He smiled. It was really quite extraordinary. And suddenly, he became aware of a new, unmet need: a sudden powerful thirst, such as he had never known. Thinking back, he realized that it had been hours since he had drunk anything. He joined his hands together to gather up a cup of pool water, and slowly opened his eyes as he brought the liquid to his lips.
It was then that he saw the Fliers of the Field. He barely noticed the water trickling out of his hands as he gazed at them gathered on the far side of the pool. There had to be at least a dozen of them perched in a quiet line at the water’s edge, their wings a riot of colors that reflected into the pool from the torches. They had either not noticed his presence or, for some reason, were not fearful of him in these surroundings. Occasionally each would slowly lower and raise its huge, expressive wings while the others remained quiet at the edge of the pool. Then he realized the reason for their presence.
They’re drinking from the pool!
As if in response to his thoughts, all the giant butterflies rose into the air at once, heading straight for him. They circled his head, swerving and dipping to and fro as if teasing him to join them, just as they had done to Pilgrim. And then, as fast as they had come, they swirled single file up the stone steps to the light, taking turns squeezing through the broken wall, and were gone. He smiled to himself. Unlike his impetuous horse he would not chase after them.
The prince of Eutracia remained alone in the warm pool. He felt wonderful, except for his raging thirst. He had never felt anything like it. It was almost as if the water were begging to be consumed by him. No other need—no hunger, no pain, no pleasure—had in his entire life ever been this compelling. His breath became ragged and uneven as his body and mind joined in the almost sexual need for the fluid that swirled around him. He looked longingly again at the water.
The butterflies. Was their amazing size due to drinking the water? He dared not drink.
With more willpower than he had ever before summoned forth, he turned and pulled himself out of the water to stand naked and dripping at the pool’s edge. His chest was heaving with exhaustion. Once out of the water his body and mind began to calm, and the awful thirst abated. But his earlier ache and pains remained gone, and he continued to feel unusually strong. More than a little confused, he began to dress.
Clothed once again, he thought to at least wash the mud from his knee boots before going back to the palace. He slowly bent over and cupped some of the water in his hands, then turned toward the wall of flickering torches.
What he saw made him jump back in fright, the liquid tumbling from his hands to splash on the ground at his feet.
The water was a deep red. He had not been able to see his own cupped hands through it. It was like holding a handful of blood, he realized. He quickly wiped his hands down the length of his dirty pants. Suddenly he realized that this must have been the fluid that he had wiped from his face when he had fallen down the stairs. Apparently he had landed close enough to the pool to be splashed by some of the spray from the falls.
He had seen all he wanted to of this place for one day.
Nervously, he walked past the wall torches, planning to extinguish the first one deepest in the cave, then each of the others in turn on his way back to the stone steps. But when he reached the farthest torch, his eyes fell upon something that he had not noticed there the first time.
He was standing before a large, squarely cut entrance to a tunnel. It was obviously man-made, at least ten feet high and fifteen feet across. A rectangular panel had been carved into the stone above it and contained the same type of writing that he had seen on the other walls of the caves. He took the torch from the wall and moved closer. Standing directly in front of the tunnel’s entrance, he raised the torch higher to try to look down the passage, but he could not see anything except an endless black void. The inside of the tunnel was silent and unyielding, and seemed to go forever. He stood there for a moment, unmoving, wondering what he should do. Glancing back to the hole at the top of the stone steps, he saw that the afternoon sunlight was still coming through, meaning that he had some daylight left before he had to return. Extending the torch, he walked forward into the tunnel, his mind full of questions.
Abruptly, he found his answer.
As soon as he crossed the plane of the passageway there was a sharp noise, a flash of light, and his body was hurled backward through the air at least a dozen feet. At the same time an indescribable pain shot through his entire body. He was turned over in midair and landed hard, facedown on the floor of the cavern. The flaming torch was still in his hand, close to his face. Too close. Moving the torch away, he rolled over onto his back and slowly sat up. There was a dirty, copperlike taste in his mouth, and as he spat, he saw that his saliva was mixed with blood. He wiped his mouth as clean as he could and spat again as he stood up. Strangely, neither the fall nor the cut had hurt at all.
His mouth twisted ironically as he once again pushed the comma of dark hair off his forehead. Staring back toward the tunnel, he saw that everything was as it had been. Everything except him. Then an idea struck him.
Looking around, he found a hand-sized rock and picked it up. Moving near the wall of torches, he stood at an angle to the tunnel entranceway, instead of directly before it. With an underhand toss, he sent the rock flying toward the portal.
The reaction was immediate. As soon as the rock crossed the plane of the portal there was another loud crack, a split-second flash of white light, and the rock was repelled backward almost the entire length of the cavern to fall on the cavern floor in pieces.
Why, then, am I not in pieces, too? he asked himself.
He shook his head in resigned disbelief. He had no idea what he had just seen or what had just happened, and he found himself laughing aloud at the realization that the same was true about a great many things this strange day. But one thing he knew without question.
He had more than enough desire to leave this place.
Extinguishing the torches one by one, he made his way back to the stone steps. In the dim light of the retreating sunshine that came feebly in through the broken wall at the top, he climbed the stairs and finally exited into the warm and welcoming afternoon air. The natural light felt good on his face.
He was to find that replacing each of the stones in the wall was more laborious than taking them down, and it took more time than he had expected. At last, lightly covered in perspiration and his clothes dirtier than ever, he had retreated a few steps to admire his handiwork when something tugged at him from the back of his memory. Something was missing, but he couldn’t remember what. As had been his habit since he was a child, he closed his eyes and relaxed completely, emptying his mind so the thought would come to him, rather than him chasing it. Finally, it surfaced.
Pulling out one of his dirks, he set to work on the wall until the slit for the giant butterflies was open again. Then he walked back across the field. Untying the stallion from the tree, he rubbed the horse’s ears affectionately as Pilgrim pawed the ground with one of his front hooves. “Yes, I know I’ve been gone a long time,” Tristan said affectionately. “And yes, I know you are very thirsty.” He pursed his lips and ran one hand back through his thick, dark hair as he looked back one last time at the stone wall. “So am I. But we’re not going to drink anything here.”