The Earth Goddess

by Richard Herley

  “Yes, Kar Houle,” said Paoul, not really understanding.

  The harbour Trundleman approached and invited Kar Houle to sit in his quarters to await the departure. A slave brought him fragrant tea; for Paoul there was warm milk flavoured with juniper berries. Neither the milk, nor the sweet biscuits which the slave also provided, did anything to suppress the growing sensation of fluttering in his stomach. Kar Houle continued to lecture him on what to expect of the journey and how to behave when he reached the other end. At Kar Houle’s insistence he opened his leather bag and checked its contents – clothes, house-slippers, spare boots and boot-linings, a facecloth and box of mucilage, a comb, a small pouch of flints for incidental expenses, and, most important of all, the Valdoe seal impressed with the Vansard’s ring, wrapped in a square of tallowed skin and hidden in a secret pocket at the bottom of the bag. The seal, Kar Houle told him yet again, was to be given to no one but Forzan Zett.

  As Paoul repacked his bag, as the loading of the ship continued, he sensed that Kar Houle, despite his carefully cultivated calmness, was also beginning to feel anxious. His anxiety went further than mere concern for the investment the vansery was risking by entrusting Paoul to the waves; it was as if the old man had conceived a genuine affection for him, a feeling Paoul had not experienced since last he had seen Tagart. Suddenly Paoul felt very close to Kar Houle. He wanted to determine to do well, to please him, to justify his faith, to repay in gratitude the sensation that someone cared about him and worried on his behalf. But, even had he known how to express himself, Paoul was not sure how his words would be received; and so he said nothing, but fastened the straps of his bag more tightly and resumed his seat.

  Something of the same effect had been produced in Kar Houle. He seemed to grow more distant and, when word arrived that the ship’s master was at last ready to receive the passenger, he led the way down to the landing stage in virtual silence. They climbed to the bleached planking of the deck.

  Immediately Paoul noticed, underfoot, a vague swaying, an absence of stability. He had left the land: he was already on the sea. From here, among the clutter of ropes and gear and as yet unstowed cargo, looking out over the curved bulwarks to the worksheds, it seemed the land had lost its permanence. By aligning the rail with the far edge of the landing stage, Paoul could see that the ship was rehearsing her rise, roll, and fall, being urged by the tide to slip her hawsers and be gone. The fluttering in his stomach grew worse.

  His berth was a cramped cubicle, smelly and dark, below the smallest of the three deck-houses, reached by a steep, awkward ladder which the ship’s master called a “companionway”.

  “We were expecting his lordship this morning,” the master told Kar Houle, as Paoul felt the hardness of the bunk. “He was due to look over the ship. Been no sign of him, I suppose?”

  “None. But he might yet come. His tutor has instructions to show him anything of interest.”

  “Well, he’ll have to be quick. The tide won’t wait.”

  They returned to the sunshine; the master, seeing something amiss on the fore-deck, excused himself and left Kar Houle and Paoul alone. Kar Houle guided Paoul to the rail, where there was the least chance of obstructing the crew, most of whom were by now on board, or the slaves, who had nearly completed the loading.

  “So,” said Kar Houle. “What do you think of your berth?”

  “It is rather small.”

  “True. If you feel seasick, do as you’ve been taught. Come up to the air and practise the breathing exercise. Watch the land, not the waves; the shore will be in view throughout the voyage, even on the crossing itself. At night watch the stars instead. If you must be sick, do it over the side and away from the wind. Don’t fall overboard. Keep out of the crew’s way, especially when they’re hoisting sails or rowing. Be polite. Do exactly as the master tells you. He is a good man.”

  “Yes, Kar Houle.”

  Kar Houle continued in this vein until the master told him the gangplanks were about to be removed.

  “Goodbye, then, Paoul. I hope to be alive when you return.” With his firm, dry, old man’s grasp, he gave Paoul’s hand a reassuring squeeze and moved to the head of the after gangplank. “Remember what I’ve told you.”

  “Yes, Kar Houle. I will try.” Paoul felt small and helpless, more desolate than ever: Kar Houle’s brief and fatherly tutelage was finished.

  “Above all, remember Gauhm.”

  Paoul clung to the rail, no longer sure whether Kar Houle’s feelings for him had been real or an illusion designed to make him more compliant. But he was determined not to cry – not, at least, until he reached the safety of his bunk.

  Kar Houle descended to the landing stage. As the slaves took down the gangplanks, Paoul noticed movement on the road beyond the worksheds. A sledge, red and green with an arched leather hood, was rapidly approaching the quay, drawn by six slaves in matching livery. Kar Houle, following Paoul’s gaze, saw it too and called out to the master. “Lord Hothen is here! Put back the gangplanks!”

  “There’s no time! We’ve delayed too long already! Any longer and we’ll miss the tide!”

  With a good-humoured expression of frustration and regret, Kar Houle smiled at Paoul and turned to greet the arriving sledge.

  “Cast off fore and aft!”

  “Casting off!”

  “Away bows!”

  Three crewmen at the bows again brought poles to bear and, aided by other poles wielded by the slaves, began to push the Veisdrach away from the landing stage and into the current.

  The sledge came to a halt. A young priest, an ilven in a cloak and hat, stepped down and was followed by a fair-haired boy of about Paoul’s age and size. Paoul had never seen him before, but he knew the boy could only be Lord Hothen. He was wearing very costly clothes: a blue cape and jacket and matching leggings, and boots of rich, supple hide.

  Even before he had finished climbing out of the sledge, it became apparent to Paoul that his movements were not quite right. As Kar Houle went forward, the boy brought his attention to bear and his head turned on his shoulders in an exaggerated way. When he showed his teeth they looked dirty and coated with overmuch saliva; his skin seemed dry, scaly, and pale, and his blue eyes were lacklustre and remote, unable to focus on anything for longer than an instant. The ilven took his hand and Paoul’s own concerns were forgotten. He did not know why, but he felt a stab of sympathy for the boy. Despite his fine clothes and elegant sledge, he seemed to be lost, or aimless, deficient in some quality that healthy people possessed in abundance. No one had ever had to take Paoul’s hand like that.

  The ilven, whom Paoul had seen once or twice at the vansery, snatched off his hat and spoke quickly to Kar Houle, obviously apologizing.

  “Out oars!”

  Eight of the twelve crewmen, each with a long oar dipping from sockets cut in the bulwarks, lowered their blades in unison and stood, arms out, waiting for the next order. The bows had already turned away from the shore. Paoul, near the stern, was as close to the landing stage as he could be. He looked down. The expanse of green water was widening.

  Flanked by his two companions, Lord Hothen had walked to the landing stage and come to its edge, watching without great interest the spectacle of the departing ship. No more than a few yards separated him from Paoul.

  “One! Two! One! Two!”

  Kar Houle raised his hand in farewell.

  Paoul, meaning to wave only at Kar Houle, elicited a half-hearted response from the boy as well. With a puzzled, jerky motion of his head he sought some clue from his tutor but, receiving none, looked back at Paoul. Briefly their eyes met. In that instant Paoul was reminded of the dragon’s gaze. But the dragon had been carved from seasoned oak: a human craftsman had deliberately created its air of chilling indifference. The boy’s gaze was not like that at all. It was empty only because he himself was empty. He was not made of oak; he was the antithesis of oak, of the dragon and its lineage, and yet he had been given his title and dressed in lordly
blue.

  “Raise the foresail!”

  Behind Paoul there was a squeaking of blocks and, hoisted arm-over-arm, the tall black sail climbed its mast. The breeze did not wait for it all to unfurl: the broadening fabric filled at once, bellying towards the shore, and Paoul felt the ship tighten under its impetus. They were really under way, moving out towards the estuary, leaving the land behind, leaving the forest where Paoul had been born. Some of the goats on board, frightened by the growing swell, began bleating loudly.

  “Ship oars! Raise the mainsail!”

  The road down from the forest, the worksheds and warehouses, the slaves on the quay, the three figures on the landing stage: the whole of Apuldram was steadily reducing in size, losing its detail. When his face was no longer distinguishable, Kar Houle returned Paoul’s wave for the last time and turned aside, walking with the boy and his tutor towards the sheds and the Trundleman’s quarters.

  The sledge team dutifully followed. The green and scarlet body of the sledge, brilliant in the late autumn sunshine, provided the brightest spot of colour in the scene. Paoul watched it dwindling until the course of the ship, passing the first low, tree-clad headland, obscured not only the sledge, but the buildings, the landing stages, and all signs of human life.

  The crewmen were busy with their work. Paoul was left alone, kept company only by a silent man at the tiller and the fluttering red and black standard of Bohod Thosk. As the ship moved effortlessly downstream, towards the broad waters of the estuary, Paoul studied the wild, wooded shore – not in hope of glimpsing anything familiar, for he knew Tagart had never taken him here, but trying to gather into his memory as much of the landscape as he could. This country was his home. He knew he might never see it again. He wanted, if nothing more, not to waste his last sight of it.

  But he could not concentrate. He could not stop thinking of Lord Hothen and the peculiar, uneasy feelings he had raised in his breast. These feelings were with him still, dominating the view, colouring his last memories of the shore.

  The channel widened into the brown vastness of the estuary, hazy against the sun, and Paoul knew his last chance had slipped away. Brennis, his home, the land for which he should feel only kinship, had escaped him. In all its forests and shores, in all its settlements, in all its forts, there was no one he could truly call his friend, no one who shared his blood. Brennis had killed his mother and then his father. Now it was rejecting their child.

  “Look there, boy,” said the man at the tiller, pointing a mile or more across the water, almost directly into the sun. “That’s Eastoke Point, the harbour mouth. Get past that and we’re into the open sea.”

  PART TWO

  1

  The origins of the Cult of Gauhm and the Gehan ethos were now the subject of legend as well as history. Like the citadel, like the empire, like the universe itself, the ethos began as an abstraction, a mathematical point representing only the potential for growth. All phenomena arose from this one point. The ideas it embodied were at once simple and capable of extension into realms of the utmost complexity. But, however complicated, all parts of the ethos conformed to the same pattern and obeyed the unified law of the central point. Even the elementary geometry taught in the lower temple school formed an easy introduction to the complete range of concepts the pupils would encounter later.

  Gehan geometry was developed according to the basic law, in five distinct stages. The number five was sacred. It represented the four opposing elements of the universe – air, fire, earth, and water – with the addition of their sum, spirit. Each element was associated with its own level of spatial complexity. Air had no dimension, fire one, earth two dimensions, water three, and the spirit four.

  The five levels of geometry corresponded to these increasing levels of complexity. First, without dimension, came the point. Secondly came another point and hence the line. Thirdly came movement of this other point and hence the circle. The line and the circle, variously combined, gave all possible geometrical figures in one plane. The fourth level, solid geometry, completed the description of static objects. The dynamic geometry of the fifth level, incorporating the dimension of time, described the phenomenon of change and was, like the fourth level, much of the third, and the advanced study of the second and first, so difficult that it was only lightly touched upon in the lower school.

  The third level, in particular the study of the circle, yielded the most fruitful source of basic symbolism. All life, all processes, behaved in exactly the same manner, following the same fourfold cycle of creation, manifestation, decay, and dormancy. The four parts or quadrants of this cycle each governed one of the four elements and each element was represented by one of the four deities. The fifth element, spirit, the motive power of the cycle, and the seed for it to continue indefinitely, was symbolized by the circle itself. Spirit could be taken as virtue, benefaction, love; in the higher philosophies it was identified as time, and then nothingness, the essence of being. By contraction the circle again became its centre and the cycle began anew.

  Pupils soon discovered that these were more than mere abstractions. A process as basic as breathing followed the cycle and was indeed one of the first illustrations of it to be taught. The taking of breath, the inspiration, represented creation and was in the quadrant of air, ruled by Aih the Son. The hold of breath represented manifestation and was in the quadrant of fire, ruled by Tsoaul the father. The exhalation, representing decay, was in the quadrant of earth, ruled by Gauhm the Mother. The absence of breath, the period before the next inspiration, represented dormancy and was in the quadrant of water, ruled by Ele the Daughter. The whole cycle gave existence, being: and it was being that impelled the cycle to continue.

  At a later stage in their training, the boys in the lower school were given to understand that the man who had mastered the cycle had also mastered himself. By observing the eternal truths, by regulating and controlling his own behaviour, he could predict that of other men and, if he so desired – if such a desire also conformed to the direction of the cycle – he could use it to his own advantage. The closer he came to living in harmony with the cycle, the closer he came to the essence of the central point. When he had reached the centre he had also reached enlightenment, immortality, nothingness. His desires had coincided with the innate spirit of the cycle: his will had become one with the will of the gods.

  But, just as the lowliest plant or humblest animal lived and died according to the cycle, so the students learned that even enlightenment, like mankind and all its works, and the world, its seasons, the moon, sun, and stars, the universe, and the cycle of universes expanding and contracting from and to the central point, the cycle of universes that made up the cosmos – everything was transient, fleeting, and illusory, governed by the inexorable progress of the essential mystery that had neither beginning nor end.

  * * *

  Below the lake, further down the mountainside, among lush, nightingale-filled woodland, one of the streambeds met a layer of granite and fell into a sunny pool. At mid morning the sound of the water did not penetrate far into the trees; the path, hemmed in by dense bracken, came upon it sooner than Paoul had expected.

  The principal of the temple school, Forzan Zett, was leading the way. Behind him walked three other novices besides Paoul who, as the youngest, was bringing up the rear.

  Although he was only sixteen, Paoul had long ago been placed in the teaching group of these older boys. They were now eighteen, some two years away from their initiation. Like them, Paoul had just passed with honour from the lower school and was ready to begin his higher training. This morning’s lesson marked its start.

  Slabs of rock had been placed by the pool for use as benches. They were already hot; away from the shade of the woods the heat was intense. A gaudy blue dragonfly was hawking to and fro over the water, which, after the turbulence of the fall, flowed limpidly away above a clean gravel bottom.

  The waterfall and its pool were sacrosanct. It was here, on this spot, two
hundred and ninety-seven years ago, that the Earth Goddess had appeared to the man who was destined to become the first Prime. She had revealed to him the nature of the ethos and the means by which the empire was to be attained.

  This meeting between man and goddess, the genesis of the Gehans, formed the central legend of the entire Cycle of Songs. In its usual form the story had Atar – the man who was to become the first Prime – gazing at his own reflection in the pool and pondering on the meaning of existence. Atar was young and handsome, born into a noble family, but at twenty he had given away all his possessions, left his bride, renounced his inheritance, and withdrawn into the mountains, where he had lived in solitude for seven years. Each day he would come to the pool to drink and bathe, and afterwards he would study his reflection, searching for the answer to the problem with which he had been wrestling for so long. One autumn morning he looked up to see Gauhm, the Earth Goddess, emerging from the waterfall in human guise. Day after day she had watched the young man and fallen in love with him. Atar, overwhelmed by her beauty, allowed himself to be seduced – or perhaps it was the other way about. Their congress was the beginning of knowledge. Atar vowed to worship her and in return she imparted the secret of being, until then known only to the gods and still their jealous preserve. He begged her to stay, to forsake her consort Tsoaul and their progeny Aih and Ele; but she returned to the pool and vanished in the fall.

  Besides this central Song to Gauhm, the Cycle of Songs consisted of one hundred outer legends. The first of these could also be regarded as the last, preparing the listener for his return to the centre. To understand the First Song, one had to know that it was describing the physical setting of the genesis. Refraining from any mention of Gauhm or Atar, the Song, in apparently guileless language, invoked the cycle of rainfall and used it an example of the universal cycle. Water, rising from the sea, became combined with air in the form of clouds. Driven by fire – the sun – the clouds arrived at the land, the mountains, where they condensed as droplets which fell as rain. From the mountains the water flowed downhill and returned to the sea.