IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
III: Responsibility
Chapter 38 The Ecstasy of Sacrifice
Friday, July 10, 2708 Up...up...higher than I
have ever climbed before in my life, by foot or by flit (Higher than I have ever been before, spinning down, down...) higher
than the mountains of my homeland ever reached, higher even than Camelot in its
steep-walled valley in the English Mountains, up to the harsh outskirts of the
heavens, a steep and ruthless land so sacred that we can scarce survive its
rarified air. (Down...to where the dead must go...surely...must...) Up where the unfleshed boulders scorn the cares
of mortals dependent upon blood and breath.
(...to follow the boy, to the very
edge of...Hell?) Up where the snow
never melts, now in the winter of the world we go to the very homeland of the winter, where the
frosted wind swirls in dances so ancient that the youngest snowflake seems
imbued with great antiquity. (Down into the cavern of fiery ice, of crystal fangs, of sparkle
and darkness, where ancient beasts and beast-men stand frozen in the stone,
immobile till the end of time...or...?) I think I can almost make
out figures dancing in the snow. I know
I can. (I think...I know that I see them.
The sacrificial boy, and his...and the...) Laughing, cold eyed, half-glimpsed. Transparent, fluid limbs sketch out vanishing
symbols on the air. A lace of ice upon
each swirling skirt, each scarf of mist.
I cross myself, unsure of what forbidden presence I have stumbled
on. (And
I long to pray! I long to run and pray,
but the dark one behind them has received my worship and won’t let me. So I just stare at the children, the...husband
and br....bride...the Unthinkable One...)
Then I just stand there, mouth agape, watching the falling snow flicker
in and out of images that I don't do don't do see... (Sh..sh...sheeee...She! The
birdlike little one, the beaked one...the sacrifice and his bride—I see
them! I see them! I know
them.) "Halt!" Cyran calls out. Dimly I note darker figures moving all around
me; I pay them half a mind, concentrating all my effort on trying to discern
the figures of pure light. Almost... (Figures of pure darkness, in the glowing, glittering night of
this subterranean well of...of fear, of pure unholy fear. And I must name them. I must...must force my tongue to name them, I
must fight back into my body enough to move my tongue. “Cor, uh, Corrrrey an’...an’...” I must! “Come on, Changewright!” vague flickers of sentience urge all
around me, chanting “You can do it! You can do it! You can do it!” “Corey and GITA!” I scream. But not that other. Not the
char-black silhouette whose name I cannot know. “Now bring him out of it—Now!” Icy water shocks my face, and I laugh, I laugh so hard!) "Bring her in
here." Forces seize me and pull my
body somewhere. I surrender to them in
an inexpressible kind of ecstasy; I have no will left nor desire for any. Deep down into a womb of darkening warmth
they draw me, to a different light, a glow of many colors, reds and oranges and
yellows and maybe shots of green and blue.
Exquisite pain floods me and lapses almost into pleasure as I feel my
body fold into sitting while I stare at the colors and inhale the thick odor
of... ...dung chip smoke? (Smack smack smack...they keep slapping my face. It rocks back and forth, and I realize that I
only laughed in my soul, that my mouth drools, that...I think I taste
blood. Who’s blood? Who...mine?) "Here. Eat."
I stare at a fire. I sit inside a
rough shelter of sod and stone, a man-made cave that stinks of the fire and the
mule that provides the fuel. The heat of
blood returning to extremities burns in me. "Eat!" I am not in heaven because I'm not dead
yet. I open my mouth to spoonfuls of
steaming hot porridge. I gulp down
scalding nourishment and my head begins to clear. (How did these blankets get around me? Hands hold my hand to guide the tea to my
mouth. Hot...bitter...liquid. It helps.
I feel more anchored in the flesh with every swallow. Good boys. Good pupils of
what the Academy will not teach. They do
exactly as I told them to. I have
journeyed to Hell for them, and now they bring me back alive.) "You've been skimping
on your share of the rations, haven't you?" Cyran says as I take over the
bowl and feed myself. I look around the
wayfarer's shelter, crowded with warm and grimy bodies fit to compete with the
mule for smell. I feel embarrassed as I
realize just how badly I lost it. (“The sacri...” I swallow, struggling to speak clearly. “The sacrifice has been...accepted. We, we, we
have...enough f-for the...next stage.”) "I wanted to make sure
that all the children had enough," I say, my voice surprising me with its
huskiness. "What the children
need most is a level adult head to see them through safely. Next time you feel like sacrificing for the
cause, don't sacrifice your brains." (“Nes...next batch...studens.
We will draw...from farrrrraway...” and I can't say more.”) I can't even acknowledge
hir. I sink down into the sleeping-bag,
heavy with food and heat and returning consciousness of the weight of a body
upon the spirit, sink down till the voices and the firelight swirl from my
grasp as the mountain spirits dance it all away. (“Let’s get him up to the dorm before we’re missed,” Aaron says,
and arms pull me to my feet. “Far,” he said. “Maybe even
from the farthest islands out.” My feet
seem to tread, giantlike, upon each of those islands, so very distant from my
head. “Maybe even Lumne?” I
cannot answer the speculatiion of the boys.
I have no vision left to guess.
But whoever we draw now to us, they will be exactly who and what we
need. “Nobody ever comes in from Lumne,” someone breathes, as I stumble
up the first steps, with help. “Who
knows what they do out there these days?” Concern in his normally sarcastic voice, Aaron says, “We’ll have
to come up with some excuse for the medic tomorrow...” “Exhaustion,” I say, struggling with the stairs up out of the
cellar, leaning on the help of my disciples.
“Tell ‘em I’ve fainted...from exhaustion. T-too much study.” And quite rightly, quite true. Just not the study that our teachers had in
mind.) Saturday, July 11, 2708 Traveler's cote. No more light glows from the windows,
shuttered tight for blizzard, only the red and sometimes bluish flaring of the
hearth, by day or by night. I hope that somebody before us kept the chimney
clean; we've got perfect conditions for carbon monoxide poisoning,
otherwise. Wind whistles up through a
crack in the rock that serves as our snow-bound latrine—two doors between it
and us and the odor still seeps through.
Then there's the main, round room, with the fireplace in it, and
overhead a loft, stocked with hay for pack-animals, and potatoes for those who
lead them. Mule just loves the
hay; he tosses it by fragrant mouthfuls
and gobbles it up so fast that we don't know how long we can keep him. Kids love the potatoes, but they go fast,
too. Nobody ever designed this place
with an army in mind. Kiril coughs, and coughs again. Lufti thumps her on the back until the phlegm
comes clear. I watch Cyran tenderly wipe
her mouth with hir own prayer-cloth.
Then I do a double-take. Why would Cyran carry the image of St. Dymphna,
Patron of the Mad?
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