- Joined
- Feb 1, 2014
- Messages
- 168
From a distance the Sanctuary still looked beautiful. Its gilded spires reared high above the valley, gleaming in the sunlight of a late afternoon in early spring, clean as the mountain snows behind them. The tolling of a bell carried clear and pure over the moors. Just the one bell these days, for there were no longer men enough to toll the great carillon that a century ago had summoned hundreds of penitents to their devotions. The few dozen who were left, old men for the most part, would now be making their unhurried way toward the Hall of Prayer, hands meekly folded and heads withdrawn into their cowls. And on the mountainside behind the Sanctuary, the day’s watchman would be gazing from his marble terrace toward the unhallowed lands that stretched east of the Forbidden Mountains to the world’s edge. His fervent prayers would be holding back the dark flood tide of chaos for another hour or so, until the night’s watchman relieved him.
An aging peddler had paused awhile to hear the bells, and to let his mule graze on the withered grass the melting snows had recently uncovered. Now he sighed and shook his head as he continued trudging. He had known the place for twelve mortal generations. Neither its flourishing nor its long decline had moved him to anything but cold anger and disgust.
“What is it with humankind?” he asked the mule. “Why this frantic eagerness to fling away their lives, and all that makes life joyful? Why such craft and wealth and care squandered on a prison for the living dead?”
The beast made no reply, for he had not given her the power of speech. She was an ordinary mule, neither philosophical nor disputatious, and the peddler valued her for this lack of thought and speech as much as for the burdens she could carry, or for her sure-footedness upon the mountains trails. He had long since had enough philosophising. He had long since drunk the cup of knowledge to its bitter dregs. In a dragon-shadowed city on the Eastern Ocean he had once debated with the lizard-sage Zarzoomex, who was hatched under the light of the third moon, before the first awakening of men. He had strove with three-eyed Argol in that mighty magician’s prime, and wrested from him the seven incantations whereby the seas and continents were set in place. He had been worshipped as a God and as a demon. And he had loved once. That of all things he was now hoping to forget. The one into whose vacancy he would soon pour himself was very close. He had called him, by a last effort of his will. Some mindless shepherd, he supposed. He shaded his eyes, scanning the desolate landscape. Sunlight glinted on the boggy ground, bullrushes danced in the breeze, scrawny sheep nibbled at the coarse grass. And amongst them, moving painfully slowly but never pausing, he saw another traveller.
“So this is him,” he told the mule. “You and I will not be parting, never fear. I suppose to you one human body looks much like another, anyway. Oh Gods, I could have chosen better though! He’s too weak for a shepherd- lamed or crippled from the look of him, almost staggering at every step. Alone, not even a mule to ride. He must be heading for the Sanctuary. And clutching something to his chest- some relic saved from the wreck of his old life, perhaps? He’s slightly built for a man. But not a woman, surely? Not out here, alone?”
The peddler stood watching for about the time it takes to boil a pot of porridge, as the other traveller drew closer. At a bowshot’s distance he realised the other was indeed a woman, and down to the last dregs of her strength. She was poorly-dressed in a thin woollen robe, the hood thrown back to reveal a mane of tangled hair that would have been red-gold if she had washed it. She had no boots, just filthy rags wrapped in thick layers round her feet, like bandages. Her face was bent low toward the bundle she treasured in her arms, as if she wished to warm it with her breath. A faint mewling cry came from the bundle, and the woman stopped and reached into her robe, unlacing whatever she wore under it. She drew the bundle to her breast to suckle, taking care never to expose the child or herself. The peddler watched as she fed the child, then resumed her trudging, treading carefully, for her feet were numbed by those few minutes immobility. She was heading his way. All he had to do was to keep still and wait.
At last she stood before him, her mouth faintly quivering, as if pleading silently for some indication of his feelings or intentions. His own face had long since set into the forbidding expression of a stone effigy. Other than the few words required for buying and selling such small items as he traded, the peddler had long avoided human conversation. Humans, unlike mules, seemed always to misunderstand things, and held their misunderstandings with blind fanatic conviction, whereas mules understood nothing, and presumed nothing.
“Where do you seek?” he said at last. He spoke in the old Common Tongue, the traders’ language, still understood both east and west of the Forbidden Mountains
“Sir, if it pleases you, I seek the Holy Sanctuary of the Guardians,” the woman replied.
The peddler recognised the accent of Carizonde, a land of deep soil and long summers on the coast of the Narrow Sea. The woman’s mode of address was humble, almost servile, contrasting curiously with her clear tones and educated speech.
‘A daughter of the nobility,’ thought the peddler, ‘or at least of the richer merchant class, but she’s travelled far, and learned to abase herself along the way.’ And he knew immediately what brought her to that bleak and solitary mountain trail. “You’ve fled the world,” he said, “cast out by your own family. You seek sanctuary as a humble penitent, to give yourself up to the Guardians, for whatever menial service may be useful to them.”
“If they’ll have me,” said the woman. “And if I last that long… Is it far, sir?”
The peddler half-turned and pointed. “There,” he said.
An aging peddler had paused awhile to hear the bells, and to let his mule graze on the withered grass the melting snows had recently uncovered. Now he sighed and shook his head as he continued trudging. He had known the place for twelve mortal generations. Neither its flourishing nor its long decline had moved him to anything but cold anger and disgust.
“What is it with humankind?” he asked the mule. “Why this frantic eagerness to fling away their lives, and all that makes life joyful? Why such craft and wealth and care squandered on a prison for the living dead?”
The beast made no reply, for he had not given her the power of speech. She was an ordinary mule, neither philosophical nor disputatious, and the peddler valued her for this lack of thought and speech as much as for the burdens she could carry, or for her sure-footedness upon the mountains trails. He had long since had enough philosophising. He had long since drunk the cup of knowledge to its bitter dregs. In a dragon-shadowed city on the Eastern Ocean he had once debated with the lizard-sage Zarzoomex, who was hatched under the light of the third moon, before the first awakening of men. He had strove with three-eyed Argol in that mighty magician’s prime, and wrested from him the seven incantations whereby the seas and continents were set in place. He had been worshipped as a God and as a demon. And he had loved once. That of all things he was now hoping to forget. The one into whose vacancy he would soon pour himself was very close. He had called him, by a last effort of his will. Some mindless shepherd, he supposed. He shaded his eyes, scanning the desolate landscape. Sunlight glinted on the boggy ground, bullrushes danced in the breeze, scrawny sheep nibbled at the coarse grass. And amongst them, moving painfully slowly but never pausing, he saw another traveller.
“So this is him,” he told the mule. “You and I will not be parting, never fear. I suppose to you one human body looks much like another, anyway. Oh Gods, I could have chosen better though! He’s too weak for a shepherd- lamed or crippled from the look of him, almost staggering at every step. Alone, not even a mule to ride. He must be heading for the Sanctuary. And clutching something to his chest- some relic saved from the wreck of his old life, perhaps? He’s slightly built for a man. But not a woman, surely? Not out here, alone?”
The peddler stood watching for about the time it takes to boil a pot of porridge, as the other traveller drew closer. At a bowshot’s distance he realised the other was indeed a woman, and down to the last dregs of her strength. She was poorly-dressed in a thin woollen robe, the hood thrown back to reveal a mane of tangled hair that would have been red-gold if she had washed it. She had no boots, just filthy rags wrapped in thick layers round her feet, like bandages. Her face was bent low toward the bundle she treasured in her arms, as if she wished to warm it with her breath. A faint mewling cry came from the bundle, and the woman stopped and reached into her robe, unlacing whatever she wore under it. She drew the bundle to her breast to suckle, taking care never to expose the child or herself. The peddler watched as she fed the child, then resumed her trudging, treading carefully, for her feet were numbed by those few minutes immobility. She was heading his way. All he had to do was to keep still and wait.
At last she stood before him, her mouth faintly quivering, as if pleading silently for some indication of his feelings or intentions. His own face had long since set into the forbidding expression of a stone effigy. Other than the few words required for buying and selling such small items as he traded, the peddler had long avoided human conversation. Humans, unlike mules, seemed always to misunderstand things, and held their misunderstandings with blind fanatic conviction, whereas mules understood nothing, and presumed nothing.
“Where do you seek?” he said at last. He spoke in the old Common Tongue, the traders’ language, still understood both east and west of the Forbidden Mountains
“Sir, if it pleases you, I seek the Holy Sanctuary of the Guardians,” the woman replied.
The peddler recognised the accent of Carizonde, a land of deep soil and long summers on the coast of the Narrow Sea. The woman’s mode of address was humble, almost servile, contrasting curiously with her clear tones and educated speech.
‘A daughter of the nobility,’ thought the peddler, ‘or at least of the richer merchant class, but she’s travelled far, and learned to abase herself along the way.’ And he knew immediately what brought her to that bleak and solitary mountain trail. “You’ve fled the world,” he said, “cast out by your own family. You seek sanctuary as a humble penitent, to give yourself up to the Guardians, for whatever menial service may be useful to them.”
“If they’ll have me,” said the woman. “And if I last that long… Is it far, sir?”
The peddler half-turned and pointed. “There,” he said.
