Mysteriad

Because he was both Creator and Corruptor of the Visible World within, Basil was also Chief Protagonist required to play to the utmost whatever parts the Mysteries assigned to him. And so, having tracked the magnificent but deadly Carna undetected to the environs of her forbidden castle, he was compelled by his role to pursue her even further—into her secret lair in the catacombs beneath her decaying citadel. 

Accordingly, as Carna descended into the earth by way of an unlit corridor, Basil followed. Keeping well back of his quarry lest she sense his presence even in these ebon depths, he maintained a tenuous contact with her by following the tapping of her high-heeled slippers and the whisper of her silken gown as she made her way through the damp passage which grew increasingly cold as it descended. Suddenly the guiding sounds ceased. Basil halted. 

He pressed himself against a stone wall at his back. The silence swelled to massive proportions. His nostrils filled with the odor of earth, of graves, of bones. Why had Carna stopped? Had she reached her destination? Had she discovered his pursuit? 

He wrapped his wolf-fur cloak tighter against the chill and waited. Nerves taut, he strained to hear any rustle of danger in the darkness but there was only the beat of his own blood in his ears and—beyond that—the rush of water somewhere. He did not dare to move. 

By degrees his ability to measure time diminished. How long had he been holding himself rigid in this blackness? Minutes? Hours? Months? Time bent and swayed in the Mysteries. Where was Carna? 

A vision of her invaded his mind. His interior eye pictured her as an owl-woman, a ferocious creature capable of seizing him in the dark as if he was no more than a terrified mouse. And who was to say that, in this Mystery, he was not? He shivered at the image. Was that the murmuring of her gown he heard nearby? Or perhaps the whoosh of owl wings? To calm himself he took a deep breath of the stale air. 

A light flared. A match. It gave but little illumination. 

From his place in the shadows beyond the scanty light, Basil beheld the face of Carna revealed by the feeble flame she held in her hand. It was the first time he had looked upon her in decades—perhaps centuries as the mysteries counted time. Basil’s eyes absorbed the perfection of Carna’s profile, the curve of her neck, the brow white as marble, the carmine lips, the jade-green eyes, the scarlet hair. Her countenance, he saw, was as cruel as ever. 

As he observed her, however, he was filled with the consciousness of loss—for, despite her pitiless aspect, as disclosed by the light Basil could not help but remember Carna as the sweet being he had created in the early days of his visible world, the delicate girl who used to sleep in his arms—until she betrayed him with another. Carna touched her match to a lamp fastened on the wall. A stronger flame bloomed, creating a dome of luminescence within the surrounding darkness. 

Basil moved further back until he was again beyond the reach of the light. He looked about him and saw that he was in a vaulted dungeon. He also saw that Carna was garbed in a shimmer of forest green silk. She was staring away from him, transfixed by some object across the chamber. He followed her gaze. He gasped with astonishment. A naked woman hung chained to the wall opposite. Iron rings, fastened about the woman’s neck, wrists, and ankles, clamped her, spread-eagled, to the stones of the wall. Her head was inclined forward, causing her lion-colored hair to fall over her face like a veil. Her body, sleek with sweat in spite of the dungeon’s moist chill, gleamed in the glow from the lamp. 

As if roused by that glow, the captive began to struggle against her fetters. Her muscles surged under her skin. Her breasts quivered with the effort. Her hair swayed as, heedless of the brutal collar encircling her throat, she thrashed her head from side to side. 

Soon she collapsed once more in her chains. Her head lolled back against the stone. Her hair spilled from her face. Basil saw that her eyes were closed, her dry lips parted. He gazed intently at her. Was this bound woman Noma, the magical being he had been seeking to recapture since she had fled the corruption of his cosmos, she who held the key to all existence? Had Carna and her lover, the traitorous Vijeelis, finally snared Noma whose capture was also their objective? Or was this chained woman a decoy within this Mystery, displayed here to lure him into a trap? 

Tempered by ages of frustration and failure, Basil made a cautious examination of the prisoner from afar. Yes, the woman was silent and beautiful—as was Noma. But Noma in anguish? How could Noma feel pain, she who knew what no other knew: not only the purpose of the Mysteries, but also the reality that they disguised? How could Noma be reduced to the helplessness of the bound woman? Only Noma knew the Word that could put an end to the Mysteries and return all the visible creation to the Void. No, Basil concluded, this agonized woman could not be Noma. 

But what if she was, despite all evidence to the contrary? What if in this Mystery Carna and Vijeelis had contrived some means to gain power over Basil’s enchantress? What if they had stumbled upon some way to compel Noma to disgorge her knowledge to them? Was it possible? If so, then the Mysteries would end with Basil’s defeat. He flushed with fury at the prospect. Noma had to be his alone. Had he not chased her over abstract space, in dreams, in rituals, masques, and games? And why had he done this? Because he knew that only by re-merging with Noma would he be able to retrieve from her those lost first syllables he had spoken in the Beginning and must now speak again, unsaying that word. Only in this way could he return his misbegotten Creation to the original black-void-silence. No, no, Basil had no option but to capture Noma for himself. 

Thus, despite his near-certainty that the chained woman was not the Noma he had made and sought, he decided that in this Mystery at least he had to proceed as if she was. He had to steal the bound woman away from her captors. But how? The circumstances of this particular Mystery suggested no clear course of action. Prudence dictated that he wait and observe, and prepare to act swiftly when the opportunity presented itself. 

Suddenly Carna addressed her pinioned prisoner. “You are Noma, are you not?” 

It was the first time Basil had heard that crystalline voice in an age. He shuddered at the painful memories it evoked. The captive woman, however, hung mute—as if she had heard nothing. 

Once again Carna spoke to her prisoner. “To capture you, Elusive One, Vijeelis and I became lovers. In pursuit of you we invented science, crafted language, and devised numbers. Say that we have succeeded. Say that you are Noma.” 

Still the woman hung in silence. 

Carna persisted. “You are supposed to know all the secrets of Basil’s universe. Speak then, Noma. What is the meaning of the Mysteries?” 

She stared at the prisoner, as if anticipating a response. But none came. “Noma, it was for your sake that Vijeelis and I have undergone so many mutations and have played at so many games that we can no longer distinguish our masks from our faces. Pity us, Noma. Tell us the intent of the Creation.” Again Carna seemed to wait for a reply. 

Basil began to feel an incongruous sympathy for her. Like him, in hunting Noma through the Mysteries, Carna had endured calamity, peril, and bitterness. Like him, she had fought off disappointment, and...