The Empty Mirror
Chapter 77: Chronos
The scent of aged wood and damp earth seized my senses, enveloping me in a halo of bygone eras. The sun's rays, filtering through the leaded glass windows, traced golden arabesques upon the walls of weathered stone, infusing a sense of warmth and tranquility. My footsteps on the stone stairs echoed in the morning stillness, as if the very walls whispered secrets of yore. The creaking floor beneath my feet bore witness to the long history of this place, while the whisper of awakening life seeped from the adjacent chambers. I continued my path to the ground floor of the inn, guided by the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread and freshly brewed coffee, urging me to proceed with renewed vigour. The comforting sound of crackling firewood caressed my ears, and the murmur of nascent conversations began to come alive, heralding the dawn of a new day in this sanctuary. Delicately, the white linen curtains swayed at the windows, and the birdsong intertwined with the bustle of merchants arranging their wares for the day ahead.
"Hey, Giselle, come over here, I have something to tell you! I've gathered almost the entire sum I owe you, but... it doesn't cover the full amount. How about I pay the rest with breakfast to settle the bill? As you know, accommodation is covered up to today, but without a morning meal, nobody is ready to start the day," uttered a notably hefty man, whose mustache unfortunately drooped, wearing a linen shirt and baggy trousers that, despite his size, were too large for him. I stood dumbfounded, glancing around the room, as astonished by the place I found myself in as by the man's words, and even more so by his knowledge of my name. Trembling, I made my way to the inn's bar where patrons usually satisfy their hunger, and cautiously replied, "So be it" - with a firm yet lacklustre voice, entering into his game while hoping he wouldn't show hostility or surprise me with some disturbing revelation, although deep down, I had no doubt that I was the only Giselle present.
"First and foremost, here lies the reward for your deed with that rogue," pronounced the considerably built man, whose countenance betrayed a veiled wariness in my presence. Upon the bar, he placed a cloth bag, its weight indicating its metallic contents. With a trembling yet steady hand, I undid the knot sealing it, and upon peering inside, I discovered several silver coins, each marked with the emblem of an unknown creature. Unsure of how to proceed, I examined each piece one by one, while the man, swallowing nervously, assured, "Fear not, it's legitimate currency..." revealing his fear of being branded a swindler. I closed the bag and stowed it in my knapsack, not fully comprehending what had transpired, but deciding to act in accordance with what that man presumed of me. Nodding, he brought forth a clay plate with a still-warm loaf of bread, spread with fresh butter and golden honey. Alongside it, a generous portion of smoked goat cheese, thinly sliced. For drink, a clay mug with warm milk, as if just milked. Could it be possible, after so long, to taste a true repast? With eagerness, I surrendered to the feast, yet the dilemma persisted: my mind clamoured for sustenance, yet my body did not require it. Nonetheless, I devoured each bite with barely contained desperation.
"Shall we then, be at peace, yes?" inquired the notably hefty man, still in my proximity. With a succinct "Yes" I replied, and I stood to gaze once more upon the surroundings. The man seemed to await a verbosity that did not come, for I was rendered mute, unaware of my own presence in that place, of the dealings with that man, of the payment in coins and of the breakfast. Yet I feigned tacit agreement. As he uttered my name, his voice faltered, as if Giselle were a foreign and convoluted term. The inn's hall, the heart of the lodging, unfolded in a spacious expanse with lofty ceilings, supported by beams of dark wood. The stone walls lent solidity and authenticity to the environment, and the torches, arranged with skill, cast a dim yet warm light in the potential coming night. The furniture, of austere yet sturdy simplicity, consisted of tables and benches weathered by time, and a bar that evoked taverns of yore. Earthenware plates and cups lined sturdy wooden shelves, awaiting to satisfy the guests' appetites. I observed, expectant, the comings and goings of the servants and guests, a multitude I had not witnessed before. Suddenly, a suffocation seized me and the clarity of my vision turned to mist, urging me to leave the inn.
From its threshold, the inn stands as an oasis of hospitality amidst swaying hills and fields of intense green. Its facade of solid, ancient stone rises defiantly against the azure sky, and its roof of dark tiles lends a halo of warmth to its countenance. The main sign, carved in wood with intricately designed letters in a language unfamiliar to me, whispers elegance and tradition. Adjacent to the building lies a cobbled courtyard, where travellers and adventurers rest under the protective shade of ancient trees. Alongside the courtyard, the stable stands as a sanctuary for the worthy steeds of visitors. The scent of fresh hay and the gentle neighing of the horses permeate the air, and the stable boys attend to the beasts with diligence and affection.
An additional sign, near the stable, proclaims the services of horse rental and trading, inviting wanderers to discover the paths and trails that intertwine through the surrounding picturesque landscapes. This equestrian corner instils a spirit of adventure and anticipation in the inn, calling out to those who yearn for experiences beyond the tranquillity of home. Drawn to the horses, like one who professes love for the cavalry, I approached, perhaps to fulfil what I once told Esme, Hilda, and Dougal about being a wanderer. A slender man, with a bushy beard, approached and inquired, "Are you looking to rent a horse?" To which I replied, "How much?" He responded, "It will depend on how long you need it and the destination you are heading to. If you wish, you can also buy one, and we have saddles and more, if you're interested." I remained silent and, with a succinct "No, thank you," I retreated, embarrassed. For despite my fondness for the cavalry, I had never ridden a steed nor knew if it would be wise to rent or purchase one, fearing the exorbitant cost and still not understanding the currency of this place.
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I waited for a moment in the vicinity of the inn, engulfed in uncertainty, in a place that was unfamiliar and mysterious to me. My mind wandered among memories of Ace of Wands, Hunger on Trial, Two of Wands, Hanging Gardens, the Marquess, the tarot, poison, the circus, the bull show, the man in the castle, the cabin in the woods, the castle itself, the mirror... Confusion and fear seized me, evoking the image of three divine heads in one man, tormented by ceaseless madness. Amidst such reflection, a rider emerged from the stable and passed by me. With urgency, I addressed him: "Sir, could you please direct me to Mummy Bridge?" The man, whose face bore the marks of time, fell silent before responding: "Mummy Bridge, you say? It's a place of great legends and dangers." And he continued: "Hehe, I see that risks do not deter you. I will tell you that this place holds many mysteries of the ancestors of this village. It is rumoured that the corpses of the ancestors rest there, mummified in the forest, and that the bridge is a reliquary for their souls. But today, it is nothing more than a legend of yore."
Unperturbed, I asked: "How can I get there?" To which he replied: "I have indulged too much. To get there, head to the edge of the village, take a right from this inn, and when you reach the forest, proceed straight ahead. There you will find it, but be cautious, hehe, even the locals fear it, there may be wolves." I expressed my gratitude: "Thank you." He, smiling, retorted: "I am an elder whose knowledge is needed. What if you were to gift me a coin? In return, I will tell you more about the legend of Mummy Bridge and, if you prove pleasing, I will offer you something to aid you on your journey." Agreeing, I tossed a coin to the man, who caught it with determination and greed, despite possessing a horse and the means to not beg.
"In the heart of the ancient forest that embraces the serenity of the village, stands Mummy Bridge, shrouded in the veil of mystery and legend. The ancestral tradition, passed down from generation to generation, venerates the village's progenitors as founding grandparents, whose mummified remains rest in the sacred confines of the forest. Over the course of lunar cycles, descendants began to witness strange events and apparitions on full moon nights. It was rumored that the spirits of the ancestors roamed the village, longing for a path to new lands to attain eternal peace. Moved by the desire to free their forebears and safeguard the community from fear and unrest, the villagers united in a colossal endeavour. In the moonlight, with the lament of the ancients resonating in the ether, they erected a majestic bridge over the river winding through the forest. Mummy Bridge, as it was named, was consecrated as the passage for wandering souls. It was believed that by crossing the bridge, the founders would find the route to unknown lands, leaving behind the shadows of the past and bequeathing peace to their lineage.
Since then, Mummy Bridge has been revered as a symbol of the connection between the realm of the living and the realm of spirits. The villagers devoutly traversed its aged planks, perpetually recalling the sacrifice of their ancestors and the promise of a future without unrest. Although, in modern times, most are wary of the place, is it not ingratitude? Today, they fear their ancestors and avoid venturing into the forest, as lurking wolves threaten to assail the village. Legends and the sight of a mundane bridge do not attract me, so I depart." The tale, narrated with the hoarse voice of an elder versed in legends, seemed not to impress me, although some of its value resonated within me. After his story, he pulled from his saddlebag what he promised would be of use, a head of garlic, and tossed it to me to catch. Surprised, I looked at the old man, who smiled and said, "You know, legends, hehe. If you want to get there, I recommend leaving right away. On horseback, you'll get there faster, but since you don't seem to be a rider, time is your silver coin." And with that, he set off on horseback in the opposite direction of Mummy Bridge.
Hesitant, I contemplated the head of garlic, pondering the legend and its root in the soul of the village. Its compact, intertwined bulbs seemed to offer a protective embrace. The translucent skin revealed pearlescent and ochre hues, and its unmistakable aroma wafted through the air, enveloping the senses with its intense and comforting fragrance. Each small and delicate clove promised a bold and spicy flavour when released from its covering. The unassuming appearance of the garlic head concealed unsuspected spiritual value. I secured the head of garlic in my backpack and checked to ensure the cunning old man hadn't stripped me of anything. Despite his suspicious appearance, he had proven to be a man of goodwill, at least in his dealings with me. I couldn't judge his affairs, so I set out on my journey, observing the unusual village and its people as I ventured into the forest.
I walked to the edge of the forest, opposite the village, where the old and welcoming houses stood as sentinels of time, silent witnesses to centuries of history. With sloping roofs covered in clay tiles darkened by the passage of years, each dwelling emerged proudly from the earth. The stone facades, weathered by rain and wind, recounted tales of artisans of yore and families who inhabited these walls generation after generation. Tiny windows, framed in thick wooden casements, filtered flashes of golden light that illuminated the narrow alleyways during the day. Some homes, grandiose, displayed ornate wooden carvings on their facades and solid oak doors that defied time. Others, more humble, clung to their simple yet sturdy structure, with weathered stone walls revealing the beauty of imperfection. The back gardens, small oases of greenery, where wildflowers and vines embraced the stone walls, added colour to the melancholic palette of the village and evoked traumatic memories with nature within me. In the central square, the church loomed on the horizon, its bell tower marking the passage of hours with a solemn sound that resonated throughout the village. The surrounding houses seemed to lean towards it, seeking refuge in its sacred shadow, while their elongated shadows silently slid through the cobbled streets as night fell. "an era of brave knights, imposing castles, and a deep sense of honour and nobility.”