THE ROSE CROSS

A woman and a girl walked over the empty plain. Pale mist covered the ground. Far away, a tin whistle blew.

A man on a mechanical horse watched the pair pass. The horse shifted its weight, producing a cascade of clicks and metallic flutters. The man raised his chin.

“Excuse me,” he called. “Are you traveling to Unwyn Zar?”

The woman and the girl continued without acknowledging the man’s presence.

The man spurred his horse forward. He fell in behind the pair and, when they still wouldn’t turn to greet him, began a monologue addressed to their backs.

“Everything changed on the Night of the Seven Stars,” he said. “Wheels of fire spun in the black sky. Alone on my rooftop, I watched the city lit from above. Others peered from behind windows or, folding back the panes, craned out their heads; some even climbed up onto the sills. What did we see? Dragon or Angel? I’ve often thought it was both, two beings locked in a struggle so fierce that they merged to form a single, contradictory image—a seraphic sky-serpent. Just as the creature spread its wings, the seven stars converged around its silhouette. Then the whole image transformed. The serpent became a cross, and the stars became roses—”

The woman stopped, turned sharply. “We have, sir, traveled a great many miles on our own,” she said. “But now we will join you on your journey to Unwyn Zar.”

The man dismounted. First he lifted the girl onto the horse’s back, then activated the titanium stirrup so the woman could climb aboard. When both sat comfortably, he stepped up to the muzzle and adjusted the navigation coordinates. Then he set out again on foot.

The horse followed.

The whistle blew.

Soon they approached a boy standing alone on the plain. His body was so transparent that it might have been cast from clear jelly. Mist swirled around him.

“Hello,” said the man.

“Are you lost?” said the boy.

“We’re traveling to Unwyn Zar,” said the man.

“Do you intend to kill him?” said the boy.

“I’ve been entrusted with a secret mission,” said the man.

“Are you afraid?” said the boy.

“Why are you transparent?” said the man.

“You don’t understand,” said the boy.

Just then the boy’s heart became visible in his chest, a scarlet blossom of fragile tissue. Blood seeped from its walls, infusing his body like red dye. His complexion grew ruddy. Soon he appeared normal, wrapped in smooth skin, a hank of blond hair sprouting from his head. “Good-bye,” he said, then vanished.

The travelers set out once more.

The hooves clopped.

The mist wafted.

“I, too, have seen the Rose Cross,” said the woman. “I sat at my loom, weaving black silk for my daughter. She’d dreamed of a robe stitched from the night sky and sang a little song about its beauty. I’d worked all day—pumping the treadle, swinging the shuttle back and forth. Then a beam from the evening sun broke through my window. When its light struck my face, I saw on the frame beneath me a tangle of thorns blooming with red roses. Their petals seemed to throb with blood. A cross, draped in black silk, grew up among them, lifted them like a trellis—”

“Kimono,” said the girl.

“What?” said the woman.

“It was a kimono,” said the girl.

“Yes,” said the woman.

A windmill appeared in the distance—three great silver blades mounted on a white, needle-shaped tower. A rhythmic swoosh, generated by the sweeping arms, pulsed through the air, growing louder as they approached. When they reached the base, they found an old woman huddled nearby, fondling a set of broken manacles. The chains rattled.

“Have you seen my boy?” cried the old woman.

The travelers exchanged glances.

“No,” said the woman.

“He’s been very naughty,” said the old woman.

The blades churned above, thumping in their ears.

“We’ll keep our eyes open,” said the woman.

“If he doesn’t return soon, I’ll die!” cried the old woman.

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” said the woman.

The old woman lifted her face, opened her jagged mouth, and wailed. The sound continued, sustained without pause, swelling in volume and pitch. The travelers cringed. Suddenly the old woman’s features seemed to break like split stone. She staggered. The wailing stopped. Then all at once she collapsed into dust that blew away under the windmill’s gale. Only the manacles remained.

“Go—quickly!” said the woman.

The girl trembled.

The blades turned.

“I had a dream besides the one about the kimono,” said the girl. “I lay awake in a strange room at night. Through the window I saw a thick bank of clouds lit from within by flashes of blue light. Then, just beyond the iron fence that enclosed the courtyard below, I saw a giant lumbering toward me. A moment later he stood just outside the window—his huge, ugly, greasy face pressed against the panes. He roared and pounded the walls. The bedposts rattled. Suddenly his fist crashed through the window, spraying glass and splinters and blood—”

“Gracious!” said the woman.

“And it rained like the End of the World!” cried the girl.

“You have quite an imagination,” said the man.

“An underappreciated faculty,” said the girl.

Next came an old man dressed in a shimmering black kimono. He stood facing the horizon, displaying an embroidered dragon stitched across his back. He leafed through an ancient book propped on a lectern. When he turned around, the travelers gasped at his billowing, flame-shaped, chalk-white beard. He stretched out his arms.

“I am Demiourgos!” said the old man.

“Pleased to meet you,” said the girl.

“My mind is a furnace!” said the old man.

“Isn’t that uncomfortable?” said the girl.

“My soul is a forge!” said the old man.

“Do you do nothing but read?” said the girl.

“I toil for the benefit of all mankind!” said the old man.

“Do you know Unwyn Zar?” said the girl.

“It is a name ripe with meaning,” said the old man.

Suddenly the old man’s feet, barely visible beneath the hem of the kimono, changed into tentacles that slithered out over the ground then plunged into the soil like roots. His beard became honeybees. He stood again with his arms outstretched as the rest of his body metamorphosed into a statue of living roses. The bees swarmed around him.

“He looks like a piece of topiary,” said the girl.

“He does,” said the woman.

“The kimono is lovely,” said the girl.

“I’m glad you like it,” said the woman.

The travelers continued across the plain.

The horse rattled.

The wind sang.

At last they approached a boulder—a perfect gray sphere resting against the flank of a hill. Someone had chiseled the initials U. Z. across its face.

“Here is the Gate,” said the man.

“It doesn’t look like a Gate,” said the woman.

“It looks like a hole in the ground,” said the girl.

“It’s the Gate,” said the man.

He helped the pair dismount, then all three stepped to one side of the boulder, planted their shoulders against it, and pushed. They strained, motionless, for several minutes. Then, just as the girl began to squeal, the stone shifted. Eventually, they rolled it aside. The round hole they revealed sucked air into itself like a drainpipe, raising a steady roar. Inside, a vortex of twisting vapor dove into a void filled with spinning globes, plumes of fire, and clouds of galactic dust.

“That’s Unwyn Zar?” said the girl.

“The Orb of Negation,” said the man.

“The Zone of Inverted Values,” said the woman.

“But how will we survive?” said the girl.

The man flipped a switch beneath the horse’s jaw; immediately the creature began to transform itself, folding and unfolding in multiple places at once, until it resembled a robotic dragonfly.

“Miraculously,” said the man.

Then the trio climbed onto the insect’s back and plunged into the darkness beyond.