Slow Turns The World (38 page)

Torrin bought a horse and took his leave of Trabbir.

“There is always a place for you on my ship,” Trabbir said giving a final embrace, and then added with a smile, “we dead men should stick together.”

“Aye.  Maybe we will, “ said Torrin, “but I have a last journey to make, and if it goes well for me then we shall not meet again.  Good fortune to you, true friend.”

He cantered away, following the road he had passed before, that would take him to the East.

He journeyed long. Through times of hunger. Through lashing rain.  He passed the mountain where the priests had died, skirted wide, watching the plume of fumes rising from the mines, catching the bitter taste on the breeze.  He met the tribe of barak hunters again, relieved to find them free, fearing the newly armed tribes that oversaw the excavations might have enslaved them.   They made him welcome and fed him generously, so he stayed a short while to hunt with them and gather strength again.  Then he travelled on over the long plain where he had freed his horse before.  This time he reached the mountains before he let his beast go, and watched it gallop away to warmer, brighter lands.  For the sun was low now, and cold valleys full of shadow stretched before him.  He made his way across snow and ice to the sunlit ridge that had beckoned him before and came to the warm lands blessed with golden light.   The sun had crept just a fraction higher since the time before, and warmed him as he walked, or lay slumbering on the fresh grass.

He came to the cottage where the old couple had ended their journey and found them well, if a little frailer.  He stayed a while and hunted in the woods, stocking their larder well, before walking on again.  He saw the mountain ridge he had followed to Dh’lass, with less snow now, as the sunlight edged lower on its flank.  Then he went on into new lands, hoping he might find the way.   He descended to a river whose raging waters were icy cold.  He forded across, losing his footing, being swept away and tumbled across rocks before he could flounder to the bank.   

The valley side beyond took him steeply to a sun-warmed ridge, and he saw another range of hills stretching away eastwards, freshly lit by the dawn.  He carried on, through the fragrant forests where mist hung in still pools below the trees, beside foaming streams, icy cold from the freshly melted snow.  A hunting cat surprised him, springing at him from the undergrowth.  He fought it off, but it gashed his chest, leaving him pained and swollen.  He struggled on for a while further then made a mossy a bed in the forest and lay down to sleep.

He heard the breaking twig, but could not open his eyes before fingers, slim but keenly strong, gripped his wrist, and knees pinned down his shoulders.  He looked up and saw the face he had travelled half the world to find.

“Well, hunter,” said Soola, “you will need to be quicker or you will become the hunted.”

“That will suit me well, if it is you that pursues me,” said Torrin, smiling up at her.

“I am not so sure…” she said, still pining him down but folding her arms, “there is another in the tribe, a very handsome man.  I told him I would give you two more moons to come back and they have passed twice over.”

“I am sorry it took me so long.”

“And your wife?”

“Another handsome man.”

“Didn't you fight for her?”

“No, but I might fight for you.”

“To the death?”

“No. Not that for anyone. Never again.”

Soola snorted.  Then she reached down and began to unlace his tunic.

“Don’t grin at me like that,” she snapped, “I just want to see how well I healed your wound.”

She pulled the cloth aside and exposed the fresh gashes on his breast.

“You have grown careless, hunter!” she rebuked him.  Then she reached to the leather pouch at her side.

“Lucky I have this,” she said, holding up a little bottle of healing balm she had taken from the king's chamber. She oiled her fingers and gently smoothed the soothing lotion onto his chest.  She stroked with a faint electric touch that sent shivers through his body.  Then she laughed and leaned forward, teasing his lips with a delicious, lingering, kiss.  She emptied more of the oil upon her hands, until they glistened and dripped.

“Now,” she said, “is there any other part of you that is swollen?”

Later, they sat embracing, feeling the sun upon them, looking out over the realm of forest and mountain that basked in golden light.

“Do you think,” said Soola, “that if there is a God, and if all the people everywhere prayed together and begged him to stop the turning of the world, that perhaps he would.  Then we could stay here forever, in this place, and never need to walk again.”

“That is not what I would ask him for,” said Torrin.  “I would say breath upon the world again and make it turn faster.  So that we could all see what I have seen; the dawn rising over these mist-pooled forest, the heat of the noon sun in a blinding blaze, and the golden forests of sunset too, with the red tattered clouds against a crimson disc.  And then there is darkness that is night, with a thousand glittering jewel's cast across the sky…”

He paused, hugged her close, and then continued with sadness in his voice.

“But we cannot stop the world, or make it spin faster, and I shall not see these things again.  But I will never forget the places I have been, or the people I have known. And I will never forget those that I have loved.”

He stood and shook the melancholy aside.

“Slow turns the world and we must walk,” he said, and smiled down at her. “First to your father; for I must pay my respects to him if he is to be my chieftain, and my father too.”

He took her hand and led her away, through the forests of dawn.

What of this Torrin?  He was but a poor fool the Saviour led from darkness and protected.  Loyal perhaps, but no more so than a dog, and not held in high enough regard to bear the robes and emblems of His true disciples.

The book of Perrith. Ch. 8 V. 12

Of he that was called Torrin I shall say little save that he was a wiser and braver man than some prefer us to believe.

The book of Tarcen. Ch. 15 V. 14

The Gospel of Torrin

Once again Torrin’s hopes for a peaceful life are shattered by events beyond his control.   Brutal war is being prosecuted under the banner of Valhad and even the wandering tribes on the fringes of the world find themselves embroiled.  

Tragic events force an unlikely travelling companion on an unwilling Torrin and precipitate a series of perilous episodes.   The question must be confronted - in a world where lies have become a creed, should a man who knows the truth speak out?  Is it time to write the Gospel of Torrin?

To be published in 2013