The Chapel of the Sword

It is said that deep in the deserts of Halima there lies a temple, so great and magnificent that all who see it are struck dumb by its splendour. In the morning light, when the world is rosy and pink in the first flushes of day, the temple is lit by the reborn sun and shines like a beacon. 1

Legend tells that only in this golden hour of dawn may a weary traveller find the door of the temple. It is said that a guide in feline form will appear before those wishing to seek entry to the temple and will lead them through the mountainous dunes, up the thousand stairs and in through the great door carved in stone by warriors of long ago.2

Here our traveller will see the walls hung with fading tapestries, the rich carvings depicting victories and defeats, but he will be blind to it all once he sees the wooden door with the crimson stone set in its centre. He will undoubtedly walk as one who is spellbound and push open the door. Beyond the door he will see the chapel, walk across the worn flagstones and kneel before the altar. His hands will raise in supplication towards the sword that hangs above him. This sword is a heavenly and mysterious gift from the gods. It surpasses all others in the world, indeed there are no others like it. Bathed in the sunlight that pours in through the single window it seems ethereal. 3

Wrought by the hands of the gods, its blade is razor sharp, covered with symbols and signs in a language unlike anything seen in this world. It revolves slowly in the dawn light, singing gently. The light will catch on the three ruby gemstones set in the golden hilt of the sword and our traveller will be blinded momentarily. As in a vision he will reach for the sword and if his heart is pure, then his fingers will wrap around the hilt that feels as if it was made for his very hand. He will take the sword and a power will surge through him such as he has never felt. He will be filled with all the knowledge in the world. As long as he wields the sword, he will be the undefeated, the immortal one and ageless.4

If he is lucky.5

If he is unlucky, his hand will wither as it touches the sword, his heart will feel as if it is being crushed by a giant fist, his blood will thunder through his veins and he will crumble slowly into dust, scattered to the floor of the chapel and forgotten for the rest of time.6

The sword will gleam in the light and sit silently, waiting for the next warrior and the next, until it finds the one whose hand it was made to fit. The dawn light will fade into the glory of a new day and a feline form will curl up on the warm rose coloured stone to await the next warrior.7

This is our legend. Many have sought the Sword of Wisdom and Power, few have found it and of those who have, no-one has ever managed to take it for his own and live to tell their tale.8

Until now. Now things are different. The world is aging, the trees that grow in the temple courtyard are wasting away, the bark shrivelled, the flowers wilted. The sun struggles in its journey where once it slid easily from Mother Nature’s arms. The dawn is coming, but it is weak. The sun’s rays as they shine on Halima are the red rays of a star in old age. Where once the dunes were soft as silk, golden and flowing like waves on the seashore, now they too are diminished, the grains of sand fewer and harsher. The ground is no longer a soft sinking caress, but hardened and cracked like the skin of an old woman’s hands. All the animals have long since died except the feline guardian. He still stalks the temple walls, older now and greyer. It has been many years since he has been required to guide the hopeful. He spends much of his time in slumber, tamed and pliant.9

Now, though, his ears prick up, his yellow eyes seem to shine with ruby light just for a moment. He lifts his head and sniffs the wind. Someone is coming. 10

The dawn rays drench the world in blood and the guide trots to meet this new warrior. His gait slows to a nonchalant saunter with a hint of a haughty strut in his thin legs and low slung belly. His tail swishes to and fro as he nears his quarry.11

But the dying sun and diminished sand hills are not the only things to have changed. This warrior is not man, but a sleek, bright-eyed woman, shining in that ghostly place like an angel. She smiles at the guide and reaches down a hand to commit the ultimate sacrilege: she pats him on the head.12

Stunned, the guide can only look at the tanned woman, wearing a long white robe that should have been unsuitable for the desert. Her long dark hair is covered in part by a red scarf which is wrapped around head and shoulders. Curls of brown and auburn escape and hang down her back. She wears a ring on her finger set with a ruby stone. Her green eyes flash with determination and grit. She does not approach the holy place as a pilgrimage, but rather as a quest, a duty that must be accomplished at all costs.13

The guide cannot disobey the rules. He must lead this woman into the temple and watch as she is destroyed in front of him. Heavy of heart, he turns away and his pace is slow now. Each paw thudding with resignation as it hits the parched earth. The woman keeps up with him easily; she climbs the thousand steps barely even pausing to draw breath. 14

At the door they halt and he is painfully aware of the awe she feels as they enter the sacred place. His job is done now. There is no need to show her the door. They always find it on their own, drawn to it. She is different; she does not seem to even notice the door. She is too busy walking here and there, staring at the tapestries and touching the carvings.15

As he watches, the guide realises that she approaches each thing with reverence and above all, love. This warrior seems to belong here. Her hands drift over everything as if she is soothing it, exploring it and communing with it. Finally, she makes her way to the chapel door, her hands brush away the thin coating of dust, lingering over the ruby stone and her head is bowed. The guide knows then that she is aware of what her fate may be, but resigned nonetheless. Die she may, but she will not shirk her duty in the doing of it.16

The door creaks like a dying man when she opens it and even though the guide is not allowed to enter the Chapel of Deliverance, he pads in quietly behind the woman. She is kneeling before the altar stone as so many have done before her, but her hands are not lifted in entreaty. She tears away her head covering so that the curls ripple down her back. Her bow and arrow are laid aside. She lifts her head. There are tears on her cheeks, but her face is stubborn, almost angry. 17

She is on her feet. Her hand stretches forward at the same moment that blood-red rays spill through the arched window, drenching the stones, the woman and the sword in crimson. The light seems to ignite the ruby in the woman’s ring. Her fingers curl around the hilt, there is a flash of fire and the sword sings a long high note.18

The world to seems to shake, the guide is thrown clear of the chapel and there is a thunderous roar. The sky splits in two, the earth is scorched and then all fades, the light with it. A gleaming, shining beauty is held aloft, so bright that the guide cannot even bear to look at it. 19

Pearlescent light fills the world. The sun has risen, reborn to youth and beauty. The dunes outside are revived and flowers are blooming once again on the tree in the courtyard. The world is a sea of yellow, pink and blue.20

The warrior stands alone in the chapel, a radiant halo of light fading away. The guide gets to his feet and stares in amazement at himself. Black fur has disappeared leaving new pink skin; he has hands and feet instead of paws. He has been unlocked from his prison and is made man again.21

In humble thanks, he kneels before his queen as all about him the world is renewed and reborn.22