Wherein we hear of a goddess, and meet some of her messengers (Ch 1)

Strange happenings were afoot in a small stone building at the top of the world. 

Well it wasn't truly at the top of the world, though it was at most times above the clouds. And by the standards of the time, it was rather a large building indeed. Still, despite its large main hall and impressive wooden door laden with gemstones, there was nothing all too impressive about the building. As a matter of fact, it was merely the home of one woman.

 

It was also the main centre of worship and devotion to the greatest religion anyone in a very long distance had known. This was the place where the futures were revealed to the first Pontiac. This was the place to which thousands flocked every year. This was the edge of the world.

 

And here at the end of the world, around the small building which housed the world's most respected and revered being, had sprouted a town. No one could remember which prince, king, or warlord had founded it, so none of them exerted any influence there either. The nations of the world were simply content to let it stay serene and majestic, a tribute and a tool for the religion that gave hope and light to more than any other. No doubt this was helped by a sheer cliff face on three sides and a steep mountain descent into the sea on a fourth. 

 

Said mountain descent led to small but lively harbor. Many rangers, coming and going, were on the move here from sunrise to sundown. They rushed through merchants and stalls, horses, pigs, dogs and cattle. And of course, the ever present throng of lay people making the pilgrimage to see a goddess. They tripped on each other and on themselves. And despite the chaos that at times overwhelmed even the most seasoned, just a street away you were out of it: all around you were just the rocks and the winds, the docks and the people left behind and fading away. All that's left is a path leading ever upwards towards the small stone building. 

 

One of the rangers mentioned above made his way past the harbour and up the rocky path. He had heard of the strange things happening at the top of the world, and he had returned post-haste to investigate. These were no strange and exotic lands to him, but home and hearth. This was the path his father had led him up all those years ago, at his wits' end and out of options. This was the harbour to which he had run away every time he could, hoping, praying, that he could somehow return to whence he came. These were the rocks where the rains and surf and cold had bitten at him for months. It was where for years, he had been miserable and resentful: of the people, of the island, and of the goddess they and the world worshipped. This was the place where he had vowed he would ensure no more boys such as he would waste away as the pontiac's servants. 

 

And despite it all, it was now home to him: sorely and dearly missed beyond imagining throughout the years of his absence. His name was Dolstoy, and he had finally returned from an independent expedition to the distant Caspian people. 

 

Barely an hour's march further up the twisting mountain was the new gravesite. Here were buried masters and students from the past century, as well as wealthy patrons and dying pilgrims. Here too were many of Dolstoy's memories, some happy and some not. These were the grounds where he and his fellow students had spent long winter nights when avoiding the wrath of angry teachers. Here they had argued and schemed. Here he had been forced to learn all the skills a survivalist may need. He smiled fondly at those memories. Those friends who had so reverently praised and worshipped his fledgling fire were now rangers as veteran as he. Over the years they had also played their role as bullies and rivals, competitors and comrades. After a brief pause at the gravesite to ponder these memories, he turned his gaze upwards once more.

 

Towards midday he reached the platform: planks and nails haphazardly melded together into the side of the narrow pass overlooking choppy waters below. Less experienced travellers would take a day between every two of these platforms, taking an entire week just to reach the village. Dolstoy was determined he would make it in two. The platform did remind him of the dangers ahead though. As children, he and his friends had become experts at the way down. After all, they had to reach the old gravesite to escape the wrath of their elders! Despite this aptitude, the climb was dangerous. Sickeningly, Dolstoy was reminded of a time some years into his life here. One of the youngest boys had come with him and his friends after angering a priest. Dolstoy couldn't even remember why he had run that time. He was well past the stage where he had tried to go home, and he was past the age where true punishments were dealt out. But the boy he remembered. Because sickeningly, horribly, he had tripped and fallen from the path on one of the first mad dashes, still in view of the mountaintop town.  With no one to grab him, he had fallen, screaming, under the railing and then through the clouds. They had never seen him again.

 

By nightfall, Dolstoy was at midway village. Calling it a village was probably an exaggeration: some priests lived there year round, and so fishermen and traders had set up warehouses around them. Carved into the rock face, narrow and winding corridors let to libraries and storerooms. In livelier times, there would be temporary buildings jutting out over the waters, wherein the priests would charge travellers exorbitant fees to sleep in uncomfortable beds and listen to their endless sermons. Less savory institutions would also bloom with enough demand, and no matter how hard they tried, the priests simply couldn't stamp them out. Rowdy and loud, the place would seem as lively as any capital. But now, a mere week into the spring rains, the place was ghostly quiet. Dolstoy pondered the quiet, and remembered the great quiet of his travels: days and days of silence. Not a word, not even a whisper spoken to or by him. At the end of a particularly brutal stretch, he had nearly choked on his own tongue trying to make the sounds of speech. The sounds of speech are wonderful, he decided. And yet, the silence suited him.

 

 Already here, the waters below seemed distant and unreal. This he did not ponder.

 

Finding the nook that led to housing was a challenge for the untrained eye. Dolstoy, with his years of travel and experience with the priesthood's methods, still struggled to tell what was a hallway and what was simply a cavern. Eventually though, a door presented itself. Exhausted both physically and mentally, he shoved the door open. Only to hear a squeaking reproach:

 

"Gah! What the... when did you get here? Who sent you?"

 

Scrunched up in the corner of a small room, barely four paces in length, was the mass of robes and fabric which had just spoken. Dolstoy strode forwards, and gingerly picked the robes up by where the scruff of the neck should be. As it was, a boy maybe as tall as a raspberry bush fell out and onto the floor. After a moment of confusion, the boy bounced to his feet. Regaining some of his dignity, he made a demand: "Again I ask. Who are you? Who sent you?". And, after another moment of hesitation, "And give me back my cloak".

 

"Oh, this is new. I don't remember the apprentices being sent down here. I always thought it was just the worst tempered of the monks who chose to live by dim lamplight all day long. But no, I see a... well I can't tell, but I'll say a boy of thirteen, is also living in these dim dungeons?" Dolstoy noted with some amusement. The boy looked as if he would take offense, but the lightness of Dolstoy's tone and the casual way in which he sank into the soft cushions disarmed him. But not fully.

 

Stamping and fuming, the boy shouted "Give me back my cloak! And get off of there, it's not for you!". To punctuate his point, he lunged at the cloak, still firmly in Dolstoy's grip. Dolstoy obliged, and as the boy reached him he, the cloak swung into him from the right, knocking the boy off his balance and sending him tumbling into a mess of fabric and flesh. 

 

As the boy languished, Dolstoy rose from the cushions to stand over him. "Alright then. Now that we've established some boundaries between us, let's get to knocking them down, shall we? Let's start with names. You'll give yours, then I'll give mine. Then, you'll explain to me who you are and why you're here, and then I'll do the same". Not awaiting a response, Dolstoy continued: "And rest assured, I too am a loyal servant to the goddess. But I'll tell you more once you've explained yourself."

 

Until that remark, the boy had patiently been listening as he wriggled his way back into the messy wool he called a cloak. But at that last utterance he was filled with indignation! "Explain myself? You're the one who intruded on my study and assaulted me! You'd be lucky not to end up in the brig! I'd hardly believe your heart is devoted to the goddess". Dolstoy sighed. He would simply have to wait until the boy said something of interest. But the boy just sighed and grumbled, no longer a shout: "Although I say that, you're just like the rest of them...".

 

This was a feeling Dolstoy well remembered from his youth. The resentment he felt towards his teachers and classmates. They were all dumber than him, either too crass or too uptight. None of them understood what he was going through. None of them saw that his struggle was real, as real if not more real than any they had ever experienced. He had grown out of this attitude, obviously. Still, he felt some affinity towards this youth. He softened his tone when it came time to reply. He was just about to make a comforting, comradarly comment when something clicked.

 

"Wait, you said this is your study? As in... you're responsible for the research or preservation of an a prophecy?". Despite not being a particularly friendly or soothing remark, the youth brightened up far more than if any had been made. Obviously, this responsibility gave him great pride. With a smile, and trying to retain an air of dignity, the boy straightened his back and gave a mock bow. "I see you are indeed a man of the goddess if you knew that's what it meant. Yes, this is indeed my study. My study. Mine. A study all my own. And not in the lay sense of a place to work, this is indeed a study of prophecy. More than one in fact." He was pacing back and forth now, truly excited to have a captive audience. Truly excited to have this chance to brag. Clearly, this was a rare opportunity. Considering whether to go the whole mile, he decided to be theatrical and introduce himself in the formal manner:

"I am Guardian Grachus, birthname Reamu. I keep the words of the goddess and her prophetess, and gaurd the prophecy of the Sheep's crown and the tale of the dragons. I am gratified to meet you, and hope you are so gratified to meet me."

 

Wow, a full blown guardian? That was a lifetime achievement for some, and it came with not a little status. There was definitely something strange about this boy being a guardian, not the least the fact that he lived in perhaps the worst accommodations the religion had to offer. The room was tiny, with a narrow corridor that led even deeper into the mountain. Probably towards a bookshelf or some hub to get to the rest of these cavern rooms. But still, it was a dark and miserable place. 

 

Despite his many questions, etiquette and deeply ingrained respect forced Dolstoy to reply in the formal manner on his own part. Falling to his knees and bowing his head, he introduced himself and his work: "I am Ranger Dolstoy, of the fourth order and second rank. I return from an expedition of holy deeds and reconnaissance in the lands past the Caspian.". Dolstoy thought for a moment. Was that all? Did he have to tell this boy any more about the nature of his mission? Of it's independence? Or was the usual vaguery enough?

 

It didn't seem to matter. The boy was practically bursting with satisfaction. If he knew that this was just the bare minimum Dolstoy could say, he showed no sign of it. Perhaps this was the first time he had been so addressed and met. A wave of sympathy crashed through Dolstoy. It took so little to make him so happy. And now it was time to get to the bottom of things.

 

Or at least that's what Dolstoy was going to do. And then he thought better of it. Whatever Grachus told him, it would only be through a heavy cloud of confusion and subjectivity. If he wanted to get to the bottom of the many mysteries of this barely pubescent boy who outranked most men of the civilized world, he would get them from the top. 

 

And he was tired. "Now, sir Guardian, am I permitted to make use of your cushions?"

"As you wish, noble ranger"
"Thank you. Much appreciated."

These words barely out of his mouth, and Dolstoy collapsed into a heap of fabric not so different to that which he found in that exact same room just a few minutes prior.

 

He had completely forgotten about the strange happenings at the top of the world.