Waking Olympus (The Singers of the Dark Book 1) (9 page)

Rijart was from Tanfel far to the south on the Zanda River. It had started as a trading post and now it was booming, so many new trade goods, and new spices were found there. They would bring wagons up from Tanfel to the Eastern Caravanserai, apparently the southern road was in reasonable condition, much better than the 'main' road across the Plains. On one trade journey he met a woman at the Caravanserai. He fell in love, they got married. She lived in Tanten and he followed her there thinking it an opportunity. He had three children, a boy and girl in their teens, both of whom he was so proud of and a toddler who he missed and loved terribly.
 

Each day they moved deeper into the Plains. Rolling green hills, with surprising pockets of stream fed pools with fish. Each the land equivalent of a tidal rock pool. Although all of this was interesting it was also intellectually deadening. He was traveling through one of the most historically significant areas of the world and it might as well be a walk to the college. Even Tei wasn’t speaking much. So he was very glad when the path brought them to a collection of farms fed by some of the natural streams that crisscrossed the Plains. It would be a chance to walk around, talk, buy fresh food and observe. The truth was that he was literally aching to just lie down.

Ahead, through the lazy rolling green, lay a few widely spaced meagre houses. The insect sounds of late Spring gave them an air of abandonment. Reeds and grass for thatching with a few sticks as supports, mud and grass walls all merging to dull brown amongst the vivid green. There were trees here and there near the village, in the distance on the hill a cluster of trees, with abnormal spacing, likely coppiced. In Lind they gave excellent curved wood for ships but there were no ships here. Every now and then the light shone through them in patterns reminding Mikel of a diffraction grating as the trees seemed to momentarily line up to let light through.

The hamlet was nestled in a gentle hollow, the surrounding hillocks rising several meters above the roofs of the half a dozen huts, yet there were still fields here since the hills rose gently enough. One hut was bigger than the others and from the chairs and tables outside he got the impression that it was some kind of tavern, a bit big for just these houses that he could see, suggesting there were other farms nearby. Some of the surrounding mounds had jagged edges that protruded out of the soft grass, probably ruins of some kind while some of the huts had sturdier walls that looked like they contained masonry; material from the ruins. He wondered what the ruins were like before they were plundered for building material. The village was at a crossroad of rough tracks, the other track running haphazardly northwest to southeast but the amount of grass over the tracks indicated that it was not a busy place.

The fields that he could see had young but good crops growing, by summer they would have a good harvest. Recent years had been plagued by drought, heavy rains, erratic rainfall, Rijart told him, apparently the farmer's lot was never easy.

The small market at the crossroad was a temporary affair that appeared out of nowhere after the caravan had been spotted. Both caravan and settlement knew each other, a symbiotic relationship. The caravan came to a stop a hundred meters or less from the village, here they would make camp, just a little way out, giving the locals some space. The campsite had the remains of past fires indicating that this was a regular accepted event. A meeting of friends. A few of them left the campsite and headed strait into the town, though calling it a ‘town’ or even a ‘village’ seemed to be an exaggeration. But it was good to walk around and talk to people. They wore simple work clothes, that he remembered seeing and wearing, though he couldn't say when. They spoke in a dialect that was familiar to Mikel, it reminded him of the formal language of the Center. He couldn't see any hewn or finished timber, even the small set of rickety fences surrounding the houses were only made out of sticks as thick as his thumb, just poking out of the ground, as if no one cared. A few substantial fences here and there made of rocks, laid on top of one another, no mortar. Again a feeling of despair and surrender. The place was called Penrith, an old name it was said.

People were coming out of the huts, rapidly setting up crude stalls with great speed and skill. Their approach must have been noticed because he could see some people walking over the tops of nearby hills, with large bundles on their backs, pieces of wood poking out. More stalls and goods. Trade goods he reminded himself. He may not be interested in what they had to sell but the Traders regarded these people highly.

When he looked back at the nearby stalls he thought he must have been daydreaming. They were up and ready for business already; a few last second rearrangements of the displayed items. Smiling, eager, perhaps slightly desperate faces. The nearest sold pendants, some of which he noticed were made of pieces of ancient tech items, and a few rare ones made of bright pieces of metal with illegible arcane script written on them. The pieces looked different to the items he saw in the museum in Bethor, and the script was nothing like any language he had seen. In the next stall were beads of semi-precious stones, closer to his budget. He moved on; some amazingly vivid and artistic colored cloth. Many items. Looking back he saw that his companions were not looking casually, they were in active — but he sensed fair — negotiations. Both sides were friendly. This was why Bethor still reluctantly needed the Traders. The Traders were interested in ideas, workmanship, beauty, utility, not in prejudice or ideology; so Traders found and appreciated things the Bethorese wouldn't even bother to look for.

Nearby Kay had bought some of the tech jewelry. He was curious about why she selected those pieces.

"Very interesting items here. I wonder where they find the old tech stuff, do they have to dig it up or are there old ruins? I was wondering is there something special in those items you selected?"

Kay looked at him, a cold hard gaze, sizing him up; it was not pleasant. He decided he must have been too brusque or violated some custom.

"My apologies, if I said something wrong. I'm just curious. Maybe if I start over again. My name is Mikel …" He extended his hand to shake hers. No reaction.

When she spoke her words were short, clipped, filled with a tense, painful, venom.

"I know who you are. And what you are. You can act like everyone's friend but your voice tells the truth. Stay away from me or I swear I'll gut you. Don't think Tei will come to your aid in time either."

She moved on.

Mikel stood completely still. He was in a heightened state of consciousness, as if his mind thought he must be in a dream and was trying to wake up. That just made the strangeness more intense. One of the others walked up to him, Rijart.

"Ahem. You intend to act like a pole all day? Farmers will confiscate you as a scarecrow you know. How will we explain that to Tei? 'No, Tei, don't know where he is, but I'm sure he is being useful'."

He looked down at Rijart not even hearing the lame joke. "Rijart, I — I just had the strangest talk with Kay."

"Leave her be. She'll take a while to trust you. She's a good person. Been through a lot, but that's for her to say, not me. Word of advice, try to lose that Bethor accent, I know it is mild but it won't win friends where we are going."

He bought a few pieces of food and some small simple items. On impulse he bought a bandana for Tei. He didn't even know how he could have thought about giving this to her, what was he thinking? He didn’t want to argue too much with the man behind the rough stall when he bought it. There was little opportunity to wheel and deal out here like his Bethor cousins might, it just seemed wrong. He bought the headband. But Mikel was curious.

The man at the stand had thinning gray hair, face vertically lined by age, like jail bars; he stooped slightly over the rickety table of wares. He would often sit down on a stool behind the table and rub his lower back. Nearby there was a rough walking stick and an empty stool.

He coughed slightly to get the man's attention. “I am something of a scholar.” The old man did not react. “I was wondering if there was someone who could tell me any stories of the old Cities?”

The man’s eyes lit up, he smiled, a jagged smile as much a ruin as the cities.

"You want to know the stories of the Cities? Hey, Leif!" He shouted at an equally old man behind another counter.

The man had suddenly become ten years younger. The other man joined them and they introduced themselves to him. Their names were Zhu and Leif. Zhu explained that they were finding it very hard to maintain the stories that they had once known. Stories about the origin of the world, and tales of the Cities. They were childishly eager to allow Mikel to preserve some of it. Zhu's face was lined in a criss-cross of age lines with dark brown skin and sun blemishes from working too long in the fields. Leif, seemed younger at first sight, but there were telltale signs he was about the same age but it looked like he had taken better care of himself, probably due to the crude straw hat he wore everywhere. Leif, was about five centimeters taller than Zhu. Physically very different people yet they spoke and interacted like close brothers.

The stories were disappearing they said, all the triumphs and pain would be lost. The few stories that they had were told to them as bedtime stories when they were children. No one knew if they were true, but it was all they had of their heritage. They wanted it preserved before it was destroyed by the Bethorese. It was clear that they were the remnants of an old culture, receiving no respect except from the Traders, their culture was about to be snuffed out and they wanted to save their wisdom and dreams, so that others would understand even as more and more of their young people were attracted to the Cities or Bethor. For a moment he remembered his own village, the people, just like these. For that moment the emotions came strong and sudden, as if a giant's hand had grabbed him and squeezed him tightly so he could not breathe. There was an attachment he had to these people, perhaps he would never understand it but he couldn't ignore it.

Mikel wrote down some of the shorter stories. Some were straightforward legends and fables. Others were so fanciful he couldn’t even follow them, one of his literary friends from the Artist Enclave would probably do better. Still others sounded like they preserved older knowledge that was now misunderstood.

That night around the campfire some of the farmers came over, everyone shared food and drink. There was a young lad among the villagers who recited an Ancient poem, or rather a fragment. He didn't know how old it was. One small piece caught Mikel's attention

Stone-faced it rises

A God's throne fire-barbed baited.

Waiting.

What are we

that godlike force hand-offered

pleads our help?

Who are we

who fight eternity with questions?

With no answers.

Non-answers that gave us stars

godlike, mortal, flawed,

questions cannot now save us.

The poem or whatever it was perplexed him. He could understand why they were despondent now, but this piece was from before the Fall, when humans built the Cities. Why would they say, "questions cannot now save us"? Questioning was the only way to learn about the world.

The villagers told of their sorrows and the stories told to them since they were children. Strangest were the stories of the Dark. It seemed to involve astronomy but from the point of view of navigators. There were no stories of the Fall of the Cities but there were stories that hinted at how they had declined considerably by the time Bethor had delivered the coup de grâce.

Later that night as Mikel was about to get into his bedroll Tei came over. She stood unnaturally stiff in the light of the fire, flickering on her face, perhaps even vulnerable; looking over him and not at him.

“Thank you for treating them well. Traders remember the
true
greatness of the Cities. And we preserve some of their knowledge, but we don’t understand it. Perhaps you can help. Maybe …” She stopped herself and realized she was going beyond some self imposed boundary. She clenched her fists, hesitated and then walked away into the night. An enigma. He put his head down, a deep sense of unease in his mind … this woman was latching herself into some deep part of him. Some part of him was becoming very fond of her despite any argument or logic he could muster. This was not a good idea, it wasn't even an idea; that was the point and the problem.

Before the world was made as it is, the Gods ruled the heavenly realm. In heaven, the Gods were ruled by wise Zeus. Great ages past he had beaten his great foe the Demon Lord then imprisoned and sealed him in a cave. All knew where the cave was and that there were no guards. One day his mortal assistant, Amaris, whose curiosity was great, ventured into the cave and found the enchanted urn that imprisoned the Demon Lord. Amaris looked into the secret runes written onto the urn and she saw great beauty in them. But in her curiosity she mishandled the urn, it slipped from her grasp and with a loud bang hit the floor of the cave. She picked it up but saw that the urn now had a crack in it. She was afraid for what this meant. Zeus would be angry but he must be told of this.
 

She ran from the cave and told wise Zeus. Zeus now understood his folly in not guarding the cave and forgave young Amaris whom he still favored.

When Zeus arrived at the cave there were grave rumbling sounds from within and he could just make out dark things flying in the air at the mouth of the cave. In a great voice Zeus roared, “You cannot come back. I will not permit it.”

The Demon Lord laughed in great gusts like thunder, the darkness in the cave trembled at his voice. “We lived before the Gods and we still endure. We will take back Heaven and make it ours again. All that is not of our creation will be swept aside and burned.”

With these words the Demon Lord strode from the cave tall and mighty, dressed in a golden cape and followed by a thousand small dark shapes of his servants. He threw lightning bolts at Zeus, but Zeus was prepared. He struck his staff into the ground and a hail of burning spears and arrows rained down on the Demon Lord and his minions. Zeus struck the ground again and now the Sun itself concentrated its gaze on the Demon Lord and burned his servants. So great was the light that the Demon Lord himself was forced back into the cave.