The Jewel of Orlegon

The volcano of Nimeo had once inspired both fear and fascination. No one had ever known whether the Goddess had meant to punish the ancestors of the Nimeans by sending them this unpredictable and destructive monster of fire, or to gift them a singular land that each eruption had enriched over the centuries. In the absence of any answer, a small temple had been carved into the mountainside by the islanders themselves, and within it stood a statue said to embody both faces of the fire mountain. In former times the island’s inhabitants had come there to make offerings, that the sleeping giant might spare their villages when it woke and renew the lands wearied by cultivation.

Now that the volcano had grown quiet, no one came to pray there any longer, the other islanders preferring to make their way to the temple of Enartia in Saisio. The little sanctuary had fallen into abandonment, and it was Alteria’s refuge. The place where she could come to share her joys and sorrows with the divinity that watched over it. For her grandfather had taught her long ago that the Goddess had no need of her priests’ presence to hear prayers. And so Alteria set foot in the great temple of Saisio only rarely, the faith of its priests ringing as hollow in their sermons as their statue of the Goddess appeared inert and lifeless — so unlike the expressiveness of the one that lay hidden in the hollow of the volcano.

At times Alteria even had the impression that the statue was glad to see her arrive, like an outcast whom all had forsaken and who would rejoice at having a visitor. Her grandfather had often told her the legend that the artist who had created this work in the black basalt of the mountain was a man from the High Plateaus, a region in the south-west whose inhabitants were renowned for their ability to shape anything from stone. This man had chosen to risk depicting both aspects of the volcano without drawing any clear boundary between them. The artist believed it unthinkable to emphasise the dual nature of the fire mountain by dividing its likeness, for fear of conjuring two separate entities rather than one.

The man of the plateaus had thus refused to split what was singular, and had worked instead to bring out the ambivalence of the great volcano, blending the features proper to each of its two faces so seamlessly that no one could have said whether the work was terrifying and full of fury or soothing and suffused with gentleness. The statue depicted a being halfway between man and woman, holding in each hand a brazier whose flame cradled a flower in full bloom. One hand was drawn close to its heart while the other was thrust toward the visitor, as though threatening to unleash upon them the fire smouldering in its palm. Armour covered its torso and legs, leaving its calves and arms bare. The sculptor had given certain parts organic forms of branches and leaves, while the rest was polished and sharp-edged to imitate the steel plates that clad warriors. The stone face appeared stern and closed at first glance, yet a faint smile played upon its lips, lending it a mysterious gentleness.

Of all the statue’s features, it was the eyes that had always intrigued Alteria most. Open upon infinity, one was red as the volcano’s flames while the other was blue as the deep ocean. Neither seemed human, the colour filling the entire socket. Superstition had transformed this ancient place of worship and devotion into somewhere feared and dreaded, and it was said that the statue’s eyes harboured an ancient curse that would befall any who dared draw too close. It was this that had kept the temple from being plundered when Nimeo’s decline had begun, leaving its imposing deity standing intact amid the sanctuary, behind an altar broken by time and heat.

The reassuring touch of the altar’s warm stone against her back was the first sensation to return to Alteria when she surfaced from her torpor, followed closely by the sharp smell of grilled fish. Around her, the few rays of sunlight that managed to reach the interior of the temple fell upon the eroded forms of what had once been carvings of pilgrims set into the walls of the access corridor, casting disproportionate shadows that had the air of vengeful spirits.

“Or protecting ones,” Alteria said to herself, regarding the shadows with a certain fondness.

She could not have said precisely how much time had passed since she had dozed off at the foot of the altar, but the appearance of the pilgrims’ shadows was a first sign that she was late. The second drew a sigh from her when she rose to extinguish the small oil lamps concealed in the statue’s palms and found that the oil had burned away entirely. She would have to remember to bring more oil the next time she came to the temple.

A voice from outside wound its way softly through the rock formations to reach her.

“Alteria,” she heard it call gently. “Alteria, I know you are there — please come out, child.”

The voice was that of Werem, the temple’s keeper, the sole remaining vestige of what had once been the cult of the volcano. She understood that it was most likely he who had drawn her from the half-sleeping state into which she often sank, carried away by the atmosphere of the place. It was only as she had grown older that she had acquired enough will to bring herself back unaided. Before that, it had been Werem who, not seeing her return home, would make the journey up to the temple to bring her back, the sight of the young woman’s shoes hidden at the cave’s entrance betraying her presence to any who knew where to look.

Yet Werem’s call surprised Alteria. Ordinarily when he came to find her, the old man approached without a sound and busied himself with the upkeep of the temple before coming to sit beside her. Neither of them spoke much when they were before the statue; they simply remained there, side by side, taking in the stillness of the temple. The old man’s decision to stay outside betrayed an unusual quality to his visit, which prompted Alteria to make haste gathering everything she had scattered at the foot of the statue.

She began by collecting the burnt remains of the fish that still lay in the stone deity’s hands, then swept the ashes from the floor with a palm leaf. Her stomach gave a discontented rumble at the memory of the offering she had made to the Goddess by way of the volcano.

Fresh fish was costly on Nimeo, for even though the waters around the island offered plentiful fishing grounds, most of the catch was taken directly to warehouses where the fish was salted before being shipped to the mainland. It was a means of paying taxes to the Empire in kind, for it had been a very long time since the small island had had any other means of doing so — and this despite the Empire’s gesture in reducing the levies on the region to a minimum. Alteria had therefore spent the previous day crouched between two rocks on the beach, waiting for some unlucky fish to swim within reach of her makeshift spear. She was not a skilled fisherwoman, however, and it was only after resigning herself to going home empty-handed that she had found a small silver fish trapped in a hollow at the top of a rock, left there by a wave. She had taken it as a sign.

The traditional ritual called for only half the fish to be burned, the other half could be kept for sustenance on the way home. But Alteria had told herself she would have more chance of seeing her request granted by Enartia if she accepted this small additional sacrifice — though it had cost her something to watch the fruit of so much effort consumed by the flames without having tasted a single mouthful. It was rare, in any case, for Alteria to pray in hopes of having her wishes granted; she preferred to rely on herself. But this was an exceptional wish, a wish meant to change her life, and so she had denied herself no sacrifice. Just as she had taken care to offer the statue of the volcano a branch from a tree growing on its slopes, as the old custom of the temple required.

Having cleaned away all traces of her presence, Alteria gathered her belongings, stuffed them into her bag, and made her way back to the entrance where her grandfather was waiting. When she saw him, she understood at once why Werem had asked her to come outside. For the first time since she had made the temple her second home, a visitor stood beside the old man.

Tall and lean, the stranger wore travel clothes that were dusty and worn with age, and leaned upon a staff. His dishevelled grey hair and several days’ worth of beard suggested he had not taken the time to make himself presentable before coming to the temple. He looked Alteria over for a moment before turning his attention to the cavity carved into the volcano from which she had just emerged. Without waiting to be invited, he stepped into the rocky corridor, having first thought to remove his shoes. Once he had disappeared around a bend in the passage, the young woman turned to her grandfather.

“A pilgrim?” she asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Werem replied, his eyes fixed on the temple entrance. “An old acquaintance.”

“Someone not native to the island?” Alteria said, surprised. “That must go back decades.”

“Before I arrived in Saisio.”

It dated, indeed, from a distant time — long before Alteria had been born. Unlike his wife, Werem was not a native of Nimeo; he had come from the mainland and had only made his way to the island late in life, as his appearance often reminded people. In his youth he must have been truly tall. And though age had stooped him, he had kept the broad shoulders upon which Alteria had loved to perch as a child, standing a good head above most of the island’s inhabitants.

His immaculate white hair was cut short and set off his azure eyes, softening a severe face that was enough to unsettle more than a few people. His skin had once been fair, as was common among those from the mainland, but the sun had tanned it over the years, giving it a brown hue that spoke of the many hours of labour in the small field behind the house. Yet what had always impressed the young woman most was the deep burn scar the old man carried on his left arm, leaving a pale mark across his bronzed skin.

As Alteria wondered where and how her grandfather could have met this strange pilgrim, Werem removed his shoes and, before entering the temple, turned back to face her.

“You should hurry if you want to reach young Lumia before nightfall,” he advised her. “And don’t forget the medicine you promised your grandmother you would drop off. I hope you have planned to arrive in town early tomorrow.”

“How do you know about that?” his granddaughter asked, surprised — she had said nothing to anyone about her coming expedition to Saisio.

“Whom did you think you could hide your mounting excitement from these past few days?” Werem replied with a smile. “Besides, the boat came into dock yesterday while I was in town, shortly before I met our pilgrim. I may be old, but I am still quite capable of drawing conclusions from what I observe.”

Alteria lowered her head, abashed. She reproached herself for having thought she could deceive her grandparents, even if she had her reasons. After all, this venture seemed at first glance about as promising as beating the water with a stick in hopes of stunning a fish, and she had no wish to come home knowing her grandparents would understand she had failed. That was why she had made the excuse of wanting to spare her grandmother the tiring walk to Lumia’s house to deliver the medicine.

Seeing his granddaughter’s embarrassment, Werem’s smile spread a little wider than usual. He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“I do not hold it against you, Alteria, that you would rather not have to bear a possible failure. But you cannot always do everything in secret simply to spare yourself the shame of falling short — especially if tomorrow your wish were to come true.”

“That is quite a condition,” the young woman murmured.

Werem gave a gently mocking sigh and tightened his embrace.

“You are someone exceptional, Alteria,” he said, meaning to reassure her. “And you are not from here. Who knows? Perhaps this so-called curse only falls upon those who are native to this place. Now go — you still have a long road ahead of you, and I must see to our pilgrim.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” the young woman replied, returning the old man’s embrace. “You are the kindest man this earth has ever carried.”

“Do not say things whose truth you cannot verify,” Werem replied, gently drawing back. “Take care on the way down. In one of the trees just before the path becomes easy going again, I have left a bag for you — your grandmother has put some provisions inside.”

Alteria resettled the strap of her canvas bag on her shoulder with a sigh.

“I told her I could manage to find something to eat along the way. There is no shortage of fruit on the trees at this time of year.”

“You know what she is like — she would empty every last one of our stores just to make sure you did not go hungry.”

“And then I would be crushed under the weight of everything she packed,” the young woman answered, laughing.

Werem let out a hearty laugh — one he gave to very few, which had earned him the reputation of never allowing himself any gaiety.

“Off with you now, or you will be making the journey in the dark.”

Alteria quickly put on her shoes and began to descend the volcano’s slope at a swift pace. The path was even more treacherous going down than coming up, but years of practice had allowed the young woman to memorise every slippery stretch, every stone that threatened to give way beneath her weight, and the position of every sure foothold, letting her pick up speed without risk.

As she reached the edge of the temple’s sightline, she heard Werem’s voice behind her.

“Alteria!”

She stopped sharply, nearly losing her footing in her haste. Once she had steadied herself, she looked up toward the volcano’s flank. Her grandfather stood on a rocky outcrop near the cave’s entrance, his hands cupped around his mouth.

“May the Goddess grant your wish!”

Alteria raised her hand to show him she had heard, then set off again at a run. Lumia was going to reproach her for being late, yet again.