3. Pip's Stories -- Part II

Pip's Stories -- Part II

  • P

    The Defiler was dead; finally and truly dead…..

    I.

    …and with its passing Pip felt that small stain of dread and doubt that had lain on his heart for so many years (like the touch of an icy fingertip, or the point of a cold, cold dagger) finally melt, and also pass away. Pip paused for a moment in his meditation and gazed into the reflecting pool, staring at his own ruined face reflected upon the water’s surface – the nose that stood out like a crooked letter, the smashed, misshapen ears, the heavy dark scars on the brow and around the eyes that had healed hard like cured leather, the ragged line that split his lips down the center and ran to his chin, separating the lower half of his face like a poorly stitched mask. It was a sad face, Pip thought – a worn face. A tired face. And every scar – every line, every stitch, and every badly healed break reflected a lesson – a lesson hard fought, and stubbornly won. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was a face that had begun to reflect wisdom, and inner peace. Perhaps.

    Dead. The Defiler was dead. And Pip watched in near amazement as the face in the water twitched once, twice, and finally broke into a small smile. And the eyes that twinkled back at him from the pool seemed for a brief moment to glow with tiny specks of starlight, flashing and twinkling like the tiny white embers that fly from the fire and are carried upward in its draft to burn out and grow cold, drifting away slowly in the wind.

  • P

    IV.

    And then….. later…..

    _… he was there again, standing at the cliff’s edge, looking down at all the tiny twinkling lights. They were just as he’d seen them before – except this time he knew they were not really stars. This time he knew they were bits and fragments of memory – of people and places present and past, and perhaps even a few glimpses of things to come. But there was only one that he had come to see.

    Pip thought of his master… of his face, his voice… he thought of him sitting in his favorite place – a little walled garden in the center of the monastery, the place where he had first seen him so many years ago. He pictured him seated on a low stone bench… by the little koi pond at the center of the garden… it would be late afternoon… the sun would cast an orange reflection on the stone walls… the smell of jasmine would be in the air… perhaps a slight breeze would swirl through the courtyard…. it would be a warm day…. almost summer…

    And with that picture firmly in his mind Pip calmly jumped off the edge of the cliff and hurtled down and down through the cold darkness towards the little lights below. And as he fell ever faster, one light in particular began to shine more brightly than the others. With a thought he willed himself towards it… and then….._

    … there he was. Floating just by his master’s shoulder. Insubstantial, transparent – like a puff of smoke.

    Pip saw that his master was holding a small frog in his hand – light green, almost yellow – with a red band across its back. The frog sat calmly and unconcernedly in his palm while he stroked its back with a fingertip. Pip saw that his master was speaking …. but at first, he could hear no words. Then, concentrating very hard on listening, he began to hear his master’s voice faintly… as if it were coming from the bottom of a very deep well.

    “… fortunate that I found you before you were eaten by a pigeon, as you surely will be if you stay here in this garden. Hm. But what shall I do with you?”

    His master turned then, and it seemed to Pip that he looked right through him. Then a faint smile crept onto his master’s face, and he cocked his head to the side as if listening to the sound of faint, far off music. He spoke.

    “And here is another visitor to my garden. One I had hoped to see again, who is likewise fortunate not to have been eaten by something dark and hungry that lurks between worlds.”

    He looked directly at Pip for a long while, his face growing darker and more stern with each moment. Then finally he spoke again,

    “It is Pip, my old pupil. And he has come to tell me something. Speak.”

    So Pip did… or tried to. He began slowly at first, then spoke more quickly – telling his master that he had failed him, that he had failed himself… feeling more hollow with each word he spoke. But well before he had finished, his master held up his hand.

    “Stop. I can not hear you. Your presence is too weak.” He frowned sternly, then continued…

    “You have come to tell me that you have failed, have you not? Nod yes or no.”
    Pip nodded ‘yes’, slowly but firmly. His master spoke again.

    “So it is yes? I see. Now you must answer one question for me. The answer need not be complex; a word or two will do.” His master’s face grew even darker before he continued. “And I will give you one clue. If I tell you that I would have certain knowledge that you have met and conquered the enemy I sent you to face only if you returned to me, as you have just done, to confess failure – then by what name would your enemy be known, Brother? Think well on this, and respond when you are ready.”

    His master then turned his eyes back to the pond and gazed into the water, still lightly stroking the back of the frog he held in his palm with a fingertip.

    So Pip thought, trying to remain calm. How could defeat also be victory? How could his failure represent a triumph? What what his master talking about? He had thought he’d been sent to the Nars region to fight a great evil…. had he not done so? And had that evil not proved to be far more powerful… far greater than he? For a moment Pip became frustrated… he had braved great danger to come here only to be confronted with what – a riddle? He realized that he was becoming angry… and with that realization his frustration and anger vanished immediately.

    Who was he to question his master? No. Anger and frustration were childish emotions, unworthy of one who truly followed the path. So he looked within himself, and pondered the question well and truly. And after only a few moments, he knew. It was as if a gong had been struck inside his head – the answer to his master’s question was obvious. Then, feeling very small and very foolish, he spoke a single word…

    “…. pride,” he said.

    His master turned to him and smiled. Then he spoke –

    “Yes! Your pride is what I sent you to conquer. Pride – your greatest enemy, that would have torn your feet from the path. An enemy that only you could face… only you could defeat… you alone. And face it you have. So you have. And it was well and truly done, my son.”

    Master T’ula stood, and walked towards him. For a moment, he thought he felt his master’s hand brush his cloak. Then his master held out the palm of one hand and placed it in the center of Pip’s chest. At first his touch seemed insubstantial, feathery – but after a few moments the hand felt more solid, warmer, almost as if his master had faded slightly out of the real world and into the space between, where Pip now hovered like a ghost. Then his master spoke one last time…

    “Back you go, Pip. Do not come this way again, until you can travel without the Oenanthe. Go and be happy. Tend your garden. Remember your lesson. I will call for you again, sooner than you might think. Know that now, only now, your learning truly begins. Fare you well.”

    With that, Pip felt his master give him a gentle push. The garden dissolved and faded away, and the stars returned – spinning and whirling endlessly. Pip felt himself flying backward with impossible speed… further… and further… faster… and faster…

    … until he had returned, and found himself sitting in front of the cold ashes of his fire, which had long ago gone out. The sun had just slipped behind the hilltops… it was approaching dusk, and he knew that a full day had passed. At least one full day.

    Very stiff and very thirsty, he stood slowly and walked over to the little stream, bent down, scooped up some water into his palm, and drank. Then again, and again, until he felt his thirst begin to ebb. Looking down, he caught a small movement out of the corner of his eye… which drew his eyes further, to a small lump in the pocket of his robe. He reached in the pocket carefully, and pulled something out.

    It was a small frog – light green, almost yellow – with a red band across its back. Pip stared at it for a moment in disbelief, then smiled and laughed as it jumped from his hand and into the water, splashing its way downstream to find a new home. Hopefully, one without pigeons.

  • P

    III.

    The cold maiden. The grinning skull. What the forest elves called ‘Oenanthe’… dreaming powder. He’d prepared it years before – from wormwood, jimson, nightshade, white lotus, red poppy, black pearl – each in exact measure, dried and crushed to a fine powder. The smallest pinch had the potential to free the mind and the Ki from the bounds of the body. Just a bit more could bring lasting madness…and yet a tiny bit more, death.

    Pip sat in front of a small campfire atop the tallest hill overlooking the Silver Valley. From his vantage point high above Pip could see the twinkle of lights shining from the windows of the houses, the thin plumes of smoke rising from their chimneys – the valley was peaceful and quiet, just as it should be. Just as he hoped it would always be.

    A small stream rushed downhill to his right, filling the night air with a light mist of water that glowed pale and white in the moonlight. Pip sat quietly; only the sound of running water, the occasional hoot of a distant owl, and the small chirp of an uneasy cricket broke the silence on the hilltop.

    Pip carefully took a pinch of the powder from his pouch and dropped it into a clay cup. To this he added a small amount of wine and a small lump of sugar. He hesitated for a moment, then dipped one finger again into the pouch and added just a few more grains of powder to the cup, then stirred it carefully and set the cup on a rock by the fire to warm it.

    _He’d tried once before… many long years ago. He’d been overly confident – sure of his ability, sure that his mind would hold firm, certain that he ruled his ‘self’ completely, certain that his control over his Ki was absolute. He had, in other words, been a fool. He was lucky that he had not died.

    He didn’t remember who had found him there in the forest. Had it been Grinthar? Fade? Karbeh? He couldn’t recall. Whoever had found him had bound his hands and feet loosely so that he wouldn’t thrash about and harm himself, and propped him up against a tree to keep him from choking… given him water so he hadn’t died of thirst… and guarded him against predators while his thrashed and writhed, caught between worlds.

    Meanwhile, he had dreamed… dreamed that he had walked a stony path littered with bones and, after what seemed like days of travel, reached a turning place – a crossroads - a place where the one road branched into three.

    The first branch led down to a cleft in the earth, and there he vaguely recalled seeing the restless spirits of the dead, shuffling slowly down and away, into a dark abyss. From that path there was no return.

    The second branch seemed to wind its way through a vast flat plain, where occasional flashes of lightning briefly illuminated horrible, dark shapes floating in the air above that seemed to be patiently waiting and watching, watching and waiting – like vultures circling ever lower above a wretched, dying beast. Pip remembered thinking that only a being of very great power might brave that path… at the same time, he was strangely certain that it led to places that were wonderful. Wonderful beyond all imagining.

    The third branch led only a short way, ending at the edge of a cliff. Pip could recall peering over the edge – looking down, and seeing stars…millions of tiny points of firelight ebbing and pulsing in some grand and indecipherable pattern below. From here, he had thought, one could go anywhere… find anyone or anything… he had only to will it, and in a blink he'd be there, wherever he wished to go. As long as he could picture his destination in his mind's eye clearly... perfectly... completely...

    But then he suddenly became aware of the terrible height of the thing, and cold fear clutched his heart. He realized that to fall off the edge might mean to fall forever… to spend an eternity hurtling downward, out of control, spinning, whirling… down and down and down. The thought filled him with horror and dread, fear and panic. His composure dissolved, his mastery of self disappeared. His heartbeat raced out of control, and then there was only one thought in his mind... only one desire in his heart... to flee anywhere, anywhere but this place. He’d turned then, to run back along the path that had brought him here… but the path was gone. And the dark, floating shapes… they’d moved closer. Much closer. Too close._

    He was older now, of course. Older, more humble. More wise. Less certain of himself… more certain of his limits and weaknesses. This time he would not carry fear with him into that place, he thought. This time he would brave the cliff... and find the one he sought - his master, T'ula, of the Old Order. The one who had found him as an orphan, and set his feet upon the path. The one who had sent him to Ormath for training, bought his books, and clothes... who had fed his mind and his body. The one who had showed him his first glimpses of kindness, and compassion. The one who had sent him here...

    "North… north until you reach the Ice Lake. That is where your enemy lies. That is where the one who would seek to tear your feet from the path will be. Go there and find him! Defeat him. This is what you must do, and you must do it alone. When it is done send word back to me here. You will know how to reach me."

    Those had been his words. Pip would never forget them. He knew that the time to reach his master had come. He knew how to reach him. He had met his enemy… found him and met him. But he had not defeated him. No, not that. He had failed -- failed himself, and failed his master. He would find him and tell him. Because he must.

    And then? The rest would be as Yondalla willed.

    Pip meditated, gathering and centering his Ki, stilling and calming his mind, breathing deeply, and slowing the beating of his heart until a full second passed between beats, then two… then three. He looked down at the Silver Valley then, and thought of those he loved. Then, slowly, he raised the cup to his lips and drained it, swallowing the bitter liquid in a single gulp.

  • P

    II.

    He had hurried to Norwick. Friar Fred had been glad to have him help to treat those who had been lightly injured. Those most grievously injured were tended to by the Clerics, of course – for some, the only hope lay in Divine healing. But Pip quietly tended as many of those who would respond to herbs and bandages as he could. Most did not wish to speak of the battle, and Pip did ask of it. A few who did feel like speaking told him of the carnage; the air that that was thick with magic, split and rent by waves of dark energy that lifted armored men like rag dolls, twisting and breaking and burning them effortlessly. Pip listened silently to those who spoke – hoping that the telling might serve to unburden them, perhaps eventually leading to healing of a different kind. Yet, he knew that some would never be whole again in mind or body. For those, he prayed.

    For three days he did what he could to help – finally finding himself in the kitchen, helping to prepare meals, and to feed those who had not yet recovered the strength to rise from their sickbeds. Most were able to leave after a few days. Finally, only the most grievously wounded remained. Pip left then, for helping them lay beyond his small skill. He returned to Jiyyd… for there, there was one last thing that he must do to complete the cycle - one last thing he had promised, that must be done. One last thing… and it was something that he feared, and feared greatly.