The Throne Of The Leopard
Kiama reached the top of the mountain at midnight. She stared at the stars to ascertain the time, then nodded to herself and produced the pouch with the crystal from one of her pockets. Kiama grabbed her staff and attached the crystal to its top, and then she focused on the moon.
With a swift motion, Kiama sunk the first section of her staff on the ground. She then turned it slowly, watching the moon’s reflection through the crystal. A faint reddish beam projected from within the crystal and crept over the mountaintop’s rocks.
There.
Her ancestors had been clever. Kiama was a seasoned warrior and tracker, yet she had the distinct feeling she would have missed the cave’s narrow entrance, even in plain daylight, so well hidden it was. She took a step to her left, and the cave disappeared. One to the right, and it was gone as well.
Kiama walked in a straight line and entered the cave.
She could have brought an electric torch, but she had felt it was like cheating. Still she lit up the fire for her torch with her lighter. No need to waste time.
The cave was so narrow that Kiama had to walk sideways. She did so, her torch in front of her, minding her steps because of the gentle but constant downwards slope, until the cavity widened and she could advance normally. Her inner sense of time told her she had been going down for at least ten minutes when she reached the stairs. She could have checked her watch, but Kiama was proud that way. And contradictory, too.
She started walking down the stairs. It felt like they lasted forever, burrowing deep into the bowels of the mountain.
After ten more minutes, Kiama saw that the corridor she was in, always winding down, opened up into a vast space ahead. She moved his torch slowly.
Nothing.
Kiama stepped out. To her chagrin, Kiama felt overwhelmed. No one had walked down these steps in centuries. The last one of her ancestors had been inside the sacred mountain when the world was different.
But still the Throne of the Leopard was here, in front of her. Within a vast cavern, moonlight illuminating it from a creak overhead, a stone arm jutted up from the ground, another flight of stairs carved into it, leading up to the seat itself on the palm of the hand. Ancient tribal paintings adorned the walls of the cyclopean cave to haights her eyes could not reach in this faint light.
Awestruck, Kiama approached the arm.
She remembered the words of her grandfather, the tales of this legendary place. It was exactly like he had described it… only derelict. Kiama touched the arm, knocked on it. She knew it was an absurd gesture but she felt reassured.
She sighed. That’s what she was here for; stopping now would be useless.
Kiama started climbing. These stairs were in much worse condition, and in places they were all but gone, making her ascent harder than she had thought. She almost fell twice, but she made it to the top.
She found herself face to face with the giant leopard face, its maw open, the throne within.
And there, protruding from the stone throne, was the sword.
Kiama drew nearer, and saw that there were words on the sword.
“Whoso Pulleth Out This Sword of this Stone and Anvil, is Rightwise King Born of all England”.
As she grabbed Excalibur’s grip, Kiama thought that a queen should be as good as a king.
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This is my accompanying entry for the Weekly Writing Exercise: November 21–27, 2016 on the Writer’s Discussion Group in Google+. I am responsible for creating the prompts for the Exercise, so I don’t take part, but I still like to write a story each week.
It was end of term for me this week… frantic does not even approaches how this week is. So, on Sunday just before lunch I sat and wrote this. The idea was a spur of the moment, and I’m quite happy about it.
