The Gods of Garran

by Meredith Skye

  “How long have you had this ooluk?” asked Heyvaan.

  Asta hesitated. She really didn’t have enough training for this mission. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing and arose suspicion. “A while,” she said.

  “Hmm,” said the chief, but he asked no more questions about the sword. The conversation moved on.

  Out of courtesy, Asta appeared interested in the state of their town, and how it fared. After seeing the sword, the others warmed up to her a little. They spoke more freely.

  "It's the Hands of the Gods," said Molot bemoaned. "The gods are offended somehow. The water has stopped coming down." The hall grew quiet, as though this were not meant for her ears. All eyes were on her.

  "The water has dried up?" she asked.

  "No," said Molot carefully. "The gods are withholding it from us. It no longer comes down the mountain to us. But it is there."

  She had little answer to this. "Have you gone up there, to see if it is blocked. Perhaps you can free it up?"

  They stared at her, as though she had told them to fly to the moon. "We cannot," said Molot. "Even our own Shaheak dare not try the mountain, nor confront the gods' anger."

  Asta looked around the room at the solemn looks on their faces. She nearly laughed but it was too solemn a moment for that. Grown up men, afraid to climb a mountain on account of superstition?

  "What will you do then, without water?" she asked carefully. "Isn't that the reason there is a town here? Because of the access to water? It's a desert otherwise, in every direction."

  "The reason there is a town here," said Heyvaan, "is that gods built it here. It is their desire, their will."

  That made no sense--but was a perfect example of Garran thinking. The gods willed it, therefore it was so.

  Asta stood and paced away from the table, thinking furiously. This was a chance for her to prove herself and learn the location of the Clan Conclave meeting. A riddle she could perhaps solve. "I will go the Mountain of the Hands of God," she said, "and discover whether or not it's the gods will for the water to begin flowing again."

  And this would perhaps eliminate the need for any seductions.

  A glance from Heyvaan hushed the whispering that began around the table. "This is a dangerous thing you propose, Te'jaste," he said.

  "But I have already been touched by the gods," she said, playing up on their belief in her ooluk. "I will do this for you."

  There was an awed silence. This angle was working.

  "Very well," said Heyvaan, at last. "You have our blessing."

  Asta nodded. Probably a tree had fallen to block the water. Surely there was an easy resolution to this problem. She hoped it would be one she could remedy. If not, coming back alive would still impress them.

  It was, after all, the thought that counted.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At noon the sun shone clearly as Asta rode her yithhe towards the Hands of the Gods.

  The townspeople had practically treated her like a hero just for going to the mountains, even though she had not accomplished anything yet.

  Ignorant natives.

  Though the sun shone, Asta felt cool. She road down the broken cobblestone road. The further up the mountain she got, the more the road improved. Soon the road turned red, paved with lava rocks.

  A quiet pervaded the air. Asta couldn't hear animals or even the wind. The road followed the dry riverbed, which still had some green trees growing near it. Along the edge, the grass was yellow and shriveled. Asta was determined to follow the river, even if she had to part from the road (though the villagers had warned her against leaving the road at all). Still, there was no need as the two made their way together. All day Asta traveled and still came across no signs of water in the river.

  Only a few hours of daylight remained and Asta hesitated to camp outdoors in these mountains. She pushed her yithhe to greater speed and kept a sharp lookout for caves or any other sort of shelter. Still she followed the lava path. Then she came upon an odd thing--two short pillars, maybe knee high, made of a pale, blue-white substance. She'd never seen the like, but she'd heard of it--moonstone. The Garrans believed that no evil could endure this enchanted stone. She stopped to examine it.

  The moonstone was quite smooth to the touch, as though polished. When Asta touched it, she felt a slight dizziness that quickly passed, accompanied by a ringing in her ears. The rock must be hard to last for hundreds or even maybe thousands of years without decay.

  Asta was fascinated. She wanted to take a sample back with her and found a hammer in her pack. Using that with her knife, she tried to break off a piece but was unsuccessful. Anyway, it would be a shame to mar the pillar. Not only was it ancient, but beautiful also.

  Asta mounted her yithhe and started back up the trail. There was a slight, gentle breeze--not too warm or too cold--almost like an invisible hand caressing her face. The evening was pleasant as she rode. She saw five more sets of the moonstone pillars. As the light waned, the pillars glowed faintly.

  An hour later, the sun had nearly set. Asta started as she realized that she had forgotten altogether to look for shelter--so caught up in the pleasant weather she was. She stopped and checked the river, but there was still no sign of water. The air was not as dry, however, as though water were near. The villagers believed that the mountain was hoarding the water on account of some evil that had been done. She'd nearly laughed at the notion at the time, but now, up here in these hills, she could almost believe it.

  Around the next bend loomed a high peak. Asta decided to go farther and look for a place to camp.

  A seventh set of moonstone pillars embellished the path. These, however, were much taller--taller even than Asta. And on them were curious writings, somehow familiar even though it was no language that Asta knew. These runes resembled the ones on her ooluk, Jir'cata.

  An eerie feeling passed through Asta, as though fate or destiny were playing tricks on her. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. Had the sword accepted her somehow? Would the mountain accept her also? She shook her head to be free of such silly speculations.

  Tired and determined to rest soon, Asta urged her yithhe forward up the path in the waning light. The path looked as though it would end at the top of this peak. Around the next bend, Asta stopped. A huge archway made of moonstone led inside the mountain. All around the archway stood the carving of those ancient runes. Asta stared at it a while.

  Nowhere were there any signs of people nor inhabitants. Asta knew no villager would dare camp inside the mountain. But the sun was setting. This was the end of the road. She could sleep outside or venture in. And Asta was no villager.

  She slid down from her yithhe and grabbed her pack. She saw to the animal, and left it grazing. Then she went up the strange lava stone stairway to the moonstone arch. She had an electric lamp in her bag. She got it out now and turned it on. Carrying the light, as much for comfort as to see, Asta entered the mountain.

  Inside the mountain the floor was black and very smooth, like obsidian. Moonstone runes decorated the floor, glowing faintly. The only remarkable thing about this large, black chamber was a single rounded moonstone doorway, that looked as though it led into the mountain. Asta saw nothing that would open it, no handle, no latch, no keypad or unlocking device anywhere.

  Asta could just sleep there in the outer chamber. As late as it was, it would be safer to travel in the morning light. But this chamber was open to the outside and not very safe from animals or people who might find it--though she doubted that many people would come this way.

  She paced back and forth, thinking how to open the door. Then she went and stood in front of it for a long while. She felt a bit of dizziness, as though her mind were weaving in and out of consciousness. She must be more tired than she thought. She stepped forward and touched the door. Something clanged and the door began to open, she had been successful, though she wasn't even sure why. It didn't matter. She picked up her gear and went through the door.

  S
uddenly the door closed behind her. Asta went back and touched it, hoping that would open it, but it didn't.

  Asta spent some time searching the doorway and then the room for a lever or button--anything to open the door. No success.

  There was no point staying here. Perhaps the way out lay ahead. Again Asta was glad for her internal locator. If she couldn't get out, the Agency would find her. At least, she hoped they could--as long as the signal could get through this black rock. She worried that it wouldn't.

  She traveled this path for at least several hours. The tunnel loomed ahead, silent, dark and forbidding. The glow of pale moonstone runes outlined the passage ahead.

  Finally she reached the top, and stepped into a large round room. The top was open to the sky, so that she could see the stars, yet the room was warm. Quickly Asta realized that this room was domed. Impressive for the primitive society that must have built it. Or was it so primitive? She began to wonder.

  Around the room were seven moonstone pillars that glowed blue-white. The sight was beautiful. As Asta moved to the center of the room, the light bulb of her lantern exploded, startling her. Now in the near dark, Asta could still see by the light of the pillars and the stars. She was tired and the floor was inviting. Against her better judgment, Asta lay down and went to sleep.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  A yellow robed figure walked across the floor. A single rune decorated his chest--bor. For Borrai. God. It was day. The place was the Governor's Hall in Urrlan. But it wasn't. At least, it was the same place but a different time. It was decorated with strange Garran statues and carvings. The Garrans of another time inhabited it.

  The yellow figure stood in front of them and spoke words that Asta couldn't hear.

  There was a terrible sandstorm, so fierce that the sand covered everything for miles.

  There was hunger.

  A strange song wove its way through this collection of images. A sad, lonely song that filled Asta with grief--for the dying. For great loss. Even though she didn't know what was lost.

  A large almost endless moonstone stood before her, carved with many runes, intertwined with the song. It was breathtaking. But then a terrible crack broke the moonstone circle. The song ended. Somehow it left Asta with a feeling of guilt.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  Asta woke with a start and got up. The chamber was quiet. The sun had risen and light began to fill the chamber. She stood for a moment, trying to understand the dream. But the more she awakened, the less she remembered. It made no sense.

  Quickly Asta packed up, eager to be out of the place, find the water and get back to town to manipulate the townspeople into appointing her to the Clan Conclave. The sooner she did that, the sooner she could get off this rock called Garran.

  The water had to be blocked up somewhere. Once her gear was packed, Asta examined the room more closely. There was nothing in it, only the pillars, the runes carved on the floor and the sky above. But the wall on the far side held a doorway made of moonstone, which was shut. Asta pushed it to no avail. It would not open.

  For a long while, Asta troubled about the door, pushing it, looking for a way to open it. She sat and stared at it but could not think of how to get past. She ate now and then from the rations in her pack, which didn't need to be cooked, fortunately.

  Before long she was surprised to see that the sun was setting again. Perhaps she should be more worried about getting out, but the whole experience had begun to feel somewhat surreal.

  The day had passed quickly and still she'd learned nothing about the water or how to release it. She thought of returning to the city or leaving the mountain to travel further but she felt compelled to get through the door, as though somehow the answer were on the other side.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  Fire came from the sky, the world was enveloped in flames. People scattered, trying to escape destruction. There was anger, a deep festering anger at the Enemy from the Sky.

  Balance was lost. Dizzying. Little parts were dying. Plans had failed and now the earth had no protections.

  The winds broke loose and tore across the earth, breaking down everything in their path.

  They would die, nothing could stop that. But they could hide the gods.

  A triangular structure, made of moonstone, on the top of a mountain. Seven of them gathered. They rebuilt the song, only to silence it again.

  Then everything went to darkness.

  Waiting.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  Once again Asta awoke and it was morning. She felt disoriented. For a moment she didn't remember where she was. The sun was beginning to shine down through the dome. Asta wanted to get up but she felt tired and there was something about the dream--she wanted to remember it--something important. She lay back down to sleep.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  Her dreams were jumbled, long, and elusive. Asta followed them deeper and deeper into sleep to try and understand them. Parts of the dream was dark, parts of it accused her. But the dream kept slipping away--she couldn't quite grasp it. Dark surrounded her and she woke suddenly. The pale light of the pillars showed her the shadowy shape of the room and she remembered where she was. She had slept overly long.

  Quickly Asta got to her feet--too quickly--as she felt a sudden dizziness that soon passed. She tried her light but still it didn't work. In the dim light, she packed up her gear again, determined this time not to sleep another night in this chamber--as deeply refreshed as she might feel.

  Again Asta went over to the moonstone door. After staring at it for a long while, she reached her hand out and touched it. A wave of dizziness passed over her and she felt her consciousness slip for a moment. When it returned, she heard a sound as the door began to open. She wasn’t sure how she did it, which was disturbing—but at least it was opening.

  Inside, moonstone pillars illuminated the dark hall. Asta took her gear and went through the door. She made her way down the hall, startled a few minutes later when she heard the door shut again. Quickly she went back and found the door locked again. She’d have to go forward.

  Now the path wound down deeper into the mountain without any doorways or turns. Hours passed. Asta wasn’t sure how many, as there was no way to tell time in this place.

  The walls whispered, during her dreamlike journey. She looked around, but she was alone. The villagers had believed the place to be haunted—now she understood how they felt. The place was eerie.

  Asta was not superstitious, but now she began to wish that her task were done so that she could leave this place. There was something here. Maybe something sentient … alive … peering into her soul.

  But that was nonsense. She steeled herself against such foolish thoughts. She wasn't one of the primitive natives that someone could scare with those notions.

  Several times during the journey, Asta felt the dizziness and wondered if she had caught some disease on this trip. She wished she'd brought a Chanden med kit with her, but that could give away her true identity. If anyone realized she was Chanden, her life could be in danger. The Garrans could be violent and, this far from a real city, no one would ever find out what happened to her.

  Finally, Asta arrived at another door. It felt like she’d walked all day, but she had no way of knowing if that were true. And she'd seen no exits. This door was like the first and it was locked shut. She set her pack down and again touched the door, as she had the first. For several moments nothing happened, then the dizziness returned and when it passed, the door began to open.

  Asta walked through and found herself in a wider passage that led upward. This one was lighter, as though she were near the outside. Before long she came to a large entryway with a black obsidian floor, similar to the one at the other entrance, again with moonstone pillars, seven of them.

  Asta hurried across the room and to the archway. Daylight streamed through it. Pleased, Asta went outside onto a large terrace, wondering whether there would be a path from here that would connect up to the one she had come on before.

&n
bsp; What she saw when she got outside astounded her—it was a huge lake, placid and beautiful. Near the terrace, the lake ended in a large dam. She almost laughed. That was the mysterious will of the gods that the villagers all feared—a dam. She doubted that any of them knew it was here. A reservoir of water that could sustain a city a thousand times as large as Wanthe. All they needed was to release the water.

  Relieved and happy now to be out of the mountain, and away from the dizziness and whispering, Asta used her transmitter to send a message to the Agency, letting them know she was all right and that she was on top of the mountain.

  Now she put her mind to this problem: where were the controls for the dam?

  On the terrace, in a small alcove, was a single moonstone pillar slightly shorter than a man’s height. The top was rounded, so that it looked like some kind of crystal ball, except that it was made of moonstone. The surface was plain with a single rune on it—“bor”. God. Asta wasn’t sure where she knew that from and the thought gave her a chill.

  The lake was nearly a hundred feet below, and the cliffs were shear on either side. There was no visible path down. However, sure that there was a control somewhere, Asta searched inside the entry chamber.

  The search turned up nothing, no other doorways, no panels, no controls anywhere. Confused, Asta sat down to rest. There had to be a way. This was the most likely point to control the dam, as it was closest to it.

  The more Asta considered it, the more unlikely it seemed that this dam was built by the Garrans—they simply weren’t advanced enough. They could barely build cities of their own. Tradition held that the Borrai built the seven God-cities. But these Borrai must have been another race, perhaps one now dead. Other inhabited planets in this sector had no records of such a race.

  The Garrans accused the Chanden of killing their gods. But the legends said there were only seven Borrai. Surely there were more of the Borrai than that—if they were a separate race. Or had the Chanden truly killed off an entire advanced race when they landed here a hundred years ago? The thought was disturbing.