Heavier Than a Mountain (Destiny's Crucible Book 3)

by Olan Thorensen

  I love her. Yes, I liked and respected her, and the marriage was the logical thing to do. But now there’s more to it. I don’t know when it happened, or whether it was a single event or a gradual development, but I have to admit it to myself. Yet neither of us has said the words to the other. Why don’t I say them? As if I didn’t know. Maybe she doesn’t feel the same way. I’m sure she cares for me, but that’s not the same as love. If I say them first, I’m afraid of what she’ll say back. Maybe what I feel for her is only one way. It would put her on the spot: either she’d have to admit she doesn’t love me that way, or she would be obliged to pretend.

  What a dork I am, and I feel like a coward, but maybe it’s best not to have the answer for certain, rather than risk hearing what I don’t want to hear.

  The third thing Yozef realized during his first month back from Moreland City was that his status in Keelan society had changed yet again. As he introduced products and knowledge, became wealthy by Caedellium standards, and was acknowledged for his role in the defense of St. Sidryn’s Abbey, he became aware of his increased stature: from destitute, strange man to major figure in Abersford. He was recognized by everyone, respected by most, and accepted as somewhat odd. His marriage to Maera, the eldest daughter of the Clan Keelan’s hetman, had bumped up his status several steps, with people paying him more deference than in the past, although those with whom he had the most contact had come back to considering him the same, or nearly so, as before the marriage.

  Yet he occasionally sensed that even those closest acquaintances acted differently around him, although sometimes the difference was subtle—if he wasn’t imaging things, as he often reminded himself. Carnigan remained the one exception. Yozef wondered whether the big man didn’t perceive a change in Yozef’s position or if he didn’t care.

  Yozef didn’t delude himself that he didn’t like being seriously listened to, but it got exasperating when people listened because of who he was, instead of what he said. The consequences hit home when, while walking through Abersford two sixdays after returning from Moreland City, he passed a man and a woman, presumably married from their tone of voice, arguing over whether to repaint their house white or brown. Yozef jokingly suggested blue as he passed, never looking back. Three days later he passed by the same house, now painted an awful blue. The same man walked out the door as Yozef approached.

  Although Yozef almost felt afraid to ask, he did. “Ser, I see you painted your house blue. Why?”

  The man looked startled. “Why, Ser Kolsko, you said to paint it blue, so we did.”

  “Because I suggested it?”

  “Well . . . you’re Yozef Kolsko. We figured it must look better if you thought so.”

  Yozef groaned. Christ! “It was only a suggestion. Would you have painted it this color if I hadn’t said anything?”

  The man didn’t respond—only stared in confusion at Yozef, who prompted the homeowner again. “I heard you and your wife discussing either white or brown. I assume you preferred those colors.”

  “Yes, I wanted brown, but Willa wanted white. I had almost agreed to the white when you told us blue would be better.”

  “I only offered an opinion of another color, in case you couldn’t decide,” said Yozef, which was only half true, because he’d given his passing remark in a flippant manner, not meant to be taken seriously. “In fact, now that I see the blue, you and your wife had the correct idea. The white would look best.”

  The man smiled with obvious relief. “I’m glad you think so, Ser Kolsko,” he said, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. “To be truthful, this color is awful. Our neighbors have already complained about it, and I hate seeing it. We’ll go right ahead and repaint the house white as soon as possible.”

  “Good idea,” said Yozef, who wished the man enjoyment of the color change and left before he made another offhand comment that might be taken too seriously.

  I’ve got to be careful what I say, thought Yozef, chagrined. Hell, can’t a man relax into a good mood without worrying about everything coming out of his mouth?

  It was several sixdays before the answer became apparent. No.

  Icon?

  Yozef listened with one ear to Abbot Sistian’s Godsday service message. The topic was God’s commandment that a person should expect to be treated only as well as he or she treats others. He thought it another statement of the Golden Rule. Something similar to “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Sistian varied this common theme frequently. Usually, Yozef found the variation in approaches to the topic interesting, but the abbot must have been pushed for time, because today Yozef began mouthing the sermon almost word for word. Although what the Watchers had done to him gave him an enhanced memory, whether they’d intended the effect or not, it was a sporadic gift. He could recall whole pages, even chapters, of science texts he’d used in college, although he ran into annoying gaps. But memories of other topics, such as a political science course, were not as forthcoming. Even if he’d taken the course and read the text, his focus must have been below a minimum threshold, because he could recall only scattered bits, if that.

  Yet he must have paid special attention when the abbot gave almost exactly the same sermon two years previously. Yozef wondered whether anyone else had noticed the similarity. He caught himself mouthing a phrase and Maera watching him, an odd look on her face.

  Shit! Next thing, she’ll think I’m reading Sistian’s mind.

  He leaned and whispered in her ear. “The abbot’s given this same sermon before.”

  She nodded, but he wasn’t sure she bought the truth.

  The service ended with a prayer and a charge to “Go out and do good” or something close. Yozef was already mentally running through poems and wondering, as long as his memory insisted on bringing up non-science memories, whether he should write snippets of literature as part of his secret journal on the history of Earth. In his mind, he was just finishing The Destruction of Sennacherib by Lord Byron when a woman carrying a baby blocked his way down the aisle.

  “Ser Kolsko, would you bless little Sulyn here? It’d mean so much to me, you having saved us.”

  He stared at her. She stood only a few inches shorter than he, stout figure, a plain, pleading face, brown hair gathered into bun, clean but rough clothing, and holding a sleeping baby perhaps six months old. Other attendees flowed around them, as Yozef continued staring. Maera nudged him with an elbow.

  “What . . . ?” he uttered.

  “A blessing, Ser Kolsko. I know it’s probably too much to ask a Septarsh, after all you’ve done for us, with the ether helping Sulyn be born and the wonderful employment for my husband at the lantern shop . . .” She broke off, as if hoping for an affirmative answer from Yozef.

  Maera came to his rescue. “The baby had to be cut from her. It was in breach position, and they couldn’t turn it. Your ether has made this operation far safer and, needless to say, infinitely less painful.”

  Yozef didn’t ask Maera how she knew details about a woman he didn’t recognize. More and more often, he simply took for granted that his wife just knew things.

  “I’m sorry,” Yozef addressed the woman, “I’m not a theophist, so I don’t . . . urk!”

  Another elbow from Maera, this one sharper than the last.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, put a hand on the baby’s head,” Maera hissed in his ear.

  He did as directed, and the woman beamed back at him, curtsied, and melded into the flow exiting the cathedral.

  “What was that all about?” Yozef whispered to Maera.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  The next hour they occupied themselves with exchanging greetings and polite conversation with more people than Yozef recognized, though evidently Maera knew them all. Then there was an after-service potluck he hadn’t known about. A hundred or more people spread out blankets on the grass among trees near the abbey complex. Maera had given Yozef a basket to take with them to the service. He hadn’t bot
hered asking about the contents.

  They met with Filtin Fuller’s family, and Carnigan appeared with a wooden block for Maera to sit on, her pregnancy making it difficult to sit upright on a flat surface for more than a few minutes at a time.

  “Why thank you, Carnigan, that’s very kind of you. Otherwise, I’d have been lying on the ground before long.”

  “Your lout of your husband should have thought of it,” said Carnigan.

  “Well, he has other qualities, though thinking of the small things isn’t necessarily a strong point.”

  “For that snide comment, I’ve half a mind not to invite you to join us,” said Yozef, laughing.

  “Join you? Well . . . I didn’t bring anything to share,” said Carnigan, shifting his feet and looking embarrassed.

  “Nonsense,” said Yozef. “If I know Nerlin, she brought enough for three times as many people. Meaning that by adding you, there’s still enough for twice as many.”

  “Certainly, Carnigan,” said Filtin’s wife. “Sit down, and Maera and I will spread out the food.”

  The group of friends ate, commented on the service, exchanged words with other clusters of people, and then sat on the grass for another hour, while the Fuller children joined the mobs of other children doing what children do. When they departed in various directions, Yozef felt relaxed and almost forgot about the woman asking for a blessing—until they came within sight of their house and the memory surfaced.

  “Maera, you were going to tell me what the woman in the cathedral was all about. And what’s this ‘Septarsh’? I’ve heard the word before a few times but haven’t had it explained to me.”

  She glanced up at her husband. “It’s an ancient word believed to originate somewhere on Melosia. It refers to a person who has a special relationship with God. Exactly what that relationship is seems to vary with how different peoples view a Septarsh. Here on Caedellium and other realms on Anyar, it refers to someone to whom God speaks.”

  “Speaks?” Yozef frowned. “Like . . . in a burning bush?”

  “A what?” asked Maera, wrinkling her eyebrows. “Why would God speak from a bush on fire?”

  “Never mind,” said Yozef.

  Couldn’t resist, he thought. Though I need to watch getting cute with too many of these snippets.

  “So, God speaks to a Septarsh,” said Yozef, changing the topic, as he usually did when he dropped an out-of-context phrase from English into the conversation. “But why did the woman call me one?”

  “I wondered whether you’d noticed the word before, but you never asked me about it or said anything, so I assumed you knew some people have started to associate you with being a Septarsh yourself.”

  Yozef stumbled in a rut in the road.

  “Me!? Why would anyone think I’m on speaking terms with God?”

  “Yozef!” said Maera, with a roll of eyes and an exasperated tone. “Think about it! A strange man appears naked on a beach. He can’t speak Caedelli, and yet within a few years he’s introduced products no one has ever heard of and is becoming wealthy. He introduces knowledge unknown on Caedellium and then saves everyone from the Buldorian raiders—at least, that’s what most people believe. Not long after, he marries the hetman’s daughter and has a major role in turning back the Narthani when they invade Moreland Province. Why would you think it strange that at least some people would wonder you’re somehow inspired by God?”

  “Well, shit. I can’t have people thinking I’m some kind of saint!”

  “Trust me, Yozef,” Maera said dryly, “those who know you don’t think you’re a saint.”

  He didn’t know whether to be relieved or curious enough to ask why not.

  “Maera, I’ve tried endlessly to be sure people here know I’m just passing on knowledge from my homeland. It doesn’t originate from me, and God certainly isn’t telling it to me. Trust me, I’d recognize him if he were.”

  “How exactly would you know it was God?”

  “Uh . . . well . . . I don’t know. I just would.”

  Her sneer didn’t require a verbal explanation of her opinion of his incisive logic.

  “Okay,” he conceded, “maybe I don’t know how I’d recognize the old guy, but I’m not a Septarsh. I’m just like any other person but with more knowledge than most people.”

  “Yozef, we haven’t been married that long, and I admit I felt uncertain about many aspects of you and your mysterious history, but one thing I do know is you’re not just ‘any other person.’”

  He remained silent for almost a hundred yards, until they were within the bounds of their property, when he asked seriously, “Then what do you think I am?”

  “I’m not sure what you are, with the exception that you’re my husband and the father of my child, and I thank God every Godsday to have met you.”

  He pulled her to him with a firm hug, kissing her gently, not saying anything, his throat suddenly tight. Elian appeared on the veranda, and they broke apart.

  The elderly woman smiled at them. “Still behaving like you just wed? Keep the feeling as long as you can. Brak and I still have it, thank Merciful God.”

  Maera’s claim that people thought of him as a Septarsh, whatever exactly that was, disturbed Yozef enough that he resolved to confirm what she had said with others. The first one was Carnigan.

  “Yeah, I hear it occasionally. I don’t know exactly what a Septarsh is supposed to be. I don’t pay much attention. Ask Filtin.”

  Yozef cornered his friend and worker at the distillation shop after midday meal.

  “Sure, everybody knows about the rumors of you maybe being a Septarsh.”

  What the hell! Everybody but me!

  “I try not to get into discussions or arguments about it,” said Filtin. “What do I know about such things? Anyway, who ever heard of a Septarsh telling stories at pubs? But that’s just me. I know more than a few people who do believe it or at least consider it possible.”

  Filtin looked straight at Yozef. “What do you believe?”

  “I believe I’m a Septarsh about as much as I believe I can pick up Carnigan with one hand.”

  The same day, after gathering his thoughts about what to ask the abbot, Yozef approached Sistian Beynom’s office door. He wanted to assure the chief theophist at St. Sidryn’s that he made no pretense of being any fashion of holy man, messenger from God, or whatever attribute people might want to foist on him.

  The abbot motioned for Yozef to take the chair across from his desk, and after they exchanged pleasantries, Sistian said, “We’ve had enough conversations in here for me to sense the tenor of what brings you here. From what I see, it’s something you’re concerned about, not excited.”

  “It’s this nonsense about people thinking I’m something I’m not.”

  “And that is . . .?” asked Sistian.

  Yozef shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with even saying the word. “A Septarsh.”

  The abbot leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands on the desktop. “Diera and I have wondered when you would come to me with this. I will say that I’m a little surprised it took you this long.”

  Yozef groaned. “This long? I was hoping it was something new.”

  “No,” said Sistian. “There were murmurs after the Buldorian raid. I suspected it would happen. Then, after the Battle of Moreland City, the rumors have only increased. The impact you’ve had on Caedellium, with all of your innovations and roles you’ve played in defending us against our enemies, made it inevitable.

  “There are always people eager to believe a Septarsh is among us. Usually, a furor over an individual candidate dies down after some precipitating event fades with time and nothing else happens that’s taken as a sign of God’s favor.”

  “I want to assure you, Abbot, I’ve done nothing to encourage this. I would never pretend to be a religious figure. If I’d realized what was happening, I’d have done something about it.”

  “It’s one of your idiosyncrasies, Yozef, that one moment y
ou present a novel idea or insight and in the next moment are oblivious to what others see as obvious. Don’t tell Maera I told you this, but she once told me you were the most interesting and exasperating person she’d ever met.

  “As for your thinking I might believe that you encourage the Septarsh rumors, don’t worry. I never thought that. I’ve always assumed you were unaware and would come to me when you found out. A person who’s declared a Septarsh is not equated with being a theophist, a saint, or another role involved in direct worship of, and service to, God. Also, be aware that no formal mechanism exists to determine the authenticity of a Septarsh, but it’s more like a consensus develops among all the people, not only the few who want to believe so hard they grasp at any hint.

  “There have been writings about this, a few that have made their way into the Commentaries on the Word. It’s when those who were skeptical or even opposed to the belief come to firmly accept a person as a Septarsh that a consensus develops. At least, that’s how it happens on Caedellium. I know it’s different in other parts of Anyar, and, of course, even the title might be different. In Landolin, such a person would be called a Vajarjunatra.

  “Our word, Septarsh, comes from an ancient language and people who no longer exist. The Humari people lived in the south-central part of the Melosia continent. When the Narthani came out of the northern part of the continent after consolidating other tribes, the Humari were the first of the major civilized, as we would call them in comparison, peoples to fall under the invaders. The Narthani ruthlessly suppressed the Humari. They enslaved those they didn’t kill and forbade the Humari to speak their own language. My understanding is that no speaker of Humari has lived for more two hundred years, and their written language exists only in copies outside of Narthon.

  “Caedelli has a few Humari words—Septarsh being one of those.”

  Yozef started to ask a question, but Sistian anticipated him and held up a hand. “And why do we use the Humari word, Septarsh, on Caedellium? No one knows. Although I suspect the origin is an interesting story, it’s lost in somewhere in the past.”