<html> <body> 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 </body> </html>