A New Order

GAVIN MILLS

PURITY – A New Order

First published by Gavin Mills 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Gavin Mills

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any

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scanning, or otherwise without written permission from

the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to

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First edition

ISBN (paperback): 9781546964957

ISBN (hardcover): 9781370175970

FOR MY FATHER.

The most honorable man I have ever known.

CONTENTS

Foreword v

BOOK ONE vii

PART ONE

1 After the Plague 3

2 Rezden’s Dream 8

3 Maxmillian Grace 12

4 A New Order 15

5 A Father’s Advice 18

6 To Meet a Warlord 22

7 The House of Arelaz 25

8 When Dinner Is Done 31

PART TWO - FAMILY MATTERS

9 The End of Eden 45

10 Poulus & Seth 57

11 The Decree 62

12 Timor on the Run 65

13 Timor Lives 72

14 The Eve of the Full Moon 75

15 Joss Decides 81

16 Back Home 83

17 The Wait 87

Foreword

WHEN THERE IS NOTHING LEFT TO LIVE FOR IT IS EASY TO DIE FOR SOMETHING.

“Contemplate the talents you have and underestimate not the strengths nor the weaknesses of those that stand against you. Though clouds of oppression hang dark and looming, it is the bond that exists between all that lives which holds the key to tomorrow’s gate. Return to the heart of evil and let the revelation unfold. And remember, plant not reason in barren minds. Sow where the seed may thrive... in the heart of chaos and the belly of the beast.”

BOOK ONE

A New Order

Part One

The Birth of Horizon

1 - After the Plague

When it all began, who would ever have guessed that the Megacity of Horizen and the New Order could falter. Who would ever have imagined the inspired brainchild of Rezden, visionary thinker and philosopher, and his close friend Maxmillian Grace, architect of change, could ever decline. It couldn’t… The price for failure would be the continuance of the mindless insanity that had raged since the White Plague, a century before. And for all

but the Warlords and their social elite, this could not be.

When still a young boy, Rezden had heard accounts of the White Plague many times from Agtril, his grandfather who had heard from his grandfather - who had been a young boy when the plague came.

He would listen for hours, captivated as the old man recounted how the White Plague brought more than just death. It brought fear and hopelessness so thick you could taste it, the old man would tell.

None still living could recall first hand the terror and carnage of the plague, but the specter of the disease still haunted the minds of the kin of all those that survived.

Unseen and unheard, like a thief in the night it had come from the North on the sultry summer trade winds, discriminating not between man or beast, rich or poor, leaving a trail of anguish, pain, pestilence, and death.

Five days. That’s what it would take most times to die a death of indescribable horror. For helpless victims, pain, fever and the terrifying realization of the inevitable. For friends and loved ones standing by helplessly, by far the worst, by far the most unexpected affliction, the dementia.

Petrified kin looked on in horror as those they loved screamed their agony and terror the one moment, and laughed hysterically, foaming at the mouth and thrashing uncontrollably the next, as if possessed. Some believed the insanity and dementia were ironic mercies bestowed by the Divine, for it spared the victim any

cognisance of the final hours when blood and bile seeped like slime from every orifice of the ravaged body, before death finally brought welcome release not a moment too soon, for both victims and loved ones.

First to succumb were the young and the weak, the old and the frail. Initially this caused little consternation: natural selection was the way of the world. But when the rate of infection and the horror of the plague became apparent, the multitudes responded with hysteria, desperation and panic.

Friend turned on friend and brother on brother, and those of power and privilege retreated to the safety and isolation of country retreats, villas and estates. The less fortunate huddled together in the seclusion of homes barricaded in vain against the invisible death, and those inflicted were discarded and abandoned like dogs, to die unattended, unconsoled and alone.

And the sickly sweet stench of death hung heavy in the air as exponentially more swollen corpses of man, beast and bird were left to fester and rot where they fell.

The plague raged for five years, before the terrifying veil of death lifted and blew away as mysteriously as it had come. And in that time, history records within the domain of man and beast, of every five alive before, the plague took four.

But the plague had taken not only life, but also faith and reason. For like the merchants and landowners, priests and community leaders had also hastened to the safety and seclusion of isolated retreats. And in so doing, abandoned their vassals and congregations to fend for themselves when there was no way. It is not surprisingly that when they left, the doctrines of law andfaith which they championed, left with them.

When the spread of the White Scourge eventually slowed and folk dared to believe it could end, trepidation gave rise to hope against hope and hesitant optimism, while simultaneously also rendering common folk vulnerable to devious intentions of unscrupulous social predators within their midst.

Cognisant of advantage spawned by fear, opportunists emerged with inflammatory words and distorted interpretations of divine intent, playing on superstitions and trepidations of terrified simpletons and traumatized minds. Words and interpretations preached as philosophy, as doctrine, as prophecy, as the way, proclaiming that those who survived had been spared for a greater purpose, and those expounding these revelations had been chosen to lead the flock to a new beginning.

And on their return, the landed gentry found a very different world. A world in the grips of fanatics, zealots and warlords. A world where they were no longer needed, wanted – or for the most part, even tolerated.

Some fled to exile, others suffered the wrath of the new enlightenment. Order imposed became realigned according to strength and superstition, enforced by the brutality of both, and the last remnants of that which separates man from beast dissolved.

What followed was one hundred years of darkness. Darkness perpetuated by lords of war jostling for power and status using terror and intimidation. Warlords as perennial as the seasons sowed carnage and reaped fear, enforcing subservience upon those unfortunate enough to fall within their realms.

But as is always the way, with time borders consolidated and tensions dissipated. Some of the more intelligent and inspired of the Warlords began to aspire to legacies beyond the short term, looking to innovation and invention to enshrine their existence, enticing an enthusiastic throng of candidates with the lure of status and wealth - for those with the talent and ability.

What followed was an era of fresh enlightenment as scientists, engineers and merchants jostled for recognition and reward. But in the face of all the perceived progress, prosperity and power remained firmly entrenched in the hands of the Warlords.

2 - Rezden’s Dream

When recounting the story, Agtril would always encourage his grandson Rezden to give thanks to the Great Divine for blessings bestowed.

“If it were not for all the carnage and death, what we enjoy today could not have been,” he would often say because as fate would have it, the ability of Agtril as an extremely talented engineer, had caught the attention of Liszbar, Warlord in the Northern Lands.

When summoned, not a man to overlook opportunity, Agtril had applied his energy and talents to good effect. And for his efforts had been well compensated, soon gaining recognition and status, as one of the new social elite. And into this life of social and financial privilege, Rezden had been born and raised.

The only son and heir to a sizeable allotment of power and prosperity, as a boy Rezden lacked for nothing. Gifted both with intelligence and compassion, already from an early age he became

aware of the injustices of the world around him.

Rezden questioned the hierarchy that defined society. Why, he would ask, did the world unfold like a dream for those of wealth and power, while those that did their bidding were considered and treated with little more regard than livestock.

As Rezden the boy grew into a man, his preoccupation with social injustices deepened, and so too did his willingness to make his opinions known. His cynical observations and critical rhetoric soon created ripples among his peers, while simultaneously mustering fervent support from the working classes.

3 - Maxmillian Grace

Maxmillian, the youngest son of a humble carpen- ter, was born into a world of toil and hardship. But unlike his peers, the boy refused to accept that his future would be defined or constrained by the status quo. At an early age he resolved to create his destiny rather than just accept it, and with wisdom far beyond his years, quickly came to realize that network and education held the keys to opportunity.

When only nine years old, he made up his mind to seek a benefactor and mentor, to teach him the ways of the world and guide him along the path to his dreams. At the time, he was apprenticed to his father, spending long hours practicing the family trade of carpentry and craftsmanship. Developing skills which as it would turn out, would attract the attention of a known and respected merchant. A merchant who as fate would have it, had first been made aware of the plight of those less privileged by his son. For the merchant was Grenville, Rezden’s father, son of Agtril the engineer.

Early one afternoon Maxmillian was returning home after repairing a doorjamb for a wealthy landowner when his attention was drawn to a well-dressed gentleman gesticulating angrily at the damaged wheel of an elegant horse carriage. Curiosity getting the better of him, the boy had edged to within hearing distance of the commotion. It soon became apparent that the gentleman had an important engagement elsewhere which could not be missed. But despite his rantings, the others present shifting uneasily from foot to foot seemed either unwilling or incapable of offering any form of assistance or solace.

Maxmillian, quick to seize an opportunity, stepped forward and proudly offered his services to fix the wheel. The gen- tleman stopped his frenzied tantrum and studied the boy curiously.

“If you can do that for me, my young sir, you will be doing me a great service which on my word, will not go unrewarded.”

Maxmillian smiled at the man, and as he prepared his tools replied, “Thank you sire. And I trust the word of a gentleman will not go dishonored.”

The stately gentleman bellowed with laughter, moving closer as Maxmillian set to work, “Ah my young friend, I see I am now to be indebted to a man of ambition as well as ability, albeit somewhat self proclaimed.”

It was not thirty minutes later that, to the delight of all, the wheel was repaired and the carriage once again ready for travel.

“I am impressed young man, and believe me, in these times, that does not happen too often. My homestead is at the end of the lane, just beyond the ridge. Come past after tomorrow and we will discuss how I can return your favor in kind.”

And true to Grenville’s word, Maxmillian benefited a thou- sand fold from his enterprise. After six years of long hours and arduous work - for his father by day and as a sponsored student by night - the young man earned qualifications in architecture and a spectrum of social sciences. And for his passionate commitment, his esteemed benefactor used his influence to secure Max an extremely attractive posting, where his newly acquired skills were rewarded with more than adequate compensation.

...And it was on one of Rezden’s rare visits home that by chance or fate, the student came to meet the heir of his benefactor. A meeting sparked by the attraction of kindred spirits, which ultimately led to a lifelong friendship enriched by a common purpose – to sow the seeds of change.

Rezden’s father Grenville, a man of inherited respect and status, looked with disfavour on his son’s controversial antics. Fearing that his heir’s behavior could in some way tarnish his own reputation or business interests, he put up little or no resistance when Rezden one day announced his intention to travel, and see the world.

For thirteen years Rezden traveled, traversing the land from east to west, north to south, crossing the seas to far off lands, meeting different people, experiencing different cultures, studying philosophy, art, music, the sciences. As his mind expanded with his travels, studies and accumulated experiences, his convictions

deepened: that all men are created equal and should therefore be treated equally. And oppression irrespective of shape or form, was unjust, evil and shortsighted.

When at last he returned home, he resolved to address the injustices of class and create a New Order. However, as he was soon to discover, initiating change in a system spawned by fear, entrenched by time and driven by commerce, would be no simple feat.

But Rezden was an exceptional individual, not known to entertain either defeat or failure. Systematically, albeit slowly he stimulated curiosity, then interest and ultimately enthusiasm for his theories. Before too long, much to the chagrin of more than a few, he became admired and respected by a growing multitude, increasingly being seen in the boisterous company of the Bohemian bourgeoisie, and winning acclaim as an icon of hope for the

working classes.

Rezden’s fundamental belief was that all mankind was the creation of the Great Divine, and therefore no man could be considered any greater or lesser than any other. And the toil of every man was as significant as that of the next, whether he be a peasant or a physician.

“Show me a man content with servitude, and I will show you either a liar, a lay-about or a fool,” he would declare defiantly.

From his perspective, the concept of privilege had no grounding in the larger schemes of life and the fundamental principles underpinning social order. Protecting the rights of all men, rich or poor, old or young, friend or foe, was what defined and differentiated humanity.

Rezden preached at length that in a just society, leaders are in essence servants to the well-being and will of those they represent. Without fear of consequence, he attacked the existing status quo not only for being primitive and unjust, but for corrupt practices and devious intent - even daring to share his opinion that

ultimately such a system was destined to fail.

“Remember always: A true leader is not defined by his ability to command but by his ability to serve. For in reality it is only through serving the needs of others that hearts and minds can be

won, and the spirit of the individual enriched.”

But in spite of his growing acclaim, Rezden became frustrated by his inability to cross the divide from word to deed. And it was only after he chanced to meet Maxmillian Grace that his vision of a New Order gained form.

4 - A New Order

The friendship between Rezden and Max grew, and so too did their concern for their world. At length they would debate the lot of the wretched, hypothesizing revolutionary ideas to eradicate prejudice and discrimination. And slowly they developed their vision of a New Order. A New Order underpinned by dignity, equality and respect, where progress and innovation were geared single-mindedly towards the betterment of all humankind.

But well they both knew, where there is gain, there must be loss - and those of privilege were unlikely to relinquish even a fraction of their lives of opulence and pleasure for the common folk – especially in light of popular talk in high circles warning of the horrific perils of change.

“Today we give them a voice, tomorrow they cut our throats,” elegant ladies would quip at ostentatious banquets. Some would nod in agreement, some would nod for sexual opportunity, and some would nod contemplating the consequences either way. Eyes afire with conviction, Rezden would turn on them.

“And you believe this will go on forever? While we live as we do, those out there with dreams like me and you will sit by and watch their sons become slaves, their children starve? Will sit by knowing their lives and existence have no meaning, no hope, no future?

“When there is nothing to live for, it is easy to die for something. Without change, the world we live in along with the life we live, is doomed.”

“So what are you saying?” was the frequent retort, “We simply give it all away? And do you think they will be happy? Will they thank us? Give them a voice and they will use it as a knife to cut our throats.”

“Don’t give them a voice, and one day they will cut the throats of your babies! There must be a new beginning. A rebirth... A New Order. ”

“A New Order?” an inevitable voice, “You exaggerate sir. Your rantings are unsubstantiated. For it is you who voices the cry, not the rabble you claim to champion. The discontent you so eloquently warn of, resides only in your mind.”

Cold as ice Rezden would cut through nervous laughter, “And that is the dilemma my friend: How can there be hope when that which must change is the farmer, not the crop? How can there be rebirth when the patron of change by circumstance, will need to be the one dethroned?”

Far from swaying his peers, Rezden’s revolutionary princi- ples unsettled them. Where at first his theories were considered entertaining, as potential consequences became apparent, more and more considered his words to be provocative. The passionate young maverick became increasingly alienated by his peers within the social elite.

But Rezden was undeterred, spending more and more time with Max as the rift widened between him and his class. And the bond of friendship between the two young men grew, along with their combined resolve: to give flight to their dream of a New Order.

Nevertheless, the two young dreamers learnt the hard way that without the necessary muscle, swimming upstream was a futile exercise. As the years passed, they talked, schemed and planned, developing the blueprint to perfection for their New Order. But in spite of their endless planning, drafting and more planning, further than inciting some and infuriating others, little was achieved; without approval from Arelaz - great grandson of Liszbar and reigning Warlord of the Northern Lands - fear of retribution incubated apathy. Without the Warlord’s blessing and a home for their dream, their brain- child would remain an orphan. And all seemed lost until one day with no forewarning, Rezden was summoned to Arelaz, warlord of the Northern Lands.

5 - A Father’s Advice

In five days Rezden would appear before Arelaz, and for those five days, Rezden was filled with trepidation. He had never even seen the Warlord with his own eyes, let alone appeared in his presence. General opinion was that Arelaz was a benign despot and gentleman, reasonably prepared to let the world turn uninterrupted. Under his rule, his realm had enjoyed a time of relative calm and prosperity. But no matter how benign, Rezden was convinced his views and words would not resonate well with the Warlord.

Maxmillian, on hearing the news offered without hesitation to accompany his friend. “No Max. He calls for me. It is my word which troubles his heart. And it is I who will answer from my heart for the words that trouble.”

On the eve of his journey north for the meeting, Rezden was summoned by his father. He was somewhat surprised by the request. Bond between father and son had become strained by their diametrically opposed ambitions and viewpoints. Perhaps Rezden wasn’t going to any lengths to avoid his father, but he certainly wasn’t making any effort to see him, and pretty much felt his father was doing the same. The two hadn’t exchanged a word since he received the summons. So he couldn’t fathom what warranted the invitation at this time.

Rezden arrived at the sprawling homestead at the end of the alley in the rose-gold afterglow of dusk and found his father reclining on the terrace, gazing out over the lands.

“And so ends another day,” his father sighed without turning as Rezden approached. “Sit awhile and be comfortable. Have you dined? Would you like...”

“Father... I bring my respect. Thank you. I have eaten. Be at ease.”

“How I wish life could be like the day and night,” the old man muttered, “No matter how severe the tempest of the day, the darkness of night shrouds all, and with every new dawn, a fresh start.”

He sighed, turning to his son. “But I shouldn’t speak to you of fresh starts, should I?”

Rezden lowered his eyes, “It is the way it should be. All men are equal. ...All that live are equal, playing just as significant a role as any other in an unfolding Universe. And when the yoke of class muzzles the voice of reason, reason alone might absolve us from the sins of our ways.”

“And these are the words you plan to share with Arelaz tomorrow? Rezden. My son. Have you lost your mind?”

Rezden crossed his arms defiantly, lifting his eyes. “You have heard – and say nothing until now?”

The old man settled back into the padded leather comfort of his lounger.

“You are my flesh and blood. I know you as I know myself... But you will not let me reach you. You will not let me in. And the greatest regret in my life is the fact that one day I will die without you ever having truly got to know me or my heart.”

The young man’s eyes widened with surprise, caught offguard.

“Haven’t... I do not understand...”

“Do you think you are the first of your breeding to see the injustice, the hate, the brutality? Do you think you are unique, ...one of a kind? The only one to empathize, see the pain, the suffering, the fear? We all do, but our fear is greater... for the consequences if our worst nightmares were realized. For every one of us, there are ten thousand ...of them.”

“But things can’t just go on the way...”

“Of course not! But how - and when? How can there be rebirth without a baptism in blood? Without death. The death of your kinsmen. The death of your family ...The death of us!”

“Through a New Order.”

The old man scoffed, “Rhetoric. Idealistic rhetoric. And so turns the circle of life.”

“We have a vision. A plan. Where all will benefit. There will be no losers.”

“And you will tell this to Arelaz...”

“Yes.”“I see you will not be moved, and who knows, maybe the time has come. I once heard tell of an ancient legend from these parts. Of a boy on a quest - for the Seed of Reason...”

Rezden cocked his head, curious, “I have heard of the legend. But father, it is simply a parable surely. A lesson.”

“Maybe, and maybe your dream will give credence to the legend. But whatever comes to pass in the future, right now you must deal with the present, and you would make an old man sleep easier if this one time you would heed my words. Do not expect gratitude from a condemned man. Temper the passion of conviction with the compassion of diplomacy. If your New Order is as you say, show how warlords might benefit – or at least emerge unscathed - with the same zeal as you outline the workings of your vision.”

When Rezden left the next day for the Northern Lands, he felt re- energized by the words of his father. The weight had evaporated and there was a lightness in his step. Perhaps there was truth to legends, and the destiny of the Universe was mapped in the stars.

6 - To Meet a Warlord

Mindful of images spawned by rumour and hearsay, Rezden was surprised by what he encountered when after two full days travel, he finally reached his destination. Where he had expected imposing barricades and fortifications he found homely estates settled on open, unprotected lands. Where he had presumed suspicion and hostility, he found smiles and goodwill.

But his surprise on arrival was nothing compared to the awe, dismay and confusion he experienced when finally he was ushered into the presence of the Warlord.

“Ah Rezden. Prophet of change, mouthpiece of the under- dog. Welcome! Welcome to my haven of evil.”

The man addressing him was not much older than he. An elegant athletic man with flashing eyes and a rich golden voice lightly spiced with intellectual wit and humour.

“Good day Sire,” he replied lowering his eyes respectfully as was the custom in the presence of a warlord, “I am Rezden, your humble servant.”

Arelaz studied him for a second, “Yes. Very likely I’m sure,” he replied with a mischievous chuckle.Before Rezden could gather his thoughts to respond, Arelaz spun on his heels and glided towards the door. He turned again towards the room and addressed the hospitality staff in waiting, his voice warm and calm, devoid of malice or threat, but clearly a voice of authority not to be questioned or disregarded.

“Please leave us now. We have much to discuss and time is not an ally.”

With courteous bows and affectionate smiles, the hovering bevy of aides recused themselves and left.

When they were alone, Arelaz spoke again. “My good man Rezden. Why the surprise? What was it you expected? Fire and brimstone?”

“Forgive me lord. It seems you are not what you ought to be...”

“Ah, of course! A warlord: A proponent of terror. An advocate of cruelty. No, my man - although at times, admittedly, a useful title and convenient crown. But first, you have traveled far and long: Stretch your limbs and refresh yourself. And do not offend me with misplaced awe. All that is mine is at your call. Until we meet again.”

And before Rezden could gather his thoughts, Arelaz turned with a flourish and was gone.

*****

Attended by a busy swarm of hostesses and aides, Rezden stretched out in the steaming hot bath. How could this be the warlord he had learnt to fear? This was a civilized man of intellect and learning, a man who surely would rather debate than oppress. But history painted a very different picture. And Rezden knew in detail, the history of the Warlords.Clean and invigorated in fresh garments provided as a gift by his host, Rezden was pacing up and down impatiently, eager to hear the reason for his audience, when finally he was

summoned.

7 - The House of Arelaz

The manservant who collected Rezden, escorted him through a maze of corridors before ushering him into a massive library stacked from floor to ceiling with the largest collection of books and manuscripts, the visitor had ever seen. Silhouetted against a rose tinted sunset filtering through a sturdy oak portal, Arelaz was seated in a simple wooden chair, his back to them as they entered.

Smiling warmly, Arelaz rose to greet his guest, catching Rezden off-guard once again with a brotherly embrace. Everything about this man flew in the face of his preconceptions. He smiled, lamely trying to return the embrace. Arelaz, amused at his guest’s obvious discomfort, turned back to his chair with a soft infectious chuckle.

“Come my friend. Be at ease. If I meant you ill will, believe me, I would not have waited this long for the moment. Please, be seated. Shortly we will share a meal together. But first let us drink wine and mead enough to loosen our tongues and lower the contrived walls of restraint. Let us talk of our world and our ways. And later, when we have shared our spirits, we will talk of your dream – and my dilemma.” He giggled again, obviously amused by his own dark humor.

Rezden lowered his eyes bowing his head in compliance before scanning the room for a place to recline. Rather than one of the beautiful rawhide loungers sensually facing the wide open vista of a rolling landscape, Rezden selected a wooden chair similar to that of his host.

“Ah. A man of manners. Chooses a like chair, facing the host. Impressive. But what is the motivation, friend: Respect, humility, fear or all three?”

Rezden went to answer but was at a loss for words, just saved from embarrassment by the arrival of a tawny hostess with two chalices and a carafe of rich burgundy wine.

“So Rezden, prophet of the underdog. What is it that drives a man of significance, who obviously enjoys the pleasures of status in an unjust world, to be the champion of the downtrodden?”

Rezden started mumbling defensively. “I am not a prophet and not the champion of the underdog.”

“Ah! I know that, but was wondering whether you did...”

The Warlord lifted his chalice. “To freedom and good intentions.”

Rezden lifted his chalice in response. He took a tentative taste. The wine was rich and full. Easily the best he had ever sampled.

Suddenly Arelaz leaned forward like a conspirator. “Tell me sir. What do you know of the ways of man and beast and the world we call home?”

Rezden tried to gather his thoughts. This man had the unsettling habit of asking the most unexpected questions at the most unexpected times.

“I know very little of the ways of man or beast, sire, but I know enough to believe cruelty and abuse of brother and beast were not the intentions of the Divine Creator.”

“You think not, my friend...” Arelaz held his gaze. “Are you a hunter, sir? Do you hunt?”

Rezden’s mind was racing. Where was this going?“I am not a hunter m’lord, but I have hunted.”

“For the sport or the need?”

There was a mischievous twinkle in the warlord’s eye.

“For sport, m’lord,” Rezden answered quietly.

“Ah, so you kill for pleasure?”

“I have done, yes...” Rezden prepared himself for a cutting response.

“Me too. And is it wrong?”

“It is the taking of life which cannot be right. But the meat was devoured and the hide was cured.”

“And that is your justification for your deed?”

“It is written that the birds and the beasts were birth-gifts from the Creator to the created...”

“Yes. That is so. Very convenient for us, don’t you think?”

Rezden was silent, slightly frustrated by the word games. What was the purpose of this philosophic banter? As if reading his mind, Arelaz sat back and studied his guest.

“You are wondering the purpose of my probing. It’s very simple really. I have thought long and hard about these questions – as I’m sure you have. But my conclusions differ considerably from yours... I asked you earlier about the hunt. Now let me ask you another question. Do you believe the laws of the Universe are just?”

“Unquestionably sire,” Rezden replied without a second thought.

“Unquestionably,” Arelaz repeated. “A just world of predator and prey. And do you think the prey feel the same as you?”

Rezden hesitated.

“That was rhetorical. You needn’t answer. But that aside. It is a just world, is it not?”

“That is my conviction sire. Yes...”

“A perfect world where the hunter hunts just for need, and the land provides all that is needed for sustenance and growth.”

“Yes m’lord, and all benefit equally from the kindness of the Creator.”

Arelaz nodded in overplayed agreement. “And the herds swell and the world is in harmony. Until the time comes – when the land can no longer support the needs...”

“But sire. The land will always provide...”

“In times of drought? Famine? Pestilence?”

“Yes m’lord. Then during these tragic times, there will be suffering and death....”

“You say tragic times, my friend. Why tragic?”

“These curses are brought about when the Gods have been angered. It is only then that they unleash their wrath on us.”

“But that is where you are wrong, good man. The calamities are not the exception. They are the rule. I have come to believe that the events that you refer to as tragedy are no less divine than our blessings. Just as death is as much a part of our existence as life.”

“Yes m’lord but dignity...”

“Dignity... Yes. Another man-construed attribute. Do you think there is dignity for the deer flayed alive by a pack of wild dogs? Do you think there is dignity for the old lion ripped to pieces by scavengers? Do you think there is dignity for the fly when trapped by the spider? By definition sir, death is never dignified. But it is necessary - as with death, there is always rebirth: Stronger, bigger, better. And so the world unfolds and will continue to unfold for eternity.”

“Sire I... I understand what you say, and agree. But surely we as men are different from the bird and beast? Our intellect and intelligence set us apart. Our knowledge of the Divine sets us apart. Our innovation and ability to harness our world sets us apart...”

“Yes, my friend. We are different. In many ways we are superior. But have you really pondered on the essences of our being that make us different?”

“Yes sire: Our intellect and ability. Our divine status as lord of all we survey.”

“Ah. So we do agree there is a hierarchy and nature does discriminate.”

“It is not discrimination, sire. It is the law of nature that the fittest and strongest will prevail and survive.”

And how is that different to the world we have created? ...Ah look, dinner is being served. Come, we will talk more on full stomachs. Now let us eat.”

In sharp contrast to the modest furnishings of the warlord’s homestead, the seven course meal the two men shared at the heavy wooden dining table in a small dimly lit enclave just off the study, was truly fit for a king. Besides the enormous range of poultry, fish and meats served by an army of attendants standing by for any and every need or desire, Rezden had no idea what half of the servings were. But with every new aroma and every taste, Rezden realized how little he knew about all the treasures that nature around him, could provide.

8 - When Dinner Is Done

After they had gorged themselves far more than either intended, Aleraz led Rezden back to the library and proffered one of the large leather sofas before reclining in another. He stretched and sighed, fed and content.

“Food is like a woman. Most will slake the appetite, but it is that which is most elusive which tends to satisfy the need. ...And like with women, show care and treat with love, and with time and you will unleash the succulent secrets within.”

Rezden smiled at the comparison.

“Getting back to our earlier conversation, we were talking about what sets us above the beast. And you felt it was intellect and ability. I do not agree or disagree completely. It is the dark manifestation of both which showcase our true nature and difference.”

“I do not understand...” Rezden, now completely at ease listened intently.

“As we said, even the most vicious predator in the wilds will kill only to survive, while the human animal will kill for any number of reasons.”

“Yes but...”“But that is not the issue.”

Arelaz cut him short. “It is not the killing that is at the heart of the paradox. It is the motivation. For with the blessings of intelligence, intellect and free thought, we were inflicted with the curses of greed, envy, pride, prejudice and dominion...”

Rezden was elated. “Exactly m’lord. And it is these things against which I stand. An end to injustice fueled by the fires of power, greed and prejudice.”

Arelaz sighed and took a sip of his wine.

“Rezden, my friend - the idealist. Believer in the goodness of man...And when you start your brave new world, how long will it be before the tendrils of greed reach out to smother the intentions of righteousness? How long will it be before the givers succumb to the temptations of the flesh? ...To the seduction of power. What you preach so passionately is simply an echo of the words spoken by those like you since time began. And in all that time, not one... Not once has the legacy you champion, endured. For even in the time of our forefathers... When the White Plague passed, the intention of those that rose to power was not the carnage which followed. The first warlords rose with the intentions of light. But came to understand that the spirit of man is driven not by love and kindness. That is merely a cloak of respectability, hiding the darker roots of fear and insecurity. For like our relatives in the wilds, we too are driven by the instinct of survival. But man has realigned perceptions of need: The lion hunts for each meal caring not for the meal of one day hence, the squirrel hoards for the winter, caring not for one winter hence – but we hoard for life – and the life of our offspring ...and our legacy. For us, it is never enough, and for our own ends, the means can always be justified.”

Rezden’s eyes blazed, “But sire, my words and thoughts are motivated not by morality alone. Do you not hear the voices in the street? Can you not see the danger?”

Arelaz spoke shortly, “Please sir, do not presume me a fool or a cur. I am neither. We have not yet spoken about the times we find ourselves in. We still speak of the creature called man. Tell me Rezden. What for you are the cardinal sins? Which crime for you is the most horrific? I trust you believe there is right and wrong?”

“Surely the worst crime should be murder. The murder of the innocent and weak.”

“Murder of body or mind?”

Rezden was caught off-balance again.

“Consider this,” Arelaz continued, not giving his guest time to recover,“If you knew of a man who for a fact wished to harm or slay you, would you be his friend?”

Rezden sat forward confidently. He believed he understood where this would lead.

“I would do my utmost to make peace, sire – and would then befriend him.”

“And while you offer gestures of peace, he slays your child and rapes your wife”

“I would kill him sire,” Rezden whispered, trying to picture the scene. He was still unmarried and without child. His destiny for a New Order took precedence over matters of the heart.

“Why?”

“Harming my family, the man would have shown me dishonour, sire”

“So for you, honour is greater than the blood of your blood?”

Rezden looked down, uncertain and Arelaz continued, “and you look back on your father and his father, and you see that for generations, the kin of this man have shown malice to yours. And the man you slay has a child who now is without father, prey to the wolves both man and beast. Would you feel it your duty to intervene?”

Rezden thought for awhile, considering the question carefully.

“Most likely not m’lord”

“Even though the child may die?”

“If hatred is in the blood, sire, aiding the child could be arming the hand of death.”

“So there is fear...”

“No sire, care.”

“Nice word, sir...”

He looked Rezden square in the face. “Would you kill the child?”

“No sire!”

“But you would leave it exposed to the evils of the world. Is this any different?”

“It is not by my hand...”

Arelaz threw his head back as he exploded with laughter. “Not your hand? My good man. You killed the child’s father. Cut off his only true insurance to life. And it was not by your hand? ...Never mind. Ultimately, you must agree that while the laws we have come to accept as truth tell us the taking of life is evil, somehow we can justify exceptions even in our personal life... Which brings me to my next question: Do you think there is such a thing as wrong and right? Is there absolute wrong? In fact is there really such a thing as good and evil?”

“M’Lord?” Rezden had lost the plot.

“Forgive me my friend,” Arelaz chuckled, setting the visitor a little more at ease, “the fruit of the vine loosens my tongue and the chance to converse with a man who thinks, unshackles my fancies, but bear with me a while longer as I try illustrate my dilemma. We have in essence concluded that there may be times when the taking of life, both man and beast may be less than evil. In fact at times necessary, at times justified, and at times even honorable. But the act is the same: One will inflict what is required to extinguish the flame of life in another.

“In each and every instance, although the death for the one is the pinnacle of horror, for the other party, it brings value, be it sustenance, safety from threat, acquisition of power or property, even the end of oppression.”

Rezden was transfixed by the line of conversation.

“And like with life and death, every other inflection of the laws of righteousness float both in good and evil. They are equally evil or good, depending on the perspective. And is this not the way of the Universe? With every veil of night, there is a promise of light, with every gesture of goodness, there is the threat of evil. The warmth of summer follows the ice of fall, rains bring life, drought brings death, a circle of existence which started with time and will end when time is done. And I say to you, within the schemes of the Great Divine, the forces of the dark side are no better or worse than the purest strains of light. Both are equal and integral to the continuance of the Universe.”

“But sire...” Rezden tried to interject.

“All considered, there can be no absolute right or absolute wrong, my honorable friend. There are only the actions of every beast wild or tame, and the responses of an unpredictable world as all play their part. And the paths we choose define our journeys, ultimately with as much impact on the way the world unfolds as a horse fly has at directing a horse. At times we help, and at times we hinder, but never enough to change how it will be...”

Rezden sat back and crossed his arms, leveling his gaze at his host,

“So you believe that our role is to concede to the winds of fate, wherever they blow?”

“Irrespective of our actions, that is what we do. But that does not mean we should drift without course. Simply because we cannot prevent the inevitable does not mean we must bury our heads in the sands. But do not think for one minute that the future of your inspired vision will end any different.”

Arelaz sat back and sighed.

Rezden seized the chance. “Our order will be created and upheld for the people by the people.”

“I thought the vision was yours...” Arelaz replied cynically.

“It was I and a close friend who conceived the workings, but I assure you, prime consideration was for those without, m’lord.”

“And they will be liberated, and empowered. And how long will it be before they seek to be enriched? ...And when progress falters, who will it be that they look to for blame? It will be blamed on the evils of the old ways. And freedom will no longer be enough. They will seek compensation, and then retribution. And there will come the time when those that liberated will be the new despot, the new warlord, the new champion of corruption and greed. And your New Order will falter and fall to the double edged sword of perspective... But my friend, we talk too long and my tongue thickens. To your vision... Like you, I believe the time is right for change. But unlike you, for me to vocalize my convictions and release the reins would be to unleash chaos and bloodshed. Which brings me to the reason for this meeting. Although I cannot be seen to encourage or condone a change to rationality, if it were handled correctly, I could be seen to turn a blind eye. So tell me Rezden - of your plans for your New Order.”

It was well after midnight when Rezden began. And the dark had faded to grey when finally he ended.

“Truly courageous and honourable intentions, my friend.” Arelaz nodded thoughtfully. “And from what you say, all that is needed to plant the seed is a home for your dream?”

“Yes sire. Your goodwill and a piece of land.”

Arelaz sat forward.“Do you know of the ancient stone ruins not a half day’s ride East of the lands of your father?”

Despite his fatigue Rezden studied the young warlord. “Yes sire. I have been there many times with my grandfather when I was a boy.”

“Do you know of its history?”

“No sire. I have heard stories, legends... that the origins and history are from before the era of man.”

“Horizen. That is the common belief. A fantastic city of the immortals. Legend has it the immortals were given Horizen by the Creator. And it would be their home for eternity. But there was a condition...”

Rezden was silent.

“You see, both man and immortals were created together. For the immortals, the Divine harnessed the infinite sky and created an existence undefined by time. They would live forever. But to avoid catastrophe, they were not blessed with the gift of procreation. Those created would always be, but they would never bear child.

“For man, the Great One took the Earth. His destiny was that of his substance. Infinite in possibility like the sky but vulnerable to the elements which shape the Earth. And like the Earth, victim to the passing of time: the time of man as man would end. But in compensation he was given the gift of bearing child.

“For eons, the immortals lived side by side with man, but impatience magnified by the limitations of mortality festered evil within man, while the immortals, unthreatened by the specter of death, grew in wisdom and intellect, and the Divine Creator witnessed this with growing concern.

“Lest they be corrupted by the seduction of the flesh, the immortals were instructed to stay apart from their mortal brothers. And as reward, they would always be - and Horizen would always be theirs.”

Arelaz gazed out the window apparently lost in thought.

“Please continue sire. What became of them?”

“Man!“...It is said while man yearned for immortality, there were immortals who dreamed of bearing children. You see my friend, without the tempests which test the heart, boredom will destroy the mind. And as was inevitable, an immortal disobeyed. He lay with a woman... A very beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman the world had ever seen, with shimmering pitch black hair cascading down the full length of her back, and piercing eyes that could see into your soul. ...And he planted his seed and a child was born.

“The woman and child were cast out by those in the world of man, fearful of retribution for the broken law, and mother and child journeyed to Horizen where they were welcomed with open arms by the curious immortals.

“But as time would have it, the mother began yielding to the ravages of age and eventually passed. Remember, death was unknown – and terrifying. Many immortals turned on the boy, seeking to banish him or kill him, but his father and clan stood by his side.

“To keep it brief, immortal turned on immortal. But by Divine decree, immortals could not die. So slowly they ripped Horizen apart, stone by stone, and drifted out into the wilder- ness of man, leaving a dismal broken ruin at the heart of paradise, and the age of the immortals, an unrealised dream.

“With time, those remaining were absorbed by humankind – and still walk among us, and elements of their blood flow within us. It is the spirit of the immortal in each one of us that drives us to create legacies and embark on futile quests to retain some small fragment of immortality as we crawl around like ants, trying to fathom out – and learning far too late - the things in this world which are truly precious. You see my friend, the story goes that with the ambitions of man polluting the minds of the immortals, the Seed of Reason died. ...However if an ancient legend be true, it is said that when the time is right - and all hope is lost - a boy-child of man and spirit will return to find the Seed of Reason. And Horizen will be reborn.”

Rezden was riveted to his seat.

“Maybe it is the time for Horizen to rise again from the ashes. For your New Order, I give you this land. But my friend, there are two conditions...”

“M’lord?” Rezden held his breath.

“You confine your energies to within the limits of Horizen, and you consider your actions and the actions of those you bequeath with care. For if your New Order places me or the calm of the land at threat... You have my word sir, your dream will end as a nightmare.”

“You have my word, m’lord.”

Rezden’s mind was swimming. Suddenly he felt tired - and scared... and it was then that Sarah entered.

Arelaz’ sister was the most beautiful creature Rezden had ever encountered. Tall, lithe, tawny mane and olive complexion, she appeared from nowhere turning on her brother with less than sisterly affection.

“I have been informed the horses will be released to fodder with the rising sun...”

It was as much an accusation as a statement.

“Ah sister. Greetings to you too. We have a guest...”

Rezden, at first transfixed by yet another incredible revelation, leapt awkwardly to his feet, barely rescuing a chalice dislodged in his enthusiasm, from certain harm.

She considered introduction and guest with equal contempt, continuing in a husky voice, making no attempt to conceal her agitation.

“You knew I was planning a day-trip. What gives you the right...”

“To protect you from the barbaric affections of that buffoon, Stigman? It is not my right my dear sister, it is my duty.”

“Every friend I make you view with disdain. It is my life! And I do not need your approval to live it!” she fumed.

“As long as you continue to confuse servitude with friendship, you give me no option. Please allow me to introduce Rezden, son of Grenville, grandson of Agtril the engineer.”

She stopped and eyed Rezden curiously.

“Rezden, the voice of change? Are you the same one who sows the seeds of revolution?”

“I am Rezden son of Grenville, your humble servant mi-lady.”

Arelaz broke into laughter.

“Your humble servant,” he mimicked. “Oh Rezden my friend, despite your eloquent thinking you are so predictable.”

Rezden felt his face flush as Sarah turned away to conceal her amusement. When Rezden spoke, his words and actions were as unexpected to himself as they were to his audience.

“Sire. You would do me a great honour if you would allow me to court your sister.”

This time it was Arelaz taken aback, but the warlord recovered quickly.

“Why Rezden, you devil. Are my summations wrong? Are you in reality a wolf in the guise of a lamb?”

“I beg your forgiveness sire,” Sarah interjected. “But is the question not misdirected?”

She studied Rezden with mesmerizing almond shaped eyes,

“If you wish to court my brother, good sir, feel free to address him. But if it is my company you seek, I suggest you seek my consent.”

Arelaz was ignored.

“My pardon, m’lady. Would it be imposing if I were to ask to meet with you again... Soon?”

She smiled.

“It would be an imposition, sir, but one which I do believe might be easily tolerated.”

Rezden was beaming from ear to ear, the voice of Arelaz seemingly coming from far away.

“Well in that case, I fear any negative insinuations from me would be both badly received and poorly considered. I for my part see no reason why this should not be so.”

...And eighteen months later by the time the cornerstone of the Clock Tower was unveiled, Sarah and Rezden were betrothed ...

PART TWO

Family Matters

9 - The End of Eden

Joss had never considered taking his own life before. His father had always said it was the coward’s way out. But then again, his father had never experienced what he was presently being forced to endure.

It would be so easy, so quick, he thought. But then again, what about his family? What about Elizabeth? What about Gilbert? He had always believed that even behind the darkest clouds, the sun always shone. But recently, despite his most resolute efforts to persevere and weather the storm no matter what it took, he could not see the light. If the rains did not come soon, there would be no light. He shrugged the thoughts from his mind. He was the man of the house. His family depended on him. Giving up was not an option.

It was still a few minutes before dawn when he shouldered his worn leather backpack and headed for the ancient cobble path winding down into the Valley still shrouded in darkness. The day had barely begun and already his guts was in a knot. Everything was still. Too still. As though holding its breath in anticipation - or trepidation.

“Probably trepidation,” he thought cynically.

Four years of drought had taken its toll - and worst of all, no end in sight. His mind drifted back to days before, of jasmine and cherry scented air, crisp and invigorating. But that was then. Things were different ...then.

He picked up pace, knowing the ancient pathway twisting towards the River Providence as well as he knew himself. Before the lands were lush green and full of life, but the lush was gone and the sound of the river in the distance once like thunder, was now only a smothered murmur.

A small weaver chirped somewhere ahead, shattering through the quiet.

“Morning to you too – although in your tongue, you too are raging no doubt...” Joss muttered. He was right.

Joss had always been a humble yet fiercely proud man. He was past his prime, but from a life toiling the lands, was lean and strong. He was born and grown into a man in the Valley - the valley of his kin for five generations. His Valley; home to him, his wife Elizabeth, and Gilbert their only son. He had always been grateful to the Divine Creator for the slice of Heaven with which he and his family had been blessed - up until four summers before ...when the rains ended and the pall of the Fog first appeared.That year the winds never came, the clouds did not seed, and ever since the sun scorched the earth with ruthless intent. At first he maintained optimism, believing hard work and the benevolence of the gods would prevail. That leading a good life would be rewarded. But as days turned into weeks, weeks into months and months into merciless years, his faith began to erode with his lands.

Reaching the fields, Joss saw the rabbit tracks immediately.

“Damn them!” he muttered. “Damn them!”

His neighbors set traps or laid poison, but he could not bring himself to do so. Elizabeth said he was too soft at times. He would tell her, ‘Life is not ours to give, take or trade.’

Elizabeth ...His beautiful Elizabeth. She would listen and smile her slightly lopsided smile. A smile which had stolen his heart when first they met.

Reaching the field, Joss lowered his backpack and scanned the horizon. A few dust devils teased the parched earth below a bleached blue sky. The air was as dry as death and as hot as hell. He resisted the urge to take off his shirt, knowing the climbing sun would flay the skin from his back in a matter of hours...

In the west, morning condensation fought bravely to take form. But Joss knew it would be a losing battle. Without the winds, it would burn up long before the midday hour.

“Does this amuse you...?” he scowled, scanning the sky as if for an answer.

“I have done nothing to you! Why the torment? You render me useless before those I love. Those I must feed. You rape bounty which before you provided and blessed.”

Savagely he harnessed the rusty old plough.

“I have prayed. I have pleaded. And still you do not hear... Are you even there? Do you exist? Or is it just a game. A futile game to fill your idle hours.

“But I will not fall. I cannot. I dare not! I will bend, but I will not break. Because unlike you, it is not a matter of inclination, it is a matter of desperation. Failure is not an option!”

But the bravado of his words was far from what he felt inside: that resurrecting his lands could not be, without the rains – and the rains he knew, were not coming. It would only be a matter of weeks ...at best months. But the outcome was inevitable. And then what: Horizen? He was a farmer. A man of the land. What would he do in the Megacity? What could he do in Horizen? He would shrivel and die as surely as if he ended it all now by his own hand.

There was nothing that could be done. Their destiny lay in the hands of the Great Divine. And if the intention of fate was to destroy him, possibly ending it all - ending the pain and anxiety - might be what was intended.

He tried to banish the thoughts from his mind and focus on tilling life and sustenance into the dusty earth, until lengthening shadows signalled not a moment too soon, the day was almost done.

Joss cast his eyes across the lands where he had laboured, hoping against hope that his toil was not in vain. By the time he had packed his tools and turned for home, the warm afterglow of the day was being touched by the silver wash of a climbing moon - and he suddenly remembered: The summer solstice full moon was one of the four times a year he would take Gilbert collecting Juiceberries near the Crystal Pools below the Greatmist Falls. And it would be full moon in two days. But would there be any Juiceberries to pick? Nothing grew anywhere anymore – probably not even around the pools. He would hate Gilbert having to make the long hike only to find ...nothing to find!

He decided to make a detour to the falls since it was not that far off his route home - he was already more than halfway there. If there were Juiceberries, father and son would come again in two days. Else he would think of some other, less depressing activity to share with his son.

With renewed resolve, Joss strode out towards the setting sun. Fifteen minutes later, he was there. The pools were still beautiful, even in the shadowed light, but they too had suffered under the harsh hand of nature. Concentrically diminishing rings from the treeline towards the shrinking pools bore testament to this fact. Ancient boulders which once peered from the deep like hippo were now exposed and dry. But... Joss sucked his breath, elated. One part, half hidden in the shade on the far bank was still moist and succulent - and there were Juiceberries!

‘At last, some small respite,’ he muttered, grabbing two fistfuls, remembering just too late, not to bruise the petals.

“It’s just to get the lad excited,” he reasoned to himself, gently wrapping the delicate vines into a soft cotton cloth in his carry pack.

The light was fading fast and Joss was eager to get home. Still but a few hundred paces and another day done ...and then he heard the commotion. It was far off, in the direction of the cottage. He stopped to listen, trying to fathom... It was Elizabeth. His wife... A scream like none he had heard before.

Running like a demon, panting like a dog, it was only a matter of seconds before he made out the silhouette of the stump of the old oak tree his grandfather had planted the day his father was born, standing in stark contrast against the deepening black. Beyond it Elizabeth was wailing over and over. Not a cry, not a scream, not a moan or groan. But all... Like an animal fatally wounded, but far from death - but so, so much more deranged, pitiful, hopeless.

Joss did not bother with the path. Cutting straight for the stump, he hurdled it easily, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw his wife ...and when he saw his son. In a flash, Joss unslung his bag. Kneeling beside Gilbert, he pulled out a neatly folded length of clean rough linen.

“Control yourself woman! You scare the boy,” he hissed at Elizabeth.

She stared at him for a second in a daze, before focus returned to her eyes. Biting her lip to stifle her sobs, she sank back on her haunches, quiet as a mouse, but her eyes said all there was to say...

In the silver glow of the climbing moon, they could clearly make out the glistening circle of blackness where blood from their son’s torn thigh seeped into the grass.

Joss inspected the wound as best he could. The gash was long but thankfully not deep. More like a jagged scratch than a deep gash. But still the man knew, almost any injury could be fatal. Thankfully Gilbert was not dirty. They didn’t have to be too concerned of infection. But the bleeding! How much blood could the boy have?

With infinite care, Joss wrapped his son’s leg as he had been shown. He tried his best to close the wound to stop the bleeding, but before the dressing was even tied, dark stains appeared and spread.

Gilbert groaned and opened his eyes, disoriented. He looked up at Joss and whispered through a brave smile, “Papa, I am so sorry. We were just playing.”

“Rest my son. We will talk later.”

Gilbert was tall for his ten years, with a frame more of a scholar than a land worker. It was obvious the boy was frail - for good reason: Gilbert suffered from a very strange malady. A severe condition which could have the slightest overzealous indiscretion cost him his life. For Gilbert, son of Joss and Elizabeth of Provedance Valley was a bleeder.

Physicians and seers alike had informed his parents that tragically, no cure nor cause were known. They warned that misadventures which most children would not even notice, could be fatal to the boy. Elizabeth’s not unjustified concern sometimes frustrated Gilbert, especially when she restricted him from playing with his friends. However, possibly as compensation from the Great Divine for his affliction, Gilbert had been blessed with an incredible blessing spoken of more in legend and fable than in docu- mented history: Gilbert was a Hearman. He possessed the gift of universal tongues. He could speak to the birds and beasts of the wilds – like many before him, and after. But his unique, special gift was the ability to converse with all the infinite voices of the Universe. Gilbert could speak with the winds, the waters, the forests, the voices of creation itself. For that was the power of a true Hearman.

A thin spiral of smoke curled from the baked brick chimney of the cottage, grey against an indigo sky, as Elizabeth opened the door for father carrying son to enter. Joss lowered Gilbert onto his patchwork quilted bunk. The boy was awake but still disoriented. Elizabeth fought for control as Joss removed the blood-soaked bandage. In the amber oil lamp glow, they could see the blood seeping through, thick and red black. Joss heard Elizabeth’s breathing quicken and husband and wife locked eyes. Elizabeth felt control return under his steady gaze, unaware of the lie in his eyes and the panic rising like a coiled snake in the pit of his stomach.

Elizabeth was a beautiful woman, with a flashing mane of waist length pitch-black hair crowning a tall, stunningly proportioned frame. Her skin was light olive and her eyes were almost black. Some said it was as if she could see into your soul.

Joss joked that he had to fight off every man in the valley to get her, and every man in the land to keep her. A lame joke that she weathered good-naturedly, for everyone knew their bond was beyond question or speculation.

“It’s not going to stop. Joss. He’s going to...”

“How you feeling, little prince?”Joss ignored his wife’s panic, trying to calm himself as much as his family.

“Sorry papa,” Gilbert whispered.

“Me too, you rascal,” Joss forced a smile.“

Juiceberries!” the man suddenly remembered and was up in a flash.“Joss...”

Elizabeth was startled. Petrified.

“I went past the pools on the way back,” the man spoke in a torrent, “to see if there were Juiceberries – for full moon.”

“You think now of Juiceberry gathering? Have you...”

“Be calm woman... You know what the elders say of their healing properties. And we both know Gilbert is always vastly improved after our return from the pools. We have nothing to lose.”

In a second he had the neatly folded package in his hands. Fumbling with excitement, he extracted of the slender vines with the small succulent blossoms.

“A poultice. We need to crush these into a paste to make a poultice.”

“How?”

“With water, fresh almond oil and ash. Make it thick. Like a putty ...No, you watch Gil, I will do it!” and Joss was up and gone.

In a matter of minutes, he was back with a small earthen bowl of steaming hot, gray-black slurry.

Elizabeth held her son’s hand with her one hand, her other to her face, vainly trying to conceal her feelings. With a small wooden pallet, Joss smeared the paste over the wound. The concoction seemed to cling to the flesh and was not washed away by the blood. When the wound was thickly covered, Joss bandaged it with fresh linen, and this time he took his time and made sure the job was properly done.

Father and mother waited anxiously for dark stains to appear. Small droplets of blood seeped through the salve, but thankfully the flow dissipated, and finally stopped, and by the time it did, Gilbert was fast asleep.

————————

Joss and Elizabeth sat by the small hearth quietly watching flickering flames dance lightly over crackling embers. The sweltering heat negated the necessity, but somehow an open fire always soothed the spirit. Joss put his arm around Elizabeth, gently pulling her closer. He did not need to look to know his wife was deeply troubled.

“Gil...” sighed Elizabeth, “You saw...”

Joss poked the fire, creating a small cascade of sparks as dead ash was dislodged and flames rekindled.

“I saw... But he will survive... How’d it happen?”

“Those beastly animals!” Elizabeth hissed bitterly. “Last I knew he was playing alone out front. Then I heard the animals – some deer and that ghastly owl... You know the one... He’s always...”

“It is doubtful that some deer and an owl could have had anything to do...”

“You didn’t see them! When I got there, the owl was screeching like a bird possessed and one of the deers was raking Gil with her hoof. What are you suggesting? They were coming to his aid?”

“I don’t know but... if it had been an eagle or wildcat or leopard, maybe. But owls - and certainly no deer would ever have the audacity to attack.”

Joss sipped at the fragrant herb-tea Elizabeth had brewed after they left Gil to sleep. He gazed into the flames, deep in thought.

“He is a strange lad, our Gil. An angel in the flesh no doubt, but some of his antics and tales go far beyond comprehension or rational explanation.”

They both became quiet. Joss could almost hear the thoughts tormenting his wife as she stared through glazed eyes at the dwindling flames. He braced himself mentally, lifting her slender hand to his lips. He knew what she would be saying next. She had said it all before, and so had he. But he knew talking soothed her spirit.

“Why did he have to be ...cursed? I feel so helpless watching my baby suffer. I am to blame Joss.”

“Beth, how can either of us be to blame?”

“Did he not come from my body, did he not drink of my milk? I was unable to make him strong.”

Joss felt her pain but remained quiet. He knew no words to settle her anguish.

“You and I will not be here forever. Who will be there to love him when we are gone? Who? We have prayed so hard for another child so that Gil may not be alone, but still our prayers go unanswered. It is Divine retribution for seeding a fragile child. Our world dies around us, and now even our boy...”

“Beth, enough. Please! You know you make no sense. Of course I share your concern, but we must keep faith. Our prayers will not go unanswered. This too shall pass.”

They lay in each other’s arms, watching strands of smoke rise from the dying coals. The heat of day still persisted. Elizabeth wiped the mist from her brow, snuggled closer and both husband and wife drifted off. The embers had burnt to dull grey ash when Joss shrugged and woke. Elizabeth slept with the face of an angel. He lifted his wife gently. In spite of all, he thought to himself, there was much for which he was still truly thankful.

And then he heard the voices outside. The unmistakable whinny of horses and the manic barking of dogs. Dogs? At this Godforsaken hour? Who would have the audacity to stop by so late? And for the second time since dusk, he questioned whether the day would ever end. Somehow this all had to go away; he had had enough.

10 - Poulus & Seth

With oil lamp in hand, Joss stepped out into the balmy night. He squinted, adjusting his eyes to the blackness reluctantly conceding to the golden glow of the lamp. A giant of a man was helping a young boy a little older than Gilbert from his horse, as two medium sized hunting dogs skittered around yelping encouragement and advise.

“Poulus? Is it you? What...” Joss was taken aback.

Seeing Joss approach, the two dogs charged towards him, tails wagging and barking excited greetings.

“Be quiet you mangy mongrels!” the barrel like man hissed. “Greetings my friend. Yes, it is I ...and you remember my eldest, Seth?”

The boy stepped forward and smiled shyly.

“Of course! How goes it big man. My you have grown.” Back to Poulus, “What brings you here at this hour? Have

you fed?Where is the family? Is everything...”

“Seth and I come alone. We left at sunrise. I would be lying if I said we had no need for your hospitality this night.”

“Of course. Welcome. Please do not be offended, but I must ask you to be quiet. Gilbert suffered an injury.”

“Is he alright? We intrude...”

“No, no. We have taken care of him. But he sleeps and I do not want to wake him. Tether the horses and please come inside. The dogs...?”

“Do not worry, my friend. They have long learnt by necessity to mind for themselves.”

“I hope not at my chickens’ expense,” Joss grinned.

“They know too well that theft will be rewarded with transformation – into pelts!”

The two men laughed, but both sensed the other not really in laughing mood. Joss shepherded Poulus and Seth quietly into the cottage. Seth was exhausted from a full day on horseback under the blazing sun.

“We have some dried ham and herb tea. I suggest the two of you eat and then we put Seth to bed...”

“Agreed,” Poulus nodded.

Man and boy attacked the ham like vultures. Within minutes, the left-overs had vanished, and Seth with appetite appeased and thirst quenched, was almost literally asleep on his feet.

Joss quickly prepared the spare bunk in Gilbert’s room and within heartbeats, the boy was tucked in and asleep.

Joss led Poulus back to the hearth.

“You will have to sleep here my friend. Make yourself at home,” Joss said, making for the hearth.

“No Joss. Leave the fire.”

“Are you sure? It is no problem...”

“We have had our fill of heat for the day... For a lifetime!”

“You too have had no rain?”

Poulus was silent. The big man and his family lived almost two days ride south of East. How they managed to make the journey in one day, Joss could not imagine. No wonder the horses were irritable.

Joss stood up, went to the kitchen and returned with a carafe of wine.

“I have been keeping this for a fitting occasion and I can think of no time more fitting than sharing a jug with you now, after all this time. May I?”

Poulus smiled, but his eyes were misty.

“It is over Joss.”

Joss remained quiet.

“Nothing. There is nothing. Nothing left.”

“I hear you my friend. It moves this way too. Troubling times... You have plans?”

Poulus dropped his eyes. “I have to consider Horizen...the Megacity...”

Joss felt his guts tighten. The destination of the damned. And he knew, without a miracle he would follow.

“I see no other way,” Poulus said flatly.

They were both silent, thinking their own thoughts of the same threat. Poulus sat forward. “We stay on the farm, we starve. We go to the city, it will not be without tribulation, but we live. Ernest and Josephine are in the city.”

Joss refilled their earthen mugs.

“I know.”

“Josephine is not adapting well.”

“I know.”

Joss was looking at his hands locked, knuckles white. “I wish I could be of assistance.”

“You can be my friend – and I apologise if I intrude...”

“Don’t. With friendship there cannot be intrusion.”

“If and when we make the move, we cannot take all our possessions. We have heard the stories ...of the trolls and that ...Gradlock and his Council. Would it be too much to ask if my family might impose on you for a few days en-route to the Megacity – and could we possibly leave some precious keepsakes and the likes in your safekeeping, until such time as a return to normality and sense?”

“My friend. That is certainly not an imposition. It is a request which I would feel honored to oblige.”

“Thank you Joss. You are a good man.” He yawned. “Forgive me. The ride and the wine. A potent combination.”

“I am pleased you are more at ease. Sleep my friend. We will talk again in the morning.”

Joss rose to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought he turned to Poulus. “...And while you are here, I have a favour to ask you too my friend.”

Poulus looked at Joss. Waited. Joss shuffled his feet. “If anything should ever happen to me, could I count on you for the well-being of my family?”

The concern was clear in his voice when Poulus answered. “What are you saying my friend. Are you not well? There is something you would like to share?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. But these are strange times, are they not? One never knows what tomorrow will bring. And I just need to know my loved ones will be taken care of ...if I were not around.”

Poulus was silent, searching the eyes of the other. “You have my word my friend – but be safe.”

“I will, sleep well”, and Joss turned and left, both little knowing that their words would be put to test - and sooner than either would have imagined..

When Joss rose the next morning at dawn, Poulus and Seth were already gone, leaving behind on the stone ledge above the hearth, a magnificent golden compass with intricate hand crafted workings, inscriptions and design. On the back, the gold case was inlayed with an inscription in ivory: ‘Gruff’.

Next to the finely crafted compass was a simply written note.

“Please accept as a token of my gratitude. It was a gift to my father from a very wise man. May it bring you direction, fortitude and good fortune”

“I will cherish your gift with my life, my friend. Be strong,” Joss promised.

11 - The Decree

Forced to move when the weather started changing, Ernest and Josephine had been in Horizen, the Megacity of the New Order, for just over a year. Two years of drought had rendered their lands dry, dusty, and barren, and Ernest was finally forced to make the decision a farmer makes only when there is truly no other way. And three moons later they abandoned their life memories and precious lands to the mercy of scavengers, the gods and demons...

Josephine did not weather the move well. Unable or unwilling to adjust to the frenetic bustle and claustrophobic decay of the city, it was not long before depression set in. Often in her letters to Elizabeth she would try conceal her true thoughts and state of mind. But from the tone of her wrote, Elizabeth sensed the truth - that Josephine was struggling beyond description - and this saddened Elizabeth

.

Elizabeth, Josephine, and Alice - Josephine’s sister - had grown up together on the Eastern ridge of The Valley. They were inseparable when young, and stayed close into adulthood. When Josephine married Ernest and went to live with him in the distant Midlands, the three friends were at first appre- hensive - could their friendship endure the distance? But with time, Ernest’s warmth and Jo’s obvious happiness had dissolved misgivings, and earned the approval and affection of both sister and friend.

Ernest and Josephine had built a happy and prosperous life on Ernest’s farm. But that was before the droughts turned the midlands to dust, ...and before the Fog.

It was an hour before sunrise and Ernest had risen early. Today would be a day to remember, he knew. Only the previous week, Gradlock had summoned the trolls, and the discontent which had threatened to spill onto the streets was quelled. But still the unrest simmered below the surface. And then yesterday, Gruff returned - and with him came a resurgence of hope. What would this day bring forth? One thing he knew for certain, it was unlikely to be just like every other day.

Entering the street from their tiny hovel of a home, Ernest noticed some abandoned street urchins squabbling over the putrified remnants of someone’s discarded meal. Ernest diverted his eyes, inside feeling the angst turn in his gut. An angst which was seeping almost hidden, unnoticed except by those that suffered, onto the motley streets of Horizen. He wondered how Arelaz, prophet of change and original architect of the New Order would have felt, seeing his life work and dream so desecrated and wasted, sacrificed to the rabid dogs of greed by his own blood!

He was just about to head for Jezzop’s Furnace, toiling to feed the appetite of progress, when he spotted the scroll slipped under the rickety door of their decrepit abode. He unrolled it slowly and sat down to read:

Famine spreads and threatens our good Citizens and our Way of Life. We need to be mindful of the blessings we alone possess and must protect them from abominations destroying the world beyond our fortifications.

For this reason and this reason alone Gradlock, the Right Honourable Secretary of The Supreme Council has decreed that citizens with no direct interests therein be prohibited from traveling to the wastelands beyond our fortifications. Anyone found to be in contravention of this decree will be subject to eventualities of the most dire consequence. May it be said that through this communication, citizens have been adequately notified.

The Supreme Council of Horizen.

12 - Timor on the Run

Timor shivered against the icy cold before dawn. In about an hour it would be light. And by this time tomorrow, he and Saskia would be crossing the open country to the north, on their way to a new life, a new home, far beyond the talons of Horizen... Only a day ago, who would have suspected that he would ever be planning to flee. One sentence... That is all it took - to overturn his life.

Timor was a beautiful Persian purebred warrior cat - and until yesterday, acclaimed hero of the Supreme Guard, the most elite fighting force in Horizen. ...The only fighting force in the city, before Gradlock started recruiting trolls to man the gates and quell the growing hostility in the streets...

In a previous life, Timor had studied the secret disciplines of the Sumerian monks, mastering the arts of combat and subversion. With a reputation earned through valor, three years earlier he had been recruited by Gradlock himself.

But that was three years ago. That was two years ago. In fact, that was up until last night. Before the confrontation with McMalice and his despicable trolls.If McMalice had not challenged him, he would not have had to defend himself. He would not have entered into the foray, and certainly, he would not have suggested sarcastically that ‘Gradlock should show respect to those who defend him as he contemplates his own fortitude.’

Predictably, McMalice had gone straight to Gradlock and it wasn’t two hours later that the warrior cat had managed to slip out of his den mere seconds before the trolls converged, destroying everything he possessed. If Timor had not sensed the charged silence descend on the street above, he would certainly have lost another of his lives - and blessed by the stroke of fortune, Saskia had been out prowling for old tastes and following new scents.

It would have done no good trying to reason with Gradlock. Timor knew that. The despot had become too powerful, too paranoid, too corrupt. His laws were no longer for the people of Horizen. They were only for a select few who stayed close to the supreme leader, becoming richer and more powerful as slowly the word of law was eroded to the will of the elite.

Under cloak of night, Timor had slipped into the labyrinth of tunnels where Saskia loved to play and hunt. But for all his efforts, he could not find her.

She too was Persian. Pure white. Undoubtedly the most beautiful feline he had ever seen. It had been love at first sight. And they had been as one ever since.

Timor was pacing, agitated and scared when he bumped into Dwaxie, a mangy alley cat of dubious integrity. Not to be trusted. But now he had no choice. Hesitantly he inquired of the alley cat, if he had seen Saskia.

“Can’t say I have, sire. Is she not with you?”

The alley cat eyed Timor suspiciously. Things were obviously not what they seemed. Timor turned away, irritated by the question.

“Obviously not, mon ami. If you see her, may I ask you to tell her to meet me as soon as she can, in the old storm-water drain by the South Wall near Jezzop’s Furnace?”

Dwaxie wanted to know why.

“It is not of your concern my friend. Just tell her if you see her. It is of dire importance. And tell her to stay away from the trolls.”

Dwaxie cocked his head, trying to read the warrior cat’s eyes as Timor turned to leave.

“I must go. Please tell her, and keep my whereabouts to yourself.”

Timor slinked towards the shadows and was gone, leaving the alley cat gazing after him with sly intent.

-----------------

Timor had been lurking in the shadows near the South Wall of Jezzop’s ever since, but still no Saskia... and dawn was approaching. If she didn’t arrive soon, it would be too late. By the light of day, they didn’t have a chance.

It was just before dawn when Timor first noticed the heavily laden urchins moving from one dank doorway to the next, pushing slim scrolls into cracks, holes and where they existed, mailboxes. What he did not know was that the scrolls contained the decree of Gradlock, in essence turning the entire city into a prison.

Timor was tense and scared, but from his training, maintained calm composure. Suddenly he felt hackles rising on his throat and neck. There was a sound. A half whimper, half cry - of anguish. A sound that sounded hauntingly like ...Saskia!

Timor reacted before thought. He catapulted towards the sound, round the corner of the market pavilion, across the aged cobblestone avenue, under the stone arches of the prom- enade and there she was. Saskia had come! ...But something was wrong.

He felt his world collapse as he saw: Around Saskia’s beautiful neck, a studded leather collar attached to a heavy chained leash. And attached to the leash was McMalice, the worst of Gradlock’s bloodthirsty band of henchmen, the despicable troll he had confronted only a few short hours earlier. And snapping and snarling beside him, a pack of the most ferocious looking dogs Timor had ever seen - and he had encountered many rabid dogs during the courses of his lives!

“Saskia!” Timor heard his voice as though from somewhere else. This could not be real. Where had they caught her? How did they know he was here? Dwaxie! Betrayed! It could only be. And now Saskia was at the mercy of evil incarnate.

For a split second he succumbed to emotion, feeling more like a spectator than a participant. But only for a second before training, conditioning and instinct kicked in once more. Timor shot from cover like a projectile, going for the leash with teeth and claw. McMalice’s blood chilling laughter echoed round the quickly emptying square. Vendors who seconds earlier bustled loudly in preparation for the day, grabbed what they could of their wares and were gone. One did not want to dally where Gradlock or his trolls played a part.

Timor had sensed the large brown shapes skulking in the shadows, snapping and spitting, getting closer, braver as he launched himself with every fibre of his being, at the repulsive troll. A powerful slash of his battle honed claws was followed by a shriek of pain from McMalice, and the leash slipped free. Screaming and hissing in pain and terror, Saskia clawed frantically at the wet cobble paving as she fled, two of the dogs in hot pursuit.

With the cursing McMalice backing away nursing his fore- arm, Timor turned his attention to the dogs. He lunged for the eyes of the biggest, spinning at the last second, combat trained claws gouging into the dogs muzzle. He raked backward, once again going for the eyes, slashing flesh from jaw to eye in one lightning stroke. Another frenzied canine lunged for his throat, and only lightning reflexes saved him from certain death. Then he heard more than felt gnashing teeth grip him from behind, hurling him mercilessly into a jagged corner of one of the rough stone arches.

Timor squealed in pain, disorientated and winded, but he knew: fight or die. Low and lightning fast, he attacked the belly and tender nether regions of the large dog which had thrown him so cruelly, tearing, scratching with all his waning strength. The creature yelped in panic, trying feverishly to pry off the frenzied feline.

It was then that Timor felt the vice-like grip on his back leg. Like in a terrible dream, he heard the bone crunch as he was ripped from the melee. In a splurge of fur, blood and flesh, three of the huge dogs charged in, gnashing blindly, grabbing anything and everything their bloodied teeth could find.

In spite of the hopelessness, Timor fought back heroically, goaded on by instinct and honed reflex. But there was no way he could defeat four enraged, trained killers like the animals busy ripping him to shreds. And with each vicious onslaught, the warrior cat fought less. He wanted to sleep. He was just about to close his eyes and accept what fate decreed when he saw one of the killer dogs return - with Saskia in tow. He had the leash in his mouth and was dragging the terrified Persian behind him. Through blurred eyes, he saw another of the killers snapping at her flanks in a merciless game of cat and mouse, played by dog and cat.

Timor squirmed desperately to break free, screaming her name for all he was worth, but it was hopeless. The next second, a monstrous paw smashed down on the side of his head, deadly claws ripping at his right eye. Timor saw thick red blood pumping from his mutilated eye - before his world slipped to black.

...And then there was a new sound. A voice. A human voice.

“Be off, you scavengers! Be off!”

Was he dead? He didn’t care - even when the ripping at his torn body subsided. He wanted to sleep.

“Be off I say!”

Again the voice. Was this the world beyond?

Even in his comatose state, he recognized the guttural voice of McMalice.

“Leave him ...It’s done.”

Timor tried to lift his head, but couldn’t.The other voice again.

“Ah my poor beauty. What have they done to you? Those creatures from hell got you good.”

Timor felt himself being lifted gently. He was disorientated. Where was Saskia...?

“You are in a bad way, Captain, but old Ernest will take you home, and I’m sure between Josephine and myself, maybe we can still save one of your lives.”

And the second time in less than an hour, for Timor the world went black.

13- Timor Lives

Ernest was able to save Timor’s life. His leg had been totally destroyed and he had lost the sight of his right eye, but with care and love the man and his wife Josephine nursed the cat’s shattered leg, placed warm packs on his eye, tended to his horrific wounds, and surprisingly quickly, he responded. After a week, he was able to hobble from the makeshift cot the couple had made for him, to lie at Ernest’s feet in front of the fire. But the pain that cut the deepest was the pain they knew nothing about: the pain of not knowing what had become of Saskia.

Timor ate the food placed before him beside the old coal hearth, but the warrior cat had lost the will to live. When he slept he had terrible nightmares, reliving over and over the horror of seeing Saskia tethered to the leash, with the killer dogs gnashing at her legs and body.

Weeks went by and slowly the cat recovered, but he had been left with only three legs and one good eye. What good would a crippled warrior cat be to the world - and with Saskia gone, what reason did he have to live? Ernest and Josephine seemed to believe they had adopted the injured feline, and Timor saw no reason to convince them otherwise, so he simply moped around, passing days in a state of self pity and depression.

Then one day, Ernest came home beaming from ear to ear.

“Wait until you see what I have made for you,” he grinned, pulling a fairly bulky parcel from his tussle bag. Josephine entered the room brimming with excitement. It was obvious that whatever it was, they had colluded.

Timor lifted his head, his curiosity aroused. Ernest unwrapped the parcel to reveal what looked like a short walking stick with some sort of harness attached.

“Let’s see if we can give you a bit of your former glory old warrior,” Ernest said as he reached to lift the cat.

Timor squealed in surprise. He was not used to this. The couple had stroked and pampered him on occasion, but seldom tried to lift him. From a few well-placed swipes they had learned the hard way Timor didn’t like to be picked up. But his curiosity taking precedence, he allowed the old man to lift him.

The next moment, the man turned the cat over and tried to pin the protesting Timor down on his back. The cat screeched, instinctively lashing out with battle honed claws. Ernest winced in pain.

“Stop fighting you silly puss!” Ernest yelled. “I’m only trying to help you.”

Timor couldn’t understand what he was saying, but from the tone of the man’s voice he relaxed, and keeping his eye on proceedings, let him work. After about fifteen minutes of Ernest cutting here and pasting there, a couple of staples and a little trimming, the couple stepped back to admire their work.

“There you go. That should do it. Get up Captain. Let us see what you are made of...”

Timor remained still for a few seconds, trying to fathom out what the strange appendage harnessed to the scarred stump of his right back leg was. Tentatively he stood up. He stepped forward... Two steps... Three steps. And then he felt a hot surge of jubilation. He could walk! Not perfectly. Not even well. But he could walk with four legs!

Josephine shrieked with delight. “And now we’ve sorted out your mobility, let’s give you something for your looks.”

From her pocket she extracted a small patch of finely edged cloth with a noose attached, much like some fancy manner of slingshot. “C’mere. Let’s see if it fits.”

She bent down next to the cat, gently fitting the well crafted patch over Timor’s damaged right eye. It actually felt quite comfortable. Timor tensed as Josephine lifted him peg-leg and all, and placed him in front of the tarnished old looking glass on the weathered dresser. Timor looked at himself and blinked... Not what he used to be, but quite dapper all the same. He could live with this!

14 - The Eve of the Full Moon

Even at the best of times, wild Juiceberries were hard to find. The small violet blossoms were infinitely sensitive to weather, and the succulent fruit seldom escaped the ravenous intent of rodents and birds long enough to mature and ripen. They needed crisp morning sun, fresh water dew and, strangely enough, tranquility. They did not take kindly to being disturbed by any but the tiny bees that pollinated them. For this reason, they thrived best in remote places - like around the lush Crystal Pools below the Greatmist Falls fed by the once mighty River Providence. But the world had changed. And even the hardiest of shrubs were being put to the test, merely to survive.

Ever since Gilbert was two, on the eve of the equinox and the solstice moons, Joss would take his son to the pools to pick Juiceberries, and tonight would be full moon. Gilbert loved Juiceberries. Something about their succulent sap invigorated him. Old wives’ tales some said, yet even from the days of the great plague, the mystical healing powers of Juiceberries were acknowledged by those who knew, especially when plucked in full blossom with the primary moons. Tale or truth, there was little doubt that Gil responded positively to the fruit and that Juiceberries had helped stop the bleeding the previous night.

Gilbert had refused to stay in bed, yet put up little resistance to remaining indoors. Thankfully the bleeding had not started again, but they all knew it would not hurt to be careful. Neither parents nor child spoke of it, but Joss knew that Gil had not forgotten their quarterly routine - and knew that the boy knew he would not be allowed to go. Joss bantered with Gil but got very little response. His son was weak from the accident, depressed that he would be missing out, and frustrated and angry for his condition in the first place. They ate early that evening, all relieved to take to bed almost immediately after the evening meal.

_____________

Joss was already awake when the rooster announced the new day. He had tossed and turned, a night of nightmares: His lands were on fire and his family taken, lashed by the brutal hands of the trolls in Horizen. He knew what lay ahead and his mind was tormented. And then with crystal clarity, he suddenly knew what he must do. It was all so easy. He was a yoke around his family’s neck. If he were gone, his family would be safe - Poulus had given him his word. And still in the dim grey of morning as he rose, he knew this day would be different.

He glanced over at Gil. Normally on these days Gilbert was up and ready even before his father, but not today. Carefully Joss leant over his son and the boy stirred, mumbling incoherently. Unexpected, he felt a gentle hand restraining him and turned.

Elizabeth put her finger to her lips. With hands and eyes she made it clear that their son should not be disturbed. Joss slumped back disappointed, but remained quiet. He eased away from the sleeping child careful not to make a sound, pausing briefly in the small kitchen to retrieve a small weathered pouch he had concealed a few days earlier. A pouch containing a slender vial of hemlock. Reaching the door, he turned back for one last lingering look at all that was precious to him. May the Divine protect you he thought resignedly, catching a fleeting glimpse of his wife inside gazing up at him, a puzzled question in her eyes. Joss half-smiled, closed the door quietly and stole away, trying in vain to suppress pangs of guilt swirling inside his head.

Joss followed the narrow path beside the Providence. Like every day nowadays, the sun scorched his back from the mo- ment it breached the horizon. Tiny specks of silver ricocheted off feeble ripples on the withered stream which was once a boisterous river. Although Joss had come this way hundreds of times, he was habitually cautious. In the old days, the raucous banter where the river met the path provided ample warning of the dangers not too far ahead where the cascading river tore at rocks and trees, transforming itself into a frenzied force of unstoppable destruction, before dropping from view through a shroud of mist over the Greatmist Falls, crashing down into the effervescent crystal ponds far far below. But not anymore.

He reached the end of the path and stopped to watch and listen. Birds circled in formation, weaving graceful spirals above the mist and spray. The banquet of lush texture and color, once stretching out forever under an endless sky had diminished into halos of receding green, in a dry-land of dusty baked brown and withered and weathered weeds.Joss moved carefully to the ridge for a better view, where his grandfather and men of his time had built a wood and twine ladder down into the treacherous ravine, to the pool below. The descent was daunting but safe; they had made sure they created a pathway that would stand the scourges of both

weather and time – which it had done so far.Sliding down the last rungs of the rope ladder he reached

the pools and stretched luxuriously to relax his muscles after the hike, looking around appraising the state of the foliage. Going to the edge, he kneeled down and splashed icy crystal spring water onto his scorched face and neck, taking in the silence and tranquility.

‘Even though you have little of your former splendor,’ he smiled grimly, ‘a fine place to die.’

He had thought about it for days, toying with the notion. Then last night he had seen with a clarity that he seldom enjoyed these days. His wife was still a beautiful woman in the prime of life. Elizabeth and Gilbert would go to the city with Poulus. No doubt she would meet a suitor. One who would know the ways of the city and could provide her and his son with the life they deserved.

He had contemplated several ways, front of mind always consideration for his family’ well-being. He could not be found to have killed himself. It should look like an accident. But his wife and son knew he was too fine a woodsman to simply die of a stupid accident. Hemlock was the answer. He would drink the poison and then head into the forest. In all likelihood he would be devoured by ravenous predators lurking in the thickets, and they would think he was attacked... And even perchance his body was found, they might ponder the circumstances of the tragedy, but unlikely ever entertain the possibility that he took his own life.

He took out the small pouch, removed the vial and held it up to the light. The potion was thick and brown. And a sip from your slender neck can destroy me?

He lifted the vial to his mouth, then stopped. Was this really what the Gods wanted? He thought about it again hesitating, lowering the vial, going over it again and again in his mind.

“It is what must be,” he shrugged, finally decided - an then without warning, a tiny sound caught his attention.

He cocked his head and listened. He heard it again. It sounded like ...a baby! A baby crying. Impossible... Again, more insistent, more urgent.

He corked the vial, returned it to the pouch and began to follow the faint sounds - to within a few feet of the base of the waterfall. And there, almost hidden by the tangled strands of Juiceberry vines was what appeared to be a small wicker cradle.

Intrigued, the big man bent down and lifted the white linen coverall over the basket, and his heart jumped. He looked away and back, to make sure his eyes were not playing tricks. But there it was: a tiny baby in a pale woolen wrap, securely nested in a soft blanket. On the rim of the basket was a tattered piece of hessian with spray smudged black writing. It read:

“My name is Purity. Treat me with Love.”

First looking around for intruders or danger, he picked the baby up as gently as he could, tucking her to his chest. She gurgled with delight. Joss picked a Juiceberry. He bit the flesh releasing the sweet nectar within and brushed the juicy fruit gently over the baby’s mouth. She gurgled again, straining greedily for more. When the berry ran dry, she let out a high- pitched squeal which belied her tiny frame. Joss giggled as he picked another: “Gilbert my son loves these too.”

15 - Joss Decides

On first discovering the infant child, thoughts of suicide which had hung so heavily, evaporated in an instant. Then he had broken into a cold sweat... scared, aware. It had to be a trap. Some heinous scheme of malignancy to lure some unsuspecting traveler, to lower his guard and succumb to evil intent.

By late afternoon Joss had not moved from the pool. He was in a daze. Could this be the hand of God? He was so close. So close to ending his existence, only to be stopped at the very last instant by the discovery of this precious new life. Was it a sign from the Great Divine?

He had replaced the gurgling baby carefully in the crib, expecting any second to be pounced on by marauding bandits from who knows where. He scoured the surrounding thickets receding into approaching gloom for movement, devilish eyes or any signs of pending danger. Once he had satisfied himself that no hostility lurked just beyond view, he returned to the crib and studied the child. How could anyone desert a child so beautiful, ...so vulnerable? Surely someone would come. The baby was gazing trustingly up at him, and his eyes glazed over for a second as he thought back to seeing Gilbert as a newborn for the first time. Where was the child’s minder? Probably lost and beside herself with worry. It would be dark soon. Obviously he could not leave the child out here alone, and he certainly couldn’t just stay out in the jungle after dark. But what if someone did come back? And if he didn’t take the child and no-one ever claimed her?

He thought of his own predicament. The last thing he needed was another hungry mouth to feed. He could hardly feed his family already! But he could not simply leave the child to the whims of fate and the temperament of the wilds. What would Elizabeth do? This was woman domain, not the decision to be made by a farmer, a hunter, ...a man. But he knew in a second what his wife would do.

He would take Purity with to the safety of his home and leave a message should a minder arrive. A willow tree struggling for survival near the pond would immediately be noticed by anyone venturing close.

He unsheathed his hunting knife and started carving as clearly as he could: “I am Joss of Providence Valley. I have Purity. I will return on the morrow.”

Joss stood back to inspect his work. It would do just fine. Gently he lifted the basket, threw his backpack over his shoulder, and after one last search, headed home whispering softly, “I do not know your ways Great One, and I do not know where you lead. But in the name of the love of my wife and my boy, thank you for showing me again, my purpose in life.”

16 - Back Home

“Mama... Where’s papa?”

The sun streaming through the small shutter pane window had awoken Gilbert to find his mother gently cleaning and re-dressing his leg. He watched her take the bloodstained linen from the floor and retreat to the kitchen.

“Where’s papa?”

“Your father left early. There will be other days...”

Gilbert’s eyes filled with tears. “Mama, when will I stop being different? Can I never do anything?”

“Gil, listen to me and listen carefully. You are different, because you’re special. So you have a condition which none of us understand, but that doesn’t make you any less of a boy or less of a son. Your father and I love you and we know with all our hearts, that your destiny holds great things, but not on this day.”

The words silenced Gilbert. He knew that nothing he could do or say would change the facts. He was painfully disappointed, but it was not the first time; nor he knew, wouldit be the last.

“Do you and papa wish you had a normal child instead of me? ...Like Lengrid or Saimon or any of the other boys in the Valley?”

Elizabeth thought carefully before she answered. She knew Gilbert knew they loved him, but she wanted to answer the question in a way that affirmed his belief in himself.

“Gil, my beautiful child, you are just as normal as any young man, ever. But we all have different talents and gifts, strengths and weaknesses. And for your weakness, you will have something that no Lengrid or Saimon could ever dream of.”

“What, mama?”

Elizabeth weighed up her response. “

One day you will know the answer to that my child... one day.”

She looked down into his eyes, beautiful, bright and shining. She could see his mind racing to discern what his special gift might be. And then, as always, he remembered. What he could do that no-one he knew could. But he couldn’t tell her. He had tried before and she had become vexed. His parents would probably never understand. He sat up and smiled at her bravely. A fleeting expression of confusion flashed across her face before she smiled back.

—————————

As the sun began to sink and shadows lengthened, Gilbert sat waiting, scanning the valley towards the Providence. No sign of his father yet. He was late. What could be keeping him? He turned to go inside when without warning, he felt the wind suddenly gust and twist. He stopped and listened.

These are times of sadness and suffering. The Fog spreads, and soon it will swallow all...

Gilbert shook his head, trying to ignore the ominous whisper in his mind. There was no water to be found anywhere. How could there be fog? He must have heard wrong. It was not fog swallowing all: it was sun roasting all. Or was it? There was no fog, but the air was not the same. The seasons were not the same. Whatever it was, he could sense the displeasure of Mother Earth. In any event, what was the impending Fog, and why could it not just leave things be and disappear.

Another gust whipped his hair from his face:

“But today is a time for joy... for today your father brings you a sister.”

“A sister? My sister?”

Before the wind could answer, Joss emerged from the scrub, walking up the old cobble path towards him; over one shoulder, his old leather carry pack, and in his other arm, a small wicker basket oscillating lazily in resonance with his stride. Mindless of his injury, Gilbert was up and running.

“Papa, you have my sister!”

Joss stopped, perplexed. He had no idea how Gilbert did this. It was unsettling. Elizabeth half believed Gilbert when he said he could speak to the wilds. But to Joss it was absurd and in trying times, he did not have time for such illogical banter.

“Ah, you sneaky little boy, did you see me talking to her? She is not ours and I will return her in the morning.”

The wind picked up again. It lifted Joss’s hat and blew it into the scrub. Gilbert fetched it, propping it on his own head, smiling,

“Papa, you’re wasting your time going back.”

“Why would you say something like that?”

“It’s not me, it’s the wind.”

Joss forced a grin. There was nothing else he could do. Man cannot speak to the winds. That’s how it is. But if the child was fabricating stories, how he did it was beyond comprehension. Whatever the truth or the lie, Gilbert was his son, and there was not a prouder father in the Providence Valley.

Joss unwrapped the bundle in his arms and Gilbert gazed on in wonderment.

“She is beautiful, please let’s keep her!”

He leaned forward and kissed the baby on the forehead, and she gurgled her delight. Just then Elizabeth emerged from the cottage and scurried closer to discover the subject of the excitement.

“Goodness me, Joss. Whose baby is this?”

“Yours mama!” shouted Gilbert.

Elizabeth faltered, her eyes locked with her husband. Joss could see her thoughts as though they were imprinted. A baby? Now? How do we feed her? How do we raise her? How do we survive just the three of us - Yet you bring another child into our family?

Hesitantly, she went to Joss and gently took the baby in her arms. She held her for a long time in silence, and then whispered,

“This child is beautiful Joss. Whose is she?”

Joss put an arm around his wife and the four of them made their way back to the cottage. Gilbert peered back curiously at the lengthening shadows. Never before had he experienced such absolute quiet. Every tree, bird, animal, insect, the wind – everything was silent. It was as if the whole world had stopped to watch.

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