The Sage

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Forget the oars and draw your knives!” the captain thundered, and strode among them with his sword raised—a long, heavy blade meant for cutting rope.

  “What use, against those already dead?” a sailor groaned.

  “It is better to die fighting than to wait to be slaughtered like oxen!” Culaehra drew his sword. “We may not be able to slay them, but if we can cut them into pieces, perhaps we shall live!”

  The sailors took heart enough to draw their knives, but white showed all around their eyes.

  “Is there no way to fend them off?” Lua wailed.

  “Aye—prove your virtue!”

  “How can we do that?” Culaehra cried in disgust.

  “They will set you riddles that only the virtuous can answer!” the captain called back. “Is there any one among you who can puzzle out answers?”

  “Perhaps!” Yocote's eyes lit. “We can try, at the least! Can we not, O Sage?”

  Several of the sailors looked up at the word “sage,” a sudden wild hope in their eyes.

  “Perhaps we can,” Illbane said thoughtfully. He strode to the side and called down, “Ho! Blue Folk! Why will you not let us go by?”

  “You know why,” answered a deep, gurgling voice.

  “I do not know! I have only heard rumor!”

  “Believe you so,” answered a croaking rasp of a voice. “ 'Tis enough for to doom her!”

  “Illbane!” Kitishane cried. “They answer in rhyme!”

  “What 'her' does it speak of?” Lua asked, her voice trembling.

  “The ship,” Yocote explained. “I have heard the sailors speak of their ship as 'her.' “ But his eyes were alight with excitement.

  The sage stood still for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was deeper, more vigorous. “Let me hear the answer from your own lip! Why do you seek to stay this ship?”

  A voice hissed approval from below. “He answers in rhyme.”

  “Prove you are worthy to go your way!” the gurgling voice challenged. “There is one among you who went astray!”

  Culaehra tensed. “He speaks of me!”

  “Let Illbane speak to them.” Kitishane caught at his arm to hold him back, but she was too late; he had already shot to his feet, and strode now to the rail. “Culaehra!” she cried, a wail of despair.

  “I was outlawed from my tribe for seduction and breaking faith!” the big outlaw called down to the hundred blue faces below. “I bullied and despoiled everyone I met thereafter! If you have any quarrel, it is with me!”

  Chapter 15

  The sailors rumbled with surprise, then menace, but the gurgling voice called up, “We died from the work of Bolenkar. It was he who sent the wild tribe upon us. Should we not then seek revenge upon any whom Bolenkar sends?”

  “Me, sent by Bolenkar?” Culaehra's face turned purple with anger at the insult. “I seek to defeat Bolenkar's agents, not to league with them!”

  “Answer,” the gravelly voice called up.

  “I did answer!”

  “But you did not make it rhyme.” Little Lua came up behind him, goggles off and eyes dancing with excitement. She leaned over the rail of the pilothouse and called down,

  “Revenge is wrong because it

  Only destroys—your foe, aye,

  But at yourself gnaws it!

  Within, you begin to die!

  It wastes your strength and your heart,

  Wastes also your time and your mind!

  Put hurtful ones behind you!

  Go on to build something new!”

  A buzz of approval answered her. “Small heads may be wise,” a voice that might once have been feminine screeched, and another replied, “Deep-seeing her eyes!”

  The gurgling voice challenged,

  “Have we no right to drown

  Those who seek to strike down

  Those weaker than they?

  Are not brutes of less worth

  Than those gentle at birth?”

  Culaehra was amazed to feel the answer within him, and even more amazed to feel it rising unbidden to his hps. He had to let it out—but he tried to force some semblance of rhyme to it.

  “The answer lies in the Creator,

  For none can be lesser or greater

  To Him.

  All souls are of infinite worth

  Therefore, every soul on Earth

  Must be equal before Him!”

  “It is well spoke,” the gurgling voice admitted grudgingly.

  “But is that worth not then broke,

  If your Creator's a joke?

  Who can prove He is there,

  When all the world might be air?

  For we can only know

  What we see and feel,

  But surely, in dreams,

  What you see's just as real!

  And if life only seems

  To be real, then none did create it!”

  Anger rose in Kitishane, and she rushed to the rail to call down,

  “If there is a dream, there is someone who's dreaming.

  Nothing unwilled comes from naught.

  If dreams can hurt, though they be only seeming,

  Those hurts can kill, though life be sought.

  If dream from waking can't be shown,

  Then waking dreams cannot be known.

  We must live as if the world were real.

  Or it will wound us sore, and never heal.

  But what is real, is really doom.

  No child is born without a womb.

  All is, All was, All will be,

  All is the Source!”

  A murmur of appreciation passed through the blue faces. “Where did you gain such a gift of poetry?” Culaehra asked, amazed.

  “I—I do not know,” Kitishane said, and glanced at Illbane. “Do you?”

  But Illbane only smiled, and turned back to the Blue Folk as one with a voice like a tuneful crow called out,

  “You claim that since you cannot tell

  Dream from Real, you then must live

  Life as Real, though fine or fell.

  Why not believe that life can give

  Far greater pleasure if 'twere Dream,

  And do as you please, with no regard

  To others' pain, who only seem

  To live, so naught's untoward?”

  “But folk are real!” Yocote cried, and leaped up beside Lua to call down,

  “Hear one whom others used as toy,

  Because I was too small to fight!

  The seemers live, and can know joy

  And pain, wherefore in their plight

  They shall revenge if e'er they can!

  Reality will turn and bite!

  You can ignore, but cannot ban!”

  “Errant nonsense,” he muttered to himself, sagging in self-disgust, then slipping down to the deck again before Lua could speak. But the Blue Folk seemed satisfied enough, to judge by the pebble-rattling of their conversation. Finally, one with a voice like the dripping of mud called up,

  “What's wrong is right, and right is wrong

  Depending on the place and time!

  One priest for worship orders song!

  Another censures tune and rhyme!

  One god demands, another bans!

  One nation holds it wrong to slay—

  Another murders all it may!

  Do as you please, for on this earth

  Someone, somewhere, will praise your worth!

  Somewhere, someone will find no sin

  In what you are, or what you've been!”

  Now Illbane's brows drew down in anger. He stepped to the rail and thundered down,

  “Hypocrites!

  You don't believe the words you speak,

  But tempt and taunt us all to seek

  Our weakening, our self-damnation!

  Some laws are lived by every nation,

  Some sins condemned by every station!

  The clan whose people kill at pleasure,

  When they have al
l slain one another,

  Ceases to exist. Which tribe, at leisure,

  Lets each man steal from his brother

  Will find each jealous and suspicious

  Till none can trust his fellow, and

  Strikes at hints of theft malicious.

  Thus their tribe the tribesmen slay,

  Or break their tribe and go away.”

  The rattle of approval deepened to a rumble. Illbane did not step back from the ship's side, but stood, staff in hand and glaring down at the Blue People, still indignant.

  “You speak in circling contradiction,” the muddy voice called out.

  “Thus you earn our malediction.

  You admit there may be tribes that do allow

  Their folk to break the laws to which all others bow,

  Yet say there are some rules that can't be broke!

  Explain—or is your speech in vain, a joke?”

  But Illbane's mouth drew tight in sarcasm.

  “Vain tempter, speaking to confuse!

  Do not think me to bemuse!

  Paradox can be resolved!

  Each broken ethic's self-enforcing—

  Those who hold it mere discoursing

  Perish if they dare to break it.

  They're soon or late caught in the locks

  Of tightening loops of paradox,

  Which choke off breath as an affliction,

  For it only seems a contradiction!”

  The voices below rose to a roar, and its tone was uncertain.

  “You have done it, wanderer,” the captain moaned. “Now they will certainly wreck us. Sailors! Your oars as clubs!”

  The sailors struggled to raise their oars as weapons, but before they could, Lua pointed downward, crying, “Look!”

  They looked and, incredibly, saw the blue faces begin to move apart, to draw back from the ship's sides.

  “We are saved!” a sailor cried. “They are leaving us! They will let us pass!”

  It was so. In minutes they had vanished beneath the waves. A breeze sprang up, and the ship began to move forward again.

  “This is all on your account.” Another sailor glared darkly at Culaehra. “They came for you. If you had not been aboard, this would not have happened.”

  His look gave the big warrior a chill. But his anger was eclipsed by the captain's cry of triumph. “We have won! Our noble passengers have bested the Blue People! What a tale this will be to tell in the taverns—that the Blue Folk can be defeated by rhyming!”

  Even Culaehra somehow felt that the captain had missed the point—twice.

  The quay felt strange beneath their feet, after a week at sea—but as Culaehra carried the treasure chest off the ship, he looked up and saw the mountains, seeming so close that he could have sworn he would reach them by evening. He turned to join his companions in thanking the captain, then followed Illbane and Kitishane into the little port town. To his surprise, they slowed near an inn. “What are you about?” he demanded. “Let us strike out for the mountains! Surely we can reach them by evening, if we go at once!”

  “It will be two days' journey, Culaehra.” Illbane looked up at the mountains, the ever-present, looming presence over the town. “They are higher than they seem, so they are farther, too.”

  Culaehra studied the look on the sage's face, an expression at once bleak and nostalgic. Kitishane voiced his question: “What troubles you, Illbane?”

  “There was no town when last I came to this shore,” was all he said.

  Culaehra stared, then looked about him at the town. It must have been there for a hundred years at least—sturdy little houses built of logs with the bark left on, two much larger, windowless versions of the same thing for warehouses, and another, almost as large, for the inn. How old was Illbane, anyway? He shook himself impatiently. “Let us be on the road!”

  “Gently.” Illbane raised a hand. “There may be little game in those hills; we would do well to bring food with us. Then, too, these mountains will be far colder than the winters of your homeland, and we must push even farther north beyond them. We will need warmer clothing, and cloaks of thick wool.”

  Culaehra stood rigid while anger built within him, then faded. Finally he said, “You are telling me we must spend another night in an inn.”

  So they did, with Culaehra sitting nervously on the chest the rest of that day and Yocote sitting atop it through the night. The warrior and Kitishane took the watch in turns, not trusting the trance-vigils alone of the shaman and the sage. At one point in the night, Culaehra felt a hand on his ankle, and woke to see Kitishane reaching out to touch him, her eyes on the door. He whipped about to look, just in time to see the portal ease closed and the bar fall back into its staple. Culaehra was up like a shot, catching up a stick of kindling wood to drive beneath the door. Then, breathing hard, he went back to his pallet, muttering thanks to Kitishane on the way. It took him a while to fall asleep again—he kept wondering how the landlord had rigged an unseen latch to raise the bar.

  The next day, they broke their fast on bread that was only two days old, and fresh porridge. Fortified against the day's work, they left the village. Culaehra grumbled a little at the packs of fur clothing Illbane and Kitishane carried, but since the gold was his only burden, he did not feel he had the right to complain very strongly.

  That night, they camped at the base of the foothills; the next night, they slept where the hills gave way to the true mountains. On the third day they began the long, slow climb. Culaehra had thought that Illbane had bullied him into excellent condition in the last six months, but by midday he was sweating and gasping under the weight of the load. He wondered how heavily it would have weighed without Yocote's enchanted pack, and felt an entirely irrational burst of gratitude for the gnome. Surely it must have been irrational—Yocote had certainly not done it out of love for Culaehra. Or even fellowship. Had he?

  They halted to dine, and Culaehra thankfully lowered the pack—then saw Illbane looking about him with the same faraway gaze they had seen on the dock. Before they could ask, the sage shook off the mood and said, “The mountains, at least, have not changed. Break bread, my friends, and rest.”

  They rested an hour. Then, with a groan, Culaehra shouldered his pack again. It was the king's sin, not his own, he thought with exasperation. Why was it he who must labor out the penance?

  They were high among the crags when the mountaineers stepped out to block their path.

  If the pack had not held gold, Culaehra would have dropped it to draw his sword. Even if it had been his, he would have let his load slide—but it was not; it was a sacrifice he had promised to take to Agrapax. He glared at the tall, rangy men and leaned into the load, readying himself to kick. But before he could challenge them, Kitishane smiled and said, “Good day to you, men of the mountains!”

  They seemed a little taken aback, but the oldest said nonetheless, “It is a bad day for you. Open your packs.”

  “Why? Are you bandits?”

  The man grinned. “I am Swiba. We are the clan of the Chamois, and these are our mountains. We demand a toll of any who pass here.”

  “Why? Do you maintain the road for us?”

  “Because these are our mountains, and any who seek to pass through them must pay us!” Swiba flared, and his men stepped forward, their spears gleaming.

  “How much is this toll?” Kitishane asked.

  “Two parts in ten out of all you carry.”

  She frowned. “Rather steep, is it not? You are poorly clad for folk so well-paid.”

  That was true; the men wore woolen leggings and tunic, threadbare and patched. Their hair was greasy and unkempt, their beards untrimmed.

  “One part for us, one part for our god!” Swiba snapped. “Show us your packs!”

  “What god is this?” Illbane demanded.

  Swiba turned, frowning at the sage's tone, but said, “He is called Wauhanak. Bow to him if you come here!”

  “I know of him.” Illbane's tone becam
e even harder. “The sacrifice he demands is not in goods alone, but also in life. Which of us had you planned to sacrifice?”

  The mountaineers muttered with foreboding, taken by surprise, and Swiba looked nonplussed for a minute before he shook himself and forced a scowl. “All strangers' lives are forfeit to the god. Since you have sprung the trap yourselves, put your wrists behind your backs for lashing; we would rather slay you on the altar than here in the pass, though we will do that if we must.”

  Culaehra's eyes narrowed. He slipped the pack from his back, holding it by its straps, leaving one hand free for his sword. The brass-bound chest would make a decent shield, and a better weapon.

  Swiba's eyes glinted with approval—and relief. “Formil! Take that pack he offers!”

  Before Formil could step forward to his doom, though, Illbane said, “You may not have the packs until we see your god with our own eyes. If we must die on his altar, we will view him first.”

  Culaehra's head whipped about; he stared at the old man, dumbfounded.

  “As you will,” Swiba grunted. “Your hands!”

  “Our hands we will keep free for climbing, thank you. We will bear the packs ourselves, and you may hedge us about with as many spears as you like, but we will walk to your god as free folk and of our own will, not as captives.”

  The men looked uncertain, but Swiba grunted, “As you will; every man has the right to choose his own doom. Onward, then!” He gestured with his spear.

  Illbane turned and stalked ahead. The Chamoyards had to hurry to close ranks and march before him. Others fell in beside the group, and Swiba brought up the rear with half a dozen more, all with spears leveled and frowns on their faces. “I do not know what trick you plan, graybeard,” Swiba called out, “but it will not work!”

  Why, then, was the mountaineer so nervous? Culaehra shouldered his pack again and hurried after Illbane. He almost wished the robbers had managed to take the gold, so he would have been free of the weight of it.

  The route to the god went through the Chamoyards' village, if you could call it that—a collection of huts built of fallen branches and braided grass, as patched and worn as their clothes. Some were clearly little more than false fronts over cave mouths. The whole place stank of unburied garbage and open privies. At the sight of strangers, mothers called to their children sharply, and the little ones came running to hide indoors. They were scrawny and hollow-cheeked, mothers and children alike, and quite fearful.