“Sympathizers come in many forms,” the man growled. “Even women and children have been known to carry such items.” He gave a long glance in the direction of Morganne, who was sitting by the fire with her sewing.
The man slowly walked over to her, the floorboards creaking under the weight of his steps. “You, there. Where are you from? What is your business here?” Morganne stared at him in fearful shock, unable to speak or move, her mind drawing a complete blank in her panic.
His face red with anger, the innkeeper called out to the stranger. “You’ll leave my daughter be and direct your questions to me, if you please. I’ll not have you frightening my family and my guests. We’ve not had any visitors from Tyroc in more months than I can remember.”
The guard planted his leather-gloved hands on the counter and leaned across it, towering threateningly over the portly innkeeper and staring him in the face for what seemed like an eternity. But the innkeeper stood his ground and stared back at him with unwavering eyes until the stranger finally stepped back and went on his way.
With a quivering voice, Morganne thanked the innkeeper.
“You have become daughters to me, and I would not have fed you to that beast of a man wherever you may have come from. It is of no consequence to me.”
“I can assure you that we do not have any heirloom of the Sovereign, nor are we criminals on the run. But we are from Tyroc and would rather not have to answer questions about where we came from or where we are going. I had begun to hope that we could make Greywalle our new home, but it seems we must continue on for your sake as much as ours.”
Once Morganne had finished making their winter clothing, they packed their satchels, filled with generous amounts of food from the inn’s kitchen. They departed Greywalle with tearful hugs and farewells from the friends they had made during their stay, setting out by foot once again on the road to Minhaven.
The Offering
Once again the landscape began to change and the girls found that their pace was considerably slowed. The terrain was stonier and swelled in gentle rolls. All around them the trees were showering the woodlands in reds, golds, and oranges. The days were cool, and the nights frigid. Instead of sleeping in a tree as she normally would, Elowyn found herself huddling under blankets in front of the fire with Morganne and Adelin through the long nights. When they rose in the morning, their breath showed in the crisp air, a sure sign that the winter months were closing in quickly. Morganne worried that perhaps they had dallied too long at Greywalle, and said with some regret in her voice that they might have been better off wintering there after all.
Elowyn could tell that the region they now traversed was wilder than anything she had ever experienced in Tyroc’s outskirts, and was becoming thicker, deeper, and wilder still as they pressed on. The trees were so old, and so tall, that they choked out most of thick underbrush, leaving a clear view across much of the forest floor. Elowyn could sense how alone they were out there on the road. It was a source of both worry and wonder to her. They had no weapons except for Einar’s dagger, and nothing to guide them aside from her meager wood skills, which felt woefully inadequate in these foreign lands. And yet, the landscape was so pristine, so imposingly beautiful, it left her gaping in awed silence. The destructive hand of man’s ingenuity had not yet found its way there to disrupt the glory of Aviad’s creation. She could distinguish the work of His hands so clearly it frightened her. The trees, the earth, the sky, all seemed too perfect to be real, as though they had been painted by Aviad upon a shimmering curtain, hovering in the air just before her eyes. Elowyn felt that were she to reach out and draw the curtain aside, the barrier between earth and Aviad’s realm would be torn away, and she would find herself whisked away to that other place, beyond the reach of any road made by man. Oh, how vast, and how good His power truly was, and how small and fragile was she by comparison. How could it be that He had bestowed His blessing upon her?
For many days, there was nothing but wilderness before them. There were no villages, no people, nor indeed any sign that people had ever been there, save the obvious presence of the road itself. It was many more days still before they reached Evensong. The village was little more than a loose group of stone buildings edged by cultivated fields, the ancient orchards of the old monastery, and the sea, which churned far below. The coastline was sheer cliff for as far as one could see, with the waves crashing against moss covered rocks rather than sand. They could see the ruins of the old monastery on a rise above the town. The crumbled remains of its once solid foundation stood watch like gravestones keeping vigil over the dead.
Evensong had a rugged, lonely sort of beauty about it that made Elowyn want to sit in silence among the ruins, close her eyes, and feel the sea wind against her skin. There was, of course, no inn. They were given the use of a one-room cottage nestled among the orchards. It had an open roof with a central hearth, and a bare earthen floor. At least it provided shelter from the elements, and there was an ample supply of firewood stacked outside which they were grateful for. The long-abandoned cottage had been kept in repair by an old farmer, who sometimes used it as a place to warm himself while he harvested apples in the fall.
Elowyn found that the people of Evensong were very different from those of Greywalle, or anyplace else she had been for that matter. They were a friendly, but silent and contemplative people. They wore the weathered looks of those who have learned to overcome hardship with nothing but their fortitude and their faith. Their hands were rough from hard work, their minds keen, their eyes proud. It was almost as though the old monastery looking down upon them still held its influence over the surrounding land.
After they had thoroughly rested, the girls decided that Morganne should find her way to the shrine alone to make her offering. She was the eldest, and better versed in the lessons of the Temple, so Elowyn kept Adelin and waited. Morganne returned several hours later, discouraged and frustrated.
“What happened?” Elowyn asked.
“I don’t know …” Morganne replied in a confused tone. “Nothing, really. I sat by the shrine and prayed all of the prayers of thanks I could recall from Gareth’s lessons, asked what sort of offering I should leave, and waited for the answer to come to me. No answer came. Perhaps I did something wrong … said the wrong prayers, or said them in the wrong way. I finally just left, not knowing what else to do. Perhaps you should go, and Aviad will speak to you. He has before … in the other ruins outside of Tyroc.”
Elowyn gave Morganne a startled look. “That was only a dream.”
“But perhaps it wasn’t. It certainly doesn’t seem like you had a dream of the ordinary kind. Please, at least try? I cannot go back up there, not just yet. I need to rest.”
And so Elowyn went. She made her way through the orchards, along an old dirt path that wound its way up to the crest of the hill where the ruins spread out before her on a flat plateau. The sea winds grabbed at her clothes, and tossed her hair wildly about her face. She welcomed the taste of salt in the air, and the faint warmth of the autumn sun on her skin. The ruins were completely undisturbed and silent, save the sounds of the waves, and the birds calling out to each other.
It was not difficult to find the shrine, set apart from the ruins and overlooking the cliff edge. All that was left was a simple stone basin, held upwards in the arms of a variety of carved figures, both male and female. Rising above the figures was the larger figure of a man in flowing robes, tipping a chalice on its side. No doubt when the fountain worked, water poured from the chalice into the basin. Elowyn stared at it for a long while before she got the courage to approach it. Once again, she felt as though she had set foot in a place she was not worthy of entering. She stared up at the carved figure of the man with the chalice. She supposed he was Immar. Gareth had told Elowyn that Immar had been born of Aviad’s grief over the evils of the world, embodying all of His perfect goodness, and remaining both distinct and one with Him. She never quite understood how the three Ancients could eac
h be different and yet the same all at once. But she trusted Gareth and hoped that one day it would all become clear to her.
Elowyn tried to clear her mind and simply listen for Aviad’s voice. She didn’t know any of the prayers Morganne did, nor did she know what to say. A few clumsily spoken words of thanks uttered by a grubby child did not seem adequate. The longer she sat there, the more self-conscious she became, until she too, got up and fairly fled down the hillside. Over the next couple of days she and Morganne made further attempts to leave an offering at the shrine and returned disheartened. Morganne was taking their failure especially hard. She felt that they needed to follow the monk’s instruction, but had not expected it would be so difficult. Elowyn pointed out that the monk had never told them how long it would take for them to make the offering. He only said they should offer whatever they were told to while in prayer at the shrine.
Help finally came in a most unexpected form. The old farmer who had let them use the cottage came by to visit one afternoon, bringing them more firewood and some fresh apples. He warned them that if they wanted to spend the winter in Evensong they would need to find someone in town who had enough food stored to take them in.
“This would be no safe place when winter comes,” he said. “You would likely either freeze to death or starve. When the squalls come in, you would be cut off from the rest of the town by blinding snow. Once the snows start, no one goes up on the plateau again until spring, and for good reason. Best find whatever you are looking for up there quickly.”
“What makes you think we are looking for something?” Morganne asked.
“I’ve seen you both trudging up the hill every day since you arrived here. Why so, if you are not seeking something there that has not yet been found?”
“We seek only answers, so that we may leave an offering to the shrine and be on our way. But this has proved more difficult than we expected.” Morganne went on to explain what the monk in Greywalle had instructed them to do, and about their difficulty in getting an answer.
“Well,” the old farmer said as he scratched his face thoughtfully, “I don’t know about all the fancy prayers. Never had a need for those out in the orchards. But I do need company now and then. I’m not always a good listener, mind you, but I can’t think of a time when I needed Aviad’s company and He wasn’t there to talk to. There’s no use in trying to impress Him, you know. Just go up there and be. You’ll find Him quick enough.”
Elowyn found that she liked the old farmer very much. He was a simple yet contemplative man, who was quite happy spending his days with only Aviad for company. Through his eyes she saw Aviad in a new and profound way. As huge and powerful as she knew Aviad to be, she could also see Him walking along quietly through the orchards with this old farmer, the two of them as comfortable with each other as dear friends who had always been together. With all the time she had spent alone in the wilds, she could understand Aviad in this way, and hoped that He would walk along with her just the same.
The next morning, Morganne went alone to the ruins while Elowyn cared for Adelin and waited for her return. As the day went on, Elowyn became more anxious, pacing about the cottage, her thoughts consumed by her own imaginings about what might be happening at the shrine.
When Morganne did return, she had a peaceful glow about her, but remained silent. When Elowyn finally couldn’t bear it any longer, she asked what had happened.
“I don’t really know. I tried to do what the farmer had told me, and found that I couldn’t. My thoughts would not stop long enough. The harder I tried to quiet them, the more frustrated I became, until …”
“Until what?” Elowyn asked after a long silence.
“I’m ashamed to tell it, but I began to cry. Not gentle silent tears, either. From somewhere deep inside of me, all of my anger against mother, and the pain and fear we’ve endured on our journey, welled up and gushed forth. I cried much harder and longer than I had any right to, and if anyone had found me there in that state I would have been completely horrified. But eventually I reached a point where there were no more tears. I grew weary, and silent, and my eyes lost their focus. I sat with my knees held close against me, staring out into the empty sky beyond the cliff’s edge. In that place, I found Him—or rather, He found me. He had been there all along, only I hadn’t been listening. Even then, at first I did not recognize Him. A small thought simply came to my mind—a phrase that kept repeating. It was bothersome, like a biting insect that just kept coming back all the more persistently each time I tried to brush it away. Then I simply gave in to the thought and embraced it rather than trying to purge it. ‘Drink from my cup, for it is filled with living water.’
“I had no idea what the phrase meant, or why it was so unrelenting. I seemed to recall hearing it before, though I couldn’t remember from where. As I focused on it a little longer, I almost thought that I could see the phrase in writing, on a page that looked familiar. Perhaps a page from the book Gareth gave me, or one of the other books he loaned me to read. Once that thought entered my mind the phrase stopped repeating, and other thoughts began to flow. I cannot express them to you, because they were not in words and it would be too confusing. I only felt their message, like pictures inscribed on my heart. Oh, Elowyn, He was so real in that moment. I almost believed that I could reach out my hand and feel His physical presence seated beside me. You know what it feels like to come in out of the cold and wrap yourself in the warmth of a soft blanket that has been heated by fire? Or imagine drinking the purest, sweetest water you’ve ever tasted just at the moment when you are so parched you think that you must surely die of thirst. That is the best way I can describe the experience. Never have I felt such purity of joy, and peace, and wonder.
“I know now that we are on the right path. Whatever happens, this journey was meant for us to take. And I know, too, what we are supposed to leave behind as our offerings; the drinking cup from my belt, which I have already left at the shrine, and some meadowsweet, which we will have to find somewhere. I wanted to go into the village and purchase a new cup to leave, perhaps a silver chalice … something far more worthy to give as a sacrifice than my old worn out wooden cup. But it was the wooden one He wanted, I do not know why.”
“I have some dried meadowsweet that I brought from my garden. It grew well this year with all the rain we had. Will that be good enough?” Elowyn asked.
Morganne considered it for a moment. “Dried will do nicely. But I think you should go tomorrow and place it on the shrine yourself.”
Elowyn nodded in agreement. It was only right that she should go. After all, the wisps had come to her twice.
Morganne pulled Gareth’s book from her bag and sat with it by the fire while Elowyn prepared a meager meal from what little food remained in their bags. They would need to supply themselves well before continuing on their way.
It was not long before Morganne exclaimed in an excited voice, “I found it! The phrase that came to me … it is from one of the tales of Varol.”
“Who is Varol?” Elowyn asked.
Morganne shot her a scolding look. “Who is Varol? Did all of Gareth’s lessons teach you no more than that? He is only the greatest of the old heroes—the only man to read the Tome of Truth, written by the very hand of Emeth, and remain unscathed.”
Elowyn gave her a blank look and shrugged apologetically. She did remember some of the stories Gareth had read to them, but those days seemed so distant to her now, and there were, of course, many times when the sights and sounds of the gardens had captured her attention far more completely than the lessons had. Sometimes Gareth noticed and rapped his pen across her knuckles to get her attention. At other times, he and Morganne had shared such mutual interest and excitement that he failed to noticed Elowyn’s wandering gaze.
“If you do not remember Varol, come sit beside me, and I shall read to you from Gareth’s book. Knowing such stories is important, especially now.”
Elowyn made a face. “I remember some of his
readings. They were so difficult to understand.”
“This one is not. It is a primer, written for young boys entering the Temple for the first time.”
Elowyn settled in comfortably by the warmth of the fire as night descended up on them. The sea winds grew stronger, whistling through the cracks in the cottage and causing the flames of their candles to dance.
“Perhaps it would be best to start at the beginning. I’ve had little time to read since Gareth gave me the book, and I’ve only gotten through short bits of it here and there. I’m sure there are many tales I have forgotten or that I never knew.”
Morganne opened to the first page and began to read. “The oldest of writings reveals the creation in this way. That before there were such things as earth, and moon, and sun, there was nothingness. Then the light of Aviad, the Creator, appeared, and within the light, the Realm of the Spirit was first formed, like a pale, shifting mist, stretching out its fingers into eternity. Beyond the edges of the light, a deep darkness grew, where all who despised the light fled from it and gathered in the shadows.
“At Aviad’s word, the heavens were formed, swirling about Him in their hot, fiery dance. He gathered some of the stars together in his arms, and began to combine their masses. With His hands, He formed a single flaming ball, allowing it to grow large and hot before He separated it into three glowing spheres. The first sphere drew nearly all of the flame away from the others, but the second He cupped tightly in his hands, extinguishing all of its remaining heat until it was a lifeless sphere of ashen rock. The third sphere He cupped lightly, so that the surface was cooled, yet the flames still burned far beneath. He set the three together in the heavens, and so were formed the sun, the moon, and the earth. The earthen sphere was still nothing more than a barren landscape, but it was Aviad’s own creation, and He loved it.
Journey to Aviad Page 26