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.

A fire red and bright within the light. The stone was smooth and polished, but no form had beeforced onto it. The jeweler had set it aside while he worked the gold. His hammer small and precise was not like the blacksmiths hammer that was set against the wall. In the shop was filled with smoke and customers. His apprentices working the three forges their dull wits barely enough to match the metal they forged. The night was his. Now when there was no one around to watch or laugh or tell him what they thought of his foolish obsession. There was in Timen little profit for the gold woven by so little a name as his. Gold flowed almost better than water in this desert and it was the smith who placed his name on so fine an article and was value entrapped and multiplied. Anger, greed, pride.

The smith his name was Grodner, that was only truth not pride, wiped his brow and took a long draught of the wine which lay at his hand. Only a moment but it was long enough. There was little time with such work to delay with his human imperfections.

His hands returned to the work, slow but sure, or fast and cunning. Always deliberate, always with an appeal to ancient knowledge passed from father to son, stored within many minds and within a thousand manuscripts forgotten and neglected by many generations. This was how Andor had forged the three hammers, this was the method for a thousand years that the Nordine wizards had prepared staffs of authority. This was was how those who made upon the islands many objects of curiousity that so fully penetrated the markets for a thousand leagues. There was power in what he did tonight--the binding of stones in joining. There was, however, authority also. Power was what men chose to do, but authority. Authority is what men are empowered, nay compelled to do by EO .That which must be. When a thing is bound by authority, not stolen nor forced, but that which is rightfully given it needs must be. This is truth.

When the world was yet young and time had taken its first steps or said that first word there was the Taur. Not the first, but not the last in the line of that which was made. But when all things that were to be made were, and the world moved onward there were stones. Of these stones many tales are told: how they were made and who found them. The doom that was placed upon them, and the power of the one who doomed them. Let it be said at this time only that they are mighty stone impregnated with power that even the ancients were loathe to tangle unless the greatest need should arise. They were fate stones.

Destiny is much written of and little understood. Fates are not like curses or blessings, those are that which has been placed upon us. Blessing are given and curses are uttered, but fates merely are. Fate stones do not do anything: they tell. Like the child catching their parents at stealing fate stones utter the truth blindly to any who is there to hear. That is why in many places they are called truth stones. Come therefore and listen to the tale of two of these stones--sister stones. The tale of Satireo (Sa-tir-eo)--Truths which are.

Mari's Story - The Fair

The world was filled with life this morning. Mari breathed deeply in the midst of a throng hurrying towards the brightly colored tents. She could smell the awakening around her. There was a sense that this was what life was lived for--a preparation for the fair. Now that it was here they were the few precious hours to live and then for an entire year prepare again.
Mari laughed at the notion. If it wasn't this or that it was that celebration there was a holiday of some sort. The living was done in the nooks and crannies of life where escape from the repetition of the grind was to be found.
She passed into crowd bumping into juggling acrobats and jostling among the populace. She liked the feel of people moving all around here. There was something reassuring in the presence of so many familiars even if she did not know their names. They were all of Venicur were they not? Stopping now and then to smell eagerly the fresh roasted meat or bread just now removed from the heat of the oven. In her pocket jingled two coins. Two not three or ten, but two. Mari sighed and then bracing herself pulled her hand away from her pocket and told herself not to think about it, but enjoy what wasn't bought with silver. There was much to see and do. There were puppet shows and jugglers, bears dancing to drums, wrestling matches and swift brutal games of dice where coins danced from pocket to pocket swiftly.
"Your future sweetie?" Mari turned as a withered hand grasped her arm. The woman was short and bent her face half covered in a veil. She tugged again at the arm and Mari followed half protesting. The tent was filled with incense and sweat. On the table a crystal set on a plate of silver lay waiting. They sat across from each other the clear crystal the only thing not dirty beyond recognition.
"Your hand darling, your hand." Mari extended it cautiously.
"You can't pay, or won't," the witch said cheerfully, Mari nearly drew her hand back in surprise thinking now of the two silver pennies in her pocket. Saying nothing she waited. The witched rubbed her palm first one way and then the other. "You will find a man today, he is a prince." She smiled broadly, there were no teeth on the left side of her mouth. "He will fill all the parts of your heart that are not now filled." Mari frowned inwardly but said nothing. "Your happiness will not last forever. He will be unfaithful." The witch shook her head and turned away for a minute. "It is a sad story, but wait." She cackled as if having eluded a dangerous foe, "you can amend it, you need only..." she shook her head sadly, "it will be difficult."
"What will?" Mari demanded. The witch shook her head sadly. There was something wrong. The pit of Mari's stomache welled up. This tent, the woman. Leaping to her feet she crossed the table. "Look at me." The witch shook her head. Mari pulled away the veil which hid the crone's eyes from view. For a brief moment their eyes met and Mari knew. She ran.
Across the field bumping and ducking and pushing until she broke free and her legs churned faster and faster and her breath was ragged. Mari ran.

The Fair

Mari awoke the next morning alert and and instantly aware of the day. The scent of the fair drifted easily into her half open window and the sounds were not of any normal day. Here was the day of jugglers and acrobats, instead of the shrill cry of merchants the more beguiling sounds of the stand watchers voices sounded out. Mari stretched her body muscle by muscle calling herself to wakefulness tendon by tendon. The last to waken was the mind this she did by centering herself in each part of the brain until she reached the back and spinal cord. Here she found concentration.
It was the same ritual every morning and in it she found a foundation to her day. Today she had found it harder than any other day. The fair called out to her with its every sound and she longed to join those already milling towards its sounds. There was much to do in the manor but there were few who needed to do it on a fair day.
Stroking her hair slowly with firm deliberate strokes Mari smoothed the night away. There was no mirror but Mari knew her head well enough without it and achieved with patience and practice a head of hair that was the envy of the village. Long brown strands fell about her shoulders with light soft curls at the tips. Running her hands down her sides and then her front she felt with some dissatisfaction only the slight beginnings of womanhood. She was not yet old enough to be called flat chested but the boys would soon enough. That was the way of things. Two heads shorter than most boys her age, and a head below the girls she could never dominate in that manner. Tall women were awkward she told herself. Over-tall she corrected herself. Truth. Is not that what Tago had taught her? She glanced at the satchel now. It was worn and weather stained but it contained three parchments at the moment and though well-read her Tago was still in good condition. Tago considered truth to predominate. Even to the extent that his readers question his presumptions, and suggested often that he lied that no one could worship him as truth.
"Truth in all things, even--no especially--to oneself." Mari recited quietly. Slipping her tunic over her head and fastening her belt around her waist Mari opened the door to the celler her body writhe with excitement about the coming day.

The Village

"The animals brought you out of the woods!" The taunt came from behind. It was familiar and Mari ignored it.
The way down from the hills passed every home. There were dozens of windows from which peevish boys and jealous girls could shout as she passed by. The boys because it was something to tease about, the girls because she lived in the manor. It was like every other manor in Venictur a stone house of some size. They said that the seven houses were built first, and for the first winter all lived in them. Now only a few people lived in the manor and some rooms were shut up for not being in use for so long. Mari thought to herself that they would not tease so much if they knew her room was the servants quarters, and that it was behind the cellars.
There were no more taunts and Mari slipped in the back door and shut herself in the chamber that was her sanctuary. She looked around evaluating with the disembodied disinterest she had taught herself to use. Straw mat. Low flat writing table with pens and inkwell. Chair carved by the master carver of the village. She regarded the chair carefully. It was the only possession she had of any real value. The satchel in the corner held a few things of usefulness, but her chair had value--if only that it was luxury. It was well made and fit well to her slender body. It was a carving of two wolves their heads for armrests their tails made the back and seat. She sat in it now stroking the left wolf feeling for the dent she had made last summer. It was there. Why had he made it for her? Months he must have worked on it. Why wolves? There had been none there when the animals had brought her. She sighed. The master carver was dead. There would be no answers.