The Affinity (standard:adventure, 2715 words)
Author: Ian Hobson	Added: Sep 29 2008	Views/Reads: 3413/2119	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
There was something about the old man's voice; it was as though I knew it. I was trying to remember. But everything was still black. I had no sense of self. I was surely dead...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Your loving grandfather, David Michael Collington 

He could not have been more accurate about the time of his death; it was
on my twenty-ninth birthday that he died.  And I was a sleepwalker.  My 
wife, Jennifer, watched me one time.  She said that I'd made my way 
down to the kitchen, opened the fridge door and looked inside and then 
gone back to bed.  And then there was the time we were on holiday in 
Bournemouth; I woke up at three in the morning after banging my head 
against a wall, trying to walk through a door that wasn't there. 

I glanced out of the window, to where Jennifer was pushing Helen to and
fro on the garden swing that we had bought her for her birthday, and 
then I sat down at the desk, my desk now, and reread the letter before 
sliding my chair back a little and opening the middle drawer.  It was a 
wide drawer, though in such a large desk it didn't seem out of 
proportion.  I had to pull it forward and tilt it upwards before it 
came free.  And yes, there was a second, concealed drawer behind the 
first, and this one contained something long and thin wrapped in 
hessian.  Without unwrapping it, I lifted the package and lay it on the 
desk.  From the weight and feel of it I knew that it would be the sword 
that I remembered seeing all those years before. 

I stood and carefully began to unravel the hessian, not touching the
sword but allowing it to slide out onto the desk.  My hands were 
shaking and my heart beating fast.  What did my grandfather mean about 
me knowing what to do, about it being my destiny? 

The sword was not sheathed, and its steel blade had a dull sheen that
reflected the autumn sunlight coming in through the window, while its 
hilt, behind a simple steel crossbar, looked to be clad with two pieces 
of bone bound with three steel rings and finished with a steel pommel.  
I stood looking down at the sword, leaning on the desk just as my 
grandfather had, and then I began to laugh.  It was just an old sword 
of crude design, well cared for perhaps, and maybe even valuable, but 
my grandfather's talk of destiny was either a parting joke or else the 
rantings of an old and deranged man. 

With my right hand I reached for the sword, grasping it by the hilt, but
as I lifted it I lost control of my own actions: I couldn't help 
myself, I rested the blade on my left hand and, raising it to my lips, 
I kissed it.  And then my life changed forever. 

2 – Rebirth 

Sparks flew from the blade, burning my face, and I was thrown backwards
into my chair as though struck by lightening.  The chair toppled over 
and I fell with it, striking my head on something hard, not the floor 
because the floor was no longer there, nor was the house, because I was 
falling and falling, down and down, through a noiseless blackness. 

For how long I fell, I cannot say, perhaps only seconds or minutes, or
maybe it was for hours, because time ceased to have any meaning.  But 
eventually my fall was arrested as I hit the bottom of the black depths 
into which I had plunged.  I landed on my back, striking my head again, 
but not immediately loosing consciousness because I remember the wind 
being driven out of me, collapsing my lungs and leaving me unable to 
refill them.  At this point I must have blacked out, though my last 
thought was that this was my death. 

*** 

'Master...  master.' 

'He is as good as dead, Magalo.  By some miracle his body still lives,
but he is dead to this world.' 

'But he clenched his fist, Durabel.  Did you not see?  And the lines on
his face are not so deep, and earlier he twitched.' 

'And that is why you brought me down here, because he twitched?  I have
work to do, and you waste my time as always.  Foolish old man.' 

I could hear these words.  They were spoken by a man and a woman, both
of them old, I thought.  There was something about the old man's voice; 
it was as though I knew it.  I was trying to remember.  But everything 
was still black.  I had no sense of self.   I was surely dead. 

'Master.' 

That voice again.  Magalo, the woman had called him.  Magalo; I knew
that name, I felt sure.  But what language had they spoken?  It was not 
a language that I knew, not English, or French or German - the 
languages I'd studied at school - and yet, I understood almost every 
word. 

'Drink, master.' 

Something hot touched my lips and trickled down my throat.  There was a
strange, animal-like smell.  The blackness began to recede a little and 
I felt that perhaps I was not dead after all.  Now it made sense: it 
was just a dream; I would wake in a moment.  I tried to open my eyes, 
but my eyelids felt like lead. 

'Master!  Master, you are coming back to us!' 

I managed to force open my eyes but everything was a blur, a mixture of
darkness and light. 

'Drink, master.' 

A rough, warm hand lifted my head.  There was that smell again, but now
it seemed more familiar, more human.  Once more I felt the heat on my 
lips, and I tried to turn my head away. 

'It is just water, master.  Drink.   Durabel you must come, he is
waking!' 

I drank some of the water; it felt cooler now, or perhaps I felt warmer.
 I drank too much and began to choke, rolling onto my side, coughing 
and spluttering.  Then, as I propped myself up on one elbow, my vision 
cleared; but I could not believe what I was seeing.  I was lying on a 
bed in a windowless room, a cave of some kind, almost tomblike.  A 
shaft of light shone through an open doorway, and beyond the doorway 
there were sounds: someone sweeping, and further away, a child's 
laughter. 

'Master! You have come back to us!  May the gods be praised!' 

An old man, dressed in a tattered, grey robe, stood before me, his
bearded face so old and wrinkled and yet so animated.  'May the gods be 
praised,' he said again. 

Again I thought that I must be dreaming; yet everything seemed so real. 
'Where am I?' I asked.  My voice sounded strange, and I was speaking 
the language of the old man, Magalo. 

'In the chamber of my ancestors, master,' he replied.  He was grinning
and almost dancing on the spot.  'As before, I brought you here when 
you slept, then when the life went out of you and you became cold and 
pale I asked the gods and the spirits of my ancestors for help.'  
Looking around the chamber I could see several alcoves cut into the 
rock, each containing a stone, or terracotta, pot.  Magalo gestured to 
something behind me.  'Take hold of your sword, master; it will give 
you strength again.' 

As I pushed myself into a sitting position, I realised that I too was
bearded, and that I was wearing a grubby robe similar to the one that 
Magalo wore.  And I saw that the bed I had been lying on was not a bed 
at all, but a stone plinth, cut from the same rock as the floor and the 
wall behind me and covered in animal skins; and lying there beside me 
was the sword.  Instinctively I reached for it, as though it truly was 
my sword, but I stopped myself, remembering what had happened the last 
time.  But when was that?  An hour ago, a year, a lifetime? 

'Take it, master.' 

Somehow I knew that Magalo was right, that the sword would give me
strength.  I grasped its hilt in my right hand, lifting it and feeling 
its weight. 

Magalo looked on, smiling, but then began to look worried.  'You must
kiss the blade, master.  You must always stand and kiss the blade, or 
the sword gods may desert you.' 

He was right, of course.  How could I have forgotten the sword gods? 
Slowly I stood and, laying the blade on my left palm, I kissed it.  No 
sparks this time, just a warmth and vitality that swept through my 
body; and once more Lord Astavar was reborn. 

*** 

This part of my story is the hardest to explain.  Somewhere, deep
inside, I was still Michael Collington.  But I was also David 
Collington, my grandfather, as well as being several others, all my 
ancestors, though the details of my earthbound lives were unclear, just 
a vague memory, not unlike a series of stories I had once heard, or 
books I had once read, but almost forgotten. 

But their lives and mine were unimportant, because once again I was Lord
Astavar, the dethroned god-king who had squandered his kingship, 
ignoring the well-being of his subjects, feasting while they starved, 
doing nothing when disease and pestilence plagued the land, and 
allowing lawlessness to flourish.  And my penance was to live forever, 
always in troubled times, always a friend to those in danger, always a 
mortal, and always tested in some way by the gods who had once called 
me brother. 

Feeling renewed, I lay down my sword and placed my hands on Magalo's
shoulders; knowing that this was the closest to an embrace he would 
allow.  'Thank you, old friend,' I said. 

He stared at me.  'You look young again, master.  Almost as young as the
day I first came into your service.' 

'I feel young,' I said.  'This time my sleep has truly rejuvenated me.' 

'Come, master.'  He led me out of the rear chamber and up a stone
stairway that lead to the living quarters of the cave-dwelling that he 
had inherited from his father.  In a previous incarnation Magalo had 
been head of the king's bodyguard, my most loyal servant.  And he had 
railed at the gods, cursing them for banishing his king, but paid the 
price for it by being sent to join me.  Though he knew nothing of his 
former lives, despite there being many, and believed that I had chosen 
him for his artistry with weapons of war. 

'You see, Durabel,' he said, looking at me with renewed admiration and
wonderment, 'I told you he lives.' 

Durabel had dropped her broom and stood staring at me. She had once been
Magalo's beautiful young bride but was now old and wrinkled like her 
husband.  'I am sorry, master.  I thought you would not recover this 
time, but you... you look young again.'  She hesitated, as if unsure of 
me, then gave me a toothless grin and came and lay her head on my 
chest, wrapping her scrawny arms around me before stepping back and 
frowning.  'Master, you smell worse than, Magalo.  Would you like me to 
bathe you in the hot springs?' 

'You let him be,' said Magalo.  'Lord Astavar will want food and drink
first.  Then I will find a tender young sponge-girl to bath him, and 
one for me also.' 

'You lecherous old goat!'  Durabel reached for her broom and raising it
above her head, she chased her husband out through the dwelling's one 
doorway, shouting, 'I'll bathe you and drown you at the same time!' 

I threw my head back in laughter.  Neither of them was tall enough to
reach my shoulders, and as they got older they behaved more and more 
like squabbling children.  Still laughing, I followed them outside, 
shading my eyes against the bright sunshine and feeling its warmth on 
my body.  It felt good to be back among the living. 

TO BE CONTINUED 


Tweet