by Matt Hiebert
Siyer dismounted and organized packs of food and water across his shoulders. Quintel did the same. They stripped the horses of tack and saddle and set them free. The two men would finish their journey on foot.
When the horses were gone, they continued to places no man ventured. The salt crunched beneath their boots and the wind erased their tracks as quickly as they were made. A harsh glare smothered their sight beyond a few steps ahead.
The night was less kind. The wind thrashed them, tearing at their exposed skin with jagged crystals of salt. It screamed and howled, summoning sudden whirling incarnations of fury that knocked them to the ground and snatched the supplies from their backs. Their only defense was to wrap themselves in their robes and lie flat until the tantrums subsided. When a moment of calm arrived they stood and continued their journey until the next raging fit.
When daylight returned, the air baked around them. Unaltered humans could not have survived the conditions with a caravan of provisions. Even with their heightened stamina, Quintel and Siyer struggled. By their fourth day upon the flat white shingle, they were almost out of water, the single element they could not survive without. Siyer calculated that five more days of walking remained.
“We must conserve the last few drops of our water. Our duel with the desert is but half won.”
Quintel felt no desire to retreat. The desert raged at them as if alive with hate, but its wrath was outside of him, outside of his control. Its might was of no comparison to his determination to push through. He knew if he could keep his feet falling one after another, the battle would be won.
Step after step, they marched. White before them, blue above them, a stinging haze all around. Each direction appeared identical, but they paid the monotony no heed.
They decided to forfeit rest and use the nights for travel, at least when the wind allowed it. The side of Quintel that craved the surrender of sleep was stifled by his preternatural discipline. When his body cried for mercy, his spirit pushed onward. Quintel remembered his banishment years ago. He had been weaker then.
They rationed their water into portions that barely offered a taste. Two days away from their destination, the last droplets trickled down their parched throats.
By then, both men were numb, oblivious to their drained and damaged bodies. They no longer spoke. Quintel limped several paces behind Siyer, who plodded forward with the glazed stare of the dead.
On the smoldering midmorning of their ninth day upon the desert, a faint shape nicked the sky before them. It was a tiny white line, jutting from the flat horizon like a solitary fang.
Siyer stopped. “Do you see it? Do you see it, Quintel?” he said in a raspy whisper.
“What is it?”
Siyer smiled. A renewed strength radiated from his essence.
“That is God's Finger. Our destination,” he said.
Chapter 12
God's Finger thrust a mile above the earth, a tower of salt stabbing the sky with deliberate defiance. Even several miles away, Quintel could tell that it was not a natural structure. Nor was it manmade. Men did not have the ability to build a tower so gigantic, and nature would never carve an object so blasphemous to its surroundings.
Behind God's Finger, the northern edge of the world dropped into black oblivion. White clouds boiled from the void like smoke from a cauldron.
With their goal in sight, his spirit caught flame and Quintel broke into a run. Twice he fell sprawling into the grit, his body too weary to answer the demand of his will. A white mask of salt caked his face.
“Pace yourself!” Siyer called from behind him. “Much effort lies before us. You will need your strength.”
Quintel stopped running, but kept his step brisk. He wanted only to reach the end of his journey.
Although the monolith seemed to be just before them, its proportions deceived him and he soon discovered that it was still many miles away.
As he grew nearer, Quintel noticed that the structure's surface was not smooth, as he had thought from a distance, but etched with millions of elaborate spirals, whirls and zigs of various size and complexity. Although the markings were strange, there was something familiar about them.
“God's Finger is Yuul's fortress in the corporal world,” Siyer said once they reached the base of the structure. “No army can violate its pinnacle and harm the god when it manifests. We will rest here for the night. Tomorrow, we scale the pillar.”
“Scale it?” Quintel coughed in disbelief. “It is a mile high and lacks stairway or ladder.”
“Yes, I know,” Siyer said. “If you can think of another way to get to the top I would be interested in hearing it. Do not fear, the carvings provide more than adequate holds, if one knows how to play them right.”
Quintel did not argue, although the possibility of successfully climbing the enormous pillar seemed impossible even with their extraordinary prowess.
The wind regained its sanity at the tower's base. It seemed the structure tamed the surrounding white desert. A peaceful night settled upon them. They had no materials to build a fire, so they rested their backs against God's Finger and watched the clouds being born from the abyss.
As he observed the white mountains of mist rising from the darkness, Quintel gradually realized that the end of his quest waited but hours away. His meeting with Yuul had arrived. His fear was gone. He had grown beyond that. Relief was also absent. Instead, a sense of accomplishment shaped his feelings. He felt like a carpenter placing the last nail, an artist brushing the final stroke. His work was drawing to an end.
Siyer saw these tides within his thoughts and rose from his seated position. He stood with his back straight and chest pushed out in a very formal and serious posture. Quintel could tell he had rehearsed the words many times before.
“Tonight is the last night you will spend as a human being,” he began. “Before your parents were born, circumstances had been construed to lead you here, to your destiny. Now, the final moment is upon us. By tomorrow evening you will be a creature of flesh, but with the eyes and mind of a god. To ask what this means is futile, for no one knows — not even the gods themselves. Will it be you who holds the power of a god, or Yuul who holds the power of a man?”
Siyer crouched and placed his hand on Quintel's shoulder. “You must acknowledge something to me now, Quintel,” he said. “Do you realize that tomorrow may be your last day of existence?”
Quintel continued to watch the clouds, enchanted by their ballet.
“Yes,” he answered. Siyer sat across from him.
“Then let us prepare.” Siyer began binding his consciousness into a point that settled near the middle of his physical body. An enchanted strength filled him, replenishing the energy he had spent crossing the desert.
Quintel followed his lead. The transcendence pushed fatigue and hunger behind him. He floated within himself, preparing his physical body for the next day's climb. The ascent would have been difficult even if he were refreshed and prepared. After traveling hundreds of miles across a crystalline desert, the effort would require more strength than he possessed.
He watched Siyer align the individual aspects of his being and force them to work in union. Body, mind, spirit, synchronized to a single task. It took Siyer only a few moments of concentration to harmonize his ethereal and physical selves. Quintel was not so adept. After several hours of effort, he attained a shaky alliance between his identities. His body had long since fallen asleep, but his mind and spirit plodded onward. He hoped the results would be enough to supply him with the final burst of strength he needed to finish the journey.
They rested through the night, but at the first hint of light, they broke camp and prepared for the climb. Siyer dug through one of the packs and removed a short length of rope he had acquired in Argoth.
“Tie this around your waist,” he said, handing Quintel one end of the rope.
Quintel did as Siyer said, but noted, “You don't expect this to provide any safety, do you? Should I lose m
y hold and fall, you will not be able to support both of us with so thin a grip.”
Siyer knotted the other end of the rope around his own waist and said, “Safety is not the purpose of the rope. Should you fall, I want to fall with you. I do not wish to wait another hundred years just to go through this ordeal again.”
“I see.” He could not tell if Siyer were joking.
Siyer removed his boots and approached the pillar. He examined the elaborate runes and found an indentation which fit the ball of his foot. After a few more seconds, he found two other niches for handholds. Then he started to climb. He scurried up the side of the pillar as if on a ladder, his hands and feet never pausing with doubt. The rope linking them tightened and tugged him to a stop.
“Hurry up,” Siyer called down to Quintel. “We must reach the top before night.”
Quintel was standing at the base of the pillar searching the carvings for appropriate leverage. Although several notches provided an adequate grip, they were poorly placed for a following position. Finally he found a series of slots that allowed him to mount the tower, but after a dozen feet, he ran out of holds.
“I can't seem to find a proper grip,” he shouted to Siyer, who kept the rope stretched tight with distance.
“You're overlooking something,” Siyer shouted down.
“What?”
“Study the carvings carefully.”
Quintel examined the swirling designs covering the surface of the pillar.
Siyer continued. “Do they remind you of anything?”
They did, but Quintel could not tell what. Then he realized something. The symbols were representations of ideals beyond their shape. He realized they were pictograms of the game. They represented lines of play, paths of attack, and methods of defense. As he understood this, his eyes traveled up the column. He saw that by following certain lines of offense, handholds appeared. He recognized a common progression he had played before and his fingers found anchor. His right foot followed, then his left hand.
As the rope slackened Siyer continued up the shaft. In moments they had put considerable distance between themselves and the ground.
Quintel looked down. They had reached a height that would kill them if a hold slipped. As his hands and feet followed one another up the side of God's Finger, Quintel allowed himself small moments to refocus his energies. A moment of fatigue could prove fatal for both men.
For the rest of the morning they climbed the structure like lizards up a wall. The earth below became a white blur, and the horizon took on a convex shape. Wispy clouds met them at eye-level and ringed the tower. After another hour, they were looking down upon the same clouds which now hid the world beneath them.
Hand, foot, hand, foot. By late afternoon, the flat peak of the spire appeared above them.
“We are almost there,” Siyer said
Although his breath was labored and pain squeezed his arms, Quintel knew he would reach the top.
Before night fell, Siyer crested the rim of the tower and stood upon its firm, horizontal surface. He assisted Quintel with a tug at the rope.
Quintel pulled himself up and stood upon the level pinnacle of God's Finger. He was astounded at the sight before him, for the summit of God's Finger bore no resemblance to its vertical walls. Not a grain of white salt was visible.
The top of the tower was capped with a garden so lush it could be called a jungle. Ancient trees of hybrid varieties exploded in rich blooms of violet, red, green and yellow. Gigantic flowers offered symmetry in careful poses. Rows of manicured shrubbery radiated from the center of the garden in graceful, orderly rings. A vibrant green carpet of low grass soothed the soles of Quintel's burning feet. The moist musk of life hung heavy in the air.
“Beautiful,” Quintel thought aloud.
Siyer smiled and removed the rope from both their waists, coiling it upon the ground. “It is our sanctuary,” he said. “Now follow me. I will show you the nucleus of the garden.”
Siyer led him down a visible path which wound through the mathematically placed hedges and impossible foliage.
He followed Siyer through the explosion of plant life in silence. After weeks of traveling across a blinding white desert, the deluge of color left him dazed.
After a few moments they reached the center of the garden. There, surrounded by a ring of ancient oaks, was a circular pool of water with a surface so still not a single ripple disturbed it.
At the sight of the water, Quintel fell to his belly and plunged his face into the pool.
Siyer laughed. “It is called the Minion's Well and, yes, it is safe to drink,” he said, joining Quintel at the edge of the pool.
The pure liquid traveled down their throats without resistance. As he drank, Quintel saw the pool was actually the top of cylindrical shaft which apparently ran the entire height of God's Finger. With his face in the water he could see dozens of yards down the barrel.
Their strength returned with every refreshing gulp. Almost bloated, Quintel rolled over on his back and looked into the blue sky.
“So this is what it's like to be a god?” he said, relishing the satisfaction that filled his veins.
“No,” Siyer said swallowing his last drink from the pool. “This is what it's like to be a god's minion.”
Quintel sat up letting his hands brush the green grass. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. No walls confined him, no guards pursued him, the elements were not trying to crush him. It had been many years since he enjoyed such freedom -- if he ever had.
Day waned. A dying pink and orange light traced the surrounding horizon. The sky above dimmed to deep plum.
“We should not wait much longer,” Siyer said. “We already trail our schedule.”
Quintel knew that the moment was upon them. For a flashing instant, fear threatened to rise, but he clamped it down.
“Yes,” Quintel said. “We should not wait.”
Both men stood. Siyer turned to Quintel and their eyes locked. He did not say a word, Quintel understood. Siyer was saying goodbye. The old Vaerian embraced him.
“There was never a finer pupil,” he said. “You have learned well.”
Quintel returned the embrace.
“All was the work of the teacher,” he answered and emotion came through, laced between his words. Although he did not sob, tears cast a sheen over his eyes. The two men had spent years constructing the events that led them to this time and place. Soon their efforts, the years they had given, would be trivia, and Quintel, as he stood at that moment, would be no more. “Let us summon this god of yours. The three of us have a destiny to meet.”
Siyer stepped back and smiled a sad smile.
“Very well,” he said.
Chapter 13
Siyer knelt beside the pool and closed his eyes. Strand by strand, he again forced the separate aspects of his being to work in unison. Quintel sensed that the effort was different from the others he had witnessed. Unlike the healings and feats of endurance he had seen Siyer perform before, this exertion moved outward, not inward.
The force collected in the air around them, swirling in spiral patterns that spread away from the Vaerian. Quintel realized that Siyer was sending a message.
A fragment of thought snapped away from the old man's form. It fluttered into the night like a pheasant breaking from a field. Quintel felt its departure within his own spirit.
Siyer groaned and collapsed. The task had transcended his abilities and left him empty.
Quintel cradled the minion in his arms.
“Siyer, are you all right?”
Siyer looked up at him with a half-smile, his eyes barely open.
“Be alert, boy,” he said. “The god approaches.”
A thick silence engulfed the garden. Not a blade of grass stirred. An eerie blanket of stillness smothered everything until it seemed even time itself had stopped.
The air rippled above the pool as if a grain of sand had been dropped upon the surface of a dead ocean. The rippli
ng expanded at the edges until it formed a disk of considerable diameter. Transfixed upon the singularity, Quintel watched without blinking. The disk pulsed in the air with metered spasms.
“Do you feel it, boy?” Siyer said. “Yuul joins us.”
Quintel realized he did feel something; a hollowness deep in the pit of his stomach, not unlike the sensation of terror. It was the god's approach tugging at his soul.
Within the center of the airborne disk, Quintel noticed a tiny silver speck. The speck held a brilliance that was not born of light. As he watched, it grew larger.
Siyer rolled to his hands and knees and placed his face in the grass.
“Kneel,” he said.
Quintel imitated Siyer's position without hesitation, but could not take his eyes off the glowing point.
The point grew and took the shape of a silver sphere. As if rushing upon them from a great distance, the sphere swelled to fill the rippling portal and Quintel felt his breath leave his lungs.
The orb spun wildly in the air above them. Fingers of crackling blue lightning traced its shape. It throbbed with a pulse like a heartbeat.
Yuul had arrived.
Without a sound, the god spoke to them. The words formed new within their minds.
“I AM,” it announced.
Quintel averted his eyes and pushed his face into the grass. He sensed Siyer rise and make a series of movements with his hands. He assumed this was some ritual greeting but would not look up to see. It was not fear that caused him to hide his face, but an emotion reserved for the moment when a man meets a god. He did not need superhuman senses to feel the deity's immense power and realize his significance in comparison. The invisible winds of eternity emanated from the being. More than anything, Quintel was aware of his own frailty.
“O Great Yuul, Benefactor of Man,” Siyer said with a tremor to his voice. “I, your minion and servant, have fulfilled the obligation given to me more than one hundred years ago. I have cultivated your strategies and harvested their fruit. Here is the vessel for your entrance into the world.”
