May

Issue 44

Torches.  Torches flickering orange through the narrow valley, smaller than fireflies in the shadow of the great mountains.  Torches that spark and gutter and threaten to go out, then blaze again beneath the starless sky.    

It was morning when they set out.  It was summer, and the sun was lightening the sky with pale gold, and the trees were alive with birdsong.  The dew soaked the tips of their boots as they walked across the familiar pasture.  The light in each pair of eyes said the same thing: We will drink from the Well of Blessedness tonight.  Never shall we thirst.  As they reached the stepping-stones across the little beck, someone began to sing.  And the song spread through the company like a flame and rose to the sky as they tramped through the shimmering haze.

Now it is winter and the song has turned cold and frozen on their whitened lips.  Their blistered feet move them automatically, marching one behind the other through the valley, holding the torches aloft with stiffened arms.  Only in the eyes of Kyrlan does the same light burn, brighter than the torchlight, more pure and clear.  Only on his face, as he walks ahead of the company, scanning the darkness, does the flickering glow show the same hope they all had when they left the village.  If one should suggest turning back, a word from Kyrlan will silence him.

"I have dreamed it," he says, and in his eyes there is certainty.

Thus he spoke in the village council, in a time that now seems aeons ago, when spring still followed winter, and nightfall brought a friendly hearth and a friendlier bed.  And they listened, though he was young, younger than he now seems.  Now his face is grimmer and more weathered and his beard has begun to grow.  Then he was fresh and untried.  Most remembered him playing at marbles and conkers; some thought he still should.  And yet they listened, for it was rumored that prophets came of that family, although none alive could now remember any.

"I have dreamed it," he said, "the Well of Blessedness.  An angel has stirred the water with his wing, and all who drink of it will never thirst again.  Within its glass-clear waters are reflected not our skies and clouds, but the very landscape of heaven.  The place lies beyond the hills; I have dreamed it.  Tomorrow I will seek it and return blessed.  Any that come with me will be blessed also and bless those to whom they return.  Who comes with me?"

And many stood to their feet, for there were many who would go – maidens and matrons, youths and men, all who were hardy of body and had no little ones to keep.

"We will be there by nightfall," someone said.  "A day's walk, maybe two, is all it will take.  The hills are gentle and our people have walked them before.  By nightfall, we will all be blessed."

And the rumor went from mouth to mouth: We will be there by nightfall.

Night is upon them now.  It is many months since night fell and the sun failed to return.  That was when they first entered the pass between the great mountains, and the mountains show no sign of ending.  Kyrlan has led them a weary journey.  Behind the soft hills of their home were more hills, and behind them still more hills, steeper and more dangerous.

"And where is this well?" someone would say, often Bolli, for Bolli was quick-tempered and more used to leading than to following.

"Kyrlan has lied to us," Bolli would say, Bolli or maybe Vandis, who was practical and thought how her farm was going to ruin without her.

And there would be fights and arguments, but Kyrlan would never fight and, in the midst of the arguments, he would shoulder his small pack and walk on.  And, seeing him leave, the company would fall silent one by one, and all would end up following, for the light in his eyes told them that in his dreams he saw the place and he would lead them there.

There have been no arguments since they entered the pass and began to walk the path through the valley.  They speak little now.  They find food and water where they can and shelter where they may.  They rest often.  The torches burn at all times; Vandis keeps the supply replenished.  The torches and Kyrlan's eyes light the way.

At the back of the line, someone stumbles.  He falls on the shale and his torch goes out.  Bolli runs and puts an arm about him, lifting him up, although he himself is scrawny now, half the size he was when he left the village.  The line stops.  Kyrlan squints into the darkness, listening.  They are all listening.  They are all looking to see what he sees.

Torches.  Torches flickering orange, smaller than fireflies in the extreme distance.  And, from the tiny lights, a barely audible sound of song is carried on the freezing air.  It will be many miles, many days perhaps until the two companies meet.  The men who carry these torches are old.  Their beards are long; their clothes are tattered and mended many times.  Slowly they walk, very slowly, each man feebly grasping the shoulder of the one in front.  The torches shake in their hands.  Their eyes are round, as of those who have walked long in the darkness.  But in their eyes is contentment, and from their cracked lips comes a song, frail though it is.  They have drunk from the Well of Blessedness; they are glad.