With Footfalls of Shadow
Prophecy of the Hundred Years’ King
Donogan Sawyer
© John R Wheeling
The right of John R Wheeling to be identified as the author of this work, writing as Donogan Sawyer, has been asserted by him.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
First published in 2016
Paperback ISBN 978-99916-816-0-3
Ebook ISBN 978-99916-816-7-2
Published by
Martial Publishing
P.O. Box 11579
Klein Windhoek, Windhoek, Namibia
Tel: +264-61-400553
[email protected]
http://www.martialpublishing.com
For Dana, Kieren, Maddie and Josie.
Table of Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
XLIII
About the author
I
Knowledge builds our house of wisdom. Humility opens its door.
– The Tomes of Æhlman
Sinead felt herself nodding off. She sat upright in her wooden chair and folded her hands on her desk, trying to make herself feel more alert. She loved Viebke as a sister, a teacher, and often, she imagined, as a mother. Like most of the women on the mountain, Sinead never knew either of her parents and Viebke filled that role for many of them. Viebke was caring, compassionate and wise, but she could be so boring. Sinead had heard this lecture a dozen times. She knew it was important, but she was not a patient person by nature, and she was fourteen-years-old now. She’d had enough theory; she wanted to learn some magic.
The reddish glow of the classroom candles cast a dozen shadows of Viebke’s slender torso and delicate profile, all of which appeared to pace the room with her; some climbing the walls, others sinking into the floor; as she glided through the dancing candlelight.
Viebke waved her ever-present pointer as she spoke. “The short-lived are convinced not only that they are the most advanced race in this world, but also that they are more advanced than all those of their own race who preceded them.”
Two of the older students moaned slightly and rolled their eyes as Viebke continued. “To us it seems an inconceivably arrogant position, but to understand the short-lived, we must first grasp their perspective. Firstly, they are largely unaware of other races who share the world with them. The very existence of races unfamiliar to the short-lived has been relegated to the fancy of young children and crazy old men. We, the Sisters of Æhlman, have been reduced to the role of sinister witches in fairy tales, while the Walvaai have become the mystical wizards of fireside stories.
“Their separation from the older races is perhaps the first reason the short-lived have such a narrow awareness of reality. The second reason, we argue, is an almost forgivable confidence born of their cleverness. They feel empowered by their inventions. Their wheels, windmills, gears, pulleys and the ingenious devices created for the purpose of feeding, producing, killing and torturing, have convinced them that they’ve reached the pinnacle of human potential.”
Viebke paused, as she often did, to allow the class a moment to process her words. She lightly scraped her pointer along the stone wall, clicking over the chisel marks created when the room was carved out of the mountain.
“They all share this pride in being a part of the modern age, and feel like participants in the process of human innovation. I personally find this amusing, as such a scant few figures in their history actually deserve any credit for their inventions or advances, but I digress.
“The short-lived learn the stories of their fathers, and their fathers’ fathers. In these stories they learn the noble history of their ancestors’ triumphs, but are also keenly aware of the toil and hardship of their forebears’ daily lives. They see their own generation as having surpassed the comfort and sophistication of previous generations, and they don’t want to go backwards. They want, and expect, that their children will surpass their own achievements, and that their grandchildren will advance even further, and so on. That is why they are always looking forward, always striving for more.
“This, class, is the seed of their hubris. They dismiss some of the most valuable traditions as primitive. They disdain, even fear, the old ways. That is why we live in seclusion. The short-lived fear us, and what we represent.”
“They fear magic,” muttered Sinead.
“Pardon me, Sinead?” Viebke said, turning to her.
“I’m sorry, Sister Viebke,” Sinead said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, Sinead, there’s no need to apologise. I just want you to share your comment with the rest of us.”
Sinead stood to address the class, regretful of having drawn attention to herself. “I was just saying that the short-lived fear magic.”
“Yes, Sinead, that is correct, though I find your terminology unfortunate. The short-lived have lost their connection with the old ways, and are roused to fear when they witness them. What they call magic is simply knowledge lost to them, perhaps unobtainable to them after so long.”
Sinead thought it was starting to feel as if the magic was unobtainable to her after waiting so long to be taught, but she held her tongue.
“The short-lived are confident in their superiority because of their advances, but every new invention, every step that takes them further, is a step away from their ancestry, and away from true power. They believe they have discovered, through invention, the key to manipulating and understanding the world. They are confident because they are unwilling to recognise alternatives. They reach for knowledge that they know they can attain, and shy away from what they fear they cannot.
“But we, sisters, are not afraid of what we cannot know. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“Adelle, tell me. How does a bat perceive the world?”
Adelle stood next to her chair and answered, “Mainly through hearing, Sister. Through echolocation a bat can sense the proximity of objects around it.”
“Correct,” Viebke said, “and can you imagine what that experience is like for the bat? Can you truly conceive a world experienced through echolocation?”
“No, Sister, not really.”
“I cannot either,” continued Viebke. “But I come a little nearer each time I study the issue.”
“Anyone else?” Viebke asked the class. “In what other ways can we demonstrate our own limitations? Someone give me an example of another way to perceive the world that we are
aware of, but cannot truly grasp.”
Several of the eleven young students raised a hand to volunteer.
“Patricia?”
Patricia stood and answered, “Many insects have antennae that sense the world in a way we cannot imagine.”
“Good, Patricia. Yes, Tyla?”
Patricia sat, as Tyla stood. “A bee has multifaceted eyes, and no one really knows what the world may look like to them.”
“Excellent, Tyla. Derby?”
“Canines and similar species have hundreds of times the olfactory senses that we have. We can only wonder at how such a heightened sense of smell might affect their perception.”
“Indeed. Yes, Sinead?”
Sinead stood again, a bit nervous to bring up the topic, but it seemed appropriate given the question. “The Mikraino are not much different to other people, just a bit smaller ...”
Sinead watched Viebke as she spoke, and sensed an expression of caution on her brow. The Mikraino was a topic only discussed at higher levels, but she pressed on. “Apparently, occasionally a Mikraino is born with eyes which are completely black that can literally see the æther.”
Viebke smiled and nodded softly, then retorted, “First magic, now æther, Sinead? I hope that during the course of your studies, you will overcome the need to use these terms.”
Viebke paused in her lecture and walked through the aisles. She ran her finger over Adelle’s desk and inspected it for dust before continuing. “One could argue, and we often do, that neither exist. Magic is simply a word for things people cannot readily explain, as æther is a word for the substance of the universe, which we cannot readily describe. But as to your observation, Sinead, from time to time, a Mikraino is born with these special eyes. Your example is a good one. No one really understands how the black-eyed Mikraino perceive the world. We do know that they are very rare and very powerful. We believe there is only one alive today. His name is Bandalanu, the leader of the Mikraino.”
Sinead raised her hand, hoping to delve more into the nature of Bandalanu and his powers, but predictably Viebke ignored her and steered the discourse back to the original lesson.
“With these examples we can realise our own limitations. We cannot run as fast as a windcat, or jump as high. We cannot fly like a bird or extract oxygen from water like a fish. These physical limitations are obvious, but we must also acknowledge the limitations of our minds and senses. We cannot see as a bee, or hear as a bat, or smell as a canine. And we have virtually no concept of how antennae, or eyes of pure black, might perceive the world. These creatures you speak of are like guideposts to the impossible; to senses, powers and perceptions of the world that we can only imagine. Because we have observed these creatures and are aware of their special abilities, we can speculate on their nature but we are far from understanding them. Now, think what other possibilities may exist in the universe, to which we have no guideposts. What creatures have we never encountered with powers we have never imagined?”
Viebke paused for a moment, facing the corner of the room, staring into the darkness beyond the candlelight before continuing.
“In the Age of Letters, we learned that all creatures of this world are related. We share common ancestors with the short-lived, the Walvaai and the Mikraino. If we trace our lineage even further back, we are also family of the Gantas and the Bok. Further still and we find common ancestors to apes, canines, horses, even bees, centipedes, plants, bacteria and plankton. In our blood, in our genes, is stored the potential capacity for a bat’s echolocation, a bee’s multidimensional vision, even the perception of eyes of pure black.
“Sinead?” Viebke asked.
“Yes, Sister,” she answered, and felt a tap on her back. She turned around to find Viebke behind her. A collective gasp issued from the class.
“What did you just see?” Viebke asked.
“I saw you do magic,” answered Sinead softly. Then she covered her mouth, recognising her mistake.
Viebke smiled affectionately. “My dear, you are the next in line as Keeper of the Stones. It may be another century before you are called to service. It may be another hour. But if you are to protect the Oracle, you must understand what you have just witnessed, and not just dismiss it as magic.”
She recommenced her pacing. “What you saw was an illusion. Most of the powers of the Sisterhood are based on temporary effects which we can induce in others. In this case, I simply protracted the image of myself in your minds. While you believed I was standing here in front of the room, I was walking down the aisle to take my position behind Sinead. It is a very useful skill, and very dangerous. Suppose I had meant Sinead harm?
“This skill has been developed through the accumulation of our knowledge over many generations. While the short-lived use their generational intelligence to alter their physical world, we have been building on the knowledge of our ancestors to become closer to it. I have just described other creatures of this world as guideposts for the impossible, as I have been teaching you for years.
“But now it is time to begin learning how these creatures can be guideposts for the possible; to tap into our genetic history and learn from, interact with and manipulate the world around us; to hear as a bat, jump like a windcat, shape the fabric of the universe and unravel the mysteries of the fates. It is time to begin your training in earnest.”
“It is time to learn magic,” Sinead whispered.
“Yes, Sinead. It is time to learn magic,” answered Viebke.
~Æ~
Lucinda descended the winding stone steps under the hot desert sun as she had every day for the last one hundred and forty-eight years. As Keeper of the Stones, she consulted with the Oracle every morning to enquire about the Calling. This was when the Æhlman Sisterhood could come out of hiding and play their part in the rise of the Hundred Years’ King. The Oracle would indicate that the time had come by placing the first stone in the centre of the tablet. In one hundred and forty-eight years of visits, the Oracle had yet to place the stone.
Most mornings Lucinda would receive nothing except insults, rants or dead silence. Some mornings the Oracle would give Lucinda something to deliver to the Sisterhood, but never the one thing that they all waited for, the sign of the Calling.
Lucinda knew every crack in every step of the path. She knew every slave who worked every lever along the way, pumping water from the underground river to the top of the mountain. She knew the slaves by name, but rarely spoke to them. The other sisters would not have approved. Most sisters on the mountain set themselves above all others, but Lucinda considered it barbaric and primitive to keep slaves – blinded at birth so they could never escape, or reveal the location of the mountain if they did; and neutered to protect them from sexual weaknesses. They pumped the levers all day, every day, sun-up to sundown, so that the sisters would not be thirsty and could tend to their ablutions. The work made the slaves exceptionally muscular and the sun bronzed their skin. When Lucinda was younger, passing closely to these lithe beautiful men on her walk every morning, she understood full well that the neutering process was about more than just protecting the men from themselves.
These days, however, her main concern was completing her daily journey faithfully and without injury. The exercise had kept her in fine shape for a woman her age, but every year the thousand steps to the Oracle became more difficult. By the time she returned home each afternoon, she had little energy for anything else. She would tend to her ablutions, have a bite to eat and read herself to sleep enough to recover and repeat the process the next day. This was her duty. Hers was an honoured position amongst the Sisterhood, a right she was entitled to by virtue of having given birth to the Oracle. Upon her passing, the rights of the Keeper would pass to the next closest in line by blood, the Oracle’s cousin, Sinead.
The temperature cooled considerably as the steps descended beneath the surface of the desert. This was her favourite moment of the day. The discomfort of the desert heat abated, and the hope that perhaps tod
ay the Oracle would lay the first stone remained alive for the last fifty steps. And, of course, Lucinda was pleased at the prospect of visiting her daughter. It was sometimes difficult to see her in the demented state of the Oracle, but Lucinda believed in the doctrine of the Sisterhood. Every generation must have an Oracle, carefully chosen among the most beautiful virgin daughters of their coven. Once chosen, she was locked away in the Annex of Sources, which was a spacious and beautifully-appointed living quarters, designed by an ancient race. It was situated near the surface of the underground river, where the water seeped through the earth and filled a large bath in the Oracle’s quarters with the purest of desert water. The walls and floors were all laid with the finest marble, save one of the walls behind the bath. There the wall remained of raw earth, covered in scarlet moss, the Oracle’s only source of nourishment.
All of the Æhlman Sisterhood fortified their diets with scarlet moss. It sharpened their powers, but too much of it made a person go mad, as Lucinda’s daughter had. Still, only an Oracle steeped in the power of scarlet moss could manipulate many of the tools essential to the Sisterhood’s survival, including the Stones of the Calling.
Lucinda knocked on her door.
“Go away, you hag!” came the reply.
“Darling, I have come to inquire about the stones.”
The door opened and Lucinda was met with gob of spit in her face. The Oracle left the door open and ran to a table in the centre of room, upon which lay the tablet. Lucinda patiently wiped her face and walked to the table. She had long ago accepted that her daughter’s mind was not entirely with her. Most of the little girl, who was once called Annicha, had surrendered her life to the Oracle. Lucinda knew it to be a great and noble sacrifice, and that along with the suffering of madness came great gifts of vision, which made the Oracle far more powerful than any other of the Sisterhood. Even so, Lucinda could still see the young Annicha behind the troubled face of the woman who stood before her.
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