Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  With a howl, Mérdmerén lunged at them with his sword held out in front of him and the eyes of a true madman.

  The brigands ran away in terror, tails between their legs. The sailor moved forward to Mérdmerén’s side. “That lot won’t stop trying,” the old man said. “Five hundred crowns for your head is a lot of crowns.”

  “Don’t you even dare.”

  “Me? No. I’m just saying that the reward’s too tempting. Who knows what you did?”

  “Even I don’t know that.”

  Chapter V – Induction

  Argbralius’s mind was set on a single objective: to be the best pupil. He owed a lot to Vurgomm, who had taught him everything he knew: a great deal of religion and philosophy. And in the same way, he felt that he was indebted to his mother. He had become an ambitious young man.

  Walking through the oratory with the Book of Life in his hands, Argbralius was afraid of tripping before those hundreds of eyes and look like an idiot. His teachers watched him with admiration; his classmates with envy.

  The boy was paying attention to his feet and on not letting the book slip from his hands. It was wrapped in red tulle that covered the magnificent leather of the binding. The Book of Life was sacred. It contained the divine messages of the Mass, one for each day of the week. Learning to carry it was an essential test. It would show the jury that he possessed the mental discipline to overcome his nerves.

  The pontiffs, old men dressed in long white togas, were there to assess the students and choose a few of them as future sacristans. Of the two hundred remaining from the original group of seven hundred who had begun their training, only forty would be selected today. It was the Celestial Screening.

  Argbralius reached the three steps that gave access to the altar. Hundreds of eyes followed him as he walked. The young man wore his gray student toga. If he managed to reach the rank of sacristan, he would receive a brown one. When he became a priest, it would be a black one. The prodigy went up the steps, accompanied by the sound of his footsteps. It was the only thing to be heard in the imposing Décamon Mayutorum, which could hold more than a thousand people and was decorated in gold and with a cupola of immense stained-glass windows.

  The Décamon Mayutorum was in Démanon, which is the head city and leader of the Decámical religion. It is in Démanon that the religious laws are set, and the holy prayer for each week of an entire year is transmitted to each Décamon. Every city and village has its own Décamon, where the citizens or villagers can go to pray during the holy hours of the day and attend the weekly mass.

  Satisfied, he went to stand at the altar. He had not made any mistake so far; his movements were as delicate as those of a swan. He smiled at the priest, who smiled back with a reassuring gesture. The student placed the book on a marble lectern covered with a red mantle and went to stand behind the priest, just like in a real mass. Argbralius relaxed.

  He glanced around the hall, admiring the walls of dark stone and the stained-glass windows which awed him so much. He had learned that those windows dated back to the year 0 p.K., or post-Köel, when the founder of the new religion, Aryan Vetala, and the first king, Eryund des Guillioth, ordered the creation of five stained-glass windows to represent the five essences and their respective gods. Afterward, they added another five to show the Decámical religion: three for the founding cities, Omen, Démanon and Háztatlon, and two for the heroes of the Empire, Eryund and Aryan. The inherited polytheism of Flamonia, after the massive migration across the seas, had undergone changes when the nascent Empire of Mandrake took it over. With the exclusion of several gods, they established a new religion.

  Argbralius looked at his rivals for the forty vacancies for further study. He smiled to himself. He was the teachers’ pet; he knew he was going to make it. He remembered his mother and felt a tingling at the thought that he was honoring her memory. But those memories saddened him.

  She had given everything for him so that he could be here now, a step away from a glorious future and very far from the misery that had befallen them. He wished she could have seen him. She would have been very proud of her son.

  The test ended. Argbralius went back to his place, and there was a murmur among the pontiffs. Orolio, one of the priests who organized the assessments, passed in front of the boy.

  “Well done, Argbralius,” he congratulated him, stroking his huge belly.

  The students around them became uncomfortable.

  “You’ve got a special talent,” Orolio went on. “It’s a gift from the gods. The Perfect Pontiff already knows about you. Maybe one day you’ll have the honor of meeting him in person. It’s a privilege very few enjoy.” Father Orolio was speaking about the leader of the Church in the Empire. His notable status was all the greater because he guarded a great deal of secret information. To become the Perfect Pontiff was a status only the King himself could give.

  The pontiffs went on debating. Argbralius imagined himself being one of them someday. Those men had devoted their whole lives to religion and enjoyed the highest rank under the Perfect Pontiff. When the latter died, one of them would be chosen by the King to continue the religious work in the empire.

  The pontiffs went out, then the priests, followed by the sacristans, and then the two hundred students. The early evening sun bathed the distinguished youths who were very serious because of the stress and tension. Some sought relief in loud guffaws of laughter, others began to push each other, others ran around the square. When Argbralius was getting ready to join his three friends, Father Orolio approached him with a smile from ear to ear on his round face, obviously proud of his pupil’s performance.

  “Very good, Argbralius, very good! It’s clear that you’ll be one of the forty chosen students to become sextons. It’ll be a pleasure to go on teaching you.” The priest bent his head slightly and showed the comical bald patch on his crown.

  “One does what one can, father.” Argbralius was always careful to behave with the humility his godfather Vurgomm had advised for him, although deep down, he knew he was much more outstanding than his fellow students. He was a genuine prodigy, and sometimes he could not manage to hide his vanity. Perhaps that was why the other students hated him.

  “Aaah, Argbralius! Always so formal. Have you finished all the tests?”

  “Not yet, father. I just have to go to Damasio’s rooms to recite the passage from Salvation.”

  “You’ve worked hard; you’ll do well,” the priest assured him, slapping him on the back. “Come and eat!”

  “One moment, father. That book you promised me,” the boy began as he followed the hungry priest toward the dining room.

  Orolio looked behind him and to either side.

  “Silence, eh?” he warned him with a confidential air. “This must stay a private matter between us, or else you know we’ll be punished, me particularly.” He looked around again and whispered, “Come to my room later, and we’ll talk about that book.”

  ***

  Damasio, one of the high pontiffs in Démanon, took a moment to meditate after listening to Argbralius’ reading. “The Perfect Pontiff is pleased with this year’s promotion,” he said at last. “I must say, so am I.” While he talked, he scratched his white beard with a rhythmical cadence. It was a habitual gesture for him, one of his notable features apart from the eagle gaze of his dark irises, his long face with its wrinkled skin, and his formidable height. He could easily have been taken for a wizard from the city of Omen, were it not for the white of his toga that identified him unequivocally with the religious world.

  From the Décamon Mayutorum, the bells rang, announcing six in the evening by the sundial. Dusk cast its orange light on the building, the biggest in the religious city. Démanon was one of the first cities founded in the year 0 p.K. and was devoted to religion, together with Omen (weapons) and Háztatlon (politics). The three later came to form the Stratta Trigonosphere, as the three cities were usually called.

  “You’ve done well, pupil,” Damasio went on,
smoothing his beard. “Thank you for coming. Go back to your room, it’s late, and you know the rules. Remember that in Démanon, and particularly here in the Décamon Mayutorum, the Slegna Flamon watch day and night. They might mistake you for a stranger and lunge at you with their long halberds. The Slegna Flamon are a mystery I don’t yet understand. Well, you know what I mean.”

  “Slegna Flamon are warriors of ancient Flamonia. They are all dead. The Slegna Flamon you employ in the Décamon Mayutorum are men from the Empire who have better armor than most. They aren’t really Slegna Flamon, pontiff,” retorted Argbralius.

  “Smart mouth!” hissed the pontiff. “Do not speak of the Slegna Flamon like that! The air of mystery must be about them! You will not speak like that, you understand?”

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t like those—” lies, he was about to say but knew better. “—mysteries,” he finished.

  “Mysteries are useful in religion. It’s part of what keeps the common folk interested in us. Otherwise, if you materialized and rationalized everything, it would simply be that thing and no longer a blessing. We know you are a gifted man, this is why we are interested in you. But a curse of men with the gift of vast intelligence is that they never learn to tame it to their benefit, and it bites them in the ass.”

  Argbralius almost laughed when the pontiff said ass. But he didn’t because of how serious he was. A prolonged silenced pooled between them.

  “Does this mean I’ve passed the exam?” asked an anxious Argbralius.

  The sudden change of subject surprised Damasio and brought his thoughts back from their wandering.

  “You impudent boy!” he said. “You’ll become a mighty cropper if you keep boasting. Go back to your room and keep your head down! Remember that here, humility governs before pride. Oh, no.

  “The young of today are hopeless. Be patient. The news will soon arrive: if you’re one of the chosen, well, good for you. If not, bad luck and think whether you want to apply for a place in the next round of promotions. Now, to bed! Good night!” Damasio said, and his words resounded like a whiplash.

  The effect was immediate. The boy ran out of the room.

  The man withdrew to his alcove with a smile somewhere between nostalgia and indulgence. Through the window, he raised his gaze to the heavens. Oh Gods, how did I ever become one of those judges who have to watch over imprudent youths? he wondered.

  ***

  Argbralius was still fearful because of the pontiff’s reprimand. To be the best had always been his wish, and he had succeeded after long work and great self-control. One day, they’ll recognize how great and excellent I am. Why do I have to hide and deny my qualities? Why can’t I show how good I am? the young man said to himself as he went back to his room. He was twenty-three winters young, a youth that by now should have birthed many offspring or joined the army. However, in the Empire, anyone below the age of twenty-five winters was young enough to attempt and enter the ranks of religion. Beyond twenty-five, you were simply too old and would never make it to a sacristan or priest status.

  Something inside him upbraided him. Don’t be proud! You need to be a man of religion; a good man, humble and restrained. Shut your intelligence off for a second and stop being a smart mouth!

  That voice sounded like his deceased mother’s. He thought about it again. The struggle between humility and pride was a constant in his life. Leaving the pontiffs’ luxurious rooms and getting to his room was a long journey.

  He had to cross different corridors and areas that were devoted to accommodating the hundreds of faithful who prayed daily at the Décamon Mayutorum. It was easy to reach the religious sanctuary since it was in the center of Démanon, and all paths led to it. He passed by the halls where he had hidden with his friends on many nights to drink beer or wine and carry out silly pranks with the sole aim of feeling that they were defying authority. But the priests in charge of them knew all about it.

  Containing hundreds of young men was a complicated task, not to say an impossible one. They wove alliances and enmities that intensified during the Celestial Screening. Precisely because they knew the nature of those beardless youths, in their full hormonal explosion, they were separated from the girls. The women who wanted to follow a spiritual path had to join the convent of the Holy Amrias of which his mother had been a part of.

  At last, Argbralius entered the empty corridor where his room was. He shared it with three other pupils; he’d become great friends with them all. Joermo was the one he felt closest to. Few got to know Argbralius since he normally appeared quiet and behaved with great reserve. Several people commented on the strange energy the young man could emanate when he was crossed.

  Kurlos and Ánomnos, his two other roommates, considered Argbralius a challenge. They admired him, but an invisible barrier kept them at a distance. Sometimes Kurlos would try to tease him, but Argbralius did not react at all; he had better things to devote his attention to.

  “My friend!” Joermo cried as soon as he saw him appear at the door. The boy thought that Argbralius had stayed behind to drink, or else to hide and think about whatever unknowable questions he would never share with anybody. “Come on, Arg, tell me: how did the assessment go?”

  The boy was physically similar to Argbralius: medium in height and skinny. He had brown hair and inquisitive eyes full of goodwill.

  “Go to sleep, you little turds,” Kurlos taunted them. “I’m sleepy, and tomorrow’s going to be a long, long, long day. It’s my turn to parade with the Book of Life in front of the old relics. Maybe because he’s the pontiffs’ whore, Argbralius might have had an easy assessment. Did you give them your ass, or what? Those old perverts who’ve never had a woman must surely enjoy a little whore like you, Argbralius.” The boy laughed heartily. “Garden variety mortals like us are assessed honestly and sincerely, but hey, we’ll never offer our asses. Right, Argbralius?”

  Kurlos was a good-looking young man, broad-shouldered with big hands. His skin was pale as milk, his hair red. He was known for his vulgarity. Joermo grimaced and held back his laughter.

  Ánomnos, too, held himself back but intervened in Argbralius’s defense. “I heard you did well. How did it feel? The exam, I mean.” Ánomnos was tall with very thin limbs; in the showers, many mocked his orphanage boy’s body. His dark hair contrasted with his serene green gaze. He was not a particularly brilliant boy, but his words were comforting.

  Argbralius relaxed. He lay down on his bunk under Kurlos’ and stretched, releasing the day’s stress.

  “It wasn’t bad, lads. I think I did well, but then, who knows? Maybe that pig Kurlos is right, and I’m the favorite, but at least I’m appreciated by some and not the orphan of several, isn’t that right, Kurlos?”

  This enraged Kurlos, but he held back; he had earned that rejoinder.

  “You always do well, Arg.”

  Ánomnos burst out laughing. “Kurlos! You’d better start thinking about putting your ass forward!”

  “Not in your wildest dreams, you bunch of imbeciles. It’s time for sleep, you hens. Where are you off to, Argbralius? Are you out of your mind, or has the devil come to pull your ears?”

  “I’m going to visit an old friend. We have some unfinished business. And don’t talk of devils. They’re lurking there in the darkness, waiting to wake up. There might be a demon inside me, and one day he’ll come out to pay his respects to you.”

  The boys were left speechless, frozen. Kurlos feigned disinterest and shrugged.

  “You’re not going to tell us where you’re going, right?” Ánomnos said.

  Argbralius smiled. “If I never tell you anything, why would I start now?”

  “Be careful of the Slegnas!” said Joermo in a tone of playful warning. “What a reckless kid you are, by the Gods!”

  “One day they’ll catch him,” Kurlos said when Argbralius had left. “He’s a bloody ill-begotten offspring of the Gods. Can’t think how he manages to get his way all the time. Some day, he’ll pay.”
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  “Argbralius is a very intelligent kid,” Joermo countered. “The fact is that you’re afraid of him. Or jealous. Be honest.”

  Upset, Kurlos sat down on his bunk, letting his legs dangle. “Open your eyes, Joermo. What do you know about Argbralius? I’ll tell you what you know: absolutely nothing. The guy’s a mystery. Of course I’m a little bit afraid of him. He’s strange; he gives me the creeps and has since the first day. He’s one of those people you look at and you don’t know where to put them ̓cause he’s neither one thing nor the other but something completely different. And in any case, let’s be honest, that piece of shit’s too big-headed. I’d like to teach him a lesson.”

  Ánomnos, too, sat down on his bunk with his legs dangling. “I feel the same way. Though, I think Argbralius is outstanding and can get to be whatever he sets out to be. The problem is that with those words and attitude of his, he comes across as too weird or unexpected. I don’t know. He holds a lot back.

  “My mamma always says that holding things back can only cause trouble, that those thoughts and experiences you don’t talk about are like a piece of meat left in the open: a source of contamination and putrefaction. Thoughts which aren’t spoken of and emotions that are buried soon take their toll.”

  “Bah!” said Joermo, dismissing this. “Here, nobody knows anybody. We’re all strangers. Or do you know who I am?” he asked Kurlos.

  “That doesn’t work for me, ox-face,” said the redhead. “When you’re introduced to someone, you always get a feeling, and that’s how you classify the person. Arg is too weird.”

  “Okay, you might be right. But he’s a great friend. In any case, we don’t know anything about his past, the same way you don’t know anything about mine,” said Joermo, passing judgment. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  The boys lay down on their bunks. Kurlos was left looking up at the ceiling. His face was a mask of resentment.

  ***

  Orolio took the kettle out of the fire and poured the boiling water into the teapot full of fresh herbs. A minty aroma invaded the priest’s room. The light of the candle drew elongated, twisted shadows on the wall. Orolio served the tea in two ceramic mugs imported from Grizna.