The Creed

by Perla Giannotti

  “You’re not bad, fool. Everything that’s missing in that head of yours, you put into your art. It was a great circus act, no doubt about it... well, is there something you have for me?” he asked with a fake, greedy smile. Marrhit detached himself from the wall and lifted his gaze to him. The man drifted away and forgot what he was doing; he had a lost air of one who does not understand what is happening around him. He gave a distracted order to his men to take up their positions. Then he left under the horrified gaze of the Governor who had given him a precise order to do over the two jugglers. His wife saw him unsettled.

  “Is something wrong, dear husband?”

  “No, it’s nothing...”

  Selot realized that Marrhit’s knees were about to give way under his weight from extreme exhaustion. He stood beside him to offer support without letting the guests see. He was aghast at seeing the mettle of his brother so weakened. He never thought he’d see the limits of his resistance.

  “Gather everything up,” he whispered, turning his back to the table, “we must be quick to leave.”

  “But...you’ve already sorted it all out,” Selot objected pointing to the captain who was leaving.

  “No,” interrupted Marrhit, “we are in danger. Do not argue with me.”

  Selot hurriedly picked up the equipment of the show. They bowed deeply to acknowledge the Governor, who had given the order to lead them outside the palace.

  “What? Are they not paying us?” Marrhit asked in a whisper. He was already heading towards the Governor, when Selot pulled him over:

  “Let it go this time.”

  They rounded up their horses outside the palace. Marrhit lifted himself onto his horse with great trouble.

  “Towards the north,” he said dragging his words.

  “The gates are closed at this hour,” Selot objected.

  “Marrhit looked at him with tired disgust.

  “Well,” he rushed to find a solution, “let’s say it’s not a problem.”

  And it actually wasn’t. Marrhit raised his stare to the men on the north door. They turned the heavy mechanism that set the wheels in motion without a word. Once it was open, they closed it, forgetting the reason for which they’d opened it in the first place. Each one however, didn’t dare ask the others and preferred to keep quiet on the whole matter.

  The two Vetems departed at a trot, slowed down by the cart and the rule that imposed Selot to keep his hands behind his back at all times. And furthermore, Marrhit rode on slowly, pale and bent over. After a mile, he got down from his horse and vomited. Then he sat on the ground, exhausted, leaning his back against a giant boulder which was on one side of the cart track they were traveling along. Selot led the horses and the cart to a grassy clearing nearby. He leaned over Marrhit and handed him a piece of root that Asheeba had supplied him. Marrhit shoved his hand away.

  “No...it’s not necessary I eat it raw. Prepare a broth, use only a sliver.” Selot saw a tired youth before him. He lit a fire and prepared the recipe he’d learned from Asheeba. He left the mixture to cool in the little pot and poured a small amount in a bowl. When he came back to tell him the broth was ready, he found him asleep with his head buried between folded arms, against his knees which were pulled up to his chest.

  “Marrhit...” he called him, at first softly, then shaking him a little.

  The Vetem awoke with a glazed air. He smelt the aroma of broth. He brought the bowl to his lips and took a sip.

  “It’s disgusting.” Selot had tasted it earlier and he couldn’t blame him, it was at best undrinkable. Nevertheless, after the first few sips and the corresponding grimaces of disgust, Marrhit had swallowed the entire bowl.

  “Give me more,” he commanded. Selot brought him another three bowls, full to the brim and Marrhit drank them one after another, feeling his body demand the substance.

  “Now, I must sleep, do not wake me.” He got up and stumbled over to the cart. He lay out his cloak on the ground and lay down, falling asleep immediately. He curled up into a ball because of the cold which fell with the darkness.

  Selot sat watch all night.

  Upon awakening, Marrhit found Selot inevitably in prayer and perfectly vigilant. He’d turned in his direction the minute he’d heard Marrhit move in his sleep. He approached him, offering him bread he’d cooked in the night, in a little makeshift oven built with stones he’d found around them. Marrhit had smelt the aroma and was already devouring the bread with his eyes. He was as hungry as a lion. Still lying down, he grabbed the loaf greedily, and tasted the goodness in his mouth; it was delicious. After wolfing it down, he looked more closely at Selot and started laughing pointing with his index finger.

  “You’re drenched!” he ridiculed him as he gulped down his bread.

  “Lots of dew last night,” a very cold Selot confirmed; his hair was wet and it stuck to his neck; his lips were blue; he was extracting another loaf from the sack he held. It was only then that Marrhit who was warm and dry, realized that Selot had used his own cloak to cover him. He’d also used the canvas cover of the cart to make a type of tent. With two sticks and the edge of the cart, he’d been able to protect Marrhit’s bed from damp. Marrhit recognized one of the two sticks instantly: it was the one he’d used to torment Selot on the first day they’d met. He sat down. He removed Selot’s cloak far from him. He then moved his eyes from the stick to Selot’s eyes, like a snake that tastes the force of the mongoose. What did it mean? Was it a challenge? With a swift, determined gesture, he grabbed the stick and launched it far from the canvas. He jumped to his feet, once more in control of all his powers. Selot watched him calmly, handing him the second loaf.

  “You can throw that one away,” he said carelessly, pointing at the gnarled wood, “it’s not needed now...”

  ...I transformed it he finished, with his thoughts only. I transformed the hate which you used on me into healing I had for you this night.

  “I thought I might use it again,” Marrhit said with a sneer, weighing up where it might have the best grip.

  “Well then, after you’ve used it, I’ll have to keep hold of it again,” Selot responded without getting ruffled. Marrhit held back his words. He caught his meaning.

  “Asheeba has filled your head with silly ideas,” he said disdainfully, “you’ll never be a warrior.”

  “I will be in my own way,” he replied, displaying a surety he didn’t feel in the least. Perhaps he’d made a silly mistake. He handed him the bread once more, looking for a gesture that did not challenge him, nor seem too subservient. Marrhit narrowed his eyes in a moment of indecision. Then he flung the stick far from him and grabbed the loaf with greed.

  “Have you got any more?”

  “Yes. Asheeba warned me you would have a voracious appetite after you came to.” Marrhit grunted in satisfaction.

  “Let’s get going,” he said, after he’d devoured the bread. “We have less time than you can possibly imagine.” He pointed to the cart. We’ll have to leave it behind. Get dressed.” He took hold of the clothes of a warrior, attaching all of his weapons. “Prepare to ride without rest. We must reach the Rotmandi lands in a few days.”

  In short, they once more had the semblance of warriors.

  “You weren’t aware of anything, were you?” Marrhit asked him, once they were both in the saddle.

  Selot understood that he was referring to what had happened the night before, when they had distanced themselves in what felt like an escape. It must have been something very grave.

  “The guest who did not come,” Marrhit began, “is a Xàmvetem. None of them are aware of it, not even the Governor, but I read his passages within their souls. The anxiety placed in their memories, the creeping fear the being left in them to compel them. I felt him arrive last night,” he added in a low voice. “I shielded us just in time.”

  “I was aware of nothing,” Selot said, feeling distinctly inferior. Even though he knew of Marrhit’s potential, he was always astounded by what he was able
to do.

  “It must be the Xàmvetem that took the place of the Hood of Death, the Emissary that hunted Var,” Selot supposed.

  “Yes. It is the safeguard they have sent to replace him, but the game has changed.” Marrhit looked at Selot’s preoccupation for his friends with seemingly innocent intentions.

  “They are of no interest to us. Their destiny does not concern us. Keep your mind on the mission. We must respect the orders of the Council,” he threatened, barely hiding it. “Stop feeling as if you have a bond with those humans, it is futile for our objectives.”

  “And yet they are the ones who protect the Cumbal, you must keep that in mind.” It seemed to Selot that by just mentioning the mysterious object, Marrhit had flinched, even though he covered it up immediately. Indeed, Marrhit continued with his air of ceaseless sneering.

  “Selot, Selot...you really are pathetic. You’re always getting worked up over things, without having the slightest idea of what’s going on around you. Nothing about them actually happens to you.”

  Marrhit wouldn’t reveal anything else, so Selot could not answer back. He made a neat and tidy bundle of food, equipment for cooking, and ingredients of a herbalist. He placed the bundle in the saddle. He took up his usual position at the front, his hands crossed behind his back. The sun was rising. He closed his eyes and savored the moment. He could feel the warm rays dry the dewdrops that had dampened his clothes and skin.

  “Out of curiosity, what happened to the captain of the guards of the Governor?”

  “His heart stopped beating last night, at the fourth hour. He died in peace.” He watched Selot’s discomfort. “It was a great loss for the city of Solzhaz...” he added sarcastically. Selot didn’t make a comment.

  “Give me another one of those fragrant loaves,” Marrhit ordered. Selot handed it over. “Very good,” the Vetem commented. He devoured it in two mouthfuls.

  They took the secondary roads, and sometimes only paths. They stopped for rest and to water the horses, nothing more. Marrhit kept up a steady pace. They went on like that for a few days. In the evening they looked for a place to shelter, far from inhabited centers. Selot took care of the horses and prepared the food with whatever they found or stole during the day. Not more than a few words were exchanged between them. Selot often turned his gaze towards Mount Kisov, the imposing and constant element on the horizon to the west. On the third day, they passed within viewing distance of the Abbey of Affradatis. Selot saw it from afar, immersed in cultivated fields. He recognized every single detail, every wall, every corner. He could have described every brick and every pebble. He pictured what was going on inside its walls, perfectly. It was time for the prayers of the tenth hour. He brought up the image in his mind of the room where oration was being held; the faces within, the expressions, and held breaths. He supposed that since his departure, new novices had arrived and were at the desks assigned to them. He shivered. The Abbey seemed so tiny in that vast panorama.

  “You’re always in time to go back there. I’m sure they’d be pleased to welcome their repentant brother who has been rejected by the world,” Marrhit hissed in one ear. He had used bitter and evil precision in the power of his voice, and he’d chosen the most unpleasant phrase possible to influence Selot’s soul. The scene played out in his brain and from there went down into his guts. Even though he was aware of Marrhit’s spider web trap, Selot was entangled by the irresistible force in which it had been spun. His voice truly was a formidable weapon, as Lya had warned. He tightened his stomach. He found himself within the walls of the Abbey. He felt the cold and damp inside. He saw the horrible reprobation in the eyes of the abbot and the brothers superior; he was without his Vetem powers, incapable of defending himself or of escaping, once more condemned to reduce his existence to the same rites in that very small space where he no longer wanted to belong. He finally found himself in the underground cell where he’d suffered at the hands of friar Enro. He couldn’t breathe. With great difficulty, he grasped hold of the sensation he’d experienced when he was near the giant oak tree, in the valley of the Uicics. He managed to gasp for breath, and distance himself from that terrible illusion.

  Observe that which happens to you, accept it...transform it the words of Asheeba came like a blessing. “I owe a great deal to that life in the Abbey and to my superiors. Their lessons have been very precious and I am most grateful. What I am today is also in part, thanks to them,” Selot responded, transforming his anxiety into gratitude. That was how he extinguished the horrible sensation Marrhit had initiated. His brother snorted contentedly for the dreadful moments he had made him suffer. “Well done greenhorn, you got yourself out of a tight corner, but that was only a taste of what’s to come. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

  Marrhit spurred the horses and rode on. Selot was left in awe of Marrhit’s ability to modify one’s perception of reality with the power of his voice.

  As they pushed on northwards, Selot carefully observed the profile of the mountains, and deduced the location of the valleys of Atiarav far away, and the difficult paths and rocky passages that led to Mount Kisov.

  He considered the road that Marrhit had taken. “Why are we going this way? If we ride along the fields of Affradatis we’ll save time,” he conjectured.

  “Do you really want to see that place up close?” Marrhit asked him brusquely.

  “Not really. But it looks to me it’ll take longer...”

  “Do not argue with me. You don’t know anything,” he silenced him rudely. Selot did not insist. He found a pitiful repulsion for that Abbey after all this time. He asked himself where Var might be right now, and whether his people had found some semblance of peace. He wondered with a touch of pain whether they’d already been made aware of the machinations that were once more closing in on them. Marrhit must have acquired an avalanche of information the night of the show at the Governor’s palace, but he was sure not to reveal any of it to Selot. The Council had directly given Marrhit the responsibility of the success of the mission, at all costs. He would ensure the outcome by protecting it from whatever the threat of Selot’s affection for mankind might create. That is why he would not impart anything at all. He had the added cynical pleasure of keeping him in the dark at all times, maintaining an unbridgeable advantage over him.

  “Let’s get a move on!” Marrhit prodded, realizing he had slowed down to examine the valleys of Atiarav. “We’ve got a long road ahead of us, and always less time.” At that point, Selot halted completely and turned to look at him, hands on his hips, with the impression he wanted to clarify things once and for all. Marrhit blazed up instantly.

  “What are you doing, damn it!”

  “With my hands behind my back I am slow, I have to go at a trot. We’re taking twice as much time to journey. Marrhit please reason, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t trust you half-blood.”

  “That doesn’t make sense either. How can we combat together?”

  “You’re only here because the Council decided it. If I’d had my way, you would have stayed behind with Janavel and played with dolls. You’re only good for a clown act in my circus show. Now, move it or I’ll make you pay!”

  That evening, they stopped for the night next to an old tumbledown building, sheltered under the lean-to, with its wood and straw still intact. Selot had been attentively observing every one of Marrhit’s moves. He noticed that he hadn’t taken his medicine for the last two days. He kept it in a flask hanging from his saddle. Noting how the flask moved as his horse proceeded, he understood it was empty. He lit a fire and started cooking the food they had procured during the day. As always, Marrhit demanded the bigger portion. He ordered him to take the first watch and then, lay down in the best part of the shelter.

  Selot pulled out the ingredients necessary to make the medicine from his sack. From underneath his cloak, with his face completely hidden by the hood, Marrhit watched him. Selot had brought a very particular stone pestle with him, ess
ential in ensuring the unstable properties of some of the herbs would not be altered. He worked at length, patiently adding each quantity and mashing for several long minutes. Every once in awhile he stopped and examined the look and consistency of the mixture. There were three distinct steps, and he left the first two to rest as he prepared the third part, which also required cooking. In the end, he united all three mixtures and wrapped up the rather dense paste in a giant leaf. Marrhit had seen him collect some of those leaves near a torrent they had crossed in the afternoon. He knew that paste, eventually diluted in the right quantities of water, would end up being his medicine. He observed his level of concentration as he worked; the wrinkled forehead, the pursed lips. His rhythmic and calibrated gestures were instilling a sense of pleasant serenity in him, a state of being that he wasn’t often familiar with. At the end of his labor, Selot placed the giant leaf on a rock while reciting a prayer.

  You always pray Marrhit thought. Then sleep got the better of him and he dozed off. He awoke in the dark. He had no idea of the hour of night, but he was certain it was late and Selot had not called him. He was alert at once, and he feared the boy had slipped away, but a moment later he saw him calmly sitting with his legs crossed nearby, wide awake.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s three quarters past the third hour,” Selot answered. “Dawn will come in an hour,” he clarified.

  Marrhit scrutinized the sky.

  “How is it you can read so precisely the hour by the stars?” he asked with brusque frankness.

  “It’s easy, you only need to know which day of the year we are in.”

  “And how do you know exactly which day of the year we are in?”

  “I read it in the stars,” Selot replied with his same tranquil tone.

  Marrhit shook his head. Here was something he didn’t understand.

  “...I always remember the day we are in anyway,” Selot continued, “in the Abbey I was assigned to keep the ‘calendar’.” He was using the term from the language of the Kingdom of Dar because he didn’t know the term in the Uicic language, if it even existed. The need to keep count of things, of time that passed, of riches given and received, like representations of minute details of deeds, was the prerogative of men. The Uicics did not understand the anxiety of registering, remembering and annotating.