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​​​​​​Act VI - The First Light

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​​Cataract Trail, Mount Tamalapais State Park

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The boy stood frozen on the bank of the stream.

Above him, his father hung helplessly in the thick white strands of the spider's web. The creature moved slowly along a branch, drawing him closer with each careful movement of its enormous legs.

“Run!” his father shouted again.

But the boy couldn't.

He had never heard his father sound so frightened.

He looked around desperately. The stream rushed between the rocks, and the trees rose so high that their upper branches disappeared into the mist. There was nowhere to hide that the creature couldn't reach.

His father struggled against the silk, trying to free the arm that held his sword.

The webbing only tightened.

The spider advanced.

Then the boy remembered something.

He reached into the small bag at his side and pulled out his wooden boomerang.

His father had helped him make it several years earlier from a curved piece of fallen oak. They had spent countless afternoons practicing in the fields outside Diablo, sometimes until the sun sank behind the hills.

He remembered his first attempts.

The boomerang had flown everywhere except where he intended.

Once, it had landed in a neighbor's garden.

Another time, it had struck his father squarely in the back.

His father had laughed so hard that the boy had almost forgotten to apologize.

But eventually he had learned.

Don't throw harder than you need to, his father had told him. Watch where you want it to go, and trust what you've practiced.

The boy looked up.

The spider was almost upon his father.

He drew back his arm.

Then he hesitated.

He had only one chance.

The creature lowered its head, opening its terrible jaws.

The boy threw.

The wooden boomerang swept upward in a broad curve, passing between two branches before striking the spider directly beside its cluster of eyes.

The creature shrieked.

It recoiled violently, releasing its grip on the thick strand holding the father.

The sudden movement loosened the webbing around his sword arm.

He twisted with all his strength.

For one brief moment, he could move his wrist.

That was enough.

He brought the blade across the silk and cut through it.

The remaining strands snapped under his weight.

He fell.

“Father!”

The boy watched him drop toward the rushing stream.

His father struck a sloping rock, rolled, and plunged into the shallow water below.

The boy ran toward him.

His father struggled to his feet, coughing and trying to catch his breath. Water poured from his clothing, and loose strands of webbing still clung to his shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” the boy asked.

His father shook his head.

“I don't think so.”

The boy threw his arms around him.

For a moment, his father simply held him.

Then he noticed the little wooden boomerang lying among the rocks.

He looked down at his son.

“That was quite a throw.”

The boy managed a nervous smile.

“I've been practicing.”

“So I see.”

A terrible clicking sound interrupted them.

The spider had recovered.

It moved rapidly along the branches, searching for the thing that had struck it.

His father looked upward.

“We're not finished yet.”

He gently moved the boy behind him and raised his sword.

The spider descended from the trees, its swollen black abdomen swinging beneath its long, narrow legs. As it turned, the strange mark on its underside became visible again.

The unnatural light pulsed beneath the dark shell.

The father remembered what the Oracle had shown him.

Seven disturbances scattered across the land, each twisting the natural light around it.

Whatever this creature had once been, something terrible had changed it.

The spider lunged.

His father stepped aside and struck at one of its legs.

The creature recoiled, but this time it did not retreat into the trees.

Instead, it swept its front legs across the rocks, forcing him backward.

The boy scrambled behind a fallen trunk.

“Father! Underneath!”

“I see it!”

The spider's swollen abdomen glistened in the afternoon light.

The strange marking beneath it appeared and disappeared as the creature moved.

His father watched carefully.

The spider was powerful, but it was not invulnerable.

It protected that place whenever he approached.

He needed to get beneath it.

The creature struck again, its front legs crashing against the rocks beside the stream.

The father ducked, nearly losing his footing on the slippery stones.

The spider turned, preparing another attack.

And suddenly he saw his opportunity.

A shaft of sunlight broke through the canopy, illuminating the underside of the creature as it stretched between two trees.

The strange mark shone with an unnatural violet-green light.

The father took a breath.

Then he charged.

He leaped onto a large rock beside the stream and drove his sword upward with all his strength.

The blade struck the creature directly through the glowing mark.

For an instant, everything seemed to stop.

Then came a terrible cracking sound.

The sword shattered.

Fragments of steel scattered across the rocks and into the rushing water.

The father stumbled backward, clutching the broken handle.

Above him, the spider released a piercing shriek that echoed through the forest.

The strange light inside its abdomen flared.

Dark ribbons of distorted color escaped through the wound, twisting around the creature before dissolving in the sunlight.

The spider convulsed.

Its enormous legs lost their grip on the branches.

With a tremendous crash, it fell into the stream.

Water erupted around the rocks.

The father threw himself toward the bank, pulling his son away from the collapsing creature.

They crouched behind a fallen tree as the water rushed past.

Then, gradually, the movement stopped.

The spider lay motionless across the stream.

The unnatural light beneath its abdomen faded.

The dark ribbons disappeared.

For several moments, neither father nor son spoke.

Finally, the boy looked up.

“Is it dead?”

His father studied the enormous creature.

“Yes.”

The boy was quiet.

“Was it always like that?”

His father looked toward the temple hidden among the trees.

“I don't believe so.”

“What happened to it?”

He thought of the Oracle's instrument, and of the strange disturbances stretching across the land.

“I think something changed it. Something that never belonged here.”

The boy looked sadly at the creature.

“Then it wasn't really its fault.”

His father considered that.

“Perhaps not.”

The boy glanced toward the motionless spider.

“Then why did we have to kill it?”

His father rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Because sometimes we must stop something terrible, even when we wish there were another way.”

They stood together beside the stream.

Then the boy noticed something.

“Father, listen.”

His father looked around.

At first, he heard only the rushing water.

Then came a faint chirping from somewhere high in the trees.

Another bird answered.

Leaves stirred overhead.

Farther upstream, a squirrel hurried along a fallen branch.

The forest was waking.

The great webs that had stretched between the trees began to loosen. Some broke apart and drifted toward the water. Others collapsed beneath their own weight.

Sunlight reached places that had been hidden for years.

The boy smiled.

“They're coming back.”

His father nodded.

“Yes. I think they are.”

He glanced down at the broken sword handle in his hand.

For a long moment, he stared at it.

The blade had belonged to him for many years. It had accompanied him through the forests and foothills around Diablo, and he had always trusted it to protect his family.

Now it was gone.

He placed the broken handle carefully into his bag.

The boy noticed.

“What are we going to use now?”

His father touched the ancient hilt at his belt.

It still had no blade.

Seven empty settings ran along its surface, and the sun symbol on its pommel caught a little of the afternoon light.

He had carried it since the night the Oracle gave it to him, hoping that its purpose would become clear.

But it had done nothing to help them against the spider.

“I don't know,” he admitted.

The boy frowned.

“That's not a very good answer.”

“No,” his father said. “It isn't.”

They began walking downstream, following the path back toward the temple.

But before they had gone far, something moved among the ferns.

A fox stepped into the clearing.

Behind it came two rabbits.

A squirrel climbed onto a moss-covered log, followed by a small group of birds that settled along the branches overhead.

The father stopped.

More animals emerged from the forest.

A family of deer stepped cautiously between the trees. An owl watched from a low branch, while smaller creatures gathered near the water.

The boy looked around in amazement.

“Father, what are they doing?”

His father slowly lowered his hand from the ancient hilt.

“I think they're coming to see us.”

The animals formed a loose gathering around the stream.

Then a magnificent stag emerged from the mist.

Its antlers spread wide beneath the branches, and around one of them hung a small object suspended from a delicate cord woven from natural fibers.

The stag approached without fear.

The boy instinctively stepped behind his father.

But the creature showed no sign of aggression.

It stopped a few feet away and lowered its head.

The father knelt.

Hanging from the antlers was a tiny green gemstone, held within a simple setting of twisted wood and fine metal. It was scarcely larger than a fingernail, yet its polished surfaces caught the afternoon sunlight with remarkable clarity.

The father carefully lifted it free.

The stag raised its head and stepped backward.

The boy leaned closer.

“Is that for us?”

His father looked toward the gathered animals.

“I believe it is.”

He held the gemstone between his fingers.

It was a beautiful shade of green, like sunlight passing through young leaves.

As he turned it, a narrow point of light appeared upon the stone beside his knee.

He moved the gem slightly.

The point moved with it.

Curious, he raised the stone toward the sunlight.

Through its polished surfaces, the broad light seemed to narrow into a tiny, concentrated point.

The boy watched closely.

“What's it doing?”

His father turned it again.

The point vanished.

Then reappeared.

“It's focusing the light.”

“Like Grandfather's glass?”

His father smiled faintly.

“Yes. Very much like it.”

He remembered sitting beneath the oak at Diablo, watching his own father hold colored pieces of glass toward the afternoon sun.

At the time, those lessons had seemed like little more than games.

Now he began to wonder.

He reached for the ancient sword hilt.

The boy immediately recognized what he was thinking.

“Father! The spaces!”

Seven small settings had been worked into the metal.

The larger one near the top, just above the curved guard, appeared almost exactly the right shape for the green stone.

His father examined them both.

Then he pressed the gemstone into the empty setting.

It fitted perfectly.

A faint metallic click sounded beneath his fingers.

They waited.

Nothing happened.

The boy tilted his head.

“Is that all?”

His father turned the hilt over.

“I suppose so.”

“That's disappointing.”

“A little.”

The boy looked at the stag.

“Perhaps they gave us the wrong one.”

His father chuckled.

“I doubt it.”

He rose to his feet and held the hilt toward the sunlight, examining the way the green stone sat within its setting.

A narrow glimmer appeared above the guard.

He stopped.

The boy noticed it too.

“Father?”

The green gem brightened.

A single point of concentrated light formed just beyond the end of the hilt.

Then, as the father adjusted its angle, the point stretched outward into a thin, brilliant shaft.

He stared.

A blade of light had appeared where no blade had been before.

It was narrow and almost perfectly straight, its edges shimmering softly in the afternoon air.

The boy's mouth fell open.

“You have a sword!”

His father slowly moved the handle.

The light moved with it.

He turned his wrist, and the glowing blade narrowed further, extending into a long, spear-like point.

“It's concentrating the sunlight,” he whispered.

The boy stepped closer.

“Can you make it bigger?”

His father adjusted the hilt.

The beam lengthened.

For one extraordinary moment, it shone brightly between them.

Then a cloud passed across the sun.

The light flickered.

And disappeared.

The father stood holding the empty hilt.

The boy stared.

“Oh.”

His father looked toward the clouds.

Then he smiled.

“I think we have a little more to learn.”

When sunlight returned, he raised the hilt again.

This time, he adjusted it more carefully.

The green gemstone gathered the light into a point, and a slender blade extended from the handle.

He held it steady.

The blade remained for several seconds before weakening and fading.

The boy watched in fascination.

“So it works.”

“Sometimes.”

“That's better than nothing.”

“Considerably.”

The boy examined the six remaining empty settings.

“Do you think there are more stones?”

His father followed his gaze.

“I think there must be.”

“And if we find them?”

His father looked at the glowing green gemstone.

“I don't know.”

The boy grinned.

“Maybe it'll make a sword that doesn't disappear every time a cloud goes by.”

His father laughed.

“That would certainly be useful.”

Around them, the forest creatures began returning to their homes.

The stag lingered beside the stream for a moment, watching the father and son beneath the trees.

Then it turned and disappeared into the mist.

The boy looked after it.

“Do you think we'll ever see them again?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you think they knew what the stone could do?”

His father examined the hilt once more.

“I think they knew more than we did.”

The boy smiled.

“That isn't saying very much.”

His father laughed again.

“No,” he admitted. “Not yet.”

They followed the stream away from the ancient temple, leaving the great spider motionless among the rocks.

Behind them, the forest continued to awaken.

Birdsong returned to the canopy. Small animals hurried through the undergrowth, and the water flowed freely beneath the great trees.

For the first time in many years, the temple was at peace.

As they climbed the hillside toward the setting sun, the boy glanced at the ancient hilt.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Grandfather knew what it was?”

His father looked toward the distant hills.

“I think he knew enough to make sure it reached us.”

The boy was quiet for a moment.

Then he smiled.

“Well, I think he'd be pleased.”

His father placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I think he would.”

Far beyond Marin Forest, the dry mountains of Pinnacles rose against the eastern sky.

And deep beneath those ancient rocks, another strange light was beginning to stir.