Meetings and Greetings
He had woken as early as every day, giving thanks to God for allowing him to live and breathe once more and greeted the suns as they rose with a hearty smile. His hair was as always tousled, gently swayed by the light breeze rushing down from the mountains and onto the plains that filled his entire view.
Once more he had used his walking stone to guide him and before noon had passed he had entered the Land of God proper. He had been warned to be wary of these lands, for not everything that roamed it was graced by God and not all that he may encounter was sent by Him alone.
The devious ones, the forces of the archenemy had plans of their own and would likely oppose him when they saw fit. He would have to steel himself wholeheartedly if he were to carry on with his Pilgrimage and meet his ineffable destiny.
Once he had stepped his foot on the Widelands, it was as the elders had said it would be: A flat and uninviting country, with low grass and trees few and afar; the sounds of animals and birds lost in an emptiness that defied the senses and made one humble and awestruck.
Then he saw the True Path in all its glistening beauty and perfection, as unblemished as it had stood since the first Pilgrimage, so long ago in ages past but never forgotten. He was witnessing the path to his own destiny and soon he was walking on it, treading lightly with reverence whenever possible, but making haste and good speed. What good was the Path, if he dawdled on it for longer than prudence would allow?
As his peregrination took him further into the Land of God, his thoughts coalesced bit by bit into how this land was perhaps purposefully designed, meant to evoke ascetic feelings. Civilization in any form had been kept away this part of the world, as if it had been preordained that these lands would forever be a sanctum, a land devoted to praising God.
It was a land indeed forbidden to most mortal men, uninviting and hostile as far as he could tell until now. But the Path was there as a clear sign of God’s design, a Path for the true believers, a Path for those that came with holy fire burning in their heart seeking God. A divine purpose guided such men deeper into a land that would normally kill one easily; be it of hunger, thirst or pure exhaustion.
Distance lacked meaning in the Land of God, a land which almost defied logic in its flatness and its emptiness. An emptiness only the love of God and faith in him could fill. It was a terrible void that shrank the impure soul and made an unwilling mind recoil in primal fear, a land that turned the unbeliever away. It was a land where the mandate of God was carried ever more strongly by the formidable gusts of wind that swept its every acre.
It was indeed magnificent to behold the will of God made manifest all around him. He was in a sacred place that he was not only allowed, but indeed expected to traverse to its very heart to complete his Pilgrimage as his God and his people demanded.
God, in his inestimable wisdom had prepared the land more than well enough for a believer, for someone who lived and died with His name upon his lips, His thought in his mind and His image in the depths of his soul.
Water, he could find in the small damp spots around the Path, when night fell and a hazy carpet of fog crept across the immeasurably flat land. He would dig, with either his knife or his hands to find a few mouthfuls of water to sustain him.
When he felt hungry and tired with his strength about to leave him, it was if God kept an ever watchful eye on him from afar; a small thin bush laden with tiny berries would appear near the road, or a small colony of ants. The land would freely offer him sustenance, however meager it might look.
He always thanked God for these small mercies that kept him fit and healthy, that kept him going without delay; he only made a few brief stops to rest his muscles and slept during the night. His clothes were as good for the Holy Land as it was for the lands where his people dwelt. Perhaps it was not as cold during the day, but the nights became colder the farther deep he went while following the Path.
He kept the wise council of his elders, and never strayed off the road. He kept on it at all times and when he could, when leaving it to get to a source of water or find something to eat, he would always leave his walking stone on it; a piece of woolen string attached to it, laying it behind him as he walked.
When he had drank or eaten to fill his belly, he would pick up the string and walk right back to the Path and the walking stone. It was said that if one strayed off the Path, he might never find it again for as long as he walked the Land of God. It was blasphemy for the Path to be revealed to you and then choose to leave it.
So he would lay behind him a piece of string to always connect himself with the Path, even when not directly on it. He would do that because of strict necessity and only after solemn prayer in which he would beg for forgiveness, recognizing his own imperfection and crude humanity that afflicted him with the feeling of hunger and thirst.
Thus he hoped and prayed that God would not be offended and would find it in his heart like the loving father that he was to allow the Path to remain, to guide his faithful servant on to his Holy destination, beyond all the hardships and dangers that might arise in his quest.
For if it was a simple, sheltered matter, little would the Pilgrimage mean. Anyone would walk about the Holy Lands, especially the deceitful liars and archenemies of God and their followers; soiling the land and air with their mere breaths and their unclean feet, poisoning the very air with their hideous laughter and venomous lies.
No, it was not a simple affair walking through the Land of God. That was why the Pilgrim kept praying each and ever waking moment: to thank his God for his magnanimous and benevolent nature, thank him for allowing to draw breath and drink water when he needed to. He prayed to thank his God for allowing him to feast upon the fruit and the very life of His Land to keep his beating heart alive. The Pilgrim thanked God because he had been blessed enough to touch the Holy Soil with bare hands.
It was almost dusk on the third day since he had set foot on the Land of God. It was once more time for prayer. He laid down his small sack and took off his cloak, setting it down in front of him. He then knelt on it and closed his eyes while his arms rested on his legs, the palms of his hands touching his knees. He then started bowing down low with his forehead touching the Path every time. Whispered words of reverence came out of his mouth in the tongue of God which they no longer used, but kept handing it down as holy passages, from mouth to mouth, generation to generation.
Though he could not understand what the words were saying, he could feel their perfection rippling through the air. Holy words spoken in the Land of God felt like a river mingling with the sea. It was as if a small trickle of divinity flowed through the essence of God made manifest; the air, earth and water resonating with godly purpose and sacrosanct silence.
Hence His words, the Holy Mantra, which should be told aloud for all of Creation to bear witness to his grandeur and wisdom. In the Holy Land though, in His Land and His Domain, it would be sacrilege to utter these words in anything above a whisper. For every grain of sand, every wisp of air, and every drop of water carried everything back to him: voice, thought and deed.
As he bowed low in homage to the creation of God all around him he felt the striking of grandiose, majestic chords buried deep inside his very essence and soul. He felt pride in his heritage, his people, and his purpose.
He cast it swiftly aside, knowing that pride was a double-edged blade, ready to cut into him right when next he would feel invincible, safe, powerful and righteous. That was not God’s way; God taught humility, wisdom, faith, belief and love. Not pride, arrogance and lust.
The Holy Land was indeed a place to be wary. Even when paying homage to God, the ruinous ones could find a man’s weakness and seep inside him, while he would have himself believe he was walking the True Path. The Path was not just a white, slick and unending road; it was a state of mind and soul.
He made the sign of God with his outstretched palms facing towards the falling suns. In the hazy distance, only the line of the dark cri
mson horizon could be identified with difficulty over the pale yellow and blue of the rising mist.
He stood up on his two feet and wore his cloak, picking up his sack and setting off down the path once again. As the chilly night rushed to meet him, he thought he could see a figure like a mirror of himself walking on the road towards him. He squinted his eyes as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
It was a man not very much unlike him, lean and not very tall, of a somewhat pale color. The man’s stride seemed purposeful and if he had taken notice of the Pilgrim walking on the Path, he showed no sign of alarm, surprise or fear. It was as if he would not stop, as if he was nothing but a phantom, an apparition of the Holy Lands.
Maybe it was an apparition that he was seeing. Stranger things had been heard around the life-stones during the coldest nights at his people’s gatherings. It would not be without precedent that he should meet a ghost of the Holy Lands, perhaps some other Pilgrim before him who had wandered the Holy Lands and now roamed them freely, to warn the Pilgrims and the faithful and guide them through danger.
Perhaps he was a messenger from God Himself; though it might have been presumptuous or even blasphemous to think that God would seek to aid him in such straightforward ways that completely and blatantly proved his Divine existence.
He reminded himself to be wary though; perhaps the pale man was a ruinous force in disguise, a servant of those that would always be evil, seeking to corrupt men and everything good and wholesome that the Pilgrim tried to protect from their rotting grasp and their insidious machinations.
Perhaps, he was just a man though; even a believer like himself, brave enough to seek out God. He would soon find out whether he should strike him down or greet him like a brother should. The man had gotten quite close by now and he thought it prudent to make some sort of sign to announce himself properly, like a man in the Holy Land should greet another man.
The Pilgrim stopped and stood firmly. He then made the sign of God, touching his bowed forehead with one straightened out palm and offering his other hand to showing his clear, empty palm. What the gesture meant to those familiar with it, those of pure mind and soul, was this: ‘I am a man blessed with God’s gift, a mind of my own. I carry no weapon and greet you as a brother.’
The man walking towards him slowed his pace, visibly trying to discern the gesture. Then he responded in kind, first with a deep bow towards the sinking suns and then made the same sign, albeit with the opposite hands, mirroring the Pilgrim’s motion. ‘A true believer then, or some instrument of God,’ the Pilgrim thought. His blessings were countless and his heart leaped with joy at such a sight. A brotherly soul right there, in the Land of God.
The Pilgrim smiled widely and picked up his pace to meet with his brother from afar. He could see the man coming towards him smile as well, his face lit up with enthusiasm and surprise.
Under the faint light of the ever widening star-lit sky they met each other with faces visibly ridden with the signs of hardship only a believer would endure to prove his love of God, staying true to his faith. Brothers joined in belief, sharing the creation of God, walking on the Path. What joyous occasion such a meeting of brotherly souls was, and in the Holy Land no less!
They were standing opposite each other and the man in front of him, the man whom he had seen walking up towards him was younger, leaner, and taller than he had glimpsed at first. In the light of dusk it was easy to misjudge the shape and size of things.
The young man proffered his hand, and spoke a few words in a language that the Pilgrim didn’t understand and had actually never heard of before in his life. The Pilgrim was thinking that the man in front of him must have uttered a greeting, or perhaps announced his name. He seemed friendly, unassuming and harmless. His heart weighed the man in front of him: ‘he might be speaking in weird tongues, but he made the sign of God. A brother under God is brother enough’. The Pilgrim closed his eyes and nodded with acceptance, hands outstretched to his left and right. The man spoke again:
“Thessurdijad Molo, damn glad to find you. I thought I was lost. Probably am, to be honest. You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re one of Esphalon’s people. Dark-skinned, nomadic appearance. The wild ones,” his voice bright with excitement and the feeling of unmarred prospects.
The Pilgrim thought it proper to answer in kind in the tongue of God, even if his brother from afar would not be able to understand. Indeed, what he said sounded as if it could have been familiar, but no sense could be made of it yet. Perhaps some common thread could be found while they tried to converse and understand each other. The Pilgrim spoke:
“I greet you as a brother, and you are stranger to me no more. His will be done.”
The man’s eyes went wide with sheer surprise and disbelief before he replied with the words coming out of his mouth faster and faster:
“You can talk then! You can speak Helican Pretoria? Your people learned Helican Pretoria? When? When Esphalon was there? How?”
The Pilgrim look at him puzzled. His brother seemed as excited to meet him as he was, he could tell. But he was so outspoken, so emphatically energetic. He seemed to have forgotten about paying proper respect in the Holy Land; his voice rang loud and his expression was wild, his body intensely at motion.
Still, he could not understand a single word the man was saying, even though he seemed to have repeated a question of some sort at least once. ‘He might be asking where I’m coming from, or where I’m going,’ the Pilgrim said to himself silently absorbed in thought. It was difficult to believe this was a messenger from God or one of his holy servants.
He seemed like a long lost brother the language he spoke altogether different but with hints of the language of God. The Pilgrim hoped he was indeed a brother though this could always prove to be a trap, a wicked machination; an evil thing sent to thwart him and his Pilgrimage, to mock God and his divine plan.
He would not allow himself to fall for such tricks of the soul, and his wary eye would be on the lookout for signs that would expose this man as a pawn of the archenemies. For now he would treat him as a brother and offer God his prayer, seeking forgiveness for thinking such accusing thoughts even in a time that should be joyous; for a brother he hoped, had been found. He smiled and motioned his hands to the sky his head slightly bowed and a thin but hearty smile on his lips, his voice ringing clear and true:
“Let God guide us wisely. Let He be the answer to any question, our guiding light in the vast darkness.”
He then reached for his sack, and took out a handful of wild berries he had only picked up this morning. It would have been his dinner, but knew he now had to offer his brother everything he had. It was God’s way and it mattered not what he would eat, because God would provide.
“You can’t understand anything I’m saying, can you?”, said the man constantly smiling, bowing lightly before accepting the berries in a seemingly timid way.
The Pilgrim made the sign of God once more and looked at the strange man he now considered a brother under God; he felt a bit saddened that his words could not be understood and could not answer his brother’s questions.
Though he was starting to find some sounds common, the Pilgrim did not possess the wisdom of an elder or the eloquence of their Prime. He was just a Pilgrim, and thanked God silently for that preordained fate that brought him to the Lands where no one else could venture. Except it seemed, this strange new brother of his. He cocked his head slightly when his brother spoke again:
“You speak High Helican but can’t understand the simple, day to day Helican people learn as children. And unless you’re a minister gone mad, I’d say you’re one of the people Esphalon wrote about. You’re quoting, aren’t you? You’ve learned everything by rote? Damn fools the lot of you, then. This is getting so much better every day. To think I was ready to botch everything a couple of days ago. And now this. Fantastic,” said the man and made the gesture of praising God.
As the man ended his incessantly long phr
ase, which the Pilgrim thought it could contain the man’s life story, the Pilgrim felt that perhaps he was wrong to be so wary of him. He had seen his brother offer his thanks to God and heard him say a single word clearly. The Pilgrim believed he could learn from his brother then, slowly.
He turned his mind inwards and reasoned with himself, thinking that maybe God had not sent this man to find him, but he had sent both of them to find each other. Fate was for God alone to decide and change, but he was thankful he would have a companion with him. For where else could this man walking on the True Path be going, other than to the Holy Grounds themselves? It was their journey now, the Pilgrim thought and then he smiled, carefully pronouncing each syllable slowly before bowing and once again pointing upwards:
“Fan-ta-stic.”
Molo grinned widely and then said:
“Bugger me, you’re trying to learn aren’t you? That might come in handy. Esphalon was bloody brilliant noting down your rituals and everything. Must’ve saved my life. You’d have my head with your bare hands if you thought I was an infidel or a blasphemer, wouldn’t you? Must keep an eye on etiquette then. Wouldn’t want to, as you might say, incur your wrath.”
The Pilgrim saw then his brother kneel down on the Path and offer his prayer to God. He must’ve been forgetful, the Pilgrim thought, because it was past the time of dusk; God forgives though, and it was never too late to ask for forgiveness.
The Pilgrim thought he had been too critical of his brother. He seemed weird and acted in a strange way, and his tongue was strange yet familiar.
But he felt it in his heart that this man would become a true friend and brother before their journey was through. And perhaps, he might be able to learn a strange new tongue. Something he had never even thought possible, since he had not believed other tongues could exist. The thought made the Pilgrim break down in laughter. He hadn’t laughed at all since he had set out on his Pilgrimage.
His new brother looked at him in disbelief, somewhat dumbfounded; he kept pointing his hand at the laughing figure of the Pilgrim. The Pilgrim thought bitterly that his lack of reverence would have to be punished with at least a hundred prayers on the next day and fasting for another two. But he felt it was worth it; such laughter must have been welling inside him for too long. It was a liberating experience, one that he felt did him good.
“Was it something I did? Never mind, you must be losing it, aren’t you? It doesn’t matter, if you can show me the way. Can you show me the way? You’ve been here before? Do you know the way to the Necropolis? Whatever you call it? The way, yes?”
The man was gesturing with his hands up and down the Path and the Pilgrim thought he was probably trying to say: “Where does it lead?”, “Does it lead to the Holy Grounds?”. He should’ve known better but perhaps he was distracted and lost; perhaps his brother had fallen prey to some of Their machinations and mirages.
Otherwise he would have been going towards the Holy Grounds, not towards the entrance to the Holy Land. He must have seen they were both on the Path, only going in different directions. They would now help each other, as good brothers certainly did. Without further ado, the Pilgrim gestured onwards towards the way the Path shone under the light of the first stars.
“Bugger me, you do know after all? Can’t understand a thing I’m saying, but this is all your own stuff. Well then, lead on. I’ll just trudge along and look like I’m praying when you do.”
The Pilgrim saw his brother smile gently, bow constantly and offer too much praise and thanks to a mere brother. But he was otherwise quiet and respectful of the Path, the Pilgrim thought in silence.
They started walking together side by side on the marble road, under the blue and black starry-lit sky. They both seemed as happy as any man could be.
Forge of Stones Page 23
