by Helen Gosney
Seen together like this, they were startlingly alike in spite of his beard. She was tall, probably only an inch or two off six feet, Cris thought sadly, and she was as long-limbed, lithe and slim as Rowan; both had clear pale skin, and the same unusual hazel eyes framed by long dark lashes, but her nose was perfectly straight and his had obviously been broken at some time. Both had attractive, easy smiles and white, even teeth. She too had glossy auburn hair, though hers was rather more fiery than his, flowing down her back in loose shimmering waves. She was quite beautiful, her green silk dress bringing out the colour of her eyes, and he was handsome in spite of his crooked nose and a thin scar on his forehead and another along his jawline. She spoke as softly as he, too, though her accent was perhaps subtly different, and there was an indefinable sense of purpose about them both. Cris thought she was probably about his own age, that’s to say twenty-four.
Rowan laughed to himself at their reaction. He was well used to it.
“’Tis all right, Cris, Shana, you’ve not gone mad, nor drunk too much of this fine ale! This is my sister, my twin sister I should say – this is Rose.”
Rose smiled at them as Rowan added, “Shana, is there a private room we might go to? You and Cris are welcome if you’d like to come. You might find interest in what we have to say, but I suppose I shouldn’t upset the others here again.” He ignored the quick fierce look his sister sent his way. She worried if he upset folk, but he usually didn’t. Not much, anyway, and of course it depended on who it was. It wasn’t as if he went out of his way to deliberately do it. He didn’t see that it was his fault if people were oversensitive to the truth. Anyway, he could look out for himself.
Shana slipped away a moment to speak with Bimm. He looked across at the others sharply as she spoke and asked a couple of quick questions. Then he nodded his head. She returned and led them through a door beside the fireplace, down a couple of steps and thus into a small private parlour. It was seldom used except by Tim Mouser, most customers preferring the conviviality of the common room, but it was clean and comfortably furnished and the fire was neatly laid. The cat followed them in. It leapt into a softly cushioned wing chair, circled a couple of times, then settled down with its head resting on its paws, ready to listen to all that was said.
“Look at you, Tim Mouser, you great ginger lump!” whispered Shana fondly, tickling his ears as she bent to light the fire. She wondered why he’d decided to follow the newcomers into the little room, but knew that he’d do as he wanted to, when he wanted to.
“He knows how to be comfortable, like all of his kind. I think we could learn a lot from him,” Rose said with a smile, her irritation with her brother gone as quickly as it’d come as she too found a chair that suited her.
“We could indeed,” agreed her brother, “ but just now I think we should tell these two a little more about ourselves and what we fear is happening to Yaarl.”
“You said you thought the Gods are dying... or, er, losing interest…” began Cris, not at all sure that he really did want to hear any more about such things.
“Aye, I did say that...” Rowan said, “And that’s what we both believe; I hope we’re wrong, but I fear that we’re not.” He seemed very serious about it.
He swallowed a bit more of his ale, selected a chair and moved it a little closer to the fire. He stretched lazily, then arranged himself in a comfortable position, tucking a couple of cushions around his back, before placing his booted feet on a low footstool with a sigh.
“You’re as bad as Tim Mouser,” his sister teased.
“I’d certainly like to be...” he replied wistfully.
**********
“We’re from Borl Quist...” Rowan began. On seeing the blank looks from Shana and Cris, he smiled and added, “It’s a little town a long way to the south and east of here, in Sian province, notable for nothing at all except its trees, but pleasant enough in spite of it. Rose was a teacher there and I was... I was in the Guards, garrisoned at Den Siddon in Wirran. That’s the neighbouring province, over the Sleeping Dogs Mountains.”
“You are a soldier?” Shana asked him, surprised. He seemed nothing like the arrogant, swaggering local Guardsmen. She’d thought he might be a… well, she didn’t know really, but not a Guardsman, certainly. He was far too polite and quietly spoken for that.
He shook his head.
“No, I’m a forester, forester-born like all my kin... But I was in the Guard for many years... before I grew up and realised what I was doing...” his voice trailed off, suddenly bitter.
There was silence for a moment and Cris wondered at the odd bleakness in the other man’s eyes. Rowan looked down at his own hands and realised he was twisting the ring on his little finger as he always did when stressed and he stopped himself hastily.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “ Still, ‘tis a part of what I am, I suppose, even now...” he sighed and continued, “Our father wanted me to be a timber cutter, as he is, and most of the men of Borl Quist are too for that matter, but I thought I knew better. I was a damned good soldier too, and for a long time ‘twas all I wanted... for a long time our province was at peace too; of course all of Yaarl has been peaceful, by and large, for generations. We had little to do really except to practice our weapons skills and polish our armour and brag to the pretty girls about what heroes we’d be if we ever got the chance... I’m sure the Guards here are the same.” He smiled at Shana’s heartfelt groan and Cris’s quick grimace.
“If it hadn’t been for Duke Rollo of Plait, I’d probably be there still, drinking too much ale and boasting with the best of them... but Duke Rollo, may the bastard’s backside roast in red-hot coals forever... Duke Rollo wasn’t satisfied with the riches of Plait, he decided that he needed more... and he decided that he would just help himself to whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter to him if his good neighbours wanted to live their lives in peace... or indeed to live their lives at all...” he drew a deep trembling breath and lowered his head. He looked sad and troubled suddenly.
Rose leaned across and squeezed his hand.
“Let me, Rowan,” she said softly.
He nodded unhappily without raising his head, but he said nothing.
She continued, “Rowan can tell you of Duke Rollo later... truly, the man was a pestilence and a backside full of hot coals and tiger snakes is too good for him... Oh! Gods, Rowan, I am getting to be as bad as you!” she smiled at him as he grinned suddenly, and the tension was eased.
She thought for a moment, then continued the tale, “As Rowan says, we were both happy in our lives, each in our own way. But still, there were odd things that happened... Borl Quist is in a great forest, and most of the wealth of the town comes from the timber. One morning, the men came back to say that big patches of trees had died. Of course no-one really believed them, but when others went to see, it was true... What they hadn’t told us was that the patches were all perfect circles about fifty paces across. There was a line of them that went for… I don’t know really, ten miles or so to the north… and then they just ended. Every tree in the circle was dead and all those around them were as fine as ever; the ones on the edges of the circles were green and living on one side and dry and dead on the other... I suppose they must have been astride the Gods’ line... I don’t want to think about what might have happened if the town had been too…”
She wondered if she should tell them about Borl Kessel, the little village where some of their northern kin had lived… the little village that had just… just died one day. The men had come back from the forest and… and everyone was dead. There was nothing to show what’d happened, no illness, no injuries, no signs of anything amiss. But nearly sixty women, children and old folk had been dead. And all of the animals in the village too. She looked at Rowan for a moment. He was doing his best, poor lad, but she thought he still looked upset. No, perhaps I should tell them about that some other time, she decided.
“There were strange lights at night, too, a bit like a wil
l-o-the-wisp, but these were many colours and they floated above the town... nowhere else...” she continued softly, “And there were big red shiny things, as big as melons they were... they’d come floating down the river sometimes... if you touched them they disappeared just like a soap bubble... Gods only know what they were, but they were very pretty...” she halted and looked around as she heard a light tap at the door.
It opened a little way and Bimm’s bearded face peered in apologetically at them.
“I’m sorry to disturb you now, but I’ll need Shana’s help to serve all these people... the Gods only know where they’ve all suddenly come from,” he said.
“Perhaps we can all meet here and talk later, when it’s quieter again, and maybe you can join us too, Bimm?” Rose said.
Bimm nodded, his mind on the hungry and thirsty customers who awaited his attention, and Shana rose and went to help him.
“Would you like me to show you a little more of Gnash?” offered Cris, “I think the rain and the fish have stopped now, and I know of a good pie shop...”
“That sounds good to me,” the twins replied together.
**********
2. “we thought that the Presence might be stronger here, in the city”
The cobbles were steaming gently in the sun as the three stepped outside and a few gnomes were scuttling about, squabbling over the last few tiny fish and generally getting underfoot. True to his promise, Cris took them to a pie shop a few streets away, at the edge of the market. The owner was a hearty, buxom blonde woman who greeted him with a hug and a smacking kiss, much to his embarrassment. She helped him choose the best pies for his new friends, pinched his bottom, and sent him on his way.
“That was Bette... she’s a friend of mine... um...a customer, I mean...” Cris stammered, red-faced, as they walked away, “I... um... er... I, er, catch rats for her... nothing, er...nothing else...” but of course the more he floundered, the more they laughed at him.
They came to one of the many rocky outcrops in the city, and sat under a tree to eat their pies. A group of young trolls was playing tag among the rocks and the air was filled with the sound of birdsong. The pies were very good indeed. Rowan felt himself relax as he looked up into the branches of the tallowbark above them.
“Did you catch the rats for these, then, Cris?” he said, with a wink at his sister. For a moment Cris looked affronted, then all three dissolved in laughter.
“It’s so peaceful here,” sighed Rose a little later, “I wish we could stay.”
“Can’t you stay for a while?” Cris asked. He liked these two and thought he’d like to get to know them a bit better.
Rowan shook his head, serious again. “No, Cris, I wish we could, too... But I think we’ll probably be leaving here in a few days. I’d like to see the Temple of All Gods if I could though. Rose was there this morning.”
He carefully rolled his sleeves down a bit more so that his tattoo wasn’t visible as they strolled on towards the centre of Gnash, to the Great Square of the Gods.
It was a vast space, filled with trees and shrubs and beds of flowers, with the Temple of All Gods - also known as the Many - looming proudly on the north side and the Tabernacle of The One facing it from the south.
The followers of the Many held that there was a different god or goddess for each heavenly duty... thus there was Temba Narl, the goddess of life; Silvana the goddess of wisdom and learning; Pleer Bon, the god of pain and suffering, who was sometimes - but not always - associated with Pax, the god of death; there was Toh, the god of pleasure and Hui the rain god, and a myriad others in a loose but complicated hierarchy headed by Sheera Li, the Great Mother. With such a multitude of divinities, it was usually possible to find one who might serve a sinner’s needs, and the faithful found no problem in changing their allegiance as their situation decreed.
The devotees of the One God were generally a sterner and more serious group than the faithful of the Many, and perhaps for this reason alone there were fewer of them. Their cosmos was ruled by Arno Kren, the Great Father, who had dominion over all things. Of course, he had his many aspects, each of which had responsibility for various celestial tasks, but they were indivisible from the Wholeness of the One, and it was Arno Kren alone who was solemnly venerated in the Tabernacle.
It would seem to be a vast conflict of ideologies, but in fact the two religions had more similarities than differences, and most sensible people found them to be more or less interchangeable. Of course the clergy didn’t subscribe to this viewpoint, and they guarded their flocks carefully from the heresies of the misguided ones; but even so they were usually remarkably tolerant of their counterparts of the other faith.
At one time religion in either of its aspects had been an important part of the life of the people of Yaarl; the One and the Many had been devoutly worshipped, and their Presence in Tabernacle and Temple had been strong. Now, though, religious fervour had waned. In Gnash, as elsewhere in Yaarl, those who attended religious services for reasons other than self-interest or a vague sense of guilt were few, and even those few had become somewhat lax in their devotions.
“You said you wanted to see the Temple first?” asked Cris as they stood admiring a large stand of Zoster’s lilies, their gold and crimson flowers glowing like flames in the afternoon sunshine, their heady scent filling the air and tickling the nostrils.
“Aye, the Temple first, I think...” said Rowan, fighting the urge to sneeze, “And I suppose the Tabernacle is cold and dark and squat, and has twenty-nine steps we’ll have to climb.”
Cris stared at him in amazement. How could he know such a thing?
“They’re all like that, the bigger ones anyway,” Rose said with a grin, “ the little village ones all have five steps... at least there’s a bit more variety with the Temples of the Many...”
They turned towards the great Temple. As they walked closer, Cris swerved around the madwoman who was always there in front of one god house or the other. Usually she was being tormented by urchins and anyone else with nothing better to do, but today she stood alone, wailing and mumbling, tearing at her hair and face and clothes one moment and wringing her hands in agitation the next.
She was a tall woman, gaunt and barely covered by her rags; her wrinkled brown skin and wild white hair were filthy, her mad dark eyes rolled in their sockets and strands of drool dribbled down her chin. For some reason she seemed even more frantic today than she always was.
“Woe... woe.... all gone, all gone...oh, no, no, no... All gone... all gone, the Gods...” she shrieked suddenly, “They’ve gone, the Gods, all gone... all gone...”
The twins stopped as one and turned back to the woman, who was now babbling incoherently. To Cris’s surprise they tried to speak to her without frightening her, and she took one of Rowan’s hands in both of hers for a moment, but she seemed unable to say anything rational as she stared into his face. She stood before them trembling, terrified, then she spun away from them and ran, wailing, “All gone...all gone...” as she bounded away across the flowerbeds. For a moment, Cris almost thought that Rowan was going to go after her, but no, surely he was mistaken.
“Don’t worry about poor old Gwynna, she’s harmless, she’s always rattling on about something or other here in the Square, she never makes any sense…” Cris said as he came back to them, falling silent at the sight of them. Rose stood close to Rowan, her arm around his shoulders; he looked pale and strained, much as he had at the Inn.
“Don’t let her upset you, the poor old thing doesn’t know what she’s saying... she doesn’t mean anything by it...” he added, concerned for his new friend.
“’Tis all right, Cris, I’m fine, truly, we’re both fine,” said Rowan, pulling himself together with an effort, “Now let’s go and see this Temple of yours.”
**********
The Temple of the Many in Gnash was beautiful: octagonal, built of pale creamy sandstone, with four slender towers and a great dome. Each tower was richly ornamented wi
th carved trees and flowering vines winding their way upwards, with here and there a sprightly-looking carved beast peering out, but the remainder of the outside was unadorned. The inside was filled with golden light that flooded through the tracery of the dome and the tall leaded windows of each side. There were four pairs of polished cedar doors opening into the building, and within, an aisle led from each of these to the centre. Here there was a magnificently carved octagonal altar of the same creamy stone, heaped high with flowers and fruit and surrounded by slim beeswax tapers each as tall as a man. Between each aisle were rows of cedar seats; behind these a lovely carved colonnade supported the great dome and partially concealed the many bays and alcoves of the outer wall, each with a small gold or silver lamp burning before the image of the particular god or goddess to which it was dedicated.
They toured slowly around the walls, stopping at each tiny beautiful altar; a few had people at their devotions, but the whole building, which could contain thousands, held less than fifty worshippers.
Finally they walked to the central altar. Rose and Rowan knelt reverently and after a moment’s hesitation, Cris followed. It was a long time since he had been here, except in his professional capacity of course; the Temple had a neverending problem with mice.
The main problem, as Cris saw it, was that the younger priestesses didn’t like the thought of the pretty little spotted mice being killed. He had to catch them without hurting them and release them outside the Temple. After such treatment the mice seemed to consider they were specially favoured by the Gods, and they lost no time in returning to their holy task of devouring the Temple’s offerings. He’d been here only three days ago trapping and releasing the little creatures, and he was sure most of them had got back into the Temple before he had himself. Sometimes, he even wondered if he might be catching the same mouse several times in one night. He’d often thought that a couple of visits from Tim Mouser or some of his strapping ginger sons would soon sort them out.