The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography

by McKenzie, Duncan

  The Behemoths guarded me well. Their movements through the streets appeared chaotic, yet this was deceptive, for, as I watched their frantic running, I noted, at all times, at least five bodyguards stayed very close to me, ready to take my orders. Also, no matter where they ran, each bodyguard would look back at me every few seconds, to make sure I was safe.

  We were almost out of the city when a bishop spotted me. His name was Gyappo, and he was a great friend of the Archbishop of Ulph—who was a great enemy of mine. Gyappo had command of the Winter Guard, a body of around two hundred myrmidons, and he was very smug about this post. Twenty of these myrmidons were with him. When he saw me with the Behemoths, he was immediately suspicious, and called out:

  “Archbishop Yreth! Where are you going with the bishopa’s own bodyguards?”

  “That is not your concern,” said I, and I kept walking.

  “It is indeed, Archbishop Yreth,” he said. “Now come here and explain yourself.”

  I ignored his impudence and still kept walking.

  Well, he was having none of that, and ordered his myrmidons to stop me by force, which was very foolish of him, for he must surely have known the power of the Behemoths. In any event, his myrmidons came running at me with spears raised, whereupon my bodyguards, instantly spotting the danger to me, gave terrible screeches and rushed into battle. Some charged headlong at Gyappo’s myrmidons, while others leaped upon them from the rooftops.

  Even in their frenzy, though, five Behemoths stayed by me, forming a circle around me, and looking in all directions for any ambush which might be planned, yet also twitching in their eagerness to join the battle. Meanwhile, the rest fought with a strength and ferocity which Gyappo’s guards could not match. I saw one Behemoth scoop up a myrmidon in his arms, then smash him upon his knee, dispatching him with one blow. Another bodyguard leapt upon a myrmidon, who collapsed under the weight, then stamped him into submission with his huge feet.

  Gyappo’s myrmidons fell one after another. Soon the Behemoths were fighting two or three against each smaller myrmidon. Now they used different tactics. Instead of delivering hard blows, they circled their prey at a distance, using their greater reach to inflict damage with their claws, while remaining out of the myrmidon’s striking range. They seemed almost to take pleasure at the myrmidon’s futile efforts, and little by little they tore at him, until he was dead upon the ground.

  In a few short minutes, all the myrmidons were destroyed, and our friend Gyappo had long since fled. My Behemoths had received only minor scratches in the fray, and were barely winded by their strenuous efforts. Indeed, by the time we joined up with the Northern Guard, who were waiting by the road some miles from Quebec, their energies were completely recovered.

  I marched away from Quebec with a powerful fighting force under my command, as well as the fortune in treasure the bishopa had paid me or bequeathed to me in her dying breaths. This fulfilled the holy vision I had seen nearly two years earlier, for I had now received wealth from the bishopa which was at least one hundredfold that which Eon Vulpine had taken from me, and when I considered my situation, I was delighted beyond measure.

  That is to say, I would have been delighted beyond measure if I were not so overcome with grief at the death of the one I loved so very dearly.

  In her sweet memory, then, I will end this part here, and I ask of the reader that he or she might share my sorrow by remaining silent for a few moments before turning to the next part.

  But then we shall forget her, as I was forced to do, for fear that the continuous contemplation of my tragic loss would drive me insane with the terrible heartache it brought.

  So it was that I left two griefs behind at Quebec—my great statue, and my near-inconsolable sadness over the death of the bishopa. I have often thought this coincidence would make a fine poem, and one day I will write it down.

  But enough—let us all now bow our heads in respectful silence for a time before we continue.

  The Sixth Part

  In Which I Tell Of My Travels Through A Great Forest And The Events Which Followed After I Left It

  As we travelled away from Quebec, and darkness fell, we saw great flashes coming from the sky behind us, and lights streaking overhead. Then came huge explosions from the road miles ahead of us, and we saw tongues of flame leaping up halfway to the zenith.

  At first, I thought this to be a heavenly omen, but then I realized the truth of the matter: the Archbishop of Ulph, who was second in power only to the bishopa, had ordered the ballista gunners in the cathedral towers to fire their explosive javelins and rockets in the direction of my escape. The barrage continued for many hours, with javelins exploding ahead of us at first, and later both ahead of us and behind us. Fearing the javelins would eventually strike the middle of my host, I ordered the myrmidons off the road and into the Mississauga Forest, which extends for hundreds of miles.

  We continued marching throughout the night, staying within the forest, for I knew the following day it would not be javelins the Archbishop of Ulph sent after us, but myrmidons, and even my mighty force was no match for the five thousand troops the archbishop now had at his whim. In the forest, though, I knew my army would be very difficult to find; and if we were found, my Behemoths could use the location to their advantage, leaping up into the trees, and then down upon the enemy.

  To further increase my safety, I had the slaves follow up the rear, brushing leaves over the tracks left by the myrmidons. So meticulous was their work, that, in my opinion, not even a master tracker would have been capable of detecting the passage of my great army.

  The next day it began to rain, and this shower turned, in the course of hours, into a thunderstorm of exceptional violence, which persisted into the next night. I was not afraid at this, for it seemed to me that God was sending a fearsome warning to my enemies, but nevertheless I became very wet from the rain as it splashed down from the trees.

  The storm subsided the following morning, but the rain continued to fall, and it made our marching a very miserable affair. I was exhausted, for I had taken only a few hours of sleep in the night. I was also hungry, for, while my army carried a good supply of the foods a myrmidon eats, there was nothing there for me. I had only a small satchel of food, consisting of three churney cakes, a wedge of cheese, and a few pieces of white-raspberry, wrapped in a grape leaf, and those provisions which my myrmidons carried for me were meats and foods of such a sort that must be cooked before being eaten. As you may imagine, in such weather as this, making an ordinary camp fire was impossible, while an uncontained magical furnace would send plumes of steam and smoke wafting above the tops of the trees, providing my foes with a marker to my location which could be seen for many miles.

  So, then, I ate very little, wore heavy wet clothes, and marched for long hours. Soon, this strain made me weak, and an illness fell upon me. At first, I felt very cold, although at times I felt hot, and the heat seemed a pleasant relief. I thought these feelings would pass as we continued our march.

  We were still marching west, but then a great foreboding came over me, and I sensed my enemies were close behind us. Therefore, I ordered my troops to change directions, and for the next day we marched north at double speed. During the course of this travel, my illness grew worse, and I felt terrible cramps in my bowels. Also, I developed a fever, and I felt very hot, (and this time the sensation of heat was unpleasant) yet the cold rain which fell upon me seemed to provide no relief.

  My memories of what happened next are indistinct. I remember tripping a number of times and then being carried in the arms of one of my Behemoths, and I remember being attacked by a great flock of a ten thousand huge ducks, and shouting orders for my myrmidons to take to the trees, because the ducks, with their webbed feet, would be unable to perch there. The ducks were some fevered hallucination, certainly, yet I believe my orders were real enough, for I remember my frustration when I saw the myrmidon
s were not fighting as they should, but instead were milling around in confusion.

  I do not know if I told my Behemoths to seek help, or whether they did so on their own initiative. Neither do I know exactly how much time passed between the onset of my sickness and the events I am about to describe, although on thinking the matter over later, I calculated it must have been at least two days, and perhaps as many as six. In any event, I will tell you my next clear memory.

  I was lying in a hut, upon a bed made from sticks and moss. Several Behemoths were around me, crouching, for the ceiling was low, and two men were feeding me with herbal soups. These men looked very strange, for they had dark skin, and narrow eyes, yet even in my sickly state I knew at once that they were Chinese!

  You may think this very improbable, for even such open-minded authorities as Libbins declare that no Chinese remain upon the face of the world, but if you talk to Americans about the matter, as I later did, you will learn that small bands of these magical folk still live upon that continent, hiding in remote places, far from the towns and cities.

  In just a few days, my sickness abated, and I was able to walk around. The hut was situated in a small encampment, consisting of five dwellings constructed from earth and pine tree branches. Here there lived a total of perhaps fifteen Chinese. The women were beautiful and wore robes of woven flax, dyed in earth tones. The men wore paint of various colours and patterns upon their faces, in the way we might do during Nutmeg Week.

  Their language was strange and amusing, and resembled the chattering of squirrels. I was enchanted by these gentle folk. I examined their lifestyle meticulously, comparing my observations to those written accounts of the Chinese with which we are all familiar.

  We are greatly misinformed on many so many aspects of these people. For example, the stories say the Chinese eat with sticks. They did nothing of the kind, but rather ate with hands and knives as people do everywhere. Neither were they at all fearsome, but, on the contrary, were very gentle, kind and sweet-natured, and they lacked the capacity for anger.

  Their food consisted mostly of roots and berries and leaves and herbs and other things from the ground.

  Their tools and utensils were primitive: their soup pots were made from strips of wood, with a circle of stone for the bottom. Their knives were chipped stone.

  They also kept little wooden cages, within which were numerous small, plump birds. The Chinese were a very happy people, and often laughed and pointed at the little birds, as they hopped around, and they fed the creatures from their own meagre food supply, which was mostly nuts and berries as I have already said.

  However, despite my amusement at their simple ways, do not think I looked down on these folk. I knew that beneath their simple clothes and tools, the Chinese were a wise and magical folk with much to teach me, if I could only find a way to learn from them.

  I listened carefully to their talk, hoping to pick up their language, but I could make out no word I understood. There were many questions I wished to ask them, and I tried to talk to them many times, shouting as loud as I was able, but they understood nothing of our speech, always using their squirrel language in its place.

  I tried imitating their sounds. They listened to my words with interest and pleasure, laughing and replying with their own sweet exclamations. But, as yet, I could understand nothing.

  Later, as they sat around their fire and sang a song, an inner voice seemed to speak to me. “Yreth,” it said, “listen with your heart.” So I listened in a different way, closing my eyes, letting the sounds waft over my ears and allowing general impressions to form.

  Instantly, visions appeared in my mind. I knew with certainty they sang the story of their people. In my mind’s eye, I saw Chinese emperors and wizards from long ago, and mighty armies clashing.

  I realized I had discovered the secret of the Chinese language. Its words are a series of emotional exclamations which speak not to the mind, as our language does, but instead exert a direct and magical influence upon the feelings and the soul.

  A short time after the song was over, I tried talking with one of my Chinese friends, who was now scraping at a piece of bark with a stone knife. I used my new method, feeling my words rather than thinking them, and selecting the sounds that, in my opinion, best captured their mood. After I asked my questions, I pointed to him and made gestures with my mouth and hands, indicating I wished to hear his reply. Again, once I ignored the sounds of his speech, a translation of his meaning came clearly into my head, and I found we could now communicate perfectly.

  I asked first, “Who are you and why did you save me?”

  He said, “I am known as Drem the Great, and I am a sorcerer. Our group are among the last Chinese in all the world. We are powerful wizards all, and we use our magic to travel from kingdom to kingdom, seeking out righteous persons who need help, such as yourself.”

  “How do you know I am a righteous person?” I asked, making such sounds as I thought would convey the message.

  “We know much about you,” he replied, still working his piece of bark. “We know your name is Yreth, and you have been wrongly treated by others who are jealous of your great talent and ability. And we know you have created glorious buildings of unmatched beauty in Quebec, and far-off Luthen, and Cyprus too.”

  When I heard that, I knew all he said about being powerful wizards was true, for how else, except by magic, could this man, living here in the forests of America have known of my works in Spain?

  I asked him no more questions. I thought it best to begin my communications slowly. And, in any case, he had taken his piece of bark and walked away from me. I anticipated further dialogues, where I might learn the long-lost magical secrets of the Chinese, which are reputed to have been very great.

  But, alas, it was not destined that I should learn the secrets of Chinese magic, for the next day, when I awoke, I was alone in the hut. The Chinese had silently departed.

  Had they gone into the forest, blending into the trees? Had they used their magic to transport themselves across the world? I do not know. But I felt privileged to have seen these mysterious, magical folk and spoken to them.

  Just a year ago, I sent a letter explaining my discoveries about Chinese to that great philosopher and linguist Ducambe Aletto. He replied that my rapid and successful decoding of the mysterious Chinese language was “incredible, in the truest sense,” and he doubted whether he or any linguist alive “could achieve such a total understanding of an unknown language in the course of a few short minutes,” as I did. He even urged me to take up the study of linguistics. I am too busy to do so, but I was flattered at the suggestion.

  After my encounter with the Chinese, I travelled west with my army, and we continued in that direction, in good weather, for a week or so. We encountered no enemy forces, and I was eventually emboldened to strike south once more, in order to join the road. So I left the Mississauga Forest and East America behind and entered the vast land of Manitario.

  Only one thing remains to be reported of East America and its capital of Quebec, and that is the cruel fate which befell my Grief.

  In my haste to leave Quebec, I had left behind a copy of my plans for that magnificent structure. Now, you will remember I had two assistant stonemages who worked with me. Well, those scoundrels kept my plans and used them to build further statue-towers which, in form, were virtually identical to mine, save only for tiny details of styling. First they built a woman, who was supposed to be the wife of Thyatus, a few miles along the river from the original Grief. She too had a mouse in her mouth, although there is no record of any wife of Thyatus dying from a mouse. Then they built statues, in various colours and sizes, of Thyatus’s various children and relatives. Again, all had mice in their mouths. Subsequent statues depict more relatives, and some of Thyatus’s close friends, and some of these have mice in their mouths, while others have bats or serpents, and the most recent st
ructures show men and women eating grapes, or pears. To this day, they are known as griefs, although most depict figures in poses of elation or relaxation without any hint of the anguish for which they were named. I have seen pictures of the region as it appears today, and the proliferation of these works greatly diminishes the effect of the original Grief, which was intended to stand alone, staring hopelessly out across the land.

  I have read, in Burnell’s Architecture of America, that the area along the river Ram near to Quebec is now known as the Giants’ Picnic, and Burnell says the designs are the invention of two brilliant East American architects, which as you know, is not true. He also says the reason the statues are eating such unusual foods upon their “picnic” is in order to convey the valuable message that “we must all sometimes consume things which disagree with us.” It makes me very angry to think of this, because that was not the meaning at all, and I fear such foolish words lead innocent people away from my dire warning about the mouse.

  I will say no more upon the subject, for I grow red-faced with rage even as I write this, but I will ask this of the reader: if you should chance upon a copy of Architecture of America, and it is a common book to be found, turn to Chapter Eleven and find this offensive and thoughtless comment by Burnell, then strike it out with a pen, writing in the margin: “Beware the Mouse!” This is what I have done to every copy of the book I have yet encountered, and perhaps, in this way, the ignorant untruths spread by Burnell may yet be quelled.

  In any event, I had left the Grief behind me, and looked now only to starting some new work.

  Now, I will tell you this. A stonemage who seeks work with persuasions and entreaties is far less likely to receive it than one who enters a town with an army at his back. You may say all you will about the value of courtesy—and I prize it highly myself—but sweet words are no match for the eloquence of marching feet and glittering blades. This, at least, was my experience.