The Gods were well-pleased with the Cycle, and once each God had his affairs in order, he was able to return to performing Godlike works—that is, bickering and fighting with the other Gods about the nature of Truth. Because of the Cycle of Faith, the Jewel of One and Twenty became more or less stabilized and continued revolving through the centuries. Until now the time had come for a meeting of the Gods of Sularin. The Cycle of Faith had been broken. Two of their number were dying.
It was Quar who summoned the Twenty. During past centuries Quar had worked untiringly to try to mend the rift between Evren, Goddess of Goodness, Charity, and Faith, and Zhakrin, God of Evil, Intolerance, and Reality. It was the constant strife between these two that had disrupted the Cycle of Faith.
Due to their strife, the blessings of the two Gods were falling on mortal man not as a steady stream but as an intermittent drizzle. Their immortals, all vying for the meager drops of blessings, were forced to resort to trickery and scheming—each immortal determined to grab a cupful of blessing for his particular master.
Such blessings, doled out in miserly portions like coppers to a beggar, did not satisfy the wants and needs of mortal man, who turned from the immortals in anger. Those among mortal men who remained loyal to their Gods withdrew into secret societies-living, working, and meeting in secret places throughout the world; writing volumes of secret texts; fighting bitter, secret, and deadly battles with their enemies. The oceans of faith of the two Gods dwindled to a trickle, leaving Evren and Zhakrin nothing to drink. And so these two Gods grew weaker, their blessings grew less, and now it was feared that their oceans of faith might dry up completely.
All of the Gods and Goddesses were upset and naturally took steps to protect themselves. The turmoil and strife spread quickly to the plane of the immortals. The djinn snubbed the angels, whom the djinn considered a snobbish, prudish band of elitists. The angels, on the other hand, looked upon the djinn as boorish, hedonistic barbarians and refused to have anything to do with them. Two entire civilizations of humans-those on the continent of Sardish Jardan and those on the continent of Tirish Aranth— eventually refused even to acknowledge the other’s existence.
To make matters worse, the rumor began to spread that the immortals of certain Gods were disappearing.
At the urgent behest of Quar, therefore, the Twenty came together. Or perhaps we should say nineteen came together. Akhran the Wanderer—to the surprise of no one—did not make an appearance.
In order to facilitate matters during the meeting, each God assumed a mortal form and took mortal voice for ease of communication—speaking mind-to-mind becoming a bit confused when twenty minds are all endeavoring to talk at once as was usually the case when the Gods came together.
The Gods met in the fabled Jewel Pavilion located on top of the highest mountain peak on the very bottom of the world in a barren, snow-covered land that has no name. A mortal who climbs that mountain would see nothing but snow and rock, for the Jewel Pavilion exists only in the minds of the Gods. Its look varies, therefore, according to the mind of each God, just as everything else varies according to the minds of the Gods on Sularin.
Quar viewed the Pavilion as a lush pleasure garden in one of his turreted palaces in one of his walled cities. Promenthas saw it as a cathedral made of marble with spires and flying buttresses, stained-glass windows, and gargoyles. Akhran, if he had been there, would have ridden his white steed into a desert oasis, pitching his tent among the cedars and junipers. Hurishta saw it as a grotto of coral beneath the sea where she dwelt. To Benario, God of Faith, Chaos, and Greed (Thieves), it was a dark cavern filled with the possessions of all the other Gods. Benario’s opposite, Kharmani, God of Faith, Mercy and Greed (Wealth) viewed it as an opulent palace filled with every material possession coveted by man.
Each God sees the other nineteen entering his particular surroundings. Thus, the dark-eyed Quar, attired in a burnoose and silk turban, looked barbaric and exotic to Promenthas in his cathedral. The white-bearded Promenthas, dressed in his surplice and cassock, appeared equally ridiculous, lounging beneath the eucalyptus in Quar’s pleasure garden. Hammah, a fierce warrior God who dressed in animal skins and wore a homed metal helm, stomped about the cherry trees of a tea garden belonging to Shistar, the monk Chu-lin sat in a cross-legged meditative pose on the freezing steppes of Hammah’s home in Tara-kan. Naturally this gave each God—comfortable in his own surroundings— good reason to feel superior to the other nineteen.
At any other time a meeting of the Twenty would have been a form of discussion and argument that might have gone on for generations of mortal man had not the situation been of such severity that—for one—petty differences were put aside. Each God, glancing about the sea or the cavern or the garden or wherever he happened to be, noticed uneasily that in addition to Akhran (whom no one counted) two other Gods were missing. These were two of the major Gods—Evren, Goddess of Goodness, Charity and Faith, and Zhakrin, God of Evil, Intolerance, and Reality.
Promenthas was just about to question their whereabouts when he saw a decrepit and wasted man enter the Pavilion. The steps of this man were feeble. His ragged clothes were falling off, exposing his limbs, which were covered with sores and scabs; he seemed afflicted by every disease known to mortal man. The Gods started in shock as this wretched being crept down the redcarpeted aisle of the cathedral or among the splashing fountains of the pleasure garden, or through the waters of the sea, for the Gods recognized him as one of their own—Zhakrin. And it was obvious, from his cadaverous face and emaciated body, that the God was dying of starvation.
His eyes dull and glazed, Zhakrin looked around the assembled multitude, most of whom could not hide the signs of appalled horror on their human faces. Zhakrin’s feverish gaze skipped over his fellows, however, obviously searching intently for one he did not, at first see.
Then she entered—the Goddess, Evren.
The Gods of Light cried out in anger and pity, many averting their gaze from the ghastly sight. The once beautiful face of the Goddess was wasted and skull-like. Her hair was white and hung from her shriveled head in ragged wisps. Her teeth were gone, her limbs twisted, her form bent. It seemed she could barely walk, and Quar hastened forward to catch hold of the poor woman and aid her faltering steps.
At sight of her, Zhakrin sneered and spit out a curse.
Evren, with a strength unimaginable in her thin and wasted body, shoved Quar away from her and threw herself at Zhakrin. Her clawlike hands closed around his neck. He grappled with her, the two falling to the red carpet of the cathedral or to the mosaic tile of the garden or the bottom of the ocean floor. Shrieking and howling in hatred, the battling Gods rolled and writhed in what seemed a hideous parody of lovemaking—a bitter struggle to the death.
So frightful was this that the other Gods could do nothing but watch helplessly. Even Quar appeared so sickened and stunned by the sight of these two dying Gods—each attempting with his or her last strength to murder the other—that he stood staring at the twisting bodies and did nothing.
And then, slowly, Zhakrin began to fade away.
Evren, screaming in triumph, scratched at his vanishing face with her nails. But she was too weak to do him further injury. Falling backward, she lay gasping for breath. Quar, moved by pity, knelt down beside her and took the Goddess in his arms. All could see that she, too, was beginning to disappear.
“Evren!” Quar called to her. “Do not let this happen! You are strong! You have defeated your enemy! Remain with us!”
But it was useless. As she shook her head feebly, the Goddess’s image grew fainter and fainter. Zhakrin could no longer be seen at all, and within moments Quar found himself kneeling on the tile of his perfumed garden, holding nothing in his arms but the wind.
The other Gods cried out in anger and fear, wondering what would happen now that the order of the universe was thrown completely out of balance. They began taking sides, the Gods of Darkness blaming Evren; the Gods of Light blaming Zhakri
n. Quar—one of the Neutral Gods—ignored them all. He remained on his knees, his head bowed in profound sorrow. Several of the other Neutral Gods moved to his side, offering condolences and adding their praise for his unrelenting attempts to mediate between the two.
At that moment the air whispering through the eucalyptus, the silence of the cathedral, the murmuring of ocean water was broken by a harsh sound, a shocking sound, a sound that caused all argument and conversation to suddenly cease. It was the sound of hands clapping, the sound of applause.
“Well done, Quar!” boomed a loud baritone voice. “Well done! By Sul, I have been standing here weeping until it is a wonder my eyes didn’t run from my head.”
“What irreverence is this?” Promenthas said severely. His long white beard falling in shining waves over his gold-embroidered surplice, the hem of his cassock rustling around his ankles, the God strode down the cathedral aisle to confront the figure who had entered. “Be off with you, Akhran the Wanderer! This is a serious matter. You are not needed here.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Akhran gazed around him loftily, not at all disconcerted by this distinct lack of welcome. He was not attired in robes of honor as were the other Gods. Akhran the Wanderer wore the traditional dress of the spahi, a desert rider—a tunic of white over white woolen trousers, cut full for comfort and tucked into the tops of shiny black leather riding boots. Over the tunic and trousers he wore long black robes that brushed the floor, their flowing sleeves covering his arms to the elbow. A white woolen sash girdled his waist. When he gracefully tossed the folds of his robes over his arm, the blade of the scimitar and the jeweled hilt of a dagger could be seen, flashing in the light of Sul.
As he stared coldly at Promenthas, Akhran’s bearded upper lip—barely visible above his black face mask worn with the black turbanlike haik—curled in a sneer, his teeth showing gleaming white against his brown, weather-lined skin.
“What is the meaning of this outburst?” Promenthas demanded sternly. “Did you not witness the tragedy that has occurred here this terrible day?”
“I witnessed it,” Akhran said grimly. His smoldering black eyes went from Promenthas to Quar, who—with the help of his fellows—was rising slowly to his feet, his pious face drawn with grief and sorrow. Lifting a brown, weathered hand, Akhran pointed at the pallid, slender, and elegant Quar. “I have seen it and I see the cause of it!”
“Fie! What are you saying?” Indignation rustled among all the Gods, many of whom gathered about Quar, reaching out to touch him in respect and regard (Benario managing at the same time to acquire a fine ruby pendant).
At Akhran’s speech, Promenthas’s beard quivered with suppressed anger, his stem face grew sterner still. “For many, many decades,” he began, his low voice sounding magnificently through the cathedral, less magnificently in the pleasure garden, where it was competing with the shrill screams of peacocks and the splashing of the fountains. In the oasis, where Akhran stood, regarding the Gods with cynical amusement, the whitebearded Promenthas’s sonorous tones could barely be heard at all above the clicking of the palm fronds, the bleating of sheep, the neighing of horses, and the grumbling of camels. “For many decades, we have watched the untiring efforts of Quar the Lawful”—Promenthas nodded respectfully to the God, who received the accolade with a humble bow—”to end this bitter fight between two of our number. He has failed”—Promenthas shook his head—”and now we are left in a state of turmoil and chaos—”
“—That is of his making,” Akhran said succinctly. “Oh, I know all about Quar’s ‘peace efforts.’ How many times have you seen Evren and Zhakrin on the verge of burying their differences when our friend Quar here brought the skeletons of their past grievances dancing out of the tombs again. How many times have you heard Quar the Lawful say, ‘Let us forget the time when Evren did such and such to Zhakrin, who in turn did so and so to Evren.’ Fresh wood tossed on dying coals. The fire always flamed up again while friend Quar stood looking on, biding his time.
“Quar the Lawful!” Akhran spit upon the floor. Then, amid outraged silence, the Wandering God pointed at the place where Evren and Zhakrin had breathed their last. “Mark my words, for I speak them over the bodies of the dead. Trust this Quar the Lawful and the rest of you will suffer the same fate as Evren and Zhakrin. You have heard the rumors. You have heard of the disappearance of the immortals of Evren and Zhakrin. Some of you others have lost immortals as well.” The accusatory finger rose again, pointing at Quar. “Ask this God! Ask him where your immortals are!”
“Alas, Akhran the Wanderer,” Quar said in his soft, gentle voice, spreading his delicate hands. “I am grieved beyond telling at this misunderstanding between us. It is through no fault of my own. It takes two to make a quarrel, and I, for my part, have never been angered with you, my Brother of the Desert. As for the disappearance of the immortals, I wish with all my heart I could solve this mystery, especially”—Quar added sadly—”as mine are among those who have vanished!”
This was shocking news. The Gods sucked in a collective breath, exchanging glances that were now fearful and wary. The news appeared to take Akhran by surprise; his tanned face flushed, his bushy black brows came together beneath his haik, and he fingered the hilt of his favorite dagger.
Promenthas, perhaps slightly unnerved by the sight of Akhran running his broad thumb over the jeweled hilt of the weapon, took advantage of the sudden silence to inform the Wandering God once again that his presence was not wanted. It was obvious he was doing nothing but breeding discord and discontent among the Gods.
At this, Akhran cast a dark glance at Quar. Stroking his black beard, he gazed at the other Gods, who were glaring at him disapprovingly. “Very well,” he said abruptly. “I will leave. But I will be back, and when I return, it will be to prove to those of you who still survive”—his voice was tinged with irony—”that this Quar the Lawful intends to become Quar the Law. Farewell, my brothers and sisters.”
Turning on his heel, his scimitar clashing against the wooden pews with a ringing sound, Akhran stalked out of the doors of the cathedral of Promenthas, trampled the flowers of the pleasure garden of Quar. The other Gods watched him go, muttering among themselves and shaking their heads.
Fuming, Akhran paced the silvery-green grass of his own oasis. After many hours of walking back and forth, staring at the bright light of Sul that burned above him hotter than the desert sun, Akhran finally knew what to do. His plan formed, he summoned two of his immortals.
It took some time for these immortals to answer the summons of their God. Neither had been contacted by Akhran in eons, and both were more than a little startled to hear the words of their Eternal Master booming in their ears.
The djinn Sond, hunting gazelle with his mortal master, Sheykh Majiid al Fakhar, blinked in astonishment at the sound and glanced around, wondering why there was thunder in a perfectly sunny sky. The djinn Fedj, tending to sheep with his mortal master, Sheykh Jaafar al Widjar, was thoroughly unnerved that he leaped out of his bottle with a shrill yell, causing the herdsmen to start up in panic.
Both djinn repaired immediately to the plane of their God, finding him pacing back and forth beneath a towering fan palm, muttering imprecations on the heads of each of the other nineteen—now unfortunately seventeen—Gods. The two djinn, prostrating themselves humbly before their Master, kissed the ground between their hands. Had Akhran been more observant and less absorbed in his own anger, he would have noted that each djinn—while appearing to have eyes only for his Eternal Master—was in reality keeping one eye upon his Deity and one eye—a wary, unfriendly eye—upon his fellow djinn.
Akhran the Omnipercipient did not notice, however.
“Stop that nonsense!” he commanded, irritably kicking at the djinn groveling on their bellies before him. “Get up and face me.”
Hurriedly the djinn scrambled to their feet. Taking the forms of mortal men, they were both tall, handsome, and well-built. Muscles rippled across their bare ch
ests; gold bracelets encircled their strong arms; silken pantalons covered their powerful, shapely legs; silk turbans set with jewels adorned their heads.
“It is my pleasure to serve you, 0 Hazrat Akhran the Omnipotent,” said Sond, bowing three times from the waist.
“It is an honor to stand before you once again, 0 Hazrat Akhran the Omnibenevolent,” said Fedj, bowing four times from the waist.
“I am highly displeased with you both!” Akhran stated, his black brows coming together over his hawklike nose. “Why didn’t you inform me that Quar’s djinn were disappearing?”
Sond and Fedj—enemies suddenly drawn together to face a common foe—exchanged startled glances.
“Well?” growled Akhran impatiently.
“Are you testing us in some way, Effendi? Surely you who are All-Knowing know this,” said Sond, thinking quickly.
“If this is a test to see if we are remaining alert, 0 Wise Wanderer, “ added Fedj, taking up the reins of his companion’s horse, as the adage goes, “I can answer any question concerning this tragedy which you care to put to me.”
“Not as many questions as I can answer, Effendi,” interposed Sond. “I would obviously know more about this important matter than one who spends his time with sheep.”
“I am the more knowledgeable, Effendi,” countered Fedj angrily. “I do not waste my time in mindless gallopings and thieving!’
“Thieving!” Sond turned upon Fedj.
“You cannot deny it!” Fedj turned upon Sond.
“If your grass-killing beasts stray upon our land, consuming the sustenance which is meant for our noble steeds, then it is the will of Akhran that we in turn consume your beasts!”
“Your land! All the world is Your Land, according to your four-legged master, who was born thus because his father visited his horse in the night instead of the tent of his wife!”
The Will of the Wanderer Page 2