by A Van Wyck
He would do better.
With renewed resolve, he set off toward the basement cell he shared with three other novices. He was so deep in thought he didn’t realize where his feet were taking him until he stood beneath the most ancient of the trees in the center of the Temple orchard.
He looked up the broad trunk to the spreading branches. Sunlight danced among the leaves like ripples on the surface of a pond. He could still trace the route he’d climbed, once on a dare. Up there, at the pinnacle of the green giant, his name was carved into the smooth bark. It was the only name up there.
That made him smile.
He could climb this tree Justin had set for him too.
With a broad grin, he whirled and ran for his rooms, wondering where he could borrow a candle.
* * *
“No!”
He smacked his fist hard into carpeted floor, welcoming the pain. It drowned out the deeper pain of failure. And it would serve as an explanation if the bitter tears, threatening the corners of his eyes, were to spill over. He hit the floor again. All that training. All that effort! Months while he mastered every single exercise even remotely related to streaming! And now this…
He looked up, wondering if the keeper was going to rebuke him for his unbecoming fit of temper. But the priest sat, calm and composed as always, on the cushion across from him, watching serenely with his fingers steepled beneath his nose. He uttered the dreaded word.
“Again.”
“But Father…”
“Tut!”
Marco lapsed into frustrated silence. He felt his traitorous lower lip tremble.
“Again,” came the imperious command.
He gritted his teeth, not daring to let them part company lest he say something that might forever ruin his relationship with the keeper.
He redirected his gaze toward the crystal globe that sat on its own square of velvet cloth between them. It seemed absurd that something no larger than an acorn could cause him so much aggravation.
Shiny but quiescent, it was a miniature version of the glow globes used throughout the Temple. Trapped inside were dissimilar chemicals and fluids, their crystal housing engineered by the masters of the kojo’vitrum to stir them to life and light… when charged with energy. Without it, the globe was inert.
Their manufacture was one of the closest guarded secrets of the Temple.
And they were ideal for training purposes, since they required only raw energy, without any manipulation of the patterns.
Damn thing.
Shock wracked him at his own bad language – even if it was internal – and he almost clapped his hands to his mouth. He stole a guilty glance at the keeper but the priest had explained that his empathic ability allowed him to read emotions, not minds. Still. He couldn’t be sure that Justin wouldn’t guess what was going on in his head. The priest had a knack for that.
Composing himself, he sat up straight, closed his eyes and took a deep breath…
The frustration within him retreated to the periphery, shunted aside by the emotionless calm that grew within the center of his mind. His breathing slowed as the world around him faded… faded away and he was left. Alone inside his own universe. The beats of his heart, sounding far apart, resounded deep and hollow, slowly coming to drown out all other sounds in that universe. His own worries became indistinct, drifting through the silent landscape that was his awareness.
Some priests never mastered the streaming trance. He’d done it in less than a month and still…
The errant thought shattered the trance and brought the frustration racing back to the forefront. Justin said nothing, though he surely sensed the lapse. Marco sighed and began again.
Calm.
Breathe…
He slipped into the trance.
Justin suggested he imagine himself wrapped in a snug blanket when tranced. But the image that had come unbidden to him the very first time he’d achieved it had been that of a lightless, flooded cave. And he drifted now, weightless, in the inky waters, aware of the minute currents that were the flow of his life-energy brushing against him.
He opened his eyes, focusing on the minute glow globe.
The theory was easy. The practice was… less so.
Concentrating, he bent the dark waters around him to his will. He could feel the tendrils of energy curling about him like strands of algae and he commanded one to flow, riding its length through the murky depths of the trance. There was none of the fierce resistance, none of the wild bucking that the keeper had assured him there should be. The energy did not fight him, did not fight to return to the source. It was easy. That probably meant he was doing something wrong.
He sensed the gauzy border that separated his body from the outside world and flowed the stream of energy towards it. The keeper had explained what should happen next. There would be a moment of greater resistance as he contacted it. It would attempt to contain the energy, bulging outward around it like cloth. He just had to keep pushing. The border would give to the pressure, allowing the energy through.
That was what should happen.
He neared the invisible divide, concentrating furiously. The energy hit the border like the cave wall he imagined it to be, ricocheting violently. He tried to grip it more tightly, to will it through, but it streaked through his fingers as water would. Unmindful of his fierce will, it faded back into the recesses of his body.
He came to himself with a jolt. Despair flooded him and he let it carry him onto his back, smacking into the floor. He placed one wretched arm over his face, hiding from the keeper the tears that he could not quell this time. Holding his breath, he suppressed the sobs that would have wracked him like a child.
He could hear the keeper get up and move away and imagined a look of disgust on the priests face. It would serve him right. Everyone else who’d tested negative for streaming had moved on to other studies weeks ago. The keeper had agreed to these private lessons only at his stubborn insistence. And now it looked like he’d wasted both of their time.
He gritted his teeth, breathing in sharply through them, the cooler air vying with the hot knot in his throat.
Cloth rustled near his head.
“Here.”
He opened his eyes, peering from beneath his arm. The keeper had sat down next to him and was holding one of two steaming cups out to him. He glanced past the stinky tea at the priest’s face. There was no disgust there. No disappointment. He could read nothing in it but genuine concern and tempered sympathy. A faint smile curled one mouth corner.
Suddenly, irrationally, he was angry.
“How can you be so calm about this?”
He belatedly realized that this was no way to talk to a senior priest but his foolish anger made him return the keeper’s gaze levelly.
“Oh, many reasons,” the priests said easily, as if he hadn’t registered the disrespectful tone at all. “Some of them quite complicated. Would you like to hear the most important two?”
Despite himself, Marco nodded. Anything the keeper might have to say that was meant to make him feel better would only sound like an excuse to him, he knew. But even false comfort was better than none at all.
“Firstly, because it is not the end of the world.”
Marco blinked in surprise.
“You are extremely talented and you have made much progress. Astounding progress, in fact. It has been years since I’ve seen anyone train so hard at anything. Your determination does you great credit and I can think of no one who deserves to master streaming more than you.”
The priest paused to glance aside.
“But…”
Marco grimaced. He’d known there was a ‘but’ lurking somewhere.
“But at the end of the day, it is not your decision.”
The priest fixed him with a kind eye.
“Holy Helia plans all of our lives’ journeys for us. She ensures we have all the tools we need to complete the tasks she sets along our paths. If she chose not to grant y
ou the gift of streaming, then you may rest assured in the fact that you will not need it upon your journey and that it is part of her plan.”
He frowned at the priest’s words, unwilling to hear sense so close on the heels of what he saw as a personal failure.
“Why does that mean,” he pressed desperately, “that I can’t learn it anyway? What does it matter if I never need it? I just–” he cut off abruptly as he heard the words in his head, waiting to burst from his mouth.
But the prescient Keeper Justin heard them anyway.
“You just want it to have it?” he posed.
He’d meant to say he just wanted to be able to do it but he realized the keeper’s interpretation held more than a bit of truth.
“Your bowed head,” the priest continued, “tells me that you now realize the selfishness of that desire. You must be very careful, Marco. All that you do must be for the glory of Helia and for the good of her people. Not for the glory of the self. We who belong to the Temple, more than any other of the faithful, exist to serve. And we serve at her behest. Never forget that.”
The cup of tea was pressed under his downturned nose. He reached for it halfheartedly but the keeper wouldn’t let go until he looked up into the grave, lined face.
“Take heart,” the priest said seriously. “She will have you serve in your own way.”
Marco nodded, not really feeling any better but unwilling to let the priest know that. He still lowered his eyes in shame at the fact that the keeper had had to remind him of his sacred duty. He hid his embarrassment in the cup of tea, for a change not minding the soapsud-greasiness of the keeper’s favorite brew. He sipped slowly, listening to the keeper do the same.
They spent some time in companionable silence, sipping their tea, while Marco reflected on the keeper’s words.
“You said there were two,” he remembered eventually.
“Pardon?”
“You said there were two reasons,” he reminded the keeper.
“Ah, yes,” the keeper’s expression became speculative as he leaned toward Marco. “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”
* * *
The next morning found him waiting beside the narrow arch of the Arbor Gate, clutching his scribe’s board to his chest and shifting from foot to foot as the dewed grasses worked their way between the straps of his sandals. The two masha’na guarding the exit, resplendent in their orange and umber robes, seemed to not feel the cold. Apart from a preliminary, searching glance when he’d first appeared, they seemed content to ignore him.
He shifted the wooden board with its pegged sheets, collection of quills and stopper of ink to the crook of his arm so he could blow on his hands. Keeper Justin had said to bring it, though he hadn’t said why.
“Right on time I see.”
Marco looked around and his jaw dropped. He hardly recognized the priest. His keeper’s insignia was hidden beneath a voluminous over robe of unassuming grey and he carried a plain walking staff that clacked on the stone path with every other step. He might have been one of the wandering prophets of old seen illustrated in the sacred texts but for one detail. On his head perched a ridiculous straw hat with a wide, fraying brim and a high, bobbled crown.
“Off to conquer the unrighteous, father?” one of the masha’na quipped. Her companion suppressed a smile.
The keeper patted imaginary pockets theatrically.
“Wouldn’t you know it,” he returned, “I’ve forgotten my smiting stick upstairs. I guess a kind word will have to do for today.”
The masha’na snorted appreciatively.
“Just as well,” her companion, a large man, added in a gruff voice, “without no unrighteous, we’d be out of a job.”
“Too true,” the woman agreed.
“And so, one hand washes the other,” the keeper finished for them before looking down at Marco. “You ready?”
He nodded, suddenly very nervous.
“Let’s go then.”
The big man preceded them down the narrow passage that ran all the way under the great Temple wall, their footsteps echoing in the dank tunnel.
“Why didn’t we take the main gate?” Marco couldn’t help asking, picturing in his head the enormous golden construction that separated the small country that was the Temple from the rest of the city.
“Oh,” the priest complained, “I wasn’t in the mood for all that fanfare and ceremony so early in the morning. Fond as I am of big entrances, I like my exits to be a little more clandestine.”
Not really understanding, Marco let it go. The masha’na unlocked the iron grate on the other end of the passage.
“Holler when you want back in,” he waved them farewell.
Marco stared.
True, he’d lived his whole life inside the Temple. And received a worthy education as well. He’d thought he knew what crowded meant. After all, the great hall where the combined priesthood met for prayer and thanks every day held no less than ten thousand people at a time. He’d never thought he’d ever come to think of a mass of ten thousand people, all talking and breathing at once, as sedate. But, he realized now, that was exactly what they were. Twenty paces away, where the Temple borders ended and the city officially began, roiled what could only be described as a crowd.
It was nothing like the Temple.
He’d once seen the inside of one of the bee cotes in the Temple orchards. It had looked a bit like this – it had the same frenzied energy. It was amazing! There were people everywhere, crammed shoulder to shoulder onto this one little street. All seemingly moving at cross purposes, shouts and voices blended into a sustained breath that enveloped the busy road from end to end. It roiled with color and motion.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
The keeper had halted beside him, drinking in the sight and sound of the milling street.
Marco nodded mutely, stunned.
“Let’s go…” the keeper set off toward that chaos of humanity, Marco trailing right behind. The priest plunged in among the frenzied motion without hesitation, seeming to navigate the seething crowd with no difficulty. Marco took three steps and bumped into as many people. Panicked, he shot after Justin, jostling more people and earning shouts of ‘Hey!’ and ‘Watch it!’ Afraid that he might get lost in the chaotic press, he grabbed ahold of the priest’s robe. The straw hat turned towards him and the priest chuckled over his shoulder.
“Perhaps a less busy street for your first sojourn.”
He changed direction, towing Marco behind him. Marco clutched the writing board to his chest, afraid that it would be sprung from his grip in the jostling press. Ignoring the blur of faces and people all around, he stared fixedly at the keeper’s back, concentrating on the fabric of the robe and trying to keep up.
Abruptly they broke onto a different street and into relative calm, one less densely populated, where people walked normally without bumping each other at every other step.
The priest halted while Marco tried to catch his breath, smiling down at the young novice.
“Invigorating, isn’t it?”
Marco shook his head. He’d once gone swimming with some other novices in the Temple pools that fed the great orchards. He’d accidentally surfaced beneath the spout where the water sluiced in, pumped from the underground river. The jet of water had forced him back under in a swirl of bubbles and churning limbs. The experience was frighteningly similar.
“Like being inside a waterfall,” he told the priest, remembering.
The keeper laughed.
“Well, come on.”
He fell into step beside the priest, feeling embarrassed about having grabbed onto him like a scared child.
“So where are we going?” he asked to distract from the issue. And because he really wanted to know.
“The harbor,” the keeper answered easily. “An old acquaintance of mine, a ship’s captain of note, arrived in port yesterday. He sends me an invitation whenever he docks at the capital. He has a fine eye and has been the
source of many of the most exotic texts in my collection,” the keeper expounded enthusiastically. “It feels like my birthday every time he passes through,” the priest added with a smile.
“He gives them to you? Like a goodwill offering to the Temple?”
“I should say not! He is, first and foremost, a merchant. But he knows he’ll get the best price, selling to me. I make sure of it. That way, I always get first pick.” He smiled over at Marco.
He frowned in return. Talk of money was confusing. It wasn’t that he wasn’t aware of Empire currency. His numbers instructor, Father Chesspi, had seen to that. But those were just numbers. Abstract ideas. There was no trade in money inside the Temple. There, you paid your way in smiles and hard work, secure in the knowledge that everyone else was doing the same. He didn’t think he’d ever handled a coin in his life.
“Where do you get the money?” he thought aloud, wondering too late if it was rude question.
“Well,” the priest smiled self-deprecatingly, “as Keeper, I’m allowed certain privileges. Such as dispensing moderate sums of Temple coin.”
“The Temple has money?”
It seemed a strange idea.
“Oh, yes.”
The keeper’s tone spoke volumes.
“A lot of money?” he guessed.
“Almost as much as the Empire itself,” the keeper confirmed, turning to him, “but what worth material wealth when the soul remains parched and poor?”
Marco nodded dutifully, following the keeper down the cobbled road. He noticed that the foot traffic was steadily increasing again. He said so to the keeper.
“Of course,” the priest explained, his strange hat bobbing. “We’re nearing the docks and will soon arrive at the harbor market.” He looked Marco up and down speculatively, considering. “Do we need to go around?”
Marco took a deep breath, steeling himself, and shook his head determinedly. He didn’t want the keeper to think him weak.
“Alright,” the kindly priest nodded, “stay close then.”
Soon they were weaving through a thickening throng of people. He handled it much better this time, staying so close to the keeper he was all but walking on the priest’s heels. He knew when they entered the market because the overwhelming smell of raw fish pervaded the air. He couldn’t decide whether it smelled bad or not, finally deciding it just smelled like fish.