Post by Disgraced Prince Nasu Hattori on Oct 20, 2014 23:09:47 GMT -5
There is a place not many folk have seen. A strange place called Amar. If you believe the stories, there are two things that make Amar unique. First, it is where all the roads in the world meet. Second, it is not a place any man has ever found by searching. It is not a place you travel to, it is the place you pass through while on your way to somewhere else.
They say that anyone who travels long enough will come there. This is a story of that place, and of an old man on a long road, and of a long and lonely night without a moon. . .
*******
Amar was a great crossroads, but there was no inn where the roads met. Instead there were clearings in the trees where travelers would set their camps and pass the night.
Once, years ago and miles away, many groups of travelers came to Amar. They chose their clearings and lit their fires as the sun began to set, pausing on their way from here to there.
Later, after the sun had set and night was settled firmly in the sky, an old beggar in a tattered robe came walking down the road. He moved with slow care, leaning on a walking stick.
The old man was going from nowhere to nowhere. He had no hat for his head and no pack for his back. He had not a penny or a purse to put it in. He barely even owned his own name, and even that had been worn thin and threadbare through the years.
If you’d asked him who he was, he would have said, “Nobody.” But he would have been wrong.
The old man made his way into Amar. He was hungry as a dry fire and weary to his bones. All that kept him moving was the hope that someone might give him a bit of dinner and a piece of their fire.
So when the old man saw firelight flickering, he left the road and made his weary way toward it. Soon he saw four tall horses through the trees. Silver was worked into their harness and silver was mixed with the iron of their shoes. Nearby the beggar saw a dozen mules laden with goods: woolen cloth, cunning jewelry, and fine steel blades.
But what caught the beggar’s attention was the side of meat above the fire, steaming and dripping fat onto the coals. He almost fainted at the sweet smell of it, for he had been walking all day with nothing to eat but a handful of acorns and a bruised apple he’d found by the side of the road.
“Halloo!” the old beggar called out as he stepped into the clearing. He tried to sound cheerful, though he was weary and sore. “Can you spare a bit of meat and a piece of your fire?”
There were four travelers there, two men and two women. At the sound of his voice they rose to their feet, but none of them spoke. The old man waited politely, trying to appear pleasant and harmless. But the quiet stretched on, long as long, and still no word was spoken.
Understandably, the old man grew irritated. He was used to being shunned or shrugged aside, but these folk merely stood. They were quiet and restless, moving from foot to foot while their hands twitched nervously.
Just as he was about to sulk away, the fire flared and the beggar saw the four wore the blood-red clothes that marked them as Adem Monks who communicated with the air alone and rarely ever spoke.
The old man knew many stories of the Adem. He’d heard that they possessed a secret craft called the Lethani. This let them wear their quiet like an armor that would turn a blade or stop an arrow in the air. This is why they seldom spoke. They saved their words, keeping them inside like coals in the belly of a furnace. Then when they fought, they used their secret craft to burn those words like fuel inside themselves. This made them strong as bears and fast as snakes.
This is what the old beggar thought of when he saw the Adem standing there. All thought of food and fire left him, and he backed slowly into the shelter of the surrounding trees.
Then he set off toward the next fire, hoping this time would prove lucky. At this clearing were a number of men standing around a dead donkey lying near a cart. One of them spotted the old man. “Look!” he pointed. “Grab him! We’ll hitch him to the cart and make him pull!”
The old man darted back into the trees, and after running to and fro, he lost the men by hiding under a pile of moldering leaves.
When the sound of the pursuit faded, the old man dragged himself from the leaves and found his walking stick. Then, with the courage of one who is poor and hungry, he set off to the next fire he saw in the distance.
There he might have found what he was looking for, because around the fire were traders. Had things been different they might have welcomed him to dinner, saying, “Where six can eat, seven can eat.”
But by this point the old man was quite a sight. His hair stuck from his head in wild disarray. His robe, ragged before, was now torn and dirty. His face was pale from fright, and his breathing groaned and wheezed in his chest.
Because of this, the men gasped and made gestures before their faces. They thought he was a spirit.
Each of the men had a different thought as to how they could stop him. Some thought fire would frighten him off, some thought salt scattered on the grass would keep him away, some thought iron would cut the strings that held the soul to his dead body.
Listening to them argue, the old beggar realized that no matter what they agreed on, he would not be the better for it. So he hurried back to the sheltering trees. The old man found a rock to sit on and brushed the dead leaves and dirt away as best he could.
Before his courage could leave him, the old man tightened his belt and made up his mind to simply walk through ’til morning. Hoping the end of his road might bring him better luck, or at least a meeting with some kinder folk.
So he walked through the center of Amar, and as he did, he saw a circle of great grey stones. Inside that circle was the faint glow of firelight hidden in a well-dug pit. The old man noticed he couldn’t smell a wisp of smoke either, and realized these folk were burning rennel wood, which burns hot and hard, but doesn’t smoke or stink.
Then the old man saw that two of the great shapes were not stones at all. They were wagons. A handful of people huddled round a cookpot in the dim light of the fire. But the old man didn’t have a shred of hope left, so he kept walking. He was almost past the stones when a voice called out: “Ho there! Who are you, and why do you pass by so quietly at night?”
“I’m nobody,” the old man said. “Just an old beggar, following my road until its end.”
“Why are you out walking instead of settling down to sleep? These roads are not all safe at night,” the voice replied.
“I have no bed,” the old man said. “And tonight I cannot beg or borrow one for all the world.”
“There is one here for you, if you would like it. And a bit of dinner if you’ve a mind to share. No one should walk all day and night besides.” A handsome, bearded man stepped from the concealment of the tall grey stones. He took the old man’s elbow and led him toward the fire, calling ahead, “We have a guest tonight!”
There was a small stir of motion ahead of them, but the night was moonless and their fire was deep in a concealing pit, so the beggar couldn’t see much of what was being done. Curious, he asked, “Why do you hide your fire?”
His host sighed. “Not all folk are filled with love for us. We’re safest by being out of harm’s way. Besides, our fire is small tonight.”
“Why is that?” the beggar asked. “With so many trees, wood should be easy to come by.”
“We went gathering earlier,” the bearded man explained. “But folk called us thieves and shot arrows at us.” He shrugged. “So we make do, and tomorrow will take care of itself.” He shook his head. “But I am talking too much. May I offer you a drink, father?”
“A bit of water, if you can spare it.”
The man at his elbow smiled. “Then have water to quench your thirst.” And saying so he brought the beggar to their water barrel.
The old beggar bent and drew up a ladle of water. When it touched his lips it was cool and sweet, but as he drew up the ladle, he couldn’t help but notice the barrel was very nearly empty.
In spite of this, his host urged him, “Take another and wash the dust from your hands and face. I can tell you’ve been on the road for a long and weary while.” So the old beggar took a second dipper of water, and once his hands and face were clean, he felt much refreshed.
Then his host took his elbow again and led him to the fire. “What is your name, father?”
Again the beggar was surprised. It had been years since anyone had cared enough to ask his name. It had been so long he had to stop and think about it for a moment. “Jax,” he said at last. “I’m called Jax, and you?”
“My name is Terris,” his host said as he made the old man comfortable close to the fire. “This is Silla, my wife, and Wint, our son. This is Shari and Benthum and Lil and Peter and Fent.”
Silla gave him a heavy ladle of potato soup, a slice of warm bread, and half a golden summer squash with sweet butter in the bowl of it. It was plain, and there was not a lot, but to Jax it seemed a feast. And as he ate, Wint kept his cup full, and smiled at him, and sat by his knee and called him grandfather.
The last was too much for the old beggar, and he began to cry softly. Perhaps it was that he was old, and his day had been a long one. Perhaps it was that he was not used to kindness. Whatever the reason, tears began to trickle down his face and lose themselves in his deep white beard.
Terris saw this and was quick to ask, “Father, whatever is the matter?”
“I am a silly old man,” Jax said, more to himself than to the rest of them. “You have been kinder to me than anyone in years, and I am sorry I cannot repay you.”
Terris smiled and laid a hand on the old man’s back. “Would you really like to pay?”
“I cannot. I have nothing to give you.”
Terris’s smile widened. “Jax. We are the nomad folk descendants of the great Air Nation. The thing we value most is something everyone possesses.” One by one, Jax saw the faces around the fire look up at him expectantly. Terris said, “You could tell us a story of your people”
Not knowing what else to do, Jax began to speak.
******
They say that anyone who travels long enough will come there. This is a story of that place, and of an old man on a long road, and of a long and lonely night without a moon. . .
*******
Amar was a great crossroads, but there was no inn where the roads met. Instead there were clearings in the trees where travelers would set their camps and pass the night.
Once, years ago and miles away, many groups of travelers came to Amar. They chose their clearings and lit their fires as the sun began to set, pausing on their way from here to there.
Later, after the sun had set and night was settled firmly in the sky, an old beggar in a tattered robe came walking down the road. He moved with slow care, leaning on a walking stick.
The old man was going from nowhere to nowhere. He had no hat for his head and no pack for his back. He had not a penny or a purse to put it in. He barely even owned his own name, and even that had been worn thin and threadbare through the years.
If you’d asked him who he was, he would have said, “Nobody.” But he would have been wrong.
The old man made his way into Amar. He was hungry as a dry fire and weary to his bones. All that kept him moving was the hope that someone might give him a bit of dinner and a piece of their fire.
So when the old man saw firelight flickering, he left the road and made his weary way toward it. Soon he saw four tall horses through the trees. Silver was worked into their harness and silver was mixed with the iron of their shoes. Nearby the beggar saw a dozen mules laden with goods: woolen cloth, cunning jewelry, and fine steel blades.
But what caught the beggar’s attention was the side of meat above the fire, steaming and dripping fat onto the coals. He almost fainted at the sweet smell of it, for he had been walking all day with nothing to eat but a handful of acorns and a bruised apple he’d found by the side of the road.
“Halloo!” the old beggar called out as he stepped into the clearing. He tried to sound cheerful, though he was weary and sore. “Can you spare a bit of meat and a piece of your fire?”
There were four travelers there, two men and two women. At the sound of his voice they rose to their feet, but none of them spoke. The old man waited politely, trying to appear pleasant and harmless. But the quiet stretched on, long as long, and still no word was spoken.
Understandably, the old man grew irritated. He was used to being shunned or shrugged aside, but these folk merely stood. They were quiet and restless, moving from foot to foot while their hands twitched nervously.
Just as he was about to sulk away, the fire flared and the beggar saw the four wore the blood-red clothes that marked them as Adem Monks who communicated with the air alone and rarely ever spoke.
The old man knew many stories of the Adem. He’d heard that they possessed a secret craft called the Lethani. This let them wear their quiet like an armor that would turn a blade or stop an arrow in the air. This is why they seldom spoke. They saved their words, keeping them inside like coals in the belly of a furnace. Then when they fought, they used their secret craft to burn those words like fuel inside themselves. This made them strong as bears and fast as snakes.
This is what the old beggar thought of when he saw the Adem standing there. All thought of food and fire left him, and he backed slowly into the shelter of the surrounding trees.
Then he set off toward the next fire, hoping this time would prove lucky. At this clearing were a number of men standing around a dead donkey lying near a cart. One of them spotted the old man. “Look!” he pointed. “Grab him! We’ll hitch him to the cart and make him pull!”
The old man darted back into the trees, and after running to and fro, he lost the men by hiding under a pile of moldering leaves.
When the sound of the pursuit faded, the old man dragged himself from the leaves and found his walking stick. Then, with the courage of one who is poor and hungry, he set off to the next fire he saw in the distance.
There he might have found what he was looking for, because around the fire were traders. Had things been different they might have welcomed him to dinner, saying, “Where six can eat, seven can eat.”
But by this point the old man was quite a sight. His hair stuck from his head in wild disarray. His robe, ragged before, was now torn and dirty. His face was pale from fright, and his breathing groaned and wheezed in his chest.
Because of this, the men gasped and made gestures before their faces. They thought he was a spirit.
Each of the men had a different thought as to how they could stop him. Some thought fire would frighten him off, some thought salt scattered on the grass would keep him away, some thought iron would cut the strings that held the soul to his dead body.
Listening to them argue, the old beggar realized that no matter what they agreed on, he would not be the better for it. So he hurried back to the sheltering trees. The old man found a rock to sit on and brushed the dead leaves and dirt away as best he could.
Before his courage could leave him, the old man tightened his belt and made up his mind to simply walk through ’til morning. Hoping the end of his road might bring him better luck, or at least a meeting with some kinder folk.
So he walked through the center of Amar, and as he did, he saw a circle of great grey stones. Inside that circle was the faint glow of firelight hidden in a well-dug pit. The old man noticed he couldn’t smell a wisp of smoke either, and realized these folk were burning rennel wood, which burns hot and hard, but doesn’t smoke or stink.
Then the old man saw that two of the great shapes were not stones at all. They were wagons. A handful of people huddled round a cookpot in the dim light of the fire. But the old man didn’t have a shred of hope left, so he kept walking. He was almost past the stones when a voice called out: “Ho there! Who are you, and why do you pass by so quietly at night?”
“I’m nobody,” the old man said. “Just an old beggar, following my road until its end.”
“Why are you out walking instead of settling down to sleep? These roads are not all safe at night,” the voice replied.
“I have no bed,” the old man said. “And tonight I cannot beg or borrow one for all the world.”
“There is one here for you, if you would like it. And a bit of dinner if you’ve a mind to share. No one should walk all day and night besides.” A handsome, bearded man stepped from the concealment of the tall grey stones. He took the old man’s elbow and led him toward the fire, calling ahead, “We have a guest tonight!”
There was a small stir of motion ahead of them, but the night was moonless and their fire was deep in a concealing pit, so the beggar couldn’t see much of what was being done. Curious, he asked, “Why do you hide your fire?”
His host sighed. “Not all folk are filled with love for us. We’re safest by being out of harm’s way. Besides, our fire is small tonight.”
“Why is that?” the beggar asked. “With so many trees, wood should be easy to come by.”
“We went gathering earlier,” the bearded man explained. “But folk called us thieves and shot arrows at us.” He shrugged. “So we make do, and tomorrow will take care of itself.” He shook his head. “But I am talking too much. May I offer you a drink, father?”
“A bit of water, if you can spare it.”
The man at his elbow smiled. “Then have water to quench your thirst.” And saying so he brought the beggar to their water barrel.
The old beggar bent and drew up a ladle of water. When it touched his lips it was cool and sweet, but as he drew up the ladle, he couldn’t help but notice the barrel was very nearly empty.
In spite of this, his host urged him, “Take another and wash the dust from your hands and face. I can tell you’ve been on the road for a long and weary while.” So the old beggar took a second dipper of water, and once his hands and face were clean, he felt much refreshed.
Then his host took his elbow again and led him to the fire. “What is your name, father?”
Again the beggar was surprised. It had been years since anyone had cared enough to ask his name. It had been so long he had to stop and think about it for a moment. “Jax,” he said at last. “I’m called Jax, and you?”
“My name is Terris,” his host said as he made the old man comfortable close to the fire. “This is Silla, my wife, and Wint, our son. This is Shari and Benthum and Lil and Peter and Fent.”
Silla gave him a heavy ladle of potato soup, a slice of warm bread, and half a golden summer squash with sweet butter in the bowl of it. It was plain, and there was not a lot, but to Jax it seemed a feast. And as he ate, Wint kept his cup full, and smiled at him, and sat by his knee and called him grandfather.
The last was too much for the old beggar, and he began to cry softly. Perhaps it was that he was old, and his day had been a long one. Perhaps it was that he was not used to kindness. Whatever the reason, tears began to trickle down his face and lose themselves in his deep white beard.
Terris saw this and was quick to ask, “Father, whatever is the matter?”
“I am a silly old man,” Jax said, more to himself than to the rest of them. “You have been kinder to me than anyone in years, and I am sorry I cannot repay you.”
Terris smiled and laid a hand on the old man’s back. “Would you really like to pay?”
“I cannot. I have nothing to give you.”
Terris’s smile widened. “Jax. We are the nomad folk descendants of the great Air Nation. The thing we value most is something everyone possesses.” One by one, Jax saw the faces around the fire look up at him expectantly. Terris said, “You could tell us a story of your people”
Not knowing what else to do, Jax began to speak.
******