voice like the whirr of wings, a dry, quiet buzzing. ‘Another message seeker, eh, eh? Stupid. Silly. I’ll give you a message, young killer. Fly. That’s the message. Disappear. Vanish. Go like the breath of wind and the sound of lost wings. Eh, you get that? That’s my message to you. When faced by danger, flee.’
Thewson tried to open his eyes and could not. He raised his head with enormous and concentrated dignity. ‘I couldn’t do that. No warrior could do that.’
‘So die, then,’ whispered the god. ‘So die with your blood all around you and your pretty skin in tatters. Eh? I don’t know why I bother. I tell them all. They never listen.’
There was a feeling of vacating, as though someone long in residence had gone away to an unimaginable distance, and Thewson opened his eyes. There had been a finality about that last phrase, ‘They never listen.’ Deep inside him, something snapped to attention, and Thewson heard. ‘I’m listening,’ he whispered into the silence. ‘Really.’
At the end of the distance, at the place where distance ends, an opening happened and the dry whirr came through, softly. ‘Well, think about it, eh? Think about it.’
Thewson slept well. The next day’s trip took him through the little clearing where the Tree of Forever stood, the stone god house at its base dwarfed by the towering trunk, the xoxaauwal, the sky gatherer. Nearby was the house of the old shaman, and Thewson paid his respects to both the Tree and the office. He went then to the place of the giver of law, the ledge of ending where the god of things forgotten lived, then to the falls, streams, pools, and marshes of the woman gods. He slept nearby, expecting no message. Indeed, it would be exceedingly inappropriate to receive a message from a woman god. He wakened, blushing, but could not remember why.
That day he went through forest and over cliff and by chasm past the whole pantheon of weather gods. He bowed before lightning and thunder and rain and mist and wind and the god-brothers little-wind and great-wind, who were quite different from the God-Of-Wind-Alone. He gave obeisance to dawn and morning and to the Ulum nur wavar somu’nah’aluxufus, the God-Of-When-Trees-Eat-Their-Shadows, that is, the noonday god who sat with his big hat and staff in the sun of the cliffside above the desert. In the desert he burned incense to the god of the sun, to the god of drought, to the god of heat (who brought fevers and could be propitiated with beer and the juice of limes) and to the thorn god, That-One-Who-Prickles.
At the edge of the desert way was the place of flowers and the holy garden where the gods of planted things lived; the blossom goddess and the pollen god and the fruit goddess and the grain god and the Blind-One-Who-Lives-Below responsible for the roots of things, especially potatoes. It was a neat and carefully tended place, full of old men and old women and orphan children and warriors who had been blinded or crippled plus a few young men and women who had taken the flower way. The jewelled birds hung in the air before the massed flowers, the whirr of their wings saying ‘think, think’ as they crossed the sightless gaze of the blind warriors or the limping steps of the lame. Thewson shook his head and compressed his lips, thinking. Then he went into the forest again.
It was growing dark when he came to the grove of the Mysterious-One-Who-Will-Not-Answer. He felt it would be better to sleep there than to go on to the gods of war and death and battle and blood. He feared no message from the Mysterious One, who was not known to give messages at all. The grove stood on a talus slope part way up the high cliffs which he would climb in the morning, the tilted blocks of the cliff looming one above the other, face on face uplifted to the westering sun. The cliff faces were sheeted with water-rock, that kind of rock which could be split into thin, transparent sheets and used in windows or lanterns.
Thewson tried to open his eyes and could not. He raised his head with enormous and concentrated dignity. ‘I couldn’t do that. No warrior could do that.’
‘So die, then,’ whispered the god. ‘So die with your blood all around you and your pretty skin in tatters. Eh? I don’t know why I bother. I tell them all. They never listen.’
There was a feeling of vacating, as though someone long in residence had gone away to an unimaginable distance, and Thewson opened his eyes. There had been a finality about that last phrase, ‘They never listen.’ Deep inside him, something snapped to attention, and Thewson heard. ‘I’m listening,’ he whispered into the silence. ‘Really.’
At the end of the distance, at the place where distance ends, an opening happened and the dry whirr came through, softly. ‘Well, think about it, eh? Think about it.’
Thewson slept well. The next day’s trip took him through the little clearing where the Tree of Forever stood, the stone god house at its base dwarfed by the towering trunk, the xoxaauwal, the sky gatherer. Nearby was the house of the old shaman, and Thewson paid his respects to both the Tree and the office. He went then to the place of the giver of law, the ledge of ending where the god of things forgotten lived, then to the falls, streams, pools, and marshes of the woman gods. He slept nearby, expecting no message. Indeed, it would be exceedingly inappropriate to receive a message from a woman god. He wakened, blushing, but could not remember why.
That day he went through forest and over cliff and by chasm past the whole pantheon of weather gods. He bowed before lightning and thunder and rain and mist and wind and the god-brothers little-wind and great-wind, who were quite different from the God-Of-Wind-Alone. He gave obeisance to dawn and morning and to the Ulum nur wavar somu’nah’aluxufus, the God-Of-When-Trees-Eat-Their-Shadows, that is, the noonday god who sat with his big hat and staff in the sun of the cliffside above the desert. In the desert he burned incense to the god of the sun, to the god of drought, to the god of heat (who brought fevers and could be propitiated with beer and the juice of limes) and to the thorn god, That-One-Who-Prickles.
At the edge of the desert way was the place of flowers and the holy garden where the gods of planted things lived; the blossom goddess and the pollen god and the fruit goddess and the grain god and the Blind-One-Who-Lives-Below responsible for the roots of things, especially potatoes. It was a neat and carefully tended place, full of old men and old women and orphan children and warriors who had been blinded or crippled plus a few young men and women who had taken the flower way. The jewelled birds hung in the air before the massed flowers, the whirr of their wings saying ‘think, think’ as they crossed the sightless gaze of the blind warriors or the limping steps of the lame. Thewson shook his head and compressed his lips, thinking. Then he went into the forest again.
It was growing dark when he came to the grove of the Mysterious-One-Who-Will-Not-Answer. He felt it would be better to sleep there than to go on to the gods of war and death and battle and blood. He feared no message from the Mysterious One, who was not known to give messages at all. The grove stood on a talus slope part way up the high cliffs which he would climb in the morning, the tilted blocks of the cliff looming one above the other, face on face uplifted to the westering sun. The cliff faces were sheeted with water-rock, that kind of rock which could be split into thin, transparent sheets and used in windows or lanterns.
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