The Sage

by Christopher Stasheff

  “And my village saw such a one,” Culaehra groaned, head still in his hands—so that he could not see the paleness of Kitishane's face, see her trembling as she, too, remembered. “Have I, then, become a finger of Bolenkar?” Abruptly, Culaehra shook himself, then looked up at Illbane with maddened eyes. “I cannot believe that I swallowed your lie whole! What am I saying? A finger of Bolenkar? He is a myth, a legend, like these gods you speak of, like this dead Ohaern and his more-dead Lucoyo!”

  “Lucoyo is dead; his blood lives on,” Illbane confirmed. “But Ohaern lives, and Rahani, too.”

  “Oh, and no doubt he has spent five hundred years in her embrace, and it was that which kept him alive!” Culaehra braced for the blow again.

  But the wretched old man only nodded slowly, gaze still locked with Culaehra's. “But Rahani is not a goddess, nor were Lomallin and Ulahane.” He raised a hand to still the protests of the others. “They were Ulin, members of an older race, a magical race, a race that could not be slain by any but one another— a race that could have been immortal, for none of them died unless they wished it or were slain by one another. Still, they did murder each other in a war over the younger races, and the few left did pine away and wish to die—save for Rahani and a few others, who dwell alone, solitary and morose. Their half-human children, the Ulharls, are not immortal, but they live long, very long.”

  “Can they be killed?” Culaehra whispered.

  “They can, and by human beings—but they die hard, very hard, and the chance of a human living long enough to finish that slaying are very poor, the more so because they are huge, half again the height of a man, and very, very powerful, both in muscle and in magic.” He shook his head slowly. “No, my friends. The hour of Bolenkar's dominion approaches, and if Ohaern does not rise again to lead good folk against him, all humankind will sink beneath his yoke and die by the strokes of his lash.”

  “Cannot this Manalo help us?” Culaehra jeered. “If Bolenkar still lives, why not Manalo?”

  “Manalo was Lomallin, in the disguise he adopted to walk among men. He did not abandon Ohaern and Lucoyo in that circle of rock—he transformed himself, took on his natural shape, and swelled into the god he was. When his ghost fought Ulahane, the sword he forged from stars broke, and a fragment of it fell to the earth, far to the north.”

  “How could you possibly know these things?” Culaehra scoffed.

  “Yes, how?” Lua asked, her voice trembling, her eyes wide.

  “How indeed?” Yocote frowned. “Our wisest elders, our priests and wizards, have not heard this, O Sage. How could you?”

  “I have lived longer than they,” Illbane returned, “and the knowledge that was lost through generations of telling and retelling, I still hold.”

  “How old are you?” Kitishane whispered, but Culaehra turned away, stalking out into the darkness alone, and Illbane turned to watch. “I must guard him, my friends. Do you speak with one another, then sleep.” He rose, leaning heavily upon his staff, and started out into the night.

  He followed Culaehra more by feeling than by tracks or sound or scent—the outlaw moved with the born woodsman's automatic silence, slipping between branches rather than bending them aside, and only occasionally treading on a patch of ground soft enough to hold his footprint. Illbane knew he would not even have done that if he had really been paying close heed. No, Illbane followed as a shaman follows, by an inner certainty as to which direction his quarry has taken, as much a matter of reading a host of different signs without realizing it as of magic.

  He came out of the woods to a small lake, dark in the moonlight. Culaehra sat on a boulder beside it, shoulders slumped, head hanging. For a moment Illbane felt compassion, the man looked to be so miserable—but the sage reminded himself that the brute had to pass through just such misery as this if he were to become as much of a hero as Rahani thought possible. To stiffen his resolve, he remembered the degradation Culaehra had forced on the gnomes and would have forced on Kitishane, then imagined the crimes that had led to the outlaw's tribe casting him out. Saddened but certain, he sat on a cushion of fallen pine needles, folded his legs, straightened his spine, and settled himself for the long vigil. Slowly, his mind stilled, his emotions became tranquil, and Illbane passed into the waking trance that gave him as much rest as sleep would have. His eyes held Culaehra, his mind and body were ready to move if the outlaw did—but only ready; in all else, they rested.

  His mind was still as a sheltered pool, but in its depths, memories moved and twisted. He saw again the battle between Lomallin's ghost and Ulahane's, marked in memory the flashing fragment of star that streaked away to fall in the north, remembered Rahani coming to him, glowing with praise and delight, as he stepped from the World Tree in the form of a bear, then the desire that beat in waves from her as, with a gesture, she changed him back into his own form, that of a man in his prime.

  He remembered the long centuries of loving and delight, let himself dwell on them for minutes, for he needed that promise to raise himself from the utter weariness that accompanied age and the discovery that human beings were still as brutal in their desires and their behavior as they had ever been, needing only the slightest of temptations from Bolenkar to induce them to abandon the ways of helping one another, of comradeship and tolerance. He remembered her caresses, her words of love and encouragement—and of reassurance, as together they had watched the growth of the cities.

  Then they had watched the poor, heart-twisted children and grandchildren of Bolenkar come into the cities and the villages, to corrupt and control and rule and enslave. Appalled, the Ulin and her consort had watched the degradation of humankind begin.

  Ohaern sat behind the leaves and watched, but his mind's eyes saw more vividly than his body's. He was suddenly alert when Culaehra rose, looked longingly at the trail before him, then back to the camp, but at last lay down where he was, and was soon asleep. Then Illbane relaxed, losing himself in memories again, to stiffen his resolve for the course that lay before him—because truly, cruelty did not come naturally to him, and his anger at Culaehra was nearly worn-out.

  At last Ohaern came out of his reverie to see that Rahani's star had risen clear and bright over the lake before him. He hoped it was an affirmation. He shook off the lingering dread of memory, held fast to the determination to undo Bolenkar's work, aligned his heart to the beacon of the promised reunion with Rahani, and, strengthened and renewed in spirit, rose to work the stiffness and chill of the night from his limbs. Then he took up his staff and strode over to Culaehra, to begin the next stage in his campaign to reform the outlaw.

  “Wake up!” His staff whizzed down and struck Culaehra's rump. The outlaw bawled in surprise and outrage as he leaped to his feet, one hand pressed to the wounded anatomy, shaking his head to clear it. Illbane roared merrily, “Will you lie abed all day? Come, blow up the flames to cook breakfast!”

  “It's still dark!” Culaehra protested.

  “It will be light by the time we are done eating! Come, slugabed! To work!” He swung his staff like a switch, and Culaehra leaped back with a cry of surprise. Then he turned and stumbled back toward the campsite, too much amazed and too groggy to work up enough anger to resist.

  The fire was bright and food frying as they came out of the wood. Kitishane looked up, her face anxious, bereft. “The unicorn is gone, Illbane!”

  “He is not.” The sage lowered himself to sit by the fire with a sigh. “Your unicorn will be by you until he is sure you no longer wish a guardian against Culaehra, maiden. He will watch from the wood and from the roadside, but you will not see him. Warm your heart with the certainty of his presence.” She did.

  When breakfast was done and the campfire drowned, Ill-bane's staff cracked across Culaehra's shoulders again. The man yowled with anger. “What have I done now?”

  “It is what you have not done,” Illbane said sternly. “You have not washed your body for as long as I have known you. Off with your clothing, now, and into t
hat lake!”

  “What, here and now?” Culaehra glanced frantically at the watching gnomes and woman.

  “You were eager enough to strip and show them a part of your own body before!” The staff struck Culaehra's buttocks. “Off with those rags, now, and wash!”

  Mutiny showed in Culaehra's eyes, but only activated in his hate-filled voice. “Someday, old man, someday!”

  “If I live long enough to see it!” Illbane snapped, and so did his staff. A half cry escaped before Culaehra clamped his jaws shut on it and turned his back to strip his clothes.

  “Gather branches,” Illbane directed, and Lua turned away to find soft leaves—but Yocote, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, broke off spruce. Kitishane only watched Culaehra with amusement.

  Blushing furiously, Culaehra rushed back along the trail to the pond. Illbane followed closely, roaring merrily and swatting him with boughs. Culaehra dived into the lake to escape him, but whenever he came up, coughing and spluttering, Illbane was there to strike and swat him with the branches. Finally Illbane tossed him a square of cloth and sat down on a rock, saying, “Scrub your hide with this, and I'll let you out of the cold. But you'll do this every morning from this day forth, or I'll do it to you!”

  Culaehra didn't doubt that he could. He scrubbed.

  They had been out on the trail only an hour before that carved staff struck his shoulders again. “What now?” Culaehra bawled.

  “You should have turned left where the trail forked! What kind of idiot are you not to know?” Illbane demanded.

  “Idiot?” Culaehra protested, outraged. “How could I have known?”

  The staff whizzed down again. Culaehra yelped and leaped aside, but that served only to let the wood score the side of his hip. “Woodsman, do you call yourself?” Illbane roared. “You could not see that the tracks of the beasts led off to the north? You could not tell from the sides of the trees on which the moss grew?”

  “How was I to know you wanted to go north?” Culaehra replied hotly.

  “I've only said it every day!” The staff whizzed through the air, but Culaehra leaped inside its arc and blocked Illbane's forearm with his own as he drove a fist into the old man's belly—and shouted with pain.

  “Hard, isn't it?” Illbane said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Almost as if it were frozen, wouldn't you say?” His own fist hooked up hard, and Culaehra doubled over as his belly muscles locked in pain.

  Lua made a soft noise and stepped forward, reaching to heal.

  Illbane put out an arm to stop her. “He'll breathe again soon enough—and then he'll go back to take the right trail.”

  But later in that day, when they came to a fork and Culaehra stopped to study it for signs, the staff struck again across his buttocks and Illbane bellowed, “Lazy knave! Walk, and keep walking! We've only two more hours of light left, and I've no wish to waste it standing about!”

  “But you told me to study the signs to find the way north!”

  “I said no such thing! I said to go north, and the main path does!” And Illbane drove the baffled man before him.

  Kitishane followed with a small smile, but it faded quickly. Lua came up beside her and said, “Sister, I think he has suffered enough.”

  Kitishane looked down, surprised by the term—but they had indeed become sisters in shared pain, imposed by the same “brother.” “Not enough yet, little sister,” she said, returning the affection. “He hasn't even been punished enough for what he did to me, let alone you—and certainly not enough for what he would do to us if he could, nor for the pains he has caused to people before us.”

  “But Illbane does not punish him for those sins! Indeed, he punishes him for none!”

  “Without immediate cause, yes,” Kitishane said slowly, eyes on the trudging outlaw, every muscle of whose body was tense with suppressed outrage. “Still, let us trust Illbane; I do not doubt that he knows what he is doing—and why.”

  Nonetheless, around the campfire that night she contrived to sit near Culaehra—though not too near, and warily. Curiosity overcame fear and revulsion, though it might not have if she had not been certain the unicorn was watching from behind the leaves. As excuse for her closeness, she ladled the stew out of the pot and onto his plate. “Eat well, big man. You will need all the strength you can gain.”

  “What good will it serve,” Culaehra said bitterly, “if an old man, weaker than me by far, can defeat any power I exert?”

  “You will endure,” Kitishane said, her voice no longer hard. “You will outlast him.”

  Culaehra looked up at Illbane, glowering. “Yes. There is that, isn't there? I'm much younger than he—I have only to wait.” He stared, brooding, and began to eat. Kitishane watched his profile and began to see some signs of humanity there. Surely it must have been her imagination!

  Suddenly Culaehra turned to her, frowning. “Why would you offer me comfort?”

  Kitishane recoiled, taken off guard. Why indeed? But even more questionable—why would he resent it? “Perhaps because I've been foolish enough to begin to see you as a man!”

  “As a man?” Culaehra frowned. “How else could you have seen me?”

  “As a beast!” Kitishane snapped, and rose to take her bowl of stew elsewhere. But throughout that meal, whenever she glanced at Culaehra, his gaze was on her, and there was no lust in it, only puzzlement.

  It made her shiver.

  At breakfast the next morning Illbane snapped at Culaehra for not bringing enough water in the bark bucket, then snarled at him again for bringing too much. He chivvied him for grilling the meat too long when Kitishane thought it done to perfection—then suddenly praised Culaehra for having boiled the eggs perfectly. How much skill did it take, Kitishane wondered, to hard-boil an egg? Still, she had to admit that for Culaehra, that was probably the first time he had ever done so.

  On his part, Culaehra was amazed at the upwelling of satisfaction he felt at the old man's compliment, even gratitude— and cursed himself for a fool, reminding himself that Illbane had cut a long, slender wand and peeled the bark from it as they were setting breakfast to cook. He was vindicated when Illbane yelled, “I said to bury the fire, idiot, not raise a cairn over it!” and struck the backs of his hands with the wand. Culaehra cried out in anger and felt the welcome upwelling of the old, familiar anger and hatred. It was almost a relief—gratitude and satisfaction made him nervous.

  But they felt good.

  He put the thought out of his mind as he swung the packs up onto his back. Yes, Illbane's praise had raised a pleasant feeling within him—but his scolding and insults raised a bitter anger that he could not discharge, and he had no idea which actions would bring praise and which punishment. The old lunatic was completely incomprehensible—there was no way to predict what he would do or say next. Culaehra was beginning to go in constant dread of the old man's whims—a dread he had not felt since he had been a boy and unsure how the men of the village would treat him because he had slain one of them, even though he had done so as much by luck as skill, and done it to save one of their daughters. Illbane was very like them, he thought with hatred—telling him he wanted one thing, but punishing him when he did it, then praising him for something else he had never even mentioned!

  As they were bedding down for the night, Culaehra heard Lua daring to speak to Illbane in mild reproof. “The outlaw deserves as much pain as he has given others, sir, but no more— and certainly for reasons that can be understood!”

  Illbane sighed. “Ah, but when you grow old, you can scarcely understand your own angers, Lua. The aches and pains of age make us suddenly angry when we would otherwise be able to keep our tempers—and the regrets and bitterness that come from a life less than perfect make us liable to sudden changes of mood.”

  “Are there no signs by which we may see if you are in pain or in sorrow?”

  “There are, but you should not have to trouble yourselves to learn to read them.” Illbane laid a hand on her head. “Sleep peacefull
y, Lua—and be assured, if I grow surly or angry, it is Culaehra on whom I shall vent it, and none others of you.”

  There must have been magic in his touch, for the gnome-maid's eyes closed immediately, and within minutes her breath was the slow and even respiration of sleep.

  But Culaehra lay awake, staring with triumph into the night. Signs, were there? Then he would learn to read them indeed, would learn to see when Illbane was in good humor and might be pushed or even insulted a little, and when he was in a fell mood and must be obeyed on the instant! He lay awake awhile longer, reviewing the day's events in his mind, then the events of the days before, trying to detect signs that should have told him a blow would be coming at the slightest infraction—or signs of a good mood that would have led to praise. And, remembering, he fell asleep.

  Sometime after his breathing had steadied, Kitishane rose, drawing her cloak around her shoulders, and came to sit by the fire, gazing into the flames. Cloth rustled next to her, and she started with fright, then saw it was Illbane settling by her, his staff leaning back over his shoulder, a look of concern, even gentleness, on his face. “What troubles you, maiden?”

  Kitishane looked away. “I cannot tell, sir. I only know that my heart beats slowly, and that I feel hollow within my breast.”

  “Has it anything to do with this outlaw?”

  Kitishane looked up at him in surprise, recognizing the feel of rightness within that his words brought. “I believe it must be. How did you know, sir?”

  “Call me Illbane,” the old man said absently, turning to gaze into the fire. “I know that young men trouble young women's hearts, maiden, even though there may be no love between them. Does your heartache stem from my forcing him to strip naked before you this morning?”

  It was a novel idea. “That may have had something to do with it, si—Illbane.” Kitishane, too, turned to gaze into the fire. “But I think there is something more.”

  “I have driven him to confusion, Kitishane, and in those moments of consternation, he lets us see more deeply into him. Is it that which troubles you?”