Synopsis: On Arrack's initiation day, when he turns from a boy to a man, he must enter a cavernous tomb and retrieve the key to let himself back out. “You will hear things that you’ve never heard before,” Joyan would tell him. “And you will see things, things that you are never to tell another living soul. These will be your secrets, and you will carry them with you until the day you die. Is this understood?” Arrack would say, "I do," but he didn't understand, and for good reason.

--- Mirth and Men ---

Had Arrock known what the tomb would bring, he never would have entered. His father surely couldn’t tell him, and the Elders had taken the oaths of silence. It was too late. He was already walking up the hill that lead to the entrance, and he couldn’t make himself any younger.

“Just keep your head on straight,” his father told him, placing a heavy hand on Arrock’s shoulder. “We’ve all been through it. When you pass the test you’ll be a man. You’ll have the responsibility of a man, the courage of a man.”

Arrock swallowed his nervousness. He had seen the locked door before when he explored the hills with Carter Lain. He had even seen the ritual in progress, the old men waiting outside of the cave entrance, the father of the child biting his lower lip and waiting anxiously for his boy to return. It was all different when he was the one trekking up the hill.

At least it was a sunny day. Arrack looked at his father’s curly hair against the halo of the sun like he would never see the man again. His father reached for his dagger. “Take this,” he said, handing his son the weapon.

“Why do I need a dagger?”

Arrack’s father was silent for a moment. “Because fear puts men in places that boys would dare not go. You will take it with you. Elder Malgrove will give you a torch, and you will be on your way. I can tell you nothing more.”

“I understand,” Arrock replied, but he didn’t understand. What could be beyond the entrance? He had heard stories from his friends of ancient crypts filled with ghouls and dark corridors littered with spike-backed spiders; they were the very worst kinds of creatures. Even a dagger couldn’t stop their mouths from spitting globs of venomous phlegm.

The seven Elders plodded behind his father and him. They were slower than the spotted slugs that crept up the bastions of Mirth, and probably older than the massive trees that surrounded the city. Arrock smiled at the thought. “They’re old alright,” Carter Lain had told him. “You can stuff enough gold coins in their chin flaps to buy yourself a sturdy vessel.”

When they reached the top of the hill, the tomb lurked closer than ever. The grasses swayed in the wind until they hit the rocky cliff-face where the entrance stood stark and somber. The symbol of Mirth was etched in its center, three circulating, white arrows.

His father must have seen him staring. “Remember our sigil, Arrock. Everything occurs in threes, and everything is a cycle. Our ashes return to the ground, and the ground grows life, and we are life.” His father’s stern face looked down at him like a night owl, deducing, measuring him up. “Everything is tied to everything else. We are tied even to the night stalkers of the north. Even to the Falians of the south.”

“But the Falians to the south want to kill us,” Arrock said, tripping over the tall grasses. He hoped his father hadn’t seen.

“And so do the night stalkers, and the feral dogs that hunt the men of the outposts, and the phoenixes that descend from the sky. Just because we don’t get along with them doesn’t mean we they aren’t a part of our circle. You must know when to fight, and you must know when to yield. That is what being a man is about.”

Arrack knew when to fight. He had killed that hairy sparrock that ravaged Mr. Halenson’s chickens, and he received a gold coin for the deed. The rodent was small, but he was still a threat. And the phoenixes, he yearned to see them anyway. He had only heard of them in legends. He wanted to lay eyes on the flames that burst from their wings, and their golden beaks and scaled feathers.

Arrack’s father stopped him with an arm to the chest. Elder Joyan shouted from behind. “Hold up,” he told them. The Elders surrounded father and son. Joyan walked up to Arrack and struggled to kneel.

“Arrack, son of Tallack,” he said with heavy breaths. “Today is your title day, when we peel off the brand of boy and give you your first sigil, the sigil of Mirth. When we open the tomb, your journey begins.” Joyan waved a hand and two younger men carried the massive key to the door of the tomb.

“You will hear things that you’ve never heard before,” Joyan said. “And you will see things, things that you are never to tell another living soul. These will be your secrets, and you will carry them with you until the day you die. Is this understood?”

Arrack nodded and bit his lower lip. “It is.” Was he supposed to turn the key? It would probably crush him, and he would never become a man after that.

“Let us get on with it,” Joyan said before struggling to stand. Sweat beads dripped from his wrinkly skin and disappeared into the grasses. Arrock looked up to his father, who sternly nodded and gave the boy a push. Arrack approached the door. The rock wall towered above him. Ivy crept up its face before the height was too much for the vines and they curled back in defeat.

Another Elder walked next to the tomb. “We light this torch for Arrack Sole’s initiation day,” he said, striking the flint a couple of times before it ignited. “With light comes darkness, and so starts the ritual that has turned thousands of boys into men.”

Arrack grabbed the splintering torch. The sinew of the splinters itched his hand and the flames were so high he had to hold it far from his face. “I’m ready,” he said, but he was not.

Metal clanked against rock as the men turned the key. Arrack held his breath. The tomb door opened and even the light of day wasn’t able to penetrate the darkness of the corridor.

“You may enter,” Joyan said. “You will walk to the furthest reaches of the tomb and fetch the key that will let you leave. You left Mirth a boy, and you will come back as something different.”

Arrack tightened his grip on the torch and held the dagger in his other hand. He walked into the tomb. The flame illuminated the sides of the cave, and in no time the door shut with a thunderous boom. He was alone.

It’s only the dark, he thought. Mother said to never fear the dark. It makes everything equal. But she had died long ago, and all that Arrack had was the torch.

He took his first step. The first face that was carved into the wall terrified him. He lifted the torch above his head and examined the ghoulish face stamped into the stone. Its brows were huge, protruding above two inset eyes that seemed to endlessly puncture the wall. The mouth was an oval of terror, home to spider webs and creepy crawlers. His legs trembled.

He passed seven of the faces, each one having a different tortured expression. Something stirred behind him, but when Arrack whipped around the flame almost went out and he cursed himself for acting on impulse. That was when the first voice came to him.

“Arrack,” it whispered. He shuddered. Turning back would be a disgrace to his lineage. “Do not be afraid, Arrack. It is me.”

A bright light illuminated the sides of the walls. The torch remained the same, a persistent flame clawing towards the ceiling of the cave. The light must have been coming from somewhere else.

“Arrack, open your heart,” the voice whispered again. When the figure of a woman appeared in front of him, he almost dropped the dagger. Her white hair was translucent against the backdrop. She walked up to him, her gown dragging along the cave floor, soaking in the water that seeped along the rocky surface. She looked exactly like he remembered. It couldn’t be.

“Mother?”

“I have missed you more than you know, dear Arrack.” He could almost see through her skin. “Arrack, you have grown. Is your father doing right?”

“He is,” Arrack said, fighting back the tears that welled in his eyes. “He is doing right.”

His mother knelt before him and wrapped her arms around his torso. He didn’t want her to let go. “I miss you,” he told her. “I miss you more than anything.”

“I will see you again.” His mother kissed him on the cheek and lifted her hands to his face. Her warm fingers grasped his cheeks. “This, young Arrack, is love.”

She was at once pulled backwards and vanished into the darkness. The mysterious light was sucked from the corridor and only the torch lit his way again. Arrack couldn’t breathe. You will hear things, he remembered. And you will see things, things that you are never to tell another living soul.

Arrack took solace in the darkness again and continued on. Slimy creatures darted from his path and disappeared into the crevices of the cave. His dagger looked sharp and reflected the dancing flame of his torch.

When he had trekked further, after the faces no longer decorated the sides of the cavern, the second voice came to him. It was surely the voice of a woman again, but it was unfamiliar. “Arrack,” it whispered, the foreign tone bouncing off the corridor walls.

“I am here,” he replied.

“Arrack, open your mind,” it whispered.

“It is open,” he replied. “I am ready.”

The woman was on the floor, her legs spread towards him. She screamed in pain, and it hurt Arrack’s ears and made him want to run away. Another figure ran to her side, crouching over her and blocking Arrack’s sight.

“Just one more push, madam,” the figure said.

The stranger screamed again. The bloodcurdling shriek made Arrack shiver and want to cover his ears. As soon as it began it was over, and the stranger was standing in front of Arrack, a bundle in her arms.

Arrack struggled for words. “Who are you?”

She knelt down before him, placing both her hands around the boy’s waist. “I am the one you will seek one day, dear Arrack. And this is yours.”

The woman smiled and motioned for Arrack to drop the dagger. He bent over and placed it in between his feet. He couldn’t put down the torch, even for a woman as beautiful as the one standing before him. She outstretched her arm and placed the bundle into Arrack’s free hand. It was heavy, and the cloth started moving.

When Arrack peered closer he saw blue eyes staring back. The infant’s skin looked softer than the Mandoline flowers that his mother used to grow. He was oddly drawn to the infant, like he had known him all his life. It felt right.

The woman stepped back. “This, young Arrack, is life.” The bundle and the strange woman instantly disappeared from sight, just as his mother had, and darkness returned again. He had no idea what to make of it, so all he could do was trek forward. The corridor began to curve downward, and Arrack’s legs moved almost without intent. He needed to find the key. He started walking faster. Embers from the torch fell and burnt his skin.

“Arrack,” came a whisper. This voice was dark and dreadful and it made his skin crawl. “Arrack, open your eyes.”

Arrack remained silent. This time no figure came to greet him, but instead his eyes grew wide and a wisp of smoke drifted near him. Inside of it, blues and golds drifted back and forth. The colors coalesced into the image of his city. They formed into the great bridges of Mirth, hovering over the Sendal Sea and leading to the citadels of the place he called home. It looked more beautiful than he had ever seen it.

A mellow boom disturbed the smoke and something stirred in the background of the city. An endless fleet of ships was sailing towards Mirth, flames jumping from the ship decks. Fireballs leapt from the hulls and plummeted into the city, igniting the marketplace and the alley where the beggars slept. Women screamed and children cried, and even the birds in the bell tower couldn’t survive the onslaught.

The vision vanished with the smoke, but the voice returned. “This, young Arrack, is death.”

Arrack was speechless. His fingers grasping the torch shook so much that he made shadows dance across the cave walls. He started running. When the walls started to narrow and Arrack reached the end of the cavern, he sighed with relief. Sitting on the top of a rock shelf was a small iron key.

He wouldn’t be able to hold the key, the torch, and the knife. He had made it this far, and he spotted no vicious creatures meaning to harm him. The visions were enough. He wanted to get out. He wanted to get home.

Arrack looked behind him into the darkness and then back to the key. Something shimmered below him. He guided the torch along the base of the rock shelf and spotted the bin with Mirth’s sigil painted in white, three connecting arrows, the symbol of reuse, renewal. The wooden barrel was full of daggers, and the reflection of the flame darted across their blades.

Other boys had done it, and so too would he. He bent over, dropped the dagger among the pile of weapons, and grabbed for the key. He didn’t run from the cavern, or grit his teeth in fear as he walked. He moved slowly and deliberately, feeling the smooth bumps in the rock surface and smelling the stale air.

He arrived at the entrance within minutes, and lifted the key to the lock. I have done it, he thought as the locking mechanism clicked. He pushed all his weight against the door, and the tomb surrendered to the light of day.

When he walked out and the sunlight burnt his eyes, he still did not feel like a man. He expected a welcoming party of Elders, or perhaps his father offering Arrack his first stein of mead. There was no one there to greet him, though. He doused the torch on the cliff side. The grasses still swayed in the wind as they had done since he was a boy, but something was different.

Smoke, he thought. Billows of it rose above the horizon and stretched to the furthest reaches of the sky. He crested the hill that overlooked Mirth and when his eyes fell upon the city he dropped the torch. The world looked like it was on fire. And the ships! An endless fleet sailed towards Mirth’s gates. Some had already made it past the levee, navigating beneath Mirth’s bridges. Bright fireballs flew from the hulls and splattered onto the stone fortifications.

He had heard rumors of the Falians raising an army and building a fleet, but his father would have told him if war was in the future. It didn’t matter now. The walls of the city crumbled like stale bread crumbs. He ran down the hill, tripping twice over the stubborn chutes of grass. When his feet hit the cobblestone, he knew he could go no further. The screams of the city dwellers told him that.

It was supposed to be the city that couldn’t fall, but the fleet from Fal had reached Mirth’s gates and the forces descended onto the ramparts like a horde of locusts. “Father!” Arrack shouted, but he knew no one would hear him. Everything and everyone was dying, decaying in front of him.

Fireballs reigned onto the White Citadel. Even the spotted sea sparrows couldn’t escape. They hardly made it past the bridges before flames from the buildings consumed them. The birds ignited into a conflagration of feathers and flapping wings, their once-majestic colors fading into a burnt red and yellow. They looked like the flocks of Phoenixes that he’d heard about as a child. Perhaps they would grow in size and power and hurl their own flames at the Falian fleet. But they didn’t, and the forces from Fal continued to overwhelm the city.

Arrack wished he hadn’t dropped the dagger. He wanted to run across the bridges and slay the intruders that were destroying everything he knew. He had been a man for less than an hour, but he still felt like a boy. He thought about running back to the tomb and asking his mother what to do. She would know what to say, she always knew what to say. His legs trembled and his joints locked, and all he could do was fall onto the hill and wrap himself in his own arms, watching as the city burned.

Had he known what the tomb would bring, he never would have entered.