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Testament of Faith
Andrew should have been heading home. The icy winds of the mountain plateau he crossed sliced at his hooded face and blew dry, dusty snow at hisheavily-browed eyes. A powerful gust buffeted him, but Andrew easily adjusted his footing in an unconscious movement learned from many years of treading the mountain. He cinched the knapsack under his arm a little closer and strode on with quickening steps.
"Wonder what has kept Simon and the boy?" he asked. The wind ripped the words from Andrew's barely moving lips. He often spoke his thoughts aloud. If people could not hear him, then maybe the sky or the earth he mined could. "Perhaps even the Mistress listened now and again," he would say to the disapproving old women who scolded his muttering. He was not thinking about old women and home at the moment. Simon and his son had not come to Ice Rock to share the walk home as they had for four seasons past.
A whole day lost waiting. What could have kept them?" When he was younger and still innocent in the ways of the mountains he might have considered the idea that good fortune had befallen the Simon males. Andrew the boy had believed the tales his eldest spun before the common fire, but years of toil had hardened more than his weathered frame.
The grade began to rise as Andrew walked, taking him in a rising curve toward a still distant, barren outcropping of rock that marked Simon's mine. The setting sun heated Andrew's left side and shed stark light on the snow blanketed ridge around him. Opposite the setting sun the Mistress towered.
The mountain dwarfed it's neighboring giants, and though it's upper reaches were still ablaze with sunlight it's peak remained shrouded in dense mists.
Andrew stopped. Directly ahead the trail narrowed as it passed between two high ledges. The snow was deeper there because the ledges kept the wind from carrying it away. Clearly visible in the snow were two sets of identical footprints.
Andrew ran a hand across the back of his neck and squinted in puzzlement at the footprints. "One set walks away, one returns," he murmured. Even with the protection of the ledges, the wind would have obliterated the imprints within a day or two at most. The prints were recent. With his hand still held protectively on his neck, Andrew furtively scoured the area around him with his eyes. "Not a thing but rocks and snow," he said to discourage the disturbing feeling that swept over him.
"Had to be Simon," Andrew finally surmised. The footprints were too large to be the boy's. "Simon started for Ice Rock and turned back. Why?" Andrew thought some more. "Why was his boy not with him?" Andrew did not like the possible reasons Simon might have for leaving his boy behind. Unable to make further sense, and now even more worried, Andrew hurried on.
It took three more hours of steady walking to reach the western most corner of the familiar, large rock outcropping where Simon's mine was located. Boulders, torn loose from the outcropping by the long ago shrug of a mountain, were piled within a natural canyon, forming walls of rock as much as twenty feet high. The maze of paths formed by the rock walls were well explored and of no interest to Andrew. The entrance to Simon's mine was barely fifty feet into the maze. He looked for the Crushing Stone that marked the path opening which led to the mine.
"Mother of Lodes," whispered Andrew, hastening toward the figure slumped at the foot of the Crushing Stone. His steps slowed. He recognized the figure as Simon; the fact that snow melted by Simon's body heat had not re-frozen told Andrew that Simon could still be alive. Andrew's steady steps faltered and he stopped twenty feet from Simon.
"Mother of Lodes," he said again. "My friend Simon ... what have you done?"
The Crushing Stone was a flat, irregular shaped sheet of rock about eight feet in diameter. The surface of the rock was raised about three feet; the surrounding ground was covered in small pieces of rock. All miners used similar stones to crush chunks of rock cut from the mines in their endless search for a bit of valuable stone. The surface of Simon's Crushing Stone was black with frozen blood and scattered with unrecognizable lumps. The head of the miner's axe which lay on the ground near Simon was also drenched with frozen blood.
Andrew remained rooted where his feet had stopped. He spoke an old litany of Warding taught by his long dead eldest.
"Mistress of Pristine White:
Undeserving I am of
One speck from Your Icy Gown.
We live at Your Feet,
Groping about Your Hem,
To catch the bits of precious stone
You suffer us to take.
Hide me from the blinding beauty.
Never shall I see beyond the Veil
Or will the Stalker seek my Flesh..."
Andrew glanced once at the dancing mists which hid the peak of the Mistress. He did not quite shudder as he returned his attention to the Crushing Stone.
The bloody remains of Simon's son were arranged on the Crushing Stone in a familiar pattern. The meaning of that pattern turned Andrew's insides cold in a way the worst winter storms had never done. "You can't stand here forever, old fool," Andrew chided himself. He drew close to Simon.
"Are you alive? Do you still draw breath?" Andrew removed his gloves to feel for a pulse in Simon's neck, but in Simon's awkward position he could not be sure. Andrew straightened Simon and lay him on his back beside the Crushing Stone. Andrew's right hand came away from Simon warm with blood. Simon was torn open from stomach to bowels.
Andrew wept in horror and pain, but he knew such emotions were useless and he struggled for control. The line of his mouth grew taut as he fought back those tears and banished the pain to that dark place in his mind where past horrors of mountain life were imprisoned. Calmer now, Andrew pulled open Simon's clothing. The line of the cut was straight, clean, and very deep. A long blade, Andrew surmised even as his eye caught a single pulse of blood from the wound. Simon raised his eyelids and grasped Andrew's elbow, and more blood flowed in thick rivulets. Shocked into staring silence, Andrew allowed Simon to pull him close. Lowering his ear to Simon's lips, Andrew listened to his friend's dying words.
Andrew remained crouched over Simon's body for a long time after Simon died. His mind raced with thoughts, some of which reached his lips, a chaotic babble over which he had no control.
"Should have gotten here sooner ... failed you, old friend ... Friend! A friend would not have uttered such words ... your son ... you did right? ..." And in a bare whisper his own ears could not hear, "Why your death, Simon? Was not the boy enough?" Those questions circled each other in his mind until, drained, Andrew dozed.
When he woke, long shadows from the rock maze turned the area around him dark. He winced at stiff muscles that felt as lifeless as Simon's body under him. Andrew straightened with difficulty and worked blood back into his muscles. He looked with solemn sadness at the body of Simon.
"The Mistress is a hard taskmaster," Andrew said resignedly. He grimaced at the fading sun and sighed. There was not enough time left before nightfall to bury Simon. "Going to have to camp here tonight, I suppose. I know you'd rather be buried closer to the Village grounds, but I'm not up to carting you all that way. It'll be hard enough getting you into the ground here in time for me to make it home before nightfall tomorrow." He did not consider burying the pieces left of Simon's son. It would not have been appropriate.
Andrew went deeper into the rock maze to make camp. The evening winds were picking up and would become a howling storm before midnight. A cul-deªsac sheltered him from the worst of the storm. Little enough of the wind reached him that he was able to make a small fire, but even that welcome comfort failed to help him sleep. Normally the movement of the flames was a visual lullaby, but to Andrew's eyes this night the fire flickered strangely and showed him shapes he did not wish to identify. Outside the fire's dim light other shapes moved as modest eddies of wind picked up bits of brush and other debris. Andrew did not look too closely at the things which moved beyond the ring of the fire's light. Th
at night he had nothing to say, even to himself.
Eventually Andrew slept, and soon he dreamed. A shadow came to him from outside the ring of firelight. Despite the flickering flame, Andrew could not make out it's shape. The shadow descended upon him, and it's weight became a suffocating burden. Andrew struggled to breathe. The shadow encompassed his head, massaged and manipulated his thoughts with eon aged hands and drew sustenance from his mind.
Andrew awoke to early dawn. He knew he had dreamed a dark dream, but not even a wisp of remembrance remained. As he searched for some clue to the dream, his eyes furtively roved from shadow to shadow among the many crevices and rocky nooks. A gust of wind rattled pebbles and finally brought Andrew out of his revery, and he found himself looking deeply into a particularly dark and unfathomable slash in the stony walls. Nothing stirred, and after a moment Andrew looked away.
"The strain is getting to me," Andrew somewhat fearfully told the air around him. He deliberately began the soothing process of making a small pot of hot tea. He waited patiently for the tea to brew, and then sat quietly while he drank it. That comfortingly normal exercise complete, Andrew carefully extinguished the last embers of the fire, wiped the inside of the cup and put it in his knapsack. As he broke camp he thought about Simon's dying words and worried uneasily that he could no longer remember more than snatches. Andrew pulled his knapsack closed and strung it under his arm.
"Time to get moving," he said forcefully, again trying to push the uneasiness away.
Andrew emerged from the rock maze. The Crushing Stone and it's gruesome remains were covered with a thin layer of snow. Simon's now solidly frozen body lay where Andrew had left it the previous day. The bright glare from the early morning sun pitilessly spotlighted the tableau and chased away the clinging remnants of Andrew's dream.
Andrew wiped at his eyes and donned his sun goggles to protect against the glare. "Eyes leaking tears ..." Andrew began to recite as he raised his head to look at the Mistress's peak. The summit was bathed in light. Clouds so white they looked painted reflected the light and formed a perfect, rainbow colored halo. "Bright trim on the Virgin's Veil ..." The night's winds had stripped away the cloud cover from all but the uppermost regions of the Mistress. Without thinking about what he was doing, Andrew stepped up on the Crushing Stone to get a better view. The vision held his rapt attention.
"Never has the Mistress been so lovely." His hands came up to his face to remove the goggles. Andrew wanted to see more.
Suddenly Andrew whirled around and almost fell off the Crushing Stone. His right foot slipped out from under him and he went to one knee. The hand holding the goggles slapped the stone hard to maintain his balance. He was now facing Simon's body, wrapped in it's dusting of snow. Simon's frosted eyes seemed to be fixed on the Virgin's Veil.
Andrew's back was turned to the summit. However, through Simon's dead eyes Andrew clearly perceived the view behind him. As the sun rose from behind the Mistress it was burning away the last of the clouds. For a rare moment the Face of the Mistress would be visible.
Clouds always blanketed the summit. The Veil was never drawn aside. The Face was always hidden. Simon's boy had known to hide his eyes, but he had not; so Simon had told Andrew. Simon had also known the act of penitence and purification which then must follow.
Andrew found himself crouching over Simon's body. "Not even the dead should see," Andrew said gently. He withdrew his long dagger from within his coat.
Andrew buried Simon. The frozen soil was hard and rocky, and it was mid-morning before he completed the task. He ate a cold lunch and settled for water instead of his usual hot tea because there was no time to build a fire.
"Besides," he said when long habit had him half convinced to make his tea, "Simon would understand why I can't stay. Got to get home. Got to do some thinking, and I think best when I'm walking." As he started down the trail he nodded to the mountain peak. The Mistress was again safely hidden within her chaste garments. Amid the offal on the Crushing Stone Andrew had left two new objects: Simon's eyes.
Andrew made good time. The winds were light and under the bright sun Andrew was hot within his heavy clothing. He didn't mind. There was purpose in his stride. He still could not remember the dream of the night before, but it no longer seemed to matter. He still could not recall much of what Simon had said to him, but he somehow knew that lapse would eventually pass. Something shared the trail with him. He took to nodding at the occasional shadow he passed, although he saw nothing and expected nothing. It did not frighten him, but had become a comfort, a companion to share his walk.
He reached Ice Rock before midday and could have made it home before dark. Instead of taking the southern path toward the Village, however, Andrew turned north and travelled up Berric's Way. Berric was old and feeble and practically lived on the upper slopes, rarely coming down to the Village. He had two strong sons, however, to work the mine. The Berric mine was a hole in the ground of a high plateau. Berric was fond of bragging that he had the best view of the Virgin's Veil on the mountain.
Andrew stopped at the foot of the trail leading up to the top of the plateau. There was still an hour or so of daylight, but the trail was a twisted switchback and could be treacherous. "Best to wait for morning," Andrew said. Shadows lengthened with the passing of the day. Andrew set about to make camp, but did not start a fire. "Gonna miss my tea again," he complained mildly. As the day turned to twilight Andrew propped himself up on a flat rock. He withdrew his favorite sharpening stone from his knapsack and, after a slight hesitation, also pulled out Simon's axe. Andrew settled into position and began honing the fine, freshly cleaned blade.
It was full dark upon the mountain when Andrew finished his task. He tucked Simon's axe into his belt within easy reach and began the trek up the trail to Berric's mine. He was only mildly surprised at his change in plans, as if he knew all along that this is what he had intended to do. He picked his way confidently up the trail, knowing the Mistress kept his footing sure. His shadowy companion, though still no more than a feeling, grew more substantial to Andrew and gave credence to his blossoming purpose. It was not the Mistress herself, of course. To Andrew a darker, more elemental something walked with him and gave him strength for his task.
While in this powerful company Andrew began to remember. His thoughts led him back to Simon's mine: before the footsteps, footsteps he now knew were his own, to a weeping Simon and his petrified boy.
"Simon was weak," Andrew said with assurance and new understanding. "He knew what had to be done but could not do it. Would not yield the task to me, either." Andrew saw himself drawing the knife from his coat and cutting deep into Simon to immobilize him. It was fitting that Simon had survived the cut and that his imprisoned soul, if not his heart, could rejoice as Andrew took Simon's axe and carved up the screaming boy, and then arranged the pieces on the Crushing Stone to atone for his sin.
"Oh..." Andrew sighed uneasily as he felt again the original despair at the carnage he had performed. Simon's last words rushed upon him. Andrew remembered Simon's ungrateful curses not only for Andrew but for the Mistress as well. Now Andrew understood that the Mistress had at first hidden the knowledge from him because then he had not been ready to face his task.
Pride rose in Andrew's chest. The Mistress had placed her faith in him. There were many mines on the mountain. All those who worked the mines could have seen the unveiled Face of the Mistress. Some would confess and the Mistress would accept their souls. The others would have to be convinced of their sin. After that ... well, the Mistress would guide him. If the Village must be scourged, then he would do as he was commanded.
Andrew reached the plateau. With his hand cradling the handle of the axe he walked into Berric's camp with the smile of purpose. The shadow of the Stalker preceded him, marking the way for Andrew with footprints no other man would live to see.
THE END
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Introduction. "The Net" is my longest published story at over 10,000 words. I have to thank the original publisher of Neophyte, Jeff Behrnes, for taking up twenty pages of his thirty page issue for this story to see print. The story was heavily influenced by the work of William Gibson. Published in 1991, it is obviously dated by the rapid advance of computer technology. But take a step back in cyberspace to 1984 and Gibson's Neuromancer, and you should be right at home.
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The Net
Raised by the Fox Page 15