Hakim fell to the gray-marble floor with a sudden thump.

"Ouch!" he screamed. "What’s going on?" He was just standing in a meadow near an old tree. How did he end up in this dreary chamber?

"The shadow," he whispered, remembering a huge shadow had swallowed him. He’d floated in an endless dark void for what seemed like hundreds of years. This single, distressful thought sent shivers down his spine, reminding him of long stemming back pains from the work master’s whip. But the shadow hadn’t really eaten him after all. He was still alive. So where was he now?

Hakim reached for the key he had roped around his neck. He vaguely remembered using it to scratch a picture on an old tree. No, it wasn’t a picture; it was a shape of an ugly, scary, coiled-up demon whip. Why? Why would the shadow put a spell on him? Why did he make Hakim draw a whip on the tree? Hakim searched his memory for an answer. "The old man of my past," he mumbled. "He called it ‘The thinking tree. There begins your destiny.’"

Hakim rubbed his itching birthmark. "It must’ve been the thinking tree. What does it have to do with my destiny?"

He had forgotten much of what the old man taught him. Fear had made him forget: fear of work masters, whips, mines, cave apes, cave rats, and most of all, fear of dying in absolute, eternal darkness.

Now, holding the key firmly in his birth-marked hand, a door in his mind opened to reams of knowledge, as if the key had unlocked his memory.

"See," said the old man, pointing to an open book on his lap, "this triangle represents my Trigon. I built it to protect you. Oh yes, I have something else for you. This dagger is yours now. I want you to have it. I have drawn it in my book to help you remember my name, for you are forgetful at times. Yet, you are smart beyond your years my little Hakim. You will solve its riddle in time. In time, you will find me again."

"Emit," Hakim whispered. "I remember you. I remember your name."

One after another, lost memories filled Hakim’s mind. The wizard, Emit, always carried an ancient book by his side. Hakim loved sitting on Emit’s lap listening to tales of magic. Emit often read from the book’s fine silver-trimmed pages, sometimes to entertain, other times to educate Hakim. Like a true father, Emit had raised Hakim from birth. Hakim’s life was peaceful, full of joy and learning, until that terrifying day when Emit disappeared. Seeing the wizard again someday brought a small smile to Hakim’s otherwise troubled face.

"Foolish child," thundered a demonic voice, interrupting Hakim’s thoughts.

Hakim immediately recognized the slurred voice, for it had intruded his mind before, back in the mine when he had tripped and finally made for his escape.

"Emit is dead," continued the voice. "You too will fail, for your memory falters. His magic book is lost – along with its riddle. You are my slave now."

Hakim cupped his ears to smother the voice, but it rang in his mind, powerful and menacing.

"Do not try to open the fourth door. If you do, you will perish."

Hakim lay on his side, hands over his ears, cowering from loud slurring laughter and cracking whip sounds until they finally faded to somewhere deep within his throbbing head. Trembling, he stood only after there was complete silence. Why would the shadow torment him? Could it be worried about something? Why mention a door? Was Emit really dead or was the shadow trying to trick Hakim? And what riddle were they talking about? Could it have something to do with Emit’s missing dagger?

"Why me Emit?" Hakim stammered. "You shouldn’t have picked me for your riddle. I’m no match for a magic shadow."

***

Finely polished, more than twenty feet tall, the smooth circular wall surrounding Hakim stood much too high to climb. A series of waxen candles, hung on wall hooks by iron holders, provided gloomy, yet sufficient light – not too bright to impair Hakim’s sensitive vision. High above, beyond a layer of grey mist, constellations of sparkling stars accented an otherwise dark and threatening night sky.

Still trembling, he removed his cloth headband and tucked it into his pocket for safekeeping. Curious, he slowly walked to a section of wall to feel its cool, rusty-red surface. From this location (as with anywhere else within the round room), he could see there were no doors, just four recessed arches positioned at equal distances from each other. Beautifully detailed paintings marked three arches at their centers: a waterfall on one, an obelisk on another, and a tree on the last. The fourth arch symbol, a simple drawing of three hourglasses, barely caught Hakim’s eye.

"The thinking tree," Hakim said loudly, as he peered at the nearest painting. His own voice startled him at seeing the tree painting, just as it appeared in his dream and memory. Could these paintings be part of Emit’s Trigon? Hakim decided they were, since each resembled important drawings in Emit’s book. He wished he could remember more about them.

On the far wall, a large book-sized indentation had two L-shaped hooks protruding from its top. Strangely, nothing hung from the hooks. Hakim suspected someone had taken or stolen whatever belonged there.

After completely eyeing his surroundings, Hakim sighed. "The shadow is right. I’m a prisoner again. First in mines . . . then in darkness . . . now in this chamber with no way out."

Hakim cautiously approached a three-sided table distinctively placed at the chamber center. The table’s appearance made his skin chill with tiny goose bumps – not because it was the only piece of furniture, but because of its dark cherry-colored carvings of bloody battles, executions, and ghoulish faces. Attached to the table’s surface, three carved and outstretched arms held round plum-sized stones over a funnel-shaped hole in the table’s center. Hakim wasn’t sure if the hole looked more like an evil mouth or a deep, dark pit; either way, his skin chilled even more because of this strange, morbid architecture.

One stone etched with symbols, however, appealed to Hakim’s curiosity. It reminded him of the stone disc he had used to escape from years of dark tunnels and whips. His curiosity overruled his dislike of the table; feeling a strange comfort in the symbols, he took the stone for examination before tucking it away in his pocket. He thought back to when his pocket had torn after he jumped into the well. Someone – or something – had mended his pocket. I’m meant to have this stone ball, he thought. I wonder who those plain balls are for? Are there two others like me?

Startled by a sudden movement, Hakim stepped back. The wooden hand from which he removed the ball closed to a fist while its arm jerked from side to side, desperately trying to break free from the resisting table. Hakim backed further away, unable to pull his gaze from such an odd spectacle. The hand wanted Hakim’s ball back. Too bad, Hakim wasn’t going to give it back. Like the disc, the ball might be magical. He might need it.

"It’s mine now," he said bravely. "It’s meant for me. I don’t know how I know – I just do."

The arm stopped jerking almost immediately, apparently satisfied Hakim meant what he said.

Relieved, Hakim started to sigh, only to be stunned by a loud ‘Crack!’ when two knotty fingers flicked at him as the wooden arm returned to its original position.

On an impulse, Hakim turned to see if the work master had snuck up behind him. "Stop it," he said to himself. "Stop imagining things. He is not here. You’re alone and you are a prisoner."

But the table is real, he thought, real walls, arches, candles, wooden table hands that moved to make tricky, snapping whip noises, and the demonic voice – all real. To prove just how real everything was, the wooden hand reshaped itself to a clawed grip, which seemed to hold some terrible invisible weapon – maybe even a whip....

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