The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography (29 page)

He said, “Show me the shadow, dear Yreth. Perhaps I may cast light upon it.”

I thought again and then said, “If I build this
luma
, I fear it would bring down the wrath of another great lord.”

He said angrily, “Any lord who threatens my subjects gives offence to me. Tell me his name, and I will go to war with him and shoot arrows through his heart.”

I said, “I fear you would not be able, emperor, for the lord I speak of is the one great God. I swore to him that the next buildings I created would be three cathedrals to Him, and I fear that if I do not hold to my word, He will strike me dead. Worse yet, though, I fear He would also wreak His vengeance upon you, emperor, and I would be loath to induce such a terrible calamity.”

The emperor turned to one of his visitors, who was the
Bishop of Pos Tangrove, and said, “Do you think Yreth’s appraisal of our God’s nature is correct?”

She replied, “Oh, he is certainly correct. Countless kings and emperors have been struck dead because they, or one of their servants, committed some offence against God. But what are these cathedrals he speaks of?”

Well, I had brought my plans with me, so I unrolled them and showed everyone present the sketch of the cathedral, as well as a large plan showing the binding scheme. They were all transfixed by the beauty of it and thought it was unutterably magnificent, and the Bishop of Pos Tangrove praised it more, even, than any of the others.

And do not think this woman was low in rank, for I know I have spoken earlier of my dealings with bishops and archbishops and cardinals and bishopas. There, however, I spoke of the
Eastern Gnostic Church, where a bishop is one of the intermediate ranks, just as it is in Cyprus. However, in the
Saskatoon Empire, the older
Canadian Heterodox Church is dominant, and within the Canadian hierarchy a bishop is the highest clerical rank.

Unfortunately, the Canadians and the Gnostics hate each other bitterly, so my previous rank of archbishop meant nothing here. For this reason, I had not told anyone about my old post, and, indeed, I thought it best to keep it a secret.

After she had finished admiring my plans, the wise Bishop of Pos Tangrove said, “If you will take my advice, emperor, you will see to it that Yreth builds these cathedrals without delay, for not to do so would insult God, whereas to build them would bring you the rewards of His love, and would besides increase still further your reputation in the world as a patron of beautiful things.”

The emperor looked glum then and said, “I fear it will be years before these cathedrals are finished, and I will have to wait that long for improvements to my
luma
, for I will trust none but Yreth with this valuable commission.”

Then one of the Imperial Advisors, a woman called
Paos, said, “Emperor, I have an idea. Why not have Yreth begin work on these cathedrals at once in order to satisfy the dictates of his powerful God. But let his work be of a very preliminary nature, so it will not take much time. Then, when this part is done, he may turn his attention to your
luma
, and complete it, before returning to the arduous task of finishing the cathedrals.”

This seemed like a good plan, and the Bishop of Pos Tangrove said she would go to pray upon it, to see if God liked the sound of it. When she returned, we were all delighted to hear that it met with the complete approval of God, although He had added the condition that she should help me with the work, and that, when the cathedrals were finished, she should be set in charge of them.

It was all settled, then, and to the complete satisfaction of all those present, both human and divine. The emperor said he would pay me generously for my labours, and this was no idle boast, for I received a truly magnificent stipend of one thousand arrans each month while the work was in progress, in addition to lavish gifts from many of the emperor’s family and other citizens of the town, who, knowing how close I was with the emperor, hoped I would speak well of them to him.

Soon after, I went out into the wilderness again to find the most suitable sites for my cathedrals. I decided to situate them in a great triangle around the city, with each cathedral standing at a distance of three miles from the city walls.

I worried at first that the Bishop of Pos Tangrove would interfere with my work, but as it turned out her taste in architecture was impeccable, and she had a great many useful ideas for me. For example, I had wanted to name the cathedrals after the Holy Trinity—one after God, one after
Christ, and one after the Holy Ghost. The bishop, though, had a better idea.

She said to me, “You would be better to name the cathedrals after the great cities of the region, for that is the way we do things here, and it draws the people in very well. If you call your building the Cathedral of God, you may be sure that God is the only one who will be inside it, which would be hollow praise to Him indeed.”

I saw the wisdom of this, and so we decided to name the cathedrals the
Cathedral of Pos Tangrove, the
Cathedral of Pos Vindwater, and the
Cathedral of Ichic, and within them they contained numerous smaller chapels, such as the
Chapel of Belpinian, the
Chapel of Entric, the
Chapel of Pos Croythorn and Pos Pola, the
Chapel of Great Tasker, and so on, in order that the cathedrals might draw in pilgrims from all across the Saskatoon Empire—which, when they were finally built, they did.

On another occasion, I had been feeling uneasy about some aspect of the three cathedrals, but I could not say what it was. Strange things started happening to me then: one of my shoes went missing; I cut my arm; a large bird landed in front of me and pecked at a dead mouse. I was disturbed by these omens and felt God was somehow displeased with my designs.

Then the Bishop of Pos Tangrove, quite unexpectedly, seemed to echo my thoughts, saying, “You know, I feel uncomfortable with these cathedrals being all so very much alike. It seems to me it might be impious to have three fingers pointing up to God in such a way.”

I realized at once that she was right, and this was the very thing troubling me. I decided on the spot that only one of the cathedrals would take the original form I had envisioned, which is to say, a fist with the first finger pointing upward. For the other two cathedrals, I would vary the designs slightly, so each construction pointed to heaven with a different digit. I changed the designs then so one was a fist pointing to heaven with the second finger, and the other was a fist on its side, pointing skyward with the thumb.

In any case, once I had revised the designs, I went out into the wilderness with a few slaves to the sites I had selected and we hammered large wooden stakes into the ground, with signs upon them bearing the words: “This will be a great cathedral.”

Then, with the preliminary part of my constructions begun, I returned to Saskatoon and spent six months working on the emperor’s accursed
luma
.

I am sure, by now, you are feverish with the desire to know what a
luma
might be. It has amused me to keep the secret to this point, while several times mentioning the mysterious structure here and there, and knowing you will be puzzled by the reference. Still, it is now time for my amusement to curtail itself, and for me to tell you what the
luma
is all about.

A
luma
,
simply put, is a kind of artificial mountain. It is constructed in the shape of a square-edged triangle, with the square edge upon the ground, so you might climb up the sloping edge to the top, then peer over the sheer drop, drawing a sense of excitement and danger from the great distance to the ground. This is the whole purpose of the structure, and for all its great size, it contains no rooms or doors or windows. It is merely a thing you climb.

I should add that advocates of the
luma
do not treat its climbing as a mere amusement. Indeed, to them, the sensation of danger which they feel as they peer over the summit is spiritually moving, and they believe, through the experience, they are brought closer to the knowledge of death, and, therefore, to God.

I tried the
luma
for myself, and found it a very terrifying sensation. It is not that it was so very high, for I have built and climbed many towers higher than the
luma
. No, the
luma’
s curious terror comes from the fact that the drop is so sharp and precipitous, and, together with the sloping floor at your feet, and lack of support, it gives one a precarious, giddy feeling.

I was dining with the emperor regularly by then, and I said to him one evening, “I cannot imagine why you would want the
luma
any higher. It seems to me it is already high enough to serve the function, and its height surely filled me with dread.”

He said, “When I first ascended the
luma
, my reaction was the same as yours, but since that time I have climbed its slope on thousands of occasions, and, gradually, its terror has diminished to my senses. These days, when I climb to the top, I can happily sit upon the edge, or jump about, or hop, or shoot arrows to the ground, or even do a handstand, just as I please, and with no dizzying sensation at all. You can see, then, the great
luma
has lost its spiritual power for me, and I find this fact disturbing.”

I said, “Then you are saying it is not the
luma’
s height that gives it this spiritual power over you, but the sensation of danger it imparts, a sensation you no longer feel?”

He said, “Yes, you have defined the problem exactly. What a clear mind you have!”

After hearing these comments, I started to find the problem of the
luma
more interesting, and I realized that, despite the emperor’s request, there was more to be done than just making the
luma
higher. Even if it were to go to the moon, its height would eventually lose its blow upon the nerves of its climbers, for people become accustomed to such things.

Then a wonderful idea came to me. I thought to myself, “Suppose the top of the
luma
were not quite so solid and sturdy, but instead swayed and creaked like an old bridge, as though it might give way. That would certainly be terrifying.” Then I thought, “No, for even this is something the climbers would eventually find tiresome. What is needed here is not the illusion but the reality of danger.”

At once, I knew exactly how the new
luma
would be built. It would be tall, that was certain—I had already planned to increase the height of the
luma
by three times through the addition of two stages—but now I decided to make an ingenious alteration to the peak of the topmost section, which is the place where people peer over the edge. It would appear very solid when people walked upon it, but in actual fact it would be set upon a delicately balanced pivot, held in place by a mechanical latch. The latch was to be of a temperamental nature, and when people walked up to the edge of the
luma
it would, on occasion, fall away, sending them tumbling to their deaths.

This latch, which sounds so simple in theory, was actually a very difficult thing to construct. The first latch I built would either give way too easily or else would refuse to budge at all, depending upon how well it was greased. Then I built another latch that gave way whenever the weight of more than two people, or one fat person, was placed upon it, but would remain firm under a lighter weight. This did not please me, though, for it was too predictable, and I knew people would soon discover the secret to survival.

Eventually I built a more complex mechanism. It used a cage containing a number of desert rats. The cage’s pathways were partially blocked by several wooden paddles, attached to stiff wires. The other end of each wire went into a hole in a vertical sliding rod. As the rats moved through their enclosure, they pushed against the paddles, extracting the wires from the holes. When all the wires were pulled at the same moment, the rod dropped onto a trigger plate, tripping the latch mechanism and releasing the luma’s pivoting platform. In this way, the random movements of small animals controlled a structure weighing many tons.

If, at that moment, people were standing on the edge of the pivot, looking down at the terrible drop, the entire top ten feet of the
luma
would abruptly tip beneath them, sending the unfortunate observers to their deaths. Once the weight of these people was gone, of course, the pivot slowly returned, and the mechanism locked once more. A lever pushed the rod back into place, and, assuming the rats were no longer pressing on the paddles, the wires would keep it there.

It took me about eight months to construct the
luma
, of which a month was spent installing the mechanism at the summit. I placed a secret door partway up the third section, by means of which a slave might crawl through to feed and water the rats, or, if necessary, replace them.

During this time, I used to have my luncheon in the Courtiers’ Hall, where I would talk with the various courtiers on this subject or that. One of them was a very rude fellow by the name of
Lambic Staid who loved to pick arguments with others and to cause all manner of trouble. Unfortunately, he was also a favoured Imperial Attendant, with eight tweaks upon his comb, and many of the other courtiers were afraid of his influence with the emperor.

One day, he sat himself down at my table, although I had not invited him there, and he said, “I hear you are from the sea.”

I said, “I was not born under the waves, if that is what you mean, but I have lived by the sea, and I know my way around a ship.”

He said, “Tell me this, then: what manner of creature is a seal? Is it a doglike fish, or is it a fishlike dog?”

Well, I knew this man’s reputation, and I had seen his argumentative ways in action, but I was not afraid to take him on, so I said, “It is a doglike fish, although I am quite certain you will think differently.”

He tapped his fat nose and said, “Indeed I do, my friend, for I have been an important courtier for a good many years now, and in all that time I have learned a thing or two. A seal is a fishlike dog.”