THE GATEKEEPER

THE GATEKEEPER, by Marlane Quade Cook

Beat by beat, footsteps echoed on the stones that carved a path through the meandering hills of the wasteland. Swirls of mist dispersed at the traveller’s approach. The hazy vapour was heavy enough to dampen the clouds of dust that rose faintly from the path: disrupted by human footsteps for the first time in an age. His worn boots were softened by the wear of many journeys, but the sound reverberated as if he had been shod with steel. Unlike most adventurers of his time, the clothes were a humble style and hue: merely serviceable. A threadbare cloak caught the eddies of the mist and a pair of deep eyes narrowed at the sight of the gate ahead. A few scrubby trees, crooked and clinging desperately to life in the barrenness, were the only thing that rose above the skyline. The ruin lay between two hills, its entryway and gate leading down into the sandy earth like a tomb. Sparse grasses grew here and there. The place had not quite eroded into desert in the time it had lain here, unsought except by the vainglorious who came tracking obscure tales.

A statue sat immobile on the outskirts, as though it had been guarding the path for centuries. Stone as old as the ruins crumbled around it and under what could once have been a pedestal. All was the colour of dust and shifting dunes. The statue was taller than a man. It bore monster paws that gripped the stone with a ferocity unabated by time. Above the paws, the sinewy feline legs of a lean desert-hunter. Behind, a dragon’s tail, matched with its dragon’s wings which now unfurled as it sensed its quarry. The solitary man watched with mild interest as the stone morphed into the deeper tones of flesh, the bright iridescence of dragon’s scales emerged; vivid colours rippling out from the drab tones of dust and rock.

The scales blended into a lion’s fur, the tawny hide fading in turn to smooth, gleaming skin as the lion’s chest joined seamlessly into the curved and muscular torso of a woman,  breasts hidden under the torrent of ornately braided and beaded hair. The face was majestic, afire with yellow feline eyes, and sharp teeth bared in a sultry, predatory smile.

The wanderer’s eyes stared stonily ahead, neither disconcerted by the aberration nor enticed by its beauty.

“Welcome to the door.” It spoke with a voice deep-throated and seductive as any temptress he could recall or imagine. “I have been waiting for the next of your kind.”

 

 

He stared ahead and did not speak. “I’ve seen so many like you before now.” She purred, tail lashing from her station on the stone.

“You think you’re bold, and daring, and craving the excitement just beyond….”

He remained still, gazing ahead. His deeply bronzed face was set in stern lines that betrayed no emotion. He merely stared, fixed, at his objective.

She narrowed her gleaming eyes on him, then sinuously glided down from her perch and approached, her mismatched form unhindering her grace of movement. She paced around him, lioness’ paws stalking silently as the dragon’s tail coiled upon the dusky stones, disrupting the ever-present mist.

“There,” she leaned over his shoulder, seductive lips whispering the words.”There is the door. These stones are old. So old, long before your time–and mine.”

She had a woman’s shoulders, arms, and hands. One long talon-nailed hand rested on his shoulder while the other gestured languidly to the door behind the gate. it seemed it had been walled up with ancient bricks. “Do you know what lies inside?” She drew a deep breath and let it out in a wistful sigh.

“The mist lingers here, and the dust, and the smell of decay. The mist always hides what is to come, and the darkness settles in the crumbling corners and waits. And here you wait, as I remain and watch.”

“As I’ve watched for so, so long now.” She slowly moved in front of him, mist swirling around her dragon’s wings, almost hiding the lower part of her. Looking on her sleek, golden-brown skin, her curves, the loveliness of her face, a man could almost forget the talons, claws, and scales–almost. The beads in her hair rippled as she leaned close, and both hands crept around his shoulders. She leaned her head to the side, peering at him with curiosity. He could feel the strangeness of her, not a human warmth, but a peculiar burning heat. He sensed reptilian chill underlying it, like a heated gem that will grow cold once distanced from human skin. “You are eager to go. I see it in your young eyes,” She leaned in and inhaled the scent from his neck. If he felt the urge to shudder, or any stirrings for the soft female flesh of this creature, he hid it with masterful self-control. His eyes glanced over her, his expression unchanged. “But you are already dying,” she sighed into his ear, her chest pressed against his jerkin, “Beat. By. Beat.”

Her breath was growing warmer on his skin. He stepped back and fixed her with a stony gaze, but his hand didn’t move to the sword at his belt, though he swept the tattered cloak behind him to give quick access to the weapon.

A strange light came into her eyes and she gave a gleaming, fanged smile. She turned in her languid, mysterious way, her beautiful head leading the movement and yet she somehow kept her golden-yellow eyes on him until her long shoulders, graceful back, and chimera limbs had all turned away, moving in ripple after sinuous ripple. Something about the motion was hypnotic. The dim flash of iridescent scales in the hazy moonlight, the feminine force that pervaded the whole creature. As the eyes finally left him, she slowly, fluidly progressed back to her perch on the stones.

As she went, the being he saw through the flowing vapors began to change. Dragon’s tail and lion’s forelegs dissolved. Instead she walked on woman’s legs: long, with tantalizingly curved muscles that moved powerfully under deep golden-brown skin. His eyes traveled up the length from her bare feet to her sculpted thighs and rounded hips. She was thinly draped in a diaphanous garment, and as she turned, she gazed down on him in triumph from the full glory of her woman’s body and gloated in a radiant smile that did not quite show her fanged teeth. She sat slowly and gracefully, on what was no longer a stone, but an x-framed curule throne of gold carved with winged creatures. Her lips closed over the white teeth and he met her eyes. They were no longer a cat’s eyes, but a woman’s: large, dark, and full of warmth. She held out her hand, beckoning, but he did not move. She dropped her hand to her lap and gave a cryptic half-smile. “But I’ve seen it,” Her voice, having diminished in power, seemed to have gained in soft allure, “yes, I’ve seen beyond, and so I smile.” She leaned on the arm of the throne complentatively. “The bonds of blood. They are strong. I knew of such things, once.” She was silent for a moment, as if seeing far into the past. her long tapered fingers–no longer taloned–toyed idly with a strand of beaded hair.

“I’m growing weary in this age. I’m crumbling too, you see.” she gestured with a careless hand to the ruins on which her throne sat. “I’ve been here so long, and it never changes. They come and daringly pass through, eyes full of dying dreams, and they think it will be different…will it be?” She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, a complicated expression moving across her face.

“For you, now, I don’t know. Wondering about you will give me something to do in this age..

For a moment, Before the wind sweeps your dust away. Then I will sigh as the mist settles in once more.” She sighed now, and he almost thought she looked wistful. Then she gazed more intently at him, and the look became expectant. “You do not succumb to my woman’s form,” she said, eyes searching the depths, “though it pleases your eye, I know. There is something else in your thoughts–a regard. A mission. The bonds of kin keep your mind from the pleasures of the flesh. Your dread for her fate keeps your mind like a spear. What would you do for this one you seek? What is worth your mortal life?”
He knew the time had come. He stepped forward slowly, cloak swinging heavily in the foggy air. He approached the throne, and she looked at him in a manner all too human, all too hopeful. He took one long, graceful brown hand, bent over it slowly, and pressed his lips to the smooth skin. Then he straightened to his full height and regarded her intently. Her eyes widened slightly, and she caught her breath. He spoke.

“The past is dead,” His voice rang out in the stillness of the ruins, a man’s voice where none had been heard for an age. The sphinx gripped the arms of her throne and stared, conflicting emotions crossing her exquisite features.

“The future is not born,” he continued, and the power of his human voice rolled through the stillness. “Today is ever dying, beat by beat. And so we live: beat by dying beat. Moment by moment. We seize this moment, grip it fast.” He gripped her hand as he spoke. Her eyes were locked on him, expression unreadable. “We hold dear the ones we have. We protect those we are bound to by love, or honour, or blood. We wrench life from the clutches of Time and then we move on, we move ever forward. For there is only forward. And I will continue forward. So stand aside, Gatekeeper, and let me pass.”

She gazed at him in a strange mixture of shock, intrigue, and elation. Then her eyes closed, and a slow smile spread over her lips. She drew a deep breath and let it gently escape as if savouring the sensation.  Her eyes opened again, and he thought he glimpsed tears, though she smiled. She rose with elegant grace and extended a queenly hand toward the ruin. “You are an uncommon man,” She said with the enigma still in her expression.

The stone wall began to slide apart, brick by brick. He strode through the archway, eyes ever fixed on his objective.

“But I’ve seen beyond,” she said, in a soft voice. He looked and saw her feet slowly transforming back into their manifestation as monster, and just as quickly, into the sand-coloured stone of the ancient place. It crept rapidly up her body, petrifying and transforming her as she watched him. “And so I smile,” she said, as she folded her hands over her bosom and turned away from him to face out into the wasteland. As her face turned to stone, she became statue one more, rooted on the ruins. Her golden throne was gone. He raised his eyebrows in wonderment, then turned back to his objective, advancing through the mist toward the yawning mouth of the ancient stone structure.

 

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At home in the mountains of Northwestern Montana, Marlane’s career has included lengthy stints in classical ballet teaching, visual arts, and writing.  She has formally published nonfiction in local and state/regional publications, but in the last several years has turned her efforts to her years-long love of fantasy, speculative fiction, and adventure writing.  Disabled with Ehler’s-Danlos Syndrome, a progressive chronic illness, she finds fiction writing an essential creative outlet, especially during phases of restricted mobility. She has several short stories published with Weirdbook, poetry with Strange Horizons, and now HFQ.  She shares her life with her husband, caregiver, and fellow-writer Jonathan Cook.  Together they are raising two amazing children, currently ages 9 and 7.  She has a webpage and you can follow her on Facebook.