Stories are told to inspire hope, joy and love. Stories are told to keep us walking forward into the future no matter what.
This is a tale about walking and hoping and finding out what we are waiting for and what we dream of, is not just a destination or a person outside of us. It is more.
We all dream of heroes. Of white knights with shining swords. Bright sunlight cutting through the night and who make all that was wrong, right.
Meda was no different. She swept the courtyard of the Star Goddess’s temple, imagining the clip clop of hooves and a knight leaping off to sweep her up on a grand adventure. They would defeat the evil villains who had started the war so long ago.
The crying that was as constant as mourning bells would finally stop if a hero came to save them all.
Meda pulled weeds in the herb garden behind the kitchens, dreaming of a king, poisoned by a terrible assassin and a great hero who would rush to the king’s aid by seeking the antidote, which would be a flower that grows only at the top of the Bone Mountains.
The hero would face down the assassin and the war would be won. The king would get better and there would be a grand party filling the sky with sparklights instead of lanterns and funeral ships.
She hung laundry to dry under the warm heat of the sun, imagining that the hero would shine just as bright and be just as warm and kind. She dreamed that the hero would ride into the city, ready to lead the soldiers in a final battle of silver and steel and lightning. The hero would ride a griffin and command earth and sky.
The other acolytes made fun of Meda for her daydreams. Laughing when they would pass her dancing in the courtyard with a broom, or singing verses of ballads. The kind that filtered into the temple grounds from street bards who set up around the city to play and play and play, even if no one stopped to listen. The ballads were all about war and many of the generals and famous Druadin who were out on the battlefield. But none of them were heroes, because the war was not over yet.
Her favourite were the songs of the mythical Empress, who had found a magic sword and united the Kingdoms, ending the long years of war experienced in those distant days and that was repeating now. Even if the faces and forms of the evils were different, the eyes of good and bad were the same.
One night, Meda had a dream. In the dream she stood in a grassy clearing. She could see white bark trees with purple leaves. There was a stone well in this clearing. A tall figure, with broad shoulders stood in front of the well, holding a lightning sword that sent sparks off in all directions. The figure was crouching as if readying to attack.
“You are sun,” the figure said, “you are moon. And today you will stand and the light will rise once more.”
Then the figure moved in a blur of gold sparks and black. Meda woke up with a gasp. She thought about the dream as she swept the courtyard, as she weeded the herb garden, as she hung the laundry. She thought about the dream as she studied with the other acolytes and recited verses for the priestesses.
That night, she had the dream again. Then she had it the next night and the next. It was not just a dream, it was a vision. Visions were something every acolyte of the Star Goddess wanted to receive. It meant you were in tune with the stars and the whole temple would gather to meditate upon it and decide the appropriate action that was always followed with announcing the vision as a sacred oracle to the public.
As the dawn birds began chirping, Meda tumbled out of bed in her rush to get to the High Priestess’s quarters with the news.
“Priestess Edualla! Priestess Edualla!” She shouted, not caring that to do so was unbecoming of an acolyte.
“Cease your chattering girl!” The Priestess’s voice was sharp and firm and a moment later the door was opened to reveal the High Priestess, a tall woman with hair gone white a few decades too early and an aristocratic bearing that was the only reminder she had once come from a noble family.
“Priestess Edualla, I had a vision. I must tell you. It’s urgent!”
“I haven’t heard that one before,” the High Priestess’s voice was heavy with sarcasm as she looked down at Meda. “Come in girl, what’s your name?”
“Meda, High Priestess,” Meda said, touching two fingers to the center of her forehead and bowing her head.
“Sit, I’ll make tea and then you can tell me all about what it is you have seen.”
“But I need to tell you now!” Meda insisted.
“You can wait for tea,” the High Priestess admonished with a frown as she set a pot to boil over the hearth in the room. Meda had never been in the High Priestess’s private space before.
They sat in a small greeting room with two low divans, one of which Meda sat upon, a hearth and a three-legged table with an incense holder. There was a door beyond, covered by a woven tapestry of geometric patterns. Meda assumed the High Priestess’s bedroom lay behind it.
As the water boiled, Priestess Edualla poured it over the tea leaves and a calming aroma tickled Meda’s nose. For a moment she felt less impatient, but that only lasted until the High Priestess sat down, poured Meda a cup, and then herself. She settled, back straight and said, “explain to me what you saw. Don’t leave anything out, no matter what you think of it.”
So Meda explained the vision to the High Priestess in great detail and when she finished, Priestess Edualla sipped her tea, set the cup down and then gave Meda a kind smile. Meda tensed with excitement, believing she must have seen something truly vital to the war. The High Priestess was not known for her kindness.
“I was harsh when you first came in, Acolyte Meda. The world is not kind to us, for it has much to teach and lessons are not learned in being swathed in clouds. I get many girls coming to me with their visions. Some come more than once. I trust, Acolyte Meda, you will not be among that number if you wish to make your way toward priestesshood.”
“It’s true then. Isn’t it? I knew it! I always knew there would be someone who would save us! I knew it!”
“Acolyte Meda,” the sternness was back in Priestess Edualla’s tone although her movements were still fluid as she reached for her cup and took another delicate sip of tea. “I was speaking of my presence when you arrived at my quarters because it pertains to how I am now, at the end of your explanations,” she took a sip of tea, her eyes pinned on Meda, as if daring her to interrupt. Meda got the hint, bit down hard on her lip, and did not.
“You are one of many. You are not unique. Certainly not with what you have seen. We all wish for such things. What you must understand Acolyte Meda, if you so wish to move forward, is no one will save you. You are your own best hero.”
Meda realized then, Priestess Edualla had not offered her kindness but pity. Pity that she was just another girl, of another girl, of another girl, dreaming and wishing and hoping and thinking everything she saw was the center of all the skies. But she had not had so many dreams for nothing.
Meda sat forward on the divan, her hands curling into fists,” High Priestess, I don’t believe that. I am special. I dream so much, you must have heard my name at least! The temple is not so large. Everyone gossips about me, and my dreaming. They think they’re all so much better. But I do have dreams, and I know the one I have been seeing these last few nights is real. It’s not just a fancy of mine. This one is real!”
“And how do you know?” The High Priestess said, not reacting at all to Meda’s impassioned plea beyond a raised brow. Meda coughed and sat back, loosening her hands before she spoke.
“Because I feel it. Isn’t that what we are taught to do? To feel? And through feeling we gain knowledge?”
“You are misunderstanding the point Acolyte Meda. For yes, you may gain knowledge but you do not gain wisdom and that is what a priestess of the Star Goddess must be guided by,” A gong sounded from the main courtyard and the High Priestess set down her cup. “Go, you have duties you must see too, and put this out of your mind. It will not bring you what you seek.”
Meda knew when she was being dismissed and she stood, pressed two fingers to the center of her forehead and bowed her head before leaving. Once the door slipped shut she leaned back against the wall. She sighed up at the white plaster ceiling covered in painted red star-flowers and vines. Her hands curled into fists again and she knocked them back against the wall.
“I’ll show her. I know what I saw was real. I’m always dreaming. I have enough experience. I know it was real,” she spoke out-loud toward the ceiling before falling into silence. Mulling over just how she would prove it true until she heard someone shout her name.
She was late for her kitchen duties. She pushed her planning to the back of her mind where it ran around in circles as she finished in the kitchens and then went about the rest of her duties and her lessons.
During calligraphy when the acolytes were practicing their copying ability Meda picked out an atlas. She used the pretense of copying to examine the atlas for possible locations that would match with her dream. She had no luck the first day.
Two days later Meda had not had the vision again, but she managed to pin down the likeliest location. She knew she had to go soon. So soon or she’d miss the window of opportunity.
Of being there to meet the hero and to guide them to the battlefield, so that the hero could stop the war. She snuck food from the kitchens and that night, three days from when she had the vision, she left the temple.
The location was a field just outside of Nemoidra City, at the crest of a forest before the Dragon’s Teeth, a range of mountains which separated the central Kingdom from the southern Kingdom of Davern.
As Meda hurried through the streets of the city only a few hours past midnight the only people she came across were slumped shapes of drunks, the homeless and once a small figure darted across the street in front of her, before leaping up to a balcony and then disappearing over the rooftops.
A few crystal lamps remained on, but Meda carried her personal fire stick for extra light. She did not often walk the streets alone and did not want to get lost on her way to the western gate.
Soon, Meda reached the gate and the soldiers, standing as stiff and tall as ever, next to the massive stone griffins on either side, stopped her until they noticed her acolyte’s robes. Wartime meant anyone coming in and out of the city was questioned on their purpose, but apart from the Druadin, any daughter of the Star Goddess was considered neutral and outside the conflict.
They let her go with silent nods and she hurried out, stepping into a whole new world. Meda had been born in Nemoidra City and until this moment, she had never left. At the bottom of the hill upon which the city sat, Meda stopped for a moment, overwhelmed by the landscape before her.
Though it was night still, the sky was clear and speckled with more stars than you could ever see in the city and the two moons covered the countryside in soft gold and lilac light.
She could see the shape of rolling hills in all directions, the black points of the Dragon’s Teeth to the south, the glimmer of the Thousands Rivers that fed into the lagoons and waterfalls around the northern base of Nemoidra City and the black expanse of the Silverwood.
That was her destination.
Meda shivered, feeling the weight of the night sky and the vast landscape fold around her. Taking in a deep breath and curling her hands into fists she started to walk. As she walked she oscillated between excitement, that picked up her pace and had her smiling up at the moons, and a deep, sinking fear.
When the fear yanked on her skipping feet, she’d stumble, stop and find herself caught for a moment in a whirlpool of voices, that were all just her, shouting and whispering and laughing in her head. What if her vision had been wrong?
Once, the High Priestess’s voice boomed through her head, but Meda squashed by taking off at a sprint that sent her almost tripping over her feet as the path went downhill.
Three hours later Meda’s horizon was full of the thick, black border that was the Silverwood. Just above it, on the very tip tops of the trees, she could see a thin gold line that signaled dawn was approaching. Meda ran the last stretch, knowing in her gut that she had to get to the well she’d seen in her dreams when dawn hit.
She stumbled to a stop however when her feet took her past the first line of trees and suddenly the world went silent. Or least, going from the open sky and fields to the dark density of the forest, it felt like everything went silent to Meda.
It wasn’t quiet in a literal though. She could hear a night bird calling out in a deep, sonorous drone and the leaves of the tree rustling in a slight breeze before stilling. Meda hadn’t walked through the forest in her vision, so she quickly stepped back out and breathed a sigh of relief once she could look up and see the stars.
Her relief did not last long however, for as she stood at the cusp of the forest, she realized there was no well nearby. At least, not that she could see.
She felt fear grip her and this time it seemed to ooze from the forest.What if her vision had been wrong? Meda stepped further away from the trees with a shiver and clenched her fists. The action grounded her as she pulled herself out of a thousand “what if’s,” and she closed her eyes and thought, do I follow the forest north, or do I follow the forest south?
She felt a pull in her gut toward the north, so she opened up her eyes and began to walk. As she walked, Meda pointedly did not look to the east over the forest where the thin gold line of the sun was getting thicker and thicker.
She felt like she’d been walking for an age. Time seemed to stretch longer and longer than the whole trek from the city. That had been a breeze. This was what Meda imagined torture was like.
But the hero would fly over the forest on a great, golden griffin, the sun at his back and save her. Save them all. Perhaps she didn’t even need to find a well, maybe her vision hadn’t been completely accurate. Despite the doubt, her gut kept pulling her north, so Meda kept walking. She’d come this far. She would not stop.
The sun had now stretched over the forest and was breaking across the field she walked upon. Dawn had come and Meda stopped walking. No, no, no, she thought.
The fear that she’d been wrong all along bubbled up when something burst out of the forest with a chorus of squawks, causing Meda to fall back on her bottom. Above her, two birds, one black and one white, dove and swirled around each other, still calling angrily before they disappeared down behind the dip of a hill.
She could see the trees in the forest clearly now that the dawn had come. Their trunks were white and their leaves were purple. Meda’s eyes widened as she realized she did have to go into the forest. She had not looked behind or around herself in the dream, only forward. Her vision had been accurate, she’d just looked at it from the wrong perspective.
Feeling more lively than when she’d first left Nemoidra City, Meda tore into the forest with abandon, branches hit her arms and cheek. She pushed past bushes with her eyes fixed ahead. The light of the forest was dim even with the sun coming up, but it was enough for her to see what lay ahead.
Meda ran so fast she nearly toppled into the well when she broke into a grassy clearing with the stone structure at the center. She gasped and heaved in breath after breath, having never run as far and as fast as she had just then.
Despite her exhaustion she felt elated. She’d found the well from her vision. Her fears were unfounded. The vision was true. Now, she just had to wait for the hero to appear, and he should. It was dawn. Everything had worked as it had been meant to. Meda sighed with relief and slid down to the grass, resting her back against the well.
She waited.
She waited and she waited. Through the trees she could see the sun creeping further and growing brighter. Turning from dawn, to early morning. When she realized this, she felt the fear grip at her again but she pressed a hand back against the cool stone of the well and chanted in her mind.
The well is real, the well is real, the well real. My vision was real.
Her stomach growled and she fingered the wrapped bread and fruit she’d brought with a scowl. She didn’t have time to eat. The hero could show up any moment and she would need to guide him to the city and to the battlefield.
Based on the direction of the sun rays cutting through the trees into the clearing, it was an hour later when Meda finally gave in and ate what she’d brought.
Afterwards she stood with a huff and glared at the well. She kicked it, feeling satisfaction in knowing priestesses who would be very disapproving of her behaviour.
Then she leaned over and shouted into the well, “I’m waiting!”
I’m waiting! I’m waiting! Her words echoed back up to her as she continued shouting into the well, “a hero will save us. I know it!”
A hero will not come. You know it!
Her words echoed back and Meda opened her mouth to shout more, when what echoed made her frown. Those had not been her words. She tried again, wondering if she’d just misheard. Echoes were not echoes because they were clear after all.
“A hero will save us. I know it!”
A hero will not come. You know it! Her words were echoing back wrong. Angry, Meda shouted down at the well, “who are you?!”
You, you, you. Her words echoed back, the way an echo should but with the wrong words.
“Why isn’t a hero coming?” She shouted, trying another question.
This time the echo that came back was clearly different.
Because of you. You. You.
“Me? What do I have to do with it?” Meda gripped the edge of the well, leaning further into it. She couldn’t see the bottom. It was dark and smelled of moss and dirt.
You. You. You.
“I’m looking for a hero!”
Here, here, here.
“Where?” Meda stood up and darted around the clearing, peering through the trees and up through the canopy. She could not see or hear anything that signalled the approach of another person, let alone a hero.
“Liar!” She ran back to the well and shouted down into it.
One truth. One truth. One truth.
“Where is the hero?” Meda shouted, hitting the well with a fist. She grimaced as her fist impacted with the stone and shook through her whole body. She slumped over the edge of the well as her voice echoed up, distorted and wrong.
In you. In you. In you.
She huffed and sank to the grass, leaning against the well. Meda felt frustrated, confused and utterly spent. The sun was now moving on to midmorning. She only brought enough food for one meal.
As she sat in the grass, she heard the High Priestess’s voice ring through her mind. But not with the admonishments that denied the truth of her vision, but what she had said only a few mornings ago.
“You are one of many. You are not unique. Certainly not with what you have seen. We all wish for such things. What you must understand Acolyte Meda if you so wish to move forward, is no one will save you. You are your own best hero.”
“I get it now, Priestess Edualla,” Meda groaned, tipping her head up toward the sky. She could feel the hard stone of the well behind her head and it felt like something was laughing.
There was a series of squawks that broke through the stillness and Meda’s resignation as two birds came barreling through the canopy in a tangle of black and white feathers. Now that they were flying closer to her she could tell that they were both corva, although one was an albino.
“Idiots!” She shouted at the birds, “you’re not even different species!”
She scowled as the two birds tussled, rising back up through the canopy, before disappearing in a flurry of wings and squawking. Not even the animal kingdom was at peace.
Meda stood up with a huff, clenching her fingers into fists. She turned back to the well. She wanted to have one last word with the strange contraption before the long walk back to the city and all the trouble she was going to be in.
“Fine. If there’s no hero waiting for me then I’ll just go and make one myself!”
Me, me, me.
“Yes, me.” Meda shouted one last time before darting away, not wanting to hear any more. She wasn’t quite quick enough however and as she followed the sun’s path, tracking her way back east toward home, the echo chuckled in her wake.
Hero, hero, hero.
ARR
Return to the Main Page for other Lighthouse Stories: here
