Slow Turns The World

by Andy Sparrow

  “I have a bad feeling,” said Torrin, “about our ship and its crew. Too much is known, too much has been seen. Leave the ship before it sails, Trabbir. Here, this might help you with your boat….”

  Torrin opened the hidden pouch and drew out the last of the three coins. Trabbir shook his head.

  “I cannot take this from you.”

  “You will take it, and there is something else too; some knowledge that could make you a rich man.”

  “That I will gladly have.”

  “Do you remember,” said Torrin, “the divers at Iranthrir?”

  “Who caught us crabs?”

  “Yes, those. A useful skill to have, if you knew of some treasure upon the seabed.”

  Trabbir looked at him with a bemused smile, not yet grasping his message.

  “Do you think,” asked Torrin, “that the Gulf of Tixcu is now too dark to sail?”

  Understanding flashed across Trabbir’s face; he pictured the cases being unloaded as the fire-arrows fell, and the burning jetty tumbling into the sea.

  “How many cases were lost?” he whispered.

  “I am sorry,” said Torrin, “but His Lordship has forbidden me to speak on that matter.”

  They looked at each other eye to eye, then smiles creased both their faces, smiles that grew and were infectious, that erupted into laughter.

  Trabbir left the ship before they sailed, a parting that brought sadness to Torrin and Valhad. As they put to sea once more, they saw the dark-skinned figure wave a last goodbye. Torrin hoped that he would buy a good boat, sturdy enough to cross the world. It comforted Torrin to know that if he had a long life he might be alive when the agents of Etoradom sailed again to Tixcu. He hoped that they found the dawn-cold waters empty and that the lost wealth, built upon the labours of the enslaved, would be put to better use.

  Chapter 5

  A heavy duty hangs upon us for we must love His children as He did, but also wield the rod that punishes.

  The book of Tarcen. Ch. 8 V. 3

  Torrin's first view of Etoradom was from the roof of the coach as it swayed gently on the cobbled road. They had followed a snaking route through mountains, across elegant bridges and through deeply hewn cuttings. The column of carts and mounted soldiers drew to a halt at His Lordship's command and he emerged from the coach. They were on the crest of a ridge and before them stretched a broad valley, split by a meandering river that curved around gentle wooded hills. The red disc of the sun hung touching a far horizon as if it were a beacon fixed upon some distant hill. This was not a setting sun, not the always sinking sun of the Vasagi, but the perpetual circling sunset of the north pole. A crimson radiance divided the world into light and shadow. Within one loop of the red glittering water was a city of great and strange design. At the hub was a triangular citadel from which rose a tower of immense size. Radiating from this were ramparts, eight spaced evenly, that extended to join the encircling city wall. It looked like a huge spoked wheel that had rolled down from distant mountains and toppled over between the loops of the river.

  His Lordship looked up at Torrin and almost smiled.

  “Vasagi, tell me if you have seen a finer sight than this.”

  “I have seen many things, Lord, since I came into your service, each greater and stranger than that which came before. Since we left the ship I have seen castles, temples, bridges, roads carved through the heart of mountains, but none compares with this.”

  “Nothing can. It is the crown of creation, built according to God's will.”

  His Lordship stepped back aboard and the column began the long meandering descent to the valley floor.

  It had been, as Torrin said, a memorable journey. The long voyage had ended when the ship berthed on the shores of the northern continent. A dominating castle overlooked the quay and a guard of priest-soldiers had formed at once around the ship. The heavy boxes were raised from the hold and carried within the castle walls. Torrin and Valhad had watched from the battlements as the ship that had been their home for many moons put to sea. The Captain stood silently with no obvious regrets that this mission was finally over.

  “I hope the winds are kind to them,” said Valhad.

  “Aye,” said Torrin, “may they have good fortune.”

  He nodded in agreement but did not tell Valhad of the uneasy feeling within. He wished them well, he wished them good speed, safe passage and long lives. But what had His Lordship said? Not to speak of the voyage, not to tell of where they had been or whom they had met with? There were great forces at play to which the ship and its crew were nothing more than useful trinkets, and now their use was over. In his mind he saw again the King of the Qualzes, looking towards the ship, first with a look of surprise and then with a nod of agreement.

  Their journey progressed towards the city, a straight road bearing them towards the growing tower. There were villages now surrounded by cultivated fields that were laid out in the pattern of the circle within the triangle. The emblem of Etoradom contained each small community within itself, and each seemed to be built on the same pattern, with a domed temple at its centre rising above the surrounding thatched stone houses. In the fields men and women laboured but ceased their toil as the column past. They stood heads bowed respectfully, or perhaps fearfully, not returning the stern looks of the passing priest-soldiers.

  As they passed through one such village something caught His Lordship's eye and he ordered the column to halt. He stepped down from the coach and looked at words that had been roughly painted across the white marble of the temple façade: 'And God reached into the deep and drew forth a great mountain.' He ordered one of the soldiers into the temple to fetch the priest. A nervous looking man in ornate robes emerged and saw the many eyes turned towards him. He knelt before His Lordship and kissed his feet.

  “Eminence,” he said, “our village is honoured by your presence. How can we serve you?”

  “You can clean the wall of your temple,” said His Lordship, coldly.

  The priest looked baffled for a moment, then turned to see the painted words and his face drained of colour.

  “Eminence, I beg forgiveness for this heresy. Many of the temples in the valley have suffered similar desecration. We had hoped that the problem was eradicated. Some have confessed their heresy and we thought that our community was purged.”

  “We will enjoy the hospitality of your village while you clean the stones,” said His Lordship. Then he spoke quietly to Torrin.

  “Watch over him Vasagi, and use the time to sharpen your sword.”

  The priest scrubbed feverishly at the graffiti with frequent anxious glances at the sharpening stone running back and forth along Torrin's gleaming blade. Local people had been urgently summoned from the fields and offered the priest-soldiers trays of bread, fruits and meat. From Torrin's place by the temple he saw a girl approach, bearing offerings. She was just of child bearing age with fair skin and long curling locks of hair. An older man, who Torrin guessed to be her father, ran urgently to her and hurried her out of sight from the priest-soldiers.

  He rubbed dirt into her face, did his best to muddy and tangle her hair, all the while whispering urgently to her, telling her to keep her head bowed, her face hidden. Only then did he reluctantly allow her to approach and make her offerings to the travellers. She went from man to man head bowed while her father watched nervously. One of the soldiers lifted her chin and pushed back her hair. Others came over to look at the girl and her revealed beauty. They spoke to her at some length but Torrin could not hear the words or the mumbled nervous replies. When her father was summoned he stood before them, wringing his hands. Torrin could hear odd words that he stammered out.

  “Oh yes it was a great honour… But she was still young… Perhaps after another harvest… Then she would be ready… Yes, of course if it were God's will… She would be blessed… but really she was a lazy stupid girl... there were others in the next village… much fairer…much more suitable…”

  The sold
iers did not seem much deterred by his persuasions and he tried another tactic. He lowered his voice and bowed his head with apparent shame. Torrin heard a few more mumbled phrases.

  “She had been a wicked girl… no longer a maiden… she was corrupted…contaminated…”

  The soldiers’ expression changed to disgust and anger. They pushed her to the ground, cursed her sinfulness, and they beat her with a leather strap until she screamed and bled. Then His Lordship leant from the coach window and interrupted them.

  “This noise is disturbing me.”

  “Lord,” came the reply, “the girl is sinful and must be punished.”

  His Lordship looked down at the frightened girl, at the pain in her face, and the tears on her cheeks.

  “She looks adequately punished to me,” he said.

  The girl was sobbing and in pain as her father led her away, but as he passed Torrin caught a flash of relief in his eyes, as if the outcome was better than he had hoped.

  His Lordship inspected the temple wall when the cleaning was complete, then turned to the trembling priest.

  “Kneel,” he said, and the priest obeyed. “Now tell me the words of the prophet Siralem when he stood before the King of Etor.”

  The priest lips quivered and then words stumbled out.

  “Honour the words of God's Text, for he that uses them falsely, he who corrupts them, he who uses them for purposes ungodly should have his head smitten from his body.” His eyes were fixed upon Torrin's blade.

  “You will pray,” ordered His Lordship. The priest clasped his hands together and mumbled quiet, urgent words.

  “Do you pray with your eyes open?” asked His Lordship. The priest screwed his eyes shut and trembled, bracing himself for a blow. Torrin looked at His Lordship expecting an order that they both knew he would not obey. He silently slid the sword back into the leather scabbard and folded his arms across his chest. His Lordship said nothing, but with a nod of his head motioned towards the waiting coach and walked away. The priest continued his frantic praying and when the blow did not come cautiously opened an eye to see the column of riders and coaches leaving the village. He slumped back onto the ground and muttered words most unholy.

  His Lordship ordered Torrin to travel with him in the coach. Torrin was angry after the episode with the priest and spoke out.

  “Lord,” he said. “I have told you clearly what I will and will not do. Not to save my own life, or Valhad's. You know I would not have done harm to that man.”

  His Lordship nodded. “Yes, Vasagi. I know that.”

  Torrin continued. “We are in your country now, you have a score of soldiers around you to do your will. They know this land; they know the customs and the laws… And you know that there are things that I will not do…”

  “So why do I not release you from my service, Vasagi? Indeed all you say is true, and in Etoradom there are many in the church who would serve me and gladly chop off any head I wished. You are a simple man from a simple land, Vasagi. You serve only because you have pledged to do so, until you are released. The priesthood is a very competitive and there is much ambition. I do not wish to employ bodyguards to protect me from my bodyguards. Do you understand what I say, Vasagi?”

  “Aye Lord. The Vasagi are simple, but we are not stupid.”

  They travelled in silence for a while, and then Torrin spoke again.

  “The words written upon the temple, Lord?”

  “And God reached into the deep and drew forth a great mountain. It is taken from the Text of God, Vasagi.”

  “How can it be a crime to write the words of the Text upon the temple, Lord?”

  “It is a passage that has caused considerable theological argument. It is taken from the story of creation. It describes how the world is a mountain, that God put his chosen people upon the summit and set the sun to circle them. It is actually the origin of our emblem; the triangle representing the mountain and the circle the sun.”

  “But the world is not a mountain, Lord.”

  “No Vasagi, it is a sphere, this we now know.”

  “The Text is mistaken then.”

  “The Text is the word of God, God does not make mistakes.”

  “But the world, Lord, is not a mountain.”

  “And the Text was written long ago. Language has changed. Our scholars now believe that mountain in this sense means a great mass of rock, of any shape. The Text of God is the foundation of Etoradom, Vasagi, it too is like a mountain.”

  “Who wrote the words on the temple, Lord?”

  “Heretics, blasphemers, traitors. Fools who suppose that one untruth in the Text makes all untrue.”

  “It is as you said, Lord, I am a simple man. It is beyond me to understand why writing the words of your own holy Text upon the walls of your own temples should be forbidden.”

  His Lordship said nothing. The coach rumbled on towards the city.

  They stopped again by a forest’s edge to let the horses rest and to stretch their own stiff legs. Torrin walked with Valhad into the shadowed trees that were strangely different to those they had known in their earlier lives.

  “The rianna grow tall here,” said Valhad, “but their branches are much fewer.”

  “They must reach high to catch the warmth of the sun. It always shines here, but is never more than cool and red.”

  “Torrin, do you see what grows there, upon that tree?”

  Torrin looked to where Valhad pointed and saw fungus upon the trunk, fist shaped and honey coloured.

  “Surely that is imbas,” said Valhad hurrying to it and breaking off a segment.

  “There is much all around,” said Torrin, looking at the surrounding trees. They returned to the column clutching the fungus in their hands, and His Lordship, seeing them, summoned Torrin to him.

  “What do you hold, Vasagi?”

  “Lord, it is imbas, it makes a powerful medicine.”

  “Dispose of it. At once.”

  “But Lord, it cures poisoning of wounds and the blood. It does what no other plant or herb can do.”

  “Vasagi, the Text tells us which plants and animals God made for us to eat. It tells us that Regis, third son of Amon, who was the first man God made, so disgusted his Maker in his sinfulness, that he was made dead, and then foul and putrid plants sprouted from his body. Such plants as you have picked grow in dark and decaying places. They are eaten only by heathens, heretics and the unholy. The punishment for their consumption is most severe.”

  Torrin did not argue further but threw the imbas away as commanded. Then he hurried to find Valhad and warn him of the church’s teaching.

  “I will keep what I have,” said Valhad, “it is too precious a thing to cast aside.”

  “His Lordship said the punishment was most severe,” said Torrin, “you must leave what you have here.”

  “I will not, Torrin. The voice within tells me not to. There is too much good that can be done with it.”

  “Then promise me to hide it well and not speak of it to anyone.”

  “I promise, Torrin.”

  “Swear that you will, please, there is much danger here and I fear for you.”

  “Torrin, if it makes you happy, then I swear upon the lives of all the Vasagi to keep this secret.”

  As they drew nearer other roads converged upon the city and joined with theirs. There were more travellers on the way now, some riding, some walking, others driving carts laden with strange fruits and vegetables. All moved aside as the column passed, and bowed their heads subserviently. The city wall was growing close, the outer rim of the wheel, an encircling ring of masonry that might serve as refuge or prison. The road led directly to an arched gate with much traffic passing both in and out, but the column turned away onto a circular road that girdled the city and followed this to a second gate. This entry was sealed tight, the black open mouth meshed across with a portcullis. Priest-soldiers watched from the walls above and gave an order. The spiked barrier, fashioned with the symbol of the
triangle within the circle, drew slowly upwards and the leading riders clattered into the dim interior.

  They entered a dark cutting between high walls and then rose slowly, climbing a ramp, until they emerged again into sunlight. Torrin saw now that they were following a road set upon one of the eight spokes that radiated from the city's heart. He could see down into the lower level on either side. In each of these enclosed triangles were a jumble of buildings, some brick, others timber, the taller ones crowned with towers and the lesser thatched. The structures were not set upon a neat grid; they angled this way and that creating a confused web of roads and alleys.

  People, carts and animals wound between them or gathered in the open spaces where brightly coloured fruits and fabrics were laid on benches. Torrin snatched a glimpse here and there of busy people engaged in trading, arguing, or laughing. But when those below glanced upwards, at the soldiers and the coach, the carefree smiles flickered from their faces and he saw that the great city was divided. Here, upon the high sunlit ramparts, the priests patrolled and looked down into the shadow filled eight walled segments, each connected to its neighbours with a single gate. There were two cities, two peoples, one set above the other, one watching, one watched.

  Ahead now the central citadel grew closer; a ring formed by a high windowless wall at the hub of the converging spokes. Within the circle a triangular tower arose that reared to a great height. It was a mighty construction, taller, greater, and stronger than any that Torrin had seen in his recent travels. They reached another gate and waited as huge iron doors were drawn slowly open, then they came within the walls of the citadel. It was unlike the friendly chaos of the city outside; here all was ordered. There were ornate gardens surrounding imposing houses of stone, but the shadow of the central tower lay upon them, bringing each in turn into a realm of gloom with the slow turning of the world.