Read The Temple of Heart and Bone Online
Authors: S.K. Evren
The Faithful had returned to the
realm of the Maker. Creation was divided between the True Fallen, those who had
caused the Creation of Men, and the Rebel Fallen, those who had sworn to Love
and Defend their Master and His Creation, even at the cost of their union with
Him. The True Fallen walked among the men of the world as gods, still possessed
of Immortal powers. The Rebel Fallen walked in the shadows, rarely interfering
in the affairs of men.
These were part of the stories of
Creation, stories that had been told to Drothspar by his parents and by
generations of parents from time immemorial. Most children could recite the
stories, in some form, in their earliest years of speech. The great battle of
the angels was a favorite of playground re-enactors, at least until adult
supervision interposed.
Gathner had asked him, “Are the
Fallen evil?” Drothspar thought back on the story he had recounted in his mind.
His Master had not segregated between the True and Rebel Fallen. Drothspar,
however, did not see the two as the same. The True Fallen, he thought, created
without the will of the Maker. Their creation was not only imperfect, but
incomplete as well. The first “Men” of creation were mindless drones, slaves to
the servants that had made them. The word “slaves” sounded in his mind like the
after-tone of a bell. The Maker had brought Creation into being as an act of
Love and Sacrifice. The True Fallen had made men to be slaves, to serve them as
they thought they had served the Master. A servant, he thought, has a choice. A
servant may chose to serve, or choose to leave and take up life in some other
fashion or with some other master. A slave has no choice. A slave has no
enforceable will of its own.
The Rebel Fallen had sacrificed
all that they were or could have been to continue to serve their Master. Many
theologians said that they were no better than the True Fallen, because they
had disobeyed the Creator of All. Drothspar, however, had always admired the
Rebel Fallen. They could have washed their hands of the responsibility of
Creation, but they did not. They refused to leave the True Fallen unwatched,
fearing for the world their Master had wrought. Little was known or told of the
Rebel Fallen. Their few stories were held up as lessons against disobedience.
Drothspar had never agreed with that view. They had stayed to protect, not for
themselves, but for their Master, for His Creation, and ultimately, for Men.
Gathner watched Drothspar as the
novice wrestled with the questions in his head. Behind his desk, he leaned back
in his chair, his hands folded on his chest as if in prayer. His eyes studied
the young novice. His face showed nothing, but his mind was afire with
curiosity. Would this young man understand? Would he come up with ideas of his
own, or would he spout off the “party line,” as it were. Excitement built up
within the archpriest, though his appearance gave nothing away.
“Master,” Drothspar said, “I
think I am ready to answer.”
“You
think
you are,”
Gathner asked, “or you are?”
“I am ready, Master.”
“Then, by all means, please go
on.”
“Master, the True Fallen created
Men out of a selfish desire for slaves.” Gathner became more excited as he
listened to the words of the novice. Few of his novices even made a distinction
in the Fallen, preferring, as most, to group them all together. Keeping his
face and body neutral, he listened as the young man continued. “They did not
seek the consent of the Maker of All. They did not give Men the ability to worship
or know the true Author of Creation. Because of this, I would say that the True
Fallen are evil. As my witness, Master, I attest to you that I am not fit to
judge the least of men, let alone any immortal being, as good or evil, but only
label them so to answer your question.”
“Very well, Drothspar, I will
accept your answer.” In his time as archpriest, no novice had ever excused
himself from the right to judge in speculation or in fact. Gathner mused on the
subject until he was interrupted by Drothspar.
“Master, may I continue?”
Gathner looked at the novice
before him, certain his excitement must be showing. His self-control, however,
was complete as he told his student to go on.
“Master, you asked about ‘the
Fallen,’ and I have given you my answer on the True Fallen. I would now like to
give you my thoughts on the Rebel Fallen.” Drothspar waited for the old man to
respond.
Gathner’s eyes had opened wide
and he stared at the boy for a moment, almost, but not quite, losing his
composure. “Proceed,” he told the novice.
“The Rebel Fallen disobeyed their
Master. They did not know what His true Will was, but took it on themselves to
stay amidst Creation.” Drothspar paused, sorting his thoughts to continue.
Gathner, however, felt the taste of disappointment in his heart. The boy was
simply repeating the theological definition of the Rebels. This novice had
shown such promise, he thought to himself, regretfully. He was about to stop
the interview when Drothspar continued.
“Master, I admit that the Rebel
Fallen
did
disobey the Maker. However, they did not do this for their
own glory. All of their glory was seated in audience around their Master. They
did not disobey for the worship or adoration of man. In truth, they have been
reviled by men as long as the True Fallen. I believe that they disobeyed their
Master out of Love for Him. Master, though I know it is wrong to say, the Rebel
Fallen are not evil. Their actions may have been misguided, but they were not
selfish.”
Gathner, who had been on the
verge of dismissing the boy, sat still in his chair. His eyes widened and his
mouth opened slightly. No other expression showed on his face as he continued
to stare at the novice. Drothspar, however, was certain that he was in trouble.
The archpriest, he knew, was a very calm and reserved man. His declaration that
the Rebels were not evil, however, appeared to have shocked the man beyond
belief.
Drothspar sat in his chair. He
was looking at his feet when he heard the archpriest’s chair scraping loudly on
the floor. He heard the footsteps as the man came around the table. He closed
his eyes tightly and actually flinched when the archpriest spoke.
“Drothspar,” he said seriously in
a deep and resonant tone.
“Yes Master,” Drothspar replied
in a voice devoid of hope.
“I am very proud of you, my son!”
“Master, I can—” His words were
lost as the reserved archpriest caught the young man in a gruff bear-hug. He
blinked repeatedly as he was embraced by the man he was certain was going to
beat him. “Thank you, Master,” was all he managed to get out.
“Drothspar,” the archpriest said,
as he stood back with a proud smile, “you
are
on your way to
understanding evil.”
Looking at the bodies around him in the cellar,
Drothspar was certain that he could identify the works of evil. Looking at the
condition of the bodies, wondering at what they must have endured, he hoped
that he never
truly
understood evil. Three of the same inky shadows
occupied the cellar. Two undulated near the corpses, while a third seemed to be
hiding in the back of the cellar. Drothspar took a step closer to the moving
darkness, and they appeared to cringe away from him.
The shadows were afraid of him! Somehow, on some
level, they were aware of his presence. Could these be the spirits of the
Ferns? Were these shades what he had been until the moment he had been
awakened? Were they trapped in some unending dream, a nightmare of existence
between life and death? He tried to speak some words of comfort, but speech
eluded him. He could think of little else that might comfort these restless
beings. He remembered his conversation with the girl in his cottage, unable to
speak, he had written.
He knelt in the dirt and carved a
symbol into the ground. The symbol looked like two triangles balanced on the
tip of another triangle to form a sort of “Y” shape. It represented the twin
hammers of the Maker, Faith and Hope, supported on the Forge of the Maker,
known as Love. Beneath the symbol, he wrote the words of a child’s prayer for
the dead.
Gracious Maker, high above,
You gave us Life,
You gave us Love.
What we have lost,
Please hold dear,
‘Til in your arms all are near.
Drothspar knew other, more
elegant prayers for the dead. What he wrote in the dirt of the cellar was the
prayer his mother had taught him when his grandfather had died. He traced and
retraced the words in the dirt and thought back to his first real memory of
sadness. He remembered crying for what seemed hours after he had been told of
his grandfather’s death. His mother had come to tell him and, after doing so,
had held him very close. Her own eyes, he remembered were so very red. His
grandfather, this grandfather, had been her father.
She tried for quite some time to
comfort him, but nothing had worked to stop his tears. She held him. She rocked
him softly as if he were still an infant. Finally, she asked him gently, “Son,
why do you still cry?”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” he had told
her haltingly, “but I don’t know what else to do.”
“If there was something,” she
asked him, “something you could do for your grandfather, would you do it?”
“Yes,” he answered quickly, his
eyes lifting in hope. This was his mother, he knew, and she, of all people,
could fix all things. “What, Mother? What can I do?”
“You know that the Maker watches
over us, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mother,” he answered
brokenly, but with hope in his voice.
“There is a prayer I know, to ask
Him to watch over those we have lost. If you say this prayer, and ask him with
all your heart and all your soul,” she said, “I’m certain He will hear you.”
She put her arm around his shoulder and kissed his forehead warmly.
“Really, Mother?” he asked, his
voice eager, and his hand smearing his tears across his cheeks.
“Really, my son. I will teach you
and say it with you. The Maker listens to all prayers,” she had told him, “but
He listens closely to those said by a mother and her son.” Her own eyes began
to well with water, and she squeezed her son to her breast. Her tears had
fallen into his hair; he could remember them, cold and wet.
His mother quickly taught him the
sing-song words of the prayer, and they repeated the words with all of their
heart and soul. Eventually, Drothspar became drowsy, and his mother tucked him
into bed.
“Do you feel better, my Love?”
she asked him.
“Yes, Mommy,” he replied.
“That’s good. You sleep well. God
and his Faithful will watch over you.” She turned to leave his room.
“Mommy,” he called out to her,
his voice on the edge of sleep.
“Yes?”
“He heard us, Mommy. He heard
us.” Though he was falling asleep, his voice filled with such conviction that
she forgot her own pain for a moment, and dared to believe.
Drothspar continued to trace the
words he had written for quite some time. The little prayer brought him back to
the simple faith of a child. Even in his shared shadow of death, he felt hope
for these souls. He didn’t know how much time had passed, and he had not
counted the number of times he had traced out his silent prayer. He continued
to trace until something inside him told him it was right. He looked once at
the shadows he left behind, hoping they were more at ease.
He repeated the little ritual in
the dirt of the barn. Once more, he traced out the words without thought to
time or repetition. He did what he felt was right. When he finished, he could
see the pale light of morning sliding through the planks of the wall. The
diffuse steel light spread like a blanket over the floor of the barn. Drothspar
looked at the shadows, pleased to see them less turbulent, hoping they had
found some small peace.
Daylight carried with it the suggestion
of returning to the cottage. His night of simple prayer with the dead suggested
he needed something to do, something that would help with his loss now, as it
had helped when he was a child. As he began to walk slowly back to the cottage,
he thought about what he had, what he needed, and what he could do.
His body was both an asset and an
obstacle. Since he had form and substance, he could affect the physical world.
He was, however, only a collection of bones, and most people would probably
react rather poorly to his presence. He was very certain that most people would
not be as open minded as the young girl who had stumbled unsuspecting into his
cottage. She, herself, might have been less open-minded had he not caught her
and knocked her unconscious. The memory of the incident gave him mixed feelings
of small guilt and guilty amusement. Once he was certain he hadn’t hurt her, he
found the thought of being caught by a pile of bones on the floor slightly
amusing.
He was fairly certain few other
people would find a moving pile of bones funny, and that some industrious
individual would build a fire hot enough to burn him to ashes if
he
were
caught. He would have to cover his form to move about in occupied places, but
that could be done, his robe had proven that to some degree. With more complete
clothing and some padding, and a deeply cowled hood, he was certain he could
move about the world. It would probably be easier in the dark, he thought to
himself.