Context (53 page)

One lap was enough for Tom.

Until I perceive the Way more
deeply...

For those with deeper devotion
could run for longer than anyone Tom had ever known.

At his single lap’s end, he would
stand at the round bronze temple door, and watch Brother Barjo’s diminishing
slender figure, until he had run from sight. Then it would be time to join the
other novitiates in the Outer Court, where they would walk, meditating, in
approximate ellipses—each assigned his own path: a strange attractor whose
image he would hold in his mind—without ever colliding.

An instructor-monk would stand at
the Court’s centre, his voice a soft, washing presence, as he spoke of the
mundane (such as which scarlet fungi might be safely eaten) and the cosmic (the
interconnected karma matrices).

The language was Lefanjin. Though
Tom was not yet fluent, in these sessions it seemed that he understood every
word with a clarity beyond normal speech.

And every other day he stood
inside the Great Prism, its kaleidoscopic facets presenting infinite
recursions, like geometric koans: translucent shards forming impossible
triangles, or tangled non-Euclidean mazes which shifted parallax in unsettling
ways.

Aeolian music, eerie and
haunting, created by the Prism itself from the hot and cold breezes which
flowed within, talked deeply to Tom’s spirit, paradoxically unsettling yet
reassuring.

Yet time itself seemed
increasingly abstract, an artefact created by convention and the limited
perceptions of too-busy human beings.

When the glamour became too much,
he would drift away ...Later, he would awaken in the Outer Court, while the
watcher-priests who had carried him out would laugh as the focus returned to
his gaze.

And Tom would smile back.

At peace.

At
some point, it was his turn to accompany an elder—big Brother Fazner, strongly
built for a monk—into the commercial tunnels of Verinadshi Demesne. Tom waited patiently
outside each establishment where his brother-in-enlightenment visited.

Where families were shopping—this
was rest-day—children would stop and point at Tom, standing there in his bright
orange garb. When he nodded back, they would squeal with delight, tugging at
their parents’ tunics, begging to be allowed to talk with Tom.

The parents would duck their
heads in mute apology, smiling.

But there were other tunnels,
where garish holos in cobalt blue and vermilion red pushed back shadows, and
customers hunched furtively as they passed by. Music whined, and scents of
amphetamist and ganja grew strong.

But there is no dragon.

So even here, Tom was at peace:
the dark yearning for alcoholic forgetfulness was driven into submission.

Somewhere on the border between
sleazy quarters and bright market corridors lay the House Of The Golden Moth.
It was classier than other taverns: well-dressed freemen entered without
hesitation, accompanied by their well-washed, happy-looking children.

Perhaps they drew some security
from the huge, dark-skinned figure guarding the door, copper helm upon his
head, morphospear in hand. Around the carl’s upper arm, the indenture armlet
gleamed as brightly as his helm.

‘Hello, Kraiv,’ said Tom.

The big warrior looked down at
him.

Inside,
while Kraiv remained on duty, Tom and Brother Fazner were led by a waitress to
a small nook, where she motioned them to sit.

‘Master Lochlen will be here
shortly.’

‘Thank you.’ Brother Fazner bowed
to her as she withdrew.

‘Should I not wait outside,
brother?’

‘Perhaps not. Why don’t you stand
there?’

Was Kraiv that bad an influence?
Tom felt saddened that he should cause Brother Fazner such concern.

He went to where his
brother-in-enlightenment had pointed, and stood against the wall beneath a
flickering orange holoflame which cast no heat.

‘Hello? I’m Lochlen.’ A lean man,
with tattooed cheeks and a dark goatee, came up to Tom. ‘Owner of this sorry
joint. Are you my new—’

‘Here I am, Master Lochlen,’
called out Brother Fazner from the nook.

‘Ah, right.’ With a wry smile,
Lochlen pulled a small purse from his belt. ‘Guess I nearly made a mistake,
right?’

‘If you would, please.’ Brother
Fazner gestured for Lochlen to join him, which he did: sliding onto the seat
opposite, placing the purse on the black tabletop between them.

‘Tom? My Fate, is that you?’

‘Oh.’ He turned round. ‘How are
you, Draquelle?’

‘I—’ For a moment, it looked as
though she was going to slap him. Then she made a visible effort to calm down,
and shook her head. ‘I’m the last person to accuse you of being irresponsible.
My apologies, Tom.’

‘Not required,’ he answered,
puzzled by her words.

Irresponsible? In what way?

But to ask her outright would be
impolite.

‘So, should I call you Brother
Tom? Is that what this’ -gesturing at his orange garments—‘is all about?’

‘I don’t yet have that honour.’

‘Destiny.’ Draquelle shivered,
and hugged herself. ‘If you say so, my friend.’

It was the form of address which
Kraiv so often used.

‘You and Kraiv are getting along
well,’ Tom said.

‘Oh, yes.’ With a small smile: ‘He’s
the reason my life’s under control. Finally.’

‘I know what you mean.’

Draquelle stared at him. ‘I
thought you had other— Wasn’t a woman involved, somehow?’

Elva?

A ghost ran cold, insubstantial
fingers down Tom’s spine ... but then the moment was past.

‘We must be going now,’ said
Brother Fazner.

Though
it was strictly too soon, Tom tried to keep up with Brother Barjo for all three
laps, but his devotion-endurance failed, and he dropped back, gasping. Then the
long, slow walk to the monastery, with the knowledge of failure hurting as much
as the cramps which racked his legs.

When he entered the dorm that
night, one of the other novitiates, young Yerwo, made Tom lie face down on his
sleeping mat, while all fifteen fellow novitiates who slept here used strong
fingers to massage painful healing into Tom’s feet and calves and hamstrings.

‘You tried until the body gave
way,’ Yerwo told him.

‘There is honour in that,’ said
another.

“Thank you, my brothers.’

Though the treatment was agony,
when it finished the cessation was wonderful.

Tom slid into sleep.

Next morning, after the usual
cold rice breakfast, two physiologist-monks inserted needle probes in Tom’s
limbs, and checked their holodisplays, nodding and smiling.

‘Drink this.’ One of them handed
Tom a bowl of orth-orange juice.

‘Today,’ said the other, ‘you run
with Thrumik.’

It was an advancement, despite
yesterday’s failure. But he should be humble, not consider his progress as
meritorious in its own right, burdening his ego.

But the two monks, now testing
Yerwo’s physiometrics, were frowning.

I am no better,
Tom told himself firmly,
than
my brother.

He drained his bowl of juice,
then crossed to the limbering-up chapel, to prepare for the day’s devotions.

It
was the AdrenaGitha, the sprint-interval devotion, and it was agony. Its coda
was a long-distance run—slow-paced, but a full twenty-three klicks.

Master Thrumik, aged sixty-two
SY, running with an ethereal fluid motion, seemed to drift along the ground as
though borne by unfelt breezes. After prostrated praying at each shrine,
Thrumik would rise, face suffused with devotion’s joy, and begin to run again.