by James T Wood
“How did you afford it all?”
“Odd jobs, trading, bartering, and making it with my own hands. I just can’t have anything of Vlek’s with me.”
Cor stuck his arms out again as if the silent pleading would sway Peek where his words had failed. A half dozen words formed on his lips but never found breath. With his arms still out he pulled Peek into a rough embrace. After a moment Peek pulled back and looked into Cor’s eyes with thanks, loss, and fear. He hoped that Cor couldn’t see the fear. With a clap on the shoulder Peek turned and cast off again. Cor shoved him clear of the sandy shore and watched as Peek paddled out of his life.
Two
Years later another group of travelers came across the man in the desert. But he was different, and so was his tree. He sat calmly under the tree which had grown strong and tall. It shaded a great area and the spring bubbled into a pool that provided water for all the men and horses that came. The once wild man now sat and regarded his visitors.
When they spoke to him he looked confused at first, as if he’d never heard their language before. After a moment he cocked his head to the side and introduced himself.
“I am Eytskaim. How may I serve?”
The travelers did not know how to respond. They had no expectation of being served at a nameless oasis in the middle of the desert. After a conference they decided to make one request of Eytskaim.
“May we have some food for our journey?”
Again he regarded them with a confused look, but after a moment he nodded and smiled.
“When you wake, you will have all the food you need.”
“Listen. You will hear and you will change.” Academicus of Draioctha
T
he island was clearly visible from the shore; it was a common mystery in the village. The strong current pushed every boat away, but every young person had to try to reach it. As an unspoken rite of passage, they all paddled furiously toward the island until exhausted and then the current pushed them back home, like salmon to the spawn.
It was impossible to get there, so everyone said. But Peek knew it was possible. He’d met someone from the island: the old monk who came to the village and played for them. In a quiet moment, long after everyone had retired, the monk told Peek of his home on the island. Peek treasured the thought and held onto it through all his moments of service to Vlek. In the time since the monk had visited, Peek had thought of nothing else but getting to the island.
For Peek, the monk’s visit was blue sky in the midst of a storm. His visit brought out thoughts that Peek assumed were impossible. No one, besides Cor, had ever treated Peek with respect until the monk visited. The monk looked Peek in the eye, smiled, and did not call him either the polite or the crude version of his name. But more than that, the monk played music. His whistle was as different from the songs of the villagers as an eagle from a rat. When the monk arrived and offered to play in exchange for room and board, the village elders — especially Vlek — nearly laughed in his face. Yet the monk persisted and a feast was arranged to allow the village to hear the monk’s music.
Even Vlek couldn’t keep Peek away from the center of the village that night. Though he did observe from a place of hiding to avoid the worst of Vlek’s wrath and the people’s derision. The tumult of the crowd faded into silence as the monk took up his whistle and started to play. Something in this music differed. Peek had heard the washing songs of the women and the planting songs of the men and the learning songs of the children. Those were teaching songs and tools to keep the boredom at bay. This tune, though, was joy. There was no other way to describe it. The mundane songs of his village were drab, boring, hollow things. The monk’s tune floated, soared, and danced. It was dancing, life, happiness, and love in musical form.
Rapt, Peek edged out of his hiding a bit to see and hear better. He expected to see the villagers break into jubilant dancing because he desperately wanted to whirl and move in response to this music. He scanned the crowd and they all smiled politely, but none were dancing. A few tapped their feet, but there was no dancing. The monk stopped and took a long drink from the tankard at his side before raising his whistle again.
He returned to the beginning of the song and began to embellish the tune. It was, if anything, even more infectious. Peek resisted the incessant tugging, knowing that Vlek would punish him for being seen in public. He held on to the frame of the nearest hut to keep himself from being drawn in. Then he saw her. Dancing.
Dray was about his age. He’d seen her in the village when Vlek sent him on an errand, but he never had time to stop. Every time he saw her though it thrilled him. Her smile brought light, but more than that when she looked down at something and her lashes nearly touched her face, Peek could openly stare at her heart-shaped face, long light-brown hair, and slender neck. But he quickly turned away as soon as she looked up, praying that he wouldn’t be caught and punished.
There she was, the only one dancing in the middle of the village. She was the song embodied, moving with each note and amplifying its spell on Peek. His grip on the hut slipped and he started toward the center. Peek knew punishment awaited him for it, but he went anyway; his body left his mind without a choice.
Peek joined Dray without a word and they danced together. His gangly limbs found grace in the music. Together they danced. Her smile shone on him and his broke free in response. The monk played on and on while Peek and Dray gave themselves over to the dance. The village and the world disappeared. There was only song and dance and joy.
The whistle slowed, repeated, and slowed again releasing the captives. When the whistle dropped, both Peek and Dray looked at each other as if waking from a dream. They were startled, breathless, and still ecstatic.
“Come, young ones,” the monk bid them, gesturing with his drink
Peek saw Vlek in the crowd, seething; he risked everything and approached the monk.
“You like my song?” the monk asked.
“Very much,” Dray said with fervor.
Peek stood still; fear of Vlek stole his tongue.
“And you, young sir?” The bearded monk bent down and his breath carried the scent of ale. Unlike Vlek, however, this man’s eyes brimmed with mirth and something else.
Dray nudged Peek and he stammered a response.
“I…um…it was the best thing I’ve ever heard. I didn’t want you to stop playing. Ever.”
The monk laughed heartily, “You’re kind to say it,” he raised his voice to the rest of the village and said, “You may leave now; I will speak with these young ones for a time.”
The chief stepped forward with concern on his face. Dray’s father stood at his shoulder.
The monk laughed again, “Ah yes. It has been a long time.” He smiled at the chief before continuing, “I think you were but a youth the last time monks came. We have… neglected our duties. But not long ago it was quite common for a monk to come and play for a village. The song would call those with the ears to hear.”
Confusion slid across the face of the chief.
The monk continued, “You may keep watch, if you must, but my words are for these two alone. I mean no harm.”
The chief and Dray’s father spoke quietly to each other. Whatever they said resulted in Dray’s father leaving and the chief taking up a seat as far away from the monk and the children as possible while still remaining in the center of the village. Slowly the rest of the people left. Vlek lingered, still glaring, before eventually departing too. Every moment now counted for more pain later. Peek deemed the price well worth it.
Peek and Dray sat before the monk and he talked to them about the music. He continued to drink tankard after tankard of ale, but Peek noticed it only made him happier and more prone to laugh. At some point in the conversation Peek discovered that Dray had taken his hand. He struggled to pay attention to the monk after that, though Dray focused intently on his words. The monk sat bleary-eyed and stared off into the distance. With a sad voice he shared the story of his j
ourney from the island and his search for helpers. He promised that he would return to gather the helpers he’d found and to teach them more about the music. Eventually he dropped off to sleep where he sat. Peek and Dray slowly arose and kept their silence as they walked back to their separate huts.
It had been over a year since then and he hadn’t returned. Peek wanted to find the monk and learn the music. So he paddled toward the monk’s island home. Peek wanted Dray to go with him, to help him. He thought she’d go. But when Peek arrived at her family’s hut it was her brother, Kron, who greeted him and gave Dray’s reply. Even though Peek and Dray had found every spare moment to be together since the monk’s visit, Kron told him that she was done and wouldn’t talk to him anymore. Peek tried to plead, but Kron hushed him with a sentence: “She knows you’re a bastard.”
That was it. Peek’s greatest fear had come true. Dray had treated him with warmth and made Peek feel like he could return it. But now she knew; the warmth evaporated. Peek had nothing left but the music.
Peek opened his eyes, not realizing that he’d closed them to begin with. A quick check showed the island still ahead of him and the shore still behind. The worst of the journey awaited him yet. The memory of Dray, and a year spent basking in the light of her affection, only served to remind Peek of its chill absence. The hope of music drew him toward the island. But it never seemed to change its size on the horizon. No matter how hard he paddled it felt like he stayed motionless in the water. The current pushed harder than he could. Peek was losing and, when he did, Vlek would catch him.
He sighed and set his shoulders. He kept pulling with his paddle. At least he would die trying with all his might to live. The motion of the paddle had a rhythm all its own, each component like the beat of a song. First he would stab the paddle straight down into the water. Then, he’d pull back, not just with his arms, but with his whole body, leaning forward at the waist, bracing with his legs and driving with his shoulders. Then he’d twist to face the other side of the canoe and set up the next stroke.
Stab, pull, twist. Stab, pull, twist.
He tried to lose himself in reverie, but the rising wind denied him. He kept adjusting to stay on course with the island on the horizon. After what seemed like hours of struggle against the ocean, Peek checked the sky to see that the sun had barely moved. The current fought him and he battled back. He doubted his ability to reach the island. Fear found a place inside him and spoke the quiet words of failure. Another check showed his former home shore to be stationary behind him. For all his work, all his paddling, the current negated it. It was as if nature itself willed him to return home. But he couldn’t go back. Not now.
Stab, pull, twist. Stab, pull, twist.
The dance continued. As the sun approached its zenith, hunger and thirst howled. Peek pointed the bow directly into the current to minimize its effect and brought in his paddle for a moment. He pulled out the water skin and took a spare drink. It must last the entire journey. He chewed a handful of dried figs. Peek hated figs, but they were cheap enough for him to afford with the little money he could make cleaning out the dung-filled animal stalls in the village. Some food was better than no food, so he ate. Another sip of water and he was back to paddling.
He relished the freedom of a mid-day meal. Under the watch of Vlek, that was never allowed him. He could eat at dawn and dusk, sitting alone and dining on the leftovers from the family. Cor and Rea would sneak him more food from time to time, but if Vlek ever found out, the food went to the pigs. Now though, the meager food that Peek had was his own. No one could determine its fate but him. Peek recognized how small the victory was at the same time he thrilled in it.
His body held all the strength and vigor of a fit youth, but the continued hours of exertion tore him down. He ignored the growing aches and continued. Then his muscles began to burn. He winced at each stroke but kept paddling.
Through the haze of pain he remembered the words of the traveling monk: “We are creatures of air. Breath fills us with life. Not breathing takes life from us.” Peek breathed slowly and deeply in through his nose. The first time he breathed in so deeply and held it so long that stars started swimming in his vision. He expelled the air explosively. After a few more attempts, he found a rhythm that worked. Breathe in, pause, and breathe out. Again, in and then out. The pain lessened, just a bit.
Notes from the monk’s song whispered to him. He heard the refrain picked up in the call of the gulls circling overhead, the bass provided by the paddle thunking against the gunwale in perfect rhythm. Then the parts filled out as the rush of water against the bow added a counter rhythm to the paddle. In the distance a seal barked its part of the tune.
Peek hummed the monk’s song as best he could remember. He’d sung it to himself in the night, on the water, and everywhere he could find a quiet moment. In the time since the old monk’s visit, Peek had made the song his own, yet the drive to move never came. The magic of that moment around the fire with Dray eluded him. He continued to sing the song hoping to capture even a glimpse of the ecstasy of dancing in the firelight with Dray.
Peek still danced with Dray. Her soft, brown eyes laughed at him. Peek’s song changed, no longer the whistle’s call to dance. Instead he sang an invitation to Dray to come to his island and they danced away together, over the sea, whirling to the music. In his daydream, Peek and Dray became nothing but two soaring birds. Peek drank in her beauty, hair fanned like the wings of a cormorant. Her brown eyes were baked earth radiating the sun’s warmth and her smile the white foam of a cresting wave.
Peek laughed in sheer exuberance, thrilling in this moment of perfection; joy would not be contained. She only laughed at him more as they arrived on the stony shore. A sting of tears cracked Peek’s vision. Dray blurred. He tried to will her to stay with him, to keep dancing in his daydream. The jolt of his canoe against something solid broke the reverie altogether.
Peek shook his head, opened his eyes again, and looked up to see the island, not in the distance, but immediately before him. The bow of his canoe rested against a stone quay. From it arose steps that ascended into the distance. Peek was at the island.
He maneuvered his canoe up to the bottom stair and stepped out onto the island he’d imagined for so long. He grabbed the rope from the bow of the canoe to tie it up; after the search of a moment he found the carved rock that allowed him to secure the boat. Peek hauled out his supplies and arranged them into a pack that he could easily carry. The sun was already behind the shoulder of the island in the western sky. Peek guessed he had no more than two hours to make camp.
With the heavy pack over his shoulders, Peek started up the stairs. They were crude, but effective. Just flat stones stacked so that they overlapped. He guessed that the hidden side must be dug in to the soil of the island. However they were laid, he found it simple to ascend. He rounded the corner of the island after about twenty steps and glanced up. Then he stopped. The steps kept going, hundreds of them. He knew the island was tall, but from the water its height seemed manageable. From the base of the stairs it appeared insurmountable.
He sighed, set his shoulders firmly to his pack and started climbing again. At first he counted each step, but soon his pounding heart and sore body demanded other attentions. After the long day in the open canoe his body screamed protest at this new abuse. His legs quickly started burning and then aching. Peek found it helpful if he didn’t look at the top of the stairs, but at the step directly ahead of him. He stopped counting the total stairs around two-hundred. As he neared the top, Peek permitted himself a small smile – between gasping for breath – at his victories for the day. He was truly free.
At the top, Peek turned a sharp corner around an outcropping of rock jutting out of the grass of the island, only to find stairs ascending again into the distance. He swallowed hard and looked around. Behind him the sea roared in the distance, separated from him by large, sharp rocks. Ahead rose as many steps as he’d just climbed — if not more. Hope met r
eality in each step he climbed; the cost of paddling Peek had counted, but not the cost of climbing. He looked up toward the top and set out again.
At the next corner he saw steps continuing up the island. These steps rode a ridge, a saddle on the island with steep drops on either side to the sea and rocks below. He sat for a moment, took some water and ate a few figs before rising, unsteadily, to face the stairway. He stared at the top ahead with animus and stepped up again. The food had done little to restore his strength; sitting had only served to accentuate his weariness.
The steeply sloping ridge caught the wind and threw it at Peek from every side. One moment it buffeted him from the left, then it swirled to the right, then behind, then before. Peek struggled on, head down. He set the task for himself to reach the top, and he would succeed.
Over the sound of the wind in his face and the waves far below Peek started to hear something. Something rhythmic. The slapping rhythm reminded him of something that he couldn’t place. Weariness stole his mind and fogged his memory. With a furrowed brow Peek stepped to the last stone of the ridge and toward safety.
The monk from his village ran around the corner and plowed into him. For a moment he teetered on the edge of the steps. Then he fell.
Three
The travelers slept deeply and woke to find their packs bulging with the fruit of the tree. Not only that, but their water skins were filled, as were their salt-bags. Some of them swore that as they slept they heard unearthly music sung by the tree itself.
The story of the travelers spread slowly so it was years again before anyone else visited Eytskaim’s oasis. When the next group arrived they found the oasis surrounded by a stone wall with a lush garden planted inside. The little house that Eytskaim used was humble but perfectly constructed with sharp, straight corners and solid walls. The group marveled at the precision of the stonework and the size of the tree over the deep, crystal water.
