From horseback and cloaked in bearskin, the commander watched the measured amble of shield and bow make its way steadily to midfield. It brought to his mind the slow movements of a tortoise, and he thought about the old one reading the cracks on the sacred shell. He thought also of the victory that she had promised, and knew that today it would be his.
His sword was held high, and with its drop the arrows flew. They were launched from all directions like apocalyptic rain. They were answered in kind but not quantity from the tortoise shell. The falling of men on both sides had begun. The commander regretted now the loss of his catapults, but no matter the finality of conquest was at hand. He watched from a safe distance, both horse and man breathing heavily in the bitter highland air.
It was over in less than one hour. Thirty-two men were now only a tangled pile of human wreckage in an open, snow-covered field. He gave the signal to cease fire and approached the twisted knot of shields, weapons, and bodies. The imperial arrows embedded in the ground around the rebel’s last stand looked like the tall wheat of a summer’s meadow.
In death the young leader smiled, still protected by the arrow pocked shield of his second in command. The commander finally had the victory he had come for, and with a flash of his monk steel weapon he had the rebel’s head. He held it high and turned it to the four directions for all his cheering troops to see. He sheathed his weapon and carried the head by its hair as he walked into the beckoning fortress.
With an arrogant stride he entered the empty city fort, now just four walls and rubble. In the main square, so awed by the treasure before him, he dropped the head and stared in silent wonder. Hatred had so consumed his soul that little touched his heart anymore. The carpet’s powerful beauty awoke the remnants of his humanity and a tear rolled down his ruined face.
Between the dragons was the character for two. Not the number but the concept, two as one, or two under the same roof. It was the embodiment of his mission, for this godforsaken northern region and the temperate and civilized southern state were now as one. He knew little about carpets, but it was clear that this one was both ancient and a masterpiece. This was truly a treasure worthy of an emperor, and compared to this, the loss of a few war machines was minor. He was pulled back from his revelry by the arrival of his generals.
He reached down quickly to snatch up the head, and so cover his moment of weakness. Looking into the open eyes of the rebel he mocked loudly, “What fool leaves a carpet like this exposed to the elements.” Both he and his generals laughed raucously. When they had stopped he ordered, “Pack this carpet carefully for transport,” and added harshly, “Should anything happen to the emperor’s carpet between now and our arrival at the palace, you will all be executed.”
Once more atop his horse he tied the rebel’s head by its hair to his belt. Leaving the generals to their task, the commander rode back towards the tent that had been his residence for the last eleven months. Horse and rider passed by the rebel heap and saw the snow, covered now by a pond of dark red gore. The slaughter of the moon bear flashed through his mind and sent a chill flying up his spine. He saw her blood spreading in the whiteness, and thought he heard once more the sound of orphaned cubs.
He looked up toward the distant cry of a black-feathered bird, pulled the bear hide tighter to ward off the bitter cold, and rode on.
The Beggar’s Bowl
The walled city was empty when the imperial troops finally entered the gate. There were no survivors, but more importantly there was no plunder. Loot is life for the foot soldier, and here there was nothing. The imperial soldiers now tasted vinegar when they had expected wine, and even the hastiest return would not be fast enough for most.
The troops of the southern region flew from the walled city like a plague of locusts that have finished decimating a once fertile field. They had grown to hate this cold land, its rebellious people, and now their impoverished mission. It was whispered among them that the mind of their scar-faced commander had finally lost its delicate balance.
Three days after the rebels’ final stand there remained only desolation. The land had already begun to reclaim the area marked by the occupation, now just a waning ring upon the earth like the scar of some great pox. No crows flew, and no animals roamed, the entire area mirrored the condition of the fort, empty and barren. Only the wind and its ghosts blew across the desolate plain, and the thirty-two dead were left to rot where they had fallen. At forest’s edge something stirred.
The shredded black rags moved slowly across the great snow white field. They seemed like living calligraphy, perhaps not a character or word at all, merely an accidental spill of coal black ink, dripping down a fresh new page. Slow and determined they made way past the heap of dead upon dead and into the abandoned ruins. As they moved they measured the substance of space and time and spoke the language of persistence, onward toward the dead stone fortress.
Just as outside, inside there was nothing. Nothing at all to speak that here brave men had walked and here brave men had lived, or indeed that here brave men had died. Only a large rectangle outline in the square where once an ancient carpet had lain, spoke that at least here no enemy had dared to trample.
In the middle of this fading print, the black rags hunkered down and skinny arms drew forth the metal begging bowl and began to scrape. It was a task of epic proportion, like the draining of a lake using only a tea cup, but slowly the frozen earth did yield to an old one’s unbridled determination. For six days and six moonless nights the futile task continued, until finally, from futility the beggar’s bowl had gouged success.
The pit was as deep as its hunched digger, and the dirt was piled around its perimeter like the walls of the ruined fortress. He stood and shuffled from end to end of this dank tomb, and said aloud three simple words, “It is enough.”
He wiped the sweat that ran down his pock-scared face with the filthy hood. His black eyes darted over his monumental effort, and he was satisfied. He climbed up from the even-sided crater and rolled down from the mound piled high around it. He saw beneath his broken fingernails the caked remains of blood and dirt, but he would not allow himself to feel pain or fatigue until after the completion of his task. Only then would he allow himself to feel everything.
Thirty-two trips the beggar made from plain to fortress square. One by one he dragged the frozen bodies to the large rectangular hole and laid them down, with weapons and shields. The last one placed was the headless young leader, and this one he lay beside the second in command.
Once again he muttered his comforting phrase, “It is enough.”
The loose dirt was shoveled back methodically bowl by bowl, until the living earth had finally claimed its dead. Now he was free once again to feel. The ancient beggar staggered in the direction of the southern lands. He wanted to escape the coldness of this place. The beggar quickened the shifting balance of his awkward gait, aware now of the quickened shift of the changing universe.
As he continued his southern walk, he offered silent prayers for the dead of this place, and the many more that were soon to die.
Reaching For The Rain
Through the nakedness of three spring seasons, I had seen birds build nests in its branches, and squirrels homes within the hollow rooms of its trunk. I often saw the raven from its great height study me as I stood in silent stance. Ring by ring and day by day, I had grown stronger.
I watched the oak tree as it watched me. I borrowed its strength as I took my stance before it. I had seen its leaves emerge from buds and gracefully unfurl over days like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. The long catkins grew and dangled from delicate branches as the small yellow flowers formed. My oak was by nature’s hand both male and female, and so spoke loudly of the harmonious union of two great opposites. From these flowers I watched the acorns grow and fall, some to be eaten and some to be carried far off and take root.
One late summer’s day I was standing in stillness beside my great oak. Men are as trees, with feet
that root in the earth, a mind that mingles with the heavens, and a trunk that unites and binds the two together. Selah and her black bird seemed never to tire of watching me, even though in tranquility I could now stand for hours.
On this day Selah asked, “Arkthar, did you consult the ants?”
I knew by the smell in the air and the darkening skies that their opinion was unnecessary, for it was certain a major storm was gathering. Just as I had finished my training the rains began, and from under the protective canopy of the oak we stood together and watched the warm afternoon downpour, and listened to the music of the worms. With wind and with fanfare the skies instantly released all the water that they had greedily been hoarding.
I thought of Thor who in his Norse land had done exactly the same as us, and I thought of his lightning, but luckily it did not come. The rain poured down as if from buckets. So heavy was it that from our vantage we could not see out past the length of three horses, but we were warm and dry, and we both enjoyed the power and presence of this storm.
In my thinking of trees, I had always felt them passive. I thought that they grow where they are placed and receive only what they are brought.
It began quietly at first, a soft trickling song. From somewhere behind us we heard the gentle sound of water like the spilling of a single cup. At first not much more than a dripping, but soon it began to increase. It was like listening to a single voice being joined steadily one by one by a choir of great number.
The great oak canopy trapped the sound, and it emanated from all around us. The noise grew quickly from a steady trickle to the sound of a brook, and it continued to grow. I shouted to Selah that I had found its source. We both turned and looked towards the base of the mighty trunk.
From the roots to the heavens the great trunk rose, from this trunk sprang and spiraled boughs like mighty arms. These rose up to forearms and these to hands of branch. Every finger grasped the leaves that reached to touch the rain.
From the heavens to the root the raindrops collected. They flowed from spring to brook, brook to stream. All water was directed by the cracks of the bark as it flew along the underside faster than it could fall to the ground, and was guided precisely to the roots where it was needed. Four rivers were pulled from the sky and from each direction poured onto the roots with the sound of a steady waterfall.
I knew then that my oak, that I once thought so sedentary and passive, reaches actively to the universe to take what the heavens provide. On this late summer’s day I understood the power and strength of the oak, and the softness and beauty of water. This tree was truly one of my great teachers, and with this lesson Selah and I turned to each other.
We pressed our lips together for the first time, and felt our souls together for all time.
In bliss we lay beneath the protective canopy of the sacred oak. The rains had settled to the steady beat of passion released, and now sang only its gentle song. I held her tightly against my chest to keep her close and safe. We had no words, our actions had spoken for us both, and upon the ground we listened only to our steady breathing.
It was clear that I was her first man, and although I had been with many women, it was also clear that she was simply now, my only.
Circles Of Wood And Steel
The monk enjoyed watching his charge practice with the oar in evening’s soft light. He was a good student, dedicated to the physical effort needed for success. What impressed Mah Lin the most was that Arkthar was never satisfied. Any lesson given was always taken further. Not content with just the two-handed grip, he had with great effort learned to cut equally well with both the right arm and the left. Over the course of the passing years he had come far.
Selah and her father marveled how Arkthar had harmonized his foreign ways with theirs. Inspired by the striking posts for training limbs within the cavern, he had built from wood a Celtic cross as big as a man and set it firmly in the ground near the river. This he punished with all five cuts but added also short strikes with the butt of the handle. Every evening the sound of wood striking wood could be heard thundering across their peaceful homestead.
Now it seemed that the five cut method was transforming into a different art. Arkthar had listened well to Selah’s explanation of the Five Element Theory. For his warrior mind the idea of subjugation and generation fit neatly into what he knew. He created movement and mindset modeled on the properties of each element. Before long he had captured in body the essence of all five and pushed further to make them one. Mah Lin watched the warrior dance through fire, water, earth, metal, and wood, and was deeply moved.
In the fading light of day, both monk and daughter watched him cut with fury against the cross. When he had finished his work, Arkthar turned to greet them and was surprised to see his teacher holding the Five Element sword unsheathed and in two hands. Although it was unusual, he did not question the monk’s purpose. Mah Lin approached without ceremony and exchanged steel for wood. Each now held a different weapon, and each tested the weight and power held within their palms.
The steel that Arkthar held was light compared to the wooden oar. It spoke to him like a young horse urging its rider to loosen the reign and bridle, and fly to furious gallop. Meanwhile the monk assessed the balance of the warrior’s wooden weapon, and the range of its cutting arc. He raised the oar slowly above his head, locked eyes with his young student, and attacked ferociously.
For Arkthar all thought and reason disappeared, fled perhaps to the safety of the thick-walled library. Here and now remained only the sound and reflex of flesh and steel defending against real danger. It was the quiet place of an unfettered mind, the place where Death would quickly answer any thought. The forward fury of the monk abated but his eyes remained vigilant. Arkthar realized that with great luck, he had not been touched. This revelation amused the monk, for he knew that the line that separates luck from skill is at best a thin one. Quietly he stood and awaited Arkthar’s full reply.
Selah stood frozen, shocked now by the warrior’s answer. She had heard of bloodlust but had never seen it. And now she stood mute, a witness to its terrible power as Arkthar released full force upon her father. If Mah Lin was concerned it did not show upon his face, for his features remained focused and serene. When the sound of the attack had finished, her father stood uninjured, but the oar he held was shortened, cleaved neatly in two. Arkthar fought for the reigns of his savagery, trying desperately to halt the finishing blow of his advantage. Through this hesitation the monk flashed forward once again.
He closed the distance in a blur and passed through the warrior as if a ghost. Silence filled the space between them. Looking down, Arkthar saw that his palm held the shortened oar and looking up realized that the blade of Five Elements was now back in the hands of its owner. Both men smiled. Arkthar now understood that the line that separates skill from magic is at best a thin one.
Over the evening meal Mah Lin inquired about the martial school of Arkthar’s past and was surprised by his student’s answer. “There was none. I learned as I went.” Intrigued now, the priest delved further, “That being so, do you not have some deep conviction?” Arkthar replied, “When I was a child, I once became suddenly aware that a warrior is a man who does not hold his life in regret. Since I have held that in my heart for many years, it has become a deep conviction, and today I never think about my death. Other than that I have nothing.” Mah Lin was deeply moved and said in reply, “The perceptions of my predecessors were not the least bit awry.”
The monk gestured to the severed wooden oar that Arkthar had discarded near the hearth. The warrior thought to feed the useless remnant to the fire when the flames died down. Arktar held it once more and reevaluated its dimensions. Its weight and length was exactly the same as the short sword of his old world, long since buried in his Viken enemy. He tucked it humbly into his belt and bowed his head to his two teachers.
Dragons
The morning light within the library grew steadily. I heard the rooster rouse h
is harem and mark the arrival of the new day. As I poured over the original temple manuscripts, my interest was captured. I had seen this word before but was unsure of its meaning. Selah entered quietly, and before she shed the heaviness of sleep I asked her, “What is the sound and meaning of this character?” I looked at its shape undulating on the ancient yellowed page and added, “It seems familiar.”
“I know why you would be intrigued,” Selah always thought carefully before she explained anything, but now she seemed to be thinking longer than usual. She began searching, for she knew that a painting would greatly aid my understanding. “Look, Arkthar,” she said, as she carefully laid a yellowed illustration beside the written character that had caught me in its grip. While I stared at the detailed artwork in disbelief, she added, “Its sound is loong.”
I looked at the written word. The fish that climbs the river falls becomes this mythical beast, and I remembered the carved oak prows of the Viken longboats as they churned through ocean waters. I shook this memory from my mind and stared again at the ancient seal script character.
My eyes saw a concept made of two pictures. On the left it seemed a man in armor. Like the tales of legend he stood adorned for battle, and by his side perhaps a sword. On the right a different image, I saw its four thick legs and long neck. It seemed almost grazing upon the landscape of its meaning. Side by side I saw both man and beast. From this written word I looked to the fine details of the ancient painting, and touched the scales, teeth, and claws of the long coiled body. To me it was both beautiful and frightening.
“Selah in the world of my old life we also have this creature, as a child I have heard many stories about this beast we call dragon, and it was a dragon that took me by sail from my home.” My mind was alive now with the creature, and in the way of a novice scholar, I set aside my fears and carefully voiced my rational thoughts, “It is fascinating that such an imaginary creature is a concept in the hearts and minds of people of all places.” The space of her silence, which I mistook for respectful listening, I filled with, “The dragon is a universal myth of great size and significance.”
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