Echoes of the Great Song

by David Gemmell

  Methras entered the long room and found several of the men playing dice bones. “Soon be home,” he said.

  “And then what?” asked the first mate, a surly mariner who had sailed with the Serpent for the past seven years.

  “There will be roles for you all,” said Methras. “This ship is equipped to carry four hundred people. Now that it is fully charged there will be many expeditions and good sailors like yourselves will always be needed.”

  “Easy for you to say, sergeant,” said another man. “Always a need for soldiers.”

  “Would anyone like to make a wager?” asked Methras. “I’ll bet a gold piece to a silver that all of you will be hired for the next voyage.” The men looked at one another, but no one took him up on his offer. “There,” he said, “you are not as pessimistic as you pretend.”

  “Not at all,” said the second speaker, a young Vagar on his first voyage. “We just know what a bad gambler you are and we all like you too much to take your money.”

  Methras chuckled and moved through to the makeshift galley, checking the stoves and the pans and tasting the broth being prepared. It was good, but a little too thin for his taste.

  “We are short on meat supplies, sir,” said the cook. “But there’s plenty of dried fruit left.”

  Methras continued on through the galley and up to the central inner deck. Other sailors were already asleep here and he did not disturb them. He paused at the locked doors beneath the prow section and wondered once more just what was behind them. In six years they had never been opened.

  Climbing the circular stairwell he emerged on the center deck and saw the native, Touchstone, leaning on the guard rail. He liked the savage. The man had a wry sense of humor and a seeing eye.

  “Good evening,” he said. Touchstone glanced up.

  “Not good,” said Touchstone. “Bad visions.”

  “Are we in danger?” asked Methras, well aware of the tribesman’s uncanny talents.

  “Not know. But dream was bad. Two moons in sky. Fire from mountains. Big seas.”

  “There is only one moon, Touchstone. There can only be one moon.”

  The tribesman nodded. “This I know. But two moons will come. This I also know.”

  Methras was well versed in the skills needed to converse with Touchstone. “Let me understand you,” he said. “What you saw was two objects in the sky that were like moons?”

  “No. One moon. Same moon. Twice. Same time. One rise one fall.”

  “Perhaps it was not a vision. Perhaps it was just a dream,” ventured Methras.

  Touchstone considered this, then shook his head. “Vision it was. Two moons coming.”

  “Was that the whole vision? You mentioned big seas?”

  Touchstone nodded. “First one moon in sky. Then same moon appear in different place. Two moons. Sea rise up. Big wave. Big as mountain. Land cracks and fire-blood flows from wound. This I see.”

  Methras fell silent. The moon, he knew, exerted an enormous gravitational pull on the seas. If a second moon were to appear then tidal waves were likely, as indeed would be volcanic eruptions. However, the idea of a second, identical, moon was preposterous. “Have your visions ever been wrong?” he asked the savage.

  Touchstone nodded. “When young. Before medicine bag was full. Not since.”

  “I think you are wrong now.”

  “Hope so,” said Touchstone. “How soon we home?”

  “Late tomorrow. After sunset. Are you anxious to see the city?”

  Touchstone shrugged. “Hate city,” he said. “Land I love. Under feet. Firm. Solid.”

  Methras leaned on the rail and watched the last of the sunset and the birthing of the stars. They were so bright out here, so clean and sharp. Suddenly he laughed. “There are your two moons,” he said, pointing at the horizon. One moon hung in the sky, the second was its reflection on the surface of the sea.

  “Could be,” said Touchstone. He seemed relieved.

  “The dolphins have gone,” added Methras.

  “They take message to Suryet. Tell her I come home soon.”

  “Is that another vision, my friend?”

  “No. That is hope,” said Touchstone sadly.

  • • •

  Methras completed his rounds and returned to his small cabin. He found Talaban waiting for him there. The tall warrior was seated on the cot bed, staring through the narrow window and out across the western sea.

  “Good evening, sir,” said Methras, surprised.

  “And to you, sergeant. How is the mood of the men?”

  “They are worried, sir. They wonder about the security of their roles aboard the Serpent. Especially the rig-climbers and the sail-men.”

  “Did you reassure them?”

  “As best I could.”

  “Good.” Talaban rose. “Follow me,” he said. Together the two men made their way up to the high deck and the circular control cabin. Here Talaban showed the Vagar the correct way to open the triangular gold plate on the door, and the correct code for the seven symbols beneath it. The door opened. Both men stepped inside. Methras found his mind racing. No Vagar was allowed within this place. Talaban seemed unconcerned. “There are few men left alive who know how to handle ships like the Serpent,” he said. “So watch me closely, and if you have questions, ask them.”

  “I have one question immediately, sir,” said Methras. “Why are you showing me this? This is Avatar knowledge, and merely being in possession of it could cost me my life.”

  “Times are changing, Methras,” Talaban told him. “Now watch and learn.” Talaban moved to the controls, a series of handles and levers, wheels and studs. “As you can see,” he continued, “the controls were designed for the ambidextrous. Come stand beside me. This lever controls forward motion …” One by one he explained all the principles by which the Serpent was powered. Methras absorbed the information easily. Finally Talaban stepped back. “Take the ship through three hundred and sixty degrees,” he said. Methras took a deep breath then placed his hands on the two most prominent levers, black metal with molded hand grips. The Serpent swung. “Not too sharply!” warned Talaban. “Feel the craft as if it is your own body. You are the Serpent’s heart.” The ship slowly made a long circle. “Now bring her back on course, in line with the Fangs of the Hound. Methras glanced up through the glass window, and located the Hound star. Smoothly he swung the Serpent back towards the north.

  Despite his fear at this forbidden knowledge Methras found his excitement growing. He felt energized and curiously powerful. Turning, he grinned at Talaban. Then his eyes scanned the panels before him. “What does this one do?” he asked, pointing at a closed black section with golden hinges.

  “One task at a time,” said Talaban. “Bring her to a gentle stop.” Methras did so, and immediately the ship began to pitch in the swell. “With no forward motion you must compensate for pitch and roll with this,” said Talaban, leaning forward and gently adjusting a golden wheel set at the center of the panel. Immediately the ship ceased pitching.

  For an hour Talaban instructed the Vagar sergeant in the intricacies of the Serpent. Then, locking the door behind him, he took Methras back to his own cabin and filled two goblets with fine wine.

  “You did well,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir. But I still don’t understand why you shared this knowledge with me.”

  “It is a question of trust, Methras. Simply that.”

  “I will not betray that trust,” Methras assured him.

  “I know. For all my faults I am a good judge of men. Now go and get some rest. Tomorrow I will teach the crew some of the finer points of seamanship aboard a fighting Serpent.”

  Methras saluted and left the cabin. He still had no idea why Talaban had honored him so, but he felt good for it, and he lay upon his cot bed recalling the heady sensations of riding the Serpent.

  Three cabins away Touchstone found sleep hard to come by. Every time he drifted towards slumber he would see again the two moo
ns in the sky. Rising from the floor he took his medicine bag in his hands and tried to concentrate on Suryet. It was useless. Her serene face would form in his mind, then fade into a vision of a ghostly moon.

  Troubled, the tribesman left the cabin and climbed to the outer deck, tasting the salt upon the air, and watching the bright stars in the dome of the night sky. The moon was low on the horizon.

  Three dolphins surfaced close by. One leapt high into the air, its sleek silver form spinning before it dived down into the water. Touchstone felt his spirits lift. Big seas would not trouble the Osnu. They would continue, no matter what disasters befell the human race. Transferring his gaze to the stars once more, Touchstone sought inspiration. He knew what needed to be done and yet feared the result. If he failed he could die, or worse, could become like poor Eagle-With-No-Feathers, slack jawed and imbecilic. Dream walking was a perilous enterprise at best, and then few walkers would consider the journey without the aid of a shaman.

  Touchstone had walked twice in his life, both times with the aid of One-Eyed-Fox. He was the greatest of shamen. All the tribes understood this. On the second walk Touchstone had become lost in the stars of the Great Sky River. One-Eyed-Fox had brought him back.

  The tribesman would not have considered the dangers of a walk, had it not been for the persistence of the two moon vision, and the fact that it seemed linked to the fate of Suryet. Every time he tried to picture her the vision roared into his mind.

  Touchstone sighed, then made his way to Talaban’s cabin.

  The captain was making more marks on white paper as Touchstone entered, little symbols carefully constructed in lines. He had explained that other men could read these symbols, and they were of value. Touchstone liked and admired the man, so he did not laugh.

  “You look troubled,” said Talaban, putting aside his pen.

  “Big troubled. Need help.” Talaban offered him a seat, then sat back. “Bad vision. Need dream walk to find answer. Fly high. Walk among stars. See future.”

  “You have spoken of dream walking before. You said it had many dangers, Touchstone.”

  “Yes. Many dangers. But must answer riddle.”

  “I thought you needed a shaman for the journey. To help you home.”

  “You must bring me home.”

  “I don’t know how, my friend.”

  Touchstone shook his head. “You share walk. You see what I see. But you hold to ship. To …” he struggled for the right words, “to life,” he said, at last. “One hand to ship. One hand to me. You draw Touchstone back.”

  “And this vision is important enough to risk your life?”

  “And yours,” said Touchstone.

  Talaban grinned. “Well, dream walking is something I have never done. So how do we begin?”

  “We sit. On floor. Find trance. Then we fly.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Talaban.

  Talaban locked the door then knelt on the rug facing Touchstone. The tribesman put his hands on Talaban’s shoulders. Talaban copied the move. Then Touchstone leaned forward, lowering his head until their skulls touched.

  “Hold to ship,” warned Touchstone. “Or both be lost.”

  Talaban did not reply. Relaxing his mind he sought the trance state: focus without concentration, physical tension allied to mental relaxation, the melding of opposites, the closing of the circle. He felt himself moving, spinning, as if he and Touchstone were involved in a bizarre dance. He knew it was not so and that they still knelt together on the rug of his cabin, and yet he allowed the feeling to grow. Colors danced in his mind, swirling rainbows passing over, around and through him. And then he heard music, soaring and primal, the drumbeat of the universe, the eerie singing of cosmic winds, the sighing of unborn stars.

  He was floating now in darkness and scenes from his past flowed before his mind’s eye; his first voyage to the Hidden Islands and the school there where he studied Anu’s star maps, his courtship of Suryet, as they ran together in the high hills above the tepees of the Anajo, his capture of Touchstone, his capture by Talaban. With a jolt he struggled to free himself from the complete union of minds. Drawing back, he held to his own identity, and became aware that Touchstone was going through a similar struggle. The colors flared into life once more and, momentarily, he felt the rug beneath his knees and the movement of the ship.

  Separated but still together the two men relaxed once more, their minds soaring back towards the music. Sights of infinite beauty filled Talaban’s mind, planets and stars, moons and comets, all moving and spinning in the great dance that was eternity.

  Excitement swept through him, followed by ecstasy. All the secrets of the universe were flowing through him, too fast to make sense of, but slow enough to see that there was a unity and a sense of underlying purpose to all the scenes. Lost in the wonder of it he floated among the stars of the Great Milk River of the Sky.

  He had forgotten Touchstone, forgotten the ship, lost touch with his own small, meaningless life. Here were the answers to every question, every mystery. And he was free—free of care and trouble, free of strife and discord. Here was harmony. Here was a joy undreamed of.

  Time was meaningless here and he floated on, watching, learning, observing, filled with a sense of increasing wonder. He watched the birth of stars and the death of planets, growing ever more part of the dance.

  Two moons.

  It was as if a voice had spoken to him, yet without sound. What did it mean? And then he remembered the mystery. So tiny it seemed now, so inconsequential. But even the thought of the riddle gave him a desire to find the answer.

  Colors swirled around him once more and he found himself gazing down on a blue planet. Then he was hurtling towards it, passing through clouds, and hovering over vast mountains. Down and down he flew until he recognized Parapolis and the White Pyramid at its center. People were moving through the marketplace and the temple grounds.

  And there, moving across the great courtyard, he saw himself being approached by a Vagar mystic, a ragged man in ragged furs.

  The scene shimmered.

  He was still above Parapolis—but there was no white pyramid. This time it was a golden ziggurat, stepped and flat-topped. The ragged mystic was there again, but this time he was being held by guards. One of them drew a golden knife with a serrated edge and dragged it across the little man’s throat.

  Again the scene shimmered and changed. Talaban floated higher.

  It was night, and a great wind was blowing over the continent. Talaban swung and looked to the north.

  The tidal wave was bearing down upon the city.

  In that moment a second moon appeared in the night sky, bright and gleaming. And the city disappeared—just as the tidal wave swept over it.

  The euphoria Talaban had experienced moments before was gone now. He had witnessed the impossible and it brought his consciousness surging back to life. No longer passively observing, he was thinking again, remembering the ship, his life and …

  Touchstone!

  Where was Touchstone?

  He could not feel him, nor sense his presence.

  With an effort of will he concentrated on the ship, the rug, the cabin, his hands on Touchstone’s shoulders. The universe span and Talaban was hurled back into his body. Touchstone still knelt before him. Talaban shook him and called his name. There was no response and his body fell to the floor.

  Struggling for calm, Talaban once more entered the trance state, seeking a route back to the stars. For an hour or more he sought it but to no avail.

  For the first time in decades he felt the beginnings of panic. Rising from the rug he poured himself a goblet of water and drank it swiftly, seeking calm. He stared down at the prone figure of the tribesman.

  He trusted you!

  The panic flared again. Talaban swore, allowing anger to wash over him, swamping the negative forces seeking to unman him.

  Touchstone’s right hand lay flat against the rug, the medicine pouch having fallen from it. Talaba
n returned to his position and took up the pouch. Everything of value in the tribesman’s life was represented by the contents of the pouch. Touchstone believed in its magic. Talaban needed it now.

  He had once heard Touchstone chanting in his cabin. Talaban’s Avatar training allowed him to recall every note, every nuance. Holding the pouch to his chest he began the chant. Colors flared in his mind, the bright blue of a summer sky, the deep multi-shaded greens of the forest trees. Sounds whispered to him: distant bird song, the faint call of the Osnu. Then something terribly cold slammed into his brain, the pain exquisitely focused.

  “You are moments from death,” came a voice colder than the pain.

  “I must find Touchstone. He is lost,” said Talaban.

  “Open your mind to me,” came the command. Talaban felt as if talons were ripping at his skull, tearing it open. “Do not resist!”

  Forcing himself to relax, the Avatar gave in to the pain. The cold was replaced by a searing heat that made him cry out. Red-hot wires seemed to be penetrating his brain, worming their way through the soft wet tissue. Bile rose in his throat and he vomited on the rug.

  Then the pain eased and the voice came again. “You must find him.”

  “I do not know how.”

  “You have the pouch. Use it. I can lead you back to the Milk River. But only the holder of the pouch can find him.”

  “What must I do?”

  “Hang the pouch around your neck. Then hold to his body with your left hand. Reach out with your right. Once among the stars when you feel something solid it will be Touchstone. He will not want to come back. He will fight you. He will claw and bite and rend and tear. He will take many shapes and forms. They will all be illusions. Hold to him. No matter what. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do not let go. There will be no second attempt.”

  “I understand.”

  “Be strong. If you are not he will kill you.”

  “How can an illusion kill me?”