Authors: Christopher Stasheff
“Think
you so?” the stranger said, and suddenly his face seemed to soften like a
tallow candle in the sun, then to slip strangely. It firmed again, much leaner
than it had been, the brown hair bleached to blond—and Culaehra found himself
staring at his own face!
He
must have gaped like a landed fish, for the stranger gave a mocking laugh. “Oh
yes, I am Culaehra, I am yourself! You cannot escape me, woodsman—woodsman and
wolf's head, for who should know so well as I! You cannot escape me, cannot
flee from me, cannot slay me without slaying yourself—for I am you, and am in
you, and will always be, for I am indeed you and no one else!” He threw back
his head, laughing loud and long. Culaehra cursed, but the stranger laughed all
the harder, even as he seemed to lighten, even as the moonlight seemed to show
through him, then through the campfire and the trees till he was only an
outline filled with vapor that lost its form and churned in the night breeze,
churned and arrowed straight at Culaehra. He tried to dodge it, cursing and
shouting, but it shot back into his torso—chest, belly, and groin—and was gone.
The
night was still—still, but for the night air stirring in the branches of the
trees, and Culaehra's hoarse breathing where he knelt, shaking, swearing, and
sweating.
“Take
heart, Culaehra.”
The
outlaw's head snapped up; he stared upward, fear striking deep—then saw it was
Illbane, and sagged with relief.
Then
it occurred to Culaehra that the sage might know of his conspiracy to murder
him, and he tensed again. To hide his fear, he spoke roughly. “Take heart! How
can I, if I am truly so treacherous and despicable a snake as that!”
“Because
he is not
all
of you,” Illbane said, “nor even the essence of you—he is
only the outer husk of you, not the whole nut nor even the kernel. He is the
outer husk, and you can peel him away and leave him behind—if you wish.”
Culaehra
stared with sudden hope, and caught at the sage's robe. “How!”
“Think,”
Illbane said. “Was he truly the spit and image of you?”
Culaehra
lowered his gaze, frowning, thinking over everything the stranger had said and
done. Finally, he grimaced with self-disgust. “He did nothing that I had not
done—or would not have done, given the chance.”
“Did
you never think there was anything wrong in what he said?”
Culaehra
frowned, remembering.
“Did
you never doubt the lightness of what he urged you to do?”
“I
did,” Culaehra said in self-contempt. “I felt reluctance, hesitation. I put it
down to fright.”
Illbane
did not ask of what he had been frightened. “You never thought it might be a
sense of right and wrong?”
“I
have never believed what people preach about that!” Culaehra snapped.
“Perhaps
not,” Illbane said, “but that does not indicate you have no sense of lightness
or of justice. It only means that what people tell you is right goes against
your innate sense of the word.”
Culaehra
sat very still, frowning downward.
“Since
you did not agree with your shaman and your chief and your elders,” Illbane
said, “you thought you were wrong. Worse, you thought you were bad—and if you
were bad anyway, you decided to do a good job of being bad.”
“How
could you know that!” Culaehra glared up at him.
“Because
you are not the first young man who has let others make his face for him,”
Illbane responded.
Culaehra
bridled at the notion that he had let anyone control him so much. “Have you
known any others?” he demanded.
“What
if I told you that the first was Lucoyo?”
Culaehra
sat staring up at the old man for a minute. Then he said, “What! Are you the
demigod Ohaern, then?” and laughed. “I would say you surely seem old enough!”
But he became serious again. “I see. You mean that Lucoyo is the example for
all of us who have turned to the wrong. But he reformed!”
“Or
was reformed by the trust and liking of Ohaern and his men,” Illbane said, “a
reformation sealed by the love of his wife.”
“I
should sneer at such a statement,” Culaehra said.
“Then
why do you not?”
“Because
I would not believe myself,” Culaehra confessed, then stopped and frowned,
gazing inward. “There has been a great change in me, hasn't there?”
“Inside
yourself, yes,” Illbane told him, “but you persisted in believing the outside.”
“I
will never believe in him more!”
“I
hope not,” Illbane said, “but it will be difficult, Culaehra. You have believed
in him for so long.”
“Not
now that I have seen him as others do! I swear that I shall never again be such
a louse and a snake as this treacherous hunter!” His face turned thoughtful. “But
how can I become a better person, Illbane? I am what I am, and there is no
changing it.”
“No,
but there is the wearing of a mask,” Illbane told him, “which is what you have
done—and that hunter was the mask. You do not need to change what you are,
Culaehra—you need to discover it.”
“What
am I, then?” The young man looked into the old one's eyes with a terrible
intensity.
“You
are a good man, and an honest one,” Illbane said simply. “You are a strong man
who can become a mighty warrior; you are a courageous man who can become a
hero.”
A
few months before, Culaehra would have laughed in his face, then spat. Now, he
only said slowly, “I am not sure that I want to become that.”
“When
last comes to last,” said Illbane, “it is not a matter of what you want to be,
but of what you are—and of becoming all that you
can
be.”
“How
shall I do that?”
“You
have the amulet back.” Illbane pointed at Culaehra's throat. He put a hand to
it—and sure enough, it was there! The sage said, “Use it well, and strengthen
your spirit, as these months of toil and practice have strengthened your body.”
Culaehra
ran his finger over the clasp—and it came loose. Amazed, he held the amulet out
where he could see it. “What
is
it, Illbane?”
“Only
a hollow drop of iron,” Illbane told him, “but inside is a broken arrowhead
that was forged by Lomallin himself, forged to fly straight and true with an
Ulin's magic—so if you ask it right from wrong, it will still fix straight upon
the truth, and you will feel its answer within you.”
“But
all I have felt before is its chill!”
“You
were not open to feeling within,” Illbane said. “You may be now—or you may have
to rely on its turning cold while you listen for some answer in your heart. But
given time, you will begin to feel that answer, and over the months, you will
become more aware of it.” He clapped the outlaw on the shoulder. “Come now,
clasp it back around your neck, and let us return to the others.”
Culaehra
fastened the amulet and rose to go with him.
Halfway
back to the camp he stopped abruptly, staring at Illbane.
The
sage nodded. “You have just discovered where the hunter came from, then?”
“How
did you make him?”
“Just
as I told you,” Illbane replied. “He is your spit and image.”
Culaehra
tried to remember when Illbane could have gathered up his spittle, but he had
spat so often that he could not say. He resolved never to spit in the future. “Need
I ask why?”
“Do
you?” Illbane returned.
“To
show me myself, so that I might be disgusted.”
“Of
course.” The sage laid a hand upon his shoulder. “But remember, Culaehra—I only
showed you yourself as the world sees you. The rest you did yourself—both of
you.”
Even
now it rocked him, but Culaehra found that he was no longer devastated to
realize that he appeared to be so treacherous and self-serving, for he
remembered that Illbane had told him there was a better man buried deep.
As
Culaehra went to sleep that night, he realized Illbane must have known about
his murderous plan but did not hold it against him, had not even mentioned it
to him. This, perhaps, was the most humbling realization of all—that the sage
had known he would plot to slay him, given the chance.
How
could Illbane say that he had the soul of a hero?
Illbane
slowed the pace even more, taking whole days for lessons in fighting and magic,
then telling them tales of the Ulin around the campfire.
Finally,
they began to be able to fight without thinking about their movements, more or
less automatically. Illbane approved, explaining that their discipline had
yielded spontaneity.
That
night, he told them once again that the Ulin were not gods, but only an older
and more powerful race than their own.
“Then
who made the Ulin?” Yocote asked.
Illbane
smiled, glad the question had finally come. “The God who always was and always
will be—the God of Dariad and his people.”
Culaehra
frowned. “What does he look like?”
“No
one knows,” Illbane told him. “He has no face or form, and is as likely to
appear as flame or smoke as in human guise. In fact, He probably is neither
male nor female, but more fundamental than either.”
“You
mean this god is an 'it'?” Culaehra's skepticism was clear—but Kitishane and
Lua stared in amazement.
Yocote,
however, only frowned and nodded. “What else is known of this First God?”
“That,
and little more,” Illbane told him. “He created everything that exists from
Himself; everything exists within Him.”
“If
He is neither male nor female, why do you call Him 'him'?” Kitishane asked.
“Because
I am a man, and it gives me the illusion that I can understand Him better if
He, too, is male,” Illbane said frankly. “He has power over everything that
exists. He helps those who need help and call upon Him, if the help will aid
their souls in coming back to Him when they die. Those who displease Him will
never come back to Him—”
“And
probably will not want to,” Culaehra said sourly. This talk of a supreme God
was bothering him strangely.
“He
is the beginning and end of all life, and there is no lasting happiness except
in Him,” Illbane concluded.
Culaehra
gave a short, ugly laugh. “I have known many who were happy enough.”
“Then
they lived in Him, and within His laws, whether they knew it or not,” Illbane
said.
“If
so, He has very strange laws! I speak of men who robbed and cheated those
weaker than themselves, and beat them into submission if they would not obey!”
“If
they were truly happy,” Illbane countered, “why would they have been constantly
trying to gain more wealth and power?”
Culaehra
stared, taken aback.
“Because
they enjoyed the gaining as much as the having,” Yocote said slowly.
Illbane
nodded. “But if they constantly craved pleasure gained from outside themselves,
there was no pleasure inside, no abiding feeling of joy that did not need
constant replenishing from some outside source.”
“Are
you saying those who worship your Creator do not need constant replenishment?”
Culaehra's skepticism neared the point of anger.
“They
do, but they gain it from Him,” Illbane told him. “They draw from a never-empty
well, and their happiness is not only in the afterlife, but also in the
present.”
Lua
and Kitishane gazed at him, their eyes wide and their faces thoughtful, but
Culaehra said flatly, “I will not believe it!”
“Will
not,” Illbane noted. “Not
can
not.”
“Will
or can, what matter?” Culaehra was angry now. “You say the Ulin are not gods,
but they can kill us at their whim, they can blast mountains into gravel, they
can fight wars in the skies! Whether you call them supermen or subgods matters
little— they are what they are, and if they are not gods, they are certainly so
close as to make no difference! Gods' powers they have, so gods they are!”
“They
are dead,” Illbane said, “most of them. Only a few still live.”
“So
you say!” Culaehra jumped up, pointing at the sage. “You say they are—but no
one ever saw the Ulin more than once in a lifetime, and most never saw them at
all, so how would we know if they are dead or not? Myself, I will refuse to
believe they are not gods, or are truly dead, either!”
“I
will, though.” Yocote still sat, eyes glowing. “I will believe they are only an
older race, giants endowed with magical powers, created by the same Creator who
made us, the younger races.”
“You
will
believe
this old wives' tale?” Culaehra spun to stare down at
Yocote.
“I
will,” the gnome confirmed, “for magic makes so much more sense if all its
power proceeds from a single Source.”
“Only
one?” Culaehra scowled. “What of evil magic, eh? What of necromancy, what of
the raising of demons?”
“Anything
good can be twisted to a bad use by bad people,” the gnome replied, unruffled. “That
does not change the fact that it was good at the outset.” He nodded. “Yes, that
even makes it clear how such evil magic can be untwisted, can be defeated.”
“And
just incidentally will make your own magic stronger,” Culaehra accused—but he
shivered inside at the thought.
Especially
because Yocote nodded placidly. “Any increase in understanding will make me a
better shaman, yes.”
“So
you will believe Illbane,” Culaehra said in disgust and turned to the sage, his
sarcasm heavy. “Is there anything you do
not
know?”
“Too
much,” Illbane told him, “far too much,” thus beginning the cry that would echo
down the ages, and that scholars would repeat ever after.
Northward
they went, as the autumn grew colder and the altitude higher. At night
Kitishane brought out her collection of animal pelts and showed the others how
to stitch them into coats. Illbane told them that the people who lived in the
northern countries attached hoods to their collars, much as southern people
wore cowled robes.