by Mark Angel
Tamik takes in his surroundings. Guardians’ Gulch itself is wide at the mouth and protected from grazing livestock by the barrier wall through which he has just passed. Before him is a lush orchard overflowing with flowering nut trees covered in white, pink and purple blossoms. Their scent saturates the air. Other trees bear all-season citrus fruits, some ready for picking. Tall cycads, ground ferns, and broadleaf plants with red-streaked leaves crowd the spaces between the walkways, and well-manicured raised beds grow wet-season vegetables in luxuriant abundance. The floor of the Gulch then narrows as the box canyon winds back between steep cliff walls towering on both sides.
Tamik glances back at the inside face of the barrier wall, its aged surface blanketed by thorny vines.
The gatekeeper notices his curiosity and says, “These vines fill with sweet berries during the dry season.” The sentinel then speaks to Melok. “Stay to the paved road with the red cobbles. It will lead you to the outer door of the Guardians Lodge, and then go to the Masters’ Chamber. You will find the Grandmaster there.”
Melok nods politely as if he had never been this way before. The gatekeeper closes the door and returns to his post, body erect, feet slightly apart, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Melok and Tamik follow the road into the gulch, winding through orchards, vineyards and gardens. As they penetrate the gulch further, they can see rivulets of water trickling down the high canyon walls on either side, and ferns and fruiting vines grow in pockets on the cliff face all the way up to the brim where the plains expand in all directions to points hidden from their present view. Further back and to the right a waterfall cascades down from the plateau, echoing through the gulch. At its base a heavy stone dam retains the water in a large pool, and a stone structure, which looks like a well shaft, stands in the middle, carrying the overflow to the sewers beneath their feet. There are also shallow channels on either side of the gulch that convey water to irrigation ditches throughout the vast orchards and gardens of the gulch.
Tamik spots the guardians’ cavernous inner dwellings in another arm of the gulch off to the left built high up into the canyon. Outer parts of buildings are constructed of wood and stone, and the rest is carved out of the cliff walls. The structures remind Tamik of canyon homes in other parts of Stonehaven, only these seem to be stacked even higher and closer together.
Along their way, they pass several residents diligently tending to their chores and duties. Only their sashes distinguish them apart. Younger ward-novitiates—the oldest of which appear to be near Tamik’s age—are plentiful in number. They all wear modest garments, plain ankle boots, and oiled, hooded capes. They carry no weapons, wear no sashes, and yet seem to toil as hard as any guardian.
“Wow, there are sure a lot of children,” Tamik notes. “Guardians must have big families.”
Melok chuckles. “They aren’t all born into guardian families. The guardians take in all children who need shelter. Most are orphans like I was.” For a moment his father seems distracted by the scene, but the moment passes and he continues speaking. “Some would be worse off with their natural families. The guardians care for them all and teach them skills they will need to survive as adults.”
“They sure work hard.”
“Perhaps. Of course it may just seem that way to you because you haven’t had to work so hard yourself. The pride provides us with a good livelihood from spoils of the hunt. Most aren’t so fortunate.”
Tamik notices that the actual guardians are all armed. He has often heard that once initiated—and until de-sashed or dead—a guardian considers his or her chosen weapons to be an extension of his or her own body. Tamik’s thoughts are interrupted by the sharp realization that the Lodge is looming in front of him. He is about to face the Grandmaster Tsi’galivo yet again, and that unnerves him.
The entrance to the outer chamber is partially open, but closely watched by a door keeper also clad in a green sash but with the crimson trim of a Senior Guardian.
“Greetings of the morrow,” Melok says brightly. “We are here to see the Grandmaster.”
The man facing them is of exceedingly short stature with a shiny bald head and a long mustache as black as coal. Long wispy black hair grows down from the base of his skull and he stands proudly at his full height, his chest decorated by colorful honor badges. Every compact proportion, from his calves to his neck, appears to be built of thick muscle. Tamik remembers him as one of the guardians who took the skywatcher into custody after Tamik had identified the assailant.
He salutes Melok and nods to Tamik. “I am Sortan. We are expecting you.”
He steps aside, graciously gesturing for the two to proceed. “It is good to see you well, young rexrider,” he says to Tamik. Tamik blushes slightly at being honored with the title of rexrider before he has been formally Named.
Tamik considers how the guardian’s sword hangs, upside-down on his back with the hilt suspended near his waist. “Why do you carry your sword like that?” he asks as he removes his cloak and hangs it on a peg in the stone wall near the door.
“This is not the time for your questions,” Sortan replies gently.
Tamik frowns slightly at the evasive reply and sits to remove his muddy boot covers. When he finishes, he enters the hall with his father. It is large and perfectly rectangular, built deeply into the cliff wall. The gurgle of water draining along the gunnels in its highly arched ceiling serves as the only reminder of the wetness outside. The scrupulous work of stonecrafters, woodworkers, and gasmongers has made it possible for these underground caverns to remain well lit, warm and dry.
At the back of the hall they come to a door that leads to the Inner Chamber, a room that penetrates even deeper into the canyon stone. The triangular shaped, windowless room is much smaller than the cavernous one Tamik just passed through, though it is more than large enough for a general meeting of twenty or so people. Only a few pieces of carved wood furniture occupy it including a long “V” shaped table in the middle with benches on both sides. A large wooden chair is positioned at the peak of the table and raised up on a triangular platform at the apex of the room, opposite the door through which the three just entered. The platform is preceded by three steps: the first is painted white with the word HARMONY engraved in the stone of the rise; the second, painted red, reads POWER; on the final stair, colored black, is the word WISDOM.
All of the room’s decorations seem symbolic. A wooden wall panel bears a pentagon with a triangle inside, similar to the knocker on the outer gate. Another has a snake eating its tail forming a figure of eight, which circumscribes a square and a triangle, respectively, with two tangential parallel lines intersecting each circle of the sideways lying number eight.
There is also a delicate textile with abstract patterns on another wall. And the large, longneck skin neatly covering the entire floor is tattooed with colorful ink designs depicting scenes of dueling fighters.
Tsi’galivo is sitting on one of the benches. He stands up and comes to meet his guests. Stocky and fit, he is similar in height and build to Melok, but several sars older. He wears spectacles and carries three steel throwing daggers parallel to each other in a chest-sheath. His green sash has black trim.
“Welcome Rex-Melok,” he greets Tamik’s father with the formal salute of a peer, and then offers him his hand informally. “Do sit.” He motions to a bench. Melok takes a seat on it, and Tamik begins to do the same, but Tsi’galivo places his hand on the boy’s shoulder. A simple gesture, but there is little question Tamik is meant to remain standing.
“Is your son ready to begin his training?” Tsi’galivo regards Tamik with a steady stare.
“I believe so,” Melok replies. “He has a lot to learn, but he’s highly motivated.”
“I see.” Tsi’galivo sounds skeptical.
“Tell me, boy,” Tsi’galivo speaks slowly, “are you a hero or a fool?”
“I . . . Ah . . .”
Tsi’galivo waits so quietly and so patiently that
it seems he could do so for an immeasurable period of time. Tamik forces himself to contemplate the question more diligently.
I’m no hero; I couldn’t help my sister. But didn’t they catch that skywatcher because I identified him? Am I a hero because of that?
No. I am forbidden to speak of it, and you don’t have to be a teller to know that a hero’s deeds must be told, not kept secret.
“A fool,” Tamik whispers, staring at the floor.
“I did not hear you, boy.”
“A fool,” Tamik repeats in full voice, still looking down.
The Grandmaster places the tips of his fingers on Tamik’s chin and gently lifts. He studies the young man intently.
“Stand sturdy, boy.”
Tamik obliges as Tsi’galivo places both hands on his shoulders and presses down firmly. The youth’s knees buckle and he bends backward at the waist, almost collapsing before stumbling back upright.
“We will teach you proper posture,” Tsi’galivo says and goes over to Sortan who Tamik now realizes is standing inside the door. His palms rest on his belt, the right one habitually close to the hilt of his short sword. The Grandmaster whispers something in his ear. The Senior looks at Tamik standing next to his father, and nods in their direction.
Tsi’galivo turns to Melok. “Rex-Melok, I am sure you are very proud of your son. I hope we can teach him to survive in the hostile wildernesses beyond the walls of our expansive civilization, not to mention the little wilderness that, at times, seems to exist within those very same walls.”
Tsi’galivo confers with Sortan again, but this time Tamik can hear. “That boy seems to have a burning red dagger wedged between the lobes of his liver. I recall it being placed there by a skywatcher.” They eye the boy.
“So he does, Master Tsi’galivo.”
“He will require a lot of attention. Can we trust him to honor our noble order in all his undertakings? His thirst for revenge could be dangerous.”
“I do not think we should judge him too quickly.” Sortan glances briefly at Melok. “Melok has been a good father to him, as good as any could be.”
Tsi’galivo’s voice takes on a slight air of irritation. “Had I judged him quickly,” he says, “do you think I would even consider teaching him of the Power?”
“I did not mean to contradict you, Master.” Sortan bows reverently.
“Do you accept the task of ensuring that this young animal is enlightened?” Tsi’galivo does not wait for a response. “In order to teach him the Way and bring him into the Light of the Divine, you will have to instill in him the deepest respect for the Power. I believe he will sense it strongly once he remembers.”
Sortan nods.
Tsi’galivo returns to the table and addresses Melok, “Sortan has agreed to take responsibility for your son’s tutelage. As the boy is to continue to train with you as a rexrider each turn after high meridian, he is to meet Sortan in the Outer Chamber at the break of each regular morrow, except of course when he is out hunting with you.”
He then speaks to Tamik. “You may train here, but you must be committed to the art.”
“Oh yes, I am!” Tamik exclaims. He knows this is the only way he can vindicate himself for his ineptitude during the skywatcher’s assault. “A guardian would have known what to do to that skywatcher! I am going to become the best guardian any rexrider has ever been.”
Tsi’galivo regards the boy in silence again. Tamik wonders if he is reconsidering his offer when then the Grandmaster asks, “Do you think you are beginning to understand what that commitment means?”
Tamik’s moment of enthusiasm trickles out of him. Reluctantly, he shakes his head.
“Not really.”
“Good,” Tsi’galivo says, “I hoped you would answer thus. Had you replied otherwise, demonstrating youthful ignorance and a lack of humility, I would not have accepted you into the Lodge. You seem to learn quickly, so I will explain briefly. First and foremost, we are not training you so you can exact some sort of twisted revenge on that skywatcher. He has been duly punished. You will be expelled from our order and summarily punished yourself if you pursue any such measures. Furthermore, because of your responsibility to two orders, you will have to train twice as hard as any other guardian or rexrider. Is this clear?”
“Yes.”
“That is ‘Yes, Master’ when you are addressing a Master Guardian. And ‘Yes, Senior,’ when addressing a Senior Guardian, and ‘Yes, Junior,’ when addressing a Junior Guardian. In private, individuals may offer you their names, but you must still address them formally in public. You, however, have not yet been given a public name; therefore, your training will not begin until the first regular turn after your Naming Ceremony. That celebration will announce your initiation to the Order of Rexriders, correct?”
“Yes, Master,” Tamik says.
“And you understand that you are required to remain chaste until such a time as your training is complete?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Now then, for your first lesson,” Tsi’galivo continues. “This turn I will explain the level of training you will first be undertaking.”
He takes Tamik by the shoulder and turns him to face the apex of the room. Pointing with an open hand toward the first step, he says, “That is the first step of the Way on the Path of Divine Light. It is painted white, and thusly, your first color will be white, as the color white is emblematic of purity and produced by the harmonic union of all colors. The Junior Guardian is a student of people. As a Junior Guardian you will learn to live and thrive among all different kinds of people, while curbing your desires and keeping your passions within due bounds. Therefore, your green sash, presuming you are initiated into our order, will be trimmed with white.”
Tamik examines the word HARMONY carved in the step’s rise.
The Grandmaster moves back toward his table. “One last thing,” he says.
“Yes, Master.”
“How does one create a perfect circle?”
Tamik finally knows an answer to a question, which he learned in a drawing session many seasons past. “By securing one end of a thin tether to a marker and the other to a fixed point and drawing,” he replies proudly, “thereby circumscribing a perfect circle.”
Tsi’galivo’s reply is soft and flat.
“No.”
The floor below Tamik plunges downward. Did his glib response cost him his chance to become a guardian?
“One may strive for perfection, but one can only achieve excellence,” Tsi’galivo explains. “One may draw an excellent circle, but there is no making of a perfect one. Achievement is a matter of excellence, not perfection. Perfection is a matter of Mystery.”
The Grandmaster takes a slate board off a hanger on the wall with his right hand, and grips a piece of chalk in his left. To Tamik’s amazement, he draws what appears to be a perfect circle in one sweeping motion. It is as if his arm is a tether and his shoulder a fixed point. He then casually hangs the board back on the wall and sets down the chalk.
Tersely, he says, “Eat at least half an arc before you arrive here for your lessons. We will provide you with plenty of fluids and snacks. You may join us for high meridian meal if you like, but on the occasions that you do, you will be obligated to stay and help with clean-up duties. It is your choice and will depend upon you father’s plans for you each turn. Our food is likely to be plain in comparison to the fare to which you are accustomed, but fitting nourishment nonetheless. We look forward to seeing you after your Naming and Initiation to the Order of Rexriders. Until then, go with Spirit.”
“Thank you, Master Tsi’galivo,” Melok interjects. “I appreciate your accepting my son.”
“We are honored that your son has chosen to study our arts,” Tsi’galivo replies. “He will not be disappointed, although he may become weary enough to regret his decision on occasion.”
Melok salutes Tsi’galivo as an equal, his thumbs pointing at his heart.
Tamik salutes Tsi’g
alivo as a superior, his thumbs pointing to his forehead. Both of them then leave the hall with Sortan.
“You did well during your assessment, young rexrider,” the Senior comments as he leads the two out.
“Was that like a test?” Tamik asks.
“It is always a test,” Sortan says, opening the outer door to the Master’s Chamber and escorting them into the courtyard. “No doubt you can find your own way from here.”
“Certainly,” Melok says. “Thank you.”
Enter the Wilderness,
Enter the food chain.
--Pirlan
8. Food Chain
Western Wilderness at dusk, 9/01/1643 --
Beyond the tree line, the activity of the juvenile rexes had brought them close to the crox-infested Red River. Neither Rayak-rex nor Tiga-rex noticed that the two had ventured so far from the rest of the pride. With each new brood successfully raised, the Prime Pair seemed to become a little less attentive to their young.
“Mother!” Simad called to Gogana, with alarm in her voice. The young rexrider, who had imprinted on the juvenile she-rex, Nanta, ran toward the river calling to her mount.
Tamik leaped out of the hutch to see what was going on.
“Don’t get too close to the water!” Gogana called after her daughter.
Peton, the male fledgling’s future rider, soon responded as well. He bolted ahead of Simad and for good reason: the male fledgling he was training was drinking at the river’s edge.
Peton called after his playful charge, but was unable to command notice. Before the young rexrider could get him away from the shore, the water erupted with teeth, and the juvenile rex disappeared from the shore with squeals and thrashes.
By the time Rayak-rex and his pride got to the riverbank, the crox had already pulled the young rex under. Peton stopped short of the shore and called out in helpless despair as he watched streams of fresh blood mix with the rusty color of the Red River. A few of the young animal’s proto feathers floated slowly down stream.