by Jim Melvin
Moon
43
Torg did not fear the Hornbeam, even in the darkness. He sensed the despair in the heart of the forest, but it held no power over him. The trees could not harm him. But they wanted to . . . oh, so much. Would they settle for harming his companions?
Some believed the Hornbeam were the oldest living creatures on the surface of Triken. The giant worm that thrived in the bowels of Asubha was even older, but not by much. The trees, in some ways, reminded Torg of Bhayatupa. They feared death so much, they refused to die. Even when they had lost the ability to bloom, grow leaves and feed off sunlight, their roots had dug deeper and deeper into the earth, and their wood had hardened like iron. And still they lived. They were old when Vedana was born. Ancient when the great dragons emerged. In comparison, Torg’s life-span was just a wisp of wind. But he knew things they did not. He knew death. All he had to do was show them what it was, and their great will would falter.
Do not test me, Torg said, in his mind. Allow us to pass.
The Hornbeam listened, but they weren’t so easily cowed.
That was when Rathburt lost control. Now he could hear the trees too, and he lacked the strength to resist their desperation. “It’s terrible,” he said, his voice frenetic. “They live, and yet do not. And they hate us so much. They despise the blood that flows in our veins and the water that soddens our flesh. They scream. It burns my ears. Can you not hear?”
“I doesn’t hear nothing,” Bard said. “But I doesn’t feel very good, either. I wants to lie down and go to sleepsy.”
“Me too,” Ugga said. “What’s the use? We’re all going to die, anyway. Who cares whether it’s now or later?”
The damnable Lucius already had sat down against the trunk of one of the Hornbeam, tears streaking his cheeks. But Laylah stood tall, holding Obhasa in front of her. The ivory staff glowed.
“The Hornbeam are sad,” she said to Torg. “They fight so hard to live, but without the wisdom to do it properly.”
Torg smiled, proud of her. “All things are impermanent,” he said. “There is a beginning, middle and end to everything. That is the law—and it is irrefutable. One day I hope to introduce you to one of my favorite people, a very wise woman named Tathagata. She once said to me: ‘Living one day with truth is superior to living a thousand years without it.’ The Hornbeam live without truth. I could provide it, but it will be better if they discover it themselves. Either way, they’ll eventually perish. And when they do, they’ll go where all living things go when they die—except for the enlightened, who go to another place.”
“I was born of the madness of Invictus,” Lucius said, startling Torg and Laylah. “Will I go where all living things go when they die?”
Torg knew enough about the newborns to understand what Lucius meant. For the first time since meeting the golden-haired man, Torg felt compassion for him. How tortured he must be.
Torg knelt beside the firstborn and placed a hand on one of his upraised knees. “Life is driven by karma. Living beings carry it from place to place as surely as their own shadows. I believe the same applies to you, Lucius. Your karma is young. But it exists. When you die, you will go to the place I and all others will go. And once there, you will not fear it. I promise you.”
Lucius grabbed Torg’s hand and burst into tears. His sobs were so loud they echoed among the trees. Suddenly Rathburt was crying, along with Bard, Ugga and Elu. But it was less about compassion for Lucius than the sadness the trees exuded. Laylah sat next to Lucius and took him in her arms, cradling him. Even so, Torg felt no jealousy. This moment was beyond such a weak and foolish emotion. Eventually, their tears began to dry, and in a sort of exhausted relief they chuckled, giggled and then laughed hysterically. The power in that sound forced the menace of the Hornbeam to temporarily withdraw.
“In Invictus, we have a common enemy,” Torg said, after the mirth subsided. “From here on, let us behave with that in mind. We must trust each other if we are to survive the coming days.”
Before venturing farther into the valley, they sat among the trees and ate a small meal. They also were thirsty and—for the first time since reaching the foothills of Mahaggata—no source of water nearby appeared to be nearby.
“How vast are the Hornbeam?” Elu asked Torg.
“If my memory is correct, the forest extends about two more leagues. There are no rivers or streams within the valley, but if we walk without rest, we might be able to pass beyond their stronghold before dawn. After that, water will be plentiful again. But it will be a long night for parched throats.”
The others followed Torg deeper into the valley. Now the Hornbeam were all about them, their bark smooth and gray. They looked less like trees than the skeletons of trees, and the tips of their branches were as sharp as swords. They saw no other life in the valley—no animals, other trees, shrubs or even grasses. The floor of the forest was as gray as the Hornbeam, and it kicked up an odd sort of dust that coated their boots and the legs of their breeches. Beneath the gray powder, the ground was spongy and devoid of visible roots, so they were able to walk quickly. But when they reached the heart of the valley, the insidious will of the Hornbeam made one last attempt to infect them. Their expressions bore fear, sadness and regret—all except for Torg.
To take their minds off the torment, he told them a story about Sister Tathagata, the eldest of the noble ones. Once every year, Tathagata would make the long journey from Dibbu-Loka to this northern clime with her disciples.
“On bright afternoons in early spring, Tathagata sometimes took young nuns and monks deep into this valley. Once there, she would begin long sessions of meditation that would extend into the night. She instructed the novices to label each breath as rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and falling. They were told to resist all drifts of the mind, other than those that seized on emotion. When that occurred, they were counseled to observe the emotion—whether it was fear, anger, joy, lust or any other—with utmost attention.”
As Torg spoke, he and his companions continued their trek through the forest, but his story was serving its purpose, distracting them from the madness of the Hornbeam.
“While the sun was still bright, the novices had no problem with their meditation. As they sat silently together beneath the trees, their minds went through the usual slew of wanderings. And each time an emotion emerged, they studied it dutifully.”
“It’s easy to guess where this is going,” Rathburt said. “When night came, the novices got the fright of their lives.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Torg said. “You see, the power of the Hornbeam comes from their despair. When living beings pass through this forest, they are bombarded by what the noble ones call Death Fear. All mortals are aware—on a surface level—that they will one day die. But only a few times in their lives will they confront this awareness on the deepest levels. The Hornbeam are all-consumed by Death Fear, and they exude this obsession onto others.”
“Why is the forest only dangerous at night?” Lucius said.
“A good question,” Torg said, “and I’m not sure I know the answer. But most of our fears are worse in the darkness, don’t you think? The Hornbeam know this. Perhaps they save their strength for when it will be most effective.”
“What happened to the nah-veeces?” Ugga said, his small eyes glistening.
Torg chuckled. The crossbreed’s gentle curiosity never failed to lighten his heart. “Keep in mind, Ugga, that the novices were unaware of any danger from without. They knew nothing of the Hornbeam, other than that the trees looked rather strange. So when darkness came, and the trees bent their will upon them, the novices attempted to study what each one believed to be the emotion we call fear. However, most of them were incapable of facing it on such an intense level, and they broke down. Senior nuns and monks, who had remained hidden nearby, led them away. Only a few of the novices had the strength to last through the night, and those who did were quickly promoted.”
“I
t sounds cruel,” Laylah said. “They didn’t deserve to suffer that way.”
“Deserve has nothing to do with it,” Torg said. “Sister Tathagata could sit alone among the Hornbeam for a month and feel not the slightest discomfort. The despair of the trees holds no sway over her. She knows better. After their night in this forest, the novices knew better too. In a very short time they learned a vital lesson: Death Fear is an illusion we experience through ignorance of the truth.”
“Then I must be very ignorant of the truth,” Rathburt said, “because I’m afraid not just of death but of everything.”
At that, they all laughed—Lucius loudest of all.
44
When Lucius laughed at Rathburt’s jest, Laylah felt like laughing too. Ever since the firstborn broke down at the base of the Hornbeam, his attitude had changed, at least temporarily. Now when he looked at Torg, the distrust and dislike seemed muted, replaced by a grudging respect. The wizard behaved similarly. It was obvious he and his friends were a kind-hearted bunch, willing to give even someone as troublesome as Lucius another chance to win their hearts. Laylah especially liked the giant and the dwarf, so dissimilar in size but so similar in personality. She wanted to hug them both. In fact she wanted to hug them all for their roles in keeping her free. But Torg was another matter. Hugging was the least of what she wanted to do to him.
Still, all was not well. As long as she held Obhasa, the fever and nausea were kept at bay. But if she set the staff aside for even a moment, the illness crept back. It felt similar to her previous sickness in some ways, different in others. The intensity was less, but the insidiousness stronger. Ironically, when dawn came she felt better. For the first time in her life, the arrival of morning brought relief instead of discomfort. When they emerged from the last of the Hornbeam, the bright sunlight stroked her face like a dear friend.
Elu led them to a stream. Laylah laid Obhasa aside to wet her parched throat. Shortly after, she realized she felt fine even without the ivory staff in her grasp. She was confused, but not about to complain.
They came to a sparkling pond, its surface as blue as the sky. It was populated by colorful waterfowl, including seven white swans. The birds scattered as they approached, settling on the far bank. Bard reached for his bow, but Torg waved him off.
“Soon enough we’ll be forced to kill to eat, but not here, not now,” the wizard said. “I cannot bear to harm such wondrous creatures. We carry enough food to last for a while. Let us come in peace and bathe in these still waters as friends of nature.”
The kindness in his voice smote Laylah’s heart. She leaned against Obhasa and felt the staff thrum in response. When Lucius placed his hand on her shoulder, she nearly screamed.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” he said, not seeming to notice he had startled her. “To look upon such beauty as a free man and woman . . . I cannot describe the feeling. Invictus poisoned everything he touched, including me. But there’s hope now for both of us.”
Ugga, Bard, and Elu discarded their clothes and plunged naked into the crystal water. Rathburt did the same—but more timidly, off to the side. With a wild look in his eyes, Lucius let out a howl and followed them. Laylah couldn’t help but laugh. When Torg came up beside her, her smile widened.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For saving my life. And for being so patient with him.”
“If it brings you pleasure, it brings me pleasure.”
She smiled again. “Speaking of pleasure, I could use a bath as much as anyone. But I don’t think it would be ladylike to join them.”
“Nor would I want you to. I wish for no man to see you but me.”
She blushed. “I feel the same about you . . . no woman.”
“Allow me to bathe with the men, and then I’ll see to it that you have privacy. But know that it will pain me not to look at you.”
“If you do, I won’t be offended.”
This time, it was his turn to blush. “There’ll come a day when I’ll do more than that.” And then he sprinted toward the water, casting off his cloak and other clothing as he ran. She watched longer than she should have—and was not disappointed, to say the least.
When it was her turn to bathe, the others respected her privacy. The water was cold, pure and sweet. She had no soaps or perfumes, but she scooped handfuls of sand from the bottom of the pond and rubbed them into her hair and onto her skin. When she emerged, she felt as clean as she ever had in her life. She soaked her dress and then put it back on, still dripping wet.
Laylah found the men leaning against a boulder and eating from their packs. She joined them. Her newfound freedom from illness increased her appetite, and she had to force herself to save something for the next day.
“When should we continue our march?” Lucius said to Torg, without a hint of derision in his voice.
“Our successful passage through the vines and Hornbeam bought us at least a day,” Torg said. “I believe we can rest here until late afternoon, as long as we march all through the night.”
“Where are we now?” Laylah said.
Torg started to answer, but without warning he bolted upright and stared in the direction of the pass from which they had come.
“What is it, Torgon?” Rathburt said. “You scared us half to death, jumping up like that. I thought the wolves had found us already.”
“Do you not see?” Torg said.
“See what? The mountains? What’s so special about them?”
“Bursts of light. And wisps of smoke.”
“I sees nothing,” Ugga said, “but my eyes don’t work so great. I smells better than I sees.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Rathburt said.
Laylah stared in the same direction as Torg. Her eyesight also was excellent, magnified by her magic. Sure enough, she saw a crimson flash—and then smoke drifting high in the air and whisking away.
“What is it?” she said to Torg.
“It appears to be a battle between two angry enemies,” the wizard said. “I would guess Mala to be one of them. But the other? In my knowledge there is only one being besides Invictus capable of creating such explosions—the dragon Bhayatupa.”
Now there was no doubt. All could see a thick column of smoke rising between the mountains and bending westward in the swift currents of air. Something was on fire.
“It’s not the laurel that burns,” Lucius said. “The vines can suppress fire, or at least the books say so. It appears that Bhayatupa has remained active, despite his battle in Avici.”
And then Lucius told them everything about his and Laylah’s escape from the Golden City and eventual meeting with the Death-Knower in Kamupadana, including Izumo’s role, Invictus’ sudden collapse and Vedana’s constant meddling. Laylah’s memories were not as clear, but she contributed when she could, especially concerning the demon. Torg seemed fascinated, listening intently to their description of the sorcerer’s bizarre reaction to the eclipse and asking many questions about Vedana.
“Once Invictus fled, Bhayatupa was able to break free of the chains,” Lucius said. “There was intense confusion, but then Vedana came in the guise of a raven, and she led us to Laylah, who had collapsed and was about to be trampled. I know this sounds ridiculous, but the demon saved Laylah’s life. And mine.”
“Vedana is as much my enemy as Invictus is,” Laylah said, “but what Lucius says is true. Apparently, my grandmother hates her grandson even more than the rest of us.”
“Your grandmother?” Rathburt said. “Torgon, did you know this?”
“I have known for a time that Vedana was Invictus’ grandmother, so I assumed it was also true of Laylah,” Torg said. “But don’t be so amazed, Rathburt. Many people have demon blood in their veins, though some know it naught. A large portion of the magic in the world—both good and evil—began with the demons.”
“Was the Bitch a demon?” Bard said.
“The Bitch?” Laylah said.
�
�Now it’s time for our story,” Torg said, “but we must tell it quickly and then get some rest. If Mala and Bhayatupa are fighting each other on the other side of those mountains, we might be in even better shape than I hoped, but we still must be prepared to continue our march in the late afternoon. We have many leagues to travel, and there are enemies everywhere, not just those your brother employs.”
And so, Laylah and Lucius heard the tales of Bard and Ugga, Rathburt and Elu, and Torg. The wizard gave few details about what happened with Vedana in the cavern and Jord beneath the trees, but Laylah discerned more than she should have, curling her lip and grunting. Lucius saw her jealousy and grunted, as well—and for a short time afterward he returned to his former surliness. Then they all lay down and slept, keeping no watch.
Just before dusk, the wizard woke them. They drank from the pond and ate most of what remained of their food, leaving just enough for a light breakfast the following morning. Soon after breaking camp, Elu found a patch of blackberry bushes, the wild fruit sour but edible. They gorged themselves and put more in their packs. As they walked, the Svakaran occasionally moved into the trees and returned with edible nuts, roots and even leaves. In early spring the land was bursting with food. If they’d had the time to stop for several days and stock up, they could have eaten like royalty.
When full darkness arrived, the quarter moon was well past the midpoint in the sky. Laylah felt the sickness return, even worse than the previous night. Torg gave her his cloak and Obhasa. When she grasped the ivory staff, the queasiness lessened.
“I’m worried,” Torg said. “I cannot comprehend the origin of this illness.”
“I’m not sure what’s happening,” Laylah said. “But when I hold Obhasa, the discomfort is tolerable.”
“What could it be?” Lucius said. “If her illness returns, it will kill her.”
“I’m as confused as both of you,” Torg said.
