When the snow melted and the frost seeped up out of the ground and the wind of spring began to blow again, I knew it was time to leave. I took no joy in the pampering of a multitude of grandparents and had no desire to become the pet of a host of crotchety old people who could not even speak a civilized language.
And so, early one spring morning, before the darkness had even slid off the sky, I sneaked from the camp and went south into a low range of hills where their creaky old limbs could not follow me. I moved very fast, for I was young and well-fed and quite strong, but it was not fast enough. As the sun rose I could hear the wails of unspeakable grief coming from the encampment behind me. I remember that sound very well.
I loitered that summer in the hills and in the upper reaches of the Vale to the south beyond them. It was in my mind that I might—if pursued by necessity—winter again in the camp of the old people. But, as it happened, an early storm caught me unprepared to the south of the hills, and the snow piled so deep that I could not make my way back across to my refuge. And my food was gone, and my shoes, mere bags of untanned hide, wore out, and I lost my knife, and it grew very cold.
In the end I huddled behind a pile of rock that seemed to reach up into the very heart of the snowstorm that swirled around me and tried to prepare myself for death. I thought of my village and of the grassy fields around it and of our small, sparkling river, and of my mother, and, because I was still really very young, I cried.
‘Why weepest thou, boy?’ The voice was very gentle. The snow was so thick that I could not see who spoke, but the tone made me angry.
‘Because I’m cold and I’m hungry,’ I said, ‘and because I’m dying and I don’t want to.’
‘Why art thou dying? Art thou injured?’
‘I’m lost,’ I said, ‘and it’s snowing, and I have no place to go.’
‘Is this reason enough to die amongst thy kind?’
‘Isn’t it enough?’ I said, still angry.
‘And how long dost thou expect this dying of thine will persist?’ The voice seemed mildly curious.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve never done it before.’
The wind howled and the snow swirled more thickly around me.
‘Boy,’ the voice said finally, ‘come here to me.’
‘Where are you?’ I said. ‘I can’t see you.’
‘Walk around the tower to thy left. Knowest thou thy left hand from thy right?’
I stumbled to my half-frozen feet angrier than I ever remember having been.
‘Well, boy?’
I moved around what I had thought was a pile of rock, my hands on the stones.
‘Thou shalt come to a smooth grey rock,’ the voice said, ‘somewhat taller than thy head and broad as thine arms may reach.’
‘All right,’ I said, my lips thick with the cold. ‘Now what?’
‘Tell it to open.’
‘What?’
‘Speak unto the rock,’ the voice said patiently, ignoring the fact that I was congealing in the gale. ‘Command it to open.’
‘Command? Me?’
‘Thou art a man. It is but a rock.’
‘What do I say?’
‘Tell it to open.’
‘Open,’ I commanded halfheartedly.
‘Surely thou canst do better than that.’
‘Open! ’ I thundered.
And the rock slid aside.
‘Come in, boy,’ the voice said. ‘Stand not in the weather like some befuddled calf.’
The inside of the tower—for such indeed it was—was dimly lighted by stones that glowed with a pale, cold fire. I thought that was a fine thing, though I would have preferred it had they been warmer. Stone steps worn with countless centuries of footfalls ascended in a spiral into the gloom above my head. Other than that the chamber was empty.
‘Close the door, boy,’ the voice said, not unkindly.
‘How?’ I said.
‘How didst thou open it?’
I turned to the gaping rock and quite proud of myself, I commanded, ‘Close!’
And, at my voice, the rock slid shut with a grinding sound that chilled my blood even more than the fierce storm outside.
‘Come up, boy,’ the voice commanded.
And so I mounted the stairs, only a little bit afraid. The tower was very high, and the climbing took me a long time.
At the top was a chamber filled with wonders. I looked at things such as I had never seen even before I looked at him who had commanded me and had saved my life. I was very young, and I was not at the time above thoughts of theft. Larceny even before gratitude seethed in my grubby little soul.
Near a fire which burned, as I observed, without fuel sat a man (I thought) who seemed most incredibly ancient. His beard was long and full and white as the snow which had so nearly killed me—but his eyes—his eyes were eternally young.
‘Well, boy,’ he said, ‘hast thou decided not to die?’
‘Not if it isn’t necessary,’ I said bravely, still cataloguing the wonders of the chamber.
‘Dost thou require anything?’ he asked. ‘I am unfamiliar with thy kind.’
‘A little food,’ I told him. ‘I have not eaten in three days. And a warm place to sleep. I shall not be much trouble, Master, and I can make myself useful in payment.’ I had learned a long time ago how to make myself agreeable to those who were in a position to do me favors.
‘Master?’ he said and laughed, a sound so cheerful that it made me almost want to dance. ‘I am not thy master, boy.’ He laughed again, and my heart sang with the splendor of his mirth. ‘Let us see to this thing of food. What dost thou require?’
‘A little bread perhaps,’ I said, ‘—not too stale.’
‘Bread?’ he said. ‘Only bread? Surely, boy, thy stomach is fit for more than bread. If thou wouldst make thyself useful— as thou hast promised—we must nourish thee properly. Consider, boy. Think of all the things thou hast eaten in thy life. What in all this world would most surely satisfy that vast hunger of thine?’
I could not even say it. Before my eyes swam the visions of plump, smoking roasts, of fat geese swimming in their own gravy, of heaps of fresh-baked bread and rich, golden butter, of pastries in thick cream, of cheese, and dark brown ale, of fruits and nuts and salt to savor it all.
And he who sat by the glowing fire that burned, it seemed, air alone laughed again, and again my heart sang. ‘Turn, boy,’ he said, ‘and eat thy fill.’
And I turned, and there on a table which I had not even seen before lay everything which I had imagined.
A hungry young boy does not ask where food comes from—he eats. And so I ate. I ate until my stomach groaned. And through the sound of my eating I could hear the laughter of the aged one beside his fire, and my heart leapt within me at each laugh.
And when I had finished and drowsed over my plate, he spoke again. ‘Wilt thou sleep now, boy?’
‘A corner, Master,’ I said. ‘A little out-of-the-way place by the fire, if it be not too much trouble.’
He pointed. ‘Sleep there, boy,’ he said, and at once I saw a bed which I had seen no more than the table—a great bed with huge pillows and comforters of softest down. And I smiled my thanks and crept into the bed and, because I was young and very tired, I fell asleep almost at once. But in my sleep I knew that he who had brought me in from the storm and fed me and cared for me was watching through the long snowy night, and I felt even more secure in his care.
And that began my servitude. My Master never commanded in the way other masters commanded their servants, but rather suggested or asked. Amazingly, almost in spite of myself, I found myself leaping to do his bidding. The tasks, simple at first, grew harder and harder. I began to wish I had never come to this place. Sometimes my Master would stop what he was doing to watch my labors, a bemused expression on his face. Then he would sigh and return to the things which he did and which I did not understand.
The seasons turned, marching in their stately, ordere
d progression as I labored endlessly at impossible tasks. Then, perhaps three—or maybe it was five—years after I had come to the tower and begun my servitude, I was struggling one day to move a huge rock which my Master felt was in his way. It would not move though I heaved and pushed and strained until I thought my limbs would crack. Finally, in a fury, I concentrated all my strength and all my will upon the boulder and grunted one single word. ‘Move,’ I said.
And it moved—not grudgingly with its huge, inert weight sullenly resisting my strength—but quite easily, as if the touch of one finger would be sufficient to send it bounding across the plain.
‘Well, boy,’ my Master said, startling me by his nearness, ‘I had wondered how long it might be before this day arrived.’
‘Master,’ I said, confused, ‘what happened? How did the great rock move so easily?’
‘It moved at thy command, boy. Thou art a man, and it is only a rock.’
‘May other things be done so, Master?’
‘All things may be done so, boy. Put but thy will to that which thou wouldst have come to pass and speak the word. It shall come to pass even as thou wouldst have it. I have marveled, boy, at thine insistence upon doing all things with thy back instead of thy will. I had begun to fear for thee, thinking that perhaps thou mightest be defective.’
I walked over to the rock and laid my hands on it again. ‘Move,’ I commanded, bringing my will to bear on it, and the rock moved as easily as before.
‘Does it make thee more comfortable touching the rock when thou wouldst move it, boy?’ my Master asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.
The question stunned me. I looked at the rock. ‘Move,’ I said tentatively. The rock did not move.
‘Thou must command, boy, not entreat.’
‘Move!’ I roared, and the rock heaved and rolled off with nothing but my will and the word to make it do so.
‘Much better, boy,’ my Master said. ‘Perhaps there is hope for thee yet. What is thy name, boy?’
‘Garath,’ I told him, and suddenly realized that he had never asked me before.
‘An unseemly name, boy. I shall call thee Belgarath.’
‘As it please thee, Master,’ I said. I had never ‘thee’d’ him before, and I held my breath for fear that he might be displeased, but he showed no sign that he had noticed. Then, made bold by my success, I went further. ‘And how may I call thee, Master?’ I said.
‘I am called Aldur,’ he said, smiling.
I had heard the name before, and I immediately fell upon my face before him.
‘Art thou ill, Belgarath?’ he asked.
‘Oh, great and powerful God,’ I said, trembling, ‘forgive mine ignorance. I should have known thee at once.’
‘Don’t do that,’ he said irritably. ‘I require no obeisance. Rise to thy feet, Belgarath. Stand up, boy. Thine action is unseemly.’
I scrambled up fearfully and clenched myself for the sudden shock of lightning. Gods, as all knew, could destroy at their whim those who displeased them.
‘And what dost thou propose to do with thy life now, Belgarath?’ he asked.
‘I would stay and serve thee, Master,’ I said, as humbly as I could.
‘I require no service,’ he said. ‘What canst thou do for me?’
‘May I worship thee, Master?’ I pleaded. I had never met a God before, and was uncertain about the proprieties.
‘I do not require thy worship either,’ he said.
‘May I not stay, Master?’ I pleaded. ‘I would be thy Disciple and learn from thee.’
‘The desire to learn does thee credit, but it will not be easy,’ he warned.
‘I am quick to learn, Master,’ I boasted. ‘I shall make thee proud of me.’
And then he laughed, and my heart soared. ‘Very well then, Belgarath, I shall make thee my pupil.’
‘And thy Disciple also, Master?’
‘That we will see in time, Belgarath.’
And then, because I was very young and very proud of myself and my new-found powers, I turned to a dried and brittle bush—it was midwinter at the time—and I spoke to it fervently. ‘Bloom,’ I said, and the bush quite suddenly produced a single flower. I plucked it and offered it to him. ‘For thee, Master,’ I said. ‘Because I love thee.’
And he took the flower and smiled and held it between his hands. ‘I thank thee, my son,’ he said. It was the first time he had ever called me that. ‘And this flower shall be thy first lesson. I would have thee examine it most carefully and tell me all that thou canst perceive of it.’
And that task took me twenty years, as I recall. Each time I came to him with the flower that never wilted or faded—how I grew to hate that flower—and told him what else I had learned, he said, ‘is that all, my son?’ and, crushed, I went back to my studies.
And there were many other things as well that took at least as long. I examined trees and birds, fish and beasts, insects and vermin. I devoted forty-five years to the study of grass alone.
In time it occurred to me that I was not aging as other men aged.
‘Master,’ I said one night in our chamber high in the tower as we both labored with our studies, ‘why is it that I do not grow old?’
‘Wouldst thou grow old, my son?’ he asked. ‘I have never seen much advantage in it myself.’
‘I don’t really miss it all that much, Master,’ I admitted, ‘but isn’t it customary?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said ‘but not mandatory. Thou hast much yet to learn, and one or ten or even a hundred lifetimes are not enough. How old art thou, my son?’
‘I think I am somewhat beyond three hundred years, Master.’
‘A suitable age, my son, and thou hast persevered in thy studies. Should I forget myself and call thee “Boy” again, pray correct me. It is not seemly that the Disciple of a God should be called “Boy”.’
‘I shall remember that, Master,’ I said, almost overcome with joy that he had finally called me his Disciple.
‘I was certain that thou wouldst,’ he said. ‘And what is the object of thy present study, my son?’
‘I would seek to learn why the stars fall, Master.’
‘A proper study, my son,’ he said, smiling.
‘And thou, Master,’ I asked. ‘What is thy study—if I be not overbold to ask.’
‘I am concerned with this jewel,’ he said, pointing at a moderate-sized grey stone on the table before him. ‘It may be of some curiosity in the fullness of time.’4
‘I am certain it shall, Master,’ I assured him. ‘If be worthy of thine attention, it shall surely be a curiosity at least.’ And I turned back to my study of the inconstant stars.
In time, others came to us, some by accident, as I had come, and some by intent, seeking out my Master that they might learn from him. Such a one was Zedar. I came upon him one golden day in autumn near our tower. He had built a rude altar and was burning the carcass of a goat upon it. The greasy smoke from his offering was fouling the air, and he was prostrated before the altar, chanting some outlandish prayer.
‘What are you doing?’ I demanded, quite angry since his noise and the stink of his sacrifice distracted my mind from a problem I had been considering for fifteen years.
‘Oh, puissant and all-knowing God,’ he said, groveling in the dirt. ‘I have come a thousand leagues to behold thy glory and to worship thee.’
‘Puissant?’ I said. ‘Get up, man, and stop this caterwauling. I am not a God, but a man, just as you are.’
‘Art thou not the great God, Aldur?’ he asked.
‘I am Belgarath,’ I said, ‘his Disciple. What is this foolishness?’ I pointed at his altar and his smoking offering.
‘It is to please the God,’ he said, rising and dusting off his clothes. ‘Dost thou think he will find it acceptable?’
I laughed, for I did not like this stranger much. ‘I cannot think of a single thing you might have done which would offend him more,’ I said.
The stranger look
ed stricken. He turned quickly and reached out as if he would seize the burning animal with his bare hands to hide it.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ I snapped. ‘You’ll burn yourself.’
‘It must be hidden,’ he said desperately. ‘I would die rather than offend Mighty Aldur.’
‘Stand out of the way,’ I told him.
‘What?’
‘Get clear,’ I said, irritably waving him off. Then I looked at his grotesque little altar, willed it away and said, ‘Go away,’ and it vanished, leaving only a few tatters of confused smoke hanging in the air.
He collapsed on his face again.
‘You’re going to wear out your clothes if you keep doing that,’ I told him, ‘and my Master will not be amused by it.’
‘I pray thee,’ he said, rising and dusting himself off again, ‘mighty Disciple of the most high Aldur, instruct me so that I offend not the God.’
‘Be truthful,’ I told him, ‘and do not seek to impress him with false show.’
‘And how may I become his Disciple as thou art?’
‘First you become his pupil,’ I said, ‘and that is not easy.’
‘What must I do to become his pupil?’ the stranger asked.
‘You must become his servant,’ I said, a bit smugly I must admit.
‘And then his pupil?’
‘In time,’ I said, smiling, ‘if he so wills.’
‘And when may I meet the God?’
And so I took him to the tower.
‘Will the God Aldur not wish to know my name?’ the stranger asked.
‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘If you prove worthy, he will give you a name of his own choosing.’ Then I turned to the grey stone in the wall and commanded it to open, and then we went inside.
My Master looked the stranger over and then turned to me. ‘Why hast thou brought this man to me, my son?’ he asked.
‘He besought me, Master,’ I said. ‘I felt it was not my place to say him yea or nay. Thy will must decide such things. If it be that he please thee not, I shall take him outside and bid him be no more and so put an end to him and his interruption.’
‘That is unkindly said, my son,’ Aldur said sternly. ‘The Will and the Word may not be used so.’ 5
The Rivan Codex: Ancient Texts of THE BELGARIAD and THE MALLOREON (The Belgariad / The Malloreon) Page 4