. But these things are not absurd or unreal, they are true and real, have really happened, even if they are told in the manner and terms of myth. And now their impact, not at all absurd or unreal, has fallen upon us. Because of faults ... which now are ours.
Ours. Yeah. Ours. Sure, it is so, if it is true, as it is true, as it is now clear, that it seems that we are about to give rational body and substance to the confused irrationality of our myths, or rather, of our beliefs, simple tales for some people, and matters of dogma and faith for others, but in any case far from the rationality of the real story. Maybe, or, rather, almost certainly, we, now, are going to turn into real history what lays behind the history, ie the shapeless magma which moves behind it and that somehow is nothing else than the transfiguration, through the fantastic elaboration, of that part of history too remote in the time in order to be remembered, and narrated, in its true essence, in its logical and tangible reality. In other words, as true history.
A history that, as it appears, is older, much older than us ourselves, and in which are sunk the roots of what we are.
The roots of our faults.
Faults of which we must ...
My thoughts become words.
"We must pay the price of sins which are ours because we are you, it is not so, Your Excellency?"
His Excellency nods, with heavy solemnity.
"You, all of you, humanoid species that populate the universe are part of us and, actually, there's a lot of us even in the non-humanoid species come to light after us, because, although not directly genetically associated with us, they are still derived from the primal force of which we and ... the others have been the first model which has been formed, a model which, of course, was at the beginning very different from that which exists now, currently incredibly diversified into a myriad of species. But, overall, this model continues today, even ... even if a part of the model fell along the way because..."
"Because one of the two components of the model, the one, so to speak, good, decided to take out the other component, the one, again so to speak, bad, thus becoming bad in its turn and tarnishing itself in this way by faults that have a price to pay, a price that must be paid or by them or ..."
"Or by those who have inherited these faults, because they have inherited ourselves. Because they are now, what we were."
No, it is not absurd, all this. But how I wish it were!
"Namely, we, Your Excellence, isn't it?"
"No, Hoshi."
Mal's voice rises strong. I turn and look at him blankly. His look is tense and intent.
"I don't think things are exactly in this way. That's only partially true."
I blink my eyelids, trying to understand what he means, but I'm unable. Not His Excellency, though. Apparently he has understood. "You're right, Mr. Reed." It seems to me to perceive some kind of held back amazement, in his voice, and - I don't think I am mistaken - also of respect.
My eyes run from one to another, puzzled.
"Hoshi..."
Malcolm stares at me attentively, while I focus on him, tensed in the attempt to comprehend.
"...Hoshi, it is T'Pol the one who was kidnapped, it is T'Pol the one who has carried with herself Trip. Why just her? And why was it her the only woman in our away mission? I remember getting asked these questions while we all tried to gain the escape route through that forest of nightmares. I do not know why these questions came to my mind and I had no answers in those moments, but now I know, now I have the answers. Do you remember, Hoshi? Initially T'Pol should not be part of the mission, it was her who insisted she be part of it, to be with Trip. Obvious, logical and perfectly understandable, no doubt about that, and T'Pol was able to present all her reasons with the iron logic she is capable of using. But maybe, indeed without maybe, there could have been something else that pushed her to do so, in addition to her love for her Mate. His Excellency, speaking of that impossible indication on the book, made us believe that there's someone behind all this, that someone, unknown, has manoeuvred in the dark, and you were in agreement with him; indeed I suspect my and your presence here has something to do with that. So, to bring things to the extreme consequences, why shouldn't we think that perhaps T'Pol's love for her man was the lever on which this someone had planned to make her be part of the mission, a lever this someone knew he could count on?"
My Mal takes a pause, short and tense. He digs his eyes into mine. "Hoshi, maybe, or rather without maybe, T'Pol had to go to that planet, to meet her destiny. To…"
There's a look in Malcolm's eyes I haven't ever seen in them before. His words are as stones he throws into me.
"…to pay the price."
I cannot restrain myself. Because... because I don't want to be sucked so totally into the eddy which is engulfing us, even if I am now perfectly aware that we are talking of true things and real, grievous of awful consequences. I try to deny the true, I almost shout. "Mal, what are you saying? Don't you realize how absurd your statement is? Where has your British rationality gone? How can you speak so imaginatively? You, just you?"
"Hoshi!" - With determination, strongly. I know... my God!... I know he is right! – "It is T'Pol who has the features of Lil. T'Pol. The Vulcan T'Pol."
"But Malcolm, this is not a fantasy movie! This is the reality! It is impossible that ..."
"Exactly, Hoshi. This is the reality. And I would not be the rational British man you say that I am, if I were stubbornly balking in denying this reality, as it may seem unreal and fantastic, otherwise I - and you - could not help but surrender to it without being able to do anything. If you want to fight with any hope of winning, you must know and recognize what you must fight against, irrespective of how it may be absurd or unreal, or perhaps only apparently absurd and unreal. And… and also ugly and really hard to swallow. There is logic in all this. It is a logic hard to accept and follow, but it is the only logic we can resort to, to try to explain what is happening and then to find a solution, if... there's one. So the logic equation is: T'Pol is Lil, T'Pol is Vulcan, and, as she is Lil and as she is Vulcan, she must pay the price."
I become struck dumb. What can I say? Then, suddenly, I realize fully what lies behind the words of Malcolm, and why he stressed so strongly the term 'Vulcan'.
I turn precipitately to the Bannerda.
"Excellence, the Vulcans are your most direct heirs, is that not true? It is in them that it has been transposed to the maximum your genetic heritage, your racial memory; it is in them that it has been transposed your faults, it is they who must pay their price, is not it? Is it true what Mister Reed means to say?"
"Ensign…"
I can see it clearly, there is embarrassment in the eyes of the Bannerda. But why?
"But then, Your Excellency, why did you say that your sins are our sins? Why did you say we are now forced to pay the penalty for sins which have been yours and which now are ours? It's the Vulcans who are the true depositaries of your ancestral memories, of your sins. We, we Humans, we also share a more or less great part of your genetic heritage, sure, now that's clear; but we are not, if it's true what Malcolm said, the heirs of your sins. We have no sins to be paid, we ..." - I stop abruptly. An idea, sudden, appeared in my mind. I open wide my eyes, while the truth makes its way into me, while it resounds, strongly hurting and badly, what Malcolm said, by referring to a reality 'ugly and really hard to swallow'. - "Unless there are faults and faults, namely different types of sins to atone, and in different ways, depending on who has inherited these different types of sins, and… and from whom these have been inherited. Right, Malcolm? Right Your Excellency? Unless, to be clear, we, we Humans I mean, are your heirs, yes, but only partially, and in reality we... we are mostly the heirs of ..."
I can not continue. I can not say what I began to think, it's too horrible the idea that struck me, the idea that we Humans can be one with this… just with this side of the eternal fight between good and evil.
But Malcolm is merciless. He never shies from reality. He confronts it. I love him for that. But sometimes I may hate him!
I close my eyes, while he forces me pitilessly, with his deep voice, to watch up at the bottom inside me the monster that has disclosed its visage to me.
"Yeah, Hoshi. I believe that it can not pass unnoticed the fact that it's us, us Humans precisely, who have in our traditions, or in our myths, or in our faiths, no matter where, the devil, that's to say, as it seems, this damned King. It is not the Vulcans, and, to my knowledge, no other humanoid race that we know. Maybe ... no other race in absolute, humanoid or not humanoid. Am I wrong, Your Excellency?"
"Lieutenant…"
"Am I wrong, Excellency?"
"No."
"No?"
"No, Mister Reed. You… are right."
"So, why us, just we Humans, and no other breed, not even the Vulcans who, as it seems, are the spitting image of what the Bannerdas are, no, better, were… The Bannerdas, I say, viz... sure, we have to believe so ... viz the bright side of the Universe... The Bannerdas, who… yeah, that's something we should think about… who have a past, lost in the time, of terrible wars, of bloody fights, just as the Vulcans, who, in their past, maybe a past much farther than they themselves think, nearly have destroyed themselves, before that Surak, a noble figure exactly as it had to be the Great Monarch, has been able to give them a peaceful stability, exactly as, I guess, it has been able to do the Great Monarch for the Bannerdas…"
Malcolm pauses abruptly, looking as stunned by what he himself has said and that it's true, though, and whose deep meaning I, myself am trying to grab and digest.
Then, he recovers and ends his question. A rhetorical question, that I already know.
"… Why should we preserve the memory of the devil, namely the King, if not because..."
"Malcolm! Please!"
"We must face reality, horrible as it can be and tough, Hoshi. Perhaps, in doing so, we can nourish some hope to change it, at this point not only to steal T'Pol to her fate, but especially ... yes, especially Trip, in a certain way, and ultimately ourselves as well and ... possibly somehow all Humans, if what we now have to acknowledge and admit is true. And it is true, isn't it, Excellency?"
"Lieutenant, in effect, judging from what is given us to know and observe and based on the recent events and their dynamics, and on an accurate examination of the data now we have at disposal, it has to believe that, in regard to you Humans and to the Vulcans, with all logic, things stay in the way you, if I interpret exactly your mind, are thinking they stay."
I can not help but blurt out and hire a highly sarcastic tone. - "I can believe it, your Excellency!"
And besides, why should I express myself differently? If it's true that I am who Malcolm has just said that I, and he, and all Humans are? Sure! Of course! Perforce, by God! Or should I say, by the devil? Maybe ... perhaps it would be most suitable for me! For the breed I belong to!
My sarcastic tone gets accentuated, and it serves no purpose the forlorn severity Malcolm looks at me with. "In fact only a Vulcan could talk and express himself in the way you have just expressed yourself, Excellency, and say everything without saying anything, just like you did! Certainly, there can be no doubt that the Vulcans are your most direct heirs, but..."
I go suddenly deflated. My tone changes. I feel that my voice trembles. I don't want yet to face the obvious. I want to ... I must know! Genuinely and for real. I want to touch with my hand, and see with my eyes.
I turn to the Bannerda with resolute doing, locking deep down the turmoil I feel, but I take things to far. I prefer to approach by degrees a truth that, once revealed, can not be rejected, as much as hurting and mortifying it can be. "Excellency, how were those others, those who saw the dawn of the universe together with you?"
The Bannerda looks at me intensely, without responding.
I continue, undaunted and together timorous.
"I mean, they shouldn't have been much different from you, if a woman of your race could fall in love with one of them, indeed even of their King, who - you yourself have affirmed this – should have been glittering by a dark beauty and puissant. Certainly, love knows no races or barriers, but frankly I find it hard to believe that two breeds physically and psychologically very different from one another can find a meeting point so extreme as love."
His Excellency shows no signs to want to respond.
I insist.
Slowly, I approach the core.
"Were they different and yet similar like..."
"Like you and the Vulcans?"
I jolt at the question made so directly and transparently by His Excellency.
I try to react.
"Excellency ..."
The Bannerda stops me with a quiet gesture of his hand.
There's something strange in his eyes. There is sweetness and sadness, and something like understanding.
"We and the others, our legends say, were basically very similar. But maybe it's time we stop speaking of legends. Before I spoke of 'model'. I think that this comparison may be useful to further clarify, it's enough make it a little more precise. After that we realized, as a result of the recent events, that the King and his damned race were - and are - anything but fables, we have developed a theory, which, after all, can be more than satisfactory, although maybe should be better specified. We could say that our two species were as the two models of the same prototype and that the Primal Artificer, provided that there is, had not quite decided, if you allow me to borrow one of your expressions, what was the one on which He should bet. We frankly do not believe that a Superior Entity, provided that it exists, may side with one of its creations; there is no evil or good in the scenario of creation, in our opinion. What there is, it's the affirmation of the different and various species according to the laws of selection. Therefore, regardless of whether those others, according to our yardstick of judgement, could appear and be evil, we, ultimately, could not but oppose them and compete with them, on pain of our loss and the consequent triumph of evil, or, rather, of what for us and, of course, according to the common sense, for virtually everyone, is evil, but that was not so for those others, because they were made like that. In any case, to the laws of selection it mattered little how we and they were. Simply, we both had been thrown into the arena of evolution and the differences between the two models of the same prototype brought with them the inevitable consequence that, although our nature could make it so that we could have not any objection to coexist more or less peacefully with our competitors, for these ones, however, it couldn't be conceivable anything else but the prevarication towards us. Hence the fight, the long fight to succeed and not be overwhelmed, a fight lasted for an immeasurable time and thereby inevitably transformed by the lens of myth. At least until now. In any case one thing is certain: we must understand that the myth that has always accompanied us, is not a myth and this myth-not-myth says that we and those others were very similar to each other, and not only physically, because if a being like the King could experience something very similar to love and we have fallen into the same horrible behaviours of which he and his race are stained, there had to be even psychologically some points of meeting."
"As between us and the Vulcans."
The old Bannerda takes a deep breath, as he gains slowly a seat. He looks fatigued. Yes, I think it costs a lot of fatigue to say what he has to say.
"You and Vulcans have always been fascinating for us. No race, among the existing ones, is so similar to us as your two races. In particular, the Vulcans are really very, very similar to us, to the point that, as you can see, some of our ancestral features have reappeared in them, evidently in grace of the genes they inherited from us. And they are similar to us not only outwardly; for example, their blood is green such as ours."
I jump. "And how was the blood of your opponents? How was the blood of the King?"
The Bannerda casts at me a blank glance. Continues, without answering directly. He too, takes things to far.
"But I must say that we are particularly fascinated by you Humans. You too are very similar to us, as you are similar to Vulcans, but you are also very different. You are logical, like us and like the Vulcans, when and if you want, but you are also impulsive, to the point of being not infrequently inconsiderate. In fact, I can not deny that this strange mixture of adventurous spirit and reasoning ability was one of the reasons that led us to believe that the idea, suggested by some of us, not part of the government staff, to turn to you to find out what was going on that planet, should have been to be followed."
"Some of you? There were people, among you, who have taken the trouble to suggest to you and your staff this idea? Hasn't it been a decision that came from you or your staff?"
I turn around, disoriented, toward Malcolm. What the hell's the matter? What does this mean, this strange and unexpected egress on his part? He makes a gesture as if to say 'let it be, unimportant things, it does not matter', and speaks with nonchalance. "Forget it and continue, Your Excellency, please."
The Bannerda too, he looks at Malcolm quizzically, however resumes to speak, without raising questions.
"It was not an easy decision to make. There was among us a widespread sense of admiration for your resourcefulness, for the impetuous momentum with which you throw yourself headlong into what you undertake, for the vehemence with which, you, just appeared on the scene of space, have been able to impose you, I think this is the more appropriate term, to the attention of the people of your - how call you it? - quadrant."
"Good blood will out, isn't it, Your Excellency? And maybe we are not talking of green blood, maybe it comes to red blood."
The Bannerda does not collect either the not hidden meaning of my words, nor their bitter sarcasm.
"And yet, one can not deny, despite all the charm that emanates from your race, so resolute, fiery, determined, versatile, intelligent, clever ... well, yes ... there is no denying that many of us were very reluctant to turn to you, because ..."
"Why, your Excellency?" *Tell. Tell why, dammit! Or are you afraid of? Eh, Your Excellency?*
"Well, certainly your behavioural attitudes are not ... are not crystal clear. You are capable of the greatest outbursts of love and selflessness, of solidarity and incredible altruism, of even inconceivable sacrifices for good. However ..."
"However, we can be even frightfully bad. Really wicked, it should be said. Is it so, your Excellency?"
"Ah.. yes. It is so."
"A breed very unreliable, ours, isn't it?"
"Mh, well, actually ..."
"I can understand the reasons that lay behind the reluctance of many of you to trust us, for that mission."
"Oh… ehm… sure. Understandable, after all, is not it?"
"I wonder why we are made in this way." *I want to touch with my hand, damn Bannerda! I want to touch with my hand! Let me touch with my hand! Let me see!*
The old Bannerda falls silent, staring intently at me. I feel scrutinized, pondered by him. Then he bends his head, and just a second after, he lifts it up, looking straight ahead. He sighs, gets up, walks to the window. He watches out, through it, in the clear air and bright outside.
Finally he turns toward us.
He looks serious.
I feel Mal close to me, his hand grasping mine.
The Bannerda approaches us.
He stops at some distance from us.
Even I sigh.
I'm going to touch with my hand.
"The King's blood was red." The Bannerda has said it, at long last. Dryly. Few words. Like a phaser shot. Burning in the same way.
I'm touching with my hand.
"It was red the blood of that race." The expression of Bannerda is tough. "As red as ..."
"As hell's fire."
Malcolm has ended for him.
I close slowly my eyes.
I reopen them with effort.
The Bannerda is watching us with a piercing look.
His hand moves purposely, as he did for the picture of Lil to appear.
Yes. I am touching with my hand.
And soon I shall see.
End of Chapter ninth.
TBC
Oh dammit! What the hell will Hoshi see?
And Trip? And T'Pol? What about them?
And Archer & company?
Patience, patience, my friends.
The devil is in no hurry.