Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx
Pars V: Ascensum
(l)
Saturday, May 12, 708 CR
Charles felt the walls pressing tightly against
them, but there always seemed just enough room
for them to slip through. He did his best to
ignore the walls of the chasm as they wended
through its depths; his Master showed no concern
for the tightness and nearness of either face of
rock. But to the rat there was a strange threat
in its substance. He felt a vague sense of
trespass with each step and fear that at any
moment the walls would shut out the glimpse of
sky overhead and collapse upon him.
The fear burned within him and he drew his arms
and legs in more tightly to the center of his
Master's shadow. The path was coated with lush
grass beneath them despite the ascending walls,
and these blades sizzled at his touch. He did not
even turn to see if they would grow back as the
grass beneath the feet of those crushed beneath
stone had done for fear of his snout brushing against the stone cliff.
Like the previous chasm, this one ended without
warning. They stood at the beginning of a new
terrace. The edge of the mountain was framed by a
line of bushes and trees whose branches stretched
overhead in a profusion of autumn colors mixed
with blossoms that sang of spring. The leaves and
blossom petals lifted from the branches to dance
in the air, brilliant and unbearable in the sun's
penetrating light, until they painted a palette
of color through the air richer than any tapestry
or painting could conceive. Both descended to the
ground which was lush once more with grass and
fitted with stones gradually ascending another
incline. Yet despite the abundance carpeting the
ground it never seemed deep enough to drown the
grass, and the trees only seemed to produce more
of both. Their generosity could not be exhausted.
With them and through the air the sound of
delicate voices reached them, and Charles
strained to understand the words uttered in a language he had so often heard.
Et die tertio nuptiae factae sunt in Kanna Galeanae et erat mater Yasua ibi.
Vocatus est autem ibi et Yasuas et discipuli eius ad nuptias.
Et deficiente vino dicit mater Yasua ad eum vinum non habent.
Et dicit ei Yasuas quid mihi et tibi est mulier nondum venit hora mea.
Dicit mater eius ministris quodcumque dixerit vobis facite.
He knew the words and had heard them many times
before, yet their sense escaped him. Charles felt
that their meaning had somehow been stolen from
him. He knew he heard each syllable correctly
even if there was a subtle inconsistency in tone
and delivery as if the wind itself were carrying
the words, each one arriving a moment too soon or
a moment too late. They were important words,
words that framed and gave purpose to the terrace
upon which they now stood. In his frustration, he
grasped the back of his Master's cloak and pulled
the fabric tight in his hands.
You trod upon mysteries sealed from time
immemorial, Núrodur. You will not understand many
things you see because it is not for you to
understand. But I understand and will guide you.
Do you fear what it is you hear?
I should know it, Master. I... remember it but cannot see it.
It is a story, beloved Núrodur. It is one where
the good of another is celebrated and rejoiced.
It is the surrender of the good of the self for
the good of another. It is giving beyond all
measure. It is the example and pattern for all
who pass through this place. For those who abide
here have spurned the good of others, have
seethed at their blessings, and looked with
grudging hatred on the benefits and good fortune
of others, taking every opportunity to run them
down or deprive them of their happiness. Such is not your self, Núrodur.
Charles felt the thoughts come to him so
seamlessly that he could no longer discern his
own from that of his Master's. And yet he also
felt a deep sense of unworthiness. How much had
they come through already, and how much had his
Master risked for his benefit? He trembled and
fell to his knees, a blaze filling him so that the ground smoked beneath him.
Nor you, Master. You have given so much for me to
bring me thus far. I fear I can never repay you what is your due.
But you do, Núrodur. Now come. Let me guide you
and lead your steps. Our ascent must continue.
He rose to his feet once more and the grass,
darkened to cinder by his tainted presence,
spread forth its green again; even the leaves
gold and red that had shriveled spread forth as
if they were fresh fallen from the branch. With
his first steps the sound of the voice in the air
faded until there was nothing but a pleasant
silence. The terrace stretched forward around the
mountain, always turning to the left as it
coursed its way upwards, though the angle was so
shallow that it seemed the horizon claimed the
path before it made its turn. With the trees
lining the edge he could no longer see the vast
ocean; only the rich blue of the sky and the
burning sun within were visible apart from the mountain itself.
They did not travel far before another voice
began whispering in the air. Only four words, but
they repeated over and over again. Each
invocation was subtle different than the last as
if they were being spoken by every soul that
abode on that mountain one after other.
Vobis diligite inimicos vestros...
Vobis diligite inimicos vestros...
Vobis diligite inimicos vestros...
The words made him look to his Master and his
snout creased a smile. Despite the shadow casting
a gray pall over him he felt he could see his
Master more clearly and with greater detail than
the surrounding path. His long black hair was
smooth and shimmered with silver; each strand was
so perfectly aligned that it did not seem a
collection of thousands of fibers but a single
piece that graced his back. His ears came to
sharp points that were aligned with a precision
that was the envy of any geometer. His skin was
smooth and pearl white that reveled in its own
illumination. Though he gazed forward the rat
knew the priceless blue of his eyes and savored
it as the only blue he loved. His garment,
touched by the rat but unburned, was an
effervescent white with no seam or stitch to mar its perfection.
In whose shadow would he rather be?
The voice in the air continued its recital,
though the words shifted so that his own
attention wandered about the sward. Their ascent
had finally brought them into the company of
others making their way upward. Sharing the
terrace with them were more people than he could
count, each of them draped in a long gray cloak
and each of them fumbling their way forward, arms
outstretched to feel at the air, while others had
collapsed on the ground and crawled. Some managed
to head in the right direction, while others
bounced off the mountain's face, and others
tangled themselves in the trees. Yet none managed
to slip past the trees and fall down the steep
slope to the terrace below. They had arrived here
and could not go back, despite their fumbling steps and blind groping.
It took the rat a few minutes to determine why
the people here stumbled about. One of them was
crawling in their direction with head lifted and
ears turned at the sound of the sizzling grass
beneath Charles's toes. Like the rest he was
covered from head to toe in a heavy gray cloak
but it was not the cloak obscuring his vision.
Much like a falcon in training his eyes were sewn
shut by iron wire. The letter P was inscribed
in his wrinkled forehead six times. Charles
almost tripped over his own feet as he stared at
the man's face, noting the way his muscles
twitched and lips moved. Words came from the
man's tongue, words in a language that he knew
and understood without his Master's aid.
The fields on the other side of the stream
always grow fresher and lusher! My field is
strewn with rocks! How I wish to heave them all
across the stream. How I wish to spew salt from
my lips at his crops. The sight of it makes me livid for all to see. Livid!
Others spoke as well and the rat flinched from
their voices, grateful that grasping blind man
was left behind as they continued. But the
multitudes would not be silent and he could not shut out their voices.
How could he be accepted as a knight! He has no
skill only family to speak for him!
I spit on every stone he has ever stepped upon!
I will never take a coin from that one's hand;
they must be ill-gotten for a wretch like he could never earn it on his own.
Ah, to have lush fur like she; I cannot see it
without wanting to shave it all!
This last made the rat's head turn, for it could
only be spoken by a Keeper, but in the midst of
so many bodies moving to and fro up the gentle
incline he could not find any sign of beastly
countenance. But even with that he knew none of
the voices and soon he felt himself drowning in
them. Charles put his hands to his ears and
pressed them tightly against his head.
Unlike the previous terrace the stone steps
showed no images. Nor were there any statues but
there were several large rocks that rose up in
the midst of the path; if there were rhyme or
reason behind their position he could not tell.
One would block a section of trees from view,
while another seemed to be a boulder fallen from
the heights above. None of them were directly in
the path his Master chose, and so Charles could only see them from a distance.
The terrace itself seemed to narrow and widen as
if the mountain itself were breathing. Yet the
number of gray-cloaked blind men and women did
not diminish, and they pressed close to his
Master's shadow many times though not one of them
ever fell within it. Charles hissed at those who
came close and whose voices he could not keep
out, but slowly the sound of them began to wane.
His ears felt hard beneath his grip, though they
yielded to his touch and obediently remained
against the top of his head, even after he lifted his hands.
A long stretch of the terrace was strewn with
upthrust rocks that seemed fingers pointing to
the sky and into this they finally had to weave.
Against one of the rocks was a woman with long,
dark hair. Her eyes, sewn shut like the rest were
sunken against her protruding cheeks so that she
had a skeletal appearance. There was a menace to
her face. Her lips were contorted with a
bitterness that seemed to cling to her much as
his Master's shadow swept up around the rock and
to her feet. Charles gasped when he recognized her.
She will not hear you but you may try, Núrodur.
Charles stepped toward her who fell beneath his
Master's shadow and lifted his gaze. Around the
iron wire sealing her eyes shut tears pressed
forth. The scars that had once gouged hideous
gaps in her cheeks were no more but he still knew
her. His voice broke the stillness of the rocks
and almost made her head turn. Agathe.
Her lips pursed and a moan escaped them. She
dropped her head forward, hands grasping at the
rock against which she pressed herself. Why? Oh
why? Men.. Men have everything. Power, privilege,
freedom to decide and choose everyones' fate; all
of it belongs to men. Women are left to their
whims, powerless beyond the House, voiceless
against the least of men! No woman is ever good
enough for the world, only the House. Only men are given the World!
Agathe! How can you be here?
No, do not stand for me! No, do not stand for me you filthy man!
Charles grimaced, as her attention seemed to be
on something else in the distance. It was only
her eyes sewn shut, not her ears. How could she
not hear his voice? Agathe! You murdered Wessex!
He suffers under the hideous rule of Tallakath!
Her voice almost cackled before it began to
shriek with such ferocity that the rat almost
stepped back. I do not want your kindness! You
boorish man! Stop it! I am not feeble! I am not!
Wessex was a good man! He will never know peace.
Why are you here? Why you! Charles lifted his
arms and felt his hands sizzle in his fury. But
before he could reach out for her he recalled his
Master's words from before. There was nothing he
could do and it was not his place to do it to
bring anything more to this woman. He let his
arms fall to his sides and shook his head. My
friend Wessex will never know peace. And here you
are bemoaning some man? You are pathetic, Agathe. You are to be pitied.
I hate man! I hate him! Hate him! Hate him!
Hate... Agathe's anger seemed ready to explode
in some violent eruption. Charles remembered well
seeing the frightening power she once wielded as
she chased them across the frozen wasteland of
the Barrier Mountains. It was her spell that had
left him living stone for nearly five months.
But there was no more power in her. The anger
fell to anguish as more tears squeezed between
her sealed eyelids and her face fell into her
hands. Her choking sobs wracked her body with
spasms. Charles blinked in astonishment at the
words babbled in that dereliction. I hate being
a woman. Why wasn't I a man? Why was I so much
less; just a woman? Oh, Zagrosek, why? Why?
And then like a wisp of air, she slipped down
from the rock and crawled away and upwards
weeping. Charles stared at her until he lost
sight of her in the midst of the stones and the
other penitents trapped and blind. For a moment
he felt something stirring in his essence, some
measure of pity and not derision. But then he
recalled Wessex who spent every waking moment
keeping away from the monstrous gardeners in the
zoo of pestilence that was Tallakath's domain and
all sympathy for the Runecaster was erased.
May you remain here until the end of all ages, Agathe.
She is not your concern, Núrodur. Do not allow
yourself to seek a justice beyond you. For though
justice is your call you are not permitted to
strike beyond certain boundaries, is this not so?
It is, Master. Forgive me for my anger. But this
one hurt so many that are dear to me. And those
she hurt suffer worse. You saw what Wessex endures!
Do you believe she gave willing consent to all
that her hands wrought? Or was she controlled by another?
Charles sighed and lowered his gaze into his
Master's shadow at his feet. He could not see
where the shadow ended and his toes began. It was
the will of another doing all that I blame her for, Master.
Without consent can you find her worthy? No.
Charles thought nothing more as he followed his
Master through the remaining rocks and up the
incline. The many people surrounding them no
longer crawled about but reclined against the few
rocks and the side of the mountain. The stone was
a uniform gray that matched the color of their
cloaks. Even the trees, once delightful in their
colors, seemed muted and did not offer forth their bounty with such abandon.
While the incline did increase, the slope never
became so steep that the rat was forced to all
fours to navigate. But he did crouch lower as
they ascended step by step upward. The terrace
narrowed until all that remained was a path no
more than ten steps across. The trees dwindled
until they were only bushes overlooking a
perfectly smooth descent toward the previous
terrace and the plain and forest below. Charles
peered over the edge for a time wondering why it
was that he only ever seemed to see one side of
the peak. What was on other side, or was there
truly only the one side and the curve of the
mountain a necessary illusion masking its infinite extent?
Though the people in gray cloaks were not as
numerous, they still huddled against the
mountainside. Not a one of them was spared the
iron wire holding their eyes fast, though from
all tears darkened their cheeks. Their bodies
were frail and yet there was a suppleness to them
that gave their motions a certain purpose and
elegance. As he studied them he saw two rise up
from the wall, each gripping the other on the
shoulders, and then the pair helped each other
scale the stone steps toward the lip overhead.
Neither gained an inch on the other, despite
their best efforts to push each other ahead of themselves.
Voices filled the air again, but this time
Charles could not make sense of what they said.
His Master seemed not to hear the voices; and if
he did he paid them little heed. There was a
strange but beguiling melody that coursed through
them and for a moment he tried to lift one ear to
capture it but the flesh was stuck fast to his
head. By the time he raised one arm to pry it lose the song was gone.
The path flattened as they came over the lip of
the incline and before them stood another fissure
and another being of light wrapped from bottom to
top in a wreath of eyes and six silken wings. The
rays of light scattered across the grassy field,
reflecting from every stone at the same angle
with which it struck. The two men who had climbed
before him fell down on their knees before that
strange being of eyes. Its wings brushed across
their faces each in turn and both gasped and sang
with joy. Another P vanished from their foreheads.
His Master and he walked past the being of eyes
without pausing. The creature something Charles
knew he should know but could not name noted
them but made no effort to stop them from
reaching the fissure leading upward to the next
terrace. Charles shrank from what little gaze it
offered and clutched to his Master's robe. He
shut his eyes as they stepped into the gap and
felt only the shadow at his feet.
Yet in a way he still saw the path before them.
His Master's thoughts gently intruded into his
own, and what he saw was, after a fashion, also
visible to the Núrodur. It was not the same but
akin to gazing out of a high window. He could see
a border of darkness around the scene as if he
were set back from the window by a few paces, but
the path with enclosing fissure was clear. A
quiet determination guided his steps and he
allowed himself to be carried along by it. No
discomfort touched him as the walls pressed inward.
----------
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
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