Hallsfoot's Battle (24 page)

At last, Simon nods.

“Speak then,” he says. “I will listen but
make my own judgements.”

The poor fool, Duncan thinks, but suppresses
the words so they cannot be found. Then he begins, not using
phrases that can be heard but only the links of the mind. That way,
Simon will be the more securely netted.

*****

The first time the Spirit of Gathandria
connected to me, I was only eight winter-cycles old. The flash of
surprise in the scribe’s untutored mind lurches through them both,
but Duncan discounts it. What he is saying is true, or as true as
his story, his role in the Legends, becomes. And I think he came to
me simply because I needed him. My parents were out harvesting the
wine-grapes, and I had walked alone to the nearest woods. I
remember how cold it was, but I didn’t let it stop me. I loved the
Gathandrian woods. I still miss them. But no matter. What I tell
you is this: whilst my father and mother barely remembered me many
field-lengths away, I sat alone under the grey cypress tree, its
leaves shading me from the worst of the chill. There I waited.
There was something about that day which told me my life would be
different at the end of it. Why a boy so young would think that, I
do not know. Perhaps it was the way the air folded itself green and
blue through the leaves or the way the night-rooks sang their
melody well into the morning. Or perhaps it was the way the sky
seemed to wrap itself around me like the cypress leaves, as if I
were the only Gathandrian alive that crisp autumnal day.

I had not walked out entirely alone, however.
No one who loves words and manuscripts as we do, Simon, is ever
entirely alone. I took with me the Third Legend of Gathandria, the
Tale of Prudence and Sloth. Not that I needed to carry the pages
with me; it has always been my favourite of the Legends and even
then I knew it by heart. Does that surprise you? Did you think I
would lean towards one of the more dramatic or even violent
Legends? Yes, I see that you did. Believe me, your opinion is
coloured by the Gathandrians you have lived amongst. If you wish to
judge me rightly, then you must cleanse your mind and, as you have
declared, form your own view.

Under the tree, I opened the book, letting
the words my eye read fuse with the memory of my mind. The tale
starts with a woman and a man. But desire does not muddy the river
in their case. They are not lovers; they are sister and brother.
The mysteries of their beginnings, how they came to be there, are
not permitted to be understood. They are locked in the mysteries of
the origins of the land itself, part of what only the Spirit of
Gathandria knows. This man and woman are neither rich nor poor,
noble nor decadent, such is the terrible combination of the
attributes they are named by. For prudence and sloth together does
not make for richness of life. But in the reading and living of
this most special of Legends, you can see how your own life falls
short and how to change it to be the best it can be. It is for that
reason that it is the most inspirational, and the most used, of all
our stories.

In the beginning, the man and the woman are
naked. This is not a shame to them. Clothes are not necessary and,
besides, they have grown up being used to their bodies. Also, at
that time, Gathandria had no winters, and the summer-cycle sun was
always kind. I will not name them, as their names do not translate
from the ancient Gathandrian tongue and they will mean nothing to
you; I will simply call the woman Prudence and the man Sloth. The
two of them work the fields during the day, growing just enough of
the fruit and crops they need to eat, no more and no less. They
harvest lowberries, both green and white, willow-nuts,
klineberries, hedgerow apples, evening wheat, winterpeas, parbeans
and corn. They do not grow enough to store, but the land is
generous and offers plenty for them to survive on a few
hour-cycles’ work only with each new sun. The rhythm of the
day-cycles is a gentle one and they have no other mouths to feed.
The world is filled with themselves alone. It is indeed
perfection.

Perfection, however, as you and I know, can
never last.

On the morning in which everything changes,
Prudence rises first, as she always does. As she has come to
expect, the air is warm and the sun soothes her skin, lulls her
into the harmony of her mind. She begins to gather the tools she
and her brother will need to work in the cool of the day.
Meanwhile, Sloth wakes. He stretches, yawns and rubs his eyes to
clear them of the dreams of night, because Sloth always dreams,
although Prudence does not.

When he finally gazes round the small
bed-area he sleeps in, he sees not only the dark stone walls, the
tapestries his sister has made to soften the room’s harshness and
the beaker of water beside him. He sees, also, what he has never
seen before and what, by all understanding, should not be
there.

A lone grey wolf lurks in the corner. Its
eyes glitter gold. There is already a hint of crimson and sharpness
in the air.

Sloth has never seen a wolf before, but the
word reverberates in his thoughts as if the animal has itself
spoken the name out loud. He pulls himself up in the bed as far
away as possible, using the blankets as a barrier to ward off a
danger he cannot yet comprehend. The wolf lopes across the room,
nestles his muzzle on Sloth’s arm. At once, Sloth’s muscles freeze
and he is unable to move at all.

“What do you want most?” the wolf says in his
mind. As it speaks, the colour of its eyes changes from gold to
green and back to gold again and its jaw opens, revealing a row of
glistening teeth.

The question, Duncan knows, sets up
reverberations for the scribe, the ache, the shame of memory. That
is all to the good; the stronger the knowledge of past failures in
his opponent’s thoughts, the better his chances of success. He
returns to the Legend.

Before Sloth can answer the wolf, the animal
captures his arm with its teeth. Not deep enough to draw blood, but
strong enough for him to be held there on the bed until the wolf’s
strange purpose is fulfilled.

The question is asked again, this time with
more urgency. Sloth answers in the only way he knows.

“I want to be happy,” he says.

The wolf lets go of his arm and laughs. The
sound is surprisingly Gathandrian. “Happiness is not a want that
can be achieved by itself; it is merely the by-product of other
states of being.”

A pause follows, during which Sloth
understands he is expected to speak, but can think of nothing to
say.

The wolf takes several paces back, as if to
allow Sloth time to recover his lost equilibrium. For him, however,
it would take the absence of his questioner to obtain that end.
When the animal speaks again, his words are whispered through the
mind-link, alluring, almost seductive.

“Do you not wish to know what those other
states of being might be?”

Sloth thinks for a while, remembering what
his beloved sister, Prudence, has taught him, answers with her in
mind.

“The Spirit who created our land and us,” he
says, “provides all our needs and we do not question its
graciousness. We are happy simply to live under the shadow of its
wings and be filled by its blessings. That is enough for us.”

“And does this make you truly happy?”

“Of course.” Still, in spite of his words,
Sloth finds that the wolf’s questions are eating at the certainties
he has carried for so long in his heart. He finds a shadow at the
centre of his mind he has not known before. It troubles him.

The wolf snarls a response. “You lie,
although you do not know it. The life that the Gathandrian Spirit
bids you lead is one of imprisonment and hardship, not of the body,
but of the mind. You are forced to carry out the whims of a being
you never see and whose purposes you do not know. You must harvest
the land for your food or you do not eat. You have no help to store
up supplies for the future and no time to do the things that please
you or to discover what they might be. Neither can you travel,
learn to connect with people of other lands that you have never
seen. How can you be truly yourself or truly happy if you exist
under this kind of captivity? There are worlds out there, worlds of
the mind and of the soul, that you do not know. There is happiness
elsewhere which is waiting to be discovered.”

When the wolf finishes, Sloth’s heart is
beating fast. He finds there is something about these strange words
and thoughts that grips his mind, spins it through circles coloured
like the animal’s eyes, gold and green, the shades of longing. But
who he is now cannot be so easily altered.

“But-but we have our ease here, my sister and
I,” he replies. “Our lives are familiar and safe. Why should we
wish to change them or have the other experiences you talk of? What
good can come of it?”

The wolf gazes at him quizzically, its head
to one side and saliva dripping from its jaws. “And does your
acceptance of such a life please the Spirit of Gathandria, do you
think?”

Sloth does not know. The question of the
Spirit’s response to how they spend their days on the Gathandrian
earth has never entered his thoughts. Neither Prudence nor he have
ever sensed disapproval on the part of the being who made them. In
fact, they have never sensed its presence at all.

“Exactly,” the wolf whispers, its tones
slipping through Sloth’s mind like a young snake through morning
grass. “Have you never thought that the reason for the Spirit’s
absence from your lives is because you have failed the test it has
set you?”

Sloth shakes his head, grips the blanket more
firmly around his body. “What test do you speak of? I do not
understand you.”

The wolf settles down, lies on the stone
floor with its great head resting on its front paws. The eyes are
still fixed on Sloth, as if they will never leave him.

“All life made by the Gathandrian Spirit is
tested to see if that life is worthy of true happiness,” he says.
“As I speak to you, you and your sister are in danger of failing
the test by the poor shadow of life that you have settled for, and
then you will be no more. The Spirit will create other lives to
take the place of your own and you will be lost forever. But do not
fear as the Spirit is still gracious; it has sent me as a warning
for you, and you will do well to heed me and follow what I tell
you, because the paths to true happiness and the life you should be
leading are there to follow easily if you wish to. But there is so
little time; you must do what I say and do it quickly.”

At such words, the darkness of them licking
at the colours in his mind, Sloth stumbles to his feet and the
blanket falls to the floor. Instead of the customary heat on his
skin, he feels nothing but a long and aching chill. He falls to his
knees in front of what must surely be his and his sister’s
saviour.

“I beg you, tell me,” he begs. “What must I
do to please the Spirit?”

If a wolf can smile, then that is the
expression covering the animal’s face. Sloth feels the heat of a
wild tongue on his flesh. The strange warmth soothes him.

“Your request is wise,” the wolf says and now
his voice is honey poured over river rocks. “And its solution is
simple. You must take with your hands and your mind what the Spirit
of Gathandria keeps from you. Then the Spirit will know that you
are truly worthy of the life you are destined to live.”

“Will it not be angry?” Sloth asks. “I must
wait for my sister. She has wisdom in her steps. It follows her
always.”

“No!” The answer is sharp, the bitter scoring
of sharp teeth across fragile skin. “No, you must decide now what
you will do. Time is not on your side and you cannot wait for your
sister to return. Besides, the decision is yours and yours alone.
What will you do, Spirit-gotten Gathandrian? Will you choose life
or deny it?”

A deep silence fills the small room. Its dark
echoes scour every corner clean. Sloth swallows, does not know what
to think or how to reply. Then, the honeyed gold of the wolf’s
thoughts rolls over his own and he is lost, although he does not
know it.

He stands a little taller and the shadow of
his frame casts the wolf into a greater night.

“Yes,” he says, and then again more firmly.
“Yes. I choose life. It is the Spirit’s desire and we must obey
it.”

“You have chosen well,” says the wolf. “Come
then. I will show you what you must do.”

Before Sloth can think about preparing
himself for whatever might come next, the animal rears up on its
hind legs and presses its grey front paws down on his shoulders.
With his next breath, the two of them are falling through air that
shrieks in ribbons of yellow around his head. He does not know why
they have not landed or where they might be. His mind is full of
sharp edges and dark roads. He is pierced with blood.

When he comes to himself, he is lying on
grass at the edge of the unknown woods. It is not unfamiliar, but
Prudence and he do not travel this far from their home often. They
have no need to do so. The morning sun sparkles through the cypress
trees and, from instinct, he turns away from the tree that is
forbidden to them.

Next to him, the wolf chuckles. “Why do you
turn from the cypress tree of the mind?”

Sloth wipes his hand over his face, feels the
chill on his skin once more in spite of the warmth.

“It is not permitted,” he mutters. “We can
neither look upon its branches nor eat of its leaves. Prudence and
I have always known this. We keep away from the mind-cypress. In
fact, we rarely come here at all.”

“Who does not allow you to look on this
life-giving tree?”

“The Spirit, the being who made us.”

As if Sloth has spoken words that burn the
animal’s paws, the wolf dances round him until they are eye to eye
again.