In the original manuscript, this was meant to be the second part of Faces of Mist and Flame, entitled The Myth.  It would have purported to have been published in 1940 in the New York Picture Post, the paper Phoenix worked for and, as such, has American spellings.
    The rationale behind it was multilayered, but here are the two main reasons.
    Firstly, it was to give the reader a bit of a breather after the climax of the main text with a story of sufficiently different style and tone that would force some distance between the main text and the concluding short story by Chillwood Davies.
    Secondly, it would have been an added poignancy, giving, as it does, an extra depth to Phoenix's character - and indicated what motivated him in his war.  (And, by inference, what I think about war.)
    The argument for not including it was that it actually achieved the first objective too well, and didn't - apparently - add to the plot.  In retrospect, I wish I'd argued my case more strongly, but at least it's out there now.
    You decide.  And, if you have an idle moment, why not try to work out the song it is partially based on ...   

 

When The White Hummingbird Sings

By

Phoenix Lafayette

 

Long, long ago, when once-upon-a-time was a fairy story told by people huddled around smoky campfires, there was a strange land. And this exotic paradise was special, because aside from the intriguing and mysterious city of which I will talk soon, there grew in the countryside all manner of unusual things. The ancient forests, of which there were many in this country, contained tremendous oaks. Their scarred trunks were covered with the moss and lichen of centuries. The very next wooden sentinel along a path however, could be a giant mahogany or palm; trees that were tropical in other parts of the world, but somehow here – with the pale gray barked beeches, their low branches having taken root and thrown up new boles, the unexpected avenues of silver limes with their broad canopies, the dense growth of birch and their forest carpet neighbors of pungent fern – seemed natural and not out of place at all. And the trees were the least of the strangeness to be found there.
    In their branches there were to be found all manner of birds that were native to other parts of the world; rainbow macaws jostled with red throated thrushes, which in turn tried to out-sing the tits and finches. A myriad of canaries and budgerigars flew amongst the boughs and branches with dove and thrush, while guinea fowl foraged on the ground alongside lyrebirds, peacocks and lost flocks of now extinct passenger pigeons that were once to be found everywhere.
    Among their number, if one cared to search the rarity out, was the fabled white hummingbird – a stab of pure angel sunlight to be glimpsed in this jungle forest as it flitted from flower head to flower head. Its pure white body was the size of a wren, but its iridescent beak was long and straight – some said it had the length of a man’s hand. The irises of its eyes were gold, and its tiny legs and claws shone with the same brilliance as its beak. A flash of white, and a streak of rainbow, and the bird would whisper, jive and dart past a traveler out on the trail, but then could come into heart-rending focus in an instant as it paused to sample nectar. And because this was a strange, but beautiful, country, the source of its food was different and unusual as well.
    Orchids were to be found in abundance in the forest, their perfume hanging in invisible clouds among the undergrowth. Wild roses formed massive domes in some of the glades, their color ranging through the palest pink to the deepest blood red. Primrose, heather and blue poppy grew in the other open spaces adding to the fragrance; and delicate cowslips, bluebell and honeysuckle grew alongside the narrow pathways. The white hummingbird spurned these and the other numerous outbursts of color and scent. It fed solely on a magical flower that had the head of a blue and white iris, feeding back to a long thin hollow bole, in a similar manner to the trumpet of a daffodil, but which grew from vines that entwined around the trunks and branches of the oaks. It was said that these plants were as ancient as the trees they circled and that their perfume was sweeter than the orchids that were often found in among the roots. The white hummingbird and the iris vine were sight and smell divine.
    As you moved from the forests into more open country the spaces began to bloom in other ways. There were island hills, in amongst the horizon expanses of tall grass, that were constructed entirely of rhododendrons – big flowers that had their own magenta iridescence. A traveler caught in the rain could shelter in the green depths, safe in the knowledge that it would take some hours before the water finally trickled down through the mass of foliage into the center. Only a few people farmed these plains, as most sought the attraction of the towns and villages, and thus a person could ride for many miles in open fields of tall grass.
    Farther out, away from the city, was The Great Desert where the cacti ruled – but people seldom roamed that far, as it was the city that glittered, in its own fashion, more than the bountiful supply of flowers that surrounded it.
    The city was what attracted travelers to the land. Walking through its streets you could breathe a type of magic that other towns and cities of the time could not match. It had a wonderful spin and mix of architecture. Tall pale-stoned minarets ranged slender and graceful on the small rises that surrounded the valley-bowl of the center, the dust of summers past swirling in and out of their towers and spires. Temples, built in the Greek style, with marble statues of athletes posed at their entrances, stood alongside small, well-tended parks that had gravel mazes to amuse its users; taverns built of white brick and black oak vied with shops that combined produce and entertainment in their own courtyards. Minstrels, fire-eaters, jesters – all were part of the delight of commerce in the city, and if a particular act was popular, it would be transferred to one of the open stages that could be found in any of the circular spaces that had once served as meeting areas. Beside the open locations in the circular city center could be found the merchants’ houses - grand white-stoned county-house style buildings, onto which the facades of most of the owners cultivated the iris vine. With its compact alleys, cobbled roads and streets; with its buildings overhanging and forming archways and tunnels; with its unexpected open areas; with a dignified air of a small, old university town, the city could have been anywhere between Northern Europe and the Far East - there seemed to be an adoption of various styles that worked together as spices and herbs to create its own flavor.
    And then, as this story must tell its tale, one hot summer's day, in amongst the crowd made up of well dressed merchants in flowing robes, laborers carrying the tools of their trade, stall holders with goods, that all jostled as they went in and out of the city gate, a young man in his early twenties by the name of Jasbone Holt was seen to approach. He was tall, he was broad shouldered, he strode rather than sauntered and he was dressed in the uniform of a distant country’s Hussars.
    Jasbone Holt could have just stepped off the parade ground. Over his left shoulder hung his collarless dark turquoise Pelisse – the short jacket had a pattern of gold cord and buttons hinting at an intricate dragon lurking in its design, and another that nestled in the black fur trim, fur whose edges the sun sparkled with peacock blue. His chest bore the red, gold and black corded Dolman, each gold button polished and bright. The dust that his knee length boots kicked up appeared not to stick to their gleaming leather uppers, and his skin-hugging Chashkirry breeches allowed no dirt to stick to their thin line of cord that ran the length of his calf and thighs. He carried his fur barrel-shaped Shako headdress under his left arm, and he had his right thumb tucked into his broad belt, on which was slung his saber – the sheathed weapon jangling against his leg. And for all the fur, and for all the constriction of a tight-fitting uniform, and for all of the heat of the sun, the members of the crowd that stopped to look at him could see no hint of perspiration that might run from under his mop of chestnut, ponytailed hair, down his forehead and into his hazel eyes or trimmed moustache. He had walked a long way, and yet it seemed as though he thought himself as having taken a morning constitutional. The more observant might have seen him stop in the tented enclave of stalls just outside the gate to freshen up, but he had made sure that they had long continued on with their business. As he headed towards the tall arch of the gate, he gazed upward at the raised portcullis, fastened and locked into place, and he shook his head – the laughter lines of his face resisting the grimace his lips pulled. It seemed the city feared no strangers. He had certainly seen no evidence of an army.
    Jasbone paused at the gate. He had expected some sort of passport system, at least, to be in operation, but the small gatehouse built into one wall was empty of any official. Instead, three boys of about ten years old were at the open window, watching him and smiling. He smiled back.
    "What are you doing here, soldier?" asked the largest of the three.
    "And have you a pass?" the one to the bigger urchin’s left said.
    The boys all giggled.
    "And do you know the password?" said the smallest.
    They all laughed out loud, and the biggest one slung his arm around the shoulders of both his compatriots and raised an eyebrow.
    "Yes," he said, "do you know the password?"
    "Open sesame?" said Jasbone.
    "Ah, that’s out of date," said the largest, adopting his most serious frown. "And you haven’t answered my first question. What are you doing here?"
    Jasbone came to attention and saluted.
    "Gentlemen," he said, "I come from a distant land. And in our country we have a tradition, a tradition that is a great honor for the man and his family, an honor that has made me humble. You see, I am an officer in that great land’s army. I have just completed a number of years training in our elite military academy and served, with my own command, for the required six months. Now, every six years in our army, one of us is chosen from our number to travel to this city, with the sole purpose of becoming enlightened and thus become a more rounded soldier."
    The serious look left his face, he shrugged his shoulders and he gave a lop-sided grin to the boys.
    "The trouble is, we’re not told, or given any instruction at all, as to what we’re supposed to be looking for here," he said.
    "You will," said the smallest boy, and with that, the three children ran from the office into the depths of the unofficial market, leaving Jasbone to wonder how it was that a small boy could know more than he could.
    That was not to say, of course, that Jasbone Holt considered himself to be naturally wiser than young boys simply because he was older. He had been taught well, and knew that it was sensible to at least listen to what others had to say – the trick was to work out what was the truth and what was fiction. It had been his creed since childhood.
    Jasbone Holt was the eldest child of the mayor and mayoress Philip and Lucinda Holt, who helped steer their country’s capital through the intrigues of the local politics and scandal. They thrived in the Machiavellian maneuverings of friends, colleagues, and supposed and imagined enemies, but somehow never found time to involve themselves with the growth and development of their son or daughter.
    Initially they sent the boy off to boarding school. But after he was expelled from three of the most influential establishments (for misdemeanors that ranged from ‘borrowing’ the headmaster’s horse in order to ride it at a bareback gallop through the assembled guests at an afternoon tea party, onto having a ceremonial fire of the instruments of corporal punishment together with the leather-bound copy of the school rules), the Holts came to the conclusion that the military might have the answer.
    How they came to this conclusion is a matter of some mystery – the army of Jasbone’s country was the only institution that did not involve itself, or let itself be involved, with the machinations of the governing society. The officers of this army seemed slightly remote to the upper echelons of power (not superior, but tolerating and accepting), and this was a difficult concept for some of those people used to double, or even treble, dealing. Perhaps Philip and Lucinda Holt thought that Jasbone would be a way in to another sphere of influence.
    And so it happened, that on his twelfth birthday, Jasbone Holt, complete with two travelling cases, a breaking voice and a slight stutter, came to arrive at his country’s Army Academy. He had found his place, found his destiny.
    Over the next few years the army at that place did exactly what the Commanding Officer had told Jasbone’s parents they would do: the army changed him. The Academy Corps Elite gave the boy the two things he had been missing – a line of command that cared whether he succeeded, and direction.
    The free-spirited boy who could make a horse jump an eight foot fence surrounding a garden party, grew to be a free-spirited young man who could still do the same, but expertly wielding a saber while doing so. He was thoughtful, intelligent, believed his Commanding Officer was the wisest man in the world, and now wanted to set out on his own life. He wanted to serve his country. He believed that in being sent to this strange city he had been given a chance that should not be squandered.
    "This is indeed a special place," he said, turning away from the gate and heading into the heart of the city.

The official market place was identical to the unofficial one outside the gates, except that each stall had a set area allocated to it, thus giving The Circle some semblance of order, and also because the whole enterprise was overlooked by the grand buildings belonging to the city elders and the city council. Protruding from underneath the high arches of these establishments, the city standard hung, limp and unmoved by any wind. The weather had been the same for weeks. There wasn’t the promise of rain, and there hadn’t been for ages. Jasbone had arrived during the dry season. It seemed to him as though every window in every building was thrown open and a number of the owners and their servants were engaged in sedentary chores that enabled them to sit near the possibility of a breeze. It also gave them the opportunity to gaze upon the throng of activity. There was much to distract them.
    The city market had many more people and traders than outside the gates. Each stall (complete with iris-vine in pot or vase) was kept clean and tidy, to a standard Jasbone had never witnessed before. A butcher had various cuts of meat hanging from makeshift rafters, but the sawdust that lay on the floor below them was fresh and uncontaminated by fallen blood. A young boy was sitting on a barrel, eating an orange and watching the world, and beside him was a broom propped against another barrel, the top open, containing more supplies of sawdust. This explained the clean floor, but Jasbone noticed that the butcher did not appear to be having any problems with insects – there were no flies hovering around to give one pause at purchasing any items. Then Jasbone’s sharp eyes noticed the movements in amongst the rafters and meat hooks; he counted at least six bright green gecko lizards scurrying around to find new positions of ambush – they were well trained, the lizards staying within the bounds of the stall and never interfering with the neighbors. Next door a man was cooking; people were buying quantities of food from other stalls and he prepared it for them on a large open grill. It was pure theatre. The man performed his trade with an exaggerated flourish, tossing the skewered meats and breads high above his head, and gave the admiring public a running commentary of the best techniques of producing foreign meals, winning at cards and making love. The old women of the city found every excuse to linger by his shop.
    Further down the canvas alley were the fruit and vegetable traders, the range of their produce providing a blaze and range of color that assaulted the eyes. There were pyramids of yellow melons, red peppers and green cauliflowers with huge white hearts, hanging tresses of purple grapes, and strings of fawn and orange onions. The colors could have just been mixed on the artist’s palette – straight from the tube. There was also the smell of newly picked apples, pears and strawberries, which mixed with the thick aroma of the tea and coffee stalls that stood at every intersection. Jasbone breathed in deeply as he passed each and every one, walking in no particular direction as he looked for lodgings and pretending not to notice the admiring glances of many of the women and some of the men. At last, the texture of smell from the coffee stalls proved too much, and he had to sit at a table to refresh himself. The young woman he spotted running the stall may have had something to do with it as well.
    She looked about his age – the same unblemished skin, the poise, the inquiring eyes – and she moved with a confident, elegant grace. The old men - all with beards - some wearing turbans, some with a fez, were sitting at her tables, smoking their hash pipes, drinking cup after cup of black coffee with cubes of sugar slowly immersed into the rich contents, as dictated by a centuries-old ritual, and making as many lewd comments as they could dream up. She batted away the remarks and their wandering hands with a practiced flourish and an expert dance among the seats. She herself was dressed in the commonplace peasant long black cotton skirt, white shirt and colorful embroidered waistcoat, but she moved and acted like a princess. And an unmarried princess at that. She had short dark hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and, Jasbone noted, curves where he felt a woman should have curves. Jasbone was no innocent when it came to women; he loved the variety that nature and the gods bestowed upon the whole human race, but he had favorites among the female half. And this young woman had his attention. He took a seat, placed his Shako on one of the spare chairs at his table, and waited to order while she retreated to the back of her stall to refill her silver pot.
    The old men nodded to one another and began to talk openly about Jasbone.
    "It’s good to see that our neighbors still feel it necessary to send their young pups for training," one said, leaning back in his chair and patting his broad stomach.
    "Charlotte will see him right," his smaller, and much older partner at his table said, nodding at the owner of the stall.
    "She’ll see to his Need," said another, and the small company of men burst into hearty laughter.
    "She’ll give him The Chase," the first said.
    "Oh, yes, our Charlotte will see to his Burden," his companion added.
    They laughed even harder, puffed harder on their pipes, and dropped their cubes of sugar into their cups without caring that they splashed either their own or their neighbor’s robes.
    "Leave him alone, you lot."
    She stood in front him, hand on her hip, glancing to her left and to her right, an obvious mock scowl on her face as she admonished the men. One blew a raspberry at her and she wagged her finger at him.
    "I’ll tell your wife, Joseph."
    The other men renewed their laughter, wagged their fingers at Joseph and then sat back to watch what would happen between Charlotte and the fine-looking soldier.
    "Can I help you, sir?" she asked.
    Jasbone blinked rapidly – she had positioned herself so that the sun was on her back and he had to squint to see her face. He could just make out a wry smile on her face.
    "A house coffee, please. I admire the aroma of the blend you’ve created," he said, " and make it black, I’ll take it as these gentlemen do. Oh, and can I intrude for an answer to a question - if you are able, if you have the time?"
    She cocked her head.
    "Oh?"
    Jasbone nodded to the men.
    "These gentlemen have mentioned something that I have been overhearing ever since I came into this city. Everywhere that I have walked, in every shop that I have paused to gaze at merchandise, in every fine park I have stopped to admire; I have heard whispers that flit in and out of earshot. The Need? The Burden? The Chase? I’m sure it’s to do with me; some good citizens of your city have even shaken my hand and wished me luck, and they have laughed at my confusion, but no one seems prepared to tell me what they’re referring to. Can you help?"
    Charlotte smiled and began to move back into the stall for his coffee. She looked over her shoulder.
    "I hope you find out," she said, and the old men began to cheer. This was sport to move the day along and no mistake.   The joke was on Jasbone. They laughed and nodded their heads at one another and began to reminisce about other times. Then they stopped, and some let their mouths fall open. The instant quiet was complete. Except for a delicate hum and buzz. Jasbone turned in his seat so he could see above his head to where the old men were looking. There, less than a hand’s reach away, a white hummingbird was probing one of the many flowers from an iris-vine that Charlotte had tied to the posts of her stall. When the tiny bird had finished drinking the nectar within, it held its station for a second – its body frozen in a moment and its wings a gossamer remembrance - and began to sing. And the song it sung was the most beautiful Jasbone had ever heard – a tune that warbled and clicked in its throat like a morning starling’s, that had the piercing sweetness of a song thrush on a summer’s afternoon and which held the harmony of a nightingale at midnight. The song ran and flowed, rose and dipped; the upper notes the perfect gleam of magic. Mixed with the hum and rhythmic buzz of its wings, it sounded to Jasbone as if an angel had been ordained to appear on earth and to bring quietness to his soul with the music that God played on his lyre. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the hummingbird vanished in a shaft of white as it flew off in search of other vines and other riches.
    Jasbone turned back to Charlotte. She was staring at him. When he caught her eye, she dropped her head and brushed hair, which wasn’t in her face, away from cheeks that had a faint hint of blush. A couple of the old men broke the silence, overcame their awe and began to clap, while the others joined in by cheering.
    Charlotte fussed with her tall, slender silver coffee pot and came back to Jasbone’s table with his coffee, scolding the men and threatening them with their wives, but the way she had to search for her retorts suggested that she had other things on her mind. The coffee in the small cup had concentric ripples on its surface and Jasbone reached out to steady her hand.
    "You ought to take a break," he said. "Would you care to join me?"
    After a moment’s hesitation, Charlotte pulled up a seat, took a deep breath and sat down. She again brushed the hair, that wasn’t in her eyes, away from her face and poured herself a cup of coffee.
    "So," she said, as she stirred her sugar into her drink, "tell me about yourself. My name is Charlotte and this is my stall."
    Jasbone smiled; the moment of self-awareness had passed, and Charlotte the coffee-seller was back to her old self – confident, poised and the princess of her space.
    And she was sitting close enough to touch.
    And with a smile in her eyes that seemed to be daring him to ask for permission to do so.

Three days later and Jasbone had obtained lodgings in The Lower Quarter and he had spent as much time as he could at Charlotte’s coffee stall. He had learnt so much about her. Secrets that she had never told anyone. In the spring she liked to come to The Circle before the sun had risen and dance in the fading moonlight, and for every breakfast, at any time of the year, she must sit facing the dawn – just to check that the day is starting. By summer, when it has become too hot and it is too early to catch the moon, she liked to run through the cool alleys, and then to suddenly stop to talk to the old people that never seemed to sleep. When she rode a horse, it was always bareback, and she always rode until both the horse and herself were sweating –
    I’ve never, never told anyone that.
    - and she liked to sleep between freshly washed cotton sheets with the petals of the iris vine on a velvet pillow. And naked.
    Nor that!
    She had two older brothers who traveled far and wide to trade, and two younger sisters who had married and were both expecting their first child. Charlotte had every intention of waiting before she committed to either prospect. Or had done until Jasbone’s arrival. Even though Jasbone was sure she wanted him to romance her, whenever she had a few moments and was able to stop to talk, he found that she was wary of those accidental caresses he knew they both wanted. It was as she was setting up her stall on the third morning, and he was sitting on the first chair, that he tried for the umpteenth time to run a finger along the back of her hand. She performed one of her skilled pirouettes and his hand stroked thin air, but then his knuckles were hit by the silver and carved wood container she had worn around her waist ever since they met.
    "Oh," she said, "have I hurt you?"
    She had taken his hand and kissed his knuckles before she could think. A second later and Charlotte gasped. She looked around. Jasbone did the same. The other traders were busy with their rituals or were too discreet in their nods and winks, to let on that they had seen anything unusual. Charlotte flung his hand away from hers, put her hands on her hips, threw back her head - obviously forgetting, Jasbone thought, that she no longer had the tresses of her childhood – and she rebuked him.
    "You are a cunning man," she said, and looked down at her side where the container hung off her hip.
    "But I didn’t think I’d be betrayed by my Need," she continued.
    Jasbone laughed softly. Charlotte frowned and tutted at him.
    "You don’t understand," she said, " this," she patted the container, "is my Burden, my Need. It is my Chase."
    Jasbone sat back in his chair.
    "Charlotte," he says, "what do you mean? For these past few days I have seen many of the citizens of this fine place, and I have noticed that they all carry what you are carrying. I thought, at first, that they were simply water bottles. But the way you care for them has made me realize that they are far more important. What is this Burden, this Chase, this Need you speak of?"
    She knelt down before him.
    "Jasbone," she said, " my dear, Jasbone, you have stolen my heart, which I gladly gave you, you have made me yours. But until you discover that which I cannot tell you, you cannot have me. I’m sorry."
    She turned to continue the setting up of her stall, but Jasbone jumped up and clasped her arm.
    "Charlotte – ," he started to say, before he noticed the silence.
    Jasbone looked around. All the people in the vicinity had stopped what they were doing, and were frozen, looking in his direction. Charlotte eased her arm from Jasbone’s grip. He turned back to look into her eyes. He thought they looked sad.
    "Jasbone," she said, "you must go to the temple. It is time for you to learn."
    For a full minute he stood there, trying as best he could to read her mind in order to give him some clue. She betrayed nothing.
    Finally, he took one step back, placed his Shako on his head, stood to attention, saluted her and about-faced. Jasbone was gambling that she would think he was leaving the city. He had a surprise for her. Just as he became aware of her hand reaching out to touch his sleeve, he looked over his shoulder and grinned at her.
    "Which way’s this temple?" he asked.
    The fear left her face and she breathed deeply. When she pointed out the direction to the temple, the nearby crowd cheered and clapped. Jasbone adjusted his uniform and marched towards his future.

The temple was a simple affair. It followed the theme of the city and was circular, a plain wall of two stories high with a regular placement of cone-spiral adornments along the top, and on the points of the compass were four tall and beautifully slender minarets that towered over all the others in the city. The main entrance was via any one of forty-two twelve-foot high passages arranged, grill fashion, at the center of the southernmost wall. They were only wide enough to let one person pass through at a time and they continued in length for over sixty feet. They could be quite claustrophobic. When you emerged, you came into a circular plaza, cloisters and chapels ranged around the circumference, and beneath your feet was a mosaic of jade and marble spiraling into the center. There, in the middle, stood a small, dry, circular fountain about thirty-five feet across, surrounded by a minute version of the temple’s walls and carved from three kinds of granite. In a counter-spiral to the mosaic, from the base of the fountain, forty-two copper pillars wound their way into the exact center, each one a foot higher than the rest. As with all copper exposed to the weather, these pillars were of a pale green and gave the appearance of the spiraling trunks of ancient limes without their branches. Even this configuration of the fountain did not appear ornate to the observer. The layout of whole temple conspired to generate a feeling of simple taste – at least, that’s what Jasbone thought.
    He stood at the edge of the dry fountain and looked around at the people. They were mainly travelers from other lands, as he was, though to Jasbone’s eye there were a great many more priests, sages and holy men than he had anticipated. They were from a wide range of peoples, but whether they were from nearby countries, the Far East, aboriginal, or of places yet to be known in full diversity, these religious men had one thing in common: Their garments were white. From the robed men of the Mediterranean, to the kimono-wearing masters of the east, to the thong and bracelets of the tribal shamans; their silk, cotton and leather were white. Bright, clean and pure. And they milled around the fountain and Jasbone.
    "I have heard about this fountain," said Jasbone, to the men beside him.
    They did not say anything. He repeated his words and got the same silent reply. Jasbone looked at each in turn. They still said nothing.
    "It only brings forth water in the rain," a female voice said from behind.
    He turned around. It was Charlotte.
    "You followed," he said.
    "I had to," she said.
    Charlotte nodded over to the fountain.
    "I am glad you have heard of it," she said, "it is our most scared site. The greatest of all powers spring from it. And a man can know more than any man can teach him if he climbs to the top of the pillars."
    Jasbone looked up to the highest one, the base of which was in the exact center of the fountain and was the one from which the water would sprout and gush.
    "He’d need a steady nerve," said Jasbone.
    "Have you?" asked Charlotte.
    He gave her a quick glance and immediately began to move towards the first pillar. Charlotte stopped him.
    "Be warned," she said, "if you climb to the top of those pillars there is something you will feel you will have to do. It is the magic gift of the fountain. Stepping up there will send you on a quest. It will change you. Only you will know if it is for the better."
    Jasbone nodded, turned and stood on the first pillar.
    The crowd grew quiet and moved to stand nearer. The temple priests – The Brothers - made their way through the building crowds, linked arms around the fountain and watched Jasbone’s progress. He quickly walked up the first few steps, but soon became aware of how small the pillars were in diameter; he could barely place one boot on their surface. On and on he climbed, the crowd silent, the only sound being the slap of his boot on the copper surface of each pillar. On and up, on and up. Jasbone spiraled up into the sky. He tried to keep from putting his arms out to steady himself, but by the twentieth pillar he had extended his arms from his sides. On and up, on and around. He neared the pinnacle. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one. Jasbone stopped and looked down at the last step. He tried to ignore how the sides of the pillars seemed to drag the eye to the distant ground and he focused on the topmost plinth. If he was careful, stood to attention when he made his move, he could put both feet on it. He stepped up. The crowd drew a group breath. He had made it.
    Then the realization nipped at Jasbone, and for a moment a tremor coursed through his legs. It was something that you would not consider if you had rushed to climb the pillar fountain – as he had. He was perched on top of a pillar, forty-two feet high, and it was going to be difficult to turn around to go back down. Jasbone shut his eyes for a moment to think and to regain his wits. He counted to ten. When he reopened his eyes, he saw something on the horizon that caught his attention and took his mind off his predicament. Shimmering in the distance was a glint of silver-blue and even as he gazed at it, the mirage disappeared into the wastes of The Great Desert. It had lasted for such a short time he could not be sure of what it had been. Jasbone stared for a long time at the last point where he’d seen the image, then he spun on the spot using his left foot, timed his lean forward, placed his right boot on the next pillar and walked back down. His footsteps rang loud on the metal. All he could see were faces looking up, some shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun.
    "I must travel," he said to the old priest at the bottom.
    "I know, my son," the man said, and he reached out and touched Jasbone’s face.
    "You will learn of The Need, my son," he said, "Travel well."
    Then he began to gently weep. And the other priests did the same.
    Jasbone stood still, knowing that to move would somehow bring dishonor. The priests continued to cry, and the one that had spoken to him moved to each Brother in turn, his hands cupped, and he caught the teardrops that ran down their faces. And then, in a movement that caught Jasbone by surprise, the old man dropped to his knees and splashed Jasbone’s feet with the water of his Brothers’ tears. After running his hands over Jasbone’s boots, the priest got to his feet and smiled at Jasbone.
    "Travel well," he said again.
    Charlotte appeared before Jasbone, paused for a moment, then reached up and kissed him.
    "Travel well," she said. "Chase your Need and find your Burden. I’ll wait."
    "Thank you," he said.
    He smiled at her, after glancing in the direction of his vision.
    "I think I’ll need a horse," he said.
    "I’ve already arranged one," she said, "I knew you’d climb the pillar fountain. As soon as you decided to come to this temple, I knew you would climb. And not fall."
    Then she kissed him again.

The First Day.

Desert was something Jasbone had not encountered before. It was nearing noon and even though he was less than twenty miles from the city, the surroundings were already changing. Gone were the forests of oak and iris-vine around open patches of short green undergrowth, gone were the islands of huge rhododendrons with their iridescent flowers, and gone was the expanse of tall grass. The big, pale-gray stallion he rode – the name of which Charlotte had neglected to pass on to him - now trod on dust and sand. It was a landscape he looked forward to experiencing. The desert was a different world – alien, desperate, and above all else, parched.
    The plants were becoming hardier; if he looked past their thin and dun leaves, Jasbone could see thorns thrusting out along the stems as protection. Vegetation had adapted itself to the dry existence in the desolate landscape to become a collection of fierce entities that spoke of slow growth and innate wisdom due to age. Scrub trees had an airy appearance, as if the sparse branches had grown to allow the maximum light to pass between them, and to let the largest amount of heat bypass them as possible. Jasbone passed small groves of Joshua trees, each of which were standing over forty feet high - they made vague oases of pale green with their limbs coated in ruffs of spiny leaves, and the branches resembled nothing less, to him, than bundles of grotesque spider legs.
    These first representatives of the desert whispered of secrets yet to be heard. Jasbone found himself staring at them. He was intrigued; Joshua Trees could only thrive and spread their seeds if pollinated by a certain type of moth and the moth’s only sustenance came from the tree – both insect and plant had developed together so that one must live off the other. Jasbone thought the co-operation between animal and vegetable was an odd concept, one that he could not grasp. Men helped men – it was conscious thought – and that seemed that. How could a Joshua Tree speak to a moth in such a way that they grew as one? Were they more successful because they co-operated?
    The Saguaro cacti were more to Jasbone’s liking – they were the desert. Thick, fluted and tall, they stood as though naturally grown pillars to some outdoor temple, their great height and girth seemingly supporting a roof that was the sky. From their trunks, branches curved and hooked upwards, as if to assist in the task of the plant and they gave the cacti the appearance of huge harpoons; while from the ridges of the vertical ribs, brutal thorns forewarned against any attempts to stop them in their task. Jasbone steered his horse away from them. But the other plants of the desert had the same defense.
    The oval and flat Beavertail cacti looked like so many soft upholstered paddles from a distance, but up close, the apparent indentations that spoke of padded chairs were actually clusters of spikes. Jasbone shook his head; thorns, spikes, bards – every plant had them – the names of the cacti issuing their own warnings: Fishhook, Hedgehog and Pricklypear, Crucifixion Thorn and Devil’s Claw. They had all devised their own form of defense.
    And in the mist all of this wicked protection, the animals stirred. The horse’s hooves raised a plume of dust, and the creatures of the desert scuttled and ran and hid.
    Jasbone saw a Black-Collared lizard race up a groove in a Saguaro, its chunky body and head wiggling in opposite ways, and, just as suddenly as it had started to move, it stopped and bent its head to watch Jasbone pass.
    He saw Horned lizards – the devil’s gargoyles – basking in the sun. He heard the salt-shaker rattle of a Diamondback, as it hid in the shade of a yucca, and Jasbone wondered at how all the life in that dry place found so many different ways to cope with the heat. It was as if they had discovered the perfect response to suit each individual’s wants.
    The haze edged off the glass mirages and rose into the still air to take away all the sound. Apart from the rattlesnake, all Jasbone could hear was the soft clump of the horse’s hooves, the leather saddle creaking to his movement, and the occasional buzz and whine of a fly that had decided to follow him.
    Jasbone kept on moving. If asked, he would not have been able to explain what it was that drove him on, but he was beginning to wish that his desire could have occurred in a different climate. Even the earth seemed to react to the challenge. The outcrops of rocks and boulders – faded yellows, reds and black – seemed as tired of the heat as he was becoming. But he had to keep going. The vision he had seen from the top of the pillar fountain was, even after such a short time, beginning to turn into a legend of memory. There was a compulsion, he felt, an inner appetite to reaffirm what his sight had told him. It was an opium hunger that grew by the moment. He had to see it up close. He laughed. He had to find out what it was. It drew him on. Every man has a quest within him.
    He was aided by the fact that his horse did not pause. Jasbone had the impression that he was riding a ghost – a big, pale-gray specter that seemed unafraid of the desert. Charlotte had informed Jasbone, before he departed, that the animal was a descendant of a group of horses especially bred for the desert journey he was taking. The ‘ghost’ could survive for some time without food or water, so would not be a drain on his own supplies. Charlotte had also ensured that the horse had been fitted out with the best combination of harness, bridle and saddle that was available. She told Jasbone that she wanted him to have a pride in what he was doing and said she knew he would appreciate the fine animal. He did. Jasbone patted its hindquarters and spoke the words that riders know their mounts take encouragement from. The animal shook its head and whinnied. Jasbone thought the animal was of a different class, even when compared to the steeds his army provided its officers. The rhythm of its gait was regular and hypnotic. The horse brushed aside dunes and stones with equal impunity – it was doing what its temporary master instructed. And that was not to stop. The animal somehow knew Jasbone was on an undertaking of enormous magnitude.
    In the late afternoon, as the sun mellowed and cooled to orange, Jasbone’s Shako fell to the ground and he left it there. As the horse continued to walk on, Jasbone looked over his shoulder and he thought some creature, perhaps one of the many scorpions he’d seen that day, would find a use for a small fur cave. He couldn’t. It made him sweat so. And he also had other thoughts on his mind. Ones concerning Charlotte.
    Jasbone Holt was of the opinion that even though he was engaged on a mission that he had to do, he hoped he would complete it quickly, so he could return to the city and pursue Charlotte. He began to picture her coming to his bed, her naked body illuminated by a few candles that lit the room. As she crossed the floor towards him, the secrets of her self would be in shadow, with only the faintest hint of what was hidden from view as she moved. Jasbone began to imagine what it would be like to lie with her. He shifted his position on his saddle and realized that he would not sleep well that night.
    He reined in the horse and decided to make camp. There was a faint inkling of an idea beginning to form in his head, one that suggested that his journey was as intertwined with his longing to make love to Charlotte as much as the iris-vine which grew around the oaks in the forest.

Second Day.

The few remaining Creosote bushes twirled their crown of spike-shaped leaves into crouching skeletons and they spread their stems in every direction, seeking to overcome the sparse opposition. And the land. They drew in the eye to their mystery. Jasbone could see praying mantis (big, bright emerald constructions that spoke of hidden strength and latent power. They moved in slow jerks in a circus laid down by their nature, ringmasters in an open cage of victims) lurking in the depths of the bushes, waiting for the small crickets to come within range. The crickets seemed to be unaware of the danger, and, even when caught in the terrible jaws they were unable to generate any sort of resistance. They were broken up and eaten with precision. And the ones that lived, rasped tunes to one another – one call, one reply. There was an echo of life in the bushes – living and dying, winning and losing, the right move, the unlucky turn.
    There was no wind.
    Only a desert zephyr that was as scant as the plants.
    Tumbleweed had long turned from the bright green, succulent shrubs of their youth, into the withered, tangled thistle balls that waited to roll on a breeze to spread the seeds of their offspring. There was something of the cemetery about them – skeletal, brittle and lovely. They had an ominous presence, an innate desire to entangle and imprison, and they threatened to infest all the land that they touched. When the zephyr breathed, the whorls of matted dead sprigs trembled and shivered. All that could be said was that they quivered in anticipation. But not from cold. The crucible that Jasbone was travelling through was hotter than anything he had expected. It was a heat that choked. Oppression in its starkest form. An open oven.
    His skin was beginning to turn red.
    Jasbone had started the day early, but now, by mid-morning, his jacket was open to the waist and he was regretting not picking up his Shako – it would have reduced the onslaught. His hair was limp and several strands had loosened themselves from his ornate ponytail hairgrip and hung down, brushing his cheeks. His chest hair was matted and itched. In all his life, Jasbone had never experienced such intensity of heat, and he considered his uniform was outstandingly ill equipped for the environment he had to endure. He thought a loose smock would be better – a concession to the idea that there are some things you can change. The horse seemed impervious to what the landscape and the sun threw at it, but Jasbone decided he needed protection. If he had that, he reasoned, he would enjoy the heat and lack of rain.
    By noon he had started to blister.
    His salvation came in the shape of a yucca plant.
    He reigned the horse in and studied the plant. He thought the leaves looked as though they could be of some use. Jasbone dismounted and crouched down beside the shrub. He cocked his head to one side and tapped his fingers on his chin. After scratching the early bristles of his beard, he reached out, pulled one of the long leaves away from the plant’s body, and then nipped one end between the fingers of both hands. He found he could pull away strips from the leaf. Half an hour later and Jasbone had constructed a crude hat. It would not win any prizes for craftsmanship, but it was functional. He thought of making one for the horse, then dismissed the idea when he remembered he had yet to see the animal express any need of water. He remounted, gave a gentle kick and proceeded on his journey. He tipped the brim of his hat towards the sun and enjoyed the cool shade it provided.
    He could now resume his thoughts concerning Charlotte once more. It seemed that every time he blinked, there would be an impression in his mind of her in his bedroom. It was late afternoon, she stood with her back to the open window – silhouetted, backlit by a burning sun. She was dressed in the same gossamer silk as the curtains and the material was just as transparent. Her head was slightly bowed and he could just discern her eyes in the shadow she cast. The look was as alluring as the city from which she came. Jasbone gave into the fantasy and closed his eyes. Several minutes passed. In that time he had re-run his desires in a gamut of various outcomes. The horse continued with its steady gait and the sounds of its movements that became part of the images within his head. Jasbone snapped open his eyes and looked around from horizon to horizon. He struggled to measure his breathing. He began to wonder if part of the improvement he was supposed to find within himself was a form of self-control. He dismissed the images from his head. The effort it took was tremendous. Jasbone Holt was an officer and the army expected him to perform his duty. There should be no distractions. He believed now, he was certain, that the mirage he had seen from the top of the pillar-fountain was what his Commanding Officer had intended for him. It was a dizzy prospect – working out the puzzle of its meaning. With his mind now on the fountain, he discovered he was unconsciously licking his lips. And then, for a crazy moment, he didn’t know if the action was due to his thoughts about the fountain, or his mental images of Charlotte.
    He pulled the rim of his makeshift hat further down. Jasbone wanted to hide in the shadows with his lusts, his love and the jigsaw that was the complexities of women and of his mission. His horse took him nearer his destination.

Third Day.

The landscape had changed. Gone were the cacti, gone were the tumbleweed, gone, even, were the scorpions and rattlesnakes. And, if anything, it was hotter. And drier. The desert was now completely arid and the geological features that made up the panorama were harsher than ever. They were extreme, brutal and stark.
    In the distance, tall, steep-sided, flat-topped hills spoke of centuries of resisting the wind, while the earth around them was swept into the oblivion that was the rest of the desert. Those were the buttes of which he had heard. The hoodoos were more individual. With each one that Jasbone saw, he found he had to reign in the horse, so he could consider them for a moment. The hoodoos had the appearance of twisted fountain-pillars of rock – bizarre, tall spires made up of shapes that had been formed by the varying rates of erosion of the rocks that made up its totality. On one, a mighty black boulder was supported by a pedestal no thicker than Jasbone’s leg; on another a series of rocks appeared as a child’s collection of stacked wooden blocks – just as haphazard, just as precarious, and just as precious. They were the sentinels of the desert – minarets to the religion of nature. But they were not what concentrated his thoughts that third afternoon.
    At the juncture of a large sediment expanse of silt, clay, sand and gravel that spread out from a narrow canyon onto the plain, and the flat, gravel strewn floor of another slim canyon with incredibly steep walls, Jasbone found himself on the bottom of a dried up river bed. Even without his prompting, the horse slowed to a halt, and Jasbone sat, thirsty and sunburnt, looking at what had once been. He stood up in the saddle, the leather creaking in protest, then slowly swung himself off the horse and placed his feet on the ground. His boots crushed the fragile gravel. The crunching sound made him wince – the silence of solitude was overwhelming and any noise louder than the horse chewing its bit caused him to jump. The horse remained motionless. As did Jasbone. He didn’t quite know what to make of what he could see.
    Many minutes passed, as he gazed around at the dead river, and he found himself staring at the evidence of its life. Not of the fish that had once swam there, nor of the water crabs that had scuttled on its bed, nor of the lilies that once graced its shallow mud banks. What he was staring at was the life that had been inherent in the movement of the river itself, those actions that were the river, the tumbling and eddies it had created as it lived. In amongst the stones and pebbles, the flowing tracks of the once great river were evident, and Jasbone was suddenly surprised to find that shudders were beginning to course through his body. He looked to his right, to his left, then down again at the ground. The tremors became worse. It was more intense than the sensations he had experienced when he’d been sent from home to join the academy. He broke down, fell to his knees and cried. As he sobbed, he picked up handfuls of dried mud in his hands and let it trickle through his fingers. He could not understand what had triggered such emotion. All he could think of, all that occupied him, was that once an immense river had spent itself along the riverbed, and was now consigned to history. It would not take many more harsh desert winds for all evidence of its life to be wiped from the desert floor. Jasbone carried on crying for a few minutes – an intense weeping lament of regret – then he attempted to regain some control. He wiped the tears from his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He sniffed one last time and shook his head. Jasbone was amazed at such a spontaneous reaction from a man as disciplined as himself, and he wondered what deep-seated idea was trying to express itself. He was stunned that an old riverbed could make him sad. And on a practical level, shed tears meant loss of fluid.
    He managed a smile at his hard-headedness.
    It was half an hour before he kicked his horse into movement. And some hours before he stopped himself from looking over his shoulder. On some other level of comprehension, he hoped he would never have to regret thinking about Charlotte in the same way. And with that thought, she remained in his head for the rest of the day – in much the same way as his thirst occupied the interests of his stomach.
    The lips of his mouth began to blister.

Ninth Day.

The dead river was a nostalgic memory - Jasbone was now a ghost himself. He was bearded, was at least thirty pounds lighter, and was terribly sunburnt. He had not eaten for five days and his water supply had finally been drained two days before. There was not much that his body could give to the heavy demands of the desert. The next step was death. But he was happy. Before him was the mirage he had seen from the top of the pillar-fountain. It was the end of the trail. Jasbone dismounted.
    He realized that he had always known what he would find, but the significance of the discovery was only apparent now that he stood before it. Jasbone turned to the horse and, with stiff fingers and slow movements, began removing the saddle, bridle and harness. When he had finished he croaked a whisper of thanks in the horse’s ear, slapped its hindquarters and let it run free. Jasbone believed it had earned the right. Then he turned back and stared out at his mirage. It was a large fresh-water sea. He went and stood at its edge.
    Where there is water, there is life. Plants grew in profusion on the bank and Jasbone could hear the welcome sounds of animals and birds going about their business in the undergrowth of shrubs and small trees. They thrived. And amongst their number flew numerous white hummingbirds. The miniature birds buzzed and sang. And, once again, the song they sung was a repetition of the most beautiful song Jasbone had ever heard – a tune that warbled and clicked in their throats like a morning starling’s, that had the piercing sweetness of a song thrush on a summer’s afternoon and which held the harmony of a nightingale at midnight. The song they sang, ran and flowed, rose and dipped; the upper notes the perfect gleam of magic. Mixed with the hum and rhythmic buzz of their wings, it sounded to Jasbone as if angels had been ordained to appear on earth and to bring quietness to his soul with the music that God played on his lyre. Just as he had heard it before in the market. It was the reward of all those who seek water in the desert, all those who strive to find light out of darkness, all those who fight for a belief that is patently right. Finding water in a desert is as prudent as cutting a cancer from a body, as necessary as stopping tyrants from imposing their will. Jasbone broke the spell of the white hummingbirds and looked out at the giant lake.
    And as far as he could see into the distance, the surface of the water in front of him was still. The life that existed there was hidden below the surface, but it was there, albeit hidden from his view – a perfect disguise – and it was the reverse of the city. Life in the city was all bustle and action on the surface, and you had to seek out its depths for comfort and take the risk that all you would find is solid ground. Here it was the surface that was transparent – the life moved below it. Indeed, as Jasbone had realized the moment he saw the sea, the water itself was life. He bent down and scooped some life to his mouth. Jasbone was grateful to ease his thirst.
    As he continued to drink, Jasbone was also aware of the other significance of what he had found. He had acquired an answer to a Need, a release from a Burden he had never been aware that he had had; it was also the identity of what he would have to Chase. Admittedly she was back in the city, but Jasbone knew he would soon return to his love. Because that was what the water also represented: love. And Charlotte was the water he needed to sustain him throughout his life. She also represented his Need. This was what he had come to learn. That was the song that the white hummingbird sang.
    And this was what the senior officers in his country’s army traveled so far to gain knowledge of. This was the reason for the success of the army. To stand up and fight for those things that you believe are important, you have to have compassion and love. A simple statement, but true. If those qualities are not in the back of your mind when you perform the duties asked of you by your country, you are nothing less than a barbarian – someone that believes fighting solves all problems, whereas it should be a last resort. That belief provides an inner power, it nurtures a resolve that is a rod of the hardest metal within a person’s soul. And the sea that Jasbone drank from represented this. This was what Charlotte’s city worshipped – the song that is heard when the white humming bird sings.
    Jasbone reached down for more of the water.
    It tasted good.