The dark was all, they said, all as one, swirling in the River below. It was all dark. Yes, we remember.
So you should remember; so should you never forget. It is important.
It is important, they murmured, in the swirls of the River.
What of the Land? It is a foolish thing, this Land. It is all rocks and pebbles, and dry mud. It is a foolish thing, an unthinking thing, but it is powerful. It can create landslides and earthquakes, windstorms and hail. It is a panicking thing at times.
When the yellow Sun fell, the Land thought it was blind, my brothers, my sisters. And the black Land cried out in agony and rent his bosom and cried his tears into the River in tides of fear. His cries were the howls of a gale, and his tears fell heavy with the points of a thousand bright blades.
He could not see, they murmured; he could not see his cousins, the mountains and valleys.
No. He could not see the trees; he could not see the birds.
Let us hear my brothers, let us listen sisters, to what the Land declaimed:
Come, O Sun, come forth, golden one.
Yellow Sun – look to my bloody eyes.
I cannot see.
Yellow Sun, feel my tangled hair in the River.
I cannot see.
Where are my cousins, the mountains?
Where are my sons and daughters?
Where have you taken them, O Sun?
O bloody mistress!
Lady Light.
See my dark eyes, golden one,
They have searched for you.
Taste my tears, fickle one,
They have been shed for you.
Hear my cries–
They are the howl of the gale and the whisper in the trees.
Hear me, O Sun, give me your white hand; give me your warmth.
Yellow Sun, my golden one-
What would you have of mine?
What have I done?
What did he do? They asked. What did the Land do?
You do not remember, my kin?
Tell us, they said all as one. Tell us, we do not remember.
This is what the Land declaimed. Listen brothers, my sisters, listen. It is important.
I will give you my beloved daughter, my Cypress.
My brown haired daughter, my rose.
I will give her to you.
Let me see.
The Land raised his arms and found his beloved daughter, Cypress, and took her, her long tresses dragging, to the River. She clung to her father and cried.
This, my sisters, is what she said:
O father, light in my eyes, my warmth, my blood–
My father, my tangle-haired father,
Why? What have I done?
I was your rose, your brightness,
It was all lightness.
O father, what have I done?
I cling to you, but I am torn and bloody where your tears have ripped me.
I cling to you while your cries, like a howling gale, seek to fling me.
O father, my tangle-haired father, tell me dearest father,
What have I done?
O Cypress, they murmured sadly, swirling in the wild River. Cypress, we remember.
Do not forget, sisters. Remember dear Cypress, brothers. It is important.
Yes, they murmured from the deep, it is important, then as now.
The Land could not hear, or would not hear, my kin, the cries of his beloved daughter. He cast her, our dear Cypress, into the black water as he screamed in rage and agony. His agony was a cyclone and his rage sent a tidal wave across the valleys far and wide. What could Cypress do? She was a small thing, white and forlorn, dashed from side to side; flung to the depths of the River.
Both Judge and Forgiver, they interrupted.
Yes brothers, the River. And we are its guardians, then as now.
Cypress fought as much as she could, my sisters, but what could she do?
She was a small thing, flung this way and that; her white flesh was torn and rent by her father’s fear.
Her breath was snatched by waves and she grew weary. All the while, what was it, do you know, that made her tears flow?
Her father’s ire, they said, all as one. Dear Cypress, she did not know.
Cypress sank to the bottom of the River where it was calm and warm, my brothers; you were there.
We were there.
What happened then?
Tell us, they murmured. Where was the Sun?
Oh the Sun, our golden one, weary mother, lay in a cave at the bottom of the River, sleeping.
Did she hear? Did she know? Did she see Cypress, our dear Cypress?
You were there.
Yes. We were there. We awakened her.
What did she say?
We do not remember. Tell us, what did she say?
My forgetful brothers, this is what the Sun declaimed:
You who have called me, what do you want?
I am not ready; I am weary.
I am not ready to join the blue sky.
I am simply not ready.
But you would not leave.
For our Cypress, they said, we could not leave.
And we brought her, Cypress, broken and torn, so she would see.
When the Sun saw her, my kin, she felt pity. What did she do? What did she say?
My brothers, this is what she declaimed:
What is this?
This broken thing before me: lost and limp.
Lying in stillness now, floating before me.
She is a sorry thing.
What is this?
What has done this?
The Land, you told her, swirling through the dark waters lit by strands of gold.
The Land cast her in the River in his rage and fear, you explained.
The Land is a panicky thing, but strong.
The Land is a foolish thing.
He fears you are gone.
But I was asleep, she replied, in surprise.
I was asleep; it is a normal thing.
It is a regular thing that I sleep.
So the Sun thought, brothers, long and deep. In the dark cavern lit by gold, she contemplated. It was not her time, so she could not go, but knew the other who would. This, my kin, is what she declaimed from within the cavern of gold:
O brother, my brother, wake up!
My black haired brother, awaken now!
It is your time; awaken now.
I have fallen in the River and the Land is afraid.
My brother, the Land is afraid for he cannot see.
Come, my brother, over land and sea,
Come forth, brother, open your eyes and see.
Little Cypress drowns brother; make haste.
Before the Land, in his blind fear and fury, creates more waste.
What do you think, my sisters? Do you think her brother heard her call, my sisters? Asleep under the stars, he heard his sister. He yawned and stretched and rubbed his eyes all black.
He rose and listened to his sister far and deep.
He ran, over mountains and hills, through the empty desert, over a black ocean he flew.
When he came, he saw the world in darkness, and heard the groaning agony. As he walked towards the River and his sister, the Land looked and saw bright lights overhead flickering into existence. The Land ceased his bloody tears for he could see the trees and valleys, the mountains and the River by the muted light of the bright points overhead. When he saw this, the Land spoke, and this, my brothers, is what he declaimed:
What is this above?
What are these points of light?
A thousand pieces of the yellow Sun
Scattered above my children.
Who has broken the Sun in a thousand pieces?
Now I can see my children,
Now I can see.
But my lovely daughter,
Where is she?
And the Land felt remorse, now that he could see a little, for the beloved daughter he had cast in the
River. He called to the dark one who approached, and this is what he said:
Dark thing, coming forth–
Dark thing, have you seen my daughter?
I cast her in the black waters when I could not see.
She was my little one, my rose, my hazel-eyed daughter, my last-born.
Have you seen my daughter? My Cypress.
The yellow Sun sank into the River and I was blind.
Now you have broken the yellow Sun in a thousand pieces.
Now I can see.
Show me my daughter, Dark One.
Show me my rose, my Cypress.
The Dark One, my brothers, approached the Land, and there was anger in his black eyes, and his dark hair tangled in the wind, remnants of the Land’s rage. He spoke thus, my sisters, to the shameful Land with a voice that came from the stars:
You cast your daughter in the River when you could not see.
She is below; she is gone.
You want her back now that you can see.
You are wrong:
I did not break the Sun in a thousand pieces,
She sleeps in the River.
The Dark One knelt by the River and washed his face in the black water and reached below into the darkness. From the depths of the water he pulled fast and strong. As she emerged from the water, limp and pale, he pulled her to the edge of the River. The Land saw his daughter lying without breath, and was filled with shame and despair. The Dark One touched the dead one gently on her forehead and this is what he said:
Rise Cypress, rise from your cold rest.
Rise. You are the River’s guest.
As he spoke, Cypress rose slowly from the earth, her legs and feet reaching into the river. She rose and lifted her arms above her head as if to touch the stars, her fingers uncurled and elongated. Her white skin turned dark and smooth. When he saw her, thus changed, the Dark One spoke to her softly:
This is where you will remain, Cypress.
You will not be harmed by the River,
And you will not be harmed by your father, the Land.
Here you will touch the stars and reach deep into the River.
Here you will be safe, little Cypress.
In the arms of the River: both Judge and Forgiver.
By the River she remains my teeming kin, our Cypress, strong and tall. She is our friend, the River’s guest.
She is with us now, they murmured. She is safe. What of the Land?
The Dark One turned to the Land, sitting cowed, gazing into the River.
O Land, you have wronged your kin,
You are a foolish thing.
The Land hung his head lower in shame. He could not speak.
O Land, do you have anything to say?
And still the Land could not speak. So the Dark One continued:
I have washed my face in the black waters of the River, O Land,
There is blood in the water.
I have looked deep into the black waters, O Land,
There is blood in the water.
And I took from the water your daughter’s tears,
And I took from the water your daughter’s fears.
There is black blood in the water
To remind you of this wrong.
There is blood in my black eyes, Land,
To remind you of this wrong.
I will come every day, Land, when the Sun drops into the River.
Every day:
From the Sun’s last light to the black of night.
That is when I will come, O Land,
With blood in my eyes and the night at my back.
I will sing so that you will be warned.
I will sing so your children will know,
And your children’s children will know,
That the Sun is not gone; that she sleeps.
And you will call me
Twilight.
Every day, brothers, the Dark One comes with a song and the night at his back. Every day, sisters, Cypress hears his call and she is never afraid.
And every day, the Land is cowed and afraid at twilight. It is important.
It is important, they murmured. As it was then, it is now.
(From The Book of Shadow)
Father Griffith stopped reading and slowly made the sign of the cross.
He remained still for some moments. Finally, he rose and with great care replaced the book in its glass case.
In the arms of the River: both Judge and Forgiver…
We are in the arms of the River, thought Father Griffith. Where it takes us, I know not…
And on the first day, it was written, in the Book of Genesis:
…God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night…
It was also writ in that same book:
And a river went out of Eden to water the garden…
He wondered:
And this River, was it Judge or Forgiver?
He removed the gloves and thoughtfully made his way back to the deck where Patron was still knitting.
“Patron–”
She looked up and smiled at him from behind her reading glasses. He sat beside her and together they listened to the sounds of the sea at night. They looked up into the sky in which someone had scattered a thousand pieces of the yellow sun – as it seemed to him.
“I would like to go back to the library tomorrow,” he said eventually.
“You’re welcome,” she told him.
“Thank you. For showing me that story…”
“It is the story of Pera. It is important.”
So it was then, it is now… he thought.
“You’d better go to bed,” Patron said eventually. “Orion will start your first lesson early tomorrow. Right after breakfast.”
“Yes, he told us. I know I ought to sleep, but lack the inclination, I’m afraid! Is it usual? I mean will we have these early lessons every morning?”
“One never knows with Orion,” Patron laughed. “One day he’s in bed ’til noon, and the next, he’s up before dawn. If it helps, breakfast will be served from 6 to 8:30.”
“I really should get to bed then,” Father Griffith said, rising. “Good night, Patron. Thank you again, for such a meaningful… wonderful–” He stalled, at a loss for words.
“Thank Shadow.” Patron smiled, interrupting his clumsy flow of words.
“Shadow?”
Patron threw her head back and laughed. “Shadow, of course.”
“But who is Shadow?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“I must admit I have absolutely no idea.”
“Well…” she smiled, “you’d better get some sleep. Shadow isn’t going anywhere. You’ll be meeting it very soon.”
15
Father Griffith lay in his hammock, bleary-eyed with sleep. The sun’s barely risen, he thought, craning his head to get a glimpse of the newly-rising sun from the small porthole. He sighed.
What time had he finally gone to sleep? Two in the morning, at the earliest, only to be awakened at the crack of dawn by Orion’s cheerful voice and not-so-gentle rap on the door. Father Griffith was seriously contemplating the possibility of lying down again for just a few minutes, perhaps five… But it was not to be, for Orion, jarringly awake, burst through the door to announce that breakfast was ready.
“I’m not hungry,” Father Griffith said, stifling a yawn.
“Suit yourself,” Orion said. “But you need to be up on the main deck in half an hour,” he added, striding out of the room abruptly.
I would hate to be disobedient on my first day of class, Father Griffith thought ruefully. Having dressed, he made his way unsteadily to the back of the ship where the galley and dining room were located. Bruce was already there. Although the ship did not roll with quite the vehemence of the previous evening, he was finding it hard to balance on what was, essentially, a constantly lilting surface.
“’Morning, Roland,” Bruce muttered, waving a fork good-humoredly.
“Good
morning,” Father Griffith replied unenthusiastically, taking a seat across the table.
Bruce laughed. “I always pegged you for an early riser. Not found your sea legs yet?”
Father Griffith shook his head. He sat with a plateful of scrambled eggs and toast.
“I like to get up early in general, but last night I stayed up too late – I couldn’t sleep, and then I talked to Patron for longer than I should have! Did Orion wake you too?”
Bruce shook his head. “I was already awake. I haven’t seen him. Maybe he’s gone to get Cat. Rather him than me!”
They laughed at the prospect of confronting Cat with a morning head.
“I wonder if she’ll make it to breakfast,” Father Griffith mused. “She doesn’t strike me as a morning person–”
“Speak of the Devil,” Bruce said as the subject of their conversation walked through the door.
“Good morning?” Father Griffith ventured tentatively.
“Oh? Where?” Cat snapped, lowering herself unceremoniously into a chair next to the priest.
“Would you like some coffee?” Father Griffith offered solicitously.
“Oh yes, please,” she smiled beseechingly at him. “Just black.”
“What a night!” she groaned.
“I’m sorry. Was it rough?” Bruce asked.
She cast a doleful look at him. “Would you mind not enjoying your eggs quite so much?”
“You should ask Patron for some of the medication she mentioned if you get sea-sick.”
“Huh!” Cat snorted. “Too late now. Oh thank you darling.” She had turned to Father Griffith who deposited a cup of black coffee before her.
“So, now what?” Cat asked. “Where is that most annoying young man who barged into my room at the crack of dawn?”
“Orion? He said we should go to the deck after breakfast.” He looked at his wristwatch: “In half an hour he told me, which gives us another ten minutes or so.”
Cat grimaced and drank her coffee in silence.
“I think we should go up, what do you think?” Father Griffith ventured after some minutes.
“Yes, I suppose it is time for school!” Bruce laughed.
Cat shook her head gently as she pushed away the cup of coffee. “Right, let’s get this over with.” She heaved a deep sigh.
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