Suddenly, darkness fell and Mika feared for his life. He felt as if the whole of the world had encompassed him. In his panic, he held tight to what he thought could only be the Lost Hilt of the Scabbard of Kaliespis.
The day was bright and sunny with a subtle breeze that did little to cool the sweat forming on the faces that stood solemnly staring. A voice was droning on but the old man wasn’t really comprehending what he was hearing. To his left were two figures that were shaking and sniffing.
Reaching out the old man placed a hand on top of the small coffin wherein lay his precious, grandson. As tears formed, welled and dropped heavily from his eyes he said a silent prayer.
“God’s speed my dear, sweet grandson! I hope you found what you were searching for. I’ll be with you before you know it, and we can continue our adventures… I love you, Mika!”
Mika had not returned that day. His small body was found beneath a ton of earth where one side of the gully had caved in. He was sitting upright clutching a lump of clay against his chest while his other hand lay at his side grasping a stick.
Legend tells the story of a great warrior of days gone by. Stories passed down through generations, now, are only stories. Some call them pure fiction based on wild imagination when winters were long and indoor activities were few. However, others believe they are based on truth. Such is the case of the Lost Hilt of the Scabbard of Kaliespis.
Mika sat mesmerized as his grandfather recounted the story of the Lost Hilt. In his mind, he could picture the sword fights and the blood, decapitations, and thrusts from the infamous weapon as it sliced and diced through the enemy of the Kaliespis tribe of Shear.
Mika loved the sound of his grandfather’s deep, melancholic voice. He was always disappointed to wake up the next morning having fallen asleep during the story. Though he knew the story well he never tired of it.
Now, Mika, an over-enthusiastic young lad of 11 years, would often play down in the gully near his home and pretend he was one of the warriors of the Kaliespis tribe of Shear. With the perfect stick in hand, he would thoroughly thrash the bushes and trees with his overwhelming skills in swordsmanship. In his mind, he too one day would wield the infamous sword.
On such a day as this Mika was tired after an intensely fought battle. Against the shaded, shear bank of clay that made up one wall of the gully, Mika sought his rest. He found that if he dug out some of the walls that the clay was cool and comforting. This was especially attractive after annihilating and dismembering so many of his dreaded foe on this hot summer day.
As he leaned back against the wall he was aware of a distinct discomfort pressing rather obtusely upon his left shoulder. He turned and with some effort, he managed to dig out the offending clay-encrusted clump, using his trusty sword (stick), and lay it down before him. “What the heck is this?” he wondered aloud. Poking and picking away the clay Mika gasped at what he held in his hands. Running down to the very bottom of the gully Mika found a small puddle of water left over from the last rain. He thrust his prize into the water and feverishly rubbed it clean. Holding it up in front of him he exclaimed, “no way!”
Her only hope was cascading away in a whimsy of words appearing upon the walls. This spell, the one she found in her great grandmother’s diary, the one she thought was only words of lore, now have meaning.
And, from her childhood, she recalled the eerie words of her grandmother who often talked of witchcraft and her own mother’s ability to deal with undesirables who came uninvited into her home. Even the small memory of her great grandfather, who she never knew, but who she had heard terrifying stories about began to make sense. He had disappeared without a trace.
Isabelle accepted this fate seeing her existence fading into light, like the spell read, but she maintained her composure and watched her very being subjugated into nothingness.