The Hidden God cried out, “Why do you hide me, why do you hide me in faith? I am not a secret, when will you learn, I AM NOT A SECRET.”
Fragments of Faith
|
Down by the river where the red lilies bloom
I said I love you and then I broke your heart
Red Lilies
Every morning I awaken so I can sleep again.
Every night I sleep to know myself.
Every morning I awaken so I can sleep again
Spanish Paques
I go where I am seen to go
I learn by walking slow
The ghost I carry is myself
Spanish Paques
I try to keep sadness away the best I can. In the morning when the sun comes up/ In the evening when the sun goes down. Like faith and fate mixed in destiny’s cup. I try to keep sadness away the best I can.
Spanish Paques
The Hidden God cried out, “Why do you hide me, why do you hide me in faith? I am not a secret, when will you learn, I AM NOT A SECRET.”
Fragments of Faith
There is a random moment in eternity, and when it collides with you, you are never quite the same ever again
With Closed Eyes So I Might See
We are never so young that we cannot learn, nor yet so old we fail to do so. Indeed sire, what is youth if it be not change? What use all our years should we fail to do so?
Therefore it is our duty, onerous as it may be, assigned to us by God to secure the riches and carry the word (of God) to the soulless inhabitants of the New World (the Americas) and instill the faith in the soulless by all and every means.
From a petition to his most catholic majesty
Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile
Petition submitted by Raphel Tomas de la Costa,
Conquistador AD1508
The Isians lived amongst the debris of a fallen race who long and long ago sailed out from a distant land of tumbled stones and fields drowned beneath rising seas. Pale skinned Civilisers with long, silver white hair and eyes that glowed like azure lamps. Sailing in company with warriors who seemingly gained nourishment from the calamitous misfortunes of their own people, feeding like some vampirish addiction on the very real pain and anguish surrounding them. And then, reaching a new land they turned their blades against their own kind before fleeing deep into the fold of what was now their adopted home. Seth murdered his king, Osris, of whom it is written, Osris light of the world, avenged by his son Horus. The brood of Seth nonetheless managed to survive, or so it is Isian would have me believe. To accept all he might say is to question the very truth of my own existence and I’m none too sure I am ready for that. Even so, I cannot deny what my eyes perceive. I cannot deny the once upon a time existence of the megalithic builders. Certainly someone built the massive structures that dominate the valley. Someone cut and lay stones so massive no engineer in all of Mohenjarro could even begin to envisage moving, let alone building with them. A mystery perhaps that one day a better man than I might fathom, then again perhaps not. One day I will think on it, until then I will try, if so I can, to live each moment, each and every day as best I can.
And then all too soon the long, lazy days came to an end and endless months of mind numbing training began. Months of sheer, bloody exhaustion during which every now and again I thought on those idle, golden days with an ache in my throat as I stumbled to my bed almost too weary to walk. Soft, hazy days of sunshine and idle, easy chatter, golden days that came to an end like the swift killing strike of a hawk, days during which I found Lanaya, and lost her again.
Though taller than I, there was that about Lanaya that made her seem vulnerable and small. Though I doubt she would thank me for saying so. The exotic beauty and grace of her bemused me. Even so, young as I was I yet retained wit enough to realise no lasting relationship might we share. Not that I wanted one, for a while perhaps, but not on down through the years. I could not take her, or any woman, where one day I must go. It was enough for now, and she perhaps wanted no more than that. Even so when our gift of moments came to an end, I’ll not deny that the sudden thought of her had a way of aching me inside for want of holding her close, Maybe I don’t know what love is. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe love is self immolation or maybe I am just a fool who cares not to ignite his own funeral pyre. However it may be, I dealt not kindly with Lanaya, and a poor excuse it is to say, I knew not what else to do.
One day I found a secluded place down by the river when the red lilies were in bloom, a special place that called to me. And though I owned it only for a while, memory of it will remain forever. There is a feel to this place, a tangible feel of peace and regret. Perhaps Isian is right, the whole of the valley is indeed a temple of light.
During those early days of freedom, sometimes I explored the valley alone, sometimes in company with Lanaya. Often I sat alone beside the river. Eyes full of sunlight shimmering atop the river’s placid surface as the serpentine length flowed on through the Valley of a Million Years. Here and there massive blocks of fallen stone lay midst long grass swaying to the soft breath of the honey wind, the whole valley flooding with pale, amber light hazing off towards distant hills, and the lavender hued flanks of mountains beyond. Though notion of a valley as a temple is strange to my way of thinking, perhaps it does indeed fill with manna, spiritual nourishment.
One day I must ask Isian or Kikpak how their people have managed to survive in this lovely place for so long. Sacred the valley might be. Protected by enchantments it certainly is not, else there would be no need for such as Kikpak and his warriors. And they , I later came to learn, are an elite force the marauding Sethians prefer not to face. Now why is that I wonder? What skills do the Isians possess we of Mohenjarro do not? I was arrogant then, too sure of myself, thinking four years of warrior training must surely count for something, and that was my first mistake, it did not.
And then one day Lanaya came to me down by the river where the red lilies bloom, the strange, exotic look of her reminding me from whom her people claimed descent. Yet why are they so few in number when evidence yet remains to show that once the temple valley was home to many times the Isians’ current numbers? What happened, where did they go, or do their bones lay here in this valley? Is this valley both a temple and a tomb? Perhaps I will never know, perhaps some mysteries are best left undisturbed. And for all the valley fills with manna, was it once a place of great suffering too. Does it contain a hidden “Haggard” that now and then unveils its face to their cost? Are they prisoners here? Is that why they never moved on? What is this place, what is it truly?
And I, traduced by the councils, exiled from Mohenjarro. Yet here I sit in this lovely place beside a river where red lilies bloom, sunshine warm on my head and shoulders, the sound of a songbird echoing through the air, and a swirl and chuckle of water flowing over smooth dark stones, with a strange, hauntingly beautiful woman beside me. What are we then, I thought helplessly, if not the birthing lure of our souls. Unlike deep thinkers, I have no useful insights to offer and ever remain victim of my own inadequacies of thought. Her exotic features still haunt me; her face and her eyes will haunt my mind forever. Is that what love is? Is this love? No, I told myself, it is not. Even so I thought it might be, and thereby beguiled myself.
We sat together, comfortable in silence as I gazed off down the valley tracing the winding course of the river, long grass along its banks flushed with hazy, glowing light. Nor could I deny the attraction of Lanaya’s soft curves or the lemon mint perfume of her flesh, as all unbidden she lay her head on my shoulder, her long, silver white hair cascading down.
It was then that an ache birthed inside me, an ache for what I might never have. Something of sunlight I think, fiery sunsets and cool, mist shrouded dawns that are ever to be found somewhere other than where I am. Like a yearning, smouldering inside some do sublimate to love, succursal to life itself perhaps.
Lanaya sensed my shyness, my very reluctance to begin something that had nowhere to go, no life to live, other than now.
“Give what you can Atan Hor’Ruath,” she whispered softly, “I ask no more than that, give what you can,” she repeated, “here by the river where red lilies bloom, give what you can.” Her lustrous eyes gazed deep into mine, and whatever resolve I might have made, melted like thin frost beneath a rising tide of sense fled passion. Whatever I am or become I am no less foolish than any other man.
Lanaya melted in my arms, the warm fragile feel of her like a pounding inside my head. We lay beneath the sun, on the bank of a wide, lazy river, deep within a sacred temple of light. And I soared as our lips met. And I soared for all the sad, aching beauty of the moment. I soared on the rising heat of my passion. I soared on wings of glory. I soared on the very breath of this fabulous valley. I soared on the fragrance of God. I soared soft as cobwebs drifting silent as a promise. I soared on the heady essence of love.
And then I set my love in stone.
I, Atan Hor’Ruath held for a while a silver haired descendant of those who came down from Heaven when the Earth moved and a drift of beauty passed away. And of all the gifted moments I have known, none headier than this all consuming, breathless passion devoid of thought and reason. Endlessly falling inside like a fading wail of summer. Knowing it was wrong, powerless to resist the ache of wanting her. White fire snaking up, coiling around my spine, slithering inside my head. Long, silver white hair, swirling threads of sunlight; slender porcelain limbs, breasts pale as the ghost of love, pale as stone, her eyes blue and luminous like burning lamps. And all that is of Heaven, and all that is of Earth filled the hungry moment, devouring sunlight and every fluting sense of regret that shivered me through. And as I cried out, we rose together, small screams aching my throat as though the gifted moment pierced my very soul.
And then I set my love in stone. And like a stone in the river tears flowed over my love and carried it away.
Later, we bathed in the cool waters. Drying off beneath the sun, we dressed in silence and then sat for awhile, holding each other close, listening to every indrawn breath, knowing, like some immolation of the heart, whilst ever I remained in the valley we might never again share a gifted moment such as this. What memory then might I carry away, and of my foolishness, some part of it leaked away and some part of it remained, locked in a memory of an enchanted summer’s day.
And I set my love in stone down by the river where red lilies bloom, and moonlight haunts fallen ruins that once birthed ancient promise. The memory of Lanaya moves through me now like a silent river. And throughout all those wild years that were to come, I never knew if she lived. Later when the sundering came, when the people of Mohenjarro could no longer tolerate the sight of me, when I left the land, heading west towards a place called home, a certain place I might never find; still I knew not if she lived.
And she moves me. She moves through me like a river. For all I set my love in stone, she moves through me like a river and takes my breath away.
We sat in silence for a while, watching sunlight dance on water, the nearness of her warm, like the sun. She said it then, in a quiet, whispering voice like wind in the trees, words that shocked and shivered me through with a nameless chilling dread.
“My mother’s sister knew your father.”
“What,” I stammered out, my heart suddenly hammering, “what exactly do you mean, she knew my father?” The question hung between us like a spear poised to strike.
She gave me a wan smile as though relieved to go on. “My mother’s sister Francanaya lay with your father.” She paused and then said all in a rush. “Francanaya bore his child, a son, a warrior,” she added lamely, “you are related by blood.”
Oh my father, I thought bleakly, would that I had known you better, would that I had listened when you spoke. We lived in the same house, we ate together and you did love and protect me more than I can begin to imagine. And yet I never came to know you. Sad testimony I never asked. I never thought to ask. Now here in this place, this very Valley of a Million Years, seemingly their lives one who knew you far better than your son?
“Speak to me Lanaya,” I pleaded hoarsely, “speak of what you know. He is gone now, murdered during my youth.”
“Yes,” she replied tearfully, “we know, the people of the valley mourned his loss.”
“Then speak,” I growled harshly. “Tell me about the man who was my father and as a son I failed to know.”
In the end there was little enough Lanaya could say concerning my father’s sojourn in the valley, why he never spoke of it who can say. Lanaya said only that my father was a respected man amongst her people. “He came and went before I was born,” she said softly, “yet this I know, when Francanaya conceived, news of life within her womb from the seed of your father, was the cause for a great celebration. Over the years,” she added eyes downcast, “some few women have lain with men not of the valley. All bore sons who in one way or another formed the core of a warrior class the like of which was then unknown to us. It is their sons and sons of sons who form the warrior band Kikpak leads. We were never a warlike people Atan, for all the violence of our beginning. Seemingly we need the seed of other sturdier people to birth warrior sons of our own, and,” she added haltingly, “women of the valley conceive but rarely, why, no one knows. Our fighting force has ever been small, yet such is their skill, few Sethians willingly face them in battle.”
“Where,” I asked in a puzzled tone, “do these skills come from, if as you say you are an unwarrior-like people.” I couldn’t help but wonder if she exaggerated the skills of the valley warriors a little. After all she had never seen the fighting skills of a veteran warrior of Mohenjarro, so I, in my witless way assumed she knew of no others to compare Valley Warriors to, which was about as foolish a notion as I have ever had.
“Ask Kikpak,” she answered, “though in truth we all do know. Not that knowing actually explains anything, but then,” she added, “the mystery of the one who first taught Horus, thereby enabling him to prevail against Seth who was warrior trained from birth, is an old, old mystery that yet remains. Ask Kikpak,” she repeated, “he is the warrior not I.” She smiled then, though my youthful pride was I admit stung a little. After all had I not trained in arms for a full four of years? Had not Thorak himself commended my speed and skills, and like a fool, I gave no thought to valley warrior skills. And that was a mistake, a grave mistake indeed, that I soon came to regret.
As the sun rose higher filling the valley with spiritual vitality, Lanaya went on to speak of things that chilled my blood and filled me with an ache of bitter regret. Something began here, And sadly something would die here amongst the massive ruins of the Valley of a Million Years.
Lanaya said, “We Isians are a dying race Atan Hor’Ruath. One day, like the Civilisers before us we will be no more than a legend, another ghost of beauty passing. Our thinkers and wise men can find no answer. No explanation for our declining birth rate that seemingly has been declining for centuries. Generations ago one of our deepest thinkers, devoted most of his life to the study of the mystery, a brilliant scientist known as Genetikus, who we believe, was surely the equal of the Civilisers. He lived long Atan, and the whole of his research, observations, theories, speculations all painstakingly catalogued and written down, are now hidden away in a secret chamber. We thought for a while that he had found a key, a supportive cause for our condition, from which he might very well find or at least suggest some kind of cure. It was not to be. He lived long and found much, but a cure ever eluded him. He said the answer lay here in the valley if he could only live long enough to find it. Sadly he did not. Though we may yet read his words over and over again, no one now lives who understands them. No other deep thinker was able to continue his work. Even so, though we fail to define its meaning, Genetikus left behind a symbol of what he found and isolated,” A wan smile touched her lips, “a caduceus, a winged staff entwined with two serpents. The serpents represent a double helix Genetikus claimed carried the coded imprint of life (DNA?) twined around the staff above which the wings of heaven beat, symbolic of the Watchers, they who worship truth, ancestors of the Civilisers. Only Genetikus could not break the code he claimed the double helix carried, he died trying. His research is known as Genetics in honour of his life long work. And we,” she whispered, “cannot even begin to understand the least of its parts. The caduceus however, we revere in his memory. Though no doubt,” she added bitterly, “its true meaning will be forgotten or corrupted when we are gone. The coded imprint of life Atan, the coded imprint within all of us. Once our people filled this valley, now we do not. Now we but cultivate the smallest part of its length.” As she spoke tears brimmed her eyes, wiping them away she said in a small, lost voice. “Long ago, Thoth, a great thinker and innovator of science, claimed our infertility had something to do with the valley, something that negated the potency of the seed of our men and also the women’s hidden seed that aids conception. Yet for all he held first place amongst the people, his pronouncement of our eventual doom whilst ever we held to the valley as our home, was ignored. During the following generations those who did conceive experienced difficult births. Infants so huge they came not forth and had need to be cut out of the mothers belly. Some infants survived some did not and of those who did, when grown, invariably left the valley, What became of them no one knows. It is said their features were not always Isian. Taller, thicker boned, heavy muscled shoulders, swarthy skinned, dark-haired taciturn men. Following generations experienced no such births, by then,” she added sadly, “births amongst us were rare indeed, except for those who lay with men not of our race. Some few of our men left the valley, returning with women from across the plain, women of the few stone, flint and bronze people yet remaining. Oddly not a one of them conceived. Her voice trembled, we of the valley are doomed Atan Hor’Ruath. In a few generations when you and I are dust, my people will cease to exist. For all this very valley is a sacred place, a temple of Manna, yet will it prove to be the death of us all? Spirit might grow,” she said with a thin smile, “sadly our bodies do not. Perhaps our time has come to an end. Perhaps the first Civilisers envisioned one day there would be no more need of Isians, no more need of knowledge, no more need of what they left in our care, buried in a secret place within the valley.”
“And what is that,” I asked curiously, “What do you hide Lanaya, can you tell me?”
“Yes,” she replied slowly, “but not where to find it. There is a chamber,” she said in a hushed voice, “deep beneath the earth. A chamber of records, of Civiliser secrets, and ancient Watcher knowledge, they who worship truth,” she whispered in awe. “The chamber contains many things and maps. Maps of the world, of the way it was before the Earth moved, maps detailing the highways of the great world ocean and the lands of men. Maps that include calculations of distance between landfalls, along with variable sailing times based upon known prevailing winds for each quarter year. Land routes are shown, these too include the estimated travelling time between trading centres, principal townships and seaports. One map shows all the land and sea routes covering the whole of the world’s surface like some complex grid. And then the earth moved and the face of the world changed forever and the ancients who first charted the lands and the world oceans fell down in ruin. The chamber preserves their memory. They were the Ennead,” she continued soft voiced, “a confraternity of map makers, of star gazers and shipwrights of whom we know little.” Her voice trailed off into silence. She turned, brushing her lips across my face, whispering, “When the Civilisers set sail, their ships sailed east, west, north and south. Though we fade love, yet we know there yet live others of our kind, somewhere westering the sun. And then she clasped me tight and in a low throbbing voice said, “Abide with me love, aide with me here for awhile,” she implored.
“Come with me,” I blurted out impulsively, “come back with me to Mohenjarro. I will not always live in exile,” I added lamely.
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she reached out, slender fingers squeezing my hand. “No beloved, with thee I cannot go.”
Her beautiful, exotic face filled my vision, the lemon mint scent of her flesh heady to my senses, the slender, fragile feel of her nestled in my arms. “Why,” I husked passionately, “why.”
“It would be the death of us both,” she replied unsmiling.
“Your people would kill us,” I exclaimed, “why?”
“No, you lovely foolish man, not my people, yours.”
I stared at her in astonishment, shocked to the core, “Why say you this? Explain,” I breathed out softly, “explain exactly what you mean when you say my people would kill us both.”
We knew then, even as we moved apart, that the enchanted, almost mystic feel to the hour had faded, love still lived here only somehow the elusive magic of its presence had gone.
With a mirthless smile Lanaya said, “When first you met Kikpak, did not the look of him startle thee?”
“Aye,” I replied quietly and lapsed into silence.
“And when you entered the valley, when you realised we are a race apart, what then did you think?” She gazed at me intently, eyes dancing with light. “What did you think Atan Hor’Ruath? Tell me true , what did you think?”
“I thought you were beautiful,” I replied simply, “beautiful in an unearthly sort of way I had never seen before, beautiful like no other woman on earth.”
“Of course you did you lovely man,” she said with a throaty chuckle, “but you, like your father before you, see not with the eyes of Mohenjarro. Nor do you think the same; else you would never have dared to challenge the stifling power of your councils, not even in your dreams where surely they sometimes walk. No, my lovely man, should I return with thee,” she said bitterly, “your council would order my death the instant they learn of my approach and you, Atan Hor’Ruath, you also would be hunted down and killed by your own people. Whilst ever the councils rule, you would never be allowed to speak publicly of what you know. They would kill you, even as they had your father killed, to ensure your silence. You broke with tradition Atan. Whilst you live you remain a threat to their rule and I your creature, a white haired succubus come alive from out their darkest nightmare. Your councils have held the people of Mohenjarro in thrall for almost a thousand years Atan. Council members dictate what you think. It is they who suppressed all knowledge of those who live beyond your borders, even unto the writings of your ancients. They, in collusion with Sethians bleed Mohenjarro dry both physically, with the death of your warriors and mentally by allowing no new thoughts or ideas to germinate. We would die Atan, before ever you could maintain defence. I as a white fleshed creature from the other side of nowhere and you my tranced consort. No beloved man, I cannot go with thee, I can never go with thee, or otherwise leave this valley that dooms us all.”
Lanaya spoke truly, bittersweet truths I had failed to see. The stifled way of Mohenjarro’s thinking, their very xenophobia more than I had allowed for, I understood then why my father spoke not of what he knew to his only son. Young was I, brash and loud, no I would not have held my tongue. Not then, now perhaps, but certainly not then. My resolve to return, to defeat the Sethians, to crush the councils and bestow peace and a measure of free thinking on Mohenjarro, increased ten fold. Even as I sat with Lanaya I further resolved to begin whatever training Kikpak had in mind, thinking, with my skills I’d be done with it all soon enough.
I never came close!
Who now with trenchant accord dare trace autumnal latitudes Civilisers once sailed and with awesome rectitude displace what otherwise orthodoxy upholds
The Isian Mystery
---- we are the Jamil ----.
---- our mountain home lay distant from the mountain valley of The Watchers, the white haired ones who translate knowledge.
---- terrible day our mountain came tumbling down. The very earth groaned in agony. And so we fled, heading down to the plains only to face the swords of ignorant brutal men, led by terrible vulture shamans who urged them on, declaring us to be the get and sum of all their fears. Sometimes ignorance is like that, what cannot be understood often feared. Sometimes ignorance affords continuance of darkest superstition thereby supplanting knowledge or intimation of its existence. Sometimes ignorance will kill to maintain a lie. Sometimes inspired superstition be the downfall of spiritual truth. We came down from a falling mountain, reaped the whirlwind and died. We were not so many and we died, defending our women and children we died. We who were not so many died in our tens and tens of ten. With no way open to us, no possibility of flight, we hacked the bloody handed murderers down, and we died. Of surrender there was none, and so we died screaming defiance. Our lovely wives, sons and daughters scattered in death about all that loathsome field. And I, with broken crying in my throat fought with the sound of a far away song thrumming inside my head. Until finally, at the end of all that slaughterous day we few who yet survived, swept the last of the vulture people away. Later, having buried our dead I led the pitiful remnants of my people far and away from that awful place. We marched west towards the sun, rage in our bellies and sorrow deep in our bones. We had little tolerance then for the superstitious ignorants who sought to bar our westward march. And so we fought again and again until our very souls floundered in blood. And we so few, so heart breakingly few.
And then one day I screamed enough, enough and led my people deep into a desolate place of barren hills, sere empty plains and high brooding mountains, far and away from the haunts of petulant, spirit-small men and in that vast, quiet place, we found ourselves, we found and nurtured a spiritual way in harmony and balance with blade and empty hand. We came to understand the subtle nuance of a silent mystery that had waited since first the world began for someone to recognise its existence. “We are the Jamil! The first of men upon this earth to recognise, greet and embrace the waiting mystery. The first to praise and recognise the nature of the mystery that hides itself.
And ‘The Hidden God’, the mystery, did give into our care a single thread of destiny. The mystery did weave in the soul of certain men. Only we the Jamil, teach certain skills, the chosen may one day need to face the Adversary ---- .
from The Book of Jamilian
Thus it is written:
An thou go-eth forth from this very Valley of a Million Years, harbour thou no expectation of passing this way again.
The Isian Mystery.
My first few training sessions with Kikpak did not go well, they did not go well at all. And if Lanaya is like unto the ensoulment of this ancient place, Kikpak was the physical embodiment of reality’s stark uncompromising face, the very lethality of the man lending an almost tangible feel of menace to the air. A reminder perhaps of what lay waiting for me far and away beyond the valley’s dreaming hills. The very sight of him armed and waiting, like some grim faced nemesis in dawn’s pale light; brought me to my senses like a sudden plunge into ice cold water.
It was then the dreaming fancy of Lanaya spiraled away like smoke on gusty winds. Days of idleness, the induced torpor of lazy golden hours were suddenly replaced by quickening blood surging through my veins, along with a hollow shriek of alarm echoing inside my skull like some final warning of imminent doom.
He stood silent as death, waiting. The rising sun bathed him in soft light throwing his shadow behind him. He looked undefeatable, implacable and grim, his very stance radiating menace. He is a hunter, I thought, a hunter of men. I swallowed nervously as what bravado yet clung to me evaporated between one breath and the next. A weight of stone fell down inside my gut, tendrils of fear tightening muscle. And I wondered then, for the first time in my life, I wondered then what manner of man I faced. Lanaya said Kikpak was to be feared. I could scarce believe I had scoffed at her words. And all that followed, that fateful morning of grey and rosy light, filled my head and my mouth with bitter ash and the pit of belly with knotty, cramping rage I was hard pressed to contain. And he, Kikpak, all the while looking on through emotionless eyes, as though he trained some backward, recalcitrant child. I wanted to kill him but I could not, I wanted to break his face down into a bloody ruin but I could not. For all I tried, for all my wicked intent, his mastery of weapons was beyond my ken beyond anything I dare dream of owning. At first that is, but I am a sometimes stubborn, tenacious man whilst yet embracing patience. Oh yes, I can be a patient man, enduring what may break another, for me, there is always later. Even so Kikpak was the single most formidable warrior I had ever faced. No, our first few training sessions did not go well at all.
Thorak had trained me for almost four years, yet I never considered or thought myself to be a warrior. Smaller than most Mohenjarrians, it was all just a game to me, a dangerous game to be sure, but a game nonetheless. And then one day, something of boyhood’s dreaming fell away when I allowed somnolent speed to waken and power my limbs, driving through the final warrior testing like a sudden wall of wind. And yet I had no mind to be a warrior, and so I became a student of sorts, studying this and that most every day for three years and more. And then something of circumstance had me elected War Leader, and something of circumstance nurtured a warrior seed lurking beneath my studious facade. Something of circumstance that led me to believe that whilst ever Mohenjarro blindly upheld tradition, the people I had sworn to protect would never know peace and had never known peace for almost a thousand years. Indeed, it was then when I finally began to understand something of Thorak’s ceaseless discontent, and later when I led troops towards an assignation with destiny, some followed and some did not. Even so I was not fool enough to think I had fought a battle. A skirmish no more than that. Yet did I think four years of blade training must surely count for something, I was wrong, it did not.
Kikpak came at me again, using point over edge; he lunged, his blade glittering like an evil eye as it drove towards my chest. The strike was easy enough to counter; any young blood could do that. Only, when I tried, my blade met air and the point of Kikpak’s sword once again pricked my throat.
And so it went on. Day after grinding, bloody day Kikpak made a mockery of my every move, counter move, feint, block, defence and attack Thorak had painstakingly drilled into me. As for thinking outside set patterns, it made no difference, Kikpak countered my every move, and the man was fluid, like water and as deadly as a striking snake. The style he used was unlike anything I had encountered before, except for my father whose blade skills were, I slowly realized, hauntingly familiar.
Kikpak rarely spoke, his moves baffling. Somewhat taciturn by nature, he simply stepped back, allowing me to catch my breath before continuing. Stunningly proficient he might be, sympathetic instructor he was not. At least that is how it seemed to me during those early humiliating days. Perhaps the thought of Lanaya still claimed my head, and he was waiting for it to clear, knowing little of use would be absorbed whilst ever thoughts, seemingly walked elsewhere.
And then one day fear chilled me to the bone.
Beneath a cloudless sky of deep, pure blue, Kikpak still favouring point over edge, disarmed me with a casual, almost contemptuous twist of his wrist, the point of his blade pressed against my throat, his almost luminous eyes blazing with sudden fire, his face tight and drawn, etched in fury, as though he wanted nothing more than to drive his blade through my throat. I feared he would kill me then. Sweat streaming down my face, my heart beating wildly, my guts hollow and fluttery as I faced the realisation that he could kill me before I even tried to move. Yet try I would, for all I was afeard, I’ll not stand quietly to be slaughtered like a pig. And maybe, just maybe I might be fast enough to deflect his blade before it ripped through my throat. If nothing else it was worth a try, I thought grimly.
And then suddenly the fire in his eyes dimmed. Venting a long, drawn out sigh, he lowered his blade, fury leaking out of him as though the very air absorbed the killing force that not a heartbeat ago roiled through the man like a storm. Stepping back and away from me, sunlight shadowing his face in planes and bars of light, he breathed in deep. Gaining control of himself he slammed his blade home in its sheath. Staring through me, he said in a cold, flat voice, “What is it with you? You wield a sword like an untrained infant. We play no game. I can teach you nothing,” he grated harshly, “whilst ever you think you have nothing to learn.” His eyes bored into mine. “You will die,” he spat out. “You will die Atan Hor’Ruath,” he smiled mirthlessly, “before even thou hast chance to fulfil thy oath. Oh yes, you will die,” he continued remorselessly, “with a sword in your gut the first time you face a veteran warrior, armed and eager to receive thee.”
“Tomorrow, mid morning” he snarled, spinning on his heel “I offer thee one final chance, take it or not,” he said dismissively, “it makes no difference to me, no difference at all. You,” he added contemptuously, “are nothing but a boy waving a stick at a hungry wolf, hoping it will go away. Hungry wolves never go away,” he almost shouted; “one chance,” he grated “one last chance to at least try. That is all I offer.”
He strode away without a backward glance, pushing through some few onlookers gathered about the edge of the training square.
Kikpak left me feeling foolish and ashamed, my face burning with the heat of my humiliation as I stood trembling in every limb, and faced the awful realisation that whatever skills I once thought I had owned, were no more than just a bit and piece of nothing in particular, and whilst ever I allowed Lanaya to live inside my head I might never prevail. Kikpak was right, I acknowledged silently. And when you get right down to it, learn or die really isn’t much of any kind of choice at all.
Standing alone beneath the sun, I swallowed my pride, the valley quiet around me. It was then, when I first put Lanaya aside; not the dreaming you understand, but the want. I could not take her where I must go. I could not afford the attention needful to ensure her safety. I could not take her to Mohenjarro, else my own people be the death of her. No, I could not take her or any woman where I must go, not now, perhaps never.
Kikpak had made a fool of me and he was right to do so, but no more, I resolved stubbornly, no, never again. Suddenly I bellowed out, “TEACH ME, SHOW ME YOUR WAY.”
My voice echoed through the valley. Kikpak’s retreating figure stopped, turned and advanced towards me, his face devoid of expression, his eyes luminous with light. He stood a few paces in front of me. A small crowd gathered, curious to hear what he had to say. Only the old man, Isian, outranked Kikpak, and that I had sometimes thought was not certain. Should Kikpak refuse to train me, I knew with sudden certainty that I would no longer be welcome amongst these strange, secluded people, descendants of an old race who now, in their turn were dying out. No, I would no longer be welcome here.
His sleek oiled flesh gleamed in the sun. Hollow cheeks stretched across high facial bones framed by long, silver-white hair lending his features an almost skeletal look, as he surveyed me through cool, grey eyes. Perhaps he sensed something of my resolve, perhaps he somehow divined the change in me, or maybe an ancient power spoke to him. Not that it matters other than to say sudden thoughts of my father filled my head like a light shining through. The feel of it moving me to remark, “Train me Kikpak,” I asked tersely, “tomorrow, mid morning, a new start.”
He remained silent. The crowd around us seemed not to draw breath. My fallen blade lay on the ground between us. Kikpak bent down, retrieved the blade and handed it to me hilt first. A thin feral smile hovered about his mouth, like a wolf intent on prey, I thought worriedly.
“You possess rare speed,” he voiced quietly, “perhaps more than I,” again that wolfish smile, “but you know not how to use it. Thorak trained you the best he knew how, but his way is a thousand years old, and is the way of the edge only, the use of it having more to do with height and muscle power than with any real skill. You are strong enough Atan, but you lack height. Its point and edge you must master, not simply edge alone” His eyes danced. “About all you have done so far is beat the air with a lump of iron.” The crowd chuckled. Kikpak added solemnly, “Yes, I will undertake to train thee Atan Hor’Ruath, even as one before me trained your father. Tomorrow we begin.” He added curtly as he stalked away, “tomorrow, Atan Hor’Ruath, we begin.”
And so what began badly, slowly turned round as I settled into practice a new way of blade craft, working at it seven days out of seven from dawn to dusk, stumbling to my bed numb from exhaustion.
I cannot claim Kikpak and I became friends, yet a bond of sorts gradually developed across the blades. And as I began to leave exhaustion behind, my skills improved, until finally Kikpak was hard pressed to defend himself. Of Lanaya I dared not to think at all.
And then one day, as the sun began to wane we sat for a while catching our breath. The valley benign and hushed as the sun slid down the western sky, the distant surface of the river all a shimmer in orange-gold light. Fields of grain swayed to a gentle breeze redolent with the scent of sage and rosemary. I wondered then why evil strives so hard to mar beauty, or otherwise make less what beauty rests upon.
Kikpak looked towards me as though divining my very thoughts, his face ruddy in the waning glow of the sun. He said, with a slight smile, “Lanaya speaks well of you.” He looked away, gazing across the valley, “The old man, Isian, he too thinks much of you,” adding, “Another before me trained your father, perhaps it is fitting that I in my turn train the son.”
Prudently, I remained silent. “You will need extraordinary skills to survive when you leave the valley.” His quiet voice slipped through the air. “I will teach you what I can,” adding gruffly, “there’s little enough time remaining to teach you much of anything at all.”
Which was about as near an admission of friendship as the sombre warrior was ever likely to come.
Shifting slightly he turned towards me and with a thin, mirthless smile said, “It may be that another will come to offer you a certainty of skill,” his eyes narrowed, taking on a predatory look, that all but had me reaching for my blade. “Skill that I too possess, at least in part,” he admitted grudgingly, adding, that he was not permitted to reveal the way of such skill, saying only that the one who may or may not come held such authority.
Curious, I asked who this mysterious warrior might be, “One from amongst your war band perhaps?”
“No,” he replied with something of awe in his voice. “The one I speak of is known as Jamil. His people are also known by the same name. He however is The Jamil. He is both the martial and spiritual leader of his people, the way of both, uniquely their own. Sethians fear us,” he smiled grimly, “yet compared to us Jamil is their worst nightmare. Jamil never hunts the Sethians, yet he is prepared to kill them on sight. Jamil and his people are the deadliest warriors the world has known or will ever know. You might by some trick or other kill Jamil, but you will never defeat him. Death may claim Jamil, but it can never contain what it claims. Perhaps Jamil is the balance. No one knows,” Kikpak added softly, “only the Jamil know their purpose and of that I assure you they never speak. Balance perhaps and something more, something no one who is not Jamil might understand,” he mused reflectively.
Kikpak went on to say the origins of the Jamil were shrouded in mystery and as distant as the legendary ancestors of the Civilisers. Kikpak said that of all the races abounding before the Earth moved and the great world ocean flooded many lands, even then he related, the Jamil were regarded as an enigma. “They were there,” he said, “when humankind first began to explore their world, or maybe such talk is no more than a fabulous legend,” he shrugged expansively, a thin smile hovering about his mouth, “no one knows. No one has ever known much of anything where the Jamil are concerned; A small mystery that according to the old man, Isian, is not for us or anyone who is not Jamil to unriddle. Try, he said, and you will back yourself into a room of questions, for which there are no answers, no key to unlock the door; and there you might stay, endlessly pursuing some trivial thing for which there is no good answer. The trick is to know that some mysteries are best left alone and that there are indeed questions for which, as yet, no answers exist; Best to accept that the Jamil are a race apart and follow a destiny that is in some inexplicable way interwoven with who knows what. That is all I know,” Kikpak concluded lamely.
“What of their spiritual teachings,” I asked softly.
Kikpak shrugged, “such is not divisible from the martial and only Jamil may teach or speak of such to one who is not of his people.” He smiled wryly, “it isn’t that it is a secret, so much as that Jamil maintains only those he refers to as Guardians might understand its nature, and possess the spiritual fortitude necessary to bear its weight.” About then Kikpak climbed to his feet and walked away, calling back over his shoulder, “Tomorrow Atan Hor’Ruath, tomorrow. Be there. Think not your training draws to a close, it does not.”
And so it continued.
I trained beneath the blistering heat of the sun until my flesh throbbed with weariness and my bones ached with sullen fire. I trained in the mud and mire of winter until I could scarce lift my feet free of the earth’s sodden embrace. I trained naked, the blast of winter winds numbing my flesh. I trained from dawn to dusk and back again. Through summer heat and winter cold, seven days out of seven, again and again and again, I ate, breathed and slept training. It filled my head and ensorcelled my thoughts. For a while there was no beginning, no end, no in between. I thought of nothing else. I ran carrying weights strapped to my back. I ran cradling weights in my arms. I ran with weights strapped to my thighs, and I ran carrying sword, shield and axe. I absorbed blade patterns and techniques no Mohenjarrian had dreamed of. And through it all Kikpak urged me on, mocking my failures, taunting, goading me to stagger through just one more pattern. His eyes, cold and relentless, never let me go, his mocking voice followed me to my bed.
Weeks slid by as my body slowly, so very, very slowly began to respond. My arms and shoulders thickened. My belly became lean and hard like old dry wood. Muscles swelled adding such power to my blows that I like to think few warriors of Mohenjarro could match, a wishful conceit don’t you think. Kikpak taught me to coordinate my natural lightness of foot with an intricate dance of speed and power. He taught me to calculate a second move ere the first had begun, until now and then I outpaced thought, and came to a place within where thought may not trespass. And then one day Kikpak could scarce restrain me as I matched him move for move, blow for blow, my speed a telling edge. And yet for all I accomplished there was still no give in him, no give at all as he urged me to try just a little harder as our blades flashed in the sun. Sometimes having me repeat the same lesson over and over again until he was satisfied I had grasped the concept behind the move, not just the technique of the move itself.
“Any fool,” Kikpak hissed savagely, as he aimed a wicked blow at my head, “can train his body to respond to set patterns almost faster than thought, that is not what we do here,” he almost snarled. “Are you dim witted to learn so ill?” Easing off lowering his blade, he glared at me, sweat rolling down his face. His eyes looked right through me. “No,” he repeated, “that is not what we do here. Of course you must learn pattern and technique, but never,” he emphasised, “never allow yourself to be bound by either one, use them, adapt and change, flow through what you know and change it into something your opponent does not, something he has no counter for, no defence or method of attack. Think Atan Hor’Ruath until in combat at least you are able to set in motion a new pattern faster than you may think to do so. Intuitive coordination Atan, at least try,” he admonished, “to understand that if one is bound within pattern, one cannot think outside it. To such a one, should his opponents fighting style be something he has never encountered before he might very well die using a set, predictable pattern of moves.
Be fluid Atan, thought is like that, fluid in motion, harnessing, connecting to powers and energies few men dream exist. The Civilisers used such energies. Seemingly outside this valley, few are even aware such energies and powers exist at all. Your father knew, as did ancient Ahmon before him. It is something you must learn, Atan; if'n you’re wanting to survive what waits for you out there. Be fluid Atan and as sharp and deadly as a new honed blade. Think; work out moves to combat your opponent’s style and act as swift as thought. Then you might just live to walk away.” A thin, cold smile creased his face. “Never complacently assume your own martial way to be complete or superior to another’s. Such arrogance breeds defeat. Think, always think on how you can improve, or add new skills to your own. But then you know that now, do you not Atan Hor’Ruath?” His face creased in a wicked smile as he reminded me of our first few training sessions.
And why, I wondered, knowing Kikpak rarely spoke in jest, why then, I wondered, does he remind me of my once upon a time headstrong foolishness. Not that it mattered. Soon or late we all play the fool, the trick being not to repeat such foolishness. Kikpak rarely spoke in jest and it worried me why he chose to do so now.
Between the setting and the rising of the sun, I found out why, and in hindsight ever remain grateful to the somewhat taciturn warrior for reminding me of my earlier foolishness, otherwise I might very well have played the same fool’s part all over again.
That night, escaping from Isian’s relentless talk of ages past, I ambled away from the Great Hall, the sound of voices fading down behind me, the night blessedly cool and still with a now and then breeze ruffling through my hair. The moon rode high, frosting grass, suffusing the valley in ethereal white light, the distant river glimmered silver. A faint smell of lavender and sage hung on the cooling night air like the fragrant breath of angels, those lovely ones who leave no footprints behind and cast no shadow.
The faint sound of feet whispering through grass, turning to see Lanaya drifting towards me, her long hair white and glowing in the groaning light, cheeks hollow and dark with shadow, lips parting in a small, shy smile; flesh lucent as alabaster, long gown thin and clinging, moulding breast and thigh. Slim was she, tall and elegant, eerily beautiful, as she drifted through the night towards me like an aching dream of want spreading through my flesh with sudden fire. My heart hammered, my mouth suddenly dry.
During my months of training I had but seen her passing by. Passion flared in my belly, igniting a quick fire in my groin. Breathlessly I reached out to embrace her, pulling her close, lips pressed against mine. Then suddenly, shockingly she pushed me away, her magnificent, dreamy eyes moist with tears. Words from an old, old song belled through my head, “I don’t want to love you but I think I might.”
I stared at her in silence; my passion ebbing as I finally faced the terrible certainty that I did indeed love this strange, exotic woman of the Valley of a Million Years. I loved her, yet I dare not love her, else love be the death of us both.
Tears spilled from her eyes, shimmering like drops of starlight as they trickled down her cheeks, dripping from the rim of her lips like liquid moonlight.
And if we acknowledged our love I might never leave the valley, and thereby unwittingly cause the fall of Mohenjarro and the death of all her people. How dare I be so selfish; how dare I to love, and be loved. Surely no love on earth is worth the price of a nation’s death.
Lanaya divined my very thoughts: the bloom of love and the pallor of its fate, the rise and fall of love, the grace of its pain. Moonlight poured down between us. Somewhere a restless night bird called out, the sound of its plaintive cry echoing, until faint with distance it fell down into the night.
A stray breath of wind fluttered her gown, tugging at her hair, blowing it every which way until the breath of it sighed on through and away from the valley. I stood in silence. Her pale compelling beauty, aching my throat, knowing if I voiced love, I could never reach out to claim it. Not now, not here in this valley. Her lost, wistful look wrenched at my heart, trembling my limbs, I don’t want to love you, but I think I might, played out its refrain inside my head.
This strange, beautiful woman, descendant of Civilisers said in a soft shaky voice, “Thy seed hath quickened me Atan Hor’Ruath. Know thy seed hath quickened me love.” She dropped her gaze, voice husking into the night. “I caught glimpse of thee slipping away, I but followed to say I love thee Atan Hor’Ruath,” she smiled then, “you came like a thief and stole my heart.”
Dear God, I thought, what am I to do. ‘End it now,’ a cold voice urged inside my head, ‘end it now, this woman is not for you. Love of her will kill you.’ I felt hot and cold, something of fear jittered up and down my spine, cold hands clenching my gut, I don’t want to love you but I think I might. Aloud I said, “Lanaya, where I go you cannot follow, nor dare I abide here with thee.”
She frowned at that. For all she knew our love could never prosper, she frowned and looked at me as though it were I, and I alone, who carried the doom of us both.
“Go then, no one chains thee here, certainly not I.”
“And the child,” I asked, “what will become of the child?”
“The child is mine, Atan Hor’Ruath. Do not concern yourself. The child will be Isian,” she asserted, “and of the father perhaps I will never speak.”
This is not how it should be, I thought to myself. We should not part like this, not like acrimonious lovers. Even so, of words that swelled my throat I did not utter, withholding love’s voice, with deliberate intent. What else was I to do, tell me that now, what else was I to do, no other choice opened to show me a way. I don’t want to love you but I think I might.
“Aye, it is best,” I gasped out hoarsely, “thou knowest I might never pass this way again.” I don’t want to love you but I think I might, drummed in my head.
Suddenly she wilted, reaching out towards me. “Is there nothing of love you might say to me,” she sobbed “nothing at all? Leave me not so cold,” she pleaded. “Leave me not so cold love, not so cold this night.” Her voice broke on a sob, “Thy seed is in my belly,” she moaned, “leave me something Atan Hor’Ruath, leave me something, some few parting words I might cherish and hold, If thou hast loved me, if only for a precious moment, leave me not,” she stammered, “.not like this.” Her voice throbbed, her luminous eyes beseeching me to speak, to at least say something. “Leave me not,” she pleaded, “leave me not so cold.”
She stood like a ghost in the moonlight. The tortured look on her face pierced me through and through, yet I dare not speak, else I doom us both, and Mohenjarro too. Yet how could I know this, how could I be so certain, it made no sense to me, no sense at all? And so I remained silent. Throat locked tight, razored with emotion. I don’t want to love you but I think I might, thundered in my head.
Lanaya, the proud daughter of an old, forgotten people I don’t really want to know. Custodians of arcane knowledge, that too I really don’t want to know. Not now, perhaps never, but certainly not now. Tomorrow, I thought, I return to the training field, and maybe that too I be wearied of. I never wanted to walk the warrior road; I never wanted to be what seemingly I have become. Then again maybe the stark truth is that I don’t mind, not really, not now and maybe I never did. About then something of my dreaming slipped away and never again came to stay. Perhaps that was the pivotal moment when I set my love and the way of my life in stone.
In silence I lost her. I lost Lanaya beneath the pale weirding light of a high, white moon. I lost her to a whisper of wind sighing through a valley. Sighing through The Valley of a Million Years like a dark wind out of Eden. I lost her to a haunt of restlessness inside me. Like a secret I can never share. I lost her to a thousand years of tradition, and an aching soul that burns for something I have no name for, Mohenjarro no more than a part of something else along the way. I lost her to a promise. In truth I lost what I never owned, I only thought I did, for a while that is, like iron drawn towards something it has no power to resist. Maybe I wept then. Maybe I wept and moaned inside. I don’t want to love you but I think I might.
She stared at me in horror, and then with a moaning sob tearing at her throat, she turned away from me and fled into the night.
I stood alone, the night wind blowing cool against my heated flesh, waning moonlight casting long shadows across the valley; the breath of angels fluttering inside my head like broken wings, as I stood in silence hating myself for what I had done. The valley seemed not so sacred then, not so full of manna. With the going of Lanaya something of magic went with her too. She took the stars, I think, trailing pools of moonlight and shadow. For good or ill I had turned her away, it was a thing that had to be done, though no comfort did I gain from knowing that. Knowing something is not to say one is comfortable with its presence.
Wanting no ones company I stood for awhile, gazing off towards some distant ruins standing silent and empty. Moonlight outlining massive walls and weed choked avenues of broken stone running straight as arrows towards who knows where. Ancient ruins, I thought with a trace of unease, brooding over past glories. Valley of a Million Years, I wasn’t sure, no, I wasn’t at all sure about that; notion of it tempered by the very real doom that inexorably stalked its people. A dying race accepting their fate with equanimity, preferring to die, or so it seemed to me, rather than abandon their valley home. It made no sense, at least none that I could grasp. But then, perhaps the way of Mohenjarrians seemed senseless to the Isians.
Yet for all the valley somehow harboured death in its fold, one’s eyes perceived beauty, a veritable Eden of grain and plenty, a valley of eternal summer.
And yet, like a dark wind in Eden, nothing is perfect and for the Isians, extinction would be the final price paid for their sojourn in Eden, The Valley of a Million Years, wherein Lanaya and her unborn child will die before they are young. Rousing myself I moved on, walking slowly towards the Gathering Hall, voices muted now as many sought their beds, nor could I help but glance back towards the massive ruins backed up against the valley’s flank. Thinking not for the first time that Isian never did give me any good answer as to why neither he nor Isians before him occupied the ancient buildings, other than to say stone absorbs something of the nature of energies emanating from those who dwell within, pervading every nook and cranny he claimed. Perhaps he is right. Certainly there is a feel to many such places, as though some vestige, some tangible presence yet remains, a haunting echo of the ancient Civilisers who lived here, who shaped the valley and built in stone.
Civilisers fleeing their flooded homeland, passing on knowledge to some few tribes with uncensored authority. Did they, I wondered, view the lesser tribes of stone, flint and bronze from some lofty pinnacle upheld by their own past achievements? Were they haughty and distant?
That night my thoughts and feel for the haunted ruins was a far cry from the reverent awe the Isians accord their ancestors. Where did the Civilisers go? Why did they abandon the very people they purported to teach when so very much yet remained to be passed on? Why did they leave this land? Or did they?
Certainly the elder Isian remains adamant, claiming Seth and his followers did not drive them out or otherwise cull their numbers before Horus avenged the murder of his father. Perhaps the Civilisers yet remain in the valley, perhaps their bones lay in some secret place some hidden chamber, that one day in some undreamed of age to come, when they are no more than a will-o’-the-wisp legend, the chamber will be discovered, the embalmed corpses within finally revealed. The very physiognomy of the embalmed ones more than enough to evidentially prove that once upon a long time ago they did indeed exist; proof positive that when the earth moved and the great ice sheets began to melt, a hitherto unknown, unguessed at branch of humanity with strange, exotic features did indeed walk this earth.
Maybe, I ruminated, Civiliser bones do lay here in the valley, and maybe that is why they named it the Valley of a Million Years. Would that I were around to see the faces of those distant ones destined to find their bones and no doubt the secret chamber of records, I thought with a smile. No doubt they might by then have need to rewrite the entire history of the human race. Oh yes, I would like to see that. The idea that only one branch of humankind descended on down through the ages in an orderly natural progression, marching through millions of years was at best somewhat flawed reasoning. Such skeletons as the Civiliser corpses might provide, not so much evidence of a missing link in humanity’s chain as they were evidence of the existence of a divergent specie of humankind, cousin if not brother to the one dominant specie now claiming lordship of the earth. What splendid morphological riddles might the Civilisers and their ancestors pose for all those learned ones yet to come. Oh yes, would that I were there to watch it all unfold; About then Isian wandered out from the Great Hall breaking my reverie, beckoning me to come in from the cold night.
I spoke not of Lanaya’s quickening, her fate is now her own. I cannot change it otherwise. Perhaps it is true what my father and Karnak once said, that for all I cavil, for all I claim otherwise I do indeed possess a warrior’s heart and abiding faith in the promise of our people. If’n I can free them that is, of the Sethian scourge and the rule of the moribund Councils, and of that I was none too sure. I will try, of course I will try, indeed what else is there for me to do? I, Atan Hor’Ruath who has but lately come to some bit and piece of knowledge, that if nothing else serves to show how little I know and how much there is to know of things we dream not of. Perhaps that is what I yearn to embrace, diversities of knowledge without need of a sword in my hand. Sometimes the spirit within me soars, like some grey winged hawk high in the sky. The very existence of this valley and all its secrets affording much to think on, for all I may reveal nothing of what I find. Perhaps I may speak of it one day. Then again perhaps not, who would listen, and who would care if I did? No one, no one at all. And so few realise any legend is not so legendary it might very well carry seeds of truth beneath its other more obviously fabulous facade. What then might I share of all I come to know before the last of my breathing days are done? What then might I share do you think, maybe nothing of any lasting worth at all.
The little man came out of the morning to teach me the secret of dance. “Soon,” he said with a grin, “a dark wind will begin to blow,” adding softly, “and isn’t there always a dark wind, never a serpent. No, never that, only dark winds, dark winds in Eden.”
Atan Hor’Ruath
And we shall overcome
In wonder
In a state of grace
The universe
Cupped in our hands
And all this empty space
Sacred waters
We strive to navigate
And we shall overcome
In wonder
In a state of grace
The universe
Cupped in our hands
Segovias Signature
I gave my love a ring of gold
And shoes of Spanish leather
I gave my love a shawl of lace
And blue ribbons for her hair
I gave my love stockings of silk
And gloves of soft green leather
I gave my love a damask rose
And a shiny silver locket
I gave my love a promise
And buckles of Egyptian pearl
I gave my love a promise
And then I broke her heart
I gave my love a promise
And then I broke her heart.
The Promise
Roy Erik’s Band
Billybones Music © 2002
Dawn, Midsummer
Towards the east, the mouth of the valley swallowed the rising sun. I stood waiting, the deserted training field dusty and sere. There is a certain colour to dawn’s light, an almost mystic feel of silent promise, as though, as dawn floods the land something of another world shines through, if only for a heartbeat, if only for a moment, something of another world shines through lending to the moment a breathless hush and a silent unvoiced affirmation of promise, of reverent oath renewed.
Sudden thought of Lanaya filled my head, all glowing eyes and pale, smooth flesh, her haunting beauty, strange and exotic, forever graven inside my head, inside a memory I locked away deep else the very passion of it sweeps me away on some cresting floodtide, neither God nor man might gainsay. Lanaya of the Isians, people of the Valley of a Million Years, descendants of Civilisers, inheritors of knowledge, custodians of secrets and mysteries many a future race will deny and later regret. Lanaya, white haired daughter of a dying people, a stubborn, tenacious people who would rather die than leave their Eden, their Valley of a Million Years, they for whom a dark wind will blow.
No, I can never say I understand why they stay or otherwise pretend to think I might. I am Atan Hor’Ruath and it seems to me there is a certain purpose to my life. Pulsing to the beat of a different drum, a sound I freely choose to follow, even as I choose for good or ill to leave Lanaya. ‘I don’t want to love you but I think I might,’ will ever be the saddest refrain I hear whilst ever I live.
Forgive me, forgive me Lanaya, but I can no more stay than I can give up my life. Ask only, where will I go, where will I go if not far from here. Ask only, where will I go now you are gone from my life and all that was but the echo of fading summer falling down between us, sere and brittle as autumn grass. And I grieve for what I have done Lanaya. Lanaya I don’t want to love you but I think I might. I can never return, and if I would survive, I can never, never look back.
Waiting, now the temple valley silent and still, as though the earth ceased to breathe as a warming weight of rosy light lay upon its skin, bathing the ancient stone and cracked, weed choked avenues in shadows and creeping tides of light. The rising heat, burning away night-mist, lingering along the banks of the river like some reluctant lover afeard to let go. Somewhere a bird sang in perfect accompaniment to the shining hour.
The rising sun. Dew soaked fields all a shimmer in pale, rose gold bloom. The heat thickening. Droplets of dew and a song of freedom singing inside my head.
Dawn has a way about it of stealing my breath away, of carrying me along on the very affirmation of dawn’s wondrous promise. I sometimes think dawn offers insights shrouded in light, if only we could pierce the veil. Then truth fades away as the light strengthens, until the following dawn offers promise again. It is then when a warrior I do not want to be; only the world in which I live will kill me if I am not, and if I wish to live, then a warrior I will be.
And isn’t that a sadness now; to live, I must learn to kill. No more games, no more illusions of dream and fancy. No more idle dreaming of yesterday when all I own is the harsh, uncompromising reality of today. Therefore I will learn what Kikpak might teach; therefore I will learn and become a mortal terror to anyone who tries to take my life. I shall become death, and I will sing even as the wild dark wind blows me away. I will not die easy. I will not die in fear. I will rage until the dark wind blows me away.
As it turned out, I waited in vain for Kikpak. As the sun rose above the eastern rim of the valley I began to worry, searching the surrounding terrain for sight of him. Kikpak was never late, more often than not arriving at the training field before me. Something was wrong. And then a voice hailed me, a stranger’s voice. Whipping towards the sound, I could see a stranger walking towards me with a lazy, easy stride. Hefting the blade in my hand I wondered how it was possible for a stranger to slip by Kikpak’s ever vigilant patrols, and penetrate so deep into the valley with no sign or sight of hindrance. With indrawn breath I readied myself for an attack that never came, waiting, allowing the stranger to draw near. Though broad enough across shoulder and chest, I am not a tall man; surprisingly the stranger was shorter than I. Even so, there was a lithe, dangerous look about him that had me gripping the hilt of my blade the tighter. Who was this man? How came he so deep into the valley?
The stranger eased to a halt no more than a few paces in front of me. Coarse blue-black hair hung down his back. Oddly he carried no sleeping cloak, no food or water. Perhaps he has not travelled so very far, I thought uneasily. Not wanting to attack without just cause, I gazed at him in silence, alert for any sudden threatening moves.
Suddenly he grinned and said, “I am Jamil.”
I stared at him in surprise; surely this could not be the peerless warrior Kikpak regarded with such awe. A sudden sinking feeling in my gut told me it was. Jamil looked me up and down and said with a smile, “You are not very tall for a Mohenjarrian are you?”
“Can you fight?” he asked, still smiling, “are you a fighter or do you just wave weapons about in the air and think you are. Most warriors can’t fight,” he added with an impish look, “they only think they can, and such thoughts, don’t you know, are the eventual death of them. Well,” his smile broadened, “can you fight lad, can you really fight or do you just think you can?”
I stared at him in shock. This from a man even smaller than I. Suddenly I felt foolish standing there with a blade in my hand, facing a smiling stranger who might just prove to be about the deadliest warrior I was ever likely to meet.
As though divining my thoughts, the little man asked me politely to sheath my blade and lead him towards food and drink, commenting only that he had journeyed long and long again to reach the valley; which was odd, for I could plainly see he carried no journeyman’s pack or even a flask of water.
He said, “You did not get angry, perhaps I shall teach you to dance whilst I am here,” adding softly, “it was I who taught something of the dance to your father.” He chuckled, “He too did not become angry when I insulted his fighting skills. Yes,” he murmured to himself, “I will teach the son to dance too.”
“You,” I exclaimed in surprise, “taught my father.”
“Yes,” he replied, gazing straight ahead as we walked towards the Gathering Hall. His smile slipped away, “yes,” he repeated softly, “it was I.”
Oddly, there was no great look of age about him. Again, as though divining my thoughts, he said, “maybe that has something to do with spirit I shouldn’t wonder.”
The following day, a small, dark skinned warrior from a distant land began to instruct me in the way of sword and dance, revealing during the months that followed something of the nature of the spiritual way of his people; a people hoary with age long before the Earth moved and the great ice sheets began to melt; the martial and spiritual way of the Jamil was uniquely there own, bearing little similitude to any other known system on earth.
|
