An unviolable voice
The break of dawn would be upon them soon. Violet ribbons of morning light dressed the cloudless sky with its desert clothes. The Pilgrim was kneeling, praying to God. His lips uttered mantras that thanked God for the gift of sight. Molo was right next to him shrouded in studied silence, half kneeling in a praying stance. His features now were much more grizzled and harsher than when he had left his master’s curatorium. He felt quite a different man these last few days, and it showed.
It was not just that he was leaner, more muscle and thin skin than bone or fat. His body had become somewhat stringent but it also felt much more resilient and less drawn to earthly needs, more attuned with the realities of the surrounding world. It was the walk through the desert that was to blame, though Molo did not consider such change unwanted. Indeed, he felt it was a blessing made manifest. A blessing from the God that he had mocked and shunned but had also seen with his own eyes and felt on his bare skin.
He believed now. Of all the things that he had imagined when he had set out, this was the most unexpected, and quite laughably so. Still, it was indeed as the Pilgrim had put it: “God provides”. It provided him with a companion, with faith and truth; a guiding path, a light that shone each day and showed him the meaning of existence in a handful of sand and a patch of clear blue sky. It was the same God that had created this world.
He had scolded himself for his previous feelings and thoughts. Faith, as he now saw in his enlightened mind, did not exclude logic or slave men to a body of lies, a life of unhappiness and endless toil. It enhanced it, it magnified its significance, it gave men purpose; it gave them a hard background of impossibilities against which they could measure themselves and the world around them. It provided a challenge. Once God was proven to exist, what more was there to find out other than to see His true face, comprehend His plan and follow its perfection to whatever end awaited each one? The Pilgrimage was the way to God’s Land, as well as His heart and mind, the only way to talk to Him and listen His voice resound through a man’s soul.
It had happened once already, even before they had reached the Garden of God. It was not a Necropolis, it could not have been. The word was blasphemous, portraying God as something unliving, dead, withered and gone. Perhaps God was gone, leaving for reasons only He could fathom. But the echoes of His footsteps still roamed in His Land, each grain of sand carried His imprint. It was certain to him, clear as water from a spring. The touch of God was in everything, even in the storm that had spared them.
In that moment, Molo had become a believer. He cast aside the hard grasp of logic and lifted the barricades of his reason to let the shining light of true faith enter. He saw God, felt his presence and accepted his truth. It was so very simple, if one could just walk in His Land. It changed a man, whether he wanted to or not. He did not believe there could exist a man or woman born of flesh and capable of feeling, that would not be humbled by such a peregrination. Even himself, a man who had killed another man in cold blood, without guilt or the evidence of conscience, could be made to see God in this place.
He ended his prayer with the sign of God, and the Pilgrim next to him stood up with feet planted in the still warm sand. Holding the guiding stone reverently, his body followed the stone’s guiding light, gazing the dunes that beckoned before them like rolling waves of sand frozen in time. But they moved, Molo had seen now. They moved with a speed that belied their size, their sand shifting slowly but endlessly with every tiny gust of air, like a trickle that never ceased to be.
It was why it would be impossible to find one’s way in the Land of God without His touch guiding a man, without His help, without a stone. No landmarks whatsoever, nothing to measure distance by anything other than your own steps; steps that faded in the sand like when the sea washes over them with each wave. And those who did not have faith would certainly drift until their life was claimed, whether on sea or on sand.
The Pilgrim then turned to Molo and pointed to him with a smile, letting his unusually healthy white pearly teeth shine brightly in the first rays of the suns. Molo smiled back and greeted him in High Helican, feeling warm inside for the first time in many years; perhaps for the first time since he was a child, before his master took him in. He said to the Pilgrim in a clear, resounding voice:
“Blessed be the sands of our Father. May this day test your faith, brother.”
The Pilgrim replied in kind:
“Blessed they are indeed, brother. If so God wills it, let this day judge me.”
Molo’s slight bow made him let out a deep and rumbling laugh, like the sound of rocks tumbling down into a river. His brother’s face was puzzled, but he seemed eager to learn of what he had said or done wrong, what it was that had made him so unassumingly merry all of a sudden. The Pilgrim felt the moment could serve well to enlighten his brother with some words of wisdom which should be seldom needed, but not unjustly so. He looked at Molo with the caring look of an older brother, and said to him under the light of the rising suns:
“Tell me, brother. What is it that you seek in God’s Land?”
Molo seemed slightly put-off, as if taken aback from such a question. It troubled him, but he did not try to conceal it. It was a human gesture, admitting one’s imperfection eagerly without guilt, shame or regret. It was a good sign that his brother was now more open to him, almost transparent for all to see. Perhaps it was the test of faith that had turned his heart so much brighter. It had lit the fire of his faith anew. He himself had almost faltered in his quest. It was only understandable that his newly found brother would do so as well at some point. They were only human; it was expected of them. But God had supported them in their time of need. As always, God provided. As if trying to steer his mind away from a dark precipice, Molo was careful with his words, not only because the language was difficult to speak properly, but because he found the Pilgrim’s question deeply incisive, the answer still unknown to him. His voice was hushed and slow, while each word seemed to carry the weight of many different truths:
“I seek God himself, brother. Though that would have been a lie a few days ago, it is now truth. In a way, I have always sought him but only very recently did I have real faith in finding him. Now I do, more than ever. It is comforting to know you were somehow right, even when you were wrong.”
The Pilgrim raised a hand at that remark, looking at Molo with intensity and even wariness. He told him crisply, his words coming out of his mouth harsh and unyielding, very much unlike his usual meek and irenic manner:
“Man is always wrong, he is never right. His faith may be right, pure, unyielding, constant. But a man can never be right. Only God is right. Error, wrong, fault. These are the domains of man. Do not ever step lightly on one of God’s domains.”
Molo was genuinely surprised. The Pilgrim had scolded him with ferocity, as if he had defiled something sacred. That had not been Molo’s intention though and he lowered his gaze, in silent acceptance of his transgression. He knew he still had a long way to go if he was ever to redeem himself. Thessurdijad Molo felt he had been born anew in that storm, but that also meant he had to learn how to walk, and talk, from the beginning. The Pilgrim went on, this time his voice mellow and soft, understanding his brother would never transgress in such a way again:
“You have faith brother, that much I know. But it is untempered, wild. It may lead you astray, in can be twisted while it yet remains unshaped. Pure and raw as it is, it can still be tainted, poisoned, turned against you and God. It has happened before. We are only men. We err.”
Molo nodded at those words thoughtfully, but not simply because of the Pilgrim’s candor. It was one of the first times he wasn’t nodding simply because he meant to agree or accept the other man’s words. This time he felt the weight behind the words, and he felt them squarely on his mind. The Pilgrim gave a small pause and then continued, in somewhat accented but still quite understandable High Helican:
“I will show you how to forge your faith into an unyielding arm
or, true and tried, a shield against His enemies. But I can only go so far as to warn you, steer you and advise you. God may be everywhere around us, but he is not alone. This world is tainted and even in his Gardens we must be vigilant. The archenemies always seek to invade your mind, poison your soul and destroy your faith. Have faith brother and empty your soul. Humble yourself, see the true path like before and let us walk on it hand in hand. God will provide.”
The Pilgrim ended his small talk with a reassuring smile and clasped Molo’s arm with his own. He looked at his brother, and felt the troubled soul that lay deep within him. He ached for his brother, but all he could do was stand by him, pray and wish for him to overcome whatever doubt and fear held his faith back, and turn the trickle of his soul into a torrent of faith and love, an unbridled force of nature, one that only God could spur in a man.
Molo returned the smile, but only faintly; his mind was focused on the deep thoughts the words of the Pilgrim had given birth to. It was just as well to think about his past, his present and his future, all through the prism of the one truth that had been revealed to him to hold above others: God.
He resolved that he would ask whatever came to mind, and he would answer whatever the Pilgrim wanted to ask. It seemed though that the Pilgrim’s questions would be enough, sharp as a tiger’s claws, hard as rock and stone. For the first time in his journey, he wished he had more time before they reached their destination; more time to prepare himself and his soul for what lay ahead. Because Molo now knew in his heart, that this journey could claim his soul as well as his life. It would be ironic to lose one’s soul only a little while after he’d found out he had one to begin with.
The Pilgrim began walking towards the point in the horizon the stone had shown earlier. He gestured for Molo to follow without another word. Molo seemed consternated, because they had been walking all night, again. What little water they found at times just before dawn, was barely enough to sustain them. It felt unwise to continue without resting, to exert their bodies beyond their limits of tolerance.
He did not voice his concern though; he knew it was not necessary and only wasteful. The Pilgrim motioned this time with even more vigor, bowing slightly and gesturing with both hands. For an instant Molo was reminded of an usher of festivities or a lordly servant, but such an image did not do the Pilgrim any justice. A few days ago, Molo would have mocked him in low Helican, but now he felt only ashamed he would have done such a thing to the man that had kept him alive, body and soul.
The suns had come up by that time, casting their light across the dry landscape. The Pilgrim brought out his shelter stone and touched it with both hands. A shadowy bubble seemed to shimmer around them for a while, before it turned completely transparent. It seemed to have lost some of its former capacity to shelter them, like an awning suddenly becoming thinner, tattered. Whatever lay in God’s plan, it seemed that this stone would rather sooner than later stop working properly. The heat was not scorching but it was more intense than the day before, and the light that entered through the stone’s invisible protective barrier was certainly brighter. Nevertheless, Molo started walking, trying not to fall behind.
He wondered if the Pilgrim knew, though he was more concerned with how to broach this subject, lest it be considered blasphemy or an affront to God. Though he now believed, he also was not blind to the fact that these stones though probably considered holy artifacts and for good reason, where some sort of technological marvel, not vessels of divinity. Highly evolved technology could be easily misunderstood for a divine miracle, a work of God. Molo felt he could help these people understand their past, and they could help him shape his future. ‘God willing’, he added to his series of thoughts.
They had been walking over thick sand for the better part of an hour, every one of their steps sinking visibly up to their ankles, slowing their pace considerably, sapping their strength with every passing minute. The creatures of the desert that had sustained them were gone now; this was no-man’s land, a veritable patch of dead sand. Yet, God lived here. The realization of that contradiction led to a strange flux of feelings in Molo; he felt serenely calm.
But at the same time there was anxiety in his heart, wariness; a feeling of lurking danger. It could be the feeling the Pilgrim had warned him about. It could be some primeval sort of warning emanating deep from within. It could all just be the effects of wearing down his body, having walked constantly for half a day or more with just a couple of mouthfuls of water and not a single bite of food. He felt he had to ask the Pilgrim:
“Pilgrim, I’m feeling weary, tired. I thirst. Shouldn’t we stop and rest? If only for a little while.”
The Pilgrim did not stop, neither did he slow down. He simply carried on, using his walking stick to help him propel himself forward, as if it was a row for the sand. He did not turn to look at Molo, but rather replied in a crisp, somewhat stringent voice:
“There will be no rest from now on, brother. The stone has served its purpose diligently for many years. It will soon cease to be of any use. We must make haste, take advantage of as much of its protection as it still lasts. So we walk.”
‘So he does know the stone is failing,’ Molo thought. He then felt it would not be inappropriate to ask more of the Pilgrim, the strain from the arduous walking evident in his voice, gasps of breath between his questions:
“Does that happen with every stone? Are they not very precious to you? Is this why you are on a Pilgrimage? The stones are failing?”
The Pilgrim brought a hand up, a gesture that implied Molo should be silent. His hand briefly occluded the two suns, offering Molo a small patch of shadow so he could look at the Pilgrim with more ease.
“The stones will always fail in the hands of men. They are gifts from God. I seek to atone for my own and my peoples sins, ask for God’s mercy. He will deliver us, once more. Now speak not, lest both our breaths be robbed of what precious water remains.”
Molo went silent for a few moments and lowered his head, trudging behind the Pilgrim who seemed to be little more than inconvenienced by the difficult terrain. He still seemed troubled though and voiced his concern, of a different nature this time:
“Is it just the sand and the long walk that has me tired Pilgrim, or is it something else as well?”
The Pilgrim stopped in his tracks then, but did not turn around to look at Molo. He simply glanced sideways when he told him:
“Guard yourself, brother. Only you can do that, I can merely caution you. The burden lies solely on you.”
Molo felt a real answer still eluded him so he insistent on asking once more:
“But, do you feel it? Do you feel the unease? A sagging weight bogging you down?”
The Pilgrim resumed his walking pace, his feet kicking up the sand with an ease that belied the fact that it was a feat in itself. He graced Molo though with an answer in a loud, knowing voice:
“I have always felt it, brother. It is you who is only now beginning to truly understand.”
With that, they both returned to a silence that seemed to be so natural in the desert, the only sound the continued murmur of grains of sand shifting and turning, swirling in the air; an eternal dance to the whims of the wind. Molo could only nod in mute acceptance and walk behind the Pilgrim, the sound of his feet sinking in the desert sand, keeping pace with the beats of his heart. The suns were on the rise, soon it would be noon. All around them, he could see nothing but sand. “God will provide,” he muttered under his breath, and trudged along.
Dusk was only a few hours away. Molo was exhausted, every muscle aching but the ones in his legs simply burned with searing pain. It was impossible for him to go any further without resting first. Molo thought the Pilgrim would resort to actually dragging him behind him in the desert, but that had remained only something in Molo’s fantasy. They had stopped for the day, the heat of the desert slowly diminishing but its echoes still faint in the evening breeze, a warm wind that could have been almost pleasant if it did not
carry all that sand.
They were resting in the shadow of a tall white obelisk, otherwise unadorned and plain, demanding attention by its sheer size and apparent uniqueness, dominating the desert landscape. They had first seen it when the suns were high up above at midday, a gray-blue silhouette in the horizon. It had taken them until before dusk to finally reach it. It was a tall obelisk with a wide base, and on one of its four sides the gleaming glossy white material it was mostly made of seemed to be peppered with tiny little holes, as if it was porous and sponge-like.
He could not know for certain, but though indeed impressive somehow, the obelisk did not seem monumental and awe-inspiring. It felt more like a building, or a post; something long abandoned even though it was in perfect shape apparently. It did not seem as if it had been erected by man but rather like it had always been there, heedless of the sandy winds and scorching heat. The Pilgrim had stood aghast when he saw it and in reverent tones started reciting from memory, his only source of knowledge:
“And on His Gardens stands a pillar of white, unlike marble or stone. It stands tall and proud, to serve the humble and the faithful.”
Molo had repeatedly asked whether or not this was what they were looking for, whether or not their journey drew closer to an end, but the Pilgrim had simply told him that he would see for himself, if he was indeed humble and faithful. That had quietened Molo down, who felt the excitement was perniciously keeping him out of focus, making his thoughts and hopes stray from the one true path he was now walking: the path of God.
Perhaps indeed the archenemies were lurking around, their malignancy somehow trying to veer him away from his newly found purpose, driving him to dark corners of his mind he did not wish to revisit. Perhaps it was simply himself, still trying to come to terms with his new identity as a believer; not an avaricious atavist, not a cold-blooded killer, not a man seeking to empower himself with unsurpassed might and hidden knowledge whatever the cost. That was the kind of man Molo had known. His new self, he had to learn as he went.
The shade of the white pristine obelisk was comfortable enough for them to sit down, and perhaps sleep in the still warm sand, using it as a sort of blanket. What was even more refreshing was the water the obelisk produced, a small recess in its base readily appearing as if a lever had been pulled, with an unnerving lack of sound. It had opened with a simple touch of the Pilgrim, as if he had been here many times before and quite intimately knew the workings of such a thing. When questioned about that, the Pilgrim had merely shrugged and said to Molo, ‘God always provides’. It was an unanswered mystery that could very well remain so, if it meant fresh, cool, and potable water would be readily available.
As they were sitting at the base of the obelisk, their eyes would not leave it alone. The Pilgrim was offering a reverent gaze to it, seemingly musing about the workings of God in His Land, engrossed in thought and prayer. Molo’s visage was that of a man preoccupied with troubling sensations and feelings of unease. True enough, the obelisk had saved them from dehydration and death, and even though food was still unavailable, and their progress seemed to be slower, water was more important.
But what really raced in his mind was the opportune moments. The storm clearing away from them harmlessly instead of leaving their bones to bleach under the suns. Finding the obelisk right about when the desert was surely going to claim them. Was it really God that had provided, or was there more to such blissful and timely divine providence? Molo felt unsure and uneasy, the latter due in part to the former.
Esphalon came to his mind, since he had mentioned divine providence as well. Was it a common theme? Was the desert and its extreme environment the one to blame for the changes he was going through? Was it a trick of perception, a misstep of the mind? Was it simply a coping mechanism? The array of questions that seemed to come unbidden to his weary mind suddenly became overwhelming. He had to give pause to rest and clear his mind; then he could search within and without to find his answers. Maybe, as the Pilgrim had told him, it was true that the burden lay on him. It was time he had some sleep.
He made the sign of God right before the hour of dusk signaled its approach, coloring the thin line between the land and the sky with a violet shade of crimson and a deep blue, like the ocean sea. He knelt and prayed, the newly found solace in that simple act soothing his troubled mind. The Pilgrim next to him did likewise and right before Molo laid himself down, curling with only his cloak to cover him up, he talked to him affording him a preciously warm and friendly look:
“Sleep my friend. I can see your troubles. Let sleep bring you peace, let peace bring you closer to God. It is why you are here, is it not?”
Molo looked away from the Pilgrim, into the setting suns that grazed the dunes afar with the last light of the day; two glowing rings of brightness worn around the shadow of the low dunes. He took his time before answering but when his reply came it rang true, crystal clear and genuine:
“I think that is the real reason, yes. Things trouble me though Pilgrim, and I shall not lie to you. I have doubts, still. They plague me like hounds in the night. I can listen to them in my mind, trying to catch up with me.”
The Pilgrim was unperturbed by such a statement. His face was serene, calm to the point of being impassive. He replied with a smile:
“You are only a man, brother. Whatever God’s plan is, you are part of it, make whatever you like of that. Now sleep because we move at midnight, when the Pyx is high. Tomorrow will be the day our Pilgrimage comes to an end. However and whenever God wills it.”
“So, tomorrow we will reach His City?”
The Pilgrim spoke no more, and silently closed his eyes. He laid himself down to sleep, the lukewarm sand’s embrace his body’s only comfort. Molo felt enthusiasm try and take hold of his sense and his mind, but he thought of the Pilgrim’s words and his advice. He looked once more into the fading horizon and noticed Pyx was starting to rise once more, to reign over the desert like a prince of the night. He let his feelings of enthusiasm go and tried to empty his mind. It would all be revealed in time, he could trust in that. He slept then, his body welcoming the absolute stillness. He had hoped for dreams that would guide him, but none came.
The Pilgrim woke him up with a jolt to his sides, and a tug at his vest. It felt abrupt and violent, but it seemed the Pilgrim had good reason for it. Before Molo could stand up on his feet, he could see in the still darkness of the night the starlight casting their hard shadows against the sand. The Pilgrim had a finger to his mouth, instructing Molo to remain silent. He even noticed he was holding his breath in an effort to not make a sound. He knew they were in danger now and the Pilgrim’s attitude only served to strengthen that belief.
Something was amiss around them. The Pilgrim had felt it first and was now trying to uncover it. A sense of hidden menace hung in the air, as if night itself had suddenly turned against them. They exchanged wary looks and the Pilgrim extended his arms to help Molo up to his feet, his movements exuding a strangely purposeful grace, as if he was moving with an entirely new purpose now. Indeed, once Molo was standing upright, the Pilgrim gestured him to stay put with the palm of his hand and silently drove off into the night towards a small mound of sand that seemed to block their view to the north.
He was barefooted and he moved impossibly fast, with the grace of a cat. The Pilgrim barely touched the sand, his feet almost failing to impress themselves on the desert floor. He had drawn his knife and was grasping it with his right hand with his torso somewhat swiveled, ready to deliver a forceful blow; his body seemed ready to spring in action, putting as much of his weight and strength behind his knife.
Molo had frozen in place, trying to gather his wits and his senses. He could not know what had alerted the Pilgrim but he could feel its presence as well. They were in danger, that much was clear. He suddenly felt naked, without even a simple weapon in hand. He saw the Pilgrim had left his walking stick behind; a sturdy piece of wood, gnarled and light. Judging that a piece of wood wou
ld offer him better protection than his bare hands, Molo picked it up.
He walked as silently as possible, much more slowly than the Pilgrim, his feet sinking in the sand effortlessly. Molo tried to wield the piece of wood like a distaff holding it with both hands, but he saw its length was badly suited to such a task, so he grasped it with both hands from one end, like a club. The Pilgrim was approaching the top of the sandy mound. He had reduced his stature to a bent shape and his pace to a crawl. He appeared to Molo as a cougar or a mountain lion, ready to spring up on its prey with vicious speed and cold fury, only because of lethal necessity.
It was so very much unlike him to act in such a way. It was as if a heathen warrior of old myth and folk tales had come into life before him. Perhaps it was indeed so; perhaps these myths had their origins in the people of the Pilgrim, the believers of God. Molo had never thought of him in such a light, judging him to be a serene and mellow man; a sensitive mind in a frail body. It seemed that some people hid more than met the eye.
As he himself approached the crouching figure of the Pilgrim, Molo saw him turn his head and look at him with an exasperated look, probably because he was making too much noise in an otherwise eerily silent desert. He gestured Molo once more to be silent and still. Molo complied, understanding that it was unwise of him to go running after the Pilgrim, heedless of the noise he was making.
A smell of iron and sparks permeated the air suddenly, wafting over the crest of the mound. It was not very much unlike the smell often found in blacksmith shops and forges, though its exact nature eluded him. It was sharper and more acrid; it almost felt like it stung the eyes. It was not a good sign, it felt wrong and unnatural. His body tensed and the Pilgrim seemed to be on the edge as well, the fingers of his hand opening and closing in rapid succession around the knife’s haft in nervous anticipation. The air thickened with alarming speed and the smell grew stronger; then he saw it appear over the crest, strange thin beams of light sprouting from what might have been a head of sorts: a glistening metal hulk glinted under the starlight, uniformly gray and unassumingly blocky, a rectangle slab larger than a man. The Pilgrim saw it too and sprung up like a coiled snake, his hand making a large slashing motion at the metal slab delivering a glancing blow and then rolling back down the slope of the mount, tumbling and coming to rest at what seemed like a safer distance from the metal slab. He was a few feet away from Molo when he shouted, all reasons for silence and discretion gone. His stare was focused on the metal slab slowly coming their way, improbably keeping itself afloat half a foot above the sand:
“Run to God’s pillar! Run and pray! Think of God’s Anvil!”
Molo was confused, though his feet and legs moved like they had ears of their own. A floating slab of gray metal had appeared in the middle of the night out of nowhere, and the Pilgrim had attacked it to no avail with his knife. And now they were running. At least, he was. Running towards the obelisk, the Pilgrim left behind.
The Pilgrim wasn’t running; instead he was hefting the knife from one hand to the other, as if looking for a sturdier grip in a better fighting stance. He looked at his face and all he saw was calm acceptance, a knowledgeable expression in his face, as if he was ready body and mind for what would follow soon. He did not see defiance or strength of spirit. He saw a man who felt his end was near, but was determined to make it count, somehow.
Molo was almost halfway to the obelisk, when the realization struck him: What logic lay there in reaching the obelisk? What reason was there to run and pray, while the Pilgrim made a last stand that felt so vacant and void of meaning?
He stopped suddenly then and started running towards the Pilgrim and the coming metal fiend. As he ran with as much speed as the sand at his feet allowed him, he grasped the stick with both hands, ready to swing it around as hard as possible. He could not leave the Pilgrim alone in this. Molo asked himself what use were a knife and a stick against a floating slab of metal. If it had come to kill them, it suddenly felt more appropriate that they should die together, fighting as if they could someday win.
The Pilgrim saw him with the corner of his eye rushing to meet the slab. It seemed to Molo that he opened his mouth to say something, his eyes flashing red with anger. All the while, the slab had come within reach of the Pilgrim. As Molo swung the stick putting all the speed of his body behind the blow, he could see the knife shattering on impact, and a black band of glass in the middle of the slab. An instant later a red flicker of light filled his sight and his feet seemed to disobey him. Everything went dark and mute, as all sensation fled his body. His last thoughts were that death was nothing to be afraid of.