by T. C. Edge
"I do?" I say, frowning. "No I..."
"Yes you do," he interrupts, nodding with a grin. "You're quite the chatter, actually. And snorer too."
"I do not snore."
"You know, I always find that a funny thing to deny," Jude says, leaning back casually on his tree stump. "I mean, you only snore when you're asleep, right? So, how can you possibly argue that you don't snore when someone sleeping next to you says you do?"
I consider it. It's a fair point.
"Depends on who says it," I say. "You're not a reliable source, Jude. I'm referring to the aforementioned teasing."
"Boy who cried wolf, hey?"
"Huh?"
"You know, the story Alberta used to tell us when we were younger. One of those old fairytales, or whatever they were called. The boy keeps pretending a wolf is attacking the sheep, and eventually the people stop believing him. Then one actually comes, and no one helps. It's like that. I've teased you too much that now, you won't believe anything I tell you."
"Yep, that sounds about right. So no, I do not snore."
He grins and takes a sip of coffee. "Like a pig," he says under his breath.
I turn my eyes to the sky, trying to discern the time of day. The light and angle of the shards coming through the trees tells me it's early morning.
"So how much further have you been before?" I ask, searching through the pine trees, fairly widely dispersed here, partly owing to the recent work of the lumberjacks.
Jude draws a breath before answering. "Not much further," he says, more softly than normal. "I remember coming here with my father once when he was teaching me to hunt. It's strange that I remember. There's nothing that noteworthy about this place."
I was thinking the same thing, glancing around and taking in the pleasant, if mundane stretch of woodland. The only real landmark is the river a little to the south of our position, one we crossed the previous night before setting camp. There was a large log there, fairly old, that had fallen over the water and been fashioned into a sort of bridge. Perhaps that was what brought about the memory in Jude?
I move over to him, sensing he could do with comforting, and take a seat on his tree stump. He doesn't speak much about his parents these days, though, if I think about it, he never really did. Their relationship was different to mine with my own parents; strained, yes, and difficult, but for different reasons.
While I began to grow apart from my parents because of our different religious and doctrinal stances, Jude grew frustrated because his were so rarely around. They were hunters and tradespeople, and would leave him with Grace, his mother's younger sister, for long stretches of time.
As a younger boy, Jude couldn't reconcile their work and duty with what he saw as a lack of caring for him. In reality, I'm certain they loved him dearly, but were drawn away by their roles here on the Fringe.
And then, one day, they went off on one of their trips and never returned. Ever since then, Jude has harboured a resentment against the lives they led, against the people who forced his family apart. While I quietly rebel against it all because of my grandmother and everything she's told me, Jude does so because of his personal experience of loss.
A loss that, I've come to realise, manifests itself in this jovial, quick witted, roguish attitude he bears. It is a charade, a cover. He acts like he does to cover his grief and keep it locked away.
I set my hand upon his, a tender and comforting gesture. We sit for a moment in silence, just looking out through the trees, enjoying the morning chirping of the birds and gentle rustle of the river nearby.
"We should head off," Jude says after a time. "We've got two or three days to go, I'd say, depending on how many breaks we want to take."
"As few as possible," I say, steeling myself again. The trek the previous day was mostly an endless march with only the rare stop. I'm hoping for the same, to get this done as quickly as possible. The more we sit and stop, and actually think about what we're doing, the more my resolve is likely to falter. And from here on out, the going is likely to be more dangerous as we grow closer to the great walls of Olympus.
The thought sets a nervous thrill inside me. I've heard about the city so much over the years, likely a mixture of truth and fable, of real accounts from those who have seen the city from afar, and those who are merely repeating what others have said. Yet accounts of what lies within that grand facade are rare as a blue rose, and therein we enter the realm of speculation.
I should have gone to grandma, I think, turning to look back the way we came. She knows things. She's lived there before. I should have pressed her on it, gotten her advice...
I draw a breath and step away from that thought. In reality, she might just have tried to convince me to stay, to make sure that only one of her granddaughters, and not two, were lost to the city she seems to detest so much.
The doubts spiral again, the fearful, risk-averse part of me rising up and calling for me to turn back. I look to Jude and find his gaze upon me. Immediately, I know he knows what I'm thinking. He can see it all over my expression; the nerves, the worry, the doubts and fears.
"Come on, Goldie, let's get going," he says, grin forming. He stands from the tree stump and pulls me to my feet. "Enough second-guessing yourself, OK? We've made this decision and we're sticking to it. You'd regret it forever if you turned back now."
I nod, knowing he's right. It's just what I needed to hear.
"Good. Much better," he says, watching my face change. "Now get that mat rolled up and let's get on our way. We should reach Black Ridge by mid afternoon if things go well." He looks to the sky, noting the weather, eyes scanning carefully towards the western horizon where the peaks of the old Rocky mountains frame the landscape. I follow his gaze and see clouds forming there, suggesting the prospect of rain later on. "We'll keep an eye on that," he says. "Hopefully it won't be anything more than a downpour if it comes this way."
Once again, I look at Jude and feel entirely blessed to have his support. He smiles, gestures for me to gather my things, and sets about putting out the campfire, cleaning his pot of coffee, and fixing it to his bag.
Minutes later, we're back off on our trek, moving further into territory I've never been before.
The town of Black Ridge is one that's well known across the western edge of the Fringe, but one I've never been to before. Situated along the side of a shallow cliff face, and extending down across the plains, it's much larger than Pine Lake and, now that I'm seeing it for the first time, much less attractive.
That's understandable given its situation. Unlike where Jude and I live, Black Ridge sits beyond the pinewoods and out on the rugged plains that stretch into the distant north. It marks the edge of the woods and tranquil, pretty lakes, and the beginning of the harsher flatlands that extend for hundreds of miles northwards. And, somewhere out there, Olympus awaits, surrounded by mile upon mile of empty land on all sides, giving the city a vast open view of the world upon its doorstep.
I suspect that the city was built there for a reason, in homage to Mount Olympus, the mythical home of the ancient Greek Gods. An immense, towering mountain upon which the gods looked down upon mortal man, just as these false deities, as they see themselves, do the same with all Devotees across the Fringe.
How they built such a staggering place is, of course, subject to debate and speculation back home. But as far as I know it - and as far as grandma has told me - a lot of its creation is down to specialised men and women known as Forgers, people with the power of telekinesis and teleformation, capable of manipulating and reforming matter at will.
When I think of such things, I grow more understanding of the worship and devotion shown to the Children of the Prime. To be able to create things, to reshape the world using only the power of one's mind...well, there is something strangely divine about that.
As we leave the edge of the thicket we're passing through, and begin edging across the craggy plains towards Black Ridge, Jude slows our step. He turns to me wit
h brow furrowed and grin absent. I know he's got something serious to say.
"How much do you know about Black Ridge?" he asks me, the query delivered ominously.
I shrug, staring out at the oddly arranged town, formed more of stone and rock than the wooden structures I'm used to. "Not a great deal," I say. "I know it's the main town this side of the Fringe, and the closest major settlement to Olympus."
Jude nods. "And its proximity means it's about as devout a place as you'll find," he tells me. "As visitors we need to be careful to obey their customs and appear as good Devotees. They don't take kindly to any words or acts of heresy here. This isn't Pine Lake."
"Jeez. That bad?" I ask, growing nervous. "I thought Pine Lake was devout."
"Everywhere's devout," Jude says, drawing a breath. "But it's all relative. And here, you won't find a single individual who isn't a highly committed Devotee. I come here to trade sometimes because they create a lot of excellent produce, and I'm amazed by how much they give in tribute. I visited once a couple of days before the collection, and their collection square was already full to bursting with offerings and tributes."
"That must be hard to protect," I say, guiding my eyes towards the town built along the edge of the ridge, the rock much darker than normal, hence the town's name.
"Protect?" Jude asks.
"Yeah. All that produce being gathered days before collection," I say. "That's like a beacon for thieves to come and loot it, right?"
"Wrong," Jude says. "No one would dare, not here. They don't actually assign anyone to protect it."
"No one?" I ask, shocked.
He shakes his head. "We're in the shadow of Olympus here, Amber. They think that everything they do is being watched, and wouldn't dare do anything to anger the Prime."
"Then I guess we'd best keep our mouths shut then," I say. I turn my eyes eastwards, scanning the terrain. "Is there a way we can go around and avoid it?"
"Not without going miles out of our way," Jude says. "Just follow my lead and we should be OK. If we're questioned about where we're going, leave that to me. I have some contacts here who might be able to help us through."
I frown, not expecting this. How I thought I'd be able to make this trip alone is beyond me.
"So we're not technically allowed to pass beyond the borders of the town?" I ask.
"That depends," Jude says. "There are one or two trading outposts and smaller settlements further out onto the plains, but this is generally as far as people are permitted to go. The lands north of here are considered sacred ground as you get closer to Olympus. Only merchants, preachers, and select individuals are generally allowed to pass. That's why they're called the Sacred Plains."
"And you think you'll be able to?"
"I've done so before," Jude says. "That coffee we had earlier. They produce it in one of the smaller outposts to the northwest. I bring good cuts of meat and get some in exchange. We'll be fine."
I analyse his expression and come to a different conclusion. Evidently, getting through Black Ridge isn't always something that goes to plan. And if we're turned away...then what?
I refuse to ponder the question, knowing it'll only set me on edge. Instead, I allow Jude to lead us on, promising to behave as all good Devotees should, and let him handle any exchanges.
Thankfully, I've had plenty of practice observing the model Devotee.
As I walk on, I think of Lilly again. And my resolve stiffens further.
10
Having lived all my life in the woods and forested valleys, never far from a beautiful lake or river in the shadow of the western mountains, seeing a town as rugged and stark as Black Ridge is something of a culture shock.
Around me, the houses line winding streets, fashioned from stone and rock mined from nearby quarries. Many are dark in colour, much like the lofty ridge that runs along the western side of the town. Upon that cliff face, I see a couple of tiers cut into the rock, with more homes and structures situated along them. Many have small balconies that look over the town as it slopes away towards the plains to the east.
It's not pretty in the way that Pine Lake and the surrounding settlements are, but it's visually quite arresting. All along the streets, I see statues of the Prime and other important figures from Olympus, most notably his Heralds and some of the Chosen. Of course, it's hard to know exactly who each statue is portraying, given that they rarely pass by this way.
Then again, perhaps they do more frequently than I imagine. Down in Pine Lake, it's rare to see anyone more important than Ceres appear - and he's only a Collector. Here in Black Ridge, it's possible that some of the more influential Children of the Prime are spotted from time to time.
I regard the people as we go, noting the slightly different way they dress, and the manner of their behaviour. You'd think that life in this dusty, rugged town would lead to a harsher dress code, but the opposite appears to be true. Mostly, the people seem to be fairly well attired in loose fitting robes, cloaks, and dresses, each of them coloured with earthy tones of brown, grey, and various shades of white.
"Do they dress more colourfully during the collection?" I whisper to Jude as we pass through, receiving a few unwelcoming looks from the locals as they get on with their days of worship.
He shakes his head, his posture and general movement slightly different to normal. That casual swagger he affects is gone, replaced by a more upright and rigid stance. "Not really. They wear ceremonial dress, but not particularly colourful. I don't know why that's developed in Pine Lake. Other places I've seen are a little more muted in colour. I suppose that here they tend to colour coordinate with the environment."
"Makes sense," I say, trying to mirror Jude's new walk. I turn my eyes around the people again and find that everyone looks to adopt a similar manner of motion, their posture stiff and respectful whether walking or merely sitting. It looks exhausting, having to be so careful at all times, thinking that any wrong step might incur the wrath of the Prime.
We continue on, heading through central streets that brim with life. Pockets of people gather in conversation, whispering in hushed tones. I begin to feel self-conscious as I see them, wondering if Jude and I are the cause. When I ask him, he assures me that we're not, and that outsiders come here often from outlying settlements, and that we're nothing out of the ordinary.
"What do you suppose they're all talking about then?" I ask. "It looks like there's something going on."
Jude nods, eyes narrow. Above, the sky darkens a little, dark grey clouds sweeping down from the west. The air grows heavy with the incoming scent of rain. It seems that downpour that Jude predicted is set to hit us soon.
"I'm not sure," Jude finally answers. I see a few people disappear indoors as a few light drops of rain begin to fall. Others merely shift into tighter formations below balconies and awnings, glancing to the skies and then falling back into conversation.
"You think Ceres passed by recently?" I ask. "Or some of his men? Maybe they collected a few people from here to take to Olympus, like Lilly?"
Jude nods absently. "Possibly," he says. "But...this seems bigger."
We reach the end of a wide street that opens into a square. It looks to me to be the town centre, a large statue of the Prime in the middle, a number of men and women kneeling around it in prayer. I watch them a moment, distracted, as they move in unison, humming and whispering words of praise, recitations that I hear from the more faithful Devotees back home.
Once more, Lilly springs into my mind, a specific recollection drawn up; that of my younger sister at prayer by her bed, whispering the very same words to the carved figure of the Prime she fashioned. I stare at the large statue, and note that, like Lilly's carving, it remains more featureless than other statues and figures I've seen, often depicted in hood and robes, adopting a position that obscures the face.
Even here, in this most pious of places, the true visage of the Prime remains unknown.
A light rumble of thunder sounds in the west, see
ming to trigger an increase in the rainfall above. I notice others retreating out of the rain as Jude draws me to one side of the square, where we take temporary cover beneath a small balcony. I keep watch on those praying around the statue and see that they don't move at all. All continue to kneel and murmur, speaking their prayers in a kind of trance.
"There's always a group at prayer here," a voice comes from behind us. The suddenness of it startles me, croaking from the shadows only a few feet away. I turn around and find an elderly man hidden in the gloom of an alcove, leaning casually against a wall.
He takes a step forward into the diminishing light, his wizened frame looking weak and, understandably, struggling to maintain the perfect posture everyone else seems to adopt. His greying eyes flick into the town square once more. I turn to follow as another crack of thunder bellows, and see that, once more, the men and women at prayer don't even flinch at all.
I notice something else as I look at them, conducting a quick count. There are ten, five men and five women.
"Are there always ten?" I find myself asking, turning back to the old man, dressed himself in neat grey robes, clean and only faintly frayed at the edges.
He nods and works up a kindly smile. "Always, yes," he tells me, his voice pleasant and affable, as if he relishes sparking conversation with those who are clearly from out of town. "The most devout among us take it in turns, praying for an hour at a time in their groups. The figure of ten is to represent perfectionism, and the equal split of five men and five women represents the unity of the genders."
"Like the symbols," Jude says. "The symbols on our banners and flags."
The old man nods. "The symbols of the Prime, yes," he says. "The very same markings are even cut into the foreheads of the Heralds. Did you know that, young man?"
Jude frowns, shaking his head and pursing his lips. The old man then looks at me, the same query on his face. I shake my head too.
