The waiting

They say that of all things waiting is hardest. Patience is not a virtue as they say, but a chore. To do. That is the province of mankind. The boy, he waited. In the stillness of the night where only the night folk intruded with their quiet hums and chirps. In the busyness of the day when all about him the children played and laughed. He waited. Every day he went to the tent of the elders and asked. "Is it time?"
Every time the answer was the same, "Eo knows."
They taught him much in the elders tent. They ways of the wind in the air, the way of the snake in the grass. In the brightest sunlight they showed him how to find shade, and in the deepest night the way to see without light. Water the fountain of life and how it was found, how to move without your sight--only your ears, and your hands, and your smell to guide you.

In the tent of the Summer he asked of the great men and they showed him how to shoot the bow, and the way of a spear in a warriors hands. At first they rebuffed him, told him that he was youth, and to small to face. He told them he was preparing for a quest, and that he must learn and wait. So, they taught him.


Foot races, learning of the Taur and the creatures that walked on it. These things he had neglected as a child and with hungry speed he learned them now. Spring waned, summer waxed and autumn with its bright leaves and the nip of the air came upon them. His training far from complete made him far more than he had been. No champion was he, but eagerly he fought and ran and shot an arrow two hundred paces as though it were sixty.

Winter. Dark and cold as night. Even in the snow he learned much and taught his body the ways of warmth in cold. No animal could emerge from its hiding that he could not hunt from its hole and return with meat in the dead of winter.

Through all this he grew strong, and wise, and in the end a man.

Spring.

There is no season like it. New life, and for the tribe those who would be new men.

In the very heart of the melt where new shoots of green come out and show their face to the melting snow come the boys of the tribe to the circle of stones. There the men wait. In the camp the women cry and beat their breasts--they are not ready--that is what they say. The boys come. Those who do not are boys indeed, perhaps next year. To be a man with the tribe one must enter the circle of fire, and accept the quest from the head of his clan. To each boy a different quest given by those who know him best. The elders have much say in this, and to certain boys they give quests of special weight.

The boy stood outside the circle, neither of the boys, nor of the men. He was questing. All knew that now. It was a lonely place. Where no one is, caught in a limbo that he could not even rightly explain. A dream? Only the old men believed in dreams. He had not had it for months, not since the beginning of winter. In his mind their was some doubt. He could step into the circle now.

What was it but a circle. He had watched last night as they had made the magic fire and knew how it was done. Only the most foolish boy would be hurt. He looked down at the circle beneath his feet. No one would question him. They had told him he had to make his own way in this world, and he was free to choose as he would.
His feet felt suddenly light. Just such a small step, to be drawn in and be a part of the circle. He could feel the drum beats as the spoke to his heart and drew at him. Only the men or the questors. Did he really have a quest. From somewhere far away he felt his foot lifting and draw itself towards the circle.

He caught it. It was a will beyond any other, but he pulled it backwards and set it firmly next to the other. With a great resolve he turned his body and walked away from the circle planting one foot after the other with care and determination. He had left the heavy beating of the drums and only the pounding of his feet one after the other disturbed the sounds. Away from the village and the circle and all that would draw him from his quest. If he were to quest, he would quest. There was no half mark.

At a lone tree apart from the village he lay down and in the coming darkness slept.

The boy was cold. The hut he lay was well sealed against the winter wind, and the fire had not died. The boy was still cold. It was not like the cold of morning where you feel the nip and stillness before dawn struggling for the sweetness of sleep unable to find it for the tramp of warriors feet and the stirrings of the women. This cold was very different and the boy knew this. Pulling his wrap tighter around him he turned his face to the east and fell into a sleep.

He saw them in his dreams rising from the ground like the dead awaking to life. These were not cloaked with the mantle of the dead. They bore sword and spear, their faces were pale but warm, their voices cried like thunder over and over the same refrain—words he did not understand “Melki narthon dolgur taur, laur, saur!”

The boy awoke with a jump. The hut was dark. He looked down its long interior lit by a dozen fires hidden from the sleeping families by hanging curtains. Across each home a warrior lay. Where the husband did not lay his son did so, and to the widows who had no son another youth lay at the doorstep. They were the Mankanu. Guardians.

The boy arose from his place and pushed aside the curtain of his tent. No Mankanu lay there, he was only the boy. They had found him on the wayside crying to the wind. He was but a child of four and little memory did he have of his family. Faces, words, feelings. He was not of this people. Walking past the Mankanu with a soft word of mateo (as it should be) he came to the outer door of the hut and saw the stars.

“You are out late little one,” the grin of the dark faced guard in the moonlight showed bright white.

The boy snorted, “I have no Mankanu,” he looked the man in the eye his height almost even, “I am my own coming and going.”

The guard nodded his head, “soon you will be old enough to be a man, you will pass the test.”

The boy nodded absently and struck out across the camp. There were four long huts, one for each of the clans. They were not clans of family because the ruling Mankanu chose to mix blood that the camp was strengthened, not divided. They were instead chosen by birth season. The boy had been found in the winter and that was his clan hut. Not truly his clan the boy thought, perhaps when the test of manhood came he could call himself one of the clan.

He did not seek any of the tents tonight, he sought the Maleu. Place of the aged. Only those of greatest age lived there. Those who no longer wished to be around the children of the clan. The children were not permitted near this place. The guard moved to block his way as he approached but the look he gave him caused him to back away. Tonight the boy was not a child.

He touched two fingers to the hanging braid which adorned the entranceway and gave thought to the protection of this place. Beyond the curtain it was much the same hut as any other, but lower and shorter. Here the tents were smaller, and a night caretaker sat by the fire talking in low voices to those who could not sleep. Here the boy went. Sitting in the circle with a light grace as that of a cat stretching, or the movement of a doe lying to rest the boy waited.

“You have a question to ask child?” An old man who before had sat silent spoke across the flames his head bowed.

“A dream,” the boy answered.

A murmur ran through the circle at this, and then anticipation.

“Tell us.”

The boy told. He left nothing out and when he was finished fell silent.

“Have you had this dream before?”

The boy nodded, “yes, three times now. Always it is the same.”

There was a long silence and then the man across the circle spoke, “dreams are dangerous without proper interpretation. I will not pretend that I am wise enough, or touched enough to do so.” He opened his eyes, “tell me son, what do you believe it means?”

The boy opened his mouth and then shut it. Closing his eyes he clenched his fist and spoke softly to himself. “I must do it.” He opened his eyes, “I am in the dream. I must be where this is happening.”

“Do you know where that is?” The old man asked.

“No,” the boy bowed his head.

The old man laughed, his laugh though old and worn for much use was still strong and lifted the spirits of all present. “My son if your dream is of Eo, of He who is, then your dream will find you—you must wait on it."

"Wait?" The boy grew still, fear was growing at his limbs as the cold had. "How long shall I wait?"

"Until Eo's purpose is fulfilled." The old man frowned, "you are not of this tribe my son, you are the one they found in the snow. This then would be your quest of manhood."

Quest of manhood? A dream that was not understood. How old would he be when the dream was finished? Manhood was what he had lived for, what all boys lived for. He asked the question that all the boys asked before they accepted their task. "What would happen if I were to abandon this quest?"

"Only Eo knows that."

The boy laughed, suddenly it was deeper than it was before, "that is what is said to all who ask." He smiled as something deep within warmed his bones and made him hold his head higher. "Thank you father."

All in the circle stood and bowed as he turned to leave, "Yio, yio, son of mystery." The old man smiled, "that which will be, my son.'

The cold was gone. A chill of wind bit around his ankles, and the bitterness could be felt on his cheeks. The boy was not cold. He bowed to the man at the gate and made his way back to his tent. As he reached out his hand to lift the flap to his tent he paused. Looking down at the ground where so many Mankanu had slept before he smiled.

There was no one in the farthest tent in the hut of winter that night. On the ground, in the place of the Mankanu, slept the man.