A Triumph of Souls (45 page)

Turning away, the herdsman gazed off into the distance and smiled: that same familiar, enigmatic smile Simna had come to know
so infuriatingly and so well in the course of their long journeying together.

“I have told you and told you, Simna. I am only a student, an asker of questions, who knows barely enough to make use of what
the wise ones of the Naumkib provide me.”

“By Gunkad, long bruther, answer the question!” Not to be denied or put off any longer by clever evasions, the swordsman fumed
silently and stood his ground, both physical and forensic.

Ehomba looked down at him. “Simna, my friend, I swear to you by the blue of the sky and the green of the sea that I am no
more a ‘sorcerer’ than any man or woman of my village, be they herder of cattle, hewer of wood, thresher of grain, or scraper
of hides.”

The swordsman met his gaze evenly and looked long and hard into the eyes of his friend. Then he nodded. “What will you do
now?”

“Watch over the cattle and the sheep. Be with my wife and children. In the time I was gone, my son reached the age when all
Naumkib are initiated into the lore of adults. That is a task I must begin tomorrow.”

“Hoy, I wish I could stay, and I don’t want to offend you, but I’m really not interested in sitting through some quaint ceremony
where a boy learns how to castrate cattle or dock sheep or paint his face with vegetable dyes.” With a last regretful grin,
he spun on his sandals and headed north, pausing once at the top of a ridge to turn and wave. then
he vanished, welcomed and swallowed up by the sea fog that hung perpetually over the coast north of the village, and Ehomba
saw him no more.

On the morning of the following day the herdsman took his son Daki out of the village, heading inland. Mirhanja packed them
a lunch and bade them good-bye, but not after extracting from her husband a promise to be back well before nightfall.

The trail father and son trod was narrow and overgrown in many places with weeds and vines, so that it was difficult to see.
It wound its obscure way into the grassy hills behind the village until it terminated next to a plain rock face at the end
of a shallow canyon that looked exactly like a hundred other similar heavily eroded canyons. Clearing away some brush and
dead twigs, Ehomba exposed a narrow, dark opening in the weathered granite. Preparing torches from the ample supply of dead
wood that lay scattered about, the two men entered.

The downward-sloping floor of the tunnel had been worn smooth by centuries of running water and sandaled feet. They walked
for an indeterminate time before their torches were no longer necessary. Daylight filtered in through cracks in a ceiling
that was now high overhead. A little farther on, the tunnel widened and became a chamber. Very soon thereafter it widened
a great deal more, and became something else entirely.

The slim but well-built Daki, wearing a solemn expression others would have immediately recognized as being derived from his
sire, contemplated the sight before him with respectful reverence but without awe.

“What is this place, Father?”

“This is where the Naumkib come from, Daki.” Raising an arm, Ehomba swept it before him in an expansive gesture to take in
all that there was to be seen. “Too long ago to remember, our people settled here and built this place. They accumulated boundless
knowledge and untold riches.”

The youth looked up at him. “What happened to them?”

Ehomba patted his son on the shoulder. “When one feels one has no more to accomplish, the next thing one attains is boredom.
The Naumkib abandoned this place. In ones and twos, in groups and in families, they scattered to the far corners of the world.
Gradually they mingled with other peoples, and became one with them, and were content. Only a few remained behind.”

“Us,” the boy realized. “The people of the village.”

“Yes. To not forget is a great responsibility. A legacy must be looked after, Daki. Not necessarily expanded upon, or exploited,
but looked after.” He started forward. “Now come, and I will show you more of yours.”

They spent the remainder of the day exploring the deserted towers, and the great library, and the majestic arenas of knowledge.
Daki marveled at the walls of solid gold, and the gemstone utensils the vanished inhabitants had left behind in their silent
kitchens. Together, father and son turned the pages of ancient tomes bound in sheets of solid ruby, chosen not for its beauty
but for its strength and ability to protect the far more valuable paper pages that lay between those crimson covers. They
visited the observatory, with its telescopes still pointed at an especially large crack in the roof of the enormous cavern,
and its congruent
cupola with the ceiling that showed innumerable constellations fashioned from all manner of precious stones.

A captivated Daki did not want to leave, but Ehomba had to insist. “Your mother will be angry at us both if we are late,”
he reminded his son as they began the long hike back to the tunnel.

“Is this where you found the answers to all the questions you keep asking, Father?” the boy asked as they ascended wide stairs
of marble and agate and sparkling goldenstone.

“No, Daki. This is where I find only more questions. I promise you: Someday, when you are a little older, we will come back
here, as all men and women of Naumkib must, and you will find, whether you want to or not, many questions of your own.”

The youth considered this reply as they ascended. Then he nodded slowly, hoping that he understood. “Does it have a name,
this place? Or is it just called Naumkib?”

“We call ourselves the Naumkib,” his father replied. “The ancient city and place of learning is, and always has been, known
as Damura-sese.” He smiled as they neared the entrance to the tunnel. Mirhanja would have supper ready, and he was hungry.
“The rest of the world knows it as a story, a rumor, hearsay. We keep it that way.”

Daki picked up one of the torches they had left behind. “Part of our legacy?”

“Yes, son. Part of our legacy. A little secret of the Naumkib.”

“But not the only one,” the boy observed, displaying the wisdom for which his family was noted.

“No, Daki. Not the only one.”

Etjole Ehomba, who was an honorable man, made his
way with his son back out of the celebrated lost city, whose riches lay not in its fabulous trappings but in the learning
it held, and back to the modest house by the sea, where as he had sworn to his friend Simna ibn Sind he was no more a renowned
sorcerer than any man or woman of his village, be they herder of cattle, hewer of wood, thresher of grain or scraper of hides.

“The skeleton that dismounted was neither the tallest nor the most stout of those pale white specters that were arrayed against
the travelers, but it strode forward with a stiff-jointed dignity none of its demised confederates could match. With plucked
feathers streaming from the gilded helmet that rocked atop its bleached skull, it approached the living. Halting barely a
spear length away, the skeleton placed one bony arm across its splayed rib cage—and bowed …”

PRAISE FOR ALAN DEAN FOSTER’S JOURNEYS OF THE CATECHIST

“Top-drawer Foster, featuring a fast-paced mix of wry humor, high fantasy, and amazing new places and creatures.”

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“Alan Dean Foster is a master storyteller.”

—SF
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“Odd and engaging…a wondrous journey.”

—
Locks

“The effect of this book is that of tales within tales, like those of Sinbad and his many voyages; a thousand dissimilar elements
somehow fit together seamlessly. This is Foster at his best, thoughtful and fun.”

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