by James T Wood
Peek shared Locambius’ tears. They sat not far apart on the stone stairs, but separated by a gulf of culpability and shame.
Rudi sat down beside Peek and silently handed him a cloth, “Wipe your eyes, young sir.”
In the sooty, muddy, stony respite from death Peek’s filters fell away and he didn’t hesitate to ask the question that had been burning in his mind.
“Why do you call me ‘young sir’ and not Peek?”
“Ah, good question, you… er, good question. When we become monks we take a new name, a name that echoes in The Melody. Our old names are tied to our old lives. We don’t speak your old name because it isn’t your true name. It isn’t the name that The Melody sings of you. We would not do injustice to you or to The Melody by speaking a name that does not fit you.” Rudi reached out to put an arm around Peek, thought better of it, and settled for clapping on the shoulder a few times.
“That…” Peek searched for the right word. Rudi’s simple proclamation struck a spark on dry tinder. It caught and flared. Anger that Peek didn’t know was within him exploded. “That’s stupid!”
“Pardon me?”
“You heard me,” Peek’s anger flared and he couldn’t control himself. “You just decide who gets to have a name? I say that’s worth about as much as offal in a treasure chest.” Peek sat up straighter and turned his shoulders toward the hulking monk nearly crowding him off the step. It felt good to be angry. Grief felt like drowning. Anger felt like running. Anger felt like purpose. Like control. Rudi sat there without comment for a time. Peek glared at the monks around him who looked up at his outburst. He didn’t care who knew what he felt right now. At least he wasn’t lying, they should be happy about that much.
“Young—”
Peek sighed loudly at Rudi’s beginning, but the gruff appearing man continued with gentle firmness as if he’d heard nothing.
“—sir, your grief makes you angry. Your care for the fallen does you honor. Do not dishonor them by decrying what they died for. A father does not give his child always what he wants, yet still loves—”
Peek interrupted, “I’m a bastard and my grandfather fed me moldy scraps of bread, when he fed me at all.”
Rudi looked stricken, his pity for Peek brought tears to his eyes.
Peek continued giving vent to his rage, “I’ve been surviving fine on my own without a father. Why would I want one like your melody?”
“Spoken like a true youth,” Locambius said from his perch a few yards away.
“What do you know about it?” Peek crossed his arms across his chest. He knew he was being childish and stubborn but anger stole his self-control.
Locambius rose and walked over to Peek and Rudi. After an awkward moment of him standing on the crowded steps, they moved over and made a place for him to sit.
“Peek, I’m sorry for implying that this was your fault. It wasn’t.” Locambius placed an arm across Peek’s shoulder.
“What?” Peek resisted the half-embrace, but didn’t completely reject it. He sat straight and rigid, a wall against the affection.
“I reacted harshly when I heard about your journey here. What you did, you did from ignorance. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Whose fault was it then? Yours?” Peek squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sights and emotions that were distracting and confusing him.
“Maybe. Maybe the raiders? Maybe our lost brother whom you met in your village.” Locambius remained open, inviting Peek but not demanding.
Peek struggled to comprehend all that he heard. It still didn’t change the fact that people had died.
Locambius answered his thoughts, “You compare The Melody to your grandfather. I can see why you would. But the difference with The Melody is both subtle and profound. We use the metaphor of a father because most fathers are kind and generous while still being firm in discipline. But every metaphor ceases to apply at some point. A single exception does not make it less useful, in general. But, for you, we will find another way.
“The Melody is different. We have nothing to offer that The Melody requires. The Melody gives freely both wisdom and power. The power you saw displayed today. Our music does powerful magic. But we also gain wisdom from The Melody. We hear its song and discern truth from falsehood. That’s why we are so opposed to lying, by the way, The Melody sings truth to us and in truth we find wisdom. With wisdom we know how to use power.
“The Melody isn’t a god to be appeased, but our guide in how we ought to live. We are given the power to do what we must and the wisdom to do it well. The goal of that wisdom and power is peace. You had yet to read our sacred texts, but in them you would note that simple truth. Peace is the goal of wisdom and power. You have great talent. Without thinking or training you broke the spell that protected our home and killed the raiders attacking us. But your lack of training led you to the edge of a precipice. You went outside The Melody. You made different songs. Because of that people died. Because of that my friends died. I still don’t blame you, but you must learn our ways so that more people don’t die. This was a terrible accident. Don’t compound a mistake with willful ignorance.
“Promise me that you won’t try to do magic again until you’ve been trained. Can you promise me that?” Locambius prompted Peek with a gentle squeeze of his hand on Peek’s shoulder.
Peek absorbed the words slowly. Anger did not loose its hold on him, but curiosity rose up to challenge it. “But why am I able to do these things?” Peek growled the words through clenched teeth.
Locambius stared at the point where the leaden clouds touched the quicksilver sea for a long time before he finally responded, “How I wish I could show you our scriptures at this time. They would explain much and more. My words are a shadow cast by their light.” The old man smoothed the wrinkled fabric of his robe across his knees and then continued, “The Melody is complex, intricate, and far beyond any human ability to comprehend. Once, long ago, a man learned from The Melody and it is from him that the magic came into the world. But as his followers learned the connections between the music that shapes the world and the magic we can do with that music, they also learned the dangers that accompany it.
“We limit ourselves for a reason, young sir, because when we do not death comes. Limits give us hope and life; throwing off those limits — or being ignorant to them — is death. We monks limit the way that we do magic. We have separated the songs into different elements: fire, water, earth, and air. These divisions are not natural, The Melody is not so divided, but they serve to limit us. You and I cannot hope to understand all the intricacy of the world. It is in the attempt to control that which we do not understand that death comes in.
“You, young sir, did not know what would happen when fire and water came together. The violence and death of exploding steam were not your intent, but that is what happened. Long ago other monks learned this same lesson and passed on what they had learned to us. We do not mix the elements, not because they cannot be mixed, but because we cannot safely mix them.”
Peek nodded in response to Locambius’ words. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He feared what he might say. Locambius had stolen the object of his rage, so Peek turned it toward the old monk. But it felt weak, like watery gruel made with the last grains left from the long-past harvest.
“It’s not your fault,” Locambius said once again, “We’ll talk more later.” With that he rose and made his way past the monks and up the stairs. Those words stole the last of Peek’s anger and left him hollow and broken amidst the grieving monks.
Peek wandered around the charred grounds of the monastery. He had very little help to offer to the monks who could do magic, and he feared to try it again. He saw the dead bodies of the whistle-monks piled in the corner of the monastery. He noticed that the scriptorium was the only building not burned by the harsh magic of the raiders. Since no one else seemed to need him, Peek wandered inside the stone hut.
It was lined with shelves and on one side was a desk wi
th candles around it. Most of the shelves were diamond shaped holes between crisscrossing pieces of wood. Peek imagined rolls of paper would fit inside them. A few of the shelves were long and flat, but there wasn’t a scrap of parchment anywhere. The raiders hadn’t destroyed the scriptorium, they’d looted it.
Peek ran his fingers over the age-smoothened wood of the desk and wondered what words would be worth killing over. He’d never read or even thought he could learn it. Vlek knew a few words, mostly enough to write out bills of sale. But Vlek kept such knowledge from Peek as a matter of course. Something about the lingering smell of the ancient documents and the worn wood intoxicated Peek and he stood there for a long time drinking in the aroma.
Adrocus cleared his throat subtly and then more loudly when Peek didn’t respond.
“What? I’m sorry,” Peek turned.
“No, I’m sorry for interrupting your reverie. Forgive me. Locambius asked for you.” Adrocus stood a half-pace farther from Peek than seemed normal as if he stood over a snake bearing its fangs and weaving its head before a strike.
Peek walked with Adrocus toward the leader’s hut. It sat back from the others a bit so the fire damage was minimal. Inside, Locambius was straightening and cleaning his things. He picked up a charred hunk of something, turned it over in his hands and then tossed it aside with a grunt.
“We’ll be cleaning for months,” he seemed to address the comment to the air.
“You wanted to see me?” Peek stood in the doorway.
“Yes, young sir. May I ask a favor of you?” Locambius turned and smiled through his puffy-eyed mask of grief.
“Of course,” Peek had no idea what he could offer to magicians, but he knew instantly that he would give it to help them.
“Most of our huts are in sorry shape. I think mine can be made serviceable and the scriptorium is in good condition. The rest aren’t fit for animals, let alone brothers and sisters. The only other hut that is in decent shape is yours. Would you consent to some company for a few days while we affect repairs?”
Peek looked at Locambius with his mouth open, realized it and closed it. Shock ran through him in waves his mind couldn’t navigate. How could they even think this was a question? They’d given him use of the hut, they could take it back at any time. Always before, Peek knew that anything he owned could be taken and anything given could be reneged. Vlek’s whims were law and Peek’s ownership rights were nonexistent.
“Yes,” Peek whispered, “of course.”
“Thank you. We didn’t want to impose, but we are sorely lacking in choices at this time. We will endeavor to be out of your hut as quickly as possible. Adrocus,” Locambius turned to the young monk, “would you see to it that the monks housed with our young friend are the ones whose huts will be repaired the quickest?”
“Absolutely.”
At some unseen gesture, Adrocus left the two of them alone. Peek watched him leave and then turned back to Locambius.
“It’s not your fault,” Locambius gestured toward the bed — now just a frame of stone and woven wood — and they both sat, “It’s still not your fault. But you must learn our ways. However you did it, you destroyed the spell that’s kept us safe here for years. Those Markay raiders destroyed my first monastery. We fled here and a… friend set the spell in the ocean currents to keep the raiders away. He’s gone now and none of us know the tune he used. We haven’t heard it from The Melody since.”
“Can’t you just make something up?” Peek turned to look at the face of the monk leader. He looked older and more worn than when Peek had first arrived. The sleepless night on the stairs and cleaning the monastery had etched the lines in his face more deeply and cast dark shadows under his eyes. The normally neat braid of hair down his back had loose strands sticking out every which way and his beard pointed toward his right from all the time he spent worrying at it with his hand.
“No, young sir, that’s forbidden.” Locambius stopped stroking his beard and looked at Peek.
“Why?”
He paused and thought about his words for a moment. “If our scriptorium still held parchment I’d have you go and read of our history and the sacred writings of our founders. But, alas, my memory will have to serve you for now.”
Peek heard an odd catch in his voice. Locambius’ eyes were shaded in the dim interior of the hut, but Peek imagined tears standing in them.
“The Melody is what makes all the world through its song,” Locambius continued, “We train to hear that song and our magic is done by repeating it. The scriptures teach us that we cannot make up new songs, only repeat what we’ve heard. We cannot mix songs; there is a tune for air, one for earth, one for fire, and one for water. They flow and move separately, but only The Melody has the wisdom to mix them. When you… when the raiders died, it was because you mixed elements. You had no way to know what would happen or to control it. Our scriptures tell us that even the wisest were not able to play two songs at once, so we keep them safely separated. You will learn more when you begin your training in earnest.”
Peek looked at Locambius for a long time before asking the question, “Why should I become a monk?”
“You’re already on the way. Your ability with the magic is nearly bursting out of you. You broke one of our oldest and most powerful spells without even thinking about it. You stood alone against the Markay attacking us. You must learn to control your magic and use it well. I told you before that The Melody provides both wisdom and power. You have the power, but you must learn the wisdom to use it well.”
Peek fought with himself. The question he’d asked wasn’t the question he wanted to ask. Instead he wanted to know if he could use the magic to fight against people who would harm him. He didn’t understand why the monks let the raiders kill with fire. There was no doubt that the monks were more powerful, but something in their training kept them from fighting. Why would Peek want to become a monk if it meant he couldn’t resist? What’s the point of power if you can’t use it to defend yourself?
He looked up to see Locambius studying him intently. Peek looked away, but feared his thoughts were obvious.
They were.
“Peek,” Locambius used his real name purposefully, “we did not attack the Markay people because that is what The Melody teaches. We are not to use it to harm another person.”
“Why?”
“I… I don’t know fully. I was only a little older than you when I first learned such a lesson. I too learned it at the hands of the Markay.” Locambius shuffled his feet against the packed earth floor of his hut as he relived his past.
“What happened?” Peek’s curiosity overcame any sense of propriety.
“I…”
After waiting several moments Peek gave up on hearing the story and started to rise. Locambius placed an arm across his shoulders and pulled him back down.
“In the monastery where I was trained, my two friends and I were happy. We grew up in the same village, were selected by the monks, and we trained together. After our training we were happy. Truly happy. But one day the Markay came. First they burned the village down the river from us. We thought maybe it was over after that, but then they came for us.
“Our leader had gone out to scout. She wanted to see what had happened to the village. When she came back, she came trailing fire. She played her harp furiously and flames licked at her heels. One of my dear friends ran to help her as we all watched. We just watched.
“He dragged her back to the monastery and as soon as she stopped playing the fire behind her dissipated. Out of the smoke came the Markay raiders. They neither ran nor walked. Their pace was an inexorable trot. We broke and ran into the monastery. My friends and I barred the gate and we waited.
“I really think the waiting is worse than the attacking. I don’t know how long we huddled there, smelling the smoke of the burning village to the west. All I know is that it was my friend, the one who went to help our leader, who climbed the ladder to look over the wall.
“He never saw them. He looked, but he didn’t see the people who killed him. The arrow took him right through the neck when he was looking back at us. I still dream of that look of shock on his face when he realized that he’d been shot.”
Locambius stopped talking and stared into the distance for a time. Peek didn’t know what to do. He stared at the corner of the hut making out patterns in the soot on the wall.
“I…” Locambius struggled to find words again, “I was filled with rage. I began to play the fire-song. I wanted to kill raiders for killing my friend. So, standing over his body, I called on The Melody to send fire against the men who killed my friend. Others yelled at me, pleaded with me to stop. I would not.
“It wasn’t until our leader sent a wave of water crashing over my head that I stopped. She looked at me and reminded me what I’d learned. The Melody is not to be used to harm people. If we violate the wisdom of The Melody, we abrogate our responsibility as its monks.”
Locambius turned to him. For just a moment Peek squirmed under that intense stare, hoping for somewhere else to look. But Locambius’ eyes compelled him.
“Peek, if you join us you will give up that name, that sign of your illegitimate birth. It is the path for all monks. We were born with names given to us by humanity, not The Melody. I was born as Anath, my friend who died was born as Ron. But those people truly died on the day our training completed. I ceased to be Anath, my friend became Fericus. You will cease to be Peek.
“When we changed our names we promised to listen to The Melody in all things. I nearly forgot that when Fericus died, I nearly gave in to rage and pain, but thankfully I was stopped. I—”
A monk Peek didn’t recognize poked her head into the hut and reported, “Brother, we’ve found the sheep—”
“Thank The Melody,” Locambius exclaimed, visibly relaxing, but the report wasn’t over.
“They’ve been burned,” she whispered, “they’re all dead. They also razed and salted the garden and pillaged our food stores. ”
