Wonderful

     Beautiful was still asleep, her breathing soft and even.  Seeker leaned close and brushed a kiss against her cheek before rising.  He slung his satchel over one shoulder and started toward the door.  Then—like wind over harp strings—a voice stirred in the air:  Bring your books.  He paused, the sound still trembling in his chest, and with a quiet sigh, shouldered his burden.  The weight drew a grunt from him as he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.

    The weight of his burden slowed him through the crowded streets of the Fair.  The noise pressed around him—vendors calling, wheels creaking, laughter echoing off the tents.  How had he managed all this before, in the state he’d been in?

    He wasn’t even sure the mansion would be there—or what he would find if it was.  Still, he followed the path his dream had traced, step by step, until at last he stood before it.

    It was just as he remembered—its marble garden walls gleaming where no such thing should stand.  Watchmen swung the gates open without a word, as though his coming had been foretold.  Within lay a garden overflowing with color, flowers of every kind blooming in ordered abundance.  Stone alcoves invited rest among their fragrance.  Along the marble walls, roses climbed high—red so vivid they seemed to burn in the light.

    Seeker climbed the marble steps and knocked softly.  The door opened, and a maiden of radiant purity stood before him—her hair the color of silvered light, her face untouched by time, her eyes deep and still as wisdom itself.

   “Why have you come?” she asked.  “What is your purpose?”

    Could this be Innocent, the one he had read about?

   “I seek the truth!” Seeker declared, his voice ringing with conviction.

    She smiled, the expression warm yet knowing.  “Follow me,” she said.  “The Interpreter is waiting for you.”

    She led him into a quiet chamber, where a man stood with arms outstretched.  He was ancient, yet ageless—his robe plain, yet his bearing regal.  The wisdom of ages rested in his gaze, tempered by a gentleness beyond measure.

    “Seeker-for-Truth,” he said—his voice quiet, yet carrying the weight of command.  “Come.  I will show you many things.”

    The Interpreter led him into a quiet parlor and bade him set down his burden.  Seeker obeyed, unshouldering the pack and laying the books upon a low table.  The Interpreter opened one and turned its pages slowly, his fingers tracing the lines as though reading the soul of the text.

    “You are a man of much knowledge—deep knowledge.”  His eyes shone with quiet approval.  “Yet surely you must have read, ‘in much study is a weariness of the flesh.’”  A faint smile touched his lips.  “When Christian first came to me, he too was burdened—much as you are now.  Do you know what caused his burden?

    “Guilt,” Seeker replied quietly.  “From reading his Book.”

    The Interpreter nodded.  “The knowledge of truth brings light—and with it, awareness.  But awareness gives birth to guilt, for you know what is right, yet find you cannot do it.”

    “Only when you are can you do.  Knowing alone is not enough.  Being and knowing must grow together—or else a man becomes divided in himself.”

    “You studied much of wrath in my tower,” said the Interpreter, his gaze steady and searching.  “Yet all your knowledge could not spare you or your family from Giant Wrath’s blows.  It was only when your being deepened—when you shone the light of forgiveness—that he fled.”

    “You had knowledge of Adam-the-First,” the Interpreter continued softly, “yet knowledge did not keep you from becoming his slave in Deceit.”

    Seeker’s breath caught.  Jabal!

    “Did you not read, ‘He that commiteth adultery lacketh understanding;  he that doeth it destroyeth his own soul’?  And yet you were ensnared by his daughter—Lust-of-the-Eyes.”

    Charm!  Seeker’s head bowed, the weight of shame pressing him low.

    “That guilt you carry,” said the Interpreter, “comes from knowing, yet being unable to do.  Your trials on the Hill of Difficulty and in the Valley of the Shadow of Death—these increased your being.”

    “I understand,” Seeker whispered.

–

    The Interpreter took each of Seeker’s books in turn, opening them and reading aloud from their pages.  He led Seeker through many rooms and places, revealing the truth each book contained.  And when Seeker understood, he set each one down—leaving them behind, one by one—until at last only three remained: one close to his heart, and two in his hands.

    The Interpreter lifted the Book Beautiful had given him and turned its pages with care.  “Christiana,” he said softly.  “Because of Christian’s faithfulness, she—and her sons—were saved.”  He closed the Book and handed it back.  “I will not take away Beautiful’s gift.”  Then his eyes fell to Seeker’s hand pressed over his heart.  “Nor the King’s.”

    Then he took up Redemption of Eva.  “You wrote this… and will write it,” he said.  

    A flicker of confusion crossed Seeker’s face.  

   “I will give you the words again, as I did before,” said the Interpreter.  “But I must return it to the peddler, who will sell it to Eager-Mind—who in turn will give it back to you.”

    “All that has happened to you, you will write,” said the Interpreter.  “Your own Book will rest by the River of Life.  The water there is free—so drink and be filled.  He smiled faintly, “As one of your own once said, ‘The water is free.  So drink.  Drink and be filled up.”

–

    Then the Interpreter led him to a chamber called Rest, where soft couches and deep cushions invited the weary to be still.  Above the door, words were carved in gold:  Come unto me, and I will give you rest.

    The Interpreter gestured toward a couch.  “Sit,” he said gently.  “Rest awhile.”  Then without another word, he withdrew and closed the door behind him.

–

    Before long, Innocent appeared in the doorway and beckoned him to follow.  A bath had been drawn, and fresh garments laid out for him.  The trousers were of fine wool, dark gray and neatly pressed; the shirt, white linen, hemmed at collar and sleeve with threads of gold.  His boots were soft and supple, yet firm enough to steady his steps.

–

    When he returned—refreshed and joyful—to the chamber called Rest, Innocent was waiting.

   “The Interpreter invites you to dine with Him,” she said, her tone gentle.  She led him to the dining hall, where a simple yet splendid feast was set before him:  bread, butter and honey, and nuts—and a bottle of wine, deep red as blood.

    So Seeker ate and drank with the Interpreter and with Innocent, and his heart grew very merry.  As they shared their meal, the Interpreter unfolded many mysteries, speaking truth and wisdom with gentleness and delight.

    Then Seeker gathered his courage and asked the question that had long weighed on his heart.  “Why is your House in ruins?  And why are you here?”

    “The Wicket Gate, Beelzebub’s Castle, and my House once stood in balance with one another,” said the Interpreter.  “Remove even one, and the others will surely fall.  After the days of Christian and Christiana—by the time of Tender-Conscience and Evadne—great multitudes took up pilgrimage.  The more Beelzebub denied, the more Good-Will received, and the more I sent onward to the Cross.

    “Then a council of the dragon’s captains arose—Mammon at their head—and they conspired to overthrow Beelzebub.  He joined himself to Demas and to Adam-the-First, and together they removed the Cross from the Hill of Deliverance.”

    “With no opposition, the Wicket Gate stood wide open—and with the Cross removed, I had no cause to remain in that realm any longer.”

    “But what Mammon does not understand is that the Cross cannot be torn down.  It is the dying that must come before awakening to the truth.”

    “Like Hopeful—here in the Fair,” Seeker said with a faint smile.

    “Yes,” the Interpreter replied, his eyes warm.  “Like Hopeful.”

–

    After they had dined, the Interpreter led Seeker to an armory, where a mighty warrior—much like Great-Heart—awaited.  He clothed Seeker in armor supple as leather, light as a feather.

    “And yet it is stronger than steel,” said the warrior, his voice steady and sure.  “No blade or arrow of any fiend shall pierce it.”

    Then the warrior girded Seeker with a belt and scabbard and placed in his hand the Sword of Wisdom.

    “I don’t know how to fight,” Seeker admitted.

    “It will guide your hands,” the warrior replied.

    Then the Interpreter placed the Necklace of Conscience around Seeker’s neck.

     “Knowing all things together—remembering yourself—this will keep you from harm.”

     With that, he blessed Seeker and sent him on his way.

***

    When Seeker returned home, Beautiful and Wonderful were astonished at his appearance.  The weariness that had long shadowed his face was gone; his eyes were clear and bright, and the bruise that had darkened his brow had vanished without a trace.

    “No bruise, new clothes—Daddy’s a new man,” Wonderful said with a playful smirk, her eyes sparkling with relief.

    Beautiful traced a finger along the hilt of his new sword.  She smiled softly, lovingly—but a faint shadow crossed her face, as though joy and worry had chosen to dwell together in her heart.

   “What is it, dearest?” Seeker asked gently.

   “You look wonderful.  And Wonderful is better, but…”

   “Yes?”

   Her voice faltered.  “My heart is so heavy for Bright.  What if—”

   Seeker nodded, resting his hand on the hilt at his side.  “Then I will go to him.”

    Wonderful knelt beside Seeker’s bed, pressing a cool, damp cloth to his forehead.  When he tried to rise, she laid a hand on his chest, gently preventing him.

    “I have to.”  He struggled to sit up.  “Work.”

   “Daddy, lie still,” she said firmly.  “How are you supposed to work when you can’t even string two words together?”

   “Mother!” she called across the house.

   Moments later Beautiful appeared in the doorway.

   “Daddy’s being stubborn,” Wonderful said.  “Tell him he won’t get better if he won’t rest.”

   “Book,” Seeker muttered.

   Beautiful sat beside him and took his hand.  “Rest a little longer, love.  I’ll bring your book.”

    Wonderful rose and smoothed her dress.  “I’ve made up my mind,” she said.

    Beautiful met her gaze, a weary sigh escaping her.

    “I’m going to be Mr. Skill’s apprentice.”

***

    Wonderful knocked softly on Mr. Skill’s door and waited, hands clasped in front of her.  She didn’t knock again.  When the door opened, Mr. Skill straightened at the sight of her.

    “My father is sick,” she said simply.

    He turned to reach for his satchel, but she caught his arm.  “No—don’t get it.  Teach me.”

    He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing her soul.  Then, a faint smile touched his lips.  “Very well,” he said softly.  “Come in.”

–

    He led her into his stillroom.  Shelves lined the wall, crowded with glass jars and stoppered vials—some clear, others tinted amber or green.  Each bore a neat label in careful script:  Tinctura Hyperici, Unguentum Valerianae, Spiritus Menthae.  Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, their scents mingling in the air—rosemary, sage, and foxglove among them.  A mortar and pestle sat on the counter, its surface dusted with traces of crushed petals and powdered bark.  

    A copper still gleamed softly in the lamplight, breathing thin curls of fragrant steam into the air.  At the hearth, a kettle simmered over a low fire, its quiet bubbling the room’s only sound.

–

    Day by day, Wonderful rose with the sun and went to Mr.  Skill’s house, where he taught her patiently.  Some mornings he explained, and she took careful notes, ink smudging her fingertips.  Other days they wandered the Plain of Ease together, gathering herbs beneath the open sky.

–

   “This is chamomile,” he said showing her a jar of small, delicate blossoms.  “Steep it in hot water for headaches.”

   “Boneset,” he said lifting a stalk from the bundle beside him.  “You’ll find it near running water, where the ground stays cool and damp.  Its leaves are rough and hairy, its flowers a deep purple.  It mends bruises—and broken bones.”

    As they walked across the Plain of Ease, they came upon a patch of yarrow, its fern-like leaves spread low beneath clusters of tiny white blooms.  “It loves the sun,” he said kneeling beside it.  “Good for closing wounds and cooling fevers.”

    As they walked, she noticed a dense cluster of golden-yellow flowers, each with five bright petals.  With his pruners, he clipped the upper stems and tied them neatly into a bundle. Then he held one leaf to the light.

    “See the tiny pinholes?” he said softly.  “They’re windows for the sun—bringing grace to the darkened mind.”

    He knelt beside a tall plant crowned with pale pink umbels and began to loosen the soil around its base.  Gently, he lifted the roots free.  “It favors damp ground,” he said, brushing the dirt from his hands, “but only where the moon can reach it.  It brings sleep—and quiets the heart.”

–

    “Discernment is necessary,” he said.  “Not every remedy suits every wound.   The dose matters—what heals in small measure can harm, even kill, in excess.”

    He opened a small pouch filled with hard resin.  “Myrrh,” he said.  “Some gifts come dear.  You’ll find this in the merchant’s tent.  Its smoke drives corruption from the air.”

–

    Wonderful learned quickly, taking careful notes and helping Mr. Skill prepare his medicines.  Under his guidance she mastered the steps of each preparation, and before long she could work almost entirely on her own.

–

    “You have to see the whole person,” he taught her.  “Always begin with the eyes.  Dull eyes speak of weariness.  Yellow of bile, and bright eyes of fever.  But you have to see deeper.  Sometimes the sickness is not of the body, but the hope within.”

    “Listen to your patient,” he said.  “Their tongue will tell you much.  A good healer speaks little and listens long.  Attend to their voice—the strength of it, the breath between words, and whether their thoughts hold together.”

    “Next, feel their heat and pulse,” he said.  “If the heart beats too fast, it flees from battle; too slow and it despairs of victory.  From the skin you can sense fever, shock, or the faintness of a failing heart.”

    “A foul scent warns of corruption,” he said.  “Every sickness, every poison carries its own odor.  In time, you’ll know them all.”

    “And be watchful,” he said.  “Hands tremble for many reasons—some from cold, others from fear.  A chill may seize the body or the soul.  Clenched fists can hide pain.”

    “If the body ails, give medicine.  If the soul, give mercy.  Often the two walk hand in hand—and you must tend both, or neither will mend.”  He paused, eyes softening, “And when you face a sickness you cannot heal, do not despair.  Healing belongs to the Great Physician.”

–

    And Wonderful heeded Mr. Skill’s words.  She watched her father closely, studying every breath and motion as if reading a living book.  Then she shared her observations with Mr. Skill, and together they walked the Plain of Ease, gathering fresh herbs.  Under his patient guidance, she prepared medicine for Seeker.

***

    At first, Seeker refused the medicine, shaking his head stubbornly.  No coaxing, no pleading would move him—until Wonderful’s tears broke through his defiance.  Then, at last, he relented.

    The first night, Seeker thrashed in his sleep.  By morning, a fury had seized him—he ranted and cursed without pause, and it went on for three days.  Beautiful grew terrified, but Wonderful urged her to be patient.  On the fifth day, a strange stillness fell over him.  His eyes were open, yet empty—flat and lifeless, like a man staring through the veil between worlds.

    On the seventh day, the bruise began to fade.  His dizziness lifted, his thoughts cleared, and for the first time in months, a smile returned to his face.

    That night, he slept peacefully—for the first time in years.  His rest had always been troubled and thin, haunted by dreams that never let him go.

    A Shining One stood before him.  He did not so much arrive as dawn.  He cast no light—he was light: living, searching, unblinking.  His wings spread vast and gold, the hue of morning breaking through the clouds.  His hair shimmered like sunlight caught in water.  His eyes burned—not with heat, but with comprehension.

    “You have been invited.”  His voice moved like wind across harp strings.  It did not reach Seeker’s ears so much as his soul.  He felt the meaning rather than understood it—as though words were too small to hold what had been spoken.

    The invitation was written in letters of gold—the same hand that had penned the note in the Interpreter’s tower—and it was signed, simply: I.

    The Shining One led him through the streets of Vanity.  At the city’s heart stood a stately mansion, its marble walls and gardens gleaming in the unearthly light.

    Seeker turned to ask the Shining One what manner of place this was—but he stood alone, though the light had not faded.  He blinked, and in that instant, found himself lying in his own bed beside Beautiful, sunlight streaming softly through the window.

    What did the dream mean?  He searched the bed, the floor—no invitation written in letters of gold.  Yet he remembered every step as if branded into his mind.  

    He would go and see.

Uriel leads Seeker through Vanity

    Wonderful set On Alchemy aside on her bed and reached for The Healer’s Garden.   She thumbed carefully through its pages, tracing the faded sketches of leaves and roots, the neat lists of tinctures, salves, and poultices.  She had found the book in Pagan’s cave and slipped it quietly into her pack when they left.  There had to be something in here that could help Daddy’s bruise.  He’d had it for as long as she could remember—a dark blotch spreading across his forehead, swollen and green and purple, like a wound that refused to forgive.

    Bright said Daddy had gotten it when a boulder from Giant Wrath struck him—before she was born.  Some wounds, she thought, just never healed.  Bright still limped from his own battles—with Wrath, and later with Plague.

    Then there was her.  She didn’t have a bruise or a limp, but she was broken just the same.  Maybe it was from their time in the cave—rationing every morsel of food while Plague ravaged the world outside.  Maybe it had started even before that.

    By all reason, she should have been happy.  Daddy had found work in Fair-Speech, and they had a lovely home to live in—a kitchen as nice as the one in the Valley, and her own room.  Mama had taken her out to buy new clothes, and there were so many delicious, interesting foods here.

    Mama and Daddy had gone out again.  Every day, Comfort discovered a new place to take them—a different restaurant, new flavors to taste.  After their long confinement in the cave, it warmed Wonderful just to see Mama smile again.  And yet, something still felt very wrong.  Vanity was bright, exciting—full of sights and sounds she’d never known—but beneath it all, the people felt hollow.  Their smiles were wide, but their eyes empty.

    A wave of dizziness swept over her.  She’d lie down—just for a minute or two.

***

    Seeker and Beautiful strolled through the streets of Vanity Fair, where tents and banners blazed with color beneath the sun—some striped, others woven with intricate designs.  On either side of the road stood booths overflowing with goods, vendors crying out to the passing crowds.

    “Where is it today?” Seeker called, raising his voice above the din of the Fair.

    “Comfort told me about a place that makes excellent grilled fish,” Beautiful replied.

    “You already had fish,” Seeker said, wrinkling his nose.

    “That was fish stew,” she countered, eyes dancing.  “Besides, we ate what you wanted yesterday.  Today’s my turn.”

    They passed a juggler and a fire-breather.  Beautiful flinched as the flames burst out, stopping only inches from her.  Down the street, someone was leading an ape by a rope.

    “I miss Bright,” Beautiful said softly.

    Seeker nodded.  Then, trying to lighten the mood, he added, “I bet Wonderful could even find her guinea pig here.”

    “Here,” said Beautiful, pointing down an alley as they reached the edge of the Fair.

   A sign caught Seeker’s eye:  Ye Olde Books.  He drifted toward the doorway, but Beautiful tugged his hand.

   “I’m hungry,” she said with a small pout.  “And you already have too many books.”

    Seeker let himself be led away—reluctantly.  But he knew he’d be back.  There was a book in the window that had caught his eye.

    The restaurant was small and cozy, with tables both inside and on the porch outside.  A wooden sign displayed the menu near the door.  Beautiful pointed at it.  

   “I told you they’d have food you like too,” she said, smiling.

***

[Authors note:  Where is Comfort?  She has her own place in Vanity and has parted ways with Seeker, Beautiful, and Wonderful for a time.  I hear she’s been spending her days with Thoughtful, who also dwells in Vanity.  What they’re doing, my friend—that lies beyond the scope of this dream] 

***

    “Have you seen Wonderful?” Beautiful asked, setting down the basket.  “I brought home food for her.”

   Seeker shook his head.  “No.  She hasn’t come out of her room.”

   “Wonderful!” Beautiful called, hurrying down the hall.  She knocked softly.  “Wonderful?”  Silence.  She eased the door open and stepped inside.  When she emerged moments later, worry was etched deep in her face.

   “She’s burning up.”

   Seeker stepped into the room.  Wonderful lay curled beneath her blanket, shivering.  Beads of sweat glistened on her brow.  Her lips moved, murmuring words he couldn’t make out.

   Seeker sank beside the bed.  “Wonderful?”

   Beautiful appeared with a cup of water and a few capsules.  She eased Wonderful upright, her movements careful and practiced.  “Here,” she murmured, pressing the rim to her lips.  “Take these.  They’ll make you feel better.”

–

    Seeker stayed beside her through the night, wiping her brow with a damp cloth.  Beautiful entered quietly.  

   “Get some rest,” she said.  “I’ll look after her.”

 –

  Days slipped by.  At night, Seeker kept watch by Wonderful’s bedside.  By day, Beautiful tended to her while Seeker worked in Fair-Speech.  She gave Wonderful the medicine she’d bought in Vanity, but there was no change—no flicker of improvement.

***

    “I’m going to find Mr. Skill,” Seeker said.

    Beautiful looked up sharply, but before she could answer, he went on.

    “He’s one of the King’s men.  Good-Confidence told me about him back in the Valley of the Shadow of Death—the healer who tended the heroes after their battle with Plague.  They were half-dead when they reached him, but he made them whole again.

    Surely, he wasn’t the same Mr. Skill Christiana had sought in the Book Beautiful gave him—perhaps a descendant, carrying on the work of his forebear.

    Seeker pushed through the tangled lanes and streets, heedless of the noise and bustle around him.  All his thoughts were on his daughter.  At last, he stopped before a small house—this was it.  He was certain.  He knocked once.  Then again, harder.

    A young man opened the door—his eyes calm yet burdened with a wisdom far older than his years.

   “Yes?” he asked quietly.

   “Mr. Skill?”  Seeker’s voice trembled.  “Please—come with me.  My daughter is dreadfully ill.”

    Mr. Skill stepped inside without a word and soon returned with a leather satchel in hand.  Then, without hesitation, he followed Seeker through the crowded streets back to his home.

    Mr. Skill took Wonderful’s wrist gently between thumb and forefinger.  He bent close, listening to her breath—and then inhaled, as if testing the air itself.  His eyes drifted shut in concentration.

    “You were wise to come,” he said at last.  “This is no sickness the physicians of Vanity can cure.”

    He straightened and looked to Seeker.  “I will leave you medicine.  Give it to her once a day, and she will recover.”  He reached into his satchel and drew out several small packets of bitter-smelling powder, placing them carefully in Seeker’s hands.  Then he brought forth a clay jug and handed it to Beautiful.  “This is from the Waters of Life.  Mix one packet in a cup of water and give it to her every day.”

    “Thank you,” Beautiful whispered.

   “How much do we owe you?” Seeker asked.

   Mr. Skill smiled and shook his head.  “Freely you’ve received; freely give.” 

***

    Beautiful emptied the packet into a cup and poured in water from the jug, stirring until it dissolved.  Then she lifted Wonderful upright and pressed the cup to her lips.

    Within minutes, Wonderful was sitting up on her own.  By the next day, she was walking about the house.  Before the week was over, she was smiling and singing again—the glint in her eyes Beautiful hadn’t seen in years had returned.

***

    Beautiful’s heart tightened as Seeker came through the door.  He’d been driving himself past the limit.  His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders stooped beneath the weight of his load.

   “Seeker!” she snapped.  “Why are you carrying your books?”

   “Can’t,” he stammered.  “Lose…  my books.”

   “What are you talking about?” she said.  “You’re not going to lose anything.”  

    The bruise on his forehead was awful to look at.  He’d carried it since the day Giant Wrath had struck him, but never had it looked this bad.  The color had darkened and spread—down the side of his face, up toward the crown of his head—like something alive beneath his skin.

   He pressed a hand to his head, eyes unfocused.  

   “Lost,” he said.  A pause, shallow breath.  “Lost.”

   “Lost what, Seeker?” she asked softly, taking his hand in hers.  Her brow furrowed, the worry showing in every line of her face.

   “My job.”  

   He swayed, the words slurring at the edges—then crumpled to the floor.