The Eastern Monument
Underland and the Forehidden Kingdom, Chapter 21
Underland and the Forehidden Kingdom is a serialised, young adult, fantasy novel about an overconfident bookworm who finds himself in a parallel world where words are weapons, ideologies form fortresses, and intelligence without integrity may just cost you everything. If you’re new here, you can start from the beginning or check out the index.
RECAP: After their narrow escape from Helel ibn Shakar, Keon clears the air with Shem. He learns the origins of Zahara’s pendant and its connection to her distrust of Asya. When they reach the outskirts of the Eastern Monument they come across a dilapidated city of Wayfinders; one of whom follows Wellworn screaming at him in Hebrew . . .
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Dawn-Son. Harlot-Son. The Scarred Warrior. Wellworn. What did those names mean? Was Dawn the name of a harlot? Was Wellworn an illegitimate child? ‘Scarred Warrior’ was pretty obvious, but Keon didn’t have time to dwell on the rest. His spine was about to snap. He was leaning back, marvelling at the tight knit branches holding up the crown of the giant dragonblood tree. Over the edges, waterfalls tumbled towards the surface, rushing into rivers that wound their way between the roots. He circled round slowly trying to take it all in, the branches spinning above him like a carousel. He chuckled and shook his head, then looked over at an equally enamoured Asya.
“You ever seen anything like this?” he called.
“I never even made it past the walls!” she gushed.
“Keon Wesley…Asya Koyun!”
Wellworn stood in the midst of one of the rivers, the Millionth and Fifth standing in a line beside him. Keon and Asya glanced at each other in bewildered wonder.
“I swear we never told you our full names,” said Keon.
“You didn’t,” Wellworn replied, “But I know them all the same.”
He gestured to the running waters.
“This,” he said, “is your last chance to turn back.”
Keon shrugged a scoff.
“You said it yourself. Where else can we go?”
Wellworn gave a slight bow, “Well said.”
“So then, you already know what I’m gonna do,” said Keon, glancing at Asya. “I have to help my dad.”
Asya met his look, understanding swirling in her ashen eyes. Resolute, she squared her shoulders and nodded at Wellworn.
“And I have to help my family. It’s why I’m here.”
“Very well,” said Wellworn.
With an outstretched arm, he gestured for them to step into the river with him and the others. They took a spot between him and Avana.
Keon glanced around as though trying to track a bee buzzing around his head.
“So, uh…what are we…?”
“We’re going up,” said Wellworn with a grin.
Keon gawped at the outer fringes of the treetop.
“How…?” he began.
“Avana?” nodded Wellworn.
She scrawled something on a sliver of parchment then held it up to the falling waters. Jonas and Zahara did the same, the others grabbing their free hands.
“I suggest you hold on,” said Wellworn, clasping Asya’s hand.
She grabbed Keon’s and nodded. He reluctantly gripped Avana’s.
Suddenly, all the air was sucked into his belly as he was wrenched upwards. The ground was retreating agonisingly fast. It felt as though his stomach would hit the soles of his feet. His cheeks flapped like wings in the wind. Spray from the waterfalls splashed across his face; and yet, the water seemed to flow around them like a gap in a zipper. He wanted to look up but feared the velocity would snap his head clean off his body. Instead, he clamped his eyes shut. All of a sudden, it felt like an elevator slowing to a stop. He opened his eyes as they peeled over the edge of the dragonblood tree, landing in the midst of a flowing river.
He buckled forward, his legs immediately turning to jelly. The waters of the river parted and flowed around them, leaving behind a dry riverbed, converged on the other side and tumbled over the edge into a misty oblivion. Then he turned round.
They were standing by the slopes of an island in the sky. Clustered across the emerald dome were forests, rivers and rolling green hills. Lakes, rocky peaks, and fruit-filled glades. As his eyes traced the incline of the island up towards its tip, he saw that what looked like a mountain was actually a city. In the golden blaze of daylight, its silky-smooth limestone walls emitted a hazy glow. The city seemed to wind its way around a densely forested peak that blossomed out into a tall, wild tree at the top.
And there were people! Hundreds of them. He’d begun to think they were the only Torchbearers in Underland! But here they were, decked in garments of various shapes, colours and flavours, a kaleidoscopic multitude. What they all had in common was the shimmering insignia of the King, whether on their backs, on their fronts, as patches on their shoulders or broaches on their cloaks.
Amidst this diversity of peoples, a distinct majority stood out. They wore wide, white hoods. In place of shawls were cream-coloured cloaks pinned at the collar with golden broaches bearing the seal of the King. Their cloaks hung over one shoulder down to the knees, exposing their short-sleeved, scaled armour jackets, snow-white kaftans, and tassels. The same tassels as Shem.
Wellworn helped him shakily to his unstable feet, his throat dry as pottery.
“Where are we?” he rasped.
“This is the Lampstand of Ir-Salem. The Eastern Monument,” said Wellworn. He nodded to Dawit who rushed over with a freshly filled canteen.
Keon knocked it back ravenously, spilling water down the corners of his mouth. Slurping to a stop, he wiped his face and gaped at the new world swirling around him.
“Lampstand…We’re on top of the tree?”
His eyes found Asya’s, glistening as they took it all in, alive with wonder.
“Are they all like this?” he said, turning to Wellworn.
“Well,” said Wellworn with a glint in his eye, “Not quite like this one. But there are Torchbearer Encampments on top of every dragonblood tree.”
Keon finally pushed himself to his feet. To think, they’d passed hundreds of these trees on their travels, and all of them had Torchbearer cities on them! Then he blinked in contemplation.
“Wait…so those seven ridges we saw…those were Torchbearer Encampments?”
Wellworn nodded, solemn.
“And now they belong to Moonlamps,” Keon glanced in Asya’s direction. “What are they for?”
“Encampments are places of refuge; high above the influence of the Morningstars. Here we can train, we can plan and we can seek the will of the King. Most importantly, we can feast!” said Wellworn.
Asya gaped, first at Keon then back at Wellworn.
“We were always taught Torchbearers had no outposts,” she said.
Wellworn smiled.
“There is much the Masabih do not know.”
He gestured for them to step out of the river onto the bank. Dawit offered Asya a hand whilst Shem helped Keon out.
“There are lodgings for each of you in the city,” said Wellworn. “The rest of you should know your way around by now. Keon and Asya, you will accompany me to the peak.”
Keon’s eyes squinted as he looked up towards the tree at the island’s tip. He turned back to try and catch Zahara. She was lingering at the back of the group, watching him go. He couldn’t quite place the expression on her face. Was that concern? Disappointment? Whatever it was, she gave him a weak smile and the smallest of waves. He returned the gesture.
As they approached the city, Keon saw that it was walled. Not a high wall, mind you. You could easily climb over it. Seemed like it was there more for decoration than defence. Who on earth or Underland would try and get up there and attack them anyway? Imagine if those Moonlamps actually flew their way up there only to find a city heaving with hundreds of Torchbearers! He chuckled at the thought. That he’d love to see.
Embedded in the wall were three circular gates. From the midst of the middle gate flowed the same river they’d arrived on, each side bordered by a long, paved street lined with fruit trees. He traced the river with his eyes. As the streets climbed the slopes of the island, ascending in steps, so did the river; both disappearing into the forest near the tip. The city was divided into layers that wound their way up the island in concentric circles.
As they neared the gates, Keon noticed names engraved at the top of each gate.
Binyamin – Menashsheh – Yoseph
The smattering of people they’d seen on the way seemed to swell in number once they reached the city. Every time one of them passed, they would salute Wellworn with a palm to the chest and bow, just like Jonas would. Keon received a nod and smile of acknowledgment—then their eyes would fall on Asya. Some grew wide with wonder; others narrowed with suspicion. She’d expected it, he reckoned, but it still stung nonetheless and he felt it. A stern look from Wellworn quickly averted their gazes, for which Keon was thankful. He’d never seen her walk with her head hung low. Unlike before, the more she tried to shrink beneath her hood or blend into the background, the more she stood out. Here, she was like a stain on a perfectly white garment; exposed.
It took a while, but they finally made it to the peak. It was like stepping into another hemisphere. The air suddenly grew hot and humid. Golden pillars of light pierced the canopy casting an ethereal glow across the ground. They’d stepped into a rainforest, one that had been lovingly landscaped and cultivated. It was like Kew Gardens; every plant, vine, bush and tree perfectly positioned to highlight their unique properties.
Wellworn led them on a meandering path through the forest, between hanging vines, under low branches and over glistening streams. Soon, they were climbing a winding trail that spiralled around the peak. When it came suddenly to an abrupt end, they were stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the island. Keon cautiously approached the edge, peering over. A waterfall fell from beneath the cliff, splitting into the four rivers that flowed down each side of the city.
“Pishon, Gihon, Hiddekel and Perath,” said Wellworn, drawing up alongside him. “The four rivers that flow from the throne.”
Keon frowned.
“What throne?”
Wellworn gestured with a wide sweep of his arm and Keon turned. They were standing beneath a tall, thick sycamore fig; the tree he’d seen from the foot of the island. Its long branches stretched, upraised, towards the sky. Tracing its form down to the broad trunk, he saw that it opened into a radiating cavity. The contours of the trunk twisted and bent into the shape of two elaborate, preternatural thrones. Side by side they stood; their bases contorted shafts of wood that were squeezed inwards. Between the bases of the thrones, a clear crystal stream flowed, vanishing into a gap in the ground that fed the waterfall.
Asya’s eyes rapidly mapped the thrones from top to bottom. Keon took a step towards them, his hand outstretched. He hesitated, glancing back in Wellworn’s direction.
“It’s alright,” he nodded, and Keon continued.
They were smooth to the touch, like they’d been freshly lacquered in a deep brown polish. He ran both hands down the sleek armrests and up the back.
“Wow,” he said, his brow peaking.
Then his face broke into a frown, and he turned back to Wellworn.
“You said ‘throne’, but there’s two.”
“Two seats,” said Wellworn, stepping forward over a stray root. “But one throne.”
“Whose are they?” said Keon.
Wellworn stopped by the seat on the left and placed a hand on the armrest.
“It once belonged to the first heirs of Pnūmanora.”
“What’s Pnūmanora?” said Keon.
“You are standing in it,” he replied with a smile.
“I thought we’re in Underland?”
“Yes,” Wellworn nodded. “But at its birth, Underland was known as the Kingdom of Pnūmanora. On Earth, it came to be known by other names. The ‘Unseen’ or ‘Spiritual’ Realm. The Domain of the Air… and the Second Heaven.”
Keon’s eyes widened, shifting to look in Asya’s direction. Why wasn’t she freaking out right now?
“Nah mate… are you saying we’re dead?”
Wellworn raised a knee on one of the roots, resting both hands as he stared at the ground.
“Keon, up until now I have spoken to you in riddles. I wish to speak with you as plainly as I can,” he turned to Asya. “This concerns you as much as it does him, Asya. Are you ready?”
Her mouth gaped, but nothing came out.
“You will be happy to know that neither of you are dead. But I am sure you already knew that Asya. After all, you have been coming to Underland since you were a child.”
She swallowed and nodded.
“This Monument was once the throne of the First Torchbearers. A man called ‘Human’—and a woman called ‘Life.’ Or, as you may know them…”
“Adam and Eve…,” Keon breathed, staring up at the seats.
Wellworn nodded.
“A king and his queen, appointed to rule Pnūmanora on the King’s behalf. The account of their fall is legendary, but that is only part of the story…”
As he began circling the tree, Keon and Asya followed close behind. Winding their way around the curve of the trunk, elaborate carvings emerged from the cavity. Bursts of arching contours coalesced into graven scenes that seemed to dance with life. Gigantic, animalistic beasts roamed vast stretches of land, straddling hills and mountains. On each of their backs rode a company of women wreathed in long flowing robes and crowns on their heads. In their arms they held a multitude of children.
“In Underland, Morningstars take the form of great, colossal beasts. But on Earth, they appeared as unnaturally tall men clothed in light. Captivated by the beauty of human women, they came to Earth long ago, took wives for themselves and bore children.”
“Why?” said Asya.
“Their reasons were twofold. Some saw the Earth as their birthright; an inheritance they had long been denied. But the rest…they believed that they could solve the problem of human mortality. It was believed that, with half-human offspring, they could bridge the gap between this world and your own and unlock the key to eternal life.
“But their children were corrupt. Wild and unruly. They became the subjects of human myth and legend. Titans. Olympians. Nephilim…Giants. For a time, humanity looked to them as heroes, the great warriors of old. But with their immense power came the worst kinds of violence and destruction. The King had no choice but to rid Pnūmanora of their influence. His armies marched over all the land…and cut down the Sons of the Second Heaven as well as all who were loyal to them. On Earth, this purge took the form of a global flood.”
They stopped at the carving of an immense army galloping across tidal waves, the crests of the surf melding with the sinewed forms of their horses.
“So great was this cataclysm that it was preserved in the collective memories of every ancient civilisation on the Earth. The Epic of Gilgamesh. The Great Flood of Gun-Yu. The exploits of Deucalion. The Flood of Noah.”
At this, Keon’s attention peaked, his eyes fixed on Wellworn. He seemed to react with a grin, then continued around the tree, coming to stop on another carving. Another company of hooded men and women, Torchbearers, riding across the sea towards a high, mountain-shaped city. As the scene progressed, Keon and Asya drew to a halt. Remnants of same army were clambering over a mound of bodies—the bodies of their fellows—arms outstretched trying to reach the shining city; upside-down and out of reach.
“After the purge, the peoples of Pnūmanora returned to serving the King. But that peace was short lived. The destruction of their world only further cemented their fear of death. The desire to escape it, to cheat it and ultimately master it became all consuming. They recalled the days of old; of ancient patriarchs who lived for hundreds of years. Of a semi-divine dynasty that once ruled the Earth in the Age of Giants…and they coveted.
“When their greed became too great, they made a pact. In exchange for the power to overcome death, they would offer the Morningstars the thing they desired most; their daughters…and everlasting tribute. Their envoys rode across the Shallow Sea to entreat the Morningstars on the shores of Zaphon. The King’s retribution was swift. The oceans deepened and the great wave drove them and their lands far beyond the reach of Zaphon. Pnūmanora was divided and Underland was born.”
“The Far Reaches of the North,” said Keon.
Wellworn nodded.
“On Earth, those events played out slightly differently.”
Turning back to the carvings, he continued.
“In the wake of the flood—at the dawn of a renewed humanity—the people amassed as one and conspired to create an undying empire. They built a great tower to reach the heavens, and on it, a gateway to Pnūmanora.”
“You’re talking about the Tower of Babel,” said Keon, an eyebrow raised.
Wellworn nodded, gravely.
“To put a stop to mankind’s pursuit of self-destruction, the King scattered them, tribe by tribe. Their knowledge was divided. Their languages confused.”
Again, Wellworn circled the trunk, coming to a set of carvings on the back. A man sat on a shining throne—sceptre in hand—pointing at a long line of shining men, kneeling before him. Cloaks and encrusted diadems were being laid across their shoulders and placed on their heads.
“Of the Morningstars who remained faithful to the King, he appointed seventy as guardians to watch over this scattered humanity. Seventy Princes over seventy regions. However, in time, they too would fall to corruption. They enslaved the people under their charge and anointed themselves as kings…as gods.”
Keon’s eyes grew wide, and his jaw unconsciously dropped.
“Wait…” he began.
“And so, the King issued a decree…”
Wellworn came to a halt in front of the last carving; what looked like a Torchbearer sat upon the throne of the King, an uncountable multitude bowing before him.
“He would stay his hand…but only for a time. If they surrendered, they would receive his pardon. If they did not, he would release the full force of his armies on Underland. On that day, he would seize the nations from the usurpers and give them to another. His rightful Heir.”
“The Coming King,” said Asya.
Wellworn nodded.
“A child born of both worlds; of Earth and Underland. He would sit upon the throne of Pnūmanora. He alone would hold the keys to life and death. All who pledged allegiance to the Coming King would bear the royal seal and become heirs with him of Pnūmanora—the Forehidden Kingdom.”
Keon’s eyes flickered to Asya. She was staring into Wellworn’s face, transfixed.
“The First Torchbearers were not soldiers, but royalty; made to sit upon this throne,” he said, placing a hand on the armrest for emphasis. “Ruling alongside the King. You are members of that royal lineage, set free from your enslavement to the Morningstars so that you may join the ranks of the Torchbearers and restore the Kingdom of Pnūmanora.”
The two glanced at each other.
“How d’you figure that out?” said Keon.
Wellworn simply smiled.
“The King summoned you, remember?” he pointed over Keon’s shoulder, “That signet you wear on your back is not idly bestowed on anyone. It is the seal of the Royal House, given by the Coming King to all those predestined to rule Pnūmanora. You—Keon—are a king-in-waiting, just like your father.”
He turned suddenly to Asya, almost making her jump.
“And you—Asya—you who broke the Chain of the Wall and set your Mirror free. You came in search of Mirror Mastery, that which can only be taught by the Coming King. Consciously or not, you have set aside your allegiance to Almuluk and placed your hope in another. Tell me, when was the last time you looked at your Kodeks?”
Her eyes widened and she instinctively pawed at her satchel. Keon’s eyes fell on the case then rose to meet hers. Looking down, she slowly unclipped it and slid the dark green, leather-bound book out of its pouch. Holding it up to the light, the golden filigree glittered, unmistakably, in the shape of a winged lamp wreathed in olive branches.
A violent gasp shook her delicate frame and tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes. Clutching her stomach, she fell to her knees.
“What does this mean?!”
Wellworn knelt before her and extended a hand.
“That you will learn Mirror Mastery, Asya.”
Her forehead hit the grass, sobs jolting her body. Wellworn gently grasped her arms, leading her to her feet. The tears fell with abandon, her eyes never leaving the ground. Then she looked up and they widened, flittering from left to right as they searched the deep, dark pools before her. Her jaw dropped and she turned to stare at Keon.
What was wrong with her? Why was she looking at him like that?
She turned back to Wellworn, and concern flooded her face.
“My Mirror…”
“It will be back,” he nodded, “and you will be ready for it.”
“Hey!”
Wellworn and Asya turned.
“What about me?” said Keon.
Wellworn exhaled through his nose, his lips clamped shut.
“Whether you will be ready depends entirely on whether you have stopped feeding it.”
Keon’s brow twitched.
“Feeding it?”
Wellworn slowly stepped towards him. Were his heavy boots making the ground shake or was it Keon’s imagination?
“I know it has been communicating with you through your Codex. And I know that you have been communicating back.”
“Keon!…” said Asya, crestfallen.
“I told you Keon, your actions have consequences,” Wellworn nodded.
Keon frowned in defiance.
“But you just said it yourself! You’ve been talking in riddles! How was I supposed to know this thing would start speaking to me?! What was I supposed to do?!”
“What do you think your Mirror is, Keon? It is the same voice that has always been with you. The same voice that speaks every time you desire to do what you know is foolish. The same impulse that told you that you had every right to hit Gabriel Reid…again and again and again until your knuckles went numb. It is this voice that told you—that all of this was your father’s fault.”
This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
“How the hell do you know all this?!” said Keon, his composure breaking.
Wellworn smiled, in a way that set Keon’s nerves on edge and made his blood boil with a hatred for every scar on Wellworn’s skin.
“I know everything written in that book,” he said, nodding towards Keon’s chest.
Instinctively, Keon fingered the satchel on his back—and it rippled.
Don’t listen to him!
“He cannot help but listen to me, Mirror,” he said over Keon’s shoulder.
Keon’s eyes flashed wide, looking round at emptiness.
“Who the hell are you, man?!”
“Who do you say I am?”
He froze.
“No…”
He shook his head, and he ran.