Into the Raging Mountains

by Caroline Gill

  Stuffing the precious apron of Laylada's between his belt and shirt and then pushing it to his side, out of the way, Cethel made sure he was ready. With his hunting knife in its case, latched on through his belt, he sped to the schoolhouse.

  Everyone in the whole of the village was already there. The building was so full, he could only sit on the stairs and listen, waiting for the priest to call him forward, waiting to help. Only later did he realize he needn't have bothered. The priest had his own plans, plans that Cethel had no part in.

  Resplendent in his Godsday finery, which he seemed to wear every day currently, the Divine Man entered from the back of the building, stepped up to the dais and made a show of pushing back the flowing sleeves of his calling's robe. Raising his arms in the age-old gesture of supplication, his voice boomed out over the gathered congregation, blasting their ears,“We have sinned!”

  The crowd looked pained and instantly guilty.

  “We have sinned and will be punished!” his voice thundered.

  Faces cringed and flickers of surprise spread across the gathered brows.

  “You know who you are! You know you have sinned! You have forgotten the real Gods in your quest for comfort and wealth. You have forgotten the true faith! You are the problem!

  “The enemy that we fear is in this very House! There are no surrounding hunters, no lurking death in the forest's embrace. You are the wretched, the ingrates, and the thieves! There will be a punishment and it will come quickly!

  “I know your darkest secrets and so do the Gods. You cannot hide from them. And now, because of your lies and secret dealings, the decreed punishment comes upon your heads.”

  He caught every eye and held their glances, judging the whole of the village. Clearly he found it wanting. The last echoes of his roaring words faded into the polished wood floors. He faced their shame-faced abashment.

  Then he spoke softly, making the crowd lean in to hear his words. “Only now you cringe? Now you beg? As if the Gods will reach down and save wretched men such as you. Lay down on your faces and beg for the mercy that is not required, beg for release from the wrongs you have done!

  “There is no chance to avert the coming wrath. No chance at all to stop the harm that even now knocks on your very doorstep. No chance for you and your families to survive the coming days. No chance—” They were not idiots. They knew that death was just around the next bend in their fates. Tears fell.

  Throwing his arms wide the earnest and clever priest brought them slowly together, pulling his arms and his flock together. He finished his sentence, one word at a time, “—except—through—me.

  “I am the only one who can stop the death that walks to your homes. I have the powers given by the Gods to free you from this terrible, terrible destruction. But you must ask me for it. You must beg me for it! You must give all other worship away, break every statue, burn every book brought with foul teachings from afar. A secret nest of vipers holds your hearts. I know it and the Gods know it.

  “Until this village is cleansed of those lies, there can be no salvation here! No hope for you and yours to survive the perils of the darkest forest's summoning. Do not look to me for hope when you harbor the darkest teachings of wrong and distortion in your very hearths! Go! Dig it out! Dig out the deception! Dig out the canker that eats at the heart of us, weakens us, makes us the prey of mighty forces.

  “Go! Dig! And do not return here empty handed! Bring me the false teachings of Bira Tre! And pray, pray the Gods will forgive you.”

  Stunned, the whole village held its collective breath. Never before had the Divine Man spoken to them so. Never before had he excoriated them so viciously. Bira was wrong? Many were affronted. Many were afraid. And then, one at a time, a few people stood up and left the meeting. At first, just a handful went.

  Then, as the rest were trying to figure out what the Drogos the priest was saying, one woman returned. More specifically, her husband Jalon returned, holding a large kitchen cloth full of items and literally dragging his wife back behind him. By sheer force and determination he pushed his way through the assembled crowd and with a gesture of disgust, threw the cloth at the priest’s feet. The kitchen towel flew open and several small books were revealed along with intricate, tiny silver statues. Cethel could only see from afar, still stuck in the very back of the room, but he heard the metal jangle as it was discarded so dramatically.

  The man turned to his weeping wife and said, “I denounce these things. I denounce these books of Mira! I denounce the figures of healing and the beliefs that go with them. I denounce them, and my whole house does the same!” Jalon glared at his wife who sat sniffling, crying into her dress. “Anyone who does not denounce the false gods is not welcome in my home. That includes my wife!” Thus he proclaimed his allegiance to the priest, and the priest's God. The air was thick with fear and his actions cut through the congestion with fatal precision.

  The priest raised his arms to meet his eyebrows and with a gesture of gathering pronounced, “I humbly accept this offer. I will protect you and all who do the same. I will offer up mighty prayers and supplications to our most beneficent Gray God, on all of our behalf.

  “But only for the righteous. Only for the followers of the Truest Path, the way of the Falcon Sun. Only those will I protect. Only those will I teach the sacred ways. The rest of you will face the world and all its dangers on your own. You will find no safety here.”

  Looking around the hushed and fearful crowd, he said, “Well? Well? What do you have to do to be saved? What do you decide to do? Give up the worship of lost goddesses and come to the Truest Path. It is you and your families’ only protection! Throw away the false books and deities or leave! Leave! Leave here now!”

  Their priest, their only remaining leader, the last beacon of hope, made his terms clear. He ferociously ended his judgment of the village and their allegiance to Bira, Mira, and Kira with a demand. “I am done with the unbelievers!” he said curtly. With that, he put his arm around the abject man Jalon. Kicking the towel and its contents to the side of the raised platform, in a great show of disdain, their priest turned his berobed, bejeweled back on the whole group.

  If it had been silent before then, now it was deadly quiet. No one even dared to look at anyone else in the room. Heaviness and fear pushed the walls inward. Every breath was heard, every sound magnified. Awkward, hot, and heavy in its pressure, the priest's rejection of the villagers, of his own parishioners lay as confining as a thick wool blanket in the arid heat of harvest season's long suns.

  No one spoke. No one moved.

  Then, another man rushed out of the building. His wife looked appalled and deeply, deeply afraid at the same moment. She picked up the edges of her skirt and ran as fast as she could after his retreating form. Two other couples disappeared the same way. Then, three more. They brushed past Cethel, standing just outside the doorway.

  He could see their eyes filled with fear, filled with tears, filled with panic. Each time, the village men went storming off toward their houses and the women were left to wait, alone in the midst of glares and gossip or to follow chasing after their husbands. Within a few moments, the couples could be heard approaching the meeting house again. The distant air was filled with tears and weeping, the protestations of the women, the determination of the men to make amends to the offended Gods.

  Through it all, the priest stood with his back turned to the congregation, refusing to acknowledge the village at all. He talked quite amiably to the penitent Jalon, whose wife sat stony faced behind him, eyes staring at the floorboards.

  With loud sounds of crash, plunk, thud, and ploof, the precious writings of the three Goddesses and their images were thrown onto the meeting room floor, rejected completely. Quickly, the pile grew. More than half the village left and returned, having learned what was expected of them, what path they had to take to finally be free, to rid themselves of the Rat Thief and the devastating fear that gripped their hearts. They yearned to be saved f
rom the terrible unknown predators that stole their friends and children from their hands, lurking in the shadows of the village's heart.

  With clanks and spilling coins, the discard pile grew, until the village priest was only half visible behind the mass of personal books, trinkets, sachets, and jewelry. Still he did not move. He did not reward them for their forsakings. The gathered villagers continued to look to him, certain that the last offering was surely enough. But he ignored them soundly.

  Cethel did not understand what the man was doing. It made no sense to the youth. How does this help the captives? Cethel could not see the point. The young man could not see what the priest gained by turning the village from their ancient protectors. He craned his neck over the shoulder of two returning men, trying to hear the priest.

  Over their broad backs, Cethel could barely see the priest over the litter of broken votives and loose papers that were scattered around. The priest stood still and imperious. It was as if he and the first man, Jalon, were the only ones in the whole room. His eyebrow would lift at the sound of each bundle being discarded and he would for a moment acknowledge the man who offered the offending pieces. But his full attention, he pointedly withheld.

  Each time Cethel was passed by furious men and pleading women, his consternation grew. What is happening? What did it mean? How can the worship of the Goddesses be wrong? It is all we have ever known, all the goodness we have ever received. Why were the villagers so anxious to abandon them now?

  As he watched family after family produce cloth-wrapped bundles of offending articles to be cast out and cast off, Cethel grew very quiet and very, very troubled. These were the Goddesses he had learned about his whole life. These were the deities who guided and protected him to the True Path. How could following them and their worship be wrong? Yet it seemed to him that almost every family in the village proper had cleaned out their homes and cleansed their hearts of any and all objects of that allegiance. For the Falcon god? The Falcon God? It just didn't make sense.

  Some degree of caution flamed in him and he did not move forward to understand the fascination and groveling of the populace. Cethel would not join in the strange behavior. He watched from the doorway their obeisance and supplication. And he saw clearly how the priest only rewarded those who threw away the past and all its objects, with any of his sparse attention.

  Cethel watched the priest along with the rest of the village, waiting for his call to action. Surely, since the purging and crying are done, surely they will form a battle group to rescue the lost villagers?

  Finally, it seemed that there were no more objects to denounce. All eyes were either downcast to the floor, or focused on the rise and fall of the priest's ample back.

  Slowly, so grandly, the flowing robes of the priest turned. Relief blossomed on many faces, as if the sun rose in a new dawn. Sweeping the room with his commanding gaze, certain that he had all of their undivided attention, with great authority and assurance, the Divinely Chosen Man finally spoke. “This is not enough. There is still more. And I know who holds out worshiping false gods. I know who has not yet given up their wrongs. I know you and will call you by name unless you run now for your homes and clean your hearth of the filth!”

  Alarm swept many faces. Although Cethel was certain everyone had already discarded the worship of Bira Tre, it was astonishing how many women and men fled again to their houses, running furiously, and returning immediately with cloth-covered items.

  Soon, the sound of the last forlorn bag hit the pile. Only the head of the priest was visible beyond the mound. He turned his gaze lovingly onto all assembled and without acknowledging the massive heap of discarded objects, began to lead them in another unauthorized Godsday celebration and ceremony.

  The whole village followed him word for word, hanging onto his promise of new protection and salvation from the hidden, poised-for-striking dangers. The Bira Tre were only litter and broken things, trash underneath their fearful faith.

  Cethel could only sit there, completely dumbfounded. Why had all the people he had grown up with, lived around, and known his whole life, why had they all deserted the three Goddesses?

  Throughout the entire ceremony, Cethel's mouth moved in time to all the others gathered, but his heart was not there in that spacious building, surrounded by frightened, pathetic, traitorous villagers. He realized as the formal words went on, that these people were only looking for safety and relief from fear for them and theirs. There were no mighty hunters amongst them, no warriors ready to do battle. No one was going to fight the inevitable. Perhaps, no one knew how?

  As he watched the priest's disembodied head lead the crowd along the ritual's promptings, the boy knew some great wrong was being done. And, looking around, all he saw were sheep following a wolf, no guard dogs in sight.

  At the measured conclusion of the ceremony, the floating head bowed in its approval of the village's sure decision to follow the jeweled priest's command. Smiling serenely, the grinning mouth spoke from behind the discarded, disavowed remnants of the Bira Tre's worship, “And now, we believers gather. We pray together. Together we will prevail!” With a certain superiority, the village priest closed his eyes, sure of his leadership, sure of his authority.

  Fire leapt in the heart of the Returned Boy—fire—and a fierce disgust. Not counting the cost, not thinking the whole situation through, Cethel did not care. He would not sit idly by. With a passion none who knew him had ever seen, his voice rang out from the steps of the forlorn meeting house, “This is wrong!” shouted Cethel, defiant. “You are wrong!” He stood in the doorway, hands on hips, refusing to believe.

  Both eyebrows raised as the priest's surprise at the interruption showed on his brow. “Ah, the Returned Boy has risen from his sickbed to grace us with his presence.” He continued, regaining his composure. With the cluck of his tongue, the priest's tone changed as a slight scowl creased his forehead.“ Apparently, the boy is ungrateful for his miraculous healing that only occurred after I prayed for him, at his troubled father's request.”

  “You!? You had no part in my healing!” Cethel cried indignantly.“You were never at my bedside, weeping with my mother, nursing my wounds!

  Nodding his floating head with calmness, the priest refuted Cethel and his denials, “Oh you poor, mistaken boy! You have been so out of your mind with fever that you don't even remember the visitors who have interceded on your behalf. So many have tried to help. And to no avail, until I prayed for you last evening at the insistence of your beleaguered father. And, am I to understand that this is the thanks you return?”

  Cethel should have been quiet, should have been cowed, should have held his tongue and bowed to the concentrated will of the village. But things had changed. He had learned something intangible in the forest on his own, all alone.

  So instead, perhaps none too wisely, Cethel fired back, “What you teach us this day is too much, too foreign! It is the religion of outsiders! It doesn't make any sense. Why do we throw out the images and teachings of Goddesses who have loved us well? Why do you ask this of our village? And who is this Falcon God you offer us? I have never heard of him.”

  The priest pounced on the opportunity to reply. “The Falcon God is the one and only true God.” His voice raised in a kind of singsong rapture. “He is the flight of the unerring arrow to the target of Wisdom. His wings are the Great Shadow that falls before the death of any righteous, and those same wings will bear you up, up to the Endless Sky! The faithful will become One!” Fervently, their priest's eagerness and enthusiasm surged through his voice, gripping the assembled men.

  “On His Noble Back, the sun rises each day and rides the air through our skies to the completion of its journey. Our lives, our meager, tiny lives are just specks before His Power, His Beauty, and His Piercing Eyes! Only in His worship will we become worthy, cleansing ourselves of all base thoughts!” His voice continued, almost at a fevered pitch, “He is our Salvation from the Serpents! The only way to truly live!”
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  Young Cethel could only watch, transfixed along with the whole of the room. It was as if they had never truly seen the Divine Man before, as if he were a stranger speaking in the midst of friends. As the priest spoke on, waxing eloquently on and on and on about the puissant might of the Falcon God, Cethel's eyes took in the faces of his friends and neighbors, teachers and elders, young and old.

  With an uncommon insight for his age, he pitied them.

  Interrupting the priest's fiery soliloquy, Cethel announced, “I am not like some of these gathered, Priest! I have seen miracles, real miracles from the Goddesses! And I will not deny them.” The Returned Boy thought he might have seen a bit of shame on the cheeks of those gathered. He was grateful that he didn't see his father, Centen among them.

  In response to Cethel's words, the priest waved his hand dismissively, shooing a fly.

  Cethel made his choice. “I will not follow you! I choose to leave this place! I go back alone to rescue our friends held captive by the Dirtmen.”

  A sea full of questioning looks, startled faces, surprised expressions suddenly turned, listening to him.“Yes, yes, the Dirtmen have taken them. Our friends are held captive! But they are still alive!” No need to bring up the mangled body he had seen. Maybe … , thought Cethel. Maybe they can be moved?

  Challenging a fear-ridden people, Cethel continued, “And, I followed them deep into the forest. I know where their campsite is! I will find them and do my best to save whoever I can! Come with me! This fear that holds you captive is not faith! And it is not goodness either.”

  The whole of the assembly had risen to their feet. A cacophony of feelings showed on their faces, not many of them favorable.

  Raising his arm in the air, Cethel punched upwards with his end finger and thumb clasped together, three middle fingers defiantly waved. The innocent boy, either foolhardily or courageously (it's hard to be certain) yelled, “I am for the Bira Tre!”

  He shouted even louder, “I am for the Bira Tre!!”