When the Gods Slept

by Allan Cole

  Iraj shrugged as if to say, claim what you like but I know better. Then he said, "I told you I dreamed of a fellow named Safar, did I not?"

  "When we first met," Safar answered.

  "I was surprised you never asked me more about it. Most people would."

  Safar didn’t reply, remembering the vision of the king on the white elephant.

  Iraj stared at him for a long moment. "If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to reveal it?"

  Safar promised, relieved that the conversation seemed to have taken a less dangerous turn.

  "If you break the vow," Iraj warned, "I will most certainly be killed."

  Safar was taken aback. At that point in his young life he’d never encountered a secret with such a penalty attached.

  "It’s the reason I’m living here with you," Iraj continued. "My father, you see, was lord of our tribe and I was to succeed him."

  "Did your father die recently?" Safar guessed.

  "He caught a fever a little more than year ago," Iraj said. "It took six months for it to suck out his life. During that time my family quarreled and became divided - with some favoring me as a successor, while others backed my uncle, Fulain. When my father died the break became permanent."

  Iraj went on to explain that at first the tide was in his favor because more family members supported him. One of his cousins - a much respected older man who was rich in land and horses - was to be appointed regent until Iraj came of age and could take up the ruler’s staff.

  "But Fulain made a bargain with my father’s most hated enemy," Iraj said. "An evil man named Koralia Kan who slew my grandfather when my father was a boy. And my father revenged the family by killing Kan’s first born. So there is much spilled blood between us."

  Iraj said one dark night Fulain gave Kan and his horse soldiers free passage through his land, joining him in a series of surprise attacks. Many died, including the cousin who would have been regent. When Fulain had the rest of the family under his heel he demanded Iraj’s head so there would be no one to dispute his claim as clan lord.

  "My mother begged one of my uncles - her sister’s husband - to help," Iraj said. "I was forced to flee my own home and hide out with his people - the Babor clan. But there were so many spies about it wasn’t safe to remain long. My uncle was ashamed to send me away. But he has his own wives and children to look after so he sent me here to hide from Fulain and Kan."

  To Safar the tale had the ring of legend about it. He felt like a child listening to his father tell stories of old days and wild ways.

  "Will you never be able to return?" he asked.

  Iraj jammed a stick into the fire and flames leaped up to carve deep shadows on his face. He looked older in that light. And quite determined.

  "The war in my family continues," he said. "But it is a silent war of spies and night raids. When it’s safe my uncle will send for me. And then I will be tribal lord."

  "How can you be sure?" Safar asked. "What if Fulain and Kan keep the upper hand?"

  Iraj went silent. He stabbed moodily at the fire. Then he said, "I must believe it, don’t you see? Otherwise I might as well take my own life now."

  Safar didn’t see. Why should Iraj die because he couldn’t be lord of his tribe? Why not stay in Kyrania where no danger could touch him? He could live a long peaceful life. Marry one of the village women and be happy with all the beauty and bounty of Kyrania. But he said none of those things because he could see from Iraj’s agitation it would only upset him more - although Safar didn’t understand why. Instead, he asked him about the customs of his own people.

  "It’s nothing like here," Iraj said with unconscious disdain. "We don’t farm. We aren’t slaves to the land. We fight for what we want. And we fight more to keep it. For I tell you, Safar, I learned at my father’s knee that men will either love you or fear you. There is no in-between."

  He said his family had roamed the broad Plains of Jaspar for centuries. They were the fiercest of the tribes that remained after Alisarrian’s kingdom broke up. They lived by raiding weaker tribes and looting villages and cities in distant lands. In recent years - even before his father became ill - things had not gone well.

  "Our horse herds are not so numerous as before," he said. "And a plague took many of our camels. Other tribes have made bargains with the kings of the cities who once paid us tribute. We became surrounded by powerful enemies who are envious of our lands.

  "My Uncle Neechan - the one who supports me - blames my father for what’s happened." Iraj sighed. "I suppose he’s right although I hate to admit it. I loved my father. But I think he was born too rich. His father was a great war lord and perhaps this weakened him. We used to live in yurts, tarrying until the grazing grew sparse, then packing up and moving on. Sometimes we took to the plains just because the notion sparked us and we traveled whichever way the winds blew. Now we live in a grand fortress my grandfather built."

  Iraj said life was luxurious in that fortress. There was gold to buy whatever the family cared to purchase - tapestries and carpets and slaves to tend every need. They supped on food made lively with rare spices, some so deliciously hot that the meal was followed by iced sherbets made from exotic fruit gown in distant lands. There was a garden with an ornate fountain in the courtyard of Iraj’s home and his father had liked to take his ease there, musing on the antics of the fish, munching on honeyed figs while sniffing at gentle breezes carrying the scent of oranges and roses.

  "I think such rich living lessened my father’s will to fight," Iraj said. "When he’d drunk too much wine - which was often in his later days - he’d curse those riches and swear that on the morrow he’d pack up our household and take to the Plains of Jaspar again. Living in yurts and going a-raiding like his father had as a young man. But in the morning life would continue as usual.

  "I know he felt guilty about it. He even admitted it several times, warning me about the hidden dangers of so many riches. I think this is why he made me take the sword vow. So I might accomplish what he could not. Now the honor of my family is on my head."

  "I’m sorry," Safar said, thinking this was a burden he wouldn’t want to carry.

  "Don’t be, Safar," Iraj said. "This is what I want. The gods willing, one day I shall restore my family to its former greatness." His voice fell until Safar could barely make out his next words. "And more," he murmured.

  Just then a flaming object shot through the heavens and the boys’ heads jerked up in awe. It hung above them, a vast swirling ball that chased the night from the hills. Then the ball exploded, bursting into a fiery shower.

  Safar gaped as the glowing particles floated down until they filled his whole vision with dancing light. There were so many it was like snow from a rainbow and then they were drifting over him and he instinctively stuck out his tongue to catch one like a child marveling at snowflakes. To his surprise one floated into his mouth, which was immediately filled with a taste like warm, honeyed wine. Safar’s whole body tingled with pleasurable energy and he suddenly felt above all mortal things.

  He heard laughter and looked at Iraj. A glowing blanket of particles swirled around him and his features seemed comically twisted like a pot collapsing in a kiln. He was pointing at Safar, laughing, and the young man knew he must look the same. Then the particles vanished and all was normal again. For some reason Safar was left feeling somber, moody, while Iraj was still chortling.

  "You are lucky for me, Safar," he said. "I tell you my deepest secrets and immediately we are blessed by a sign from the heavens."

  "But a sign of what, Iraj?" Safar asked. "How do we know it has to do with us?"

  "It was too wonderful to be anything but a blessing," Iraj replied.

  That night, while Iraj slept peacefully, Safar remained awake, wondering what the heavenly display had meant. Was it a sign? If so, what did it portend? His senses were acute and every sound stood out clearly from the usual night muddle of chirps and frantic scurrying. He heard a cricket sing and at fir
st he thought it was a spring song to its mate.

  Then he heard, "It’s coming! It’s coming!"

  Another cricket said, "What’s coming? What’s coming?"

  And the first answered, "Better hide! Better hide!"

  Then a soft wind blew up and the crickets fell silent. The silence came so abruptly it seemed to have substance, an object Safar could feel and turn about and examine if only he could touch it. In his mind he made a bucket of fresh clay. The silence, he thought, was in that bucket and he began to clean the clay, washing out twigs and pebbles. And then he found it. He fumbled it up - a broad, unusually shaped pebble. Blood red.

  His spirit self looked into the stone’s polished surface, saw his eye reflected back, and then he was falling... falling...

  He stretched his arms and let the spirit winds carry him. At first he thought he was returning to the conquered city he’d seen before. But the winds bore him up and he was speeding across plains and deserts and then seas. He flew for what seemed an eternity, shooting from dark horizon to dark horizon until those horizons became gray and then startling blue as night turned to day and emerald seas churned beneath him.

  Surely, he thought, I must have flown far enough to be on the other side of the world. The place Gubadan’s books called "World’s End." Just as he wondered when he’d stop he came to a mountainous isle in the middle of a vast ocean.

  He heard chanting and drums and strange horns bellowing mournful notes that drew at him like a great tide washing to shore. Safar let the tide of notes carry him to a great grove of towering trees all heavy with ripe fruit.

  Among those trees handsome people danced to the beat of big drums with skins made of thin bark. Several men blew through huge shell horns, making the mournful sound that had drawn him here. The people were naked and their sun bronzed bodies were painted in glorious colors. A tall woman danced in the center, high breasts bobbing to the wild, joyous rhythm. Her shapely hips churned and thrust in the ancient act of mating. Safar’s young body reacted and he became powerfully aroused.

  Suddenly she stopped, eyes widening in such terror that Safar’s lust vanished, to be replaced by a feeling of immense dread.

  The woman shouted in a language Safar didn’t understand - pointing fearfully into the distance. The other dancers froze, their eyes seeking out whatever it was that had frightened her.

  Safar looked with them and saw smoke puffing out of a coned mountain top. The people began to shriek and run about in mad confusion, like ants caught in a sudden thunder shower. Safar felt their terror as if it were his own. His heart pounded and his limbs twitching with an hysterical desire to take flight.

  There was a blinding flash, followed by an explosion that hammered at his ears. Huge rocks and trees were ripped from the ground by the force of the blast and he instinctively ducked, although he knew he couldn’t be harmed. Boiling smoke obscured his view.

  Then his vision cleared and he saw a pile of dead, including the dancing woman, crumpled among the uprooted fruit trees. He saw the survivors stagger up and run toward the shore where a line of canoes waited.

  There was another explosion, more forceful than the first. Fiery debris crushed the runners and Safar saw the canoes burst into flames from the intensity of the heat.

  Molten rock poured out of the mountain, which was split nearly in two. It reached the sea and the waters began to boil. Thousands of dead fish bobbed on the surface, mingled with the blackened corpses of the few people who had made it that far. A yellow acrid smoke streamed from the mountain, filling the sky until the sun was obscured.

  And there was a taste of ashes in his mouth.

  The vision ended and Safar jolted up and found that he was weeping. He wiped his eyes, then glanced over at Iraj and saw he was still asleep.

  Safar wished his friend would awaken. He felt lonely and a tremendous sense of loss had wormed a hole in his gut. There was also dread crouched there. Dread for the future, although he couldn’t make out what he ought to fear. He tried to imagine himself ten years from now, a mature potter crouched at the wheel, hands forming wet clay into a perfect vessel. But each time a vague image formed he couldn’t hold on to it and it would vanish. Safar struggled to imagine any sort of future at all. Not for himself, but the world. What would it be like if he lived a full span? But his mind seemed to become clouded with a yellow, biting mist.

  Miserable, he gave up. He was cold and pulled his blankets close and stretched out on his leafy bower. As he waited for sleep to come he saw the first rays of the rising sun spilling over the ridges. They were the color of blood and so powerful that a distant promontory pushed out from that portion of the range as if it were alive.

  Safar closed his eyes, whispering prayers for the souls of all the people who had died in his vision - the handsome people who’d once danced under fruited trees on an island at world’s end.

  And then he slept a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Alisarrian's Cave

  When Safar opened his eyes again the sun was higher, casting a peaceful glow on the morning scene. Iraj was bustling about, poking the fire into life and getting things out for breakfast. But when he saw Safar’s face he spotted the misery there and asked what was wrong. Still shaken by the vision, Safar blurted out the whole tale.

  Iraj made no sign of surprise the whole time Safar spoke and when the story was done he said, "Don’t trouble yourself, Safar. It was only a bad dream. Some of those almonds we ate were probably green."

  "It was no dream," Safar protested. "But a vision of something that actually happened. It was the cause of the fiery shower we saw last night."

  Iraj gave his friend an odd look. "Why do you think that? Have you had visions before?"

  "Yes," Safar said in a low voice. "Sometimes about things that are going to happen. Sometimes about things that are happening."

  "Do they always come true?"

  Safar shrugged, miserable. "Mostly."

  Iraj squatted down beside Safar. "I’ve thought since we met you were keeping something from me," he said. "Is that all of it?"

  Safar shook his head. "No."

  "Do you want to tell me the rest?"

  "Not yet."

  Iraj nodded. "We have time."

  Safar sat numbly as Iraj did all the necessary work, packing their things, gathering up the animals, and loading the llama. When it was time to go Safar’s mood had improved. Everything seemed so normal in the light of day. Visions and sorcery had no place amid such brightness. The morning air was cool and soul cleansing. The birds were out, pecking among the dewdrops for breakfast. Butterflies perched on broad leaves, drying their wings in the warming sun. Fat sleepy bumblebees peeped from the blossoms.

  Iraj whistled a merry tune as they set out and he kept it up for most of the morning, although Safar saw him glance in his direction every now and then, eyes hooded, as if measuring. After a time Safar pushed the vision away and made it into the mere nightmare that Iraj had suggested. He began to feel foolish for even mentioning it. He remembered his father’s caution that the mountains could create a melancholy, distrustful mood, and finally he decided that what he’d seen was no vision, but the result of a fevered imagination brought on by melancholy’s chill.

  In a short time his own youthful spirits rose naturally to the fore and he joined in Iraj’s tune. As they whistled their eyes met and their lips twisted into grins that turned the notes into airy bleats and they both exploded with laughter. The laughter was followed by much giggling over silly boys’ jokes. They staged mock fights and wrestled, behaving like the striplings they were.

  The day was half gone by the time the two friends reached their goal. The ground was covered with hard-packed snow, marked here and there by green shoots struggling out to greet the spring sun. The day was warm and windless and as the trail steepened they began to perspire from the effort of their climb, forcing them to shed their coats. The narrow path curved and swooped over the snowy r
ocks, carrying them to the summit. Progress was impossible to mark. In many places broad overhangs and outcroppings blocked their view of everything but the rocks around them and the path under their feet. The goats and llama scrambled ahead, disappearing around a sharp bend.

  Even though Safar knew what to expect when he rounded that bend, the view leaped on him as suddenly and delightfully as the first time he’d come this way.

  They emerged into bright light, finding themselves on a broad ledge looking out across the northern side of the mountain range. Just below was a small, grassy hollow where mountain berries abounded. A spring burst from the rock beneath their feet, plummeting down to gather in a crystal pool in the center of the hollow. The goats were gamboling among the berries, bleating with joy. The llama ignored his less-than dignified cousins of the wool, his snout already buried deep in one of the berry bushes.

  Falling away from the green hollow was a wonderland of white-capped crags that tumbled down to the great desert wastelands of the north. Fat columns of towering clouds drifted across the blue skies, islands of layered browns and grays and cottony whites. The desert sands caught the sunlight, casting it back at the skies and the whole appeared to be formed of glittering, multi-colored gems.

  Beyond the desert there was nothing to stop the eye. Safar’s vision sailed swiftly for the horizon’s rim, a dark blue line where the vault of the sky mated with the earth. He heard Iraj gasp and knew that even he - born to the vast southern plains - had never looked such a great distance. The view was overwhelming but everything also seemed enlarged in the thin air so the horizon somehow appeared close - although Safar knew from the caravan masters that it would take much time to travel so far.

  He glanced at his friend, who had a foolish grin on his face. Iraj reached out - hesitantly - as if trying to touch the horizon. Safar laughed for he’d done the same thing the first time he found the place.

  "Follow me," he said. "There’s more."

  Safar shed his light pack and clambered down the rocks running along the rushing spring. About half way the water sheeted over a cave mouth. Safar pointed it out to Iraj, then showed him how to edge his way between the falling water and the rock face and duck into the cave.