by Robin Jarvis
“TOM!” he yelled plaintively. “TOM!”
The automaton that was Thomas heard nothing, only the silken tones of Ma Skillet who told him to keep the struggling fieldmouse from clinging to the pier’s struts.
“NO!” Woodget cried, his mouth filling with river water. “TOM—HELP ME! PLEASE! YOU KNOWS I CAN’T SWIM!”
Ma Skillet cackled to herself and watched with satisfaction as the little fieldmouse’s head bobbed under the surface, emerging a second later, spluttering and retching until at last he sank below the water and did not return.
Rubbing her claws. Mother Lotus looked at Thomas and imagined the torture he would feel when her arts wore off and, with this malignant thought smouldering in her spiteful mind she lumbered away and vanished out of memory.
The morning passed and still Thomas sat as still as stone. Then, when the day was over and the evening grew chill, he stirred from the enchantment and stared stupidly about him.
“Woodj?” he called. “Woodj—where..
Then he remembered, and in stilted flashes he knew all that he had done.
Frantically he stared over the edge of the pier and saw that upon one of the splintered struts the fieldmouse’s blue woollen hat had snagged and there above the low tide it hung.
Snatching it to himself, Thomas leaped into the river and dived for his friend’s drowned body. But the tides had taken it and after many hours of relentless searching, the mouse clambered back onto the pier and in a thin, dreadful voice that was filled with anguish and unquenchable remorse—he screamed.
Sadhu
Gwen Triton crept back into the snug candle-lit room on board the Cutty Sark and, with a sorry shake of the head, looked around at the mess that was scattered about her husband’s sleeping form.
Thomas was slumped over the small desk and, biting her lip, she glanced over his shoulder. But the pages were devoid of any writing as she had suspected they might be and, despairing of the wreck he had made, she sat down upon the bunk and sobbed silently.
Yet far away, in the once great and fabled city of Hara, a mongoose was scaling the thousand steps that ascended the mountain and at her side, clinging to her paw, her young, toddling grandson was treading very carefully with a most solemn and sober expression upon his face.
At last he was climbing the great mountain where the two great eyes were carved above the expanse of shattered rock; it was his first visit to the Holy One and he was extremely excited at the prospect.
“Remember this day, Little Chattan,” his grandmother told him, “for the sadhu is most holy and devout. You must not ask him any questions.”
“Why, Nanna Sobhan?” the youngster queried. “Will he punish me?”
His grandmother chortled. “Of course not,” she said tenderly, “but his mind is too full of other matters to dwell on the talk of small boys.”
Up they climbed until at last they stood upon a rocky ledge where a small, ash-dusted figure sat hunched upon the bare stone and his eyes were staring into the vast, unseen distance.
Sobhan led Little Chattan around the ledge until they stood before the crouched shape and she bowed respectfully. Looking up at his grandmother, the boy did the same but his eyes could not tear themselves from the Holy One.
“Sadhu?” Sobhan said gently.
The figure breathed deeply then shifted slowly as if rousing from a deep slumber.
“Sobhan!” he declared. “Forgive me, I was far away. Now let me see—who is this young warrior you have brought before me?”
Little Chattan gurgled with amusement but blushed and looked shyly at his feet.
“It is my grandson, Sadhu,” she announced proudly. “Little Chattan—one day we hope he will be as brave as his great uncle.”
As she said this, Sobhan watched the Holy One’s face, but not a flicker of remembrance showed there.
“I pray for that also,” the sadhu said. “The tales of your brother rank amongst the most noble of our histories.”
Sobhan hung her head, then bit her lip as the aching wish to tell him swelled inside her again.
“Sadhu!” she blurted.
“Peace, little daughter,” the Holy One hushed her. “I know what is written in your mind, it is in mine also. Yet let that part of my life remain unknown to me. Where else would I be but here with you, my people?”
“But there are things you ought to know,” she said desperately.
The Holy One shook his head. “No, let them sleep. We must obey the will of the Green; he does not wish me to recall such events, so I am content.”
“Do you never have even a hint of a memory?” she murmured. “Is there nothing you can recall?”
“The songs of Zenna are too strong for that,” he answered mildly. “When she brought me to this place she had sustained me for many, many days and for that I cannot condemn her.”
“Yet I wish I could speak to you of...”
“You have a fine grandson, Sobhan,” the Holy One said briskly. “It pleases me to see him. Now, permit me to return to my meditation.”
Sobhan nodded and leading Little Chattan away, began to descend the great stairway.
Holding onto his grandmother’s paw. Little Chattan looked back at the curious figure of the sadhu.
“Can we visit him again, Nanna Sobhan?” he asked.
“Yes, Little Chattan, we may.”
The boy smiled, he liked the Holy One and thought he looked very wise and serious—even if he was a fieldmouse.
