Madness

&

Oracles

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

©Finn Sinclair, 2022

 

Cover art by Serge Gladky

Chapter 1

The prophet was essentially a man of the future: he did not live in the past, the past lived in him. Hyman Enelow

The fearful braying of trumpets across the city was giving Borner a headache. After a long night of chilling anticipation, the Cormoran army had decided to finish their siege of Andamathea in the darkness just before the dawn. The sky was lit with their flaming balls of death launched from catapults outside the city walls. Borner rubbed his bleary eyes wondering why the trumpets had to blare when every damn fool behind the walls knew the end was upon them. After besieging the city for three weeks and cutting off all access, Borner and rest of the city had been waiting for the death knell. The only question had been whether sickness and starvation did them in first.

Dawn broke across the sky. Standing on the parapet of the ancient temple, Borner watched the first city wall crumble. The brick and masonry fell inwards on the unfortunate houses in front of it. Stones that had withstood weather and threat for centuries heaved over on their sides. The screams began to reach him, rattling what little calm he had left. He watched as the hordes in their blackened leather armor poured through the breach. The resistance was strong and resolute to be sure, but Borner was keenly aware of the ten thousand troops that were stationed outside with their armor and their rage.

He took the solitary messenger pigeon from the cage and tied his last communication to its leg. There was one remaining retreat in the Westerlies Mountains although it was not self-sustaining; it was more a summering roost. Borner had to tell someone though, and there was nowhere else to send. He released the bird and watched it fly away safely in the rising dawn. He was envious.

Borner had read all the reports that had come to him. Brothers and sisters who escaped the towns and cities engulfed in the Cormoran conquest wrote at length of the rape and slaughter of the defenseless. Worse, the temples of Arimas were singled out for particular persecution; the captured brothers and sisters were sources of gruesome entertainments that could last days in the public square. Their half dead bodies would be wrapped in sodden parchments of the holy scrolls and slowly burnt to death on pyres. Why the Cormoran hated the people of Arimas with thorough excess was an unanswered question, one that would not be answered today.

A fireball fell in the courtyard with a ferocious explosion. The building shook.

Borner turned on his heel and made for the stairs. He had stripped the few elderly brothers and sisters who had not escaped earlier of their distinctive clothes, sending them into hiding in every corner of the city. There was no place left to flee. Perhaps they would survive the onslaught and continue living as slaves to the Cormoran. The symbols of the Mystery burned into their limbs were impossible to hide, though. Maybe the children would survive but none with the knowledge of the Mystery that the prophet Arimas brought to the world.

At the bottom of the stairs, he darted through a side door into the sanctuary and made for the altar. Bracing himself, he shifted one of the large stones hidden from sight by the massive carved lectern and grasped the ladder underneath, climbing down. As soon as his head was clear, he seized the metal anchor on the underside of the floor stone and slid the shaped rock back into place. Taking a moment to light the taper that was in his robe, Borner then grabbed the thick piece of lumber that rested on metal brackets and slid it across, blocking the metal anchor from moving.

The ladder always surprised Borner, being taller than he expected. On the floor of the hidden basement, he retrieved his travel sack and his travel clothes, lying at the foot of the ladder. He threw off his master’s robe and sandals, probably for the last time. He was the last master of the last temple of Arimas, and these were his final acts; there would be no more rites or rituals. Another fireball landing thundered over his head.

Hastily he tied the laces of his journey boots and slung the bag over his shoulder. His metal shod juntu staff was in his right hand and the candle was in his left. To his right was a small storeroom that, as far as he knew, housed the only surviving copy of the Scrolls of the Mystery, in sealed ceramic jars. He left them where they lay and walked onward towards the promised passage hinted in one brief line in the earliest records of the building. The warning in the ancient parchment of mixed Bodi script and early block print was clear, only one master would be permitted to pass through the perilous passage.

The ancient hidden way was paved with stone, but piles of dirt accumulated over the centuries made his walk unsteady. Borner had never traveled far down the path before. An explosion rumbled over his head and falling dirt sparkled in the glow of his candle.

Water had accumulated into a foul pool. Borner had no choice but to step through the stinking black mess which came up and over his ankles. Something thick brushed his left boot and he leapt to the other side, bruising his head against the stone roof as he did so.

He walked too far in near darkness to retain a sense of time although he was sure that hours had passed. He was down to the last of his last candle. The path suddenly turned right, and descending steps appeared. What choice did he have? He climbed down, counting each step as he went: 10, 20, 50, 75, 112, 213. He stepped out onto a ledge of uneven rock. His candle was near its end although a red glow from somewhere down below broke the darkness from which he emerged.

Borner had expected to pop out of a crypt in the graveyard or perhaps from the floor of a forgotten granary. Nothing in the writings had prepared him for such a journey into the depths, into the furnaces of Hell, if the folktales were to be believed. He was not a superstitious man by nature but circumstances being what they were, he wished mightily that he had never heard such horrors.

He stopped himself with a bark of derision deep in his throat. His land, the land of his ancestors, lay in ruins. His people were being slaughtered or shackled. All that he had once believed in, all that he had built was a smoking ruin. Knowledge of Arimas’s existence was extinguished. He was already in Hell, his whole being consumed and turned to ash even though the lungs still blew and the heart still beat. His body could still feel pain, but his spirit was already decimated.

This rock passage was . . . this was another, unexpected page of the Mystery if he were to use the language of Arimas. Borner had traveled a long way and further down into the earth to bury his body than he had anticipated. Curiosity prodded him to continue.

His candle flickered wildly and then died with a spurt of hot wax. Borner threw the scorching remnants into the near darkness muttering that he would have reddened splotches where the wax had dripped. As his eyes adjusted to the reddish glow, he spied a path leading to his left, a switchback, if he had to guess.

Walking slowly, using his juntu staff to prevent stumbling, Borner followed the path steadily downward. Leaning over the edge he saw a flow of molten lava far below and felt a hot breeze that made him a bit woozy. He pulled his head back and tried to breath in purer air. Taking his kerchief from his breast pocket, he chanced a dribble of water on it and draped the fabric over his face, tying the ends behind his head.

He continued to walk. At some point he realized that the path had leveled out and was continuing in a lazy straight line. His body was coated in a sheen of sweat from the rising temperature. Taking a swallow of water, he wondered anew if he was going to lay down dying in the heat or survive this trek, unsure of which ending he wanted. Nothing in the Mystery, not a note or an obscure teaching mentioned a plunging walk into the molten flows of the blessed earth. Where in the name of Arimas was he going?

Ahead of him, Borner saw something waver. He was afraid it was further waves of heat rising to bake the air but, in the dim reddish light, he could not be certain. Drawing close, Borner looked up at the black basalt column that stood twice his height. It looked odd, out of place.

“Where do you go, human child?” the basalt softly whispered.

Borner fell back into a fighting stance without thinking. His heart was suddenly racing.

A chuckle emerged from the column as the top swiveled and bent down towards him. “I don’t think your limb would enjoy the sensation,” the voice said. “Whose child are you that sent you down to my home?”

Borner stood up and adjusted his journey cloak, trying to absorb the towering being in front of him. “I am . . . I am a child of Arimas. How do you speak my language?”

“Arimas!” the voice softly exclaimed. “His company was unexpected in the real world. How did he fare in his return to the upper world?”

“The last of his temples fell this morning to the Cormoran,” Borner said. “I believe I am the last of his children to survive.”

The creature said nothing.

“Wait,” Borner said, feeling the sand shift under his feet. He grabbed the wall on his left, trying to keep his balance. “The prophet was here? Then that means, you are . . . you are the Mystery.” His voice was full of awe. “Am I speaking your language instead you speaking mine?”

“Is that what he called me?” The column leaned over slightly. “My, Arimas always was a clever one.”

“Arimas died centuries ago,” Borner said, forgetting to hold himself back before speaking.

“Time moves differently in this realm, child of the upper world,” the column said. “A boon is owed to Arimas. You may pass through the land of the River of Life without harm. Follow me.”

The column glided over the sandy ground, leaving peculiar prints that did not resemble any footprint that Borner had ever seen. He followed, seeing that he had no choice. Far below the surface, he was having a conversation with a talking rock by a poisonous river as if such chance meetings were normal. Borner followed.

He crossed a small desert of red sand with black stones poking up everywhere he looked. To his right, on the other side of the molten river was a series of ever-climbing jagged walls. The ceiling of the cavern was far above his head, far beyond the glowing light of the river. The distinctly inhuman surroundings were a perfect reflection of his thoughts as he tried to keep pace.

A strange, heretical thought struck Borner as he looked around: What was the central theme of the scrolls? Some argued the protagonist from the beginning of the first scroll was “The Mystery.” The common people thought the Mystery was a fanciful rendition of god; the god was the mystery cloaked for an enigmatic, mystical reason. As for the educated, they said as little as possible about the nature of The Mystery in public, preferring silence to mask their discomfort. These same teachers and students discussed their ignorance in private, behind locked doors, with the scrolls and commentaries open across the table. Each believed according to what they thought was best. Borner chuckled to himself: No matter, all the speculation of The Mystery as explained in the holy scrolls was a lie.

Perhaps “lie” was too strong a word, Borner admitted, but the scrolls had a colossal omission. They were true enough upstairs in the world under the sun, but the writings left out an entire realm of life that no one alive but Borner knew existed. Arimas knew this place and he left it out. Why?

If the scrolls were not lies, then they were no longer universal truths, either. Something else lived, something entirely different than the ideals, the heresies, and the promises that the scrolls suggested applied to those who dwelt in the light of the sun. The fact of life in this vast cavern challenged every truth presented in the scrolls. Borner’s faith was riven.

A sound, like boulders smashing against each other, echoed through the massive chamber disturbing his thoughts momentarily. He looked for the source of the sound and failed.

First his city, then his people and his temple, and now his religion was destroyed. He had believed those teachings thoroughly. He had lived and breathed them, taught them and applied them at every important moment of his life. Was his life a lie, then? A waste of effort and love for beliefs that could not be? Like the black shards of rock that surrounded him, his soul felt shattered into a million pieces of nothingness. A lie, his life had been a lie.

“Enter unto life and purpose,” the column said as a wall of rock split into two. The being passed through and Borner followed, wondering about the formal greeting, peculiar as it was.

Doors opened, and they shut behind him without an effort from the being. A soft white glow filled the space as the heat and the sulfur stench eased. The walls were white marble with veins of blue minerals running throughout the room. At one end was a thrust of quartz, which came part way out into the room. The column settled on the thrust of rock and leaned back against the wall.

“Your kind requires water,” the being said. “Reach into the niche next to you and you will find.”

Borner reached into a large hole and was surprised to grasp a human-sized cup of polished stone. A little further inside the niche he glimpsed what he imagined was a cistern and he filled the cup. The water was indeed sweet, and it soothed his scorched throat. Three times he dipped the cup and greedily drank until his stomach sloshed above his belt.

Exhaustion crashed down upon him. “Excuse me, kind sir,” Borner said. “The events of this day have left me weak and exhausted. Would you mind if I laid down and napped a bit?”

“We are bound by words exchanged with Aramis. Rest in peace.”

Borner nodded as he slipped out of his journey coat. He shook it once and rolled it into a ball. Lying down on the floor, he placed his makeshift pillow under his head and closed his eyes. He slept.

 

Chapter 2

As Borner rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, he marveled at the lack of prickly awareness in his limbs. His knees did not ache nor did the back molar on his right side that had been throbbing on and off for a week. Whatever he had dreamed was lost when he awoke, but he was certain that he had been restless. Nature called.

Borner turned to the black column that did not appear to have moved and voiced his request. A wall on the opposite side slid open enough for a man to pass through. Inside was a sculpted vase standing straight out of the living rock. After tending to his ablutions, he thrust his hands into the sand pit on the side, a custom he had experienced on one of his journeys. Only this time the sand was unusually warm and seemed to flow around his fingers like a viscous gel. The sensation was pleasant. When Borner withdrew his hands, his skin was almost glowing, his nails were polished bright with rounded edges and all his hangnails were gone.

“By the words of Arimas,” Borner said, quoting his master, “The ways of the world are not the ways the world need be. Let the ways be examined and let them instruct us.” He returned to the main room, still glancing at his hands.

“What is the treaty with Arimas?” Borner asked, addressing his host.

“Arimas came here to explore, seeking fame and booty,” the column said. “He did find something far more valuable before he left. What do you bring from the upper world to trade and exchange?”

Borner did not know how to respond to the request. He did not even know the creature’s name although he had shared hospitality. Too many thoughts were bouncing around his skull but the focus, if he could manage to maintain it, had to be Arimas: He was the crux of the puzzle. Arimas, the person, was obviously not the man of the legends of which the scrolls spoke. He realized that he was pacing and not progressing. Without a better starting place, he began, “I am Borner. Who am I addressing?”

The creature seemed to rumble from deep inside its rocky soul instead of answering. Suddenly feeling dry in his mouth, Borner bowed his head for the sake of politeness and fetched himself another cup of water. He drank deeply three times again, marveling in the tastes of sweetness as the water passed over his tongue.

The rumbling stopped and the creature rose from its perch then settled back down onto its perch. “The length and depth of my true naming is beyond your senses as I have just demonstrated. Arimas called me ‘The Rock.’ What do you have to trade?”

Borner glanced at his travel sack, knowing its meager contents, and wondering what items he had to trade with such a being. Nonetheless, if Arimas had come adventuring and survived, there was a way open for himself as well. His mouth was still flaky dry. Borner walked back to the water niche and drowned his thirst. The water surprised him, tasting different again from the last time he drank only a moment ago.

Borner returned to his few belongings. He opened his travel sack and dumped all its contents on the polished stone floor. He picked up his change of clothes and stuffed them back in the sack. The rest he spread out across the floor as if he was presenting at a shop in the bazaar. The being dismounted from its quartz bed and trundled over to the display.

A fan of fine threads of crystal emerged from the body of the creature and delicately brushed over all Borner’s inadequate offerings. The creature began rumbling again, a deep basso sound that made Borner’s organs vibrate with sympathy in his rib cage. There was rhythm that he could not grasp.

Another wave of fatigue washed over him, forcing him to sit down, resting his back against the wall. He promised himself that he was only closing his eyes for a moment but when he awoke, his muscles were knotted enough to let him know that a goodly amount of time had passed. He made use of the marble vase and drank several cups of water to wash down his travel rations.

The creature was back on his bench and rumbling quietly.

Scanning his goods, Borner catalogued what the Rock had chosen. The sewing packet was open but only the thread appeared to be missing at first. Looking closer, the metal needles were still there but the fine herring bone needle was also gone. A small sheepskin parchment was missing and most of his substantial medicinal bundle had been removed. Calculating all the items, Borner realized that the creature wanted items that grew in the sun.

His sack of refined flour looked strange. Reaching down to pick it up, Borner was taken aback by how heavy the pouch was. Peering inside he saw uncut gems the size of couder nuts, as big around as touching fingertips of his index finger and thumb. He tried to breathe normally as he looked over the rubies, sapphires, diamonds and emeralds. More than a king’s ransom, he was holding enough ransom for every king that ever lived, he guessed with a momentary flush of greed.

“Your trove was more than satisfying,” the Rock said. “If you agree with the exchange, then our trading is done.”

“I agree with the trade,” Borner said, trying not to betray any quavering in his voice. There was more he wanted. “May I inquire of Arimas?”

“The child always wishes to know more about the parent,” the Rock said. “Do you seek truth or do you seek understanding?”

“Are they not the same?” Borner asked.

“Truths without context are useless and understanding without truths to anchor it is no better than idle speculation.”

“Thank you for clarifying the difference,” Borner said, scratching his head. “What do these two concepts have to do with Arimas?”

“Everything that you are seeking,” the Rock said. “Most of the truths about Arimas are not relevant to you, but you do not know which ones. I could inundate you with all of them and let you attempt to choose the most relevant or I could produce only the ones I believe you need.”

Borner had suspected a test of acuity with the first conundrum but now, he was sure. “If I choose the truths and then I choose the wrong facts, I will be led to false conclusions. I will not gain understanding and will mislead myself further from understanding. However, if I choose the understandings, then I will have no context of why the meanings that you are giving me are valid. You have given me a false choice.”

The Rock rumbled a moment. “So, the parent did teach the child.” The creature went silent for a moment. “Arimas arrived here fully formed but very narrow. Much of his potential had not been touched, only the basest attributes. Cleverness is not a sustitute for truth or understanding. He traded the ignition of his potential for a promise to teach true understanding in the upper world, a promise he made with the very bones of his fragile body. Your presence confirms that he kept his word.”

“I have lived my life . . .” Borner said and then stopped himself, his head whirling. Arimas was given true understanding of this world and the one above? Borner had only concluded a day or so ago that the scrolls were less than true and that his life of teaching them had been a lie. He had been so sure that he had fumbled from being fundamentally right to being utterly wrong about the meaning of life. Arimas taught the truth? The lie was not a lie?

Something was amiss in the Rock’s declaration. Borner was willing to admit the scrolls did contain many truths with a small ’t’. However, the Rock made the claim there was a large ’T’ truth in the scrolls of Arimas, a ’truth and understanding’ in the Rock’s words. After two decades of poring over the scrolls, both studying and teaching them, Borner had not fathomed such a universal and he had been looking.

“Arimas was obscure in his writings,” Borner said. “Perhaps I missed this true understanding or perhaps Arimas was too clever, as you said.”

“I sense your anguish,” the Rock said. “Your confusion is your assumption that the true understanding was in the words Arimas wrote. Truth is far too versatile to be reduced to a line of print or a scroll of words. True understanding is an action. Did not the words of Arimas spur you to act every day? This was the mission that Arimas pledged with his bones.”

Borner uncrossed his arms and let them hang at his side. His spine was straight, and his legs were pillars holding up the entire frame proudly. The words of the Rock were confirming. His life had not been a lie after all, but the reason for his learning seems to have had another purpose of which he had been ignorant. The answer had been so obvious that generations, including his own, had overlooked it. How many times had he and others declared “deeds, not creeds” and like mothers chastising their children proclaimed, “actions speak louder than words?” These truths were lost in the jumble of all the other truths.

His jaw dropped as he realized that the Rock had just used him as an example of truth without context, understanding without anchoring truths, and finally true understanding. He felt like a young novice again, discovering the first great words of the scrolls again. This master had just demonstrated, using Borner as the example, that words are the tools one uses to attain true understanding. But the words are only tools, not truth in and of themselves.

The image of the mystical Temple of Arimas in his head shifted and became a coherent whole. All the stories, laws, and explanations realigned from categories stretching out in different directions into a standing structure that fit together. How had he missed it, studying and teaching all those years? Borner felt whole as well yet overwhelmed at the same time. He smiled, bringing his hand up to wipe his forehead when he whacked the side of his head with the sack of gems he had momentarily forgotten.

He took a hard look at the sack of gems. Another uneasy concern made Borner squint. If Arimas had been charged with bringing the scrolls to the upper world, what would be his task beyond these baubles?

“What did I trade beyond the items of my kit?”

“The promise made by Arimas has endured and has brought his child back to me,” the Rock said. “The promise now holds down into your bones as well. The child is already endowed with learning and understanding that Arimas lacked when he arrived. With your potential, you may bring the upper world closer to the River of Life.”

Borner wanted to feel flattered, but an intuition held him back. Too much had been left unsaid and the absence was beginning to alarm him. Not even sure that the rule of propriety demanded he acknowledge the proclamation with thanks, he chose to bow his head instead. He allowed himself a deep, shuddering breath.

“You have already comprehended that truth is embedded in actions,” the Rock said. “You have the power to act. You have the learning to choose your actions as well. What is holding you back?”

“Is there a god?” Borner asked.

The Rock laughed with a rumbling growl. “Arimas asked if I was a god. If there is a god, then the god is beyond the senses of mortal beings. Mortals cannot comprehend the immortal. Pray that there is a god for if there is not, then mortals must act as they believe the god would act. Who could live up to such a high standard?

“Yet, when there is no god or gods, mortals often conclude that they are the center of the world. They become their own gods. Like a king who claims that he holds the power of life or death over the heads of his subjects, self-worship leads only to destruction. No mortal should take upon themselves the right to take another’s life; yet, like the destroyers of the temples of Arimas, the lesson is easily discarded. Death of innocents follows. Always death. I ask again, who could live up to such a high standard?”

“Not I,” Borner said.

“Nor I,” the Rock said. “Nonetheless, you cannot use your humility as an excuse not to try. Arimas raised you. Did he not teach you the same lesson?”

Borner nodded his head in response. “What he taught has been stripped of all meaning. The Comoran, the people up there, killed all Arimas’s children. Thousands of us. I am tired of trying. I almost wish the god, if the god exists, would strike me down and rid me of my mourning and misery.”

“You live, though,” the Rock said. “The children died believing that you, the receptacle of all that Arimas taught, would take up their voice. You could not save them, yet you can save another. They did not die hoping to burden you; they died hoping that their mortality would encourage and inspire you to continue.”

“The pain is almost too much to bear,” Borner said. “How can I?”

“You have named your challenge, Borner, child of Arimas. This worthy challenge is yours to answer alone. Our time together has come to an end. Remain here until I return,” the Rock said. “You cannot approach the River of Life without dying. When I return, we will depart.” With that statement, the Rock trundled to the door, which opened and closed behind him.

As Borner repacked his travel sack, he did his best to hide his newfound wealth. He ate half of his journey rations of salted tack and drank down more water with the cup. He replenished his canteen with the water as well. He sat down with his back resting against the wall again when the weariness rolled over him and his eyelids failed him. He slept.

When Borner awoke, the Rock was standing just a bit in front of him. Between them was a dark stone bowl filled with the red/yellow steaming liquid from the river nearby.

“Take the bowl,” the Rock said. “The living river will give you light through the dark passages. Follow me.”

Borner shouldered his pack. As he stepped through the doors, the blast of heat from the river and its stench immediately assaulted Borner’s senses. He had dipped his kerchief in the water well and bound it across his face in hope of beating back the stench. He followed the Rock in another direction across the red desert with black shards, picking up several thumb-sized pieces as a remembrance. They turned left before reaching the shore and began to climb between rows of stalagmites. The air began to change, becoming less corrosive.

“This is where I must stop,” the Rock said. “Continue on this path, deviating neither left nor right, and you will return to the surface, Borner child of Arimas. Send me your child when you have something to trade.”

“Where are you sending me?” Borner asked with tears in his eyes. “Are you a prophet?”

The rumbling rumble echoed throughout the space. “I am a teacher, just as you have been, just as Arimas was instructed to be,” The Rock said. “Surely now that you can hold a drop of the River of Life in your hand you can grasp that we are both the same in some fundamental definition of life. I am sending you back to your kind.”

Borner stared at the Rock for a moment longer hoping that the creature would speak more. When the silence rang in his ears, Borner turned to the path and climbed. For hours he followed the winding path, crossing jagged ridges of rock and dodging dripping stalactites that crowded his path. Occasionally he would see strange tracks cross the sand of his path, but he did not stop to investigate.

The surrounding air began to change again and Borner knew he was rising close to the surface. The glow in his bowl was starting to fade as well, making him anxious. He redoubled his pace.

Finally, Borner pushed himself around one last hulking rock and found himself staring out from the back of a cave. Light streamed in from the opening further down the passage, enough of it to illumine dried bones and desiccated nesting material. He rushed to the mouth of the cave, tears running down in face as he took in the light of the sun.

Outside of the cave, he fell to his knees as if he was worshipping the sun. A breeze carried amazing scents of life, of evergreens and flowers, of grains ripening in the summer sun. Borner stopped his joyous reverie to scrutinize the scenery as he sat back on his haunches. Below him was a narrow valley choked with scrawny trees and thick brush. To his extreme right the narrow finger of the canyon opened onto a sprinkling of thicker evergreens and hardwoods with bushes and dried, late summer grasses. Sloping downward, Borner could see a tiny, well-built town far down, beyond the bottom of the slope. In the other direction, a snow-capped mountain rose sharply against a blue sky.

The geography did not strike him as much as the signs of the season, late summer. When he dove beneath the altar only a day or days ago, the early rains that accompany the colder breezes of autumn were threatening. How could a year have passed? Despite the warmth of the sun, a cold shot of fear barreled around his chest, making each breath an exercise. Minutes passed as he stood and catalogued all the signs of the season with disbelief.

With a lack of other options, Borner gathered up his journey sack and his juntu staff. The rock bowl was now empty, shiny and unusually smooth to the touch on the inside; it was placed in the middle of near-empty sack.

Straightening his back and rolling his shoulders, Borner pushed back the creeping tiredness in his limbs and carefully scrambled down the side of the canyon wall. If there had ever been a trail, small landslides of scree had obscured it ages ago.

At the bottom of the ravine, he stripped and washed himself in the gentle stream that ran through the basin. He found berries, sweet thistle shoots and a popper tree, its globular fruits just coming to full ripeness. Birds flitted from trees and bushes unconcerned with his presence. Often enough Borner heard the rustling of rodents scurrying along the leafy floor and once or twice when he was quick, he caught sight of a bushy tail or a striped leg. He drank the last of his water from the Rock’s house and refilled his canteen. Water, no matter how fresh, would never taste as good again.

With eyes searching downstream, Borner worked his way to the mouth of the canyon. The thick foliage slowed his progress, which should have frustrated him, but all of it was green and alive. By the time he walked out of the gorge, slowed again by having to cross another stream that cascaded down the wall to join the one he had been following, the sun was far in the west.

Seeking a suitable place to sleep, Borner chose not to continue downslope but to trace the curve of the mountain that rose behind him. He was hoping to find another cave or a depression in the stony face to give him protection. Yet fate was kinder still and he spotted a dilapidated hunter’s blind that had part of its sight on the mouth of the gorge and its tumbling large stream.

He crawled inside, happy to see a small fire pit precariously made from field stones. The shelter and pit were the nearest signs of human beings that he had seen since fleeing, and for some reason their presence made him content. Listening to the burbling of the rushing stream, Borner put down his head and slept.

This night he did dream, of that he was certain. All he could remember was straining to hear the words of instruction someone spoke and never catching all the words, leading to humorous and embarrassing pratfalls and moments. Only he could not recall what the pratfalls were after a few moments of concentration.

He swallowed the rest of the popper fruit, gave silent thanks to the builder of the blind and started downslope. As a journeyman in the Temple of Arimas, he had traveled in a like manner as he sought to learn more about the world twenty or so years ago. Now he was older, perhaps wiser, and most important, he carried a memory no one in hundreds of years knew.

The temples were gone, and the learning was purged from the upper world. Borner felt like that young journeyman all over again, the entire world was unformed and open to him. The only future that awaited was one he built himself. Ah, what would he build? Ultimately Arimas failed, sending thousands of his followers to a gruesome demise; tens or hundreds of thousands more were crushed or were enslaved whose only crime was living near a temple. Borner did not foresee building any new temples soon.

Those were long-away dreams anyway. First, he had to ascertain where on the land he was and what language the people spoke. If he was on the other side of the Westerlies, the mountain range west of Andamathea, then he was probably in one of three kingdoms, peaceable enough if his memory was clear. The three were separated from each other by minor geographical markers. One border was a river, he was somewhat sure, but they were economically dependent upon one another. They spoke a form of Parmean, same alphabet as his own mother tongue. His Parmean was rusty and consisted of market and trade speech.

The first wall was broken in many places, showing decades upon decades of neglect. The second wall was more intact but still loose on the top, showing an abandonment of fewer decades, he guessed. When he climbed down, Borner found himself in a field of herbs, no longer in tidy rows, to be sure. The mountain thistle was overtaking less hardy plants. Not willing to let such a bonanza go to waste, he unsheathed his knife and began harvesting. He counted eighteen different herbs, some were for cooking, but most were medicinal. Using the long grasses, he bound the harvest in bundles and stuffed them in his lightened travel bag. No longer a fleeing priest, Borner was now an herbalist, at least, that was his first attempt at disguising himself.

Borner knew he was close to the town as he clambered over a third stone wall. This new field was actively cultivated and somewhat maintained. He guessed the standing grain was nearly close to harvest, yet he was humble enough to admit that he did not really know that much about farming. The land was still sloping downward. The buildings of the small town were just beyond the grain field and the bit of civilization they represented was drawing him.

The town was confusing. A small town at the roots of a mountain usually meant hardscrabble and rugged, as befit the climate and the distance from the larger concentrations of population. These buildings had a look of prosperity about them. They were two stories, which only befit wealth. The first story was cut stone blocks placed with a cement. He could also see logs and mortar facades on the other side. All these materials were expensive and required skilled artisans, which one would typically find only in walled cities. The roofs were planked and sealed. He did not see a palace or a manor house though.

Stranger still were the soldiers in green livery at the northern edge of the town. They did not look unduly alert, but they were stationed and maintaining some form of discipline. Borner suspected nobility or minor royalty was responsible, yet their presence still did not explain the number of buildings or their fine workmanship. A king needed a palace and everyone else got crap - that was often the way of the world. This place even broke the pattern of monarchies.

He decided to skip a personal presentation to the sentries. However, when he tried to slip between the buildings, he found the pathways blocked with no allowance for a vagrant to crawl under or over the various barriers. He tested the walls with his juntu staff but there was no bending of the boards and no leeway he could find. After testing two barriers, Borner accepted the fact that this town was probably not hospitable to the likes of him.

He turned back to the bushes and headed south, past what he assumed was another entrance to the town. From the woods he could see guards and an officer of some sort manning a turnpike. He faded further into the woods and carefully chose his path to walk soundlessly.

His belly rumbled, but Borner felt as if he should put as much distance between himself and the sealed town as possible. He threaded his way around bushes, seeking a game trail to follow while keeping his ears alert for other people. The need to move was almost a panic. Still, he kept enough control over himself not to run willy-nilly through the thickening forest.

After an hour of threading his way through the woods, he spotted a road with wheel ruts. Borner stopped himself and managed to control his breathing. Whatever that town/village was, the construction of those buildings and walls appeared to be designed to keep people in rather than to keep people out. By definition, the town was dangerous to the likes of a naive traveler.

The road looked maintained, too. A well-financed road would have a sledge upon which was loaded a great pile of stone. A team of oxen would drag the sledge over the road to keep it flattened after the spring rains. Kings financed roads, which meant he was gazing upon a royal road and possibly standing in a king’s preserve.

The bray of a donkey sounded in the distance and Borner withdrew from view. From a screen of leaves, he watched a caravan approach and slowly plod past his spot. The train consisted of four small wagons pulled by mules. Each wagon had a driver and a second man while the last wagon carried two of the green liveried soldiers in the back, lazing in the afternoon sun. The wagons were mostly empty.

Borner counted to one hundred after last wagon passed and stepped out onto the road. The caravan had gone around a bend. He was debating whether to shadow the slow train, weighing the pros and cons when the sound of hoof beats reached his ears far too late for him to react swiftly. The rider was pushing the horse at a hell-bent gallop with golden brown hair streaming behind him. Or her, as Borner reassessed as he stepped to the side without time to dodge into the trees.

The rider pulled up fiercely on the reins, straining with the horse to stop without passing Borner. “Who the hell are you and what in the name of the king are you doing here?” she said, barking like a captain in battle. Borner could not be sure but the undeserved condescension on the young woman’s face was enough to bring an unturned half-smile to his face.

She was dressed in greens, finely woven natural fiber with all sorts of lace and filigree on the arms and around the plunging collar. Borner also noticed that she wore pants instead of a woman’s riding skirt, and her boots, while well made, were scuffed and scratched from hard use. She was a new, pretty, interesting mystery.

“Borner, the herbalist, at your call,” Borner replied in Parmean with a gentle bow of his head. “You have caught me with surprise, and I do not know who you are or where I am.”

“Thief and poacher, more than likely,” she spat. “I’ll have your head on a spike by sundown.”

“Well then,” Borner said, refusing to be cowed. He doffed his travel sack and opened it. “Perhaps you would like to peruse my collection before you make quick conclusions without all of the facts. The pity of this wood is the terrible neglect and abandonment of its plowed fields. Someone with great knowledge once planted the sides of the mountain.”

“Any poisons in that mess of sticks and leaves?” she asked, staring at him intently.

“Anything that cures can also kill, my lady,” Borner said, as he examined her more closely. She was definitely nobility with the healthy skin and well-brushed hair. Even so, she carried herself like a man, an impetuous one at that. “Human knowledge can cure and can also kill for that matter, my lady.”

“What a curious statement for a wandering ‘herbalist’ in the remote reaches of the kingdom,” she said. “Answer me with the truth, what are you doing here?”

Borner shrugged, “I came from the mountain, not from your kingdom.” Borner let the last word hang in the air as a question.

“My brother’s kingdom, sad as that statement is,” she said. “The locals say that the mountain is haunted. Are you a spook?”

Borner laughed as he repacked his sack and pulled it closed. “The mountain is sacred, not haunted as peasants would say.”

“I should have known, you are priest,” she said with disgust.

“No, never was I or will I be a priest,” he said as if lying came naturally. There was a time when he had considered an offer from the Thieves’ Guild. “Like you, I have my standards. I am a teacher though.”

“Your Parmean stinks,” she said. “You have the accent of an ignorant foreigner.”

“Your Parmean is my third or fourth language,” Borner said. “My Fina and my Jujuma are very good.”

Her horse pawed at the clay with impatience. She sat back in her saddle and gave him a more critical look. “Where are you from, Borner the herbalist teacher?”

“Andamathea,” Borner said, unable to stop the catch in his throat.

She crossed her arms. “Impossible. Andamathea was destroyed twenty years ago with such savagery that the horror of it reached even unto this side of the mountains. You would have been conscripted as a soldier at that age. The crime of the Cormoran was so great that the gods punished them. None, no one, survived.”

Borner did not know what to say. Both statements shocked him to the core. Twenty years? He had been in the realm of the Rock for only a few days. Besides, he had only enough journey cake to last a few days, or he would have starved. Twenty years?

Borner had to recover and regain the conversation: she was the king’s sister. “Appearances can be deceiving. I was alive, and I bear witness to the Cormoran siege and the fall of my fair city. I watched the ancient wall collapse on the south side as the hellfire rained down upon us from the catapults. I escaped. I escaped through the underground sewers.”

“Your eyes,” she said. “Your eyes went vacant, and your face slackened. I might just believe you except for the truth of the reports. My father made us learn the trials of Andamathea, preparing us for the throne.”

“I have good herbs,” Borner said, hoisting his sack on his shoulder. “I hear the sound of hooves coming from the up the road. Please excuse me, I must be on my way.”

“My jailors,” she said. “They hauled off my books without my permission. My name is Salomet and I am a prisoner of a paranoid brother in a gilded cage. If you bring me help and free me, I will reward you.”

“I make no promises, Salomet,” Borner said. “Rescuing royalty is far beyond my experience. Let me see what I can learn of your brother and you.”

He slipped back into the forest without waiting for an answer.

 

Chapter 3

If his head had not been swimming before, Borner was thoroughly befuddled now as he tried to wind his way through the woods. At some point he stopped. He put down his sack and his staff, and hugged himself. He rocked himself back and forth to a simple mindless tune from his childhood until he felt secure enough to let go.

A small hillock before him was crisscrossed with animal runs. He had no thread left but he did have thin strips of buckskin that were well-seasoned and strong when braided. Collecting branches from under the trees, he spent the rest of the afternoon setting snares. With the little light that was left, he made a comfortable nest of leaves and evergreen needles from the forest floor. All the work had been monotonous, deliberately so.

Sitting cross-legged in the darkening shadows, Borner allowed his mind to open again. Twenty years had supposedly passed, and he looked his age of a few days ago rather than aged. Vanity he could live with and maybe use to his advantage. The woman had no reason to lie about his looks after all. Even more, she had no reason to lie about Andamathea.

The fact that all perished at Andamathea was another matter altogether. Only days ago, he had seen their faces. The merchants with their round bellies, the mothers fretting over their children, his friends, and his charges - all of them were slaughtered. No one would know their names but him, and even he could not know, could not remember all those faces, all of Andamathea, the city of stone arches.

Where was his god to comfort him? The god had died at Andamathea. What an absurd statement he chided himself, but the statement had meaning. Gods do not die but belief does. Did he not teach that when a parent loses a child and curses the god, the priest must hold the parent all the closer? But an entire city? Countries? The people of Arimas? There was no god to offer him consolation and even if there were, he would toss it aside. Life is sacred, maybe not the god.

The tune of the “The Widow’s Dirge” seethed through his thoughts. Sung without the accompaniment of instruments, it was a slow lament with an elegant melody, the words described a world bereft. He began to cry. As the anguish washed over him, a wail from the bottom of his ribcage tore through his sinews. Again and again, he howled his grief towards the empty night sky. His mourning paean had no words, only the rise and fall of agonies and brutal loneliness. His voice grew hoarse and only whimpers burbled from his lips as he curled into a ball and fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

He awoke in the morning with a sore throat. Taking a swallow of water, Borner mechanically walked over to the runs to check his traps. He had snared two. One he released, watching it sprint away through the grasses. He twisted the neck on the other and immediately set about eviscerating the carcass. He ate the raw meat until his hunger was gone; there was almost nothing left to save. Burying the rest away from any human eyes, he was confident a scavenger would find the trove soon enough.

He stood blind. The Void danced before his eyes, a soul-crushing blackness that threatened to whisk the air from his lungs. It whispered in his thoughts, enticing him to lay down in the dirt and melt back into the earth. All his pain would be gone, promised the Void. Borner recognized the promise was the truth. Had not the Rock had something to say about truth?

The Void was an old, old enemy. Some children grew up with a fear of a monster under the mattress or the magical creature under the bridge, but not Borner. No mere demon or talking spirit would have held his particular attention because he had no fear of violence and maiming, finding it commonplace in the city of his youth. No, his personal nemesis had been a dark creature of nothingness that gently offered to consume his pained soul; he came to call his tormentor “The Void.” His personal tormentor had returned after decades of absence with a vengeance, no doubt born out of massacre and loss. The genius of the Void was that it never lied, Borner had learned long ago; the Void began with calm, sweet promises that could easily slip beneath his guard.

“Promises,” he snarled the word between his clenched teeth. The subject made his stomach turn. Promises were always a lie. “I promise I’ll be back by nightfall,” his mother had said one fateful morning. A promise was a hope, not a certainty. He never found her body and from that day forward, he did his best to never let a promise slip through his lips. In those dark days, the Void had promised to reunite him with his mother, if he would just jump from the city wall or the rooftop or topple himself at the lip of the well. He almost listened.

Later, he was convinced to utter a vow in the Temple of Arimas. Vows, the priest told him, were not promises. Promises were words between human beings, as fragile as the men and women who made them. A vow was a promise between a mortal and a god, though. As the god was strong and enduring, so was the vow. Yet the priest and the temple were gone, and his vow along with them. Worse, Borner had convinced others to make the same vow and they had died because of it.

Was he guilty of peddling a vow that was promise in disguise? A promise that led to the massacre of tens of thousands of innocents? What Arimas touted in the scrolls was not the whole promise, maybe not even half. The congregations believed that the Mystery was a euphemism for God, a one god. Yet, the Mystery was a talking rock that declared itself to be unashamedly mortal. No god. The new truth was that there was no God, no god, and that no vows existed to offer the gullible. The only promises that existed were fragile. The ultimate vow of Arimas was no vow after all. Yes, Arimas always was a clever one.

Only the Void offered the certainty of freedom from promises that would never be fulfilled. The absence of promises would create a truthful world, albeit an empty one, a sad, broken, mournful world. So Borner learned: The Void promised emptiness and emptiness is what it gave.

He picked up his juntu staff and twirled it between his hands, letting its comfortable balance reassure him that he had not lost all sanity. He dismissed The Void, knowing that its seductive call would return, as it always did. He looked up to the sky, broken with the few clouds. He could see again.

Finding his direction between the rising sun in the east and mountain peak in the northeast, which was still visible, Borner struck a south by south-west trail towards the road from which he had fled yesterday. His mind was numb, but his determination was set.

On the second day, he found the road again and it was empty. Knowing that he was taking a chance but frustrated by the aimless game trails and endless detours of thick forest, Borner took the road southward. By the end of the day, he emerged out of the forested foothills and gazed upon a plain that stretched out to the horizon. He could see a river in the distance, farms, and a ferry where several roads came to a point. He made plans for the morrow.

As Borner sat on the near side of the river waiting for his turn to board the ferry, which could be late in the day or possibly tomorrow, he listened carefully to the conversations. On one hand, he was practicing his Parmean and on the other, he was trying to learn where in the world he was.

Between eavesdropping and careful, open-ended questions, he learned that the capital city was called Gemma and that the king was young and dashing. Life in the capital was more dangerous these days and the taxes were high again. As people mingled and waited for the ferry, they would open their aprons or spread a jacket to offer their wares. By watching the impromptu market, Borner formed a decent idea of how much the local currency was worth and what it would buy. He opened a few bundles and tried his luck. He had some business, ending the afternoon with enough coin to pay the ferryman and to purchase a bite to eat.

On the other side, he quickly discovered that he was not going to be able to pay for a ride on a cart. Despite all the jewels he had in his possession, he did not have enough small coin in his purse to pay for the simple things. He picked up his juntu staff and joined the crowd walking down the King’s Highway towards the city. The journey by foot would be days long.

Ever wary of pickpockets and thieves, Borner was careful who was walking beside and behind him. As the mob thinned out, two middle-aged women and their five children along with two goats cut him out of the group and latched onto him. They were in the business of selling dyes for clothing and glazes. Everyone was carrying bags of crushed minerals, freshwater snail shells, and dried flower petals. The goats were for milk along the way. The two women made small talk with him as the children listened attentively to the conversation. Finally, the two were satisfied with whatever he had been saying and invited him to join them at their wayside camp. At the juncture of three trees and two stones, which did not look any different than other points of the road to Borner, the families turned aside and traipsed through a brief strip of trees to the riverside.

Borner spotted an old, well-used fire pit in the clearing to which the families were heading. He surmised that, if this trip to the city was a regular trek for the dye makers, then they must have set campgrounds along the way. The journey was suddenly easier.

The goats were staked, and the beasts set about immediately to devour their dinner of grasses and weeds. After gathering wood and sparking a fire, Borner shared the remnants of his food with the others, who were much better provisioned than he was. With their immediate hunger satisfied and fire crackling under the superbly clear night skies, the children bundled themselves together and fell asleep. Their slight snores brought a smile to Borner’s face although he not quite sure why.

These past nights he had despised the dark, fearing the unfettered memories that were released. Sad thoughts puttered through his mind for a moment when he was suddenly sandwiched between two warm bodies. He grunted in surprise only to dissolve into a quiet laugh as two hands, one from each side, grabbed at the buttons on his britches.

“I think someone likes our plan,” the one on his right said.

“As long as he understands that what happens on the road . . .” the other said started to say.

“Becomes a memorable fantasy for years to come,” Borner finished for her.

“Oo, I like how this one thinks,” the first one said as she fished his cock and began to stroke it. “My, my, this is quite the stiff stalk. It’s more of a rock, unbendable like.”

Borner reached with both hands to hike up the skirts. Finding their legs already spread, he went directly to their nether lips and began rubbing them up and down. As soon as he felt moisture, he plunged his fingers between their lips and into their clefts.

“You have some proper training, you do,” said one. “He has already got me wet and squirming. Do you mind, sister?”

“You’re always so impatient,” the other said. “Go ahead.”

“Come on, young buck, climb aboard,” the first one said. Borner responded by pulling back his hands and pushing down his pants. He laid down on his back and returned his hand to the other sister’s cleft. Feeling well seated in her wetness, he prompted the other one to climb aboard him with pats on her thigh.

“He is a daring one, sister,” said the first and she clambered on top of his thighs and took aim. “He fits nicely, too.”

Borner felt hard as he had not felt in years, not since the best days of his youth. His cock was solid, substantial and unyielding as she slid down onto his hips. He remembered early days, thinking that he could go forever and never give in until he so commanded. He threw back his head with joy, finding lost memories and feelings that had silently disappeared with the passing of the seasons.

“He is a lively one,” the sister on top commented breaking into his reverie. Borner let her set the pace as he tried to concentrate on his fingers in the other sister. He had been rubbing the top of her cleft in large circles, dipping back into her wetness as his fingers dried out. He scooped up her essence one more time and tightened his circling digits over her nub. Her hips started to tremble. Her back arched. Then she grabbed his forearm with both hands as her butt lifted off the ground and froze in place.

“Dear Mother in all her glories!” the sister beside him hissed with a furious whisper. Borner could imagine how her jaw was clenched in orgasmic rictus. He felt even more powerful. Withdrawing his hand, he grasped both hips of his fucking partner and began to thrust upward with more deliberation. Each stroke had to be long and complete for his joy.

His partner began rubbing herself, touching his cock each time he un-clinched and slid downward. Small pants escaped her lips as her hands massaged herself with more force. Suddenly her hips bucked, and she leaned forward, her panting turning into one long moan of release.

At first, Borner was disappointed that he had not erupted with her. Making an impetuous decision, he pushed her aside and crawled upon the other, sprawled sister. He plunged into her without any warning, deciding that this round was all for him. He quickly ramped up to a fast pace. She did not seem to mind, and he was not going to ask.

Borner concentrated on the sensations around his shaft, the moisture collecting at the base of his cock and soaking his hair, and the squishy sound each time he withdrew and began to plunge again. He felt the pressure rising behind his balls and a great grin of exertion broke across his face.

“Yes, yes,” he whispered as the pressure moved to the base of his shaft. “Now!” he whispered harshly as his cock pulsed with near pain, a sweet, exquisite pain of release after release.

He stopped, holding himself above the woman, his lungs inflating to fill his ribcage. “It is good to be alive,” he said with a conviction he was sure neither of his two nighttime lovers would understand.

“We picked a vigorous and strong one, with a sprinkling of sass,” the first sister said. “He certainly took the wrinkles out of my skirt.”

“He knows how to appreciate a woman, I give him that,” the other said, patting his arm.

The entire conversation amused Borner. “Would you care for another round?”

“Men!” they both said in unison as they rolled over to find their blankets. Their snoring quickly added to the sounds of their children. Borner laid awake for a long time, staring at the sky, wondering if there was any meaning to be found in the great expanse of the heavens. He was alive. Andamathea was dead. God? And Arimas: was he a liar or truth-teller? No ready answers came to mind as he rolled over, himself, to lie with his head on his travel sack.

The next seven days were a variation of his first day south of the river. Walk and walk until fatigue slowed their progress, a known place of rest and a nighttime bout of lust with the sisters. Borner practiced his language skills, remembering some and learning much more. At the same time, the demons of mourning and despair would creep into his thoughts, forcing him to suppress them again with vigor. He preferred the deadening pace of the long walk when his mind could simply shut down in the torpor of the afternoon.

By the seventh day, road after road had converged onto the King’s Highway and the traffic was thick as farmers, tradesmen, and merchants made their way to and from Gemma. The first danger was passing laden carts without being trampled by oncoming traffic. The summer harvest was already waning. Minor nobility with their horses and carriages were the worst danger, though, having no regard for others who had trouble getting out of the way.

All traffic stopped at the walls of Gemma. With interminable delay at the great northern gate finally negotiated, Borner stepped into the cacophony of the city and bid farewell to his road mates. They sped off for the artisan guildhalls where they would ply their wares and find a traveler’s bed waiting for them.

Gemma was an old city, probably older than Andamathea, but unlike Borner’s home, Gemma lacked beauty. All the buildings and walls seemed to project a brute force of sharp edges, high windows, and thick gates. The cobblestones were painful underfoot and uneven enough to twist an ankle if one was not careful. The main streets were broad enough for a company of cavalry from which Borner surmised that these boulevards had seen regiments many times. Perhaps it was the manner of the people who would stare hard for an instant and then look away as if uninterested.

Gemma was not a happy, healthy place, Borner decided, although he could not identify one clue that stood out more than others. He saw small groups that would gather at an intersection mumbling and grumbling, which would disperse as quickly as they formed. No one seemed to stand still with a neighbor. People were nervous, and their anxiety was contagious. Borner needed to get out of the streets and find a bed before he attempted to seek out the courses of the city for answers. He was reluctant to try a traveler’s inn after many warnings on the road and his first impressions in the city.

There had never been a Temple of Arimas on this side of the Westerlies, but Borner was not acutely worried. Having to ask directions twice, he found his way to the Avenue of the Gods. While every city was different, the overall pattern of this avenue was always the same. The wealthiest and most powerful were towards the end of the street with the most influential of all capping the other end, creating a dead-end street. Whether the city fathers sanctioned different religions or just individual temples to the deities of their pantheon, each had stone stairs and an ornate donation box. He walked up almost to the end. The keystone temple was one that Borner did not recognize, dedicated to the Snake-headed god, Urutu, whose fangs were dripping swords.

The temple Borner sought was not on the main avenue; it never was. The Temple of the Sojourner was an ancient order, typically composed of merchants, tradesmen, artisans, and the traveling souls of the world. The strength of the Sojourner lay not in any one given temple but in the network of temples strung across the breadth of human civilization wherever the authorities allowed. The sign of the Sojourner was the setting sun with a star rising in the upper right corner, guiding the traveler night and day. To an Arimas follower, the Sojourner was a kindred soul and physical proof of the livability of a city. Their believers were a little too pragmatic and passive to a believer in the Mystery, but they were not offensive.

Borner looked for the alleyway. The Temple of the Sojourner, ever a visitor, always built its temple behind the gods of the city as a demonstration of its intent not to compete with the donation boxes on the main avenue. Between a goddess of the farmer and a god dedicated to water, Borner spotted a wide dirt path with a small bronze medallion nailed to a post - the path beckoned.

Hitching up his sack and using his juntu staff to keep his weary legs steady, he walked the length of the two buildings and stepped out into a beautiful garden with a laid stone path and shade trees. Small stone statues of woodland creatures peeked out of bushes and among the flower beds in standing poses with open mouths. They were the spigots of an intricate watering system for the Garden of Repose.

Borner tapped the end of his juntu staff on the sounding stone three times before stepping onto the path that led to the entrance of a modest looking plastered building with a double door entrance on the first floor and wooden shuttered windows on the second. The illusion was the appearance of a modest building, but Borner had no doubt that the doors were stout, and the walls were thick.

“Greetings and welcome,” a middle-aged man said as he stood in the doorway.

“Gantu va sutu la,” Borner replied in Jujuma, stopping to bow low.

“Sutu lee,” the man replied with his own bow.

Having established that he was a traveler and versed in the deceptively simple ritual of recognition, Borner was relieved when the man bowed. With the world flying past him and changes so utterly abrupt, he was afraid that the established ways he had always relied upon had changed.

The man held out his hand and Borner handed him his staff. The man tested its weight and nodded his head. Without a further word or sign, the man turned and walked into the building. Borner followed, holding his palm up to cover the medallion of the sun and the star on the wall. Following his guide, he turned left and entered the next room. Two young acolytes stood on either side of the door. As soon as he passed, they grabbed the two doors and closed them. Two metal bars slid across from steel reinforced frame to steel reinforced frame.

The man stopped and laid the staff against a chair. He turned to Borner and asked, “Where are you from, sojourner?”

“I sojourn from Andamathea.”

The man visibly started and held his breath for a moment as he considered Borner’s answer. Borner’s concern began to rise as the man continued to stare at him. Although he knew that second guessing himself was a bad habit, he was worried that perhaps he should have lied and given another city. However, the name of his beloved city carried, or had carried, great respect and generous response. He tried not to let his sweaty palm distract him.

“You are not a sojourner,” the man finally said. Borner heard the acolytes rustle behind him, but he was not about to look.

“I am,” Borner began, “the last of Arimas. I claim . . .”

His words were cut off as the man raised his hand with a forceful gesture. With a cupping of the man’s hand telling him to follow, Borner followed the man to a staircase behind the wall of the room. With the crank of a handle disguised as a wall sconce, the stairway shifted and new stairs leading downward appeared. Borner followed.

Four chairs and a table were nestled between two great cisterns of water. A chandelier with dangling oil lamps lit the room and the scent of waxseed oil overlay the natural mustiness of the basement. The man leaned Borner’s staff against the wall on top of a long chest and Borner dropped his travel sack next to his staff.

The man held out his hands and Borner approached, each clasping each other’s forearms. The man gasped as he felt the length of Borner’s arms up his elbows. Borner himself was surprised when he felt a raised brand on the man’s right forearm.

“You are a follower,” Borner said with awe in his voice.

“I was a follower,” the man said. “But you have four brands; you are a master. Show me.”

Borner raised his sleeves and let the man stare at his arms. The sun was on one side and the crescent moon was on the other, closest to his elbows. The scroll and the tree were just above his wrists.

“How can this be?” the man said. “Andamathea fell twenty-one years ago. You should be dead or at least old enough to be dead.”

Borner’s euphoria at finding a follower vanished as he considered the question. The stunning journey both through the realm below and the realm above had wrenched every fiber of his being. Now his plans for anonymity and for a future of his own devising seemed to evaporate as he watched the man’s face. He dropped his arms.

“Grant me a sojourner’s bed and I will explain to the best of my ability,” Borner finally said.

“It goes without saying, granted,” the man said. “I am Kanner and this is my House of the Sojourner.”

“I am Borner,” he said, watching the man start again, damn it.

 

Chapter 4

“You were the master of masters,” Kanner said as they downed their second shot of the clear, sweet liquor the kingdom called Pahtash. According to Kanner the bottle was a fair to middling representation of the national drink. Borner found it had a slight bit of an alcohol aftertaste under the sweetness but nothing of which to complain. “I know Arimas did not believe in hierarchies of leadership after the four brands, but no one was fooled.” Borner was the one to ask, in the end, when no one else could answer.

“‘Was the one’ is an apt description,” Borner said. He twirled the small glass on top of the table between his thumb and middle finger, an old habit. “Everyone is dead, and every temple is destroyed. One set of scrolls lies hidden under the altar in Andamathea, probably buried under tons of rubble - unreachable. The followers of the Mystery are wiped from the face of the earth. Besides, Arimas . . . never mind.”

“Arimas had his revenge,” Kanner said as he poured a third glass. “The pox was in the city when the Cormoran overran her walls. They had no protection against the disease, never encountering it in their own lands. Since the pox needs two weeks of incubation, they did not know until it was too late. The plague spread through their armies and even back to their homeland. The fields, towns and forests were full of bloated, festering corpses that the scavengers would not eat.”

“Their deaths are cold comfort,” Borner said, sitting up straight and looking at his drinking companion in the eye. “Why? Why did the Cormoran hunt us down with such bloody intent? Do you know why?”

Kanner shrugged as if the question were a painful memory. “Some say that a follower scorned the advances of the crowned prince with public humiliation. Some say the king had a seer who prophesied the kingdom’s demise by the hand of Arimas. Superstitious barbarians and all that nonsense. The most intriguing rumor, though, is the charge that the Arimas Scrolls contained an ability, a teaching that could topple kingdoms and destroy the earthly realm. Hmm.”

The Void called out and Borner had to turn his head and look away. ‘Arimas brought about the death of his followers though it took centuries,’ it whispered. ‘Did he have to take tens of thousands of innocents with him with his foolishness? Hundreds of thousands? Was any truth worth so many innocent lives?’

If Borner put himself down now, no one could possibly die of the foolishness again. Or did he have the foolishness backwards – there were too few teachers and too much barbarity? Did Arimas attract the barbarians or did his scrolls plant the seeds of his followers’ destruction? He forcefully pushed the Void back, leaving the questions unanswered.

“Hmm, indeed,” Borner said, taking a deep breath. “I know those scrolls almost by heart; there is nothing of the sort in them unless one wants to play absurd metaphysical games. I wished, I even prayed for such knowledge in my escape. If the fall of Andamathea taught me anything, it is that nothing, nothing but idealistic, fluffy-cloud, never-could-be kingdoms of philosopher kings were in those scrolls. Arimas, the real Arimas, was either a dreamer or a power-hungry scoundrel building temples to glorify his name.”

“Careful there with the liquor,” Kanner said. “You are speaking heresy.”

Borner laughed softly at the joke before taking a sip of the third drink, glad for a distraction from his bitterness. “I only wish there was heresy to speak. Let us speak of other things, of issues of this day and time. You left Arimas for the god of Sojourning.”

“I never felt entirely comfortable with the values of the Mystery,” Kanner said. “To always seek and yet never see the entirety sounded too much like a futile exercise.”

“A common criticism that does have some merit,” Borner agreed. “The emphasis is supposed to be that we never stop learning, always growing and expanding our experience of the world. The Mystery is, or was, a task without an end point. The idea of a never-ending task can be overwhelming when one’s search is for something more concrete.”

“Yes, but,” Kanner said as he shifted in his chair. “The source idea of the Mystery always appealed to me, but the Sojourner spoke to the Mystery in a manner that sparked my imagination. I wanted to see what was beyond the next horizon, or over the mountain, or in the next city. Accepting the oath of the Sojourner, my life became full of people excited about life and the world. For five years I traveled this world, and not just from temple to temple. I walked from the eastern duchies of Andamathea fame all the way to this town, down the length of the Westerlies as we called them, across their marshy breadth and halfway up the other length.”

“What caused you to stop here?” Borner asked, taken with the man’s journey.

“Names and faces were starting to blend together into a tangled mass,” Kanner said. “I was forgetting stories, conversations, and lessons that I did not want to lose. I needed to sit down and write, even if writing was the lesson of Arimas. The Sojourner here was old and growing frail. I put down my travel sack here and just never had the inclination to pick it up again - until recently, that is.”

“Regime change,” Borner said. “Violent regime change, so I heard. Who is the Princess Salomet?”

Kanner choked on his drink, spraying his liquor as he tried not to fall backwards in his leaning chair. “Where in the name of the sun and the star did you hear that name?”

“I met her on the road, outside of a closed town, one where people cannot get out,” Borner said. “At least not for more than a few minutes.”

“So, you can vouch that she is still alive,” Kanner said as a question, as much as a statement. Borner nodded and threw the rest of his drink down his numbed throat. The two men sat in silence, each waiting for the other to speak.

“She is King Ganvanir’s sister who should have been the reigning monarch,” Kanner said finally, staring at his glass. “A coup of some sort, a spurt of violence, occurred upon the death of their father; none outside the palace knows what happened. However, now the high priest of Urutu, who was not in favor in the palace under the father is now a chief counselor to the young King Ganvanir.”

“That sounds sinister,” Borner said. “Snakes and swords, priest and a naïf king. Perhaps I would be happier in a friendlier clime.”

“All of us commoners, guests and citizens alike, thought that Salomet was slain in a grab for power,” Kanner said. “Yet she is alive and well. This only deepens the intrigue at the palace. Who is protecting her?”

“If her brother deposed her, then not him,” Borner said. “If the Urutu priest backed the brother, then he is also a threat to her. I don’t know enough about the other characters in this sad drama to speculate more. I can report that the people in the countryside are ranting dangerously loud that crime is becoming worse in the city and that taxes have been raised too high. Maybe there is another hand behind the throne, disposing of one sibling at a time.”

“You sure you saw the ugly sister?”

Borner snorted. “Not particularly clever repartee, Kanner. Her naturally curly hair falls down her back and cascades over her shoulders. She is not petite but rather shapely. Her bosom is quite delectable, peeking out from behind her green fabric and lace.”

Kanner had the decency to blush, Borner noticed. There had been moments when he questioned his sanity, wondering if he spoke with the woman astride her panting horse. He had not rejected the notion that delirium had been a shadowy companion since he descended those steps into the Mystery and that talking to voluptuous women on horses would have been a typical fever dream. Had he really spoken with the source of the Mystery and drunk the life-giving waters out of a stone cup? Madness still threatened, and the Void tempted with its seductive call.

“Your eyewitness account is an unusually lucrative piece of information,” Kanner said. “I’m sure there are many who would sell their . . . Could you really be Borner of Andamathea who should be nearing sixty years old?” Kanner asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“In my head I am forty years old, and the City of Arches fell only a few weeks ago,” Borner said, choosing to ignore the other comment for the moment. “I am a grown man with a vital body of a now younger man who feels more comfortable in the arms of middle-aged mothers and speaks with more ease to grey-bearded men. Whatever blessings I have received, I feel trapped between jumbled self-awareness and dubious appearances. This confusion is very disconcerting and for me, it is nearly impossible to disguise my newfound robust health when I should be slowly bulging at the waist, dimming in the eyes, and complaining about the weather in my joints. I cannot consider every word and gesture beforehand.”

“Maybe you are the reincarnation of Arimas the prophet,” Kanner said as he held up the bottle as an offering. “At last we have a fine idea that would be a heresy up and down the entire Avenue of the Gods.”

The suggestion caused Borner’s fists to clamp and his jaw to clench. He had not considered such a dreadful curse. The ramifications as he speculated the probable outcomes left a sour tang on his tongue. All he could foresee was death and mayhem. He forced himself to release his tightening muscles as he sought to turn his grim conclusions elsewhere.

“Drinking in a basement between two cisterns accessible only by a hidden staircase makes a delightful atmosphere for heresy, would you not agree?” Borner said, waving away the bottle for the moment. “Plots are hatched in dank holes such as this.”

“The common folk are not the only ones to fear the priests of Urutu,” Kanner said. “A priest or two of the bigger orders have disappeared. People die prematurely. An icon goes missing. Devotees of other gods are actively proselytized and given small hints of violence for failure to heed. Urutu grows bold and no authority stays their hand.”

“Do they, the palace, not fear the isolation that comes from the withdrawal of the Sojourner?” Borner tore off a chunk of the bread and dipped it in the spiced oil that lay in the bowl before them. The crust was thick and tough with toasted seeds embedded on the top. He would have liked a serving of pickled vegetables to tease his thirst, but none was offered.

“I see no evidence that the Sojourner has a place in their calculations,” Kanner said. “We know they are watching us and listening as best that they can. We don’t know why, though. The only items of interest are our business reports, which they do not request. Trade is down and visiting merchants are slowly fading away from the city - enough for the Sojourner to take notice.”

That was a preview of Madness & Oracles. To read the rest purchase the book.

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