The Ancient Enemy

by Christopher Rowley

  But young Salish was still pondering something beyond the numbers.

  "And when we were animals, we kept no memories. So we can never really know that time."

  "Ah, you would not want to, young Salish. That was not a good time for animals. That was the time of Man the Cruel."

  When the Assenzi spoke like this Thru always felt the familiar chill run down his spine.

  "I am the broken pig." The words came unbidden to his mind, from the prayer for salvation. Several of them were mouthing them, just as they did on Spirit days.

  The hanging cow that was torn and ripped.

  The dying lamb that was born again.

  In years to come, the dark days of deep winter would always bring up memories for Thru of wielding a hammer in the forge while the bellows roared and the coals put out so much heat it felt as if your fur might catch fire.

  And on the anvil the bar of iron slowly became a sword blade, two and a half feet in length, an inch and a half across. Thru felt the force of the magic there, where metal changed its nature and in time became a shimmering piece of steel.

  Then it was sharpened and polished to a mirrorlike glow.

  On graduation night, Graedon presented each of them with a handle and a hilt. At last they wore the swords on their belts, sheathed in newly minted scabbards made of stiffened bush-withe bearing seven layers of lacquer.

  "Thank you, Master Graedon, I will always treasure this moment."

  Another time that winter, while it was snowing outside, the class sat in rows on the long, green carpet. The room was cold enough that their breath was clearly visible each time they exhaled. Yet they wore little in the way of clothing, with bare sandals on their feet.

  "Open your hearts to the sky," said Cutshamakim, sitting on a pad of stone in front of them.

  The wind soughed through the ruined latticework of the building above them. The snow was falling again. It was a dry powdery snow, and traces of it were already showing on the floor of the meditation chamber.

  "When we breathe we put aside preconditions, we allow ourselves simply to be here. Feel the moment. Breathe in!"

  The soft susurration of their breath echoed off the high ceiling.

  They repeated the ancient syllables, ending on the great universal hum. Their eyes closed, their fingers forming the circle of wisdom.

  In time and perfect accord they drew seven breaths through the left nostril and expelled them from the right. Then they reversed the procedure for the next seven breaths.

  The regular soft sound, like a velvet-covered piston broke against the high ceiling, and mingled with the skitter of the falling snow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Winter passed and left Thru hardened against the cold. He had learned to enjoy the icy dip in the morning when they said their prayers at the shrine. He had come to accept the perpetual hunger and the hard physical labor. He had learned a great deal, and somewhere along the way he had regained a sense of peace. Even his broken heart had become less important, less relevant to him somehow. It was as if he had moved on from that person of the previous summer, so devastated and out of sorts. There was still a void in his center, there was something gone that would never be recovered, but he was no longer crippled by it.

  Thru had left his thick jerkin in the cell and wore just a light shirt and a much-patched pair of trousers that were his most comfortable clothes, though he knew his sister and mother would have scolded him for wearing such shabby things.

  In Master Sassadzu's gallery, Thru wove a decorative mat, working in waterbush-withe and colored grasses. By tradition carried down for thousands of years there were only a handful of acceptable patterns among weavers of the Land. He had chosen "Chooks and Beetles," a rich pattern with ocher-colored chooks chasing beetles in the center. Around them were shooks of corn in bright yellow and crossed scythes.

  In a bold departure from the usual style he had outlined his chooks and beetles in black and given the big birds a jaunty, raffish air. He was quite pleased with the look of them, and was working a bright green grass onto the ground weave to fill out the background.

  The chooks in the center of the mat were all done; they had a fine rakish appearance, feathers slightly askew, eyes big as onions as they hunted the leaping beetles.

  The rows of corn shooks and scythes were nearing completion. Their bright yellow and red stood out sharply from the green background. He took up stained red grass and bent forward to work some in on the undersides of the scythes.

  Master Sassadzu had complimented Thru on this mat, which he thought had shown signs of a great skill. Praise from Master Sassadzu was rare and was consequently treasured.

  Thru worked in a corner where even in Snow Moon the sunlight warmed a patch of floor. He was cut off from view of the door by the curve of the gallery and several large looms but he sensed someone had entered the long gallery at the far end. Thru's right eyebrow rose quizzically. Master Sassadzu taught his intermediate kyo class at this hour. It would not be him, but it was definitely an Assenzi from the quietness of the tread.

  A couple of seconds later he was surprised to see Utnapishtim come around the other looms and head in his direction.

  "Greetings, young Thru Gillo."

  "Greetings, Utnapishtim."

  "That is a very vibrant mat you are weaving."

  "Thank you, Utnapishtim."

  "I like the rakish attitude of your chooks. You have changed the pattern a little from the traditional mode."

  "Thank you, Utnapishtim. I like the old pattern very much, but I thought I'd try something new."

  Utnapishtim's thin face broke open in a tiny smile.

  "Young Thru Gillo, I have a requirement, and I wonder if you would like to fill it. I need two students to help me light the summer lamps in the temples of the Farblow Hills. It will take a few weeks' travel. We will pass through Dronned to get there."

  Thru was stunned at this honor, though just for a moment he wondered about going home so soon, if only to visit. Would it reopen old wounds? Then he dismissed the concern.

  "I would be proud to be chosen to help you, Utnapishtim."

  "Of course there will be some work involved."

  Thru merely nodded. What else would anyone expect in Highnoth?

  "The temples are very popular destinations for hikers in the summer months. So it's important that they have working lamps. But that means we must carry lamp oil to them. I need some strong young backs and a couple of donkeys to move the oil up into the hills and distribute it."

  "I have not seen the Farblow Hills, but I have heard of their beauty. After this long winter I would love such an opportunity."

  "We will head south in three days' time. I hope your weave will be finished by then."

  "It will be, Utnapishtim, and I will take it as a gift for my mother."

  Three weeks later, on the feast day of the Sea Spirit, Thru, Utnapishtim, and Meu of Deepford entered the kingdom of Dronned and glimpsed Cormorant Rock as a distant dark spike. Thru felt the excitement of homecoming after a long absence. He had not seen Warkeen for six months.

  But as they came over the brow of the last hill, though, Thru's blood suddenly ran cold. The old line of lime trees along the lane by Tramine's field was gone, leaving just a row of stumps. Thrust up from the smooth slope of Tramine's field was a large new house, with two chimneys, lots of windows, and mots hard at work on the roof.

  They passed the row of stumps and turned away down the lane leading into the village. Thru had loved those old trees; they had always been there, a line of shaggy titans, holding up one end of the field, or so it seemed to him.

  The village itself seemed the same as ever. The rows of white-fronted houses, the dark thatch and the grey stone of walls and chimneys, it all made a pleasing picture to his eye after all those months spent in Highnoth's gloomy halls.

  "Hail to thee, Thru Gillo." Lanky Moon Shapin came out the door of his house, and Thru paused to speak with him.

  "Hail, Moon.
How are things in the village?"

  "Things are well enough. Are ye just now back from Highnoth, Thru?"

  "Yes. See there's the Assenzi I'm with."

  "You be careful around them old Assenzi. Spirit knows where you'll end up."

  Thru had to chuckle. "That's all too true, Moon, but tell me what has happened to the lime trees along Tramine's field?"

  "Oh, that's a shocking business." Moon's face wrinkled in anger. "That's young Pern Treevi's work. Built himself a new house, he has. He's too good to be living in Tramine house like any other Tramine has since I don't know when. So he built his own house and cut down the trees so he has a view to the sea."

  Thru looked back up the hill to where the new chimney was visible through the trees and shook his head. The lovely lime trees were gone forever, and Iallia was probably living in the big new house with Pern.

  "I thank you for your welcome, Moon. It is wonderful to be back home. I must go on and see my own people."

  Thru went on, catching up with the Assenzi and Meu, who had gone on down the road into the village.

  Outside the inn they halted and tied the donkey to the hitching post by the pump.

  "We will take a meal here and spend the night. It looks as if there will be room."

  Indeed, the Warkeen Inn seemed rather quiet.

  "You go on to your family, young Thru," said Utnapishtim. "I can see you're itching to be off."

  Thru came over the line of Polder Bank and saw the stone walls of Gillo house. It wasn't so grand, indeed the thatching was starting to look tatty, but it was home. A powerful wave of emotion rolled through his heart as he saw it once again.

  He turned in at the gate and saw his mother at the door.

  There came a scream from the kitchen, and she ran out and hugged him with all her strength. Father Ware looked out of his workshop, set his tools down, and joined them with his great hug. After a long moment, with tears streaming from their eyes, they stood back and Ual and Ware got another look at him.

  Their son had changed in certain ways. He was more muscular and hardened, too. The sad, wounded look in his eyes was gone. Now they sparkled, as they had of old.

  "Where are your eyebrows?" said Ual.

  "Singed, while I made this sword."

  Ware's bushy eyebrows rose dramatically at the sight of the sword and scabbard on his son's belt.

  "And this is for you, Mother," he said, bringing the mat off his shoulders and untying the string and unrolling it on the stoop.

  "You wove this, my darling Thru?" said Ual, running her hands over it, genuine awe in her voice.

  "Master Sassadzu says I have an aptitude for the weaving."

  "It's wonderful, it's beautiful, Thru." She hugged him close again. "Thank you so much. I will put it on the wall in the little parlor. It will go well there."

  Ware took Thru's staff and gave it a once-over.

  "Strongwalker has stood the test it seems."

  "I have worn him down a little, but he is an excellent staff, Father."

  "And your bow?"

  "My old bow is creaking with every pull."

  "It was my bow and before that my father's. The wood is probably too old now. It is good to see you, son. I give thanks to the Spirit for bringing you back alive."

  "Our son has grown strong, Ual!" Ware said with a happy roar, and hugged Thru again.

  "He has grown up," she agreed with a happy smile.

  "How long can you stay?" said Ware.

  "Only one night, I'm afraid. We go south to take lamp oil up to the temples of Farblow."

  "Only one night!" wailed Ual. "And I haven't seen my son for six months! Only one night!"

  "I'm afraid so, Mother. I must go south with Utnapishtim tomorrow."

  "It isn't right, I'm your mother!"

  Ware smiled. "Then in that case I will have to finish the nocks on your new bow tonight."

  "My new bow!"

  "I've been working on it since you left. The wood is from that piece of Langler's yew that I laid up two summers back. You can take it with you tomorrow and leave that old veteran behind."

  "Why thank you, Father, that's wonderful."

  And then with a rush of feet and happy cries came Snejet and young Gil. They were covered in mud from planting waterbush on wet polder, but they wrapped themselves around him anyway.

  "Thru, Thru, Thru," was all Snejet could say.

  "Come inside," said Ual, tugging the whole mass up the step. "Your brother looks like he's half-starved."

  "Actually, Mother, completely starved. The food at Highnoth is in limited supply."

  "Come in then! I have dumplings all ready and bean broth a-brewing."

  Dinner was a grand one that night in the Gillo house. Ual made her pie of meeks and sweet bewbies, and Ware brought over a big pitcher of ale from the inn.

  Thru, of course, wanted to know everything that had happened in the village during his absence. Ual and Ware told him what they could, but everyone was too impatient for that to go on for long. Granma Biskin's problems with her sick chooks was a subject of considerable complexity, after all.

  "Your turn, Thru," said Snejet when a gap appeared. "Tell us about Highnoth."

  "Ah," he murmured. "Well, Highnoth is a very different kind of world, little Snej. For a start there's not much to eat."

  "You don't eat? How do you survive?"

  "Well, we don't eat much, that's for sure, but somehow we survive."

  "What do you mean 'don't eat much'? What do they feed you?" asked Ual with maternal concern.

  "Porridge usually, bread and butter, pancakes, too, and we get syrup sometimes, and fruits in season."

  "What else?"

  "Uh, cabbage. Plenty of cabbage."

  "Yes?" They were staring at him as he spooned up the juice from those sweet bewbies.

  "Well, that's about it."

  "That's all!"

  He had to laugh.

  "Well there's always guezme tea."

  It was hard to convey to them how unimportant food was in Highnoth. Along with leisure and a comfortable bed, excessive food was, well, unnecessary. The young mots were too busy, too wrapped up in the process of active learning.

  "We forged steel." He nodded to his pack across the hall, beside which hung the sword in its scabbard. "My sword came from Master Graedon's furnace."

  Ware nodded soberly. "It is a great responsibility to carry a sword, my son."

  "That it is, Father. I am mindful of that."

  "And what of the Spirit, have they neglected your life with the Spirit?" said Ual.

  "No, Mother, they have not. We have learned further humility, further need for compassion. We pray with Cutshamakim on every feast day."

  He broke off with a grin. "But we don't actually feast."

  Later, under more questioning, he told them about his escape from the pyluk in the hills.

  They listened with round eyes and open mouths.

  "The pyluk would have eaten you if they'd caught you."

  "Ah but they didn't, did they. The wolves warned me in good time."

  "Did the pyluk come after you on your journey south?"

  "No. This trip has been quick and free of trouble."

  "It is the Assenzi then, I knew it," said Ual, holding up a finger. "The Assenzi are magical beings; the pyluk must fear them."

  "Pyluk will eat Assenzi just like anything else, Mother. But the Assenzi can sense pyluk a long way away, that makes them safe. But it's my turn again to ask a question. What is going on on Tramine's field?"

  "Oh, I was afraid you'd ask of that," said Ual. "I don't like to speak ill of the Tramines, but I think they were foolish to let Pern Treevi build that house."

  "He inherited. Ful is dead?"

  "Yes, Ful Tramine took the fever over the winter and passed up to the Spirit's hands."

  "Pern inherited his portion, but he refused to live in the old house. He said Tramine house was already too crowded, and he wanted his own. He forced the family to
give him half of that field. Then he cut down the old lime trees."

  "The village is the poorer without those trees."

  "Pern has a wicked heart, we've all seen it now."

  "And Iallia, too," said Snejet angrily.

  "Snejet!" her mother hushed her.

  Thru appeared not to have noticed, but his eyes seemed to focus on the far horizon for a few moments. Then he shook it off.

  "We planted all the polder this week," said Gil hurriedly.

  "That is early; well-done."

  "And it's been all the work of Snejet and Gil, too," said Ware. "I've been too busy with work in the shop, and your mother's been canning bewbies."

  "Beautiful bewbies this year."

  "It was a mild winter," said Ware with a nod.

  "Well-done, you two." Thru raised his mug to his brother and sister. "Sounds like you've got the Highnoth spirit without having to go there."

  Later, Thru went with Ware to the workshop. Ware lit the lamp and took down the bow he had carved so lovingly from yew.

  Thru held up the gleaming bow. The nocks were of ramshorn. The string was of a fine linen and very strong.

  Ware put a hand to his son's shoulder for a moment, felt the new muscle there.

  "Before this winter I would have deemed this bow too strong for you, but now you are ready for it."

  "Thank you, Father, for thinking me worthy of this gift."

  The next morning Thru rose before anyone else. He did kyo in the yard, ate a piece of meek-and-bewbie pie for breakfast, and set off in the early light.

  He found Utnapishtim and Meu waiting by the loaded donkey, and together they headed out of the village on the south road.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  From Dronned they went south, crossing the Cham and taking the old road across the fertile plain of Pelej to Ajutan. At the ancient town of Sarosh they turned east toward the Farblow Hills, Lushtan nearest, Gurs and Black beyond that.

  Utnapishtim paused for a moment to contemplate the hills, purple in the afternoon light.

  "Nine hills, my young friends, and nine temples, each at the top of one of the hills."

  Thru and Meu had suspected as much. Uzzieh smiled at their weary expressions.