Mythic Journeys

by Paula Guran

  The next night the Readers came without announcement or ceremony. They sat in places already reserved for them, they listened and slept, and when morning came they hurried away.

  So it continued. Every evening the Readers slipped into the hall, their eyes down as if they did not want to see each other, or pretend that if they did not look no one could see them. Every morning they hurried away, like a man who has a vision of God in some unlikely place and is embarrassed to let anyone know but he will make sure to come back.

  A surprise came to Broken By Heaven on the day she went to her brother to suggest he think about his responsibilities to his people. She expected ridicule, or just petulance. Instead he asked her to help him, to tell him what to do. They began to work together, for the poor, the merchants, the fishermen and farmers. They even punished those who took bribes and cheated the people. They talked together sometimes for hours, and made plans to use the Army of Heaven to help people in faraway lands. What Broken By Heaven did not tell her brother was that all this work, all this change, was in fact preparation. For she was waiting for a certain event, or rather a moment, and there was no way to know exactly when that might happen.

  The moment came at the beginning of Spring, when the first flowers broke through their buds to offer color to the sky and to the eternal glory of Immortal Snake. Broken By Heaven was surprised it did not happen sooner, and while she was grateful for the time to prepare her brother, she had become anxious, and had taken to staring at those early buds, or the birds annoying the sellers in the market, thinking “Too much time has passed. It should have happened by now.”

  Then, on a cool morning with clusters of clouds low in the sky, a man walked the path up to the Kingdom of God. He was ordinary, this man, short, fleshy, a spice dealer. It could have been anybody. He entered the temple, glanced around nervously, then placed his hands together and inclined his scraggly beard toward the lower level Reader who had come to greet him and take his money in exchange for the usual blessing or amulet.

  The request, however, was more substantial. “Wise one,” the man said, “my daughter is getting married and of course she cannot do so until after the middle day of the Spring festival.” The reader nodded; any marriage begun in the weeks prior to the Day of Cuts would never see a single child. He nodded, but his face was strangely pale. The spice dealer continued “I have not heard any announcements of the Festival. Can you tell me, please, when it will happen so we may plan the wedding?”

  The Reader stood silent a moment, then said “Please wait.”

  Inside, in the meeting room, he found the majority of his friends and superiors, some playing the game of Chase on a board of red and blue triangles, others sipping tea, or reading. He thought, they’re waiting for evening. “A man asks the time of the Spring festival,” he said. “What should I tell him?” Everyone looked around the room. “Who has been studying the night sky?” Now they all looked down. “Has anyone written down the progress of the moon and planets?”

  One of the Readers jumped up. “Follow me” he announced. “They did so eagerly, grouped behind him as he marched past the statues and wall carpets to the private chamber of their leader. Through a half-open door they could see him standing by the window, like a man caught in a memory of a dream. He was turned in the direction of the Hall of Precious Happiness.

  Fury rose in him when they told him their dilemma. “This is absurd,” he said. “All we need to do is consult the book and give the man his answer.” No one answered him, and when they had all climbed up the tower to the records room just outside the glass-roofed observatory, and the Master slammed open the giant gold-bound book, he too fell silent. No one came close enough to look; they all knew what they would find, blank pages since that first evening they had gone to hear Tribute of Angels. For weeks they had been using old calculations for the minor questions presented to them, but the Spring enactment was of a different order.

  Finally the oldest among them, whose robe was so worn the colors had run together, spoke softly. “We were enchanted. A spell has taken us away from God’s writing in the sky. Now we cannot say when the seasons call their festivals. We no longer know when to shed the skin of the Snake.”

  The High Reader clenched his fists. “Tribute of Angels must die.”

  The old man said “If the Living World has sent him it is the will of God. But if he does not come from God he must surely die, for no creature can resist him. I have looked, and even the insects cease their flight to listen to him.”

  The master answered “God taught us that the sky is a living book, with words written every night. Tribute of Angels has taken us away from that wonder of wonders. How could he have come from God?”

  “Then he must die,” the old man said.

  They turned back to the stairs. Softly, the young Reader who had begun it all asked “What should I tell him? The man who asked about the festival?”

  When the master didn’t answer, the old man said “Tell him to be patient a short time longer, until the will of God shall reveal itself.”

  All that day and night the Readers built up their power. They cut the throats of three bulls, they cut their own arms and legs, they burned parchments with prayers, they burned the clothes they’d worn when they went to hear Tribute of Angels. In the morning they marched down the hill to the great city and palace of Immortal Snake.

  A single figure stood at the gate. Broken By Heaven stood motionless in a long white dress, with a white jewel set upon her forehead.

  The Master Reader crossed his thick arms on his chest. “Mistress,” he said, “please step aside. We come as messengers from the Living World.”

  Broken By Heaven said “When we spoke weeks ago I told you that God’s greatest gift was not the writing in the sky but life on earth, revealed in the stories of Tribute of Angels. Now, today, tell me if I lied or spoke the truth.”

  The Reader answered “Tribute of Angels desecrates the will of Heaven. Now he must die.”

  “And who will kill him?”

  “That is the province of Immortal Snake, beloved of God.”

  “Tribute of Angels is the companion of Immortal Snake. Is it time, then, for the Snake to shed his skin?”

  “We will speak with Immortal Snake directly.”

  “Of course. God dwells in my brother. Come with me.” She turned and opened the door that led to the royal pathway of the Nine Rings. Though her skin and all organs trembled, she walked with a firm step, never looking back.

  They found the ruler sitting alone in his petition room, on a chair carved with lions and swans. Broken By Heaven had told him to wait there; now she was pleased to see the formal air he struck, as if indeed the Living World would speak through his mouth.

  The High Master of the Readers spread himself face down on a carpet depicting Immortal Snake raising the dead. “Great lord,” he said as he rose to his feet. “Speak to us of the slave, Tribute of Angels.”

  “My companion in death.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Then I shall speak. God sent me first the terror of my dying and I was frightened as a naked child. God then sent me the memory of the slave who had come to me as a gift, by record from the Emperor of Mud and Glory, but in truth from the Living World. His voice and his spirit made me happy, and so I gave him gifts, beautiful clothes, statues, gold. He gave it all to the poor, and the people love him. He has given me something almost as precious as his tales. He has taught me to serve my people, and for this I would kiss the tips of his fingers.”

  The Reader said “He will destroy everything. His stories cover God’s writing in the sky. Without that we cannot know when to hold the festivals, we lose the length of days and the order of the nights. We will not know when Immortal Snake must shed his skin. Yes, I speak of that too, for without the sacrifice the Living World will take back its blessing, and nothing will remain but death.”

  “I once cared for my life,” the ruler answered, “but now I care only about my people.
”

  “Good. Then for the sake of the people destroy Tribute of Angels.”

  Immortal Snake closed his eyes, and his sister held her breath. He looked again and said quietly “Since we agree that all we do is for the life of the people the people will decide.” The Readers stared at him. “Come tonight to the Plaza of Celestial Glory. Then you will tell your fears to all who wish to hear them.” And with that he stood up from his chair of lions and swans and left the room.

  The Plaza of Celestial Glory celebrated Written In The Sky’s triumph in one of its many battles with the Empire of Mud and Glory. Formed by the facades of the palace and various ministries, its huge open square flashed with gold, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, the colors of the sun, blood, the sea, and the plants, so that all of heaven and earth would honor Immortal Snake.

  Soldiers cleared away the beggars and street merchants who usually clogged the sides of the plaza, then workers built platforms for the Readers to address the crowd, and booths for honored guests. Meanwhile, heralds traveled all up and down the Nine Rings, and beyond to the villages and farms, calling out the message that that evening Tribute of Angels would tell his stories to the people.

  That afternoon, Broken by Heaven once more traveled to the Temple of Names. At sight of her the priests cringed inside their stone masks of forgotten alphabets. They still remembered the day she demanded they take back her childhood name, and they recognized the basket she carried. She’d already used it to discard her original name relics, the strands of hair, the black doll. When she turned it over this time it held only an oversize white dress of coarse cloth. “My name no longer belongs to me,” said Broken By Heaven, who once was More Clever Than Her Father And Everyone Else.

  The priest said “Mistress, the Living World does not like it when a woman—”

  “My new name,” she said, “is Wiser Than Heaven.”

  They did the ceremony as quickly as possible and purified themselves as soon as she left.

  Thousands gathered, from farmers to ministers, beggars to generals. Even the deaf were there, for word had spread that the stories of Tribute of Angels could heal the sick, even those beyond hearing. At first no one was sure which way to look but then a great snake banner unfurled from a low palace balcony and everyone knew that that would be the source of “the Voice of God,” as some were calling the Snake’s companion.

  Before that voice, however, there came another sound, and if the crowd had been capable of movement they might all have panicked and tried to run inside the buildings. Trumpets. The great copper horns of the Readers sounded in the evening air, and people covered their eyes, for the sound was the signal for Immortal Snake to shed his skin, a ritual no one must witness. They cowered down as best as they could, trying to hide among their neighbors, wondering when the white bulls would trample them.

  Instead, they heard voices, amplified through speaking tubes. “Arise, blessed ones. The champion of heaven and earth calls upon you to watch, and to listen.” Still frightened, they nevertheless dared to look up. And then a great cheer surged up from the plaza, for yes, there were the Readers, terrifying in their masks and robes, and look, they carried no effigies this time, but the very remains of previous rulers—but above them, on the royal balcony, Immortal Snake opened his arms to his people. He wore a robe of blue silk streaked with red, the colors of sunrise, and his face was painted golden, and on his head he wore a golden crown in the shape of a coiled serpent with eyes like the night sky flashing with stars.

  “Beloved,” Immortal Snake called out, and his voice carried across the square to bounce off the sides of the ministries. “Tonight you will give your judgment of what is true and what is false, what is above and what is below. Listen now to those who have served us through all our past glories, the Readers of God’s Writing in the Sky.”

  The Master Reader stood at the front of the platform, with the skins of the past rulers lined up behind him. “You believe,” he said, “that Tribute of Angels has come to you from the Living World. This is a lie. He and his stories have risen up from the Abyss. If this man lives, God will abandon us and all our joy and glory will fall to dust.”

  As soon as the Reader finished Immortal Snake spoke again. “Now hear the voice of Tribute of Angels. And then decide if he shall live or he shall die.”

  From inside the palace the storyteller stepped onto the balcony, wearing only his slave cloth. “I am a servant of God,” he said. “All hatred in the human heart is a violent strike against the Living World. Therefore, I ask only that no one seek violence. I call for no man’s death, but offer only a story. For Immortal Snake has asked that I tell a simple tale, and there is no greater joy than service to Immortal Snake.”

  In later years scholars would ponder and explore the stories of Tribute of Angels. They would write them all down, both forward and backward, and then add up the number values of all the words, and chart the shape of the letters, and search for phrases that appeared first in one tale and then another. But no one ever talked about the story told on the night the Readers called for the death of the teller. No one wrote it down, and everyone who was there would claim they had no memory of what he said.

  He spoke softly, without the speaking tube, yet each one heard him like a whisper alongside the face. It seemed to each that he or she stood alone in a dark world, and the only light was the glow that flowed from the lips of the storyteller. In the beginning the tale was a sweet dream, soft and quiet. Then a wind came, and swept them into a storm of fire.

  He talked through the night, and as the world edged toward morning his voice rose, and the story shifted wildly, one moment as joyous as the hidden doorway to Paradise, the next a lightning bolt of terror. As the first edge of dawn approached, his voice cracked open their bodies and shattered their bones.

  At last it was over. The sun had not yet risen but the people discovered they could open their eyes, look around them for the first time in many hours. There, at the feet of the platform, on the mosaic tiles depicting the glory of victory, the Readers lay, every one of them face down in a great wash of blood.

  In the plaza the people stared in confusion and horror. Many looked up at the sky, frightened the stars would fall to earth and crush them. On the balcony Immortal Snake had to steady himself as he looked down at the blood, so much of it, he thought he would drown in it. Alongside him, Tribute of Angels stood motionless, his head down, his arms held low, the hands clasped together.

  Only his lover was able to speak. Wiser Than Heaven took the arm of her brother. “Now,” she whispered, “before they can run away. Look for the white horse tethered just inside the gate. Go!” Immortal Snake stared at her a moment then he seemed to come awake and hurried inside to the stairs. Wiser Than Heaven turned to her beloved. “Walk alongside him,” she said. “I will follow.”

  She watched him as he glided down the stairs, then she stepped onto the balcony. “Children of Immortal snake” she cried. “Beloved of the Living World. The Angel of Death has stepped among us tonight. God’s will has revealed itself. Look up, look up! Do you see? The stars have not vanished, they shine so brightly you can see their faces. The stars cry out with joy. They shine for you, and they shine for Immortal Snake, who has descended from heaven to live on earth. And now, children of God, behold your ruler. Your servant. Your father. Immortal Snake comes among you!”

  With that the great doors of the palace flung open as if by the hands of angels, and Immortal Snake rode forth on a white horse, its mane braided with diamonds. The people fell back, frightened, but they could not keep away, for he was beautiful, far more than the idealized portraits and statues. It was the beauty of a man who has ridden on the boat of stories, traveling beyond the sky night after night. The storyteller himself stood beside him, and the people bent down to kiss the dirt around his feet. Soon Wiser Than Heaven joined them, and slowly, with the Snake’s male companion to his right and his female companion to his left, they moved up the hill to the deserted observato
ry known as the Kingdom of God.

  When they reached they saw that the young tree, which the Readers had planted when the new Immortal Snake ascended to the Seat of Heaven’s Grace, lay uprooted on the ground, its branches withered and dry, as if it had lain there for years. Wiser Than Heaven took a small gold-handled hoe which she had attached to the saddle and gave it to her brother. “Hoe a small place on either side of the tree,” she whispered, and was thankful for the grace and elegance with which he did as she told him. Next, she and Tribute of Angels both took a handful of seeds from a green silk pouch she wore around her neck and dropped them into the hoed dirt.

  “Children of the Snake” she called out to the huge crowd. “Now you must close your eyes with holy dread, for no one may witness what is about to happen.” All up and down the hill people put their hands over their eyes and crouched down and buried their faces in their arms. A strange faint sound drifted through the air, the softest whisper of a breath, a scratch on the wind. Tribute of Angels was telling a story to the seeds. When at last Wiser Than Heaven called to the people to open their eyes two fully grown fig trees stood at the top of the hill. And behind them vines and flowers covered the walls and doors and windows of the Kingdom of God.

  Thus ended the long rule of the Readers, who worshipped the sky and ignored the earth. No longer would they kill the Snake’s companions, no longer would they lure him to shed his skin. From then on, Immortal Snake would serve his people for the length of his life.