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Fourteen years have I studied and lived within these walls. I did not think to stay here so long, at least that is what I thought during the first year of my chosen life. And then, a terrible thing happened, and suddenly there was nowhere else for me to go. Something changed inside me then, and for a run of years my inner voice became coldly dispassionate. A relentless driving force that had me teetering about the edge of sanity's ruin before I finally realised what it was I had become and embraced the True Fidelity of Being who, and what I am.
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There be no magiks here
No mage or alchemist
No sorcerer's devil's bones
Only
Men of science
Whose work is oftentimes
Little understood.
Bishop St Pauce 1487AD
from an Appeal for Clemency addressed to Pope Innocent VIII in defence of the (unsanctioned by the Church) experimental work and studies carried out by scientists, scholars and philosophers sentenced to Auto Da Fe (Death by Fire)
----surely religion is concomitant with science. Ah, say you then it is not so. Yet how can this be I wonder, when both science and religion make prodigious use of the mystical numbers 3,4,6,7,8,9,14,21 and of course 28,72 and 100. I am only a man Holiness, whose judgement is often in error. Instruct me Holiness. Enlighten my darkness. What crimes hath these men committed that are so heinous, thou hast need of inquisitors to torture and burn them alive? In the name of God, clemency, I beg of thee -----
Bishop St Pauce 1487AD
from an Appeal for Clemency addressed to Pope Innocent VIII
The Academy
City of Origins – Circa 9,000BC
Bars of sunlight, forge hot and thick, sliced the air, falling slantwise across the stone slabbed floor in patterns and stripes of dusty yellow light. Hot it was, and growing hotter, sultry airs, trapped within the Academy's great central Hall of Learning pulsed with heat like a lover's unquiet heart.
Silent was the hour, falling down through glass, the hiss and mystery of it encapsulated within sand. A stray beam of sunlight shimmer shifted across the huge rounded dome of the hour glass, standing like some misshapen figure of eight on a squat plinth of polished black stone, veined with red spidery threads, the colour of old blood.
I sat in comfort on a smooth marble bench, my back resting against a wall built of massive, age old stones. I often come here when all is quiet and still to simply sit, and think on this and that. I am not an unfriendly man, yet there is something within me that ever loves solitude and a gift of silence, that strangely, sometimes rings within my head like a solemn bell of calling.
From where I sit, I can see sand sifting down within the hourglass. I often turn it, even when there is no need, simply to watch the beauty of sunlight turn grains of falling sand into a sparkling golden stream. And when the hour is done, no doubt I will start another on its way, until sunlight moves on, and only shadows and a memory remain.
Life is sometimes like that I think, a mixture of shadows, and sunlight, and memory. The trick is of course, not to remain too long in the shadows, and yet, nor must you lose sight of the memory that shadows do indeed exist. It has to do with balance of light and dark, the fundamental essence of spiritual growth that hopefully leads towards fulfilment of true spiritual maturity.
Noetikus once argued that light (good) without reason be more corrosively destructive than reasoning darkness (evil).
It is something I have thought on from time to time. Eventually riddling the way of it and much to my own surprise, was then able to expand the notion and carry it through to a logical conclusion. Pylon, forward thinker of the Mathikus discipline, demanded that I prove, that is, express and demonstrate the truth of my conclusion through the use of numbers (maths), which of course I did, much to his confusion. It was well received and has now become an integral part of Noetical study.
I like the musty bookish smell of the great hall, and that other more aromatic smell of polished wood. I enjoy sitting here, with my back to the wall, and a great arch of stone over my head, looking out across a huddle of study tables and a scattered straddle of benches and wooden chairs. I find a rare kind of quietness and peace here. It seeps into my bones and eases for awhile, the sad ache that is now so familiar, it has, I fear, become a part of me.
Was my father, when first he brought me here, already aware of his fate? Had he, in some way, a sending perhaps, divined his own death? I think so. Oh yes indeed, I am convinced he knew, and that knowledge of it came from the Traveller. The little man with dark skin. It was all bound up somehow with the story he once told me. Perhaps I too should beware of a man with a yellowish caste to his eyes. The writings of Gildas, a much maligned historian of our ancient ancestors, the Pobal Na Cloch, also spoke of such a man. It is something I must think on, of that I am sure.
The sun continues its journey, leaving my small bit and piece of the world in shadows. The stones are cooling now, and that pulse of heat in the air has gone. Sounds from the city rarely penetrate much beyond the outer walls of the Academy, except on feast or hand fasting days that is.
I chose a somewhat insular life, I mused idly, the thoughts of me shifting comfortably inside my head. And who would have dared to dream that the awkward, gangling boy of yesteryear, with the shy smile and hesitant tongue, would become what I am today. Certainly not I, my father perhaps, now that I think on it. His faith in me was ever a shiny kind of complete thing, like his love for me, it never wavered, not ever. A surge of emotion lumped my throat as I thought of him. You should have warned me, I thought blindly, you should have warned me — just a little.
In truth I knew he could not. There are, as all of humankind know, some things that are better left unsaid. They will come, words revealing, when there is a need to know, and if they come not at all, who are we to rail against words unspoken.
Because of his love for me, he spared me the pain of foreknowledge, and that is all I care to know. I love the deep memory of him. I always will, nor do I care to reveal to another, who he was.
'Well Argos,' I looked up at the vaulted roof and heaved a great sigh, 'perhaps you knew what it was I would become. Certainly I did not, nor had I ever dreamed it possible.'
Sitting midst the quiet solitude of the great hall, my back resting against ancient stones, I let the memories inside my head shift and wander.
Can it be, that for some, it is not possible to know what they will become until the final hour of becoming something. Does evil know it is evil, before committing an evil act, and knowing it, willingly continue? Is good merely an absence of evil? No, I do not think so, I do not think so at all. The good and the just and followers of light often commit monstrous acts of evil, yet they do not consider themselves to be evil. There are many shades of light, just as there are many shades of darkness and often, neither one nor the other knew what they would become until the final hour of becoming. And I, I have become something of both I think. Though I ever strive towards a dominance of light, and knowledge that may lead me towards recognition of Fior Dilse Sprid the True Fidelity of Being, true it is I often fall along the way.
Fourteen years have I studied and lived within these walls. I did not think to stay here so long, at least that is what I thought during the first year of my chosen life. And then, a terrible thing happened, and suddenly there was nowhere else for me to go. Something changed inside me then, and for a run of years my inner voice became coldly dispassionate. A relentless driving force that had me teetering about the edge of sanity's ruin before I finally realised what it was I had become and embraced the True Fidelity of Being who, and what I am.
I became something that has no parallel throughout our history. Something Citeanns have never known before.
During the final throes of my inner spirit's madness, I received recognition as the Academy's leading Ar Aghaidh Smaoinfm (forward thinker), and, through a series of brutal, oftentimes, savage and bloody testings I also became Sarmhaith Faraire (superb warrior), and went on to defeat all other Sarmhaith Faraire to become Gaiscíoch Na Gaiscíoch (Warrior of Warriors). The first, in all the city's long history to be ranked above all other superb warriors.
Never before had two, such diverse disciplines melded together in one person. At the time I wondered, somewhat cynically, if after my death, warrior clans would make of me a god in the way of Aratus. Would I in fact be remembered at all. Not that it matters. In this I am much like my father, caring little for the trappings of fame or an unlooked for reputation. What bothered me about the way of it all was why? And, will there be others, or am I to be the only one, and if so, why? For what reason, what purpose am I to serve? Why is it I became something I never consciously strove to be? Perhaps I did, and then buried the thought of it all so deep I could not find it, and only the intention remained, hovering just below my ability to grasp, incapable of being recognised.
I know there is reason behind it all, but what, I cannot say. It bodes no good I'm thinking, it bodes no good at all for the city and its people. Death gave birth to something inside me that would not let go until I became what I am. After which, between sunrise and sunset my former familiar sanity of spirit returned to its house and I asked myself the questions why? For what reason, what purpose am I to serve that requires a melding of two incredibly diverse disciplines?
What has my father not told me? What did he know that I do not? What foreknowledge of our future did he hide? Must I too beware a man, if man he be, with yellow eyes? My father taught me to seek out a truth hidden within the pattern. Perhaps I have found the secret, perhaps I have not. Only a measure of passing seasons will reveal the truth I'm thinking and oh my father I love thee well, thy memory I cherish, even as I cherish recognition of who you were.
Although I did not know it then, I had reached a crossroad in my life, and before the old year reached its end the city of three thousand years would echo to the snarl and howl of rampaging, blood crazed hordes, savage, relentless warriors who followed a chieftain with yellow eyes.
How still the night, how hushed and warm the moments. Somewhere beyond the great hall I can hear the sound of voices in a drifty dreamy, distant sort of way. So caught up was I in reflection, I scarce gave heed to the sound at all. There was much I had to think on, and little time left to be shaping the way of any one thing. One day soon the Adversary would come. It was as certain as death.
True night had fallen, bringing with it a high riding moon. The light of it pouring in through a single wide arched window, flooding the central hall with pale radiance, the colour of old bones and candlelight, and again I wondered. What purpose am I to serve? What is it I must do that I have not yet divined? What am I, if not my own creation? Why keep secrets, of what use is knowledge if it be not freely shared? And the ruler of the North Lands bordering the sea, Menes he is called, king of the Kemittes (later known as Egyptians). Why do I sense my fate to be bound up with yours? Who are you? I do not know you, I do not know you at all.
War looms, events move too fast. So much is happening. Surely, I reasoned, I cannot be the only one who feels our ordered world is slipping out of control. The hordes come to destroy knowledge. Destruction of the city merely incidental to that, and I, so caught up in fury, had not realised what was happening until it was too late.
How easy it is to look back, often with regret, over a measure of years and think, if only, if only I had, if only I had not, how different my life would be. And yet, I do not believe we are creatures of happenstance. I believe we know exactly what we do and why. Though I grant you, such reasoning does not rest easy within me. It has something to do with the Noetical concept of effect sometimes preceding cause, I shouldn't wonder.
However that may be, long ago, I chose as a free person, a Citeann, the way of my life, and all that followed after became no more than a single thread caught up in the pattern's limitless weave.
I entered the Academy with a questing mind and a heart full of wonder, with no thought given as to where it all might lead, or the price I would pay.
Though only fourteen summers tall, I was broad of shoulder, chest and arms heavy with a weight of muscle rare in one so young. Argos trained me well, which is to say I possessed more than a modicum of warrior skills. Eager I was, and brash with the, I will live forever attitude of inexperienced youth. At times my inner voice advised caution, especially on the training field, and of course I ignored its whispery advice. And why not? Youth is a golden age of limitless horizons. There is nothing youth cannot do or strive to be, midst the endless wonder of youth abroad within an ancient city of warriors and knowledge. I stirred and burned with unquenchable fires, needing only experience to temper the steel within.
I be Hermes, son of Argos, Champion of the City, and had yet to experience pain or suffer the spiritual devastation of complete and utter loss. I had yet to face the cruel, almost whimsical vagaries of life and the easy, casualness of humankind to reach out and destroy.
During the third summer of my new life, what remained of youth shrivelled up and died, leaving me spirit lorn and bereft.
Thereby did I change the set of one life and embark upon another. Perhaps it was destined to be, perhaps it was not, who can know, who can say, certainly not I. All that can be said with certainty is that it happened, and no force on earth or in the heavens above could alter or sway it otherwise.
Like madness it was; a fine delicate weave of madness you do not know is there, until it is gone. And you look back at your actions and realise with dread certainty, that for awhile you walked the ragged edge of insanity. Only those, who like I, teetered on the brink, and pulled back, can ever hope to understand. What use to write or speak of madness if you have not been there? The lie sits on the tongue of those who claim to understand what they have never known.
To balance, like molten metal on the edge of a knife, and then pull back towards a new, more certain appreciation of life. It is a spiritual thing, and the spirit of you is stronger, more aware and enlightened for the testing of it, for winning through a rite of passage towards a new, expanding consciousness. We all go through testings in one way or another, many times. How else can the spirit earn the right to progress along the Spiral of Immortality, if not through testing. There is no easy way, no divine dispensation of something you have not earned. All of humankind face such testings in uniquely individual ways. This life or another, it makes no difference. Soon or late testings come as the spirit asserts its own imperative to seek, to know and, move on to higher states. Some do fade (for awhile) others win through to Treas Slighe Na Spiorad (Third Way of the Spirit).
Of course Abaris, the Academy's Noetics master, loves to contend such thinking, and why not, it is the right of all thinkers to contend. How else do we advance our knowledge. Even so, the difference between us is that I do not care who may think my thoughts to be right or wrong, it is, I freely admit, a matter of complete indifference to me. Indeed, what care I, if anyone should agree or disagree with anything I might say? Truth unfetters no shackles, knowledge however, may very well hand you the key.
Somewhere along my way I came to realise those who insist, vociferously and sometimes violently, that only their ideologies, religion or whatever are right and all others wrong; such have not yet come to spirit's testing or, having come to their testing, failed. Indeed, the very maintenance of rightness in the face of other proofs, not only indicates lack of knowledge, but also a righteous inability to consider other viewpoints, or even acknowledge the right of others to have viewpoints, such arrogance is a fine madness don't you know? Although Abaris thinks not. But then he is a contentious fellow, ever mindful of what he calls, maintaining pride of position. I once asked him, in a casual sort of way, why Noetics? Of all the disciplines, why did you choose to master only one? He looked somewhat confused and stammered out, that he didn't know, as though the very notion of my question had never occurred to him before. Even so, his answer pleased me. At least, I thought in wonder, I am not alone in my ignorance.
A golden wash of mellow, late afternoon sunlight bathed the squared training field tucked away behind the Academy, in soft buttery coloured light. Above, the sky had begun to deepen, taking on that special incredible deep blue, you only see when the sun begins to slide down its final quadrant. I love the beauty and quiet stillness of such hours, as the day finally moves towards the slower, more contemplative hours of night.
I paused for awhile, sheathing my blade, savouring the warm, rich taste of the air. Pungent it was, with the smell of spices and roasting meat wafting out from the kitchens nearby. Thick lush grass, cool and as green as an unripe apple, refreshed my feet. Sweating lightly from the demands of the pattern and its complex weave, I breathed deep of the air, drawing it down into my lungs, reluctant to continue blade training as nature's beauty entrapped me.
Have you ever felt such moments slide inside your head, welling up from the pit of your belly to lodge in your heart forever? And do you think, as I often do, that if you could choose a handful of moments to relive endlessly, you would choose moments such as now, with no before or after.
Let the day never end, I implored silently, staring up at the sky. Let the wonder of it all breathe inside me until the last of all days, until the knowledge inside my head turns to dust, and my bones be no more than a calendar of hours, scribed on the lists of memories.
The training field was deserted as usual, what with few academics having any taste for exercise. True to my oath, I trained when I could; which is to say, I trained often, though not always with serious intent, and mostly, I trained alone. Being somewhat solitary by nature, an absence of people bothered me not at all. Occasionally, one or two younger, hardy souls blade trained with me, but never for very long. Even so, I always dealt with them kindly, slowing my speed, easing back from complex blade work, and often, deliberately turning my blade so the sharp edge of it would cause no wounding, and, when panting and running with sweat they cried enough. I would thank them most kindly, though never in a condescending way, for having sparred with me at all. And they, to my pleasure would strut away puffed with pride, having blade trained with Hermes, son of Argos Sarmhaith Faraire (Superb Warrior).
I am solitary because I choose to be, though sometimes it is mistaken for aloofness. Even so, I treasure with sacred trust the voice and presence of friends. All of humankind should have at least one, true , oath sworn friend. It is not good to be alone, unless the spirit residing inside your head dictates otherwise.
My father taught me well. It was he who said, you do yourself no good when you humiliate or shame another whose skills are less than your own. Be it by word or by deed, it makes no difference, and those who do so, be small not only in spirit, but in mind and heart.
I was about to turn away, not having a feel for more training, when a figure appeared out of the sun, striding across the grass towards me.
Shading my eyes against the glare, I recognised him. And who would not recognise Karnak, a long time warrior friend of my father's. Though not as tall as I, he was a big man, thick around the chest and arms, a noted warrior who rarely smiled. He wore his hair long, as all warriors do, and I noted in surprise, it was unbound. Unlike the desert tribes, Citeann warriors usually, though not always, unbind their hair when they fight, be it a challenge to first blood or war. In times of peace however, it is rare indeed to see a warrior walk the city streets with unbound hair and never, to my knowledge had the Gatekeeper allowed a warrior with unbound hair to enter the precincts of the Academy.
I began to feel just a little bit uneasy. Indeed, as Karnak drew near, the grim, hard look on his face filled me with foreboding.
Young he was, being no more than a handful of summers older than I. Once, during my early childhood, I asked my father with childlike innocence, why he bothered to make a friend of Karnak when, even to my young senses, the vast difference between them was obvious, and not only of age. Karnak was Karnak, a warrior, my father was, well, my father, also a warrior it is true , but one who read a lot and appreciated the fragile beauty of flowers and the passing glory of sunsets. Always particular about whom he invited into our home, I nonetheless knew, when he did invite someone, that someone would always be a little like him and therefore trustworthy. Even so, it was unusual for my father to actually encourage someone to visit and thereby slowly form bonds of friendship. I really could not understand why he deemed one who rarely smiled and spoke even less to be worth befriending.
But then, I was young and had much to learn.
As I grew older, it gradually dawned on me that Karnak was indeed a rare man. His trust and affection for a friend was absolute.
However, at the time of my asking, all my father said was, 'One day Karnak will be needed.'
'Needed, what do you mean, needed,' I asked?
Argos shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and made no reply.
'How do you know he will be needed,' I persisted?
Argos said in soft voice, 'I feel it will be so.'
'Feel it, what do you mean, feel it,' I almost shrieked, 'how can you feel something that hasn't happened?'
'It's like a sensing,' he said.
'Sensing, what do you mean, sensing,' I pleaded, 'what exactly do you mean?'
'I don't know,' he replied, 'I dream, I see things inside my head. Sendings some do call them, it's like,' he tried to explain, 'sensing something with pictures. It is,' he added, 'a thing of the spirit.'
'Then how can you not know,' I asked in confusion?
'I don't know,' he answered somewhat sadly.
Baffled, I left it at that.
Sometimes, asking my father something posed more questions than answers. Not that I minded, not really, I loved him.
The thought of it all flashed through my head like quicksilver as my father's grim faced friend came to a halt, a few paces in front of me. The blue eyes of him, hard and glassy, like polished river stones bored into mine and then fell away.
Something cold stirred in my guts.
'Ho Karnak,' I greeted him softly.
'Ho Hermes,' he replied, his eyes looking anywhere, but at me.
'What brings you here my friend?'
He shifted his feet and remained silent. A terrible sense of foreboding flooded through me. Icy fingers clawed up from my belly and clamped around my heart.
'What is it Karnak,' I asked soft voiced, 'what is wrong? Is it Argos, is he hurt? Tell me Karnak,' I almost shouted, 'why are you here?'
A tear trickled down his craggy, old-young face.
No, I thought wildly, no; and then calming myself, I said, 'Gather it all together Karnak. Fill your mouth with words and tell me all in a rush — WHAT IS WRONG?'
He looked up then, his huge hands clenched tightly by his side. 'It is better you see with your eyes what I cannot say.' His voice faltered, 'Come,' he continued, 'follow me and bring your weapons,' he added ominously, 'though I'm thinking,' he whispered not unkindly, 'it already be too late.'
I dressed swiftly, buckling sword and knife around my waist with trembling fingers. Then, dressed, booted and armed, I followed behind as he walked with measured tread through the Academy's confines and out into the city.
Oddly, Janus, the Gatekeeper was nowhere to be seen as we filed through the open gateway, and began threading our way through strangely deserted streets. My heart thumped wildly and every now and again my stomach seemed to fall down through a great hole. Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong.
As we passed through the city gates, the guards barely acknowledged my polite greeting. About then, fear began to crawl and scrabble along my spine.
Karnak turned west, following a dusty road that snaked out towards the plains, bypassing fields of green crops standing out, in sharp contrast to the arid powdery brown ruin beyond.
My father owned a small steading, however his spirit was not, he freely admitted, of the green kingdom. Wisely, he leased his lands to one whose spirit breathed with the soil, a Feirmeoir (farmer).
And Karnak was, I realised belatedly, leading me towards my father's steading.
The road was deserted. The green edge of it glowing in the westering sunlight and yet, somehow, the beauty of it all passed me by this day.
Something terrible had happened, of that there was no longer any doubt. In what way Argos was involved, I had no idea, and as for Karnak's insistence that I see with my eyes, what his voice could not vocalise. See what, surely nothing could be that bad. How young I was, how ineptly young.
Where go the stars when they fall? How high doth the moon ride in the sky? Of all numbers, why is three (3) the numerical number of life? Why did Noetikus once say, the spirit evolved from the stuff that forms stars? How could he know, and how could I not?
So young, so full of wonder and mind's questing was I, I gave no thought, no heed at all to evils or wandering dooms stalking about the sunlit plains. Why should I? Young I was and thinking I had some kind of right to live and enjoy my age of youth. How vain and incredibly, foolishly wrong I was.
I once heard a market trader talking of the divine right of kings and priests, at least, he said, knowing our Citeann distaste for kings, that is how it was in his homeland, to which of course, he never returned. Since then I have come to understand that no one, no one at all has divine right to anything, other than life, and perhaps death, though of that I am not yet convinced. Once, during my later years I met a desert mystic who claimed he was more than 150 years old. I smiled at that. It is not that I disbelieved him, only, I tend to think there be more purpose to longevity than that of merely wandering about the desert, also, I had by then, come to my own bit and piece of knowledge. But that was then, for now, I trailed behind Karnak down a dusty road towards something it feared me to guess at.
Karnak walked with a weight of solidness about him that was like a shield. I do not think Karnak had ever met with defeat and yet he was not recognised as a Sarmhaith Faraire (Superb Warrior). Having once turned away from the honour, it was never offered again, not did he want it, and I think only I and my father understood why.
It was long ago during my early years. I had not meant to eavesdrop, only, I could not resist doing so. Listening to Karnak speak at length was a rare occurrence I did not want to miss, nor did I. Though I think both he and my father knew I was listening and simply, did not mind.
I sat on the step outside the door of our house in the gathering shadows of dusk, enjoying that special play of light I had come to know and love so well. A soft hazy purple it was, the kind of coloured haze you can sometimes see about the peaks and flanks of distant mountains marching off into the horizon, and this fall of evening was extra special. Though I often have a fancy to think all evenings do be special. To the eyes and mind of a child there are rare magics to be found in the splendid, changing colours of fading light. And why should there not be magic, who can ever be certain it does not exist? Of course some do lose their once upon a time dreaming sense of wonder, or simply grow too old to care, whilst others dismiss it all as an outgrown childish fancy. They do self no good I'm thinking, but then, perhaps they do not know that when wonder is cast aside, something of self goes with it and the world dims a little and colours and dreaming are never so bright ever again, whilst they live with just a little more cold inside, and a little more disregard for the hopes and dreams of others. It is easier for such to kill, without regret, no guilt, no remorse. One day those without wonder will rape the very bones of the earth with no thought given to the cradle of life. Such do not quest or wonder — why? And yet, suffer they do for casting aside a simple ineffable gift. And if it's a child you're wanting to be understanding, first you must remember what it is like to be a child. It is a thing of the spirit though such as they, would not be interested in knowing that I'm thinking.
Now it is, few Citeanns seem able to recall what once our ancestors, the Pobal Na Cloch People of the Stone, did with ease. I know this now, though I did not then, as I sat on the step outside the door of my father's house, the spirit of me embracing the warm scented air flowing about my head on a fine as you please dusky summer's evening.
The bass rumble of Karnak's voice drifted out the door as a splash and puddle of lampglow pushed back the gathering shadows. Curious to learn what the normally taciturn warrior had to say, I eased back into the shadow of the door, twisting round slightly so that I faced inwards, towards the room, hoping I would not be noticed.
As always, the massive bulk of Karnak made our eating, come guest room appear smaller than it really was, and like his body, the hands of Karnak were true formed warrior hands. Wide and powerful with long thick fingers, ideally suited to grip and hold weapons. Sometimes, when the hands of him lay on his lap, fingers curling inwards towards the palm, they put me in mind of stones at rest, solid, immovable and enduring.
As I peered into the room I noticed with a start of surprise, that Karnak's face wore an uncertain, anxious look about it not in keeping with his usual bland expression. Obviously, they were discussing things of great moment. What, I thought excitedly, could possibly stir the big man to display emotion so openly. Rare it was, and I hungry to learn why.
'----- I would ask for something Karnak, though do not feel you are bound by Guest-law to answer,' Argos said courteously.
'Ask,' Karnak rumbled.
I noticed he stiffened somewhat, the blue eyes of him taking on a flat, hard look. My father, aware of the big man's sudden tensing, spoke softly of nothing in particular for awhile, slowly drawing the stiffness out of him. He said, in a casual, friendly tone of voice, 'I have observed you from time to time Karnak, honing your battle skills with others of your company,' he added, 'you are the best Karnak. Of them all, you are the best.'
To hear such praise from out the mouth of Argos was rare indeed. Karnak positively beamed, the smile of him almost cracking his face.
'And yet,' continued Argos in the same soft voice, 'there is something that intrigues me. It is nothing of importance,' he hastened to add, 'so do not feel guest bound to answer.' My father smiled at the big man, 'whilst you sit in my home say only what you wish to say, with no offence taken, you are,' he added, 'always welcome here.'
Karnak breathed out slowly, 'Ask,' he rumbled, 'and I will answer if so I can.'
My father's eyes bored into Karnak's. 'Once,' he said quietly, 'you were accorded the honour of being named Sarmhaith Faraire (Superb Warrior). Why did you refuse to accept the honour, knowing it is never offered a second time to any warrior who has once refused it, no matter how famous he may become? Why,' asked Argos gently, 'did you refuse?'
My father lapsed into silence, aware I think, of the struggle going on inside the big man's head. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, glistening in the lamplight, like small bright jewels. Crouching in the shadows, I waited breathlessly for him to answer, silently willing the big man not to seek refuge in his customary silence. Perhaps the spirit of him heard me, or something inside him cried out to be recognised, if not by the world, then at least by the man in front of him. The one man he obviously admired.
Karnak sighed noisily, and then, as though he were about to leap off the edge of a precipice, he began to speak, the deep voice of him rolling across the room like muted thunder.
'I am,' he began hesitantly, 'a warrior. It is,' he continued, 'enough for me to know, and is all I wish to be.' Raising his arms, he smiled thinly and said, 'even my hands say so.' Scared knuckles gleamed in the lamplight.
Perhaps it was only my fancy or a trick and twist of light but suddenly, a simple dignity woven out of a depth of deep emotion and an awareness of self, of who and what your are, an awareness I had not thought Karnak to possess, cloaked him when he lowered his arms, looked Argos in the eye and said, a little sadly I thought.
'I am not a leader of men. I have not the gift of words to draw warriors to me, nor, given free choice, do I wish to lead. A Sarmhaith Faraire must alway be a leader, an example for others to follow when the need doth arise. It is not my way, not my inclination to be other than what I know myself to be, therefore I refused the honour and was content to do so,' he smiled. 'I follow and serve,' he added softly, 'it is what I do best. It is what I am content to do, therefore it is enough for such as I. I do not want more Argos, why then should I accept what the heart of me knows, will ever sit uneasy about my shoulders. I am a warrior,' he said with that proud simple dignity about him, 'and that is enough for me to know.'
Something was happening here, I could feel it permeating through the air. Something wonderful I think, and important. At least that is how it felt to me, like magic you can never quite explain to another who was not there.
My father gazed at Karnak with rapt attention, as though Karnak's words confirmed something about him Argos already knew or hoped to be true . When he spoke I swear, something seemed to shiver shift through the air like an unseen blessing of completion.
'Karnak,' my father said in a soft clear voice, the face of him intense and shiny with lamp glow, 'know you this,' his eyes seemed to blaze, 'from this moment on, I am your true friend unto death.'
Karnak gaped, his mouth dropping open in surprised astonishment as a flush of joy and wonder slowly blushed the craggy lines and planes of his old-young face.
'You,' he stammered, 'you name me life-friend.' The big man half rose from his seat, the eyes of him sparky and bright as though lit from within by a new kindled fire.
The sight of it took my breath away, as though some inner longed for secret dream had been fulfilled and the joyful light of its fulfillment poured out of his eyes.
It was beautiful and moving and I take oath, the light within the room brightened, swelling out to flood the night.
'Karnak,' I breathed out silently, 'it is sorry I am to have so misjudged you.'
That night I was taught a lesson I have never forgotten. It had something to do with prejudgment, and all those spurious assumptions of thinking you know someone, when in fact you have never conversed beyond a casual greeting or some innocuous comment or two. I learned my lesson well, and have not made the same mistake again, at least not yet.
'You call me life-friend,' Karnak said again, savouring the sound of it. He sat down slowly, resting his arms on the table, the eyes of him fixed on my father's face. The deep bass rumble of his voice moved on the air. 'You are Argos, first warrior of the city. Men speak of you in the same breath as Aratus, you be a thinker too.' He shook his head as though dazed, 'and you call ME – FRIEND.'
'Aye, whilst I live,' Argos replied soft voiced, 'whilst I live,' his voice trailed off into silence.
I thought that an odd thing for my father to say. But then, the whole evening was turning out to be a little odd in its way and so I gave no more thought to his whispery comment.
'I will swear oath on it,' Argos leaned forward as he spoke. A strange fixed intensity clouding his face, and then he suddenly relaxed with a wide smile when Karnak with a small shake of his head replied, 'Between us there is no need.' He straightened up on his seat, and again a simple dignity cloaked him, like some shimmering half seen veil. 'That you name me life-friend, here, now, it is enough for me to know, and for you to know from this moment on, you and your son are never alone, I am your friend,' he continued, 'we are family and, for good or ill, will so remain unto death. My house is yours,' he intoned, 'your house is mine, to protect, and provide as one unto the last of our seed. So do I, Karnak, warrior of the city swear unto thee, Argos and to thee, Hermes my,' his voice filled with emotion, 'life friends.'
A bell rang inside my head, the sound of it as clear and crystal gleaming as a cold, frost bound night sky. For a heartbeat, an inner clarity of visionless revelation washed through me and I recognised, without knowing how, the true nature of the big man's indomitable shining spirit. Warrior shaped he was, forged and true , selfless, free of deceit and guile, faithful unto death. Without stain was he, and the wonder of it all was that he lived unknowing. Only he did not, but that I had yet to learn.
I sank back into the shadows, hunching down and hoping I would not be noticed, shaking a little from the powerful surge of visionless revelation that had, moments before swept through me like a strong wind. I wondered, if that is what it felt like for my father when he spoke of receiving a sending. I intended to ask him, but I never did.
Later that night, I lay abed unsleeping, watching moonbeams creep across my chamber as the high white orb slid across the sky.
I had misjudged the big man badly and felt sorry for having done so. Like the child I was, I had not bothered or cared to look, beyond his silence. Well, I resolved with a sigh, I will not make the same mistake again. At least not if'n I can help it, I added silently.
Eventually, moonlight faded into darkness as the moon fell down the sky and, I slipped towards sleep with bits and pieces of nothing in particular floating about inside my head.
Sometimes, I find that when I reach towards sleep, drifting into that in between state of, not quite sleep and yet not really awake, unlooked for thoughts sometimes intrude. The kind that hang way back inside your head, waiting for the immediacy of pertinent awareness to weaken a little and relax the adamant barrier of conscious will, so that other, less immediate thoughts have a chance of being noticed as they slip over the weakening, near somnolent barrier into that warm, lazy haze of sea drift that sometimes swims behind the eyes. Who are you Karnak, I mused sleepily, who are you really.
I thought of Argos. Had he spirit recognised Karnak? Is that why he offered friendship to the big man in the ancient way?
After Karnak left, he told me that one day there would be need of Karnak. And yet, I thought sleepily, it seems to me there is more to it than just a sometime need.
My father once said that, 'to our ancestors, the Pobal Na Cloch, spirit recognition of those who returned as tenants of a new birthed house (body) was an accepted part of everyday life and that spirit recognition was a fairly common occurrence amongst them. Indeed,' he said, 'amongst the People of the Stone, spirit recognition was always a joyous occasion, resulting in feasts and much singing and dancing to welcome the spirit's return to the people. Sadly,' he said, 'somewhere along the run of centuries we lost the way of it all. Of spirit recognition and more, much more,' he said in a soft faraway voice, 'perhaps,' he mused, 'it had something to do with our constantly changing ways, and neglect of what is written concerning knowledge of the spirit our distant ancestors passed on to their children. The books are there, Hermes, full of ancient knowledge, but no one reads them any more.'
My last thought, as tendrils of sleep reached out to claim me, was of the way my father sometimes spoke of an ancient historian named Gildas. Almost as if he had once known him, I thought dreamily.
I returned from mind wandering with a startled oath, almost bumping into Karnak as he turned off along a wide rutted track, leading towards the home of my father's tenant farmer. Fields of ripe grain bordered both sides of the track, golden ears swaying now and again to the passing of some small, lost wind. It is a thing of wonder and beauty is it not, to watch a field of golden grain sway and ripple like water before the wind, the whole of it bathed in hot sunlight, shimmering like molten gold. I did not know it then, but I would stand in sore need of beauty's remembrance in days to come.
And you Karnak, I stared at his broad back as I trailed behind, heading towards the farmer's house, what part are you destined to play in my life.
Deep within the heart of me I knew what I would find here. I think I had known from the first moment Karnak refused to speak, saying only that I should see with my own eyes, what he could not free from the prison of his mouth.
I knew, and yet I did not want to know. A part of me refusing to accept what I had always deemed impossible. Indeed, not even Karnak, weapon seasoned, a veteran warrior who could move with incredible speed for so large and heavy a man, could best Argos. I believed no warrior could, no two, or three or even four. But then, like the legend of the warrior god, Aratus, I had not imagined an enemy so base, as to ambush a single warrior, and then, surprise having failed, attack with a weight of numbers no lone warrior on earth could possibly hope to face, and live. Not even a god, who, like Argos, began life as mortal as he.
The steading was in no small part, a reflection of the man who had care of the land, drawing forth edible grains from out the loamy loop and swirl of its skin.
My father once said, what we gained through mastery of stone and the way of its shaping, we lost, when, as Citeanns, we severed the umbilical chord that bound us to the land and the way of its breathing.
Only Feirmeoir (farmers) retain some bit and piece of the old wisdom, passed down from father to son, generation after generation. Here, on my father's steading, the old wisdom was alive and well. Stalks bending under a weight of ripe golden ears of grain. Endless rows of edible green crops, luscious fruits and huge silver striped melons bulging with sweet, moist pink flesh. Water there was, rivulets of cool, fresh water falling endlessly into a massive stone basin. Grass and clumps of white and pink wildflowers edged the basin, creating a whimsical scene of fragile beauty about the booted feet of grim, hard eyed warriors.
Behind the basin, a house built of rough faced stone sat as sturdy now, as when it was first built, centuries ago. The massive stones, yellow sheened with sunlight. Suddenly a door creaked open and Balrok the tenant farmer, rushed towards me, wringing his hands, crying out in a trembling, fear laden voice. 'Forgive me young master, forgive me, how could I know?' His words rushed on, 'I swear I did not, how could I, how could I? Oh Hermes, Hermes on my oath I swear I did not know. How could I, how could I, when it all seemed so harmless? He asked nothing Hermes, I swear it, nothing others could not just as easily have told him. Harmless questions Hermes, on my oath, harmless questions is all he asked. Oh why,' Balrok moaned, halting in front of me, 'why me, why me, why me. I breathe with the land, that is all I know, it is all I do,' he sobbed. 'I breathe with the land.' His eyes swam with tears as barely coherent words tumbled out begging over and over for forgiveness.
And I forgave. How could I not when the least of blame was his.
How bright the sun, the warmth of it laying about my head and shoulders. How blue the sky, with a look of old fading paint about it.
Swift paced beat my heart, like that of a hard running man.
Oh my father, my father what has been done to you? Something caught at the back of my throat and the eyes of me prickled with salt. I felt cold then, with the start of a terrible hurt forming inside the hollow of my belly. Giddiness, like that, that comes from wine, momentarily blurred my sight and a whispery, rushing sound swelled in my ears like an ingathering of bitter storm winds. Faint was I, distant seeming from my house of flesh as though the spirit of me spiralled away in fright from the confrontation of a single, shocking truth too terrible to face. Agonising implications, hideous in the awful dawning realisation that someone you love has left your life forever. Such feelings shrivel the soul and make of your heart and mind a wasteland.
I breathed in then, deep and even, steadying the heart of me for what was yet to come. It is no easy thing to face the actuality of a nightmare, no, it is not easy at all. It never is.
The sun still shone from out its enamelled bowl of blue. Fields of grain continued to sway and sing a hissing song with the wind. Warriors stood around leaning on spears, and the voice of Balrok pummelled me like fists.
I am my father's son, I breathed out silently. Reaching out, I placed my hands on Balrok's shoulders and slowly, calmed him down. Repeating over and over, that until I learned of what had happened here, I could not forgive what I did not know.
Balrok came to a spluttering halt, a look of dismay spreading across his face. Turning towards Karnak, he said in a bitter accusing voice, 'You have not told him?'
Karnak, face etched in misery, shook his head slowly muttering, 'I could not,' and then more explosively, 'I COULD NOT.'
Without looking at me he turned away, heading towards a loose group of bleak faced warriors staring out across the fields to the arid plains beyond with hard, glitter bright eyes.
Facing Balrok, I said in a quiet, deadly voice, 'from the beginning my friend. Start from the beginning and tell me all you know. Leave nothing out,' I added, 'nothing at all, and you have my oath, whatever there is to forgive, I do so now, freely, before you begin.'
His face sagged with relief as he began to speak; the two of us standing alone with silent sunlight all around us and the fresh, cool feel of a wandering breeze playing against heated flesh.
He began in a faltering, uncertain voice that slowly gathered strength as the story unfolded, falling from out his mouth like shades escaping from the other side of midnight.
It is given to few to pass beyond rage and enter the cavern of its birth, there to stoke and fuel a furnace heat so all consuming, if not controlled, if its energies be not harnessed, it will burn away reason and destroy the very fabric of being. And I, who am perhaps less than other men, entered the cavern with a right good will and became something the city had not visioned before.
'A stranger came to my door,' Balrok said, 'asking if this be the steading of Argos. Aye it is, and a finer one you will not be finding hereabouts, I told him. He then asked, when it was Argos came to collect his portion. On the twenty first day of every thirty, I told him. Do you see now Hermes, the stranger asked nothing others could not have told him. I could see no harm in his question, no harm at all, and that is all he asked. He thanked me politely enough and went on his way.
Often, when your father arrived to collect his portion, we walked the fields together, talking of this and that and thinking of ways to improve the land's yield. He knew much did your father, more I think, than anyone I have known.'
Balrok was steady now, and finished his tale with a sad lost look about him as though bemused by events beyond his ability to comprehend.
'When your father came, I was busy over yonder,' he pointed towards a distant clump of berry bushes, 'and told him I would meet him later near the border fields.' He hung his head then and said softly, 'the fields be a goodly distance away Hermes,' he paused, 'I heard nothing, they all fought and died without me knowing.'
'They,' I demanded harshly, 'what do you mean, they?'
He looked up then, his eyes brimming with moisture. Turning, he pointed towards a distant field sloping down towards the plain, its border thick with yellow furze bushes and a thin line of tall, dry grass, enough and more to conceal twice ten men.
I stared off towards the field, a tight feeling of dread twisting my guts, and something else, something that shivered me through. And then I was off and running, hurtling towards the bottom field with a dreadful weight of sorrow pulling me down.
It was a good place to die.
Had he chosen it, I wondered. Had he come here this day knowing he would die, and if so — why — why? What secret didst thou hide from thy son? Oh Argos, what terrible doom didst thou envision?
I tried to be calm, to hold onto some vestige of sanity as I viewed the battle ground, eyes searching for his body. I moved slowly, the heart of me sick with fear of what I would find. Bodies lay scattered over a wide area of flattened grain. So many, I thought in awe, how was it possible for one man to slay so many. I had much to learn, oh yes indeed, I had much to learn concerning the Shadow Hand Dance.
Here and there rust coloured pools of dried blood stood out from the carnage like twisty malformed hands. As I gazed about, again I thought, so many, how was it possible for one man to slay so many. I counted thirteen dead, fourteen when I found my father. That is to say when I found what his brutal murderers had left of him.
Hot sunlight beat against the back of my head as I stared in horror at his mutilated form. He had been dragged to the edge of the field and arched across a knee high, flat topped boundary stone and the head of him hacked off with cruel deliberately uneven blows. Deep, savage wounds covered his chest, belly and arms. Strips of ragged bloody flesh hung down from his shoulders where sword blades had skidded off the bone. Thigh muscles cut through, and one ankle all but hacked off. To stop him dancing, I thought silently. To stop him dancing, his enemies had all but hacked his legs away. 'Else he would have killed you all,' I screamed out in rage, 'else he would have killed you all.' Tears prickled my eyes, 'else he would have killed you all,' I sobbed, 'killed you all.'
How many had attacked him, I never knew.
'Oh Argos, Argos my father,' I cried out in a loud voice, no longer able to contain pain and sorrow.
'Argos, Argos, what have they done to you?' Stumbling blindly away I began to search for his head. But alas I failed to find it. The strong proud head of my father I could not find. It shivered me through.
Sobbing, sense fled with grief and horror, it was then I think, when a fine kind of madness began. Though it would, seasons later, eventually pass, I have little recollection of its beginning. All I can say is that it began, and somewhere down through the years that followed like an endless procession of aching teeth, it came to an end.
Howling like a dog in mortal pain, 'WHERE IS THE HEAD OF ARGOS.' Cursing the silent warriors who had followed me down to that awful field of death.
'SEARCH,' I screamed, 'SEARCH — SEARCH curse ye search.'
I think someone, Karnak perhaps, answered that they had already done so and found nothing.
'No,' I moaned, 'no, it is here, it is here.' Wild eyed I was, and frantic as the warriors filed silently away.
Dropping to my knees, sobs aching my throat, I eased the broken ruin of Argos away from the killing stone, and gently lay his body down atop a trampled bed of golden grain. The howl in my head blinding me with rage and ineffable sorrow for this — shining man — I did so love.
The field is sacred now, and home to the bones of Argos, buried deep beneath a massive block of squared, blue-grey granite, within a ring of twelve standing stones.
'Argos, Argos, oh my father, my beloved father, what have they done to thee? Why,' I shrieked out in a hate laden voice, 'WHY?'
Laying his body down, I lurched to my feet and continued to search for his head like one bereft of all reason.
The sun had almost set, painting a lurid glow along the bottommost edge of the deepening sky, the fading light of it casting eerie shadows about the stumbling, wild eyed figure searching frantically amongst bushes, scrabbling through clumps of untrodden grain, searching for something that was not there to be found. The dishevelled figure moaned, sobbing quietly as it searched. Tears streaming down grimy, dirt encrusted cheeks, added to the mad wild look of a grieving soul crying away its youth. Something inside the stumbling figure died that day, and something else was born, but the grieving one did not know that, not yet. One day it would, but not now — now was not his time. Indeed all that terrible day was merely a beginning, a prelude of horrors yet to come.
I searched the sun down into its bed and the moon up into the sky, and when the moon filled the sky with its pale, bone white light I searched it down again, stumble mumbling through darkness too blind with grief to see. I searched until the rising sun stunned me with its light, and the tears inside were all cried out.
Swaying dazed and exhausted, staring through blind swollen eyes towards a brightening glow flooding the eastern sky and then as though from a great distance I felt gentle hands turn and lead me away.
Too weary to walk I stumbled to my knees, a great roaring sound filled my head and I was falling, falling endlessly towards something huge and dark and warm, reaching out to enfold me in wings and streamers and wispy bits of welcome oblivion. Suddenly, I felt my body rising from the ground, nestling in a cradle formed by two strong arms that carried me away to the sound of a deep rumbling voice crooning in my ear. Something warm and wet splashed down on my face. Is it raining, I thought in wonder, though in truth I knew it was not, and then reaching darkness wrapped me all about, as the crooning voice choked and faltered, whispering, 'and if tears could heal, I would cry over thee forever, my young spirit wounded friend, I would cry over thee forever.'
Tears coursed down the big man's face as he walked into the sun, carrying the sleeping form of his soul hurt friend in the cradle of his arms. 'I would cry over thee forever,' he whispered brokenly, 'forever.'
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