Spiral Corridors

There were an infinite number of hallways and doors. The elemental wave of being he had become considered each one. All led back to a point that was himself, a puzzle with no solution. Tygra found the repetition depressing until scent invaded the formless space of his existence, and promised a way out of the maze.

He had solidity once more, but discovered something crucial missing from within himself. Finally, when he registered the eternal pulse of Talitha, the other half of his soul, he knew that he would live.

With that promise returned, he could afford the consideration of his surroundings. The architect found himself sitting on a wide bed. He was in a room, comfortably perfumed with spices, and illuminated softly with candles. The appointments were sparse. Small, exotic touches, such as a fold of drapery or a sinuous statue, hinted at feminine tastes.

The analytical part of his brain commenced operation. He remembered watching Talitha from the window of Tir'shan's borrowed spacecraft. Gathered with the others in the courtyard of Cats' Lair, she alone had raised her hand in sad farewell as her mind touched his with love. His fellow mystic had begun the launch sequence that would take them instantaneously through space to the world of the orri'savi, the Four-Forms, where the others of their kind had found refuge.

Try as he might, Tygra could not recall the journey. The image of his mate had faded immediately into conscious blackness. The doors and hallways had plagued him after that until his other senses had given him back to reality.

"But what is reality? Where in the seven hells am I!" Tygra demanded. "And my clothes--"

"Are presently being cleaned. Otherwise, you are enjoying my hospitality, Tygra," a masculine voice chimed.

The architect gathered the bedclothes about his nude frame. A figure rose from a chair partly concealed by the shadows and what he now discerned to be a bookcase. A Felinari'i of the white tiger clan, clad in the blue robes of a mystic, entered into the circle of light. He shook his head in mild rebuke. "Tir'shan said you were excitable." He raised his hands, and faced his palms outward. "No one will hurt you in the home of Mrísena." The mirth that played on his lips added to the light in the room. "I am glad that I did not have to subdue you."

He seemed close to his own age. However, like many of the white race of tigers, the male was taller than he, and more powerfully built. He could have easily knocked him down, and sat upon him. "I am glad I did not give you cause...."

"Shaktar'ri. From Blue Mountain clan," the mystic added sheepishly, apparently unsure of the level of formality needed in the presence of a Thunderan lord.

Tygra nodded graciously. He indicated a figure of a temple dancer. "I would have hated to have broken such a fine piece. You have an eye for ceramics."

The mystic beamed. "My mate Sri'rin is the patron of the arts and finery. He would have me don drapery if I gave him the opportunity."

"O'ril?" Tygra blurted, before he bit his lip in embarrassment. "Forgive me," he managed to squeak, while wishing he could just disappear into the layered fabrics that decorated the apartment.

"No offense taken," Shaktar'ri remarked with good nature. "Male mystics are rare. That a pair should be o'ril might be expected. I will attribute your comment to your sheltered upbringing as a lord of your clan." The last remark had the sting of sarcasm, but the flippant delivery suggested that very little offended Shaktar'ri. The mystic pointed to the chest at the foot of the bed. "You will find something suitable to wear in there." He headed for the shadows once more. "You appear well enough now. I will return shortly for you. Be quick to dress. I must take you to Te'sara."

*****

The middle-aged tigress sat in stony silence. She had seen too much suffering. Of that, Tygra was certain, yet it was difficult for him to conceal his joy at meeting his mother's twin, a untapped connection to his past. Tir'shan had revealed that she had attended his birth. They had met so long ago, at a time when he would not keep the memory of the day.

Te'sara had not Servalla's beauty. Her face was made to favor strength, and the raw courage of a warrior. Those qualities would never fade. Standing before his aunt, he bowed with respect, and hoped that she would soon see fit to speak.

As a queen holding court, the edge of her long blue sleeves brushed the arms of the wooden chair upon which she sat, the only furniture in the small circular chamber that was her room of audience. "You are made in your father's image," Te'sara finally remarked. "Except for the eyes. In those I see my sister." She nodded toward the mystic at her left. "Tir'shan has explained that the discrepancies of time in our respective journeys from Thundera makes you actually now younger than him; yet the difficulties you have endured have rewarded you with the ruff given to someone in middle life."

With Tir'shan standing at her left and Shaktar'ri to her right, Tygra wondered if his aunt would always keep a barrier between them.

"There is much you need to do and learn, Tygra," she added. "Too much for one afternoon." She indicated Shaktar'ri. "You will never leave the temple unless in his presence."

The architect wished to protest, but with difficulty, kept his thoughts unvoiced. He folded his hands, and bowed in acceptance.

"Very good," she commented, the relief in her tone evident. She rewarded him with a brief explanation. "Your Uncle Trel has not changed since the day he helped to cast you from your clan after your father's demise. I fear for your safety. And while I know that you are quite capable of defending yourself, Trel will not be so bold as to attack several mystics at once.

"The Blue Mountain clan has often fended off attacks from the rebels allied with King Sartren. Shaktar'ri's people bowed to the will of the Goddess, as he was mystic born, but they also sent us one who was trained to wield mace or staff with deadly precision. No one can match him."

"Te'sara is too generous in her claim," Shaktar'ri stated, amending her words.

"Do not feel ill at ease, Tygra," Tir'shan added. "He is my watcher too. Apparently those of Sartren's people that remain wish to make of me a sacrifice."

"As long as we remain on this world, Lir has promised that they all will be put to the sword if they try," Te'sara snarled. "And do not forget the warning sent by Ba'sir."

"The merchant?" Tygra asked incredulously, trying to make sense of an abundance of information arriving too swiftly.

The laughter that erupted from the other three iced his blood.

"I see nothing amusing--"

"Messenger from the king!" a disembodied voice shouted. The ringing announcement through the door quieted the strange mirth exhibited by the others.

Te'sara gestured, and Shaktar'ri left the chamber. He returned swiftly, and passed the scroll to Tygra's aunt. Her face displayed little as she read. When she finished she turned to Tir'shan, and remarked, "How fares my nephew?"

"Anxious, and lacking of appetite, but otherwise unscathed. His unexpected reaction to the space crossing we have attributed to his unusual connection with Talitha."

Te'sara's frown hinted at her disapproval of that connection. Tygra began to form a reproach, but before he could deliver it, Te'sara stated, "King Lir is not ready to meet with you. Ba'sir must return. Seems our merchant has taken a...respite. The king waits, as the asira'savi have commanded, and so we also wait."

Shaktar'ri suddenly commented, "May I then suggest that Tygra would benefit from a walk in the city. We could stay for the evening at the mystic annex there. The choices of food are also varied. And if the king needs us...."

Despite the danger posed by Tygra's unbalanced uncle, Te'sara readily agreed. "He is your responsibility, Shaktar'ri. Keep him out of harm."

The tone was mildly insulting, and not what he had envisioned of his aunt. Perhaps the problem of perception, however, rested with him. She required her own time to forge a connection with him, and what he represented of the past.

Although he had many unanswered questions, Tygra remained silent, as others made the decisions for him. I could use the break, he decided in an unlikely thought.

Following Shaktar'ri he departed the chamber. Te'sara and Tir'shan had already fallen into a discussion of temple matters. Despite his formidable companion, Tygra felt alone once more.

*****

The architect drew the hood of his cloak closer to his face, imagining that all watched him. Too many emotions made him uneasy. Silently cursing, Tygra wished he could invisibly stroll along the cobblestone streets. Yet to his growing surprise, none took note of him. The sun shone, and Felinari moved about their afternoon business, light and time being in synchrony during at least part of planet's 48 hour day.

"Hungry yet, my lord?" Shaktar'ri asked the question with both concern and innocence.

"No."

The response frustrated his companion. "Then, do you have any other needs, my lord?" Shaktar'ri implored.

The answer came to him as a thunderbolt in a storm. "Yes. I wish to see Casaphi the weaver."

"Talitha's father?"

"Is there any other with such an unusual name," Tygra snapped.

Shaktar'ri sighed, obviously annoyed with the tension between them. He gestured to a side street. "His shop is tucked back from the main merchant lanes, in deference to the needs of his daughter."

"Surati," Tygra said. What little Talitha had told him of her sister, she had revealed with reluctance. Her mother had conceived Surati unexpectedly in middle life. He had assumed that the youngster had suffered a birth defect as a result.

"Although only nine, she is a master of weaving. Her work is sought by all," the mystic added.

"And this despite...." Tygra hinted, fishing for information.

Shaktar'ri halted, a puzzle look on his face. He fingered his staff. "You will have to see," he remarked plainly.

*****

Casaphi's house sat at the end of a stone lane. The terztar trees, a gift of the powerful asira'savi, formed a beautiful canopy of purple leaves. Chimes hung on the lower branches whispered in the cool breeze. The muffled workings of a loom added a pleasing, rhythmic harmony.

Approaching the two story cottage, Shaktar'ri asked Tygra politely, "Will you ring the welcome bell, or shall I?"

The architect placed his left hand over his heart revealing that he would perform the task. He reached for the cord that hung by the door, and pulled it twice to sound the bell.

"Yes, yes, I am coming. Be patient," a deep voice rumbled from within the dwelling.

At least two people were in the house, Tygra thought, for whoever worked the loom continued without interruption, while someone else stomped toward the door.

The white tiger who finally greeted them was as tall as Shaktar'ri, and possessed a full, white ruff. Despite the cool weather, he wore only an azure o'ba'ti. What sunlight made it past the trees glinted off the silver band that encircled his right arm, and the tiny series of gold rings that pierced hisears, nose and nipples. His long mane was unbound, an unruly cloud of white, brown and silver hairs streaked with bolts of umber. His piercing blue-grey eyes added the finishing touch to the impression that he was a storm god who had descended from the sky to wreck havoc on the populace. He smiled, and Tygra could not help but stare at his gold capped incisors. "And what do we seek today, Shaktar'ri?" the storm god inquired. He quickly added with amusement, "And who is your hooded friend? Is he so ugly that he must hide his countenance?"

The retort stung, and Tygra threw back his hood. The reaction from the older Felinari'i was unexpected. Casaphi dropped to his knees, and bowed his head in submission. "My lord Siberan have you truly come back from the Silence?" he gasped.

Tygra's anger transformed into melancholy. "You knew my father?" he asked the weaver.

Casaphi slowly sat back on his knees, studying Tygra intently. "The son who was wrongfully sent to the palace," he said softly. "So very similar to your father, but you are shorter, and have not your father's eyes." A puzzled look crossed his face. "How did you reach middle life so quickly?" he added pointing to the partial ruff that rimmed Tygra's jaw.

The architect offered his hand, but Casaphi waved it away with insistence as he gracefully rose to his feet. Shaktar'ri declared, "This one is only 32 seasons old, but Tir'shan has told me that he has endured difficulties on the new world that would age anyone."

Casaphi took a deep breath. "Do we really wish to go to this new place, if it is so dangerous." He rubbed his arms, the chill finally making him uncomfortable. The weaver suddenly clapped his hands once. "Son of Siberan, you must tell us of this planet that we are to call home." He gestured to the threshold. "Be welcome, young lord."

"Only if you simply address me as 'Tygra'."

"Not one for tradition?" Casaphi teased. "Well then, you have earned a mark in your favor."

What mark will he give me when I tell him of Talitha, Tygra wondered with a degree of worry that was equally reflected in Shaktar'ri's eyes.

*****

The spicy aroma of dried herbs dangling from the rafters made a heady mix for the senses. Casaphi pulled a few leaves, and placed them in 3 stoneware cups. He beckoned for his guests to sit on the curiously crafted chairs placed by a round table. He added hot water to the cups from a kettle which had hung over the coals in the fireplace, then carried the tea to his guests on a tray woven of reeds.

Tygra eased himself onto a chair that looked as if it might have grown through the stone floor. Although its legs and arms appeared to be made only of woody vines, it held him without complaint.

"Let the mixture steep and cool for a little time. Then I will guarantee that you will not have tasted a finer tea," the weaver stated as he settled on the largest chair. He folded his hands, then smiled. "I can recall as if it were only yesterday my meeting with your father. We were both young then. He helped me that day, but he also learned that no good act goes without punishment." He dismissed the memory with a shake of his shaggy head. "That tale shall wait for another time, my young lord. It deserves the full virtue of the storyteller's art."

"That bad," Shaktar'ri added with mirth.

"Truly," Casaphi answered before dissolving into laughter. "How he ever explained to his elders...well, never mind. The truth is that I have never related the story before. But this one, who wears his father's face, has driven me into memory's garden, to a place and time long forgotten." He gazed somberly upon the architect. "Tygra has much to tell me, Shaktar'ri," he said. He pointed to the door. "Outside. Please, for a while."

"As you wish, weaver, but I shall be near. If Trel were to extend his hand here, Te'sara would give me as sacrifice to the war god," the mystic answered.

Have I no say, Tygra thought, but respect for an elder held his tongue yet again. After Shaktar'ri departed, he reluctantly returned Casaphi's stare.

The weaver offered his hands with his palms turned up. Tygra did not demand the explanation that was his due. Guessing, he placed his palms on top of those of his elder. Casaphi locked his grasp, and threw Tygra into the Void.

Ultimate nothingness gave way to a sea of stars. He had become a constellation of fiery blue. In the middle of eternity waited silver Casaphi. His love, a violet, fatherly stream, flowed outward, and began to fill the empty places hidden deep within Tygra's being until it brought forth golden Talitha. She joined her hands to both males, who closed the circle instinctively. Every atom rejoiced. Darkness and stars gave way to a blinding white light.

The radiance fractured into colors, then shapes. How much time had elapsed eluded Tygra, but he was glad that he had returned to his starting point. He was unsure of when he first became aware of Casaphi, who lay unconscious across the table, and the youngster, who gently shook his shoulder.

The sounds of the loom had vanished. "Surati?" Tygra asked, astonished by the fact that he had a voice.

The petite female calmly faced him. The little one would never be named beautiful. The shortness of her mane accentuated her ugliness. Her eyes, a pale violet, were spaced too far apart; her nose was but a tiny blob, almost an afterthought of her creation. Her bony body seemed overwhelmed by her long tan tunic.

Surati touched his left hand. Whether she sought comfort or assurance, the architect did not know. "Surati," Casaphi whispered in words that formed a rasping stream. He slowly pulled himself up from the table's surface. "Have no fear, s'vi Tygra," he added, leaning back on his chair.

The term carried affection and weight. The weaver had honored him as a son connected to his daughter. Warmth crept into Tygra's face. What had happened between them was real. What knowledge the empathic Casaphi had gleaned remained a mystery.

The youngster smiled, and Tygra marveled at the one perfection the gods had allowed her countenance. Her father leaned over, and spoke softly into her ear. She nodded, and quietly slipped back into a side room. The loom rustled once more.

"Can you stand," the weaver inquired unexpectedly.

Tygra rose to demonstrate that he could.

"Good. Then you best be on your way."

"But--"

"Another day, young lord. You have earned your reward," he replied weakly. "My Talitha lives. Let me spend some time alone with that joy." The weaver took a deep breath, then shouted. "Shaktar'ri! Time to get this youngster some nourishment. Take him to my favorite tavern."

Best to let this encounter end, Tygra decided with growing affection. I have a lifetime to know him.

Taking his leave the tiger wondered just how odd an establishment recommended by Casaphi would be.