Beautiful is the sun that speaks to Man of the Source of All.
Beautiful is the sky that speaks to Man of the Spirit that encompasses All.
Beautiful is the moon that speaks to Man of the Earth that reflects the All.
Softly the reverberations of the drums and the ancient words wove their spell about the place.
Softly and subtly the light around them seemed to change.
5
The Storm
Isar journeyed deeper and deeper into danger searching for Lark.
Having been betrayed once he was cautious in his approach to other people, and it was not until he reached his third village that he was so tired and hungry he decided to risk showing himself.
He heard music coming from one of the houses and took this as a sign that the people had not yet been completely demoralized by Na-Groth’s rule.
He slipped silently from the shelter of the woods and made for the house with music.
His heart ached for the old ways of his people, so suddenly changed. Now a man must look continually over his shoulder and on no day could he assume a tomorrow.
The music was sweet and sad, made partly by the plucking of strings, partly by the blowing of pipes. He stood in the doorway and looked into the dim interior, his eyes slowly adjusting from blindness to shadowy sight.
To the people crowded into the house his presence brought fear and confusion. They were gathered about one of their number who had been brutally murdered by Na-Groth’s men. They were secretly praying for him in the old way, which was now forbidden, and while they were doing so the light from the doorway was suddenly eclipsed, and the darkness of a long shadow fell upon them.
With his back to the light Isar’s face could not be seen.
The music stopped.
For a long moment the air was heavy with shock and uncertainty, and then the son of the man who had been killed seized a heavy object and threw it with all his might at Isar’s head. As it struck him with sickening force on the forehead he began to keel over and in that instant the man’s son fell upon him with a howl of hate and beat him to the ground with all his strength.
In the darkness and confusion Isar tried to defend himself, but within moments other men had joined the boy, and he was being kicked and punched from every direction. He was dimly aware of women screaming and men shouting, and then the pain of the blows upon him became too great and he fell into the deep hole of oblivion.
‘He is dead!’ one of the villagers said.
They stopped hitting him and drew back to look at him.
He was cut and bruised and bleeding, but in the light from the doorway they could now see he was not one of Na-Groth’s men. His hair was long and the colour of copper, his skin pale and fine, his face and hands gentle and sensitive.
Another silence filled the house, different from the first.
‘What have we done?’ was in everyone’s mind.
Killing had never been their way. Once the passion of anger had passed, they would have regretted this act even if it had been one of Na-Groth’s men.
They took Isar in and brought water to wash his wounds.
They laid him beside the man whose funeral this had been, and begged his forgiveness for making the ceremony of his passing ugly with hatred and violence.
Isar lay still.
* * * *
In a far country in a long ago time he remembered another boy who had been unjustly beaten, and lying in his cell, had waited for death. He had been freed by a young girl and her father.
She was with him now in a garden of great beauty, and he lay on thick grass with his head upon her lap. A pearl grey crane stooped to stalk a grasshopper close by them, and he could hear the soft hush of water falling from fountains. He wished time could stand still and this moment could last forever. Her hand was cool against his cheek. He could even feel the pulse in her wrist.
But time did not stand still and the crane, stretching its long, slender neck, flew away, as a voice called his name.
He heard it now as though it came from a great, great distance and he knew that there was something he must do. The girl’s hands were holding him back. The voice was calling him away.
Struggling to regain consciousness, Isar caught words the source of which he was not certain.
‘...you must leave the garden when you are ready ... or the garden will leave you...’
Isar opened his eyes and looked into the anxious faces of strangers.
He lifted his hand to his head and felt the painful cuts and bruises.
‘We are sorry,’ the people said humbly, ‘we thought you were one of Na-Groth’s men.’
‘They killed my father,’ Gya, the young lad who had struck him first, explained.
‘It is no matter,’ Isar said gently. ‘I should not have come upon you so suddenly. These are bad times.’
‘Bad times indeed,’ sighed several voices together.
‘We are thankful you are not dead,’ someone said fervently.
Isar smiled faintly.
‘So am I!’
The people laughed nervously and pressed food and drink upon him, and propped him up with rolls of rugs so that his aching back would be supported.
* * * *
He stayed a while with these people, his wounds being dressed tenderly, his every wish anticipated.
They hid him from the wandering bands of Na-Groth’s men and found new clothes for him so that when it was time for him to move on he would not be so conspicuous.
The blow he had received on the forehead turned out to have been for the best after all. It left him with a scab that could almost pass for one of Na-Groth’s marks.
‘Why does he do this to people’s foreheads?’ Isar asked the woman who was dressing his wound, and who had commented that it would help him with his disguise.
She shrugged.
‘It is the sacred place of the head, the Seeing place. In ancient times it is said that people had three eyes, and this is where the third one was. I do not know if that is true, but I have noticed that the priest used to place this part of his forehead against the tall stones of the Sacred Circle.’
Isar looked thoughtful.
Na-Groth was symbolically blinding the conquered people as well as making them slaves.
In killing their priests he had truly blinded them, for the priests linked the community to the rest of the world and to the helpful Spirit realms. Without them the community was limited and confined.
When the woman left him alone he prayed for help from Kyra and Khu-ren and the other mighty priests. His prayer was profound and sincere, but strangely seemed to make no contact.
His mind wandered to his mother and the man he accepted as his father, Karne. Their love still encompassed him and gave him comfort.
A small boy with straight ash white hair was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the chamber playing with pebbles, moving them around and talking softly to them as though they were people and he were acting out a story with them. Isar was sorry to break into his private world, but the thought of Fern had brought another thought with it.
He called to the child several times before his voice broke through the hold of his game.
At last he looked questioningly up at the tall stranger, with his innocent, wide blue eyes.
‘Is there a Rowan tree near the Sacred Circle in this village?’ Isar asked the boy.
The child stared at him.
‘A Rowan tree?’ Isar repeated.
The recognition in the boy’s eyes showed that he knew what Isar was talking about, and that he knew where there was such a tree.
‘Can you take me to it?’ Isar pressed gently on.
Fear and darkness came to the boy’s eyes and he shook his head vigorously.
‘Why not?’
The boy did not answer, but Isar did not give up.
‘Why not?’
‘It is bad magic,’ he said.
‘Nonsense!’ cried Isar. He remembered when he was a child
how on a certain day travellers had arrived from the north and were greeted with singing and joy because they brought the gift of a Rowan tree. It was carried in a leather bucket full of earth and was planted with joyful ceremony amongst the grove of special trees the priests cultivated for medicinal and magical purposes.
‘It is good magic!’ he said to the boy.
The boy shook his head gloomily.
‘Show it to me and I will tell you if it is good or bad magic.’
The child looked at him intently as though trying to decide whether he could be trusted or not.
‘You need not come near it yourself. Just show me where it is,’ wheedled Isar.
At last the boy agreed to help him.
Isar was weak and dizzy and had to lean upon his small shoulder. Haltingly they left the house and stumbled along a path half overgrown with brambles. It seemed a long way from the village, but when the child at last paused and pointed, Isar realized why he had been so afraid.
The Sacred Circle had been desecrated just as the first one he had seen in Klad had been, the rotting carcasses of men were still hanging from the Stones, and a wave of such fearful evil wafted from it that Isar reeled back.
Not far from it grew the Rowan trees, but even they were mutilated and almost unrecognisable.
Na-Groth had evidently known something of their reputation.
The boy was cringing, his eyes big with horror.
‘Go!’ Isar cried, pushing him away, regretting that he had exposed him to this. ‘Go back to your home. I will try and change the bad magic to good magic.’
‘The Circle?’ the boy whispered.
‘No. That is beyond me. But I will try what I can do with the trees.’
The boy retreated.
With a great effort of will Isar forced himself to go nearer the dread place, hoping that at least one of the trees was still alive.
Fern had told him once that all things were aware of each other in secret and subtle ways, time and space being no barrier to this kind of awareness. He knew that people could communicate in thought across the world, even though sometimes they did not realize they were doing it, but Fern had taught him that natural things could do this too. There was a Rowan tree in her garden and she had spent a great deal of time teaching him to know its ways.
‘One day when you are in trouble, far from home, remember this tree. Find one of its kind and speak your heart to it. This one will hear it and bring me the message.’
At the time he had not been sure that he believed her, but now he was in trouble, far from home, and he needed help.
He searched among the sad charred remnants of the once beautiful trees, and found to his joy one pushing healthy shoots of green from scarred bark.
He stood beside it, holding the feathery leaves tenderly in his hand, stroking the deformed wood.
Deep in his being he called to Fern, told her of his danger and the suffering of the people he was amongst.
Then he stayed quiet for a long time, listening.
The air around him seemed to go very still and the boy who had retreated to the shelter of some bushes, but had not left him, fancied he could feel magic happening. His skin prickled cold and he looked around him apprehensively, but he was too curious to leave.
Slowly, Isar seemed to gain strength and comfort from the fresh life of the tree that had defied Na-Groth.
He could not say that he heard voices, but within himself he seemed to know what had to be done.
He was to find Lark and together they might have the strength and cunning to challenge Na-Groth and his god.
So be it.
He would not try to run away again.
* * * *
As soon as he was fit enough to travel Isar set off, the villagers half sorry to see him go, half glad that they would no longer run the risk of hiding him.
The boy Gya, brown and lean and muscular, went with him, eager to help in any way he could. His mother and sisters watched him go and held back their tears until he was out of sight.
Danger was everywhere now and to walk into it with head held high was no more foolhardy than to try to hide from it.
When they travelled the well-worn paths, they kept careful watch for Na-Groth’s men, but when they took to the forests there were other dangers. On the third day Isar narrowly escaped being gored by a wild boar. It was only Gya’s presence of mind and skill with the bow that saved him.
That night they roasted boar steaks over their small fire and laughed about the incident, Gya much amused by the look of astonishment on Isar’s face as the boar charged, and the clumsiness with which he fell about in the undergrowth trying to avoid the beast’s tusks.
‘You are good with that bow,’ Isar said with admiration. ‘Are you a hunter?’
‘My father was. He taught me much. I used to go hunting with him sometimes, but more often than not we used to shoot just for the joy of it, not at living things, but at targets. Some of the boys would throw things in the air for us to aim at. My father never missed, but I cannot say the same for myself.’
‘I am glad you did not miss this time,’ Isar said with feeling.
Gya smiled.
‘It is a matter of time and practice. I have had a bow so long it has become part of me. My father used to say that the bow is an extension of your arm, the arrow of your eye. It should become one action to look, to shoot and to hit. When I have shot well I feel I am the arrow. When I do not feel this I know I am going to miss the mark.’
‘Do you not feel pity for the life you end when your arrow reaches a living creature?’
Gya’s brown eyes clouded slightly.
‘I do not shoot for the pleasure of killing. I shoot to keep alive and to save life!’ he added, looking reproachfully at Isar.
Isar acknowledged the rebuff and bowed his head slightly
The meat was good and he was very hungry.
* * * *
As they came nearer to Na-Groth’s stronghold, they kept more and more under cover and asked fewer questions of the villagers they met.
Eyes became increasingly unfriendly and wary, words were short and unwelcoming, fields were unworked, children thin and hungry. The men were mostly away, busy with Na-Groth’s work, and the women and children were left to tend the land. In normal times this would not have been so disastrous as the women and children had always worked side by side with the men in anything that needed doing, but now the will to work had gone. Whatever they made or grew was taken from them. They were lonely, afraid and resentful. They could no longer feel the presence of invisible helpers, no longer believe that everything they did had meaning and purpose.
Na-Groth had told them the Spirit realms did not exist.
They were alone but for Na-Groth and his fearsome god.
So shaken was Gya by what he had seen and heard, that he railed against their ancient God that he should let such monsters as Na-Groth exist and flourish.
Isar was silent at first, remembering how recently he had felt the same way, but thoughts were struggling to take shape and he felt bound to share them with Gya.
‘You cannot drink from a stagnant pool without being sick,’ he said. ‘The clear stream fed by a healthy spring is constantly moving, fighting obstructions, changing and causing change. Do you not see, Gya, our way of life was good, but if it were never challenged, it would become stagnant?’
Gya had come to respect Isar in the time they had been together. At first he had been amused that Isar knew so little about the things that came easily to himself, but now he was beginning to see that physical prowess was not the only defence against evil.
‘Our God gives us the dignity of free choice. Na-Groth chooses one way, and we another. Ours is the responsibility, and it is our efforts that will have to set the wrong to rights. Do you not see that?’
Gya could feel Isar’s convictions strengthening his own. He felt inspired to leap up and attack the armies of Na-Groth single-handed.
‘No,’ laugh
ed Isar. ‘That is not the way. No man has enough arrows to kill the armed men of Groth. They will spring up again as fast as they are killed if the idea that feeds them is not first discredited. We must use our minds before we use our arms in this battle.’
The two young men sat together on the hill, shadowed by trees, the sun sloping to the western horizon, where dark clouds rose to meet it.
They sat silently for a long time, Isar deep in thought, Gya flicking little bits of twig at a particular stone. Even at rest he was flexing and training his muscles and his eyes to accuracy of aim.
The night brought heavy rains and harsh winds.
* * * *
Karne, making his way westwards, was gathering fighting men to his side.
‘I do not say that we will have to fight, but we will form a barrier as long as is needed between the troubled land of Klad and our own houses. This will give the priesthood of our Temple time to work their magic on the enemy and drive it from our shores.’
The story of Panora’s war had become legend, and the defeat of a mighty army, on the plains not far from the Great Temple itself, by the sole use of priestly Mysteries, was told around the cooking fires from one end of the country to the other.
The people had great faith in their priesthood and Karne did not choose to tell them that the priests of the tall stones and the Sacred Circles in Klad had been destroyed as easily as ordinary men.
Not all the men he spoke to joined him on the march, but enough to make a sizeable force grew steadily as they approached the menace in the west.
Villagers near to Klad were already in a state of agitation. Friends and relatives had disappeared on market journeys to the west. They were beginning to realize that something was very wrong, but had not been sure what it was.
The night of storm and rain that beset Isar and Gya on their hill doused the cooking fires of Karne’s army and hid their approach from Na-Groth’s spies.
* * * *
In the Temple of the Sun the sacred inner sanctum was gradually restored to power. Kyra could feel the coursing and the spiralling of its energy as she leant her forehead to the Stones.
‘Now,’ she called in a ringing voice, ‘let us begin!’
Shadow on the Stones Page 6
