Raven's Warrior

by Pratchett, Vincent

  Father and daughter ate their picnic lunch while I stood contemplating the great oak and all that it nourished and protected. Even in its regal immensity it shared in kindness its bounty, giving home to squirrel, bird, and insect alike. With half-closed eyes I could hear the distant breathing of the great falls and the peaceful speech of priest and doctor. Here between heaven and earth, I held my stance.

  Through the slow motions of the dance of dao yin I was learning ‘stillness in movement,’ and here in the company of the oak I was learning to feel the ‘movement in stillness.’ I could feel the rhythms and cycles of heartbeat, breathing, and digestion, and was at the same time quieting and taming the uncontrolled direction of my mind’s unbridled thoughts.

  Almost an hour had gone by before I realized that the priest and his child had long finished eating and were patiently waiting for me to finish standing. “Every day, ring by ring, Arkthar,” Mah Lin said once more, and then added mysteriously, “Today we will show you something more of this place.” This was the secret that Selah had been holding.

  We walked onward past the roaring of the cold falls. Selah stooped to dig the odd root, or pluck a savory herb and tuck it carefully under her tunic. This she did sometimes for medicine and sometimes for food. She had often told me the two were intrinsic branches from the same tree. Mah Lin seemed also well animated and spoke much more than usual.

  “In ancient times, the monks of this temple were renowned for their skill with metal,” he said. “Some of their work still stands in the palace of the emperor.” He paused briefly to take our bearings and then continued in both travel and conversation. “Those were the days that saw the birth of peerless weapons; those were times when art and spirit drove the powers of war.” He pointed now as we reached a clearing, and said, “Arkthar, behold.”

  I was stunned to silence as I approached and touched the massive form that stood before me roaring from the stillness of a bygone age.

  Rising above the afternoon mist of the sheltered but enormous clearing towered a fierce and regal lion. Vines of the spring had already climbed and spiraled up to the knees of the statue. It was metallic cold to the touch, and a slap of my hand told me it was substantially thick but hollow. Of how the metal had been worked on such a grand scale I could not say, for I had only seen the working of hand-held hammer bend and shape.

  In my past world no wonders like this existed, it seemed crafted exquisitely by the hand of giants. I stood enraptured until Mah Lin broke my trance. “This iron is melted to liquid and then cast,” he said. “It was made here by imperial order, and bequeathed back to the monks of this monastery to mark their artistry and loyalty.” I could hear wonder and respect in the usually even voice of Mah Lin.

  Selah reached high and rubbed the inscription carved across the creature’s powerful chest. When the accumulated dirt of eons past had fallen to her hand, she read and translated; “From the First Emperor, the date unreadable, forever will this guardian protect these hallowed grounds, against this temple no evil will prevail.”

  She paused briefly before turning towards me and adding, “The First Emperor and his army has been sleeping under his mountain for the last one thousand years.” Although this sounded unbelievable, in this world I had learned the wisdom of not rushing to conclusion.

  I wanted to stay here for a long time. Mah Lin and Selah were also in no hurry, and so they left me to my thoughts. The idea of metal so hot that it flows brought back my dream of the rivers of fire. I remembered clearly the red molten streams flooding down the mountain as we walked towards it. I winced, seared with the heat of its memory, and the feeling that it held the delicate balance of primal creation and utter destruction.

  Reluctantly we gathered to leave, and as I looked back over my shoulder it seemed the great beast could easily come to life at the command of a powerful monk. I weighed Mah Lin against the clerics of my old land and realized that falsehood is often wrapped in the trappings of fear and power, while truth stands tall, clad only in the mantle of its purity. Selah gently coaxed me from my contemplation, “Arkthar, where are your thoughts?”

  I stopped walking and faced her. “Selah, the ones that know Latin preach that the ancient prophets of my old world have a similar portent. In the Book of Revelation, one wrote of a Conquering Lion that shall come to trample and destroy the wicked at the time of the end,” I replied gravely.

  I turned away and added to myself, “the time of the Apocalypse,” and we walked on.

  The First Emperor

  Time is the great transformer of all things. The rhythm of its steady passage is the beating heart of change. Under its watchful stare newborns turn to ancients, generations pass from old to new, and empires rise and crumble. In the world of men, it is time’s passage that converts the deeds of history into tales of legend. It is the ice that grinds the mountain, the water that transports the scree, and finally it is the mist that shrouds the remaining foothill.

  The old woman walked slowly upon the high green knoll. She placed her steps carefully, climbing steadily higher between the heavens and the earth. Adjusting the bag slung across her brittle shoulders, the old one sat and rested, hoping here to gather strength.

  Built to last forever, it had already outlived the collective memory of those that saw her new. To the scattered villagers that lived in its shadow, it was just a hillock, an obstacle in the way of their travel and progress. To the ancient oracle, however, it was much more. She knew that her wandering had carried her not upon a hill whittled from mountain by nature’s blade, but a mound cast upward by the labor of a united people.

  In the cloaked recesses of her tortured mind, she toiled with the hands of a near million, and she drank up the lifetimes that passed in its creation. This forgotten monument now lay serenely sleeping. Its origins hidden like the hills, by the earthbound fog of time.

  Breathing easier she closed her eyes, perched high on the sacred tomb of the First Emperor. In one steady exhalation she voiced a name that only the birds could hear. “Qin Shi Huang Di.” Beneath her rests the Son of Heaven, sealed within a bronze model of his world. He lies under gold painted stars, surrounded by seas and rivers of flowing mercury, and treasures beyond imagination.

  History records that this ruler’s tribe bore the totem of the bear. He set standards of measure, language, philosophy, medicine, and commerce that have entwined a diverse culture ever since. Through superior tactics and military might he was able to unify the empire, and he held it with an iron fist. It was the stones of his wall that kept his enemies out, but it was the blood of his people that cemented them together.

  Legend holds that his birth was announced by a thunderclap from a clear sky, and that he was a god made into the form of a man. After living for more than one hundred years, he arranged his affairs and prepared for his journey into the afterlife. Some say that a dragon descended from the heavens and took him away, while another account holds that the First Emperor himself turned into a dragon and departed.

  Entombed with an army of ten thousand, all sleep, he in death and those that serve rendered mortal by the clay and kilns of the surrounding hills. Poised to protect him on his journey, or be woken from Death’s slumber to rise and conquer once again.

  There are some things that only time must know.

  The Entrance

  We continued to walk back, the voice of the falls growing steadily louder as we drew near. Once there Mah Lin and I stripped to loincloth and stood in the turbulent icy downpour. The rocks were round and slippery and footing was precarious, but seeking a balance in the midst of adversity was cleansing. I held my stance beneath the river’s power, pleased that my resistance to the icy cold had steadily increased.

  Mah Lin stood calmly beside me. After some time he shouted over the rushing water, “There is more.” I took this to mean that I should continue to hold my stance, and I turned toward him to seek some sign of confirmation. He had disappeared, and before I could once again wonder how, his muscled arm
had wrapped my torso from behind and pulled me through the frigid fluid wall.

  The water’s sound was instantly muted; its tone deeper as it bounced off the walls of the cave. His laughter echoed all around me as he set me down and allowed my vision the time it needed to adjust. An opaque blue light poured in from direction of the falls, and the size of the cave grew and expanded as he lit the torches that flamed along its walls. I could now see the movement of the wooden machinery as it turned and churned, wheel to wheel, and cog to cog, driven by the interplay of water with gravity.

  Within its dark walls the shadowed memories of my past reared up within me, unrestrained and unbidden. ‘The Cave of the Alders,’ was my only thought. My body shook without control, and I felt once more worthless and ineffectual, unable to protect those who were entrusted to me. I felt the failure of my past rise up again to tear me asunder.

  Returning now that all the lamps were lit, if Mah Lin noticed my plight he ignored it and said, “Welcome, Arkthar, to the temple forge. It is ancient, and was in great need of repair when Selah and I arrived, but with hard work we have brought it back to life. Its heart beats once again,” clearly referring to the water wheel driving the in and out pumping of the large two-stroke bellows. He looked to the vast cave like a proud parent and said, “This is where your Five Element child was born over six hundred years ago, and this is the cave from where the guardian lion emerged.

  From the far end of the cave Selah approached us. She was dry, and it made sense that there would be other ways in beside the grand hidden doorway of the falls. Indeed, light did shine in from higher elevations to make a natural chimney for the forge’s smoke, and I could smell the familiar aroma of bat manure that I had often spread upon the garden. “Show Arkthar the cave,” Mah Lin suggested, “while I tune the mechanism of the bellow pump.”

  I pushed the terror that had initially gripped me back into the crevice from where it came. There was much to see as we each took a torch and I began to explore. She told me that this place was once a mountain of fire as in my dream. “Time,” she said, “has altered its appearance much.”

  There was the regular forge, fueled by charcoal from willow wood, and its familiar tools of hammers and anvil. There was charcoal enough to fill a mighty enclave, the byproduct of industry that had continued for so many generations. Further back was a huge smelter. I had never before seen such a furnace; it was a large enclosure covered by a thick layer of reddened clay to trap the heat. It drained from the bottom onto a sandy surface. Around it were a variety of thick-walled molds, some to shape kettles and pans, some urns, bells, and the like. Raw ingots lay beside finished tools and farm implements.

  Deeper inside the cave the bat guano was layered thick and dark, the accumulation of eons. Water dripped from above it and leached out small white crystals piled thick now like heavy snow. Yellow brimstone clung in various cracks like the bats that hung from the roof by the thousands. Upside down they waited for the freedom of the dusk. Theirs was a life of moonlight raid and insect pillage; they were as a mighty army, these soldiers of the night.

  There was a flat expanse lined with crafted thick wood trunks, some padded, most not. Selah made a gesture of kick and strike, and I remembered the legs of Mah Lin and understood completely. I walked closer to a lone wooden table, low and substantial, Selah close by my side. On it rested a pillow filled with iron pellets. Mah Lin stood with bended knees and began to drop his hands flat down upon it. The sound was murderous within the cave. “Iron Palm,” the monk said, and I jumped back in reflex as he feigned a mid-strike.

  Much later I would come to understand that the hard striking arts, they called external, and these they trained inside. The soft and sometimes still movements were called internal arts, and these were practiced outside. It seemed they favored this linking together of opposites to make one harmonious whole.

  We ate well when we finally arrived back home, both in quality and amount. Selah and Mah Lin talked much and the conversation seemed centered around my progress and my perspective. I knew now the names of food, and I was able to ask for more, or graciously decline. Over time I tried to follow their manners for the table and even bathed my hands before we sat.

  I had mastered the use of their utensils, merely two wooden sticks, which if held properly could subdue a hunger quite efficiently. It was fine to shovel the food into an open mouth from a closely held bowl and spit the bones upon the table, but wrong to impale a morsel or rake the common dish for a tastier bite.

  Often I learned more by mistake than example. We finished the last of the tea, and as I stood I stuck my sticks into a bowl of rice that had escaped consumption. I tried to hand Selah the leftovers thinking that she would place it safely for tomorrow’s meal, but she was frozen. I saw the color leave her face as she looked first at my offering and then to her father, and I knew that I had erred. Mah Lin moved smoothly to pull out the eating sticks and quickly remove the bowl of grain.

  Breaking the cold awkward silence that followed, Mah Lin kindly offered a correction. “Arkthar, the sticks in the rice call to mind the incense offered at a funeral, they call to Death.”

  Sleep

  My day had been full. My body was tired when I lay down that night, my mind however, reared up like a wild horse. I was its rider, but not its master. It jumped and raced past memory and half thought, from place to place with no control or guidance. It carried me to the iron monument in the open clearing, where once again I stood humbled before the mighty effigy.

  From the towering lion to the jagged flight of bats and the steady syncopation of the forge machinery, my psyche charged onward. It brought me from the darkness of the cave through the churning falls and into the sunlight, where I emerged and drew fresh breath. My imagination slowed from its untamed gallop, and I stopped to survey the vast landscape that stretched before me. The last thoughts of my day had become the first dreams of my night, and I was not alone.

  We three stood looking at the mountain of fire. Our location was as before, but now the fire and molten rivers were long gone, and instead of the blackening smoke, its rocky peak stood wrapped in blue white ice. The high altitude winds carried snowy powder up and off, painting feathers on its frozen cap.

  The once blistering terrain was now a fresh spring meadow. From the lush green lowland a forest climbed the mountain’s base like an advancing army, front lines halted far below the snow and ice. Thick mist cloaked the cliffs and craggy outcrops; it hung and lingered in the trees caressing the forest in its damp embrace.

  A mighty river snaked and coiled its way from high to low, undulating like the mythical serpent of old seafarers’ tales. It remained ever humble in its almighty power, seeking only the course of least resistance. It cut deep and moved fast on high, but slowed, widened, and finally wandered like an old man as it arrived at the gentler slope at mountain’s foot, its energy spent by the length of its journey.

  Water is the ice, the river, and the mist—one element, three forms. I felt his presence behind my back, but I would not turn around.

  “You have done well, Arkthar, since we last met above the desert sands,” Death said. If within the dream Selah and Mah Lin heard him, they gave no indication and continued to look silently in the direction of the mountain. “I have done my best,” I replied, and this too, they seemed unable to hear. “Well at least so far you have kept your feet on the ground,” Death quipped, and we both shared a chuckle. Still I dared not turn around.

  “In the world of men I am much maligned. They see only that I take and never see that I give in great measure. I alone release them from their suffering. In times of great dying, men point to me and curse, but it is they that have overturned the balance.” I felt Death move much closer, and my body shuttered.

  “I am Death, and I am the natural law. I have walked this world since life began. From primordial seas I helped life thrive, it was I that pushed it up upon the solid ground, and it was I that gave it wings and launched it to the heavens. I
am the keeper and the one that weeds your earthly garden.” I listened carefully to the words he spoke, and when he paused, I heard the earth begin its lamentation.

  “Arkthar, we are moving into strange times. Mankind is new upon this platform, and from their beginnings they have fought against the natural order, it is your kind who work me to the bone.” He spoke again with purging energy, “It was I who gave you back your life when you died at the hands of men. You intrigue me, and I am not done with you. Study well the wisdom of the monk and heed the lessons from the past, for as we speak a storm is gathering to come against you. The dark tempest is driven by hatred and revenge. It seeks your end and the ruin of all that you hold dear.” I listened silently and stared off at the mountain, and Death continued.

  “Remember me kindly, Arkthar, and remember this as well—to unleash the Dragon you must first imprison it. Heed me, once the Dragon is released there can be no returning.” Death spoke again but it was not with words. Instead, the cries of the earth rose and trembled with the voices of the past. It was the growing cry of age-old pain, and it shocked me to the core. Spurred by terror I tried to run, but the sound followed and engulfed me.

  It trailed off, then started up and filled my room again, until it became the familiar sound of the rooster’s morning crowing.

  The Five Cuts

  Selah handed me my breakfast bowl immediately. Mah Lin sat amid a pile of shavings whittled from the handle of a garden hoe. The Five Element sword was sheathed upon his back. As he rose, his hands traced the patterned smoothness of his work and he was satisfied. The farmer’s tool he handed me had been transformed. It had been sculpted quickly but with great skill. I held the hard wooden hilt and felt its heft. It was not steel, but it was a weapon. No longer meant to work the garden, clearly it was now a tool that the priest had crafted to train me. Mah Lin’s tone was jovial, “No more a handle,” he said; “now it is an oar.”