Slow Turns The World (32 page)

Then Valhad stepped forward and laid his hands on their shoulders.

“Yes,” said Valhad warmly, “he that was our master is now our brother.  He asked me to choose for him a new name.  And so now he is called Tarcen, which you will know, Torrin, is a Vasagi name for a tree found in our lands that grows but slowly, from deep roots, and flowers only when the sun sets, only when the Vasagi are passing.”

Marasil touched Valhad gently with her fingertips and spoke quietly into his ear.

“I am reminded by she who is as dear to me as any sister, that there are many people gathered who have travelled far and waited long for healing.  I must go now and attend to them, but we shall come together later, and you will tell us of your travels.”

Valhad and his entourage left and were engulfed by the crowd.  His Lordship remained, and Torrin became aware of the several armed soldiers that stood around and watched them keenly.  They were dressed in the mail and leather of the priesthood, but the emblems of Etoradom had been replaced with the symbol of the spiral horns.  His Lordship made the slightest of signs with his eyes and the soldiers dispersed into the crowd.

“He must be protected,” said His Lordship, “that is the task I have undertaken.”

“So now you are Tarcen,” muttered Torrin.  “No, I think I shall still call you Lordship, lest we forget all that we have done for each other.”

“Vasagi, I could have had you killed when you stepped ashore from the ship, but I chose to keep the bargain and send you home.”

“Yes, Lordship, I can see it was your urgent wish that I should return home.”

“Vasagi, even when you were in my service you had the art to somehow obey and disobey both together.  You served me well, but there was always a trouble about you.  I would have you a free man, but yes, I would prefer you to be a distant free man.  I should have guessed that you would not go quietly, but perhaps it was not meant to be, for I sense that you will be, and perhaps you must be, a part of that which is yet to happen.”

“And what is to happen?” asked Torrin.

“We travel the road every day,” said His Lordship, “and every sermon draws a larger crowd.  Valhad believes he must take the message to the heart of the people.  To the very heart of the land.  To where this road leads.”

“To Etoradom?”

“Yes, Vasagi, to Etoradom; where the old church will either crumble and fall before us, or stand defiant, gather its strength, and slaughter every one of us who bears the symbol of the horns.”

“And if the old church falls, Lordship?  Then you will be the general of the new church and commander of her armies.  What did you say to me about revolution? Be sure to be on the right side?  And now Valhad must complete the journey for your sake.  You must have been most afraid that I would come to take him home to the Vasagi.”

“Yes,” said His Lordship, “all you say is true; but there is no shame in power, or the quest for power.  And here is another reason I changed sides, one that you might understand a little better.”  

Graselle, approached, holding at her breast a babe whose blue eyes looked Torrin up and down inquisitively.  She hugged and kissed Torrin then offered him her son to hold.

“Here, protector,” she said, “but for you, both he and I would not be here.  I have called him Torrin.”

Torrin smiled and the babe laughed back at him.  

“I would not lift a blade or an arrow in the quest for power,” he said, “but I would cross the world ten times over to hold such as this and know he was my own.”

He watched Valhad walking amongst the litters of the sick that had been carried from villages near and far.  There were many hopeless cases that no art of healing could save yet the deformed or sickly seemed more content and reduced of pain after Valhad had laid his hand upon them.  Some with weak and twisted limbs delighted the onlookers by rising and casting aside their staff or crutches.   As the crowd cheered and chanted praises Valhad moved on giving his attention to all that craved it.  The soldiers commanded by His Lordship were always close by, watching the crowd or exchanging meaningful glances amongst themselves, fingers tapping nervously on their sword hilts.  There were some brought suffering from fever or with badly infected wounds.  Torrin watched as Valhad slid his hand into the pocket of his robe before stroking the afflicted flesh, or gave the invalid sips of water from the special flask that he carried.  It seemed that the imbas remained a secret and that the promise made to him by Valhad had been honoured.  

When finally all the needy had been tended, Valhad and the entourage of his inner circle walked a little way to a village.  Many offers of shelter and sustenance were vetted by His Lordship, who selected a spacious house of several rooms.  An abundance of food awaited them, gathered by the villagers in honour of their guests.  There were perhaps twenty that sat at the benches to eat, all robed as one, save for Torrin.  At Valhad’s table were those most close to him with Torrin given the place of honour at his friend’s side.  Torrin studied the young man’s face, which seemed to have aged more than their time apart could warrant.  The beard was thicker, the skin a little creased, but the eyes seemed most altered; becoming almost ancient and knowing.  There was another change too; an air of quiet wisdom and authority, a sense of purpose as cool and irresistible as the flow of a river and yet, honed sharp, like an arrowhead.  And a calmness too; a readiness to laugh, a patience to listen.   

“Teacher,” asked a voice from another table, “will you tell us more of the ways of the Vasagi?”

“Gladly!” laughed Valhad, “There is no better time, for Torrin is here, and it is a joy for us to talk of our people and those that we have loved.”

Valhad told them of the distant sunset lands and of the barak and it spiral horns that had become their emblem.  He spoke of the wisdom of Perrith and then urged Torrin to tell how their chieftain had saved him as boy and became as his father.  They listened rapt as Torrin spoke of his true father’s death, and how Perrith, father of Valhad, had snatched him away from the trampling barak hooves.  Then Valhad spoke again and told of the wisdom of the Vasagi, of their laws and customs.  It was all true, and yet, described by Valhad, it seemed far more perfect and harmonious than Torrin remembered.  The tone in Valhad’s voice seemed to change, to become a soft music that drew the listener into a bright and hopeful place.  The eyes of the storyteller became distant and unfocussed, while the eyes of the listeners burned and twinkled.

When the meal was finished Marasil came to Torrin’s side and presented him with a robe and the emblem of the spiral horns.  Valhad laughed heartily at Torrin’s expression.

“Sister,” said Valhad, “I do not think he will choose to dress as you have done.  This man is my friend and brother; no robe can make that more or less true.  And besides, Torrin, how should I know you now without your rusting mail and torn leather?”  He laughed again and Torrin laughed with him.

Later the time to sleep came and Valhad retired to a private room.  The windows were shuttered and the darkened house became quiet except for the rhythmic breathing of the many sleepers that lay upon litters on the floor.  Torrin picked his way carefully around the still bodies and came to Valhad’s door.   He found his way barred by a guarding priest soldier.  A brief exchange of whispered argument was interrupted when the door opened from within.  

“You do your duty well, brother,” Valhad said quietly to the bodyguard. “But to this man my door is always open.”

Valhad’s room was darkened by heavy curtains but vaguely lit by the flickering radiance of a single candle upon the table.  A mortar and pestle stood there, containing a partly ground white powder.

“You have kept your oath then,” said Torrin, “not to speak of the imbas.”

“Torrin,” said Valhad, “I’m not a fool.  I talk to the people and listen.  The teachings of the Text will hold sway over Etoradom for another turn of the world yet.  Gashuis, chapter 5, verse 9 -  ‘And many shall stand forward proclaiming the word of God, and many shall be false and you shall know them by tricks of magic and potions made from herbs that God has forbidden men to eat of…’  Yes, I have kept the oath and none shall know of the imbas until my time to leave this place has come.”

“And when will that time come?” asked Torrin.

“I cannot say.  I see the road that I must follow, but beyond that…” Valhad shook his head gently.

“You’re going to preach in the city.  The church will not permit that no matter how much their power is diminished; they will strike at you.  You would give them no choice.”

“But that is what I must do, and that is what I shall do, go to the heart of the people.  And in Etoradom I will tell the people to keep their Texts and read them well, but not because it is the word of God, because it is the corruption of God.  I will tell them to read and learn about the folly that is man and how man diminishes God.  And I shall tell them that men have in their hearts the gift to make their own laws without the need of Texts or temples or priests.”

Torrin opened a slit between the heavy curtains and caught the red light of the sun upon his face.  He looked out at the wooded hills and stubby distant mountains, then sighed deeply.  Valhad came beside him and laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Go back to the Vasagi, Torrin,” he said quietly.  “I am a man now and I can release you from the promise you made to my father.  Go home my friend.”

“No not yet.  I shall see how Etoradom greets you first, and then perhaps if your work is done we shall both go home.”

“If that is your choice it makes me glad,” said Valhad, “and there is a task you can do that no other can; gather the imbas for I am no longer able to walk in the woods alone.”  He looked for a moment at the door that was guarded and Torrin understood.  Valhad might slip away and escape the multitude, or even the disciples, but the bodyguards were always lurking.

 When waking came they left the village and followed the road that led towards Etoradom.  Valhad and his entourage were accompanied by many devotees, several hundred of them, who had joined him as he travelled.  Villages along the way proclaimed his arrival and many offerings of food and water were made.  Valhad took a tray of small sweet loaves from a kneeling woman and walked amongst the other travellers seeking those who were most hungry and needy.  He encouraged those who had provisions to share them, and although every belly grumbled, all had the strength to continue the march.

They approached another village and were met by a stumbling figure; the man clutched a deep wound on his shoulder and his torn clothes were soaked in blood.  He sank to his knees before them and wept, distraught.

“Dead.   They are all dead, all the village.  We killed the priest, many of us; we beat him to death before the temple altar.  People said our saviour was coming, that he would protect us, that the time had come.  So we killed him and then the soldiers came from the city and found what we had done.”

Valhad bathed the man’s wound from a special flask of ‘blessed’ water.  Then they walked on, the wounded man beside them, wincing with every step.  Smoke rose from the village and they saw that many homes had been set ablaze.  There were bodies strewn across the main street, hacked and angrily mutilated.   They walked from corpse to corpse, staring from one dead face to another, seeking any other who might have survived but none was found.  

Valhad would go no further until the dead were buried.  A pit was dug by many sad but willing hands, and the many dead of the village were then laid out on the dirt floor.  There were gasps and whispers from the crowd and all heads turned in a wave towards the shattered doors of the temple.  Valhad walked from the broken portal holding the bloodied body of the priest.  The crowd parted with many mutterings as he walked, carrying his burden, toward the grave.   With care and respect he laid the body amongst the others and then raised his head and scanned his eyes slowly across the many watchers.   He said nothing, but his look was stern and challenged any who disputed his actions to speak out.   Only silence came until he had climbed from the pit; then he began to speak.

“They that were, are no longer.  We see bodies that are cut and broken; we see the beat of time that was their last, but these lives were so much more than this one moment; this one ripple on the endless river of time.  The slowly drawn curving line meets and makes the circle complete.  Life ends but in that ending becomes a whole.  And only now do we see how perfect is the shape that is made.  The drops that divided from the ocean, and tumbled freely for a while, fall back into that same ocean, dissolve, and become one.”

Speaking these last words, he let a handful of dry dust trickle gently into the burial pit; then the spades and mattocks beat their many rhythms as the pit was filled.

They stayed in the village through the time of sleeping.  Valhad and his entourage again shared one of the larger houses and, while some of the crowd of many hundreds lay sleeping in the fields, most gathered in restless groups around scattered fires.    Torrin slipped quietly from the house wrapped in the most anonymous cloak he could find.  He heard the whispered conversations of those around the fires as he passed; there was animation, uncertainty and expectancy in the voices that drifted to him.   He walked towards the boundary of field and forest, up a gentle hillside from where he could see more clearly the road that led on from the village.  It meandered gently into obscurity, but led the eye to the distant tower that disturbed the line of the horizon.  Etoradom was but one more march away, and the waking time that lay ahead would see Valhad pass its gate.  It was little wonder those that gathered waited uneasily.  And the Synod too, in that distant turret, had spies enough to know who approached.  Yes, all the city would know; all the people, all the clerics looking down from their high place; all the world, it seemed, was restless and expectant.

 Torrin walked on into the forest.  The chatter of bird song soothed, and the leafy floor made a soft carpet for his feet.   It did not take long to find what he sought; the honey-coloured fungus that grew like a fist on the shadowed side of many trees.  So common here, where warmth and light from the sun did not diminish.  So abundant, so much power to heal; swelling, fruiting, rotting and falling from the trees.  All the healing that might have been.   He picked a few clumps and put them in the pouch that dangled from his belt.