Forge of Stones

by Vasileios Kalampakas

A long and winding path

  The mountain grew ever more unkind. Its many bare faces looked down upon a lonely figure, slowly but surely making its way through the rocks, gravel, low grass and loose dirt. His hood was down, revealing a stern but humble face. Care lines dotted his forehead, and one could easily spot he was not a man prone to laughing easily. His face was adorned by a beard grown out of necessity, not choice, and his thin long hair was unkempt; a few wild strands jutted in strange directions.

  The wind and the rain were thankfully absent on this day, awarding him the leisure of trudging along the mountainous path with only his sore feet and stiff legs to distract him from his effort. Indeed, he paused once again to rest for a moment and let his blood flow freely in his legs and feet; take a moment to pray to God for his good fortunes.

  He sat down on the naked rock, his buttocks well used to such discomforts. He touched his forehead with one had and brought out a small piece of knotted string with the other. His lips then moved in a silent orison, asking for more of the same good fortune and perhaps a bush or nut-bearing tree from which to gather some much needed food.

  He had not seen or heard signs of goats or other mountain-dwelling animals for days now. There was still some grass on these slopes, so it stood to reason there might be herds or families of animals feeding. Perhaps there were richer plains and slopes far below or plateaus with good grass his path had not taken him through.

  Maybe it was pure chance that he had not seen a living soul, neither a bird or lizard and certainly not a goat. Maybe it was God’s doing, testing him for purity of heart and strength of purpose to steel him further in order to come through the always perilous journey of Pilgrimage.

  He was living on certain kinds of insects that were still to be found if someone knew how and where to look, and a few roots he had been able to identify as edible. The further deep inside the mountain range he trod, the stranger and more different the life he met became. At first the trees started to become bulky, water rich, taller and greener than the ones at the feet of the mountain. Then he noticed the animals: they were more stout and fatter; their meat sweet and richer in flavor, its color a vivid red. It was unlike the dark, stringy meat of the animals he was used to.

  He decided in his mind that it was a sign: With his every step closer to God’s Lands, the land was graced by his favor. The animals became fat and felt no hunger, the trees and plants grew tall and proud, the birds soared high and their voices were sweet as honeydew running down a child’s mouth. It was His work all that was abundant, and all that was good.

  This part of the mountains seemed to have fallen from His grace though, whether as another trial or for reasons only He could entertain. No matter; since His wisdom permeates the earth and the sky, the Pilgrim felt he could only accept and never wonder. That way lay madness, and a hard fall from grace into bottomless pits of despair and unworthiness.

  He felt he was attuned, his soul resonating with the earth below his feet, the sky above and the stone all around him. He reached into his small sack and with little effort produced a small circular pendant, a thin slice of white marble or porcelain cast around a black mat surface, smooth and cold to the touch.

  He held it firmly with both hands for a while looking intently at its black surface. A thin sliver of green started to pulsate on the black surface. A green line started to form in one edge of the small black circlet to end on another, forming a straight path. It was like the invisible brush of a painter kept stroking the same line, always in the same straight direction.

  He looked at the thin, green line of light and then looked at the faint mountain path that made a zig-zag through the ever rockier slopes. His path was true, that much he knew. His pointing stone had not failed him before and neither would it fail him now, not on his Pilgrimage; not while his faith was strong and his prayer warm of heart and soul. That he knew, and little else would come to matter.

  He took a moment to gaze at the lands resting below him. The great northern plains could be seen far away, a faint gray haze slightly discernible under a thin sheet of fog. And then rolling hills of auburn slowly lifting off the ground as if the very hand of God had touched and pinched the lands, his hand print faintly echoed in the timid, graceful slopes.

  Between the foot of the mountains and the hills lay a deep gorge with a wild river running through it, twisting and turning as far as the eye could see further to the east. Its flow came from somewhere deep inside the mountains, further to the east, from places where the ice moves as if alive and the suns always hide behind the clouds. Places where neither man nor beast can endure for long without the mercies of God.

  A sensation of wonder filled him, for the works of God were magnificent to behold, and his Pilgrimage a unique journey of faith, beauty, wonder and duty. The honor he was blessed with was indeed so great he could have never thought it possible, much less aspire to be given it. Nonetheless, he was on a Pilgrimage to the Land of God. He was the Pilgrim, the one honored to pay homage to the Land of God and the resting place of their forefathers.

  To him lay the duty of bringing back a Holy Forge, to pluck one out of the very famed Garden of Wonders! His eyes were suddenly lit at the very thought, even as his body still dully ached from the many hardships his peregrination had knowingly brought upon him and would bring him still. But he ignored all that which occluded his mind and he imagined himself, standing amidst the Garden of Wonders and quenching his thirst from the Unending Spring.

  It would all be more than worthy of the pain, the cold and the rain. Just to lay his eyes on the Holy Gates, he would willingly give his life. But he could not and would not, until his Pilgrimage was complete, and his people had their Holy Forge anew. Oh, the joyous wonders he had yet to behold, not just the earth and the rivers and the mountains all wrought in unquestioned wisdom, but the craft of God Himself right in front of his eyes, at the touch of his hand from silver, and stone. From sand that never crumbles or faints, and never shall.

  The Pilgrim’s senses brought him back to the cold, harsh reality. He still had some good light left and he should not waste it. His journey was still many days and nights away from an end. Tarrying here in the middle of the mountains, daydreaming like a young selfish brat was not at all what any man would expect of him, the one so honored. His shoulders suddenly felt a bit heavier with so much resting on them: the future of his people, the life of the land, the children yet unborn.

  A gust of the mountains’ cold and wholesome air seemed to have infected him with renewed vigor. Within seconds he was already steadily climbing up the steep winding path that would take him between the two dominant mountain peaks, and afterwards probably on a shallow descend to the Land of God.

  Those who had gone before him had followed the same path, and had passed on word of their travels and their journey. What mountains and ridges to pass, which rivers and springs to drink from, what strange growths and roots to eat, where to feel safe and sleep unhindered, as well as where to always keep one eye open and your knife in hand.

  He thought to himself then: ‘But God provides, and always will. As long as we have faith, as long as we live our lives like we were meant to, taught to from father to child, as long as we go on the Pilgrimage when time and God mandate.’

  Such thoughts occupied his head as he toiled onwards, even though under his thick pelted boots his calloused feet could feel every last jut of rock and bit of gravel. This was him now, this described him wholly. He was the Pilgrim, meant to walk the earth until he reached the Holy Place. Whether or not he would go back to his people and his previous life, that meant nothing. When he performed the Rites, the Holy Forge would be with his people. And then he could walk back, and live the rest of his days having witnessed the glory of God. He could then teach those that would come after him and if fate would have it so, help the next Pilgrim prepare for his own difficult journey.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he thought to himself, ‘I am getting too far ahead in my thinking. My journey is still far
from over, and yet here I am: my feet dead as wood, my legs heavy like rock, once again on the climb. All I’ve loved and known left behind perhaps forever, and I am letting myself be fooled by visions of a future yet to unravel, with me at its center.’

  Selfishness. Ego. A sign of malignancy, a precursor to evil thoughts and desires, accursed manifestations of Them. He prayed then to God, to watch over his people and lend him strength and clarity of mind and purpose. To think such thoughts was almost irredeemable. God was already pointing to the true path, when everything so far had proceeded along according to his divine plan, when the auguries had said it was a good time for a Pilgrimage. That he was a good man, that he would be a true Pilgrim, one that God would accept.

  He felt he had to cleanse himself with birch and water, pay obeisance to his God with an offer of personal sacrifice. But he was already on his Pilgrimage, what could he do now that would not interfere with his holy purpose? He had no inkling yet, but he felt blood rushing through his veins, feeling guilty and shameful, almost soiled.

  He pushed harder, the slope turning into an almost sheer wall of rock. The small, narrow path had degenerated into a granite crevice with pockmarks and surfaces of chipped rock that one had to climb using his hands as well as his feet.

  In his mind it mattered little, because he felt like he would grow wings if he had to, if somehow the earth was without warning removed from his feet. He felt like he would grow gills and scales, and swim the oceans of the world if the skies suddenly opened and poured all the water of the world and the earth was covered in it. He felt that nothing, save God himself, could stop him now.

  He steadily put one hand after the next, hoisting his lithe and supple careworn body slowly but surely, every step of the way a small death for Them. A death to their venomous influence that seeps into the hearts and minds of the weak-minded and the unfaithful, that spreads over the people of the earth like a rotting disease.

  Perspiration glistened on his forehead and the small of his back was damp as well. Every muscle and joint burned from the effort and protested at his every leap and move. But he kept going, his mind focused; his soul was shielded and armed like a searing force of pure light stabbing through a heart of darkness, a pestilence of lies, deceit and wrong-doing.

  He was fighting Them even as he climbed, even as he sweat and toiled. His whole Pilgrimage was a Holy War he now knew, and this very climb a fight, a battle. Like the War between God and Them, at a time before man. The same war; a million fights and a million more until God prevails, until the faithful have had their share of blood and toil. Until then he would climb for his people, His Faithful. Until then he would endure the forces arrayed against him, be they nature, men, or Them, in one disguise or many.

  He would endure and he would prevail. Not to become a revered one among his folk, not to serve some delusional idea of a grandiose self in a small world and an even smaller land, among its few people. It was true; their numbers were dwindling and their women bore less children as time went by. Their lives were becoming shorter. The Pilgrimage was their hope of survival, he knew. He would endure the hardships of his path and the machinations of the enemies of God, for the good of his people and the will of his God.

  He reached out with one hand blindly, his face wearing an expression of determination. It was a resolute, stout mask under which nerves flickered furiously with jabbing explosions of pain and anguish.

  He tried to find a handhold in the rocks, a fissure, a jutting piece of granite or lime, but all he could grasp was the thin, cold rush of air. He made a leap and his face was caught in the stream of air: his hood fluttered wildly about his neck, sweaty locks of hair caressing his face. He had reached the neck between the two peaks, and he could now see a wide stretch of plain-like ground extending before him. There lay before him grim patches of grass, rocks and dusty gravel for days worth of travel.

  He could feel the touch of God as he took the final step onto the plateau. He felt his soul drifting away by a divine wind, his aching body forgetful of its pains and trappings. He felt light as a feather, in body and soul. He remembered then the words of his Guide, his people’s master of lore and faith, their holy man:

  “Once you step onto the wide, gray mesa, a gust of wind will greet you and lift your soul. It will be God whispering in your ear; it will be a sign from God that your path is true.”

  Indeed then his path was true; the first of many perils he had just left behind. He let out a laugh in spite of him, a laugh he would soon look down upon with contempt as it bordered blasphemy. But it was a laugh that welled from the soul, a liberating act; a cry of thanks to his God and his protector, his ever watchful Father. He started walking with a steady, slow pace once more. What little light of day remained guided him to a cluster of rocks where he might find shelter for the coming night. Once he lay down, he would pray to God and offer him his gratitude for saving him from disgrace and keeping him on the true path.

  And then he would sleep like he hadn’t slept in days, and dream of goat’s cheese, berries, honey and mead.