by Peter Harris
The Door was not a welcoming place. The Canyon dwellers had been outcasts, or at least self-exiled from the main population, from the beginning, so they did not trust outsiders and did their best to keep them out, except for those they had to deal with: the Traders. As it says in the Ennead of Aeden:
They were the Seekers after Truth who were tarred with the same brush as the Seekers of Knowledge at the time of the plague of hybrids, the Gagavalas. When the books were burned and the ancestors of the Padmaddim were banished, the Seekers after Truth, most of the philosophers and ascetics, the mystics and ritualists and reformers, gave up on the world and retreated to the Canyon known as Baz Apédnapath, the Bottomless Canyon. This they saw as the only safe haven in which they could continue their seeking and their celebration and defending of what truths they had found, or thought they had.
So began the ever-changing community of the Canyon, ever fragmenting into factions, ever expanding the rows of caves and hollowed-out ledges above the abyss which plunged hundreds of feet to the deep dark waters of a lake that stretched from one end of the Canyon to the other.
From the start, these disputing settlers of the Canyon agreed on one thing: that the place should be sealed off, no matter how great a task it might be, so that there would be only two entrances, one at each end of the Canyon. And that these should be difficult of access and defensible by a small force of guards.
Of these guards, one only would have the power to admit a person, after questioning, whether he be Trader or Seeker or Community member returning from business in the world above. This guard was to be called the Gatekeeper.
‘Are you sure you want to go this way?’ asked Shelley as they stood at the edge of the eerie funnel-shaped valley where great cracks in the rock snaked down to the mouth of the chasm. Gnarled trees clung to the stony sides of the valley and tree ferns and other gloom-loving plants grew in the cracks and crevices. In the half-light far down at the bottom of the valley, between the towering cliffs of the Canyon mouth, was a battlement and tower, which looked as if it was being squeezed in a huge vice, or had been dropped from the clifftops and wedged in the bottom of the Canyon.
The streams that ran in the gullies and cracks of the funnel-shaped valley all converged at the foot of this tower, and swirled into a dark opening there. Two narrow paths wound along cliffs above the torrent, one on either side, going up in flights of steps in places, then down again, finally meeting at a landing halfway up the tower. There Shelley could just make out the pointed shape of a tall gothic doorway, like an up-ended boat set into the dark stone wall. High above the door there was a row of narrow windows looking out over the two paths and the narrow landing.
‘There’s no way we could get to the door without being shot from those windows, if they’re hostile,’ Shelley thought, gloomily. It was a forbidding front door, and it was hard to imagine those within as anything but hostile. She repeated her question: ‘Are you sure we should go this way?’ Korman, who had been surveying the scene intently, replied, ‘Yes, I think so. At least, it will be a perfect place to disappear. We will blend in, keep to ourselves and not be drawn into any of their disputes, and in a day or two we should reach the other end, where we will find the path up to Baldrock. I will go under the name of Nimmath, as the name Korman may arouse suspicions, and will be a give-away to any spies who may be in their midst.’
‘Why will they let us in, if they’re so suspicious of strangers?’ asked Shelley, eyeing the windows.
‘Because we will come as Traders, with manuscripts from the Padmaddim, and precious crystals from the Portal Hills where I lived during my seventy-three year vigil. At night, as I walked by the light of the Blue Moon over the lonely hills overlooking the Place of Appearing, I found many crystals by their glimmer of blue light. I knew there could be need of items to trade, if we were to make a journey like this. Also, they were a comfort to me, being so beautiful. Every once in a long while, I would find one of the rare ruby crystals, flecked with golden fire. And later, much later, I came upon Bootnip, and he led me to many more, though I suspect he kept most for himself! But one day he brought me a lump of pure bright-amber, xanagath as it is called, and a nugget of silver, which I took as a sign of the Lady’s favour, and I learned to craft metal and polish gems. I made several, and traded them for food. But after seven years of practice I made this.’ He held up the ornate ring on his finger, and it sparkled with golden fire like the sun of Aeden.
Shelley looked closely at Korman’s ring for the first time, so lovingly carved, and tried to imagine the lonely depth of time that Korman had waited for her. She saw him in her mind’s eye, wandering over the barren hills in the Blue Moon’s light, stooping every now and then to pick up a glimmering crystal, always glancing anxiously at the Place of Appearing, in case this was the night she would appear. And later, patiently taming the disagreeable little anklebiter, carving the intricate ring day after day, and patiently polishing the agathra gem. It had been a long lonely time for him. She felt overwhelmed at the thought of anyone waiting that long for her. ‘Since before I was born,’ she thought. ‘Since granddad was a boy!’ She felt an impulse to hug him. But Korman was speaking again.
‘Also, Metaphor the Poet told me the answers I should give to the Nine Questions which the Gatekeeper will ask. Now, have no fear! You will learn a lot on this journey…’ But Rilke interrupted, ‘Let me see your ring, Korman!’ He held the big gnarled hand in his little hands for a moment, turning the ring back and forward. ‘Nice amber… wish I had some… Ugh! There’s a naked lady on one side and a naked man on the other!’ He let go of the ring as if it was a snake.
‘They are the Tintazürash, Guardians of the Tree, keepers of the Balance. They are protecting the golden Heartstone in the centre,’ said Korman, smiling.
‘There’s nothing wrong with them being naked,’ put in Shelley. ‘Anyway, you can only see their backs.’ But Rilke made a face and turned to play with Worriette.
Korman led them down the narrow winding path that led to the Doorway. Rilke picked up Worriette, and was quietly talking nonsense to her to comfort her in the cheerless valley. Shelley brought up the rear, wondering how the land of Aeden could ever be reunified, with such massive divisions between them. The threat of the Aghmaath seemed less, almost, than the weight of tradition and dogma dividing people from one another, in spite of a long heritage of enlightenment and wisdom. ‘How could I ever get these people together to fight their real enemies?’ she found herself wondering. ‘But wait a minute, I didn’t choose to do this impossible job! Or did I?’ Part of her felt that in some long forgotten past, she had foreseen that she would be on this very mission, taking on this impossible task, and somehow bringing magic from deep within to make it possible.
At last they arrived at the bottom of the dark valley. There was a narrow path above the torrent, and narrow steps cut into the sheer cliff-face leading up to the landing halfway up the tower which blocked off the Canyon. Shelley tried not to look down as she edged her way up the last steps, high above the dark rushing waters that swirled through a massive steel grating. The cliffs on either side loomed up, blocking out all but a narrow strip of cloudy sky, from which heavy raindrops were beginning to fall.
Something stirred at the tower windows. Shelley felt a prickling up her back as she saw the arrows protruding from each window-slit, pointing down at them as they approached the landing. Korman turned and saw her and Rilke looking up at the windows.
‘Do not fear; they are just suspicious of all strangers,’ he said in a low voice. Undeterred by the sombre surroundings and the silently pointing arrows, he strode under the gothic arch of the doorway and knocked three times, his gnarled knuckles booming on the oak doors reinforced with black iron. After a long time there was a shuffling within, a sound of sliding bolts, and a gruff voice calling,
‘Wait on, wait on.’
The peephole opened, and through thick glass or crystal they saw bright eyes peering at them.
&
nbsp; ‘Now, who are you and what do you want?’ the voice said through a circular grille below the peephole.
‘We are Traders, and request safe passage through your realm on our way to Baldrock,’ replied Korman.
‘I am the Gatekeeper of the North Gate,’ announced the voice from the grill. ‘Stand by for the Nine Questions. Do you swear to go away if you fail to answer any question aright?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you call upon you the curse of the Holy Concept if you lie?’ The raindrops were coming thicker now, hitting the mossy flagstones of the landing –and the cold travellers – with irregular drenching impacts. They put up their hoods. Shelley shivered as she muttered, ‘Come on, come on!’
‘I do,’ replied Korman.
‘So be it!’ replied the Gatekeeper. He cleared his throat, and declaimed in a sing-song voice:
‘First: What is your name and from which world do you come?’
‘I am Nimmath, of Kor-Tinnama, the Guardian World.’ There was a long pause, and they waited as the rain pattered on their hoods. Then the voice resumed, somewhat less confidently:
‘Second: What is the highest truth?’
‘That the Truth exists before all worlds.’
‘Third: ‘What is the Truth?’
‘That is the business of those who live inside these doors.’ There was a pause and a shuffling before the questions resumed. Shelley heard the Gatekeeper mutter something like ‘Unorthodox, but then, the answer is not false…’ Then he cleared his throat again and recited:
‘Fourth: How do you serve the Truth?’
‘By my service to those who battle falsehood and seek Truth.’ The rain was now coming down steadily, dripping off their hoods and pooling at their feet.
‘Fifth: How will you serve those who battle falsehood and seek Truth?’
‘By trading crystals, amber and learned writings from the Padmaddim, for food and safe passage.’ There was a muffled exclamation, then the owner of the voice cleared his throat again.
‘Sixth: Who is the Chosen One?’
‘The Kortana, the Jewel-Caller, who will restore the Arcra-Nama to the Tree of Life, the renewing Lightning to the Tor Enyása and the unity of the Concept to the minds of the people.’
‘You mean Kortan, I presume.’
‘Did I say Kortana? I stand corrected.’ Korman looked at Shelley, who blushed.
‘Seventh: Who is the great Enemy of the Chosen One?’
‘He whose name must not be uttered, or written except backwards: the Dark Serpent of the Void beyond the worlds; Emperor of the Dark Entities and the true Lord of the Aghmaath and all who serve the Void.’
‘Eighth: What are the Forbidden Worlds?’
‘Kor-Ramanithi, now known as Edartha, from which came Athmad and Ewana who stole the Arcra-Padra, the Jewel of Knowledge; and Kor-Zürglim, which fell under the dominion of the Dark Entities and became Phangkor.’
‘Ninth: What are the Five Ages?
‘The First is the Golden Age of the Makers and the Alliance of the Nine Worlds. The Second is the Silver Age of the Keepers. The Third is the Bronze Age of the Guardians. The Fourth is the Iron Age, the Age of the Great Schism, which some say is drawing to a close at last. The fifth is the Diamond Age, yet to come, when the restored Alliance is linked to the Tenth World, Kor-Damaríthí, the Diamond World. So say the prophets of the Keeper.’
‘You have correctly answered the nine questions. Or correctly enough. Now I have some others. Do you have news of the accursed Aghmaath?’
‘News enough, which I will fully tell when we are safe within your walls.’ The Gatekeeper ignored Korman’s hint. He continued inexorably: ‘Who are these children?’
‘Seekers of safety, refugees from the Aghmaath.’
‘Tired and wet, too!’ put in Shelley. Worriette was shivering and her fur smelt. The Gatekeeper ignored her and went on, ‘Is that a fire-crystal sword you wear?’
‘Yes, but I am a scholar and a Trader, not a warrior, and the sword is a relic, quite unusable to me – as is this sword-arm! He held up his right arm. ‘Perhaps at the dawning of the New Age, both will be mended.’
‘Then we are obviously quite safe from your sword for a long time yet, Nimmath!’ Bitter laughter echoed from within. From the depths of Korman’s pack, Bootnip growled. The Gatekeeper coughed and added, ‘At least, unless you take the old poets and seers literally.’
‘I do,’ said Korman.
‘Do you swear then, by them and by all else you hold dear, to walk among us as a friend with sword sheathed, to trade fairly, and depart in peace?’
‘I do.’
There was a long pause, then the sound of bolts being drawn. The doors swung outwards, and there stood the Gatekeeper: an old man with sharp eyes, tall and gaunt, nearly bald but white-bearded with dark bushy eyebrows. He wore a grey cassock with a silver clasp in the form of a seabird carrying a scroll. He greeted them solemnly as they stepped in out of the rain:
‘I am Gullquill. Welcome to the Community of the Canyon.’ The doors boomed shut behind them, and a guard bolted them securely. ‘Now, about those writings from the Padmaddim,’ said the Gatekeeper. He looked eagerly at Korman, but there was still doubt in his eyes.
Korman had to show him everything; any writings or books from the past were eagerly sought by the people of the Canyon, and they paid a high price for anything new, even for the loan of them for copying in their scriptoriums. Korman gave him a small blue book, his well-thumbed Poems of the Kortana by Monëluna, saying, ‘You may be inspired to believe when you read these. I have no more need of it, as I have memorised the poems, and keep her near, in my heart.’
The Gatekeeper began to warm to Korman, and became almost garrulous as he pored over the treasures. ‘I thought for a moment that you might be the Guardian they call Korman the Outcast, and was troubled. For there is a price upon his head, and trouble, they say, follows wherever he goes. And from your answers I knew you were learned, and no fool, that was clear! But the Guardians have failed, Nimmath, and are scattered to the winds. The Age of Iron may be over, but who will usher in a new one?’ He looked up at Korman with sad eyes.
‘The poets also speak of hope, Gullquill. They speak of the awakening of the Jewel-Defender, Arcratíne, and the coming of the Kortan.’
‘But it is said that Arcratíne is in the keeping of Korman the Outcast, and he is sworn by a terrible oath never to wield it.’
‘Perhaps we should not say “Never,” but “Until the time is right.”’
While Korman and Gullquill talked, spreading parchments on the table by the door, the children looked around in wonder. They were in the circular foyer of the tower, with winding stairs leading up to the higher levels. Across the foyer was an arched doorway; through it they caught a glimpse of the vast Canyon receding into the distance until it curved out of sight. In the middle of the foyer was a circular Labyrinth of flagstones of crystalline blue and white gems like dewdrops, which glowed in the many-coloured light streaming down from a great skylight like a many-petalled flower, decorated with gems of fiery crimson red and deep cobalt blue. If they had known of Chartres, they would have marvelled at the similarities, and Korman would have pondered the connection with his Templar ancestors.
Soon Korman and Gullquill joined them. ‘All visitors must walk the Labyrinth before entering our realm,’ said the old gatekeeper. They removed their footwear, and walked the turns of the Labyrinth with silent steps. All about them the dewdrop gems glowed in a halo of reflected light like cats’ eyes. At last they stood at the centre where Korman recited the first stanza of the acrostic Labyrinth meditation:
Centre which is everywhere and nowhere
Emptiness which contains all things
Now we return and are reborn.
Truth that is before all worlds
Road which is both One and Many
Entrance and Exit, both to be blessed!
Then they walked out again, retracing their steps in single f
ile, Korman in front, Rilke straining to step in Korman’s footsteps, and Shelley at the rear, thoughtful and strangely stirred, her head clearing as she followed the single path which wound first one way then the other, but never became a dead-end: the symbolic path of life and rebirth.
When they reached the edge of the Labyrinth again Gullquill farewelled them and returned to his post. They put their shoes back on and walked with echoing steps around the Labyrinth perimeter, and stood beneath the arched doorway to the Canyon.
‘Behold, the hidden realm of Baz Apédnapath!’ said Korman.
Far below, almost at their feet, was the Bottomless Lake. The Canyon cliffs plunged maybe three hundred feet from the doorway, and rose up perhaps another three hundred above their heads. Drops of rain were still falling, but the sun was now shining, making the rain sparkle like diamonds, and slanting down into the Canyon, it shone on the right-hand side, making it glow with reds and ochres lower down, green with mosses and ferns higher up. The left side was still in shadow. All along the walls of the Canyon, roughly level with where they stood, ran a huge overhang, scooped out of the side of the cliffs, high-roofed and mostly level. It was honeycombed with carved stone facades with imposing doorways leading into the cave dwellings and meeting-places. There was a different style of building every few hundred feet or so. The sound of chanting, singing, and various kinds of music echoed from both sides of the Canyon. Shelley thought the music and chanting on the left sounded sad, and the music on the right, happy – at least, by comparison with the dirge-like sounds of the opposite side.
‘Have you got a stone?’ asked Rilke excitedly.
‘What for?’ asked Shelley.
‘To throw into the Bottomless Lake, of course!’
‘No I haven’t. Anyway, it’s not good manners. There could be somebody down there.’
‘Yes, there certainly could be,’ agreed Korman. ‘Now, we must choose which side we go down: the sunny right-hand side (facing a little more to the sun, and lit up by silver mirrors placed high up on the opposite walls) or the shady left-hand side (facing slightly away from the sun, and not lit by mirrors),’ said Korman.
‘The sunny side!’ said the children, both at once.
‘Ah, the Way of the Optimists,’ said Korman.
‘Is there any reason why we can’t?’ said Shelley.
‘No, we have the choice, as do all who come here,’ said Korman. ‘Some naturally join the Optimists, those who want to catch whatever sun there is, and believe in the ultimate positivity of the Cosmos. Others, the Pessimists, wish (or feel compelled) to believe the contrary, and do not bother to improve their outlook. The Aghmaath, for instance, are Pessimists. Is one right and the other wrong? Or are both partly right? These are deep questions, for the philosophers. The only question we need ask right now is, are we safer among the Optimists or the Pessimists? Possibly the Pessimists, as they are fatalistic and keep to themselves. The Optimists, on the other hand, will try to convert us. We may be delayed.’ He looked left and right, trying to decide.
‘I’m willing to take that risk, myself,’ said Shelley, shivering. She was damp from the rain, and a cold draft was blowing up from the Canyon. She did not like the look of the left-hand side at all. Neither did Worriette; she was hiding her face from it, and beginning to make the strange trilling growl she had made once before, at Applegate.
‘I think we should definitely go right,’ said Shelley.
‘Me too,’ said Rilke.
‘So be it,’ said Korman. ‘We will join the Optimists.’ He did not say anything, but he was troubled by the wurrier’s behaviour. He felt a warrior’s sense of foreboding about the left bank. Something was lurking there, besides the usual negativity of the Pessimists.
‘Yay!’ said Rilke, and Worriette squeaked in apparent relief.
They descended the narrow stairway to the sunny side of Baz Apédnapath, and soon came to the first settlement, a small enclave of very serious-looking men in silken white robes, like Indian monks, barefooted and shaven-headed. But all had gold or silver pendants about their necks, some set with gems.
‘These are descendants of the first colony of Truth-Seekers,’ said Korman. ‘They are prosperous. The further along we go, the less ancient is the community, and the less wealthy, with a few notable exceptions, such as the Diamond community whose mines have made them rich.’
They were being watched, but most of the men were absorbed in various Yoga-like contortions, sitting meditating at the edge of the Canyon or playing a board game which looked quite like Chinese checkers, with five sides to the board and a central Labyrinth like the one in the Tower, and the pieces were set with jewels. There were women going about their more mundane business, washing clothes and cooking on an open-air oven and barbecue, chatting, laughing and singing, ignoring the men or giving them the occasional sultry glance. They were dressed in various styles, some flamboyant and colourful, with many ornaments in their braided hair, and necklaces and bangles, and anklets with bells.
‘It seems that the white monks live the contemplative life while their womenfolk keep up the practical and the social life of the community,’ said Korman. Shelley frowned her disapproval. One of the men approached them and asked if they had items to trade. Korman took out his crystals, negotiated a price for one and got a supply of dried fish in return.
‘Where do they get fish from?’ asked Rilke.
‘Look!’ said Korman. Some of the white-robed monks were dangling silk fishing lines from long bamboo fishing-poles, all the way down into the water. There was a twitch on one rod and the monk began laboriously winding the line in, using a reel which looked remarkably like Shelley’s father’s, except it appeared to be made entirely of wood. When the fish was finally landed – a silvery fish like a mullet, but with much bigger eyes – the monk did an elaborate ritual, chanting indecipherable words, before dispatching the fish with a carved stone.
‘I want to get a fishing rod and catch some fish!’ said Rilke excitedly.
‘I thought you were going to be a vegetarian,’ said Korman.
‘I’ll only eat fish. They’re not the same as rabbits and sheep and…birds.’
Meanwhile, a pair of highly evangelical monks were asking Shelley if she had ever considered joining the ‘Mother Community.’
‘We were the first. We built the Tower of the North Gate, and only we hold to the original Concept in its purity,’ one was saying. ‘Join us at a teaching session tonight at sunset! You have the Gift, we can sense it! Learn to seek the Kortana within!’ Shelley noticed the two had very bright eyes, and seemed excited to see the newcomers.
‘Only when the Kortana has reunited the Nine Worlds will the Golden Age return. By chanting and seeking the Chosen One, we hasten her arrival in our midst.’
‘The Chosen One is a woman?’ asked Shelley in surprise.
‘Yes, little girl,’ said the other monk, ‘And we seek her daily. She will come here, to us, naturally. But fewer and fewer of our womenfolk heed the call and join the Order, preferring the affairs of everyday life. And they tempt us away from our devotion to the Search. Perhaps you, young stranger, will be different.’
But Korman excused her and led them out of the courtyard of the White Monks. The two monks followed behind, urging her to stay, their voices rising in protest, and finally curses, as the travellers passed through a door cut in the cliff, into the territory of the next sect, where the White Monks would not go without elaborate ritual protection.
‘Couldn’t we have told them, Korman – I mean Nimmath? After all the time they’ve been waiting…’
‘We do not need them to tell us about the Kortana, or to risk their outrage if we tell them that you are indeed She,’ said Korman as they hurried on. ‘For they put flowers on the tombs of the prophets of the Kortana, whom their fathers killed. But would they welcome you? And if they did, would they let you go? They would make you their prisoner, put you on a gilded pedestal to worship at their leisure, and kill you with
kindness.’
‘I want a fishing rod,’ said Rilke.
‘Maybe later,’ said Korman.
Before them was a long courtyard, deeply hewn into the cliff, pillared with a line of massive piers near the cliff-edge, and bustling with saffron-robed men, women and children. It was as before: preaching, entreaties to stay, then disappointment, indignation and anger when they passed on. Shelley began to feel uneasy at the intensity of their reactions.
In each little realm they passed through they inquired if anyone knew the wife of Azure, Goldheart the Fair. There was shaking of heads at the mention of the Artists’ colony, and some spat on the ground and turned away. But no one knew of a Goldheart, the wife of Azure. ‘Still, that does not mean much, the factions hardly talk to each other,’ said Korman.
Eventually they came to the Debating Chambers, where a great scallop-shaped hollow in the cliffs amplified the speakers’ voices and issues of Language, Truth and Logic were discussed night and day, always with reference to the writings of the founders and commentaries upon them, and commentaries upon the commentaries.
‘Look at that big crystal!’ cried Rilke, staring up at the many-facetted orb that nestled in a circular window over the arched doorway. ‘What is it for?’
‘Come inside and see,’ said Korman. They saw that the light from the crystal sent patches of colour over the scalloped hollow. Inscribed around the orb were the words ‘Crystal of the One Truth,’ and a date, with the year twenty-seven in the Aedenese numerals.
‘This was put here a long time ago, then, probably by the first founders, the exiled Truth-seekers, three Nineyears after their first arrival,’ said Korman.
‘I wonder if anyone here will ever be able to agree on what that one Truth is,’ remarked Shelley.
‘Ah, yes, that has always been the problem for the seekers of Truth,’ sighed Korman.
All colours and styles of robe and cassock and loincloth were worn by the various debating monks, eager representatives of their own particular communities, and all manner of hairstyle and adornment, or lack of it. There were women, too, from ascetic nuns to voluptuous amazons. No one seemed to notice as the strangers passed through the outer edge of the chamber along the Neutral Pathway which joined the communities like a string of pearls. An impassioned speaker, a young man in a black monk’s habit, with long black unkempt hair and wild eyes, had the podium.
‘Thank you for receiving us to this side of the Canyon,’ he was saying. ‘For those that have ears to hear among you, O ye Optimists of vain hope, hear me now:
‘It is certain to me that the Void, being that from which all things came, is our friend, not something to flee! Why do we run, down through endless years, seeking to build endless new forms, whether of thought or of material things, when all possible forms are contained within the Void from the Beginning? Wisdom consists in ceasing to create, and learning to embrace the blissful dissolution of all transitory, ephemeral forms into the eternal Real, the Void into which all forms return, whether we will it or not! Therefore, woe to ye who cling to the vanities of life! Only in death is there true life!’ There were murmurs of disapproval through the audience, but a burst of applause from the front, where rows of black-robed monks sat solemnly beating the floor with their feet and clapping in unison. Worriette hid in Rilke’s arms and shivered.
‘The doctrines of the Aghmaath are being preached here, too!’ muttered Korman as they hurried past. ‘I wonder if any of their missionaries have come to the Pessimists’ side, or is this the Dreamcasters’ work?’
As the daylight faded from the narrow strip of sky far above, little lights came on one by one, twinkling in the caves up and down the Canyon. On the other side the lights were mainly a dull reddish-amber colour. ‘Blood-amber!’ thought Korman, ‘Not a good sign.’ A gong rang out, its deep tones reverberating along the cliffs. They walked on, uneasy at the sound, which was far too like an Aghmaath call to prayer for Korman’s liking.