by Anne Brooke
The way to victory, however, will be through persuasion, not violence. That much is obvious. Something he has learned from his link with the half Gathandrian, perhaps.
Simon draws his hands up, folds them under his chin. “Do I have a choice about whether or not I listen to you?”
Duncan smiles, shakes his head. “You mistake me. There is always a choice. I will not force you to hear the Third Legend, but I believe you were only recently longing to understand what all the major Legends tell us. Why else would you be in the Library?”
“You know too much.”
“Then let me share it with you.”
“How can I be sure that the Legend you tell me is the real one?”
“How can you be sure it is not? And how can you be sure that the others you have heard from the Gathandrians are real?”
A spark of purple fire and the scribe leaps to his feet, the chair falling back behind him with a clatter.
“Oh no,” he all but snarls. “Whatever you do to me, do not try to sully the truths I already have. If you do then I will surely leave.”
Behind the fire lies the image of a meadow of summer corn, soft, pliable, ready for harvest. Duncan sees it but knows Simon does not. He is hooked—this threat of leaving shows the executioner more than any actions could that his quarry is willing to stay.
“Forgive me,” he holds up his hands, a false gesture of yielding. “I have been on my own too long and forget how to tender my discourse to the understandings of those I meet. I meant no offence this time.”
The purple fire fades, but does not entirely vanish. Duncan will have to be careful. After a pause, the scribe sets the chair upright and sits down. The mind-executioner waits. It is a skill he knows well.
At last, Simon nods.
“Speak then,” he says. “I will listen but make my own judgements.”
The poor fool, Duncan thinks, but suppresses the words so they cannot be found. Then he begins, not using phrases that can be heard but only the links of the mind. That way, Simon will be the more securely netted.
*****
The first time the Spirit of Gathandria connected to me, I was only eight winter-cycles old. The flash of surprise in the scribe’s untutored mind lurches through them both, but Duncan discounts it. What he is saying is true, or as true as his story, his role in the Legends, becomes. And I think he came to me simply because I needed him. My parents were out harvesting the wine-grapes, and I had walked alone to the nearest woods. I remember how cold it was, but I didn’t let it stop me. I loved the Gathandrian woods. I still miss them. But no matter. What I tell you is this: whilst my father and mother barely remembered me many field-lengths away, I sat alone under the grey cypress tree, its leaves shading me from the worst of the chill. There I waited. There was something about that day which told me my life would be different at the end of it. Why a boy so young would think that, I do not know. Perhaps it was the way the air folded itself green and blue through the leaves or the way the night-rooks sang their melody well into the morning. Or perhaps it was the way the sky seemed to wrap itself around me like the cypress leaves, as if I were the only Gathandrian alive that crisp autumnal day.
I had not walked out entirely alone, however. No one who loves words and manuscripts as we do, Simon, is ever entirely alone. I took with me the Third Legend of Gathandria, the Tale of Prudence and Sloth. Not that I needed to carry the pages with me; it has always been my favourite of the Legends and even then I knew it by heart. Does that surprise you? Did you think I would lean towards one of the more dramatic or even violent Legends? Yes, I see that you did. Believe me, your opinion is coloured by the Gathandrians you have lived amongst. If you wish to judge me rightly, then you must cleanse your mind and, as you have declared, form your own view.
Under the tree, I opened the book, letting the words my eye read fuse with the memory of my mind. The tale starts with a woman and a man. But desire does not muddy the river in their case. They are not lovers; they are sister and brother. The mysteries of their beginnings, how they came to be there, are not permitted to be understood. They are locked in the mysteries of the origins of the land itself, part of what only the Spirit of Gathandria knows. This man and woman are neither rich nor poor, noble nor decadent, such is the terrible combination of the attributes they are named by. For prudence and sloth together does not make for richness of life. But in the reading and living of this most special of Legends, you can see how your own life falls short and how to change it to be the best it can be. It is for that reason that it is the most inspirational, and the most used, of all our stories.
In the beginning, the man and the woman are naked. This is not a shame to them. Clothes are not necessary and, besides, they have grown up being used to their bodies. Also, at that time, Gathandria had no winters, and the summer-cycle sun was always kind. I will not name them, as their names do not translate from the ancient Gathandrian tongue and they will mean nothing to you; I will simply call the woman Prudence and the man Sloth. The two of them work the fields during the day, growing just enough of the fruit and crops they need to eat, no more and no less. They harvest lowberries, both green and white, willow-nuts, klineberries, hedgerow apples, evening wheat, winterpeas, parbeans and corn. They do not grow enough to store, but the land is generous and offers plenty for them to survive on a few hour-cycles’ work only with each new sun. The rhythm of the day-cycles is a gentle one and they have no other mouths to feed. The world is filled with themselves alone. It is indeed perfection.
Perfection, however, as you and I know, can never last.
On the morning in which everything changes, Prudence rises first, as she always does. As she has come to expect, the air is warm and the sun soothes her skin, lulls her into the harmony of her mind. She begins to gather the tools she and her brother will need to work in the cool of the day. Meanwhile, Sloth wakes. He stretches, yawns and rubs his eyes to clear them of the dreams of night, because Sloth always dreams, although Prudence does not.
When he finally gazes round the small bed-area he sleeps in, he sees not only the dark stone walls, the tapestries his sister has made to soften the room’s harshness and the beaker of water beside him. He sees, also, what he has never seen before and what, by all understanding, should not be there.
A lone grey wolf lurks in the corner. Its eyes glitter gold. There is already a hint of crimson and sharpness in the air.
Sloth has never seen a wolf before, but the word reverberates in his thoughts as if the animal has itself spoken the name out loud. He pulls himself up in the bed as far away as possible, using the blankets as a barrier to ward off a danger he cannot yet comprehend. The wolf lopes across the room, nestles his muzzle on Sloth’s arm. At once, Sloth’s muscles freeze and he is unable to move at all.
“What do you want most?” the wolf says in his mind. As it speaks, the colour of its eyes changes from gold to green and back to gold again and its jaw opens, revealing a row of glistening teeth.
The question, Duncan knows, sets up reverberations for the scribe, the ache, the shame of memory. That is all to the good; the stronger the knowledge of past failures in his opponent’s thoughts, the better his chances of success. He returns to the Legend.
Before Sloth can answer the wolf, the animal captures his arm with its teeth. Not deep enough to draw blood, but strong enough for him to be held there on the bed until the wolf’s strange purpose is fulfilled.
The question is asked again, this time with more urgency. Sloth answers in the only way he knows.
“I want to be happy,” he says.
The wolf lets go of his arm and laughs. The sound is surprisingly Gathandrian. “Happiness is not a want that can be achieved by itself; it is merely the by-product of other states of being.”
A pause follows, during which Sloth understands he is expected to speak, but can think of nothing to say.
The wolf takes several paces back, as if to allow Sloth time to recover his lost equilibrium. For him, how
ever, it would take the absence of his questioner to obtain that end. When the animal speaks again, his words are whispered through the mind-link, alluring, almost seductive.
“Do you not wish to know what those other states of being might be?”
Sloth thinks for a while, remembering what his beloved sister, Prudence, has taught him, answers with her in mind.
“The Spirit who created our land and us,” he says, “provides all our needs and we do not question its graciousness. We are happy simply to live under the shadow of its wings and be filled by its blessings. That is enough for us.”
“And does this make you truly happy?”
“Of course.” Still, in spite of his words, Sloth finds that the wolf’s questions are eating at the certainties he has carried for so long in his heart. He finds a shadow at the centre of his mind he has not known before. It troubles him.
The wolf snarls a response. “You lie, although you do not know it. The life that the Gathandrian Spirit bids you lead is one of imprisonment and hardship, not of the body, but of the mind. You are forced to carry out the whims of a being you never see and whose purposes you do not know. You must harvest the land for your food or you do not eat. You have no help to store up supplies for the future and no time to do the things that please you or to discover what they might be. Neither can you travel, learn to connect with people of other lands that you have never seen. How can you be truly yourself or truly happy if you exist under this kind of captivity? There are worlds out there, worlds of the mind and of the soul, that you do not know. There is happiness elsewhere which is waiting to be discovered.”
When the wolf finishes, Sloth’s heart is beating fast. He finds there is something about these strange words and thoughts that grips his mind, spins it through circles coloured like the animal’s eyes, gold and green, the shades of longing. But who he is now cannot be so easily altered.
“But-but we have our ease here, my sister and I,” he replies. “Our lives are familiar and safe. Why should we wish to change them or have the other experiences you talk of? What good can come of it?”
The wolf gazes at him quizzically, its head to one side and saliva dripping from its jaws. “And does your acceptance of such a life please the Spirit of Gathandria, do you think?”
Sloth does not know. The question of the Spirit’s response to how they spend their days on the Gathandrian earth has never entered his thoughts. Neither Prudence nor he have ever sensed disapproval on the part of the being who made them. In fact, they have never sensed its presence at all.
“Exactly,” the wolf whispers, its tones slipping through Sloth’s mind like a young snake through morning grass. “Have you never thought that the reason for the Spirit’s absence from your lives is because you have failed the test it has set you?”
Sloth shakes his head, grips the blanket more firmly around his body. “What test do you speak of? I do not understand you.”
The wolf settles down, lies on the stone floor with its great head resting on its front paws. The eyes are still fixed on Sloth, as if they will never leave him.
“All life made by the Gathandrian Spirit is tested to see if that life is worthy of true happiness,” he says. “As I speak to you, you and your sister are in danger of failing the test by the poor shadow of life that you have settled for, and then you will be no more. The Spirit will create other lives to take the place of your own and you will be lost forever. But do not fear as the Spirit is still gracious; it has sent me as a warning for you, and you will do well to heed me and follow what I tell you, because the paths to true happiness and the life you should be leading are there to follow easily if you wish to. But there is so little time; you must do what I say and do it quickly.”
At such words, the darkness of them licking at the colours in his mind, Sloth stumbles to his feet and the blanket falls to the floor. Instead of the customary heat on his skin, he feels nothing but a long and aching chill. He falls to his knees in front of what must surely be his and his sister’s saviour.
“I beg you, tell me,” he begs. “What must I do to please the Spirit?”
If a wolf can smile, then that is the expression covering the animal’s face. Sloth feels the heat of a wild tongue on his flesh. The strange warmth soothes him.
“Your request is wise,” the wolf says and now his voice is honey poured over river rocks. “And its solution is simple. You must take with your hands and your mind what the Spirit of Gathandria keeps from you. Then the Spirit will know that you are truly worthy of the life you are destined to live.”
“Will it not be angry?” Sloth asks. “I must wait for my sister. She has wisdom in her steps. It follows her always.”
“No!” The answer is sharp, the bitter scoring of sharp teeth across fragile skin. “No, you must decide now what you will do. Time is not on your side and you cannot wait for your sister to return. Besides, the decision is yours and yours alone. What will you do, Spirit-gotten Gathandrian? Will you choose life or deny it?”
A deep silence fills the small room. Its dark echoes scour every corner clean. Sloth swallows, does not know what to think or how to reply. Then, the honeyed gold of the wolf’s thoughts rolls over his own and he is lost, although he does not know it.
He stands a little taller and the shadow of his frame casts the wolf into a greater night.
“Yes,” he says, and then again more firmly. “Yes. I choose life. It is the Spirit’s desire and we must obey it.”
“You have chosen well,” says the wolf. “Come then. I will show you what you must do.”
Before Sloth can think about preparing himself for whatever might come next, the animal rears up on its hind legs and presses its grey front paws down on his shoulders. With his next breath, the two of them are falling through air that shrieks in ribbons of yellow around his head. He does not know why they have not landed or where they might be. His mind is full of sharp edges and dark roads. He is pierced with blood.
When he comes to himself, he is lying on grass at the edge of the unknown woods. It is not unfamiliar, but Prudence and he do not travel this far from their home often. They have no need to do so. The morning sun sparkles through the cypress trees and, from instinct, he turns away from the tree that is forbidden to them.
Next to him, the wolf chuckles. “Why do you turn from the cypress tree of the mind?”
Sloth wipes his hand over his face, feels the chill on his skin once more in spite of the warmth.
“It is not permitted,” he mutters. “We can neither look upon its branches nor eat of its leaves. Prudence and I have always known this. We keep away from the mind-cypress. In fact, we rarely come here at all.”
“Who does not allow you to look on this life-giving tree?”
“The Spirit, the being who made us.”
As if Sloth has spoken words that burn the animal’s paws, the wolf dances round him until they are eye to eye again.
“Why would the Spirit request such a thing of you? Eating the leaves of this mystical tree will fulfil what the Spirit requires of you. It will give you wisdom such as you have never known. More than that, it will prevent the death that hangs like a dark stormcloud over you and your beloved. Come now, I will show you.”
The wolf leaves Sloth and lopes over towards the tree that is forbidden. Sloth tastes the bile in his throat, thinks to warn the creature that what he is doing is madness but does not have the strength to speak. Still, he cannot stop staring at the animal. He does not know what will happen next nor what punishments the Spirit will bring upon the wolf’s boldness.
While Sloth watches, the wolf pads to the gnarled tree and gazes into its long branches, as if greeting an old friend. Then the animal stretches upwards, resting its paws on the bark and takes a sprig of the needle-shaped leaves into its mouth. Sloth gasps, expects to see the wolf struck down or at least injured.
Nothing like that happens.
Instead the wolf chews and swallows the leaves, pads back to Sloth and sits down i
n front of him. The animal smiles. “Learn from this. When I eat from the mind-cypress, there is neither the death nor punishment you so wrongly fear. No. The wisdom that resides in the tree expands my thoughts and makes me stronger, as the Gathandrian Spirit desires, and as it wants you to learn to do, also. See how I am changed for the good.”
Indeed, the green and golden fire of the wolf’s eyes has already softened to a sandy glow and Sloth sees a shimmering light resting around its head. There is something here that he has never experienced before and that he wants. In spite of his satisfaction with the way things have always been, he wonders for the first time whether there can, in fact, be more, with the Spirit’s approval. And the wolf surely has that as it still lives.
One thing holds him back. “What about my sister?”
“Do not fret,” soothes the wolf. “When you eat of the leaves, the wisdom you gain from the Spirit will allow you to take some to her, also. Believe me and it will be so.”
The animal opens its jaws wider and breathes on Sloth. The air is perfumed with lemons and spices. The scent of it enters his mind and a path of golden happiness opens up before him.
“Yes,” he says. “I will eat and grow wise.”
Sloth rises. The sun glistens the cypress leaves and the tree is calling him. He walks towards the mind-tree, leaving the wolf behind, and he can hear music that pulsates to the beat of his heart. It is coming from the tree. Notes drift out from the leaves—yellow, blue, gold—and touch his skin. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He is standing at the tree now. Unable to help himself, he finds he is laughing. Fingers reach up to pluck long, green leaves and the juice of them melts over his palm. He can smell their bright, grassy scent. Without pausing to think, or even wanting to, he puts the first of the leaves on his tongue. It tastes like the best broth Prudence had ever made, the earliest gleanings of the corn harvest and the first bite of the honeycomb from the bees behind the house. All these memories spring to his mind, but the taste is more than the sum of them, more than he can describe.