by James T Wood
“I…” all the moisture was gone from Peek’s mouth the moment he opened it to speak. Locambius handed him a skin filled with water and settled himself on the pallet next to Peek. He simply waited for Peek to regain his voice. The silence crushed Peek under its weight.
“I used forbidden magic,” he blurted keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. “I didn’t mean to, but Vlek came at me. He beat me up before I knew the magic. I was at the listening place. He came. I heard a forbidden song and I used it. I hurt him. Duhlga told me to forgive. I’m sorry. I can leave any—”
“Slow down, Peek,” Locambius reached out and put his hand on Peek’s shoulder. Even as he was pouring out the confession, Peek caught Locambius’ use of his real name. That must mean he was no longer a monk, even an acolyte, if Locambius didn’t bother to call him ‘young sir.’
“I didn’t mean to,” Peek could not bring himself to look at Locambius, “Vlek sneaked up on us. I tried to…” Tears closed his throat.
“Peek, calm yourself. This is serious, but not fatal,” Locambius squeezed Peek’s shoulder firmly, “You came to me with truth. Truth brings light, and in light there is hope. I forgive you Peek.”
The dam broke, tears flooded Peek’s world. Locambius pulled him into an embrace while Peek wept. How could Locambius forgive him after everything. After Peek destroyed his home, got his brothers and sisters killed, and now threatened to do the same at their new home? Locambius had trusted Peek, but Peek never fully accepted his teachings. He’d tried to take the power without The Melody. But despite all of that, Locambius still sat there with Peek and spoke of forgiveness.
Something told Peek that the offer of forgiveness wasn’t a manipulative ploy like Vlek had tried. It wasn’t a carrot hiding the stick. It was offered genuinely and without reservation. That realization brought a fresh torrent of weeping. How could someone that he’d harmed so much offer such grace? It made no sense. The idea was too much for Peek’s mind to hold, but too close for Peek to dismiss it. It trapped him between hope and despair. Forgiveness hurt more beautifully and healed more painfully than anything Peek had ever known.
Peek could only manage to croak, “Why?”
“Because you are a child of The Melody,” Peek felt the beard move against his cheek as Locambius spoke, “Even if you don’t fully see it yet, I do. You are home here. We are your family.”
The next words demanded saying, but Peek feared them more than even his own confession, “What about Plafius? Is he not also family?”
Locambius pulled back from the embrace and looked Peek in the eyes. At first the old monk’s brows were angled down in anger, but slowly they drifted into a concerned furrow before rising upward in sorrow. Locambius nodded as water filled his eyes.
They cried together, fresh, cleansing, bonding tears.
The light stabbed Peek’s sore eyes as dawn threatened to give way to mid-morning. Peek was drained of energy, but also of all the anxiety he’d felt since attacking Vlek. In the empty center of his being, there was a kernel of peace. It didn’t make everything right — Vlek still took petty delight in making the monk’s miserable — but that didn’t fill Peek with dread the way it had the previous day.
For the first time in days Peek felt able. Able to do something good instead of continuing to fail. Able to make right decisions, even difficult ones.
The Melody, whatever that actually meant, made a different kind of sense. It offered another way that Peek hadn’t considered before. His life had consisted of dominating or being dominated. Never had forgiveness come into the equation. It felt foreign, not a natural response. But both the compulsion to confess and the offered forgiveness were right to Peek, even if they weren’t natural.
The external nature of those unnatural things was what confounded and convinced Peek. It wasn’t Duhlga who forced him to confess. Something else drove Peek to walk back and tell Locambius the truth. And it wasn’t Locambius alone who offered forgiveness. He gave it as one passing on what he’s already gotten.
Peek didn’t have all the answers, but he did feel comfort in not having answers. Whatever The Melody was, if it could deal with the problems that were too big for Peek, then perhaps Peek could find some small measure of joy in life. Maybe Peek could fix what was within his control and release what he could not.
Peek had made it to the point where his feet were on the ground but he wasn’t out of bed quite yet when Duhlga came in with a loaf of bread and an apple.
“I thought you might like some breakfast,” she smiled warmly.
“Thank you,” Peek took the still-warm bread and yellow-red apple from the woman with a smile.
“I gather you and Locambius had that talk.”
Around mouthfuls of food, Peek answered, “It wasn’t much of a talk. I told him what happened and he forgave me.”
“Sometimes those are the best talks,” she nodded to herself, “the ones where you don’t need to do much talking. And how are you feeling today?”
Peek thought for a moment before answering, “Better.”
“Than?”
“Ever.”
“That must have been quite a talk,” she chuckled as if to a private joke.
“It was very good.”
“I’m glad. Now are you going to get up or do you need to convalesce longer?”
“I’m up,” Peek shoved himself off the pallet in the new training hut in the monastery. “What does the day hold?”
“Well the monastery is mostly built, but the village isn’t quite done yet. We have to do some reinforcing of the monastery walls and make space inside for the villagers. You heard that there’s a Markay scout ship at the island?”
“Yes, just before Locambius and I talked he was making plans,” Peek finished the last of his apple and tossed the core aside, “How can I help?”
“You, young sir,” she led him outside by the shoulder, “can fill the cisterns in the monastery courtyard so the villagers have water to drink while we wait out the Markay.”
“I will. And thank you for breakfast.”
“Not at all, young sir. We can’t have you going hungry, now can we?” She laughed at her own joke and started to leave but before she stepped outside she turned and looked back at Peek, “I’m proud of you, young sir,” she said and then she was gone.
Peek noticed furious movement, monks and villagers running from place to place, and looks of worry on every visage. Everyone — both monk and villager — was concerned with the scout ship anchored off the island. From there it could strike the village within hours. Darella created a plan that gave focus to the worry and a purpose to dull the sharp edge of fear. Peek could tell that the coming of the raiders was serious, but the competence and confidence with which the monks handled the preparations caused the day to feel brighter, cleaner, like the morning after a storm when the sun finally returns. The worries tried to land on Peek, but found no purchase. He nearly danced over to the two large cisterns in the yard surrounded by the monastery wall. The monks had no need of wells to provide the water that songs could produce, but filling each pot for the villagers would be too tedious, especially during the conditions that would drive the villagers inside the monastery walls. So they’d built cisterns, but neither rain nor monk had filled them yet.
Peek stood at the edge of the first cistern and pulled out his, now familiar, pipes and started playing the water song. A tiny rain cloud appeared over the cistern and started dropping water into the hole. Peek rolled his shoulders back, adjusted his stance, and remembered the breathing exercises. His song grew in both strength and depth, the notes were filled with poignant hope. Peek, accustomed to being strong with the magic, lost himself in the song. The Melody broke through the barrier at this place and it became for him a listening place.
He heard the songs of The Melody echoing endlessly. No longer were they simply notes and rhythms, but the emotion of the music came to him. The earth-song sang in anticipation, like a pregnant mother aching to hold her child. The
wind-song shouted jubilantly, calling all who could hear to celebrate life with a jubilant shout. The fire-song laughed and danced, mirthfully causing mischief. The water-song wept, but not for sorrow. Rain sheeted down in overwhelming joy with the beauty of a rainbow on a spring day.
What had been notes and magic to Peek, became breath, blood, and thought. The Melody crashed through the facade of magic and song. It spoke to him. But speaking requires words. This was all image, feeling, the meaning that words always fail to hold.
Adrocus shook Peek and shouted at him until Peek looked to see his friend. Peek’s smile faded, first at Adrocus’ concerned look, then at the crowd of monks gathered around, and finally at the sodden earth around the overfilled cistern. Suddenly Peek felt weary to his core. He sat down, heedless of the puddle at his feet.
When Adrocus squatted down beside him, Peek waved off his friend. The gathered monks slowly dissipated back to the other tasks that demanded their attention.
“What happened?”
“I…” Peek groped for words to describe what he’d experienced. “I think I just heard The Melody.”
“Peek, you’ve been playing songs from The Melody for weeks.”
“No, not that. I think I heard it,” Peek looked at his friend trying to communicate the ineffable.
Adrocus shook his head in confusion, “What do you—”
“Adrocus, it’s not just songs,” Peek couldn’t get the words out fast enough, but they all seemed ill fitting for the task of communicating something so wonderful, “Can’t you hear it? The Melody is alive.”
“Of course it is,” Adrocus nodded and reached out to pull Peek to his feet, “How could we live were we not created by one who is alive?”
That truth resonated within Peek with almost painful rawness. His life couldn’t be separated from the life of The Melody. His suffering, loss, pain, all were shared by The Melody. And he could share in the joy, hope, renewal, and love of that unending song.
Peek took Adrocus’ offered hand and together they stood.
“I’m sorry, Adrocus, I… I’m just adjusting to being a monk. It’s quite a lot to take in.” Before Adrocus could speak again, Peek continued, “I must fill this other cistern before the villagers get here.”
Peek walked over to the other great hole in the bedrock and began to play once again. The rain fell and Peek heard echoes of the living Melody in each drop.
Eighteen
For the rest of the day disciples approached and explained all the places where wisdom was not to be found. At sundown Talib bid them cease and turned to Darrah.
“Now do you see? What do you hope to add to this?”
“Perhaps the place where wisdom is found.”
“I have meditated on that question for two decades with no progress. I have meditated on all the words of Eytskaim. I have memorized everything he said. I have repeated the charge he gave me a million times. What do you have to offer that I have not done a thousand times over?”
Darrah sat back for a moment, finally cowed by the tirade of the old disciple. Quietly she asked, “What was his charge to you?”
Talib sat back as well and looked off into the distance as if seeing his long-dead friend again.
“He brought me to this place and told me that this was the source of wisdom and power. I asked if he meant the tree and he told me I was mistaken. He said I had to find the key myself and that if I didn’t stop seeking I would eventually succeed.”
“A time is coming when every note will have been played. Then the music will begin in earnest.” Wicus of Domhan
T
he gathered group of villagers and monks collected the smell of fear and unwashed bodies. Across the water they could see the raiders’ ship just off the coast of the island. It didn’t move, but it didn’t leave. Then another ship arrived, then another. With each ship anchored off the island the fear inside the monastery grew. Two days after everyone gathered in the monastery, Dray and Plafius showed up outside the thick, wooden gates. Locambius went out to speak with them and closed the gate behind. No one inside the monastery walls could hear the words exchanged between the former friends, but there were many.
After a long conversation, Locambius opened the gate and escorted Dray and Plafius inside. Once they were inside, a monk played the wind-song and replaced the heavy timber cross beam that secured the gate closed. Peek ran over to them. He wanted to know what had happened. A thousand questions danced on his tongue, but Locambius silenced them all.
“Young sir, I have you to thank for reuniting me with my brother. You taught me — you led me — to forgive,” for the next words Locambius raised his voice for the whole monastery to hear, “I am pleased to welcome back our dear brother, Plafius. He brings with him a new acolyte to swell our ranks. The song continues; The Melody is good.”
The monks said, “Truth.” The villagers looked on dumbfounded.
Peek turned to Locambius, his eyes probing, questioning.
“Belief, young sir,” Locambius said, “is not immutable stone upon which unbelief crashes and breaks. Rather it is a glove that must be worn and used. It affects everything one touches, but is also changed by the one touching.”
Plafius laughed. It started as a low, gravelly chuckle, but quickly turned into a full-on, head-back, tears-streaming belly laugh. Locambius smiled, then chuckled, and finally joined in the joyous chorus. Dray and Peek looked at each other trying to suss out the sanity of their teachers.
“My brother always had the gift for obfuscation through beautification,” Plafius wiped the tears from his eyes. “I believe he meant to say that we were both in the wrong and are both learning how best to follow The Melody.”
Locambius smiled, “Truth. I also want to thank you, young sir, for reminding me of my duty. It takes a leader to recognize such things and a courageous leader to point them out.” Peek blushed at the praise.
Together they walked toward the huts. Locambius and Plafius were chatting quietly while Peek and Dray clasped hands and walked in blissful silence. Despite the coming raiders, things were getting better, moment by moment. Peek grinned like a fool. The old men sat around the table — a perfect replica of the one from the island — while the young ones found the empty scriptorium built for tradition and in anticipation.
They talked, laughed, leaned against each other, and never — even for a moment — stopped holding hands. How long Dray and Peek remained there, he didn’t know. The sun had shifted in the sky, but the overcast made it impossible to tell how much. What eventually roused them were shouts coming from all around. It took Peek a moment to resolve what they were saying.
The raiders were coming.
The first ship that had anchored off the island started moving and it was heading straight toward the village. Lookouts had spotted the motion and the word spread to the whole monastery. Villagers murmured and monks shouted orders. The plan was in motion. Monks and village archers lined the walls. More monks and the village warriors stood by the gate, ready to run out and face the Markay attackers.
For the first time, Peek realized that he didn’t have a place in this plan. He was not a villager, though his skills with the bow were equal to at least half of the men and women standing on the wall. Nor was he a monk; as an acolyte he had no place in their battle plans. Peek was alone with those of the village too old or young to fight. After a moment of pain at not being included, Peek decided that he would help however he could. He walked over to the gathered villagers and addressed them.
“Calm! Calm yourselves.” Peek spread his arms wide.
From the crowd people shouted questions: “Who’s that?” “It’s Vlek’s boy.” “No, he’s the bastard.” ”Why should we listen to him?”
Eventually they stopped and listened. Peek dropped his arms and scanned the group. His village, his people, but not.
“Even we who are not fighting should stand ready,” Peek began, still not sure what else he would say. “Those at the gates and on the walls
are brave and capable, but your bravery and skills are no less, only different. Each of you should select a monk and a villager to help. Get them water if they thirst, arrows if they run out, bandages if they’re wounded.”
They looked at him for a long moment and then turned back to muttering among themselves. When Peek called for their attention again they ignored him. Dejected, Peek turned away from the crowd and tried to puzzle out what he’d done wrong.
“Some people don’t know what’s best for them,” Dray said from beside him.
Peek nodded and looked around the monastery, unneeded and forgotten. But before he could descend into dejection, Dray tugged at his hand and smiled. She led him toward the cisterns and, together, they filled buckets. Peek and Dray distributed buckets of water around the walls and then started on the arrows. One and then two and then a handful of villagers noticed and joined them. It wasn’t everyone, but it was a start.
“Raiders on the shore!” The lookout shouted back to the rest of the monastery.
“Archers and wind-singers, ready!” Locambius commanded the forces.
“Longboats!” Shouted the lookout.
Peek wished he could see over the wall. Images of slavering raiders filled his mind as the sounds of battle intensified.
“Monks, play!” Locambius yelled.
The wind-song played with power. Even inside the walls, Peek could hear the curses of the Markay raiders as they struggled against the tumult. The placement of the monastery meant that the raiders couldn’t attack the seaward side, but would have to pass by the entire monastery before coming to the gates on the landward side. As they came on shore, Locambius called on the monks to stop playing and the archers to begin.
The sounds of death crept over the walls, screaming, gurgling, writhing, weeping, begging for release and then finding it in silence. The guttural Markay shouts started in panic, but then moved to purpose. The sounds shifted from arrows piercing flesh to the drum-like thud of arrows sinking into wood. The raiders were using shields, so the archers stopped firing.
