The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography (9 page)

Now, a part of every service was the recitation, in which a bishop would say a part of the Holy Code, speaking from memory. One day, on the
Festival of the Eight Saints, the bishop responsible for the recitation said:

“This worthy festival reminds us that holy men, of great learning and worth, may come to us not only from our own land, but also from overseas. With this in mind, I would like to withdraw from the recitation, which is from the
Book of Exodus, inviting that great archbishop who came to us from overseas to take my place.” And he gestured to me.

I realized at once that this was an attempt to trap me, for if I refused, it would appear I was incapable of giving the recitation, and therefore was not so worthy and learned as the bishop had said. Yet if I accepted his invitation, everyone would see I was unable to recite any lengthy passage from the Book of Exodus, for, although I had read the tales in that book, which is to be found in the
First Testament, I preferred to study the meaning and general content of the stories, rather than committing their words to memory and mindlessly reciting them.

Still, it was one thing or the other, and since I had great faith, and was not one to shrink from a challenge, I immediately stood and replaced the bishop behind the pulpit, while he retreated to the back. There were a great many people in the congregation—at least a thousand and a half, I should say, for the cathedral was very large, and it was at least three-quarters full—and they looked upon me, waiting, for some moments, while I tried to recall the story of Exodus. I remembered there was talk in it of the prophet
Moses, who had a great staff which could turn to a snake, and this prophet led the Hebrews, and was a prisoner of the Egyptians.

“From my lands,” I said, “comes much learning that is lost or forgotten here. You have all heard, and perhaps memorized, the book of Exodus. Yet the tales I tell now, as divinely inspired as the Code you all know, are not told in your version of this great book. Hear the Holy Code, and be terrified.”

I then waited a few seconds, and in my mind I prayed the knowledge I needed would be given to me. Sure enough, my faith was rewarded, for God placed in my head a mysterious missing part of the Book of Exodus. Many present, misinterpreting my introduction, believed this came from a version of Exodus used in my own land, but it did not, for although the story was divinely inspired, it was given to me at that very moment, and placed into my head, piece by piece, even as I spoke. Yet, it was God’s will that they believed about the story what they did, and it was not my place to contradict God.

I do not remember the exact wording of the tale, for as I have said, I am not a believer in rote learning. Yet I will share with you now the essence of the holy yarn.

While he was in Egypt, Moses had a magical staff, which could be transformed into a serpent by speaking a certain holy word. This serpent was more than fifty feet long, and its mouth could swallow a man whole. In colour it was a sickly yellow, and it smelled of vomit and dung.

Now, the Pharaoh spoke to Moses, saying: “If you wish to be free, show me some magic.” Then Moses threw his staff to the ground and said the secret word, and the staff turned into the deadly snake. But then all the
Pharaoh’s magicians, and there were more than a thousand of them, threw down their staffs also, and these also turned into snakes. But the snake of Moses attacked the other snakes, and though there were a thousand of them, it killed them all, and, with its powerful head, tossed their bodies this way and that, ripping them open, and sending their poisonous blood in all directions.

The blood from the dead snakes landed on the magicians, and where it touched them, their skin began to blister and bubble, then it formed a hideous black scab, which quickly spread over their bodies, until each magician had turned into a writhing mass, covered with a single giant scab, and in the middle of the scab was a human mouth, which screamed in horror and pain, spitting blood and bile, until at last it fell silent in death.

(On hearing this, the congregation gasped, and twisted in their seats, for the holy words struck at their very souls.)

When the Pharaoh saw what had happened to his magicians, he was afraid, and he ran off, telling his soldiers to stay behind and kill the snake. But when the soldiers approached the snake, it bit their heads, crushing their skulls between its strong jaws, then it slithered off after the Pharaoh, and Moses ran after the snake to watch what would happen.

The Pharaoh’s palace was made of seven jewelled towers, each made with a thousand Sheet Walls, and a million cross-bindings, and each was more than twelve thousand feet in height. In the centre of these towers stood a great statue-city in the shape of a golden calf. Beneath this statue was a huge labyrinth, and the Pharaoh ran there, hoping to escape the snake. But the snake’s tongue tasted the ground where the Pharaoh’s footsteps had been, and it followed those footsteps, step by step. Moses, in his turn, followed the snake’s slimy trail, hoping now to save the life of the Pharaoh, for Moses was a virtuous man.

Suddenly, as Moses turned a corner of the labyrinth, he came across a terrible sight. It was the body of the Pharaoh, whom the snake had caught. There was a hole in the top of the Pharaoh’s head and a hole in the bottom of the right foot, for the terrible snake, on capturing the Pharaoh, had chewed into his head then burrowed through his body, emerging at his foot. The snake itself was nowhere to be seen though.

Then Moses heard a loud hissing behind him. He turned and he saw the snake, which had climbed the walls of the labyrinth and was ready to jump on Moses, for, having eaten the flesh of the evil Pharaoh, the snake itself had become evil and now wanted to kill Moses.

Moses knew he must say the secret word, for this would turn the snake back to a staff once more. But he realized with horror he had forgotten the word, and he would instead have to fight the snake with his bare hands!

Then the snake jumped on Moses, but Moses smote it with his fist, striking it in the belly. The snake was stunned for a moment, and fell back, but then it regained its strength once more and jumped at Moses’ leg. Moses kicked the snake with his other leg, and the snake gave a hiss of pain. Then, as Moses prepared another kick, the crafty snake moved aside, so Moses kicked his own leg, and he fell to the ground in pain.

Thereupon, the snake reared up above him, preparing to strike with its poison fangs. But Moses used the same trick the snake had just used, and he moved aside at the last moment, just as the snake’s great head was darting towards him. The snake hit the ground with tremendous force, and its fangs broke off.

Moses quickly grabbed these fangs and tried to stick the snake with them, but the snake whipped at his wrists with its tail, binding his hands together and forcing him to drop the fangs.

Then Moses bit the snake’s tail and freed his hands, but as he did so, the rest of the snake, writhing this way and that as if in agony, placed itself in ten great loops around Moses, one loop for each commandment. Then suddenly it pulled tight, wrapping itself around him, squeezing with all its power.

The snake opened its great mouth, and Moses could see far down its throat, where lay the rotting bones and flesh of dead people. Slowly, inch by inch, the snake squeezed Moses towards its mouth. Moses struggled, but he could not break free, and soon he could feel the snake’s foul breath over him and could feel its cold lips brushing against his head.

(When I told them of this, the congregation were most distressed, and many cried out words of encouragement to Moses, saying, “Quickly, Moses—place your thumbs into the serpent’s eyes!” or “Hold its mouth closed with your strong arms, Moses!” as though the story I was telling was real before their eyes, which, thanks to God, it was.)

But then Moses had an idea, and he prayed to God for help. The next instant a shining figure appeared nearby, and Moses recognized the man as
Christ. Then Christ said to the snake, “O, snake, which God has created, stop what you are doing!” Then Christ spoke the magic word, and the snake once more became a harmless staff, which fell upon the ground.

Moses then took the staff and escaped from Israel and from the Egyptians, because the Pharaoh was dead, and for this Moses gave thanks to God in the highest degree.

Amen.

Now, this was the story as I told it before the congregation, except the fight between Moses and the snake was very much longer, and so was the fight between the snake and the soldiers, and the fight between the snake and the other snakes. The whole tale ran for nearly an hour, and I used all my storytelling skills, producing the terrible hisses of the snake, and the sound of the punches, and making faces which showed the expressions of terror on the victims of the snake.

When I had finished the story, the congregation rose up, cheering and clapping their hands together in joy and appreciation, for they knew this was indeed an inspired story from God. But the bishops were angry, for they thought the story was too violent for the common person (as if the stories of the
First and
Fifth Testaments are not violent!), and some dared accuse it of being heretical, saying Christ could not have appeared to Moses because Moses lived before Christ was born. To this I replied, in the first place, I did not care for years, only for truth; and in the second place, since Christ is immortal, He must have lived not only after his physical death but also before his physical birth, and therefore, in denying my story, they were denying Christ’s immortality. And so those who had accused me of heresy found the charge suddenly upon their own heads, and those who did not retract their words paid dearly for it, you may be certain!

One very pleasurable task which fell upon me as archbishop was to hear the confessions of sinners. It was the custom, you see, for all the members of the assembly to come, one by one, to me, and to admit all the evil acts which they had committed. You would be astonished to hear the scandalous deeds which were performed in that small town. I found the admissions so fascinating that, after a time, I began to keep detailed notes, which I still show to my friends and acquaintances for their edification and amusement.

But do not think I approached my duties frivolously, for, having been made an archbishop, I determined to become a master of the craft and spent much time in study, learning all I could about the Holy Code, and memorizing two long passages, so the bishops would not be able to trap me a second time. One passage, which is from the First Testament, describes the symptoms of a terrible skin disease. The other, which is in the
Fourth Testament, is the entertaining praise-poem
The
Six Thieves and the Four Whores
. This poem I know by heart even to this day, for my memory is very retentive. If you do not know the poem, you must seek it out and read it, for it is a diverting piece; and yet it also tells us much of God’s grace, for, at the very end, after the thieves and the whores have committed many shameful and sinful acts, they repent, and are forgiven by God, and surely, if they can be forgiven for such outrageous conduct, so can we all.

In fact, all the books of the Holy Code are well worth the reading, and I recommend them to everyone. Within their pages I learned of the one all-powerful God, the God With No Name, who is an indomitable ally and a fearsome and terrifying enemy. Those who befriend this great God may call upon him at any time to give them wealth or to destroy those of whom they disapprove.

There is much practical wisdom in these writings too. For example, they teach the warrior to love his enemies. And this is perceptive, for in loving his enemies, the warrior will be able to understand them; and in understanding them, he will be able to predict them; and in predicting them he will be able to conquer them and win their lands for his own.

In any event, I have now told you of the way in which I became very virtuous, and how my virtue engendered hatred in those jealous bishops. Next I will tell you of how their hatred at last resolved itself against me.

The Fifth Part

In Which I Tell Of How I Left
Quebec, Leaving Two Griefs Behind

By the spring I had
selected two stonemages who were to work with me on the
Grief
. One of these was an East American named
Quebble Steech, and the other had come from Germany and was named
Asken Hote. They had originally been employed by the
bishopa to carry out repairs to the old cathedral and to other buildings around the town of Quebec. They worked very diligently, I will confess, but they did me a grave disservice, which I will describe in due course, so I have nothing good to say of them here.

I will tell now of the building of the
Grief
.

The first stage was setting the wall roots or foundation. For this, I had my myrmidons and slaves dig a great pit, fifty feet deep, delving out the area which the building would occupy. I then encapsulated the floor of the pit in
Sheet Walls, shored with
Seizure Lines, and heated it so it was fused into solid rock. I carried out the same procedure upon the walls of the pit—after installing pipes for the drainage of rainwater, of course, for I did not wish to create a reservoir!

Upon the floor of this pit, I set out a pattern for the interior and exterior walls, which corresponded to the shape which might be seen if the finished building were sliced horizontally in the middle of the lowest level of cellar chambers. The myrmidons brought rocks and earth, placing them upon the outlines, whereupon either I or one of my assistants would encase the rocks in Sheet Walls and fuse them at a great temperature with various incantations of fire and furnace, as I had done with the floor and walls of the foundation. An endless stream of carts and wagons from the alchemical merchants brought supplies for the enchantments—waxes and sepia inks and jay feathers and reticule leaves and horse chestnuts, all in such great abundance that the land was stripped of these resources for miles around.

All this, of course, is standard stonemage technique. What was more remarkable is that we used no winches or pulleys during the construction. Instead, the building proceeded slowly upwards, in two-foot segments, with each segment forming a cross-section of the entire building. I had made the walls very thick, so they might not only add strength to the
Grief
, but also provide a suitable surface for walking during the construction—so, if you can picture it, each cross-section of the building formed a maze of pathways, these being the tops of the partially completed walls. In a similar fashion, the great central ramp, which spiralled up through the tower, gave us access to the higher floors as we proceeded slowly upwards.

Now you will wonder how, using this method, it was possible to create the ceiling of a level—which, of course, served also as the floor of the subsequent level. The answer is very simple. When the walls were of a sufficient height, I would place a large and powerful Sheet Wall across the surface to be covered, save only for the central ramp, through which we gained access to each level. Then the myrmidons brought large quantities of rocks, evenly covering the area. I covered the rocks with a second Sheet Wall, applied more spells of fire and furnace, and fused them into a solid surface. The bindings were removed, and—piffeta!—the finished surface would drop a fraction of an inch onto the supporting walls.

Although I was anxious to complete the building, I was determined it should be perfect in every regard and the task should not be rushed. Therefore, after completing each floor, I spent several days decorating it, carving beautiful sculptures in the rock. I also added a fine carpet made from
mashena, very like that which I had placed in the towers at
Luthen but crafted in purple rather than red. Only when a level was as perfect as the abilities of mortals would allow did I permit myself to move upwards to the next stage.

Upon the outer walls, I bonded quartz in various colours—shades of pink for the skin of the king, and shades of blue-green for the sheets. All the exterior surfaces were then covered in a type of permanent sheet binding known as a
Blind Veneer, which armoured the walls very effectively.

The
Grief
emerged slowly from the ground like some huge plant. Thus I had heeded the words of the great stonemage Henry Eagles, who wrote, “As a tree from the earth does the great tower grow forth.”

The work proceeded in this manner for nine months or so, and we fused hundreds of walls and placed countless thousands of cross-bindings—although the design was so sturdy in itself that I believe it would have stood firm even without these enchantments. At last the winter came once more. The statue was now complete up to the centre of the chest, and yet I still did not know how to solve the building’s two great problems, these being its property of speech, and the difficult angle of the right arm.

During the winter I turned my attention once more to the duties of my various posts, while simultaneously pondering the construction problems.

The speech was a secret feature, and so nobody knew of it, save only for the
bishopa, whom I told in an intimate moment. The arm, however, was clearly detailed in the plans, though without the binding scheme, and, throughout the winter, my two assistants would frequently ask me how I planned to set the arm at such a pitch. When I told them I was still working on the plans, they shook their heads, telling me the angle was too steep, and no binding would reliably support the great weight of the arm. This, you see, reflected the inflexibility of their minds and their training. On hearing these objections, I assured them that, yes indeed, the arm would be constructed and in exactly the way I had drawn it.

Towards the end of the winter, my assistants saw my mind was still set upon building the arm in the way I had first planned, so they changed their tack, suggesting I could build the arm from some very light substance, such as paper over a wire frame, so it might be supported by the bindings over its full length,

I said, “No, I plan to make the bindings so powerful that the arm would remain in place even if it were made of solid lead.”

They said, “Then you must resort to a cantilever design?”

I said, “Perhaps that is the method where you are taught, but I am a stonemage, and I did not study my craft at the great school of
Eopan in order to use cantilevers.”

At this they wondered greatly, knowing of no other way this task might be accomplished. And indeed, I knew of no way myself, but I had learned God cheerfully gives to His servants anything they might need, and since I was an archbishop, and therefore a servant of very considerable rank, I remained confident the answer would come to me, which it did, in the manner I will now describe.

I am in the habit of taking meditative walks from time to time, and one night I was walking around the streets of
Quebec. I had just visited the newest floor of the statue, and I was contemplating the problem of the arm. I had not taken my myrmidons along, for the sound of their marching disturbed my thoughts. In place of their protection, I disguised myself, wearing my purple robes with the hood over my head. Yet my disguise must have been inadequate, for suddenly I heard a cry: “It is he! It is the Archbishop Yreth!” and before I knew it, twenty or thirty monks came running at me, and I was sure they meant me ill.

I was poorly prepared for a fight, carrying only my throwing-razor, but I noticed the leader of this mob was running some yards ahead of the rest, and he carried a great staff with a heavy gold top-piece such as senior monks carry in those regions. I quickly pulled my blade from my boot and flicked it towards him. It hit him square in the face, and he dropped the staff, screaming in pain. I instantly leaped forward, seized the staff and set to work on the rest of the monkish villains.

Now, they were confident, for they were many in number, but I had great faith in God and fought with a fury that astonished them, swinging left and right with the staff, and punching and kicking at their throats and groins. At last, those who remained took flight, calling me a demon in human form. Yet I knew it was God and not demons who gave me my strength and skill in combat. By contrast, they, who were weakened by Divine indifference, could barely fight, for instead of punching, they had only been able to slap at me with the palms of their hands or pull at my hair, such as children might do.

I then turned to the monks who lay upon the ground and examined their injuries closely. This was not because I am morbid, but because, like most people, I am both repelled yet fascinated by gruesome injuries, for they remind us how precious is the gift of life, and how close every one of us is to horrid death.

Some had received mortal wounds, and these I mercifully dispatched with my throwing-razor. As I went from monk to monk, I saw one lying on his back with his head tilted back into the gutter. I went over to look at him, but when I lifted up his head, I saw the back of his skull had been crushed and malformed. I had struck him several times around the head with the staff, you see, which had killed him instantly. Amazingly, there was no blood upon his bald head, which made the appearance of his wound even more horrible, for it made the skull appear like that of some hideous monster.

Of course, I shuddered to look at the sight, but it also made a strange impression on me, although I did not realize the meaning of it at first.

My myrmidons arrived soon after, and took the rest of the monks away. The treacherous monks were then given to the care of surgeons. When they were recovered, I committed them to the wire for their crimes.

A few days later, I once again returned to the problem of the
Grief’s
right arm. As I was working, the image of the monk’s head appeared before me once more, and suddenly I saw that, just as the monk’s skull had been crushed into a new shape, so might a certain type of binding, which is called the Lasser Sphere, be malformed to follow the contour of the right arm of my
Grief
.

The procedures involved in this transformation are very complex, but the principle is simple enough. The
Lasser Sphere is the strongest of the twelve essential gossamers, but it is also the most difficult to construct, because it will distort if other bindings are placed within the volume it encloses. In the normal way of things, it is an inviolable rule that no other binding should be placed within a Lasser Sphere, save only for another Lasser Sphere placed symmetrically around its centre. Yet my plan now was to defy the common wisdom, placing other types of binding through the centre of the Lasser Sphere, thereby pulling its surface inwards so it might assume, more or less, the shape of the arm.

Experimenting with this method, I soon found that, with a little effort, the Lasser Sphere could be distorted into a vast array of forms, and working on a small scale I distorted the gossamer to resemble a potato, a turnip, and a sort of cactus shape. Later I used this novel method, which I named
Yreth’s Transformation, to create countless architectural marvels.

Hear this, though: on my eventual return to Cyprus I explained my method to
Pycan of Inteda, who was the master thaumaturge at the great building school in
Eopan, where I myself had studied. I said to him that, if he wished, he might teach the method to his students, providing only that he respect the name I had given to the new binding. You may be sure he was grateful for the technique, yet so jealous was he of my ability that he changed the name I had given to the method, calling it not Yreth’s Transformation, but “Spherical Synthesis,” and he later claimed it was a traditional technique and had been used for centuries. So, even to this day my divinely inspired method is known in most parts as “Spherical Synthesis” (may the name rot the mouths of all who speak it).

In any case, Yreth’s Transformation was the technique I used to bond the right arm to the statue. I carefully applied interior bindings of various sizes until the outer binding conformed precisely to the contour of the mighty sculpture. That arm stood firm at an angle of forty-five degrees, exactly as I had seen it in my wonderful vision. And, as I had stated to my disbelieving assistants, the enchantment was indeed strong enough to support the weight of many tons.

As for the statue’s speech, I considered a number of ingenious solutions. One involved placing two slaves in the head of the statue, and having them speak the message through a great horn which led down to the mouth. While one slept, the other could repeat the message, and vice versa.

Another solution involved training large quantities of starlings to speak the words simultaneously, for these birds have a remarkable ability to mimic human speech. My idea was that breadcrumbs and lard should be left about the
Grief
at all times, providing food for a great flock of these trained starlings, and their natural chattering would sound as if the mighty king’s voice was coming from all directions. In addition, since these birds are quick learners, other flocks of starlings which might fly to the
Grief
seeking the food would learn the words from the native flock. This concept, however, carried one obvious flaw: at night the birds would fall asleep, and King
Thyatus would then fall silent, whereas I wished him to speak always, through all hours of the day and night, providing an eternal statement on the
dangers of the mouse.

In the end, I settled upon a third solution, and this was to imitate the works of nature. That is to say, I would give my statue vocal cords and a tongue of sorts.

Thus, within the throat of the statue, I placed great reeds which vibrated when air rushed through them from many holes I had hidden beneath folds in the stone. This deep sound was then carried to the mouth, where it was further modulated by a series of wooden tubes, each tuned and shaped in order to produce a certain syllable when a lever was depressed. So the first tube made the sound of “Oh,” the second made the sound of “Hhhh,” the third the sound of “Ooo” and so on, with the action of each tube tripping the mechanism of the next.

For the mouse, which I wanted to speak also, I used the same technique, but employing smaller reeds, so the voice of the mouse would be high and squeaky, while that of Thyatus would be low and majestic.