Chapter III
“Man prays on top of mountain for seven days, asking gods for wisdom.
On seventh night it rains, and gods tell him ‘Wise man has dry clothes.’ “
- Native Mesconan folk tale
All of Dormis stood clustered about the squat white-washed steeple that served as the local chapel. It was a chill and windy Sunday morning, and though it was only just past dawn, the grey sky showed no promise of improvement in the hours to come. All the peoples of village stood before the tall doors of the church, chatting worriedly amongst themselves. Children ran about and played, despite the best efforts of their fearful parents. Many gazed, nervous and impatient, at the smooth stone of the large sundial that sat in the capacious garden beside the steeplehouse, where the young folk were chasing each other about with the boundless energy of youth.
Finally, the church bell tolled its deep and resonant tone. The high stone doors cracked slowly apart, and a man with simple hempen robes and a shaven head stepped out through the gap. He looked about the crowd with a bearing of evident satisfaction, and he smiled. “Neighbors, good morning.” He said congenially and waved toward the now-open doors of the chapel in welcome, ushering them inside. The crowd responded with a chorus of soft greetings. “Please, come in and take your seats. We have much to discuss today.” He spoke softly and without hurry.
The crowd began quickly to file in, and the preacher stood to the side and greeted each family by name as they passed him. Most returned his greetings warmly, even if to some of them individually the priest’s tone as he thanked them for coming was as if to add an unspoken ‘for once’. Dormis was not a large village, and soon nigh all of its people were within the snug confines of the chapel. The white-robed preacher followed the last of them in and shut the tall doors firmly behind him. Though he was middle-aged, he made his way with quick, spry steps past the rows of cedarwood pews and ascended to the pulpit. On this raised dais he stood tall behind the simple wooden podium and looked out on the sea of worried faces in the crowd below.
Behind him lay the white stone altar, set about with three smooth-carved stone icons of the local deities, such as they were. Above these hung a broad banner of fine silk, and it was emblazoned with the thousand-pointed star of Heaven United. Here, as in every layman’s depiction, the symbol of the Thousand Pointed Star was represented abstractly, with an arbitrarily large number of points that depended chiefly upon the patience of the artist who had painted the image in question. Some parishioners claimed this star was the sun, the great celestial gem which is heaven, from which all life flows and of which each god is but a facet that casts its own shade of the purest light of the greater whole. Others, more pantheistically-minded, maintained that the holy symbol was merely an abstraction of the pact between all gods, by which was begot the church of Heaven United, which teaches that all deities are but a path to the same righteous divinity. This was a common debate for which the greater dogma had few simple answers. This largely informal pantheon referred to all gods collectively as The Lords Above, and all gods were theoretically equal in the eyes of the religion’s adherents.
Some years after the establishment of the church of Heaven United, some of the more cynical religious scholars away in the civilized south claimed that this dogma had been conjured by mere men, by design blanketing the worship of any conceivable deity under one all-encompassing doctrine. This all-inclusiveness, they said, was key to the quick proliferation of the religion, leading to its virtual theological dominance of Mescona. This theory began to gain strong ground in various institutions of higher learning throughout the east until the support of it was quickly recanted by virtually all of its academic adherents when professor Ritchard Hogdens, perhap too-zealous a supporter of the so-called False Dogma Theory, was burned at the stake for blasphemy in the year 278, along with all known copies of his recently-published thesis highlighting various supposed inconsistencies in the written dogma of Heaven United. Though later historians would insist this act had surely been engineered, if not perpetrated, by the church itself, no witnesses of the highly publicized act were seen to come forth, and no public indictment was ever made by the local constabulary for that violent act of censorship.
Though it was the talk of the countryside in the years following 278, burnings due to accusations of blasphemy or witchcraft had at one time been a relatively common act, chiefly in the more dogmatic western frontiers of Mescona. It was only in the later and more civil modern times that burning at the stake fell out of practice as a punishment for acts of heathenry. Even in those later years, blasphemy and witchcraft were still popularly considered crimes in some regions, though very few documented arrests were ever known to be made citing either reason in the modern era. The dogma of Heaven United had a fairly narrow view of blasphemy – witchcraft being essentially an unknown practice in modern times – which generally encompassed only those that actively insulted or scorned all of the gods collectively. Though it was considered bad judgment to not pay homage to the patron god of one’s own profession, in the popular view as long as a given individual paid heed to at least one god, they were not a heathen or a blasphemer, and all was well.
In fact, despite the all-encompassing doctrine of the church, local favoritism was a common and accepted practice. In Dormis there were, for the most part, three gods, and the stone icons of these stood watchful atop the white altar. Here in the center of the altar was Gaius, the Earth Father, who loves the green earth and all that grows upon it. He was the patron of farmers, miners, and all others who lived off the land. His icon was a man, hunch-backed and broad-shouldered, who stood tall and proud with a spade in his strong hands. His expression was one of tranquil happiness, and his eyes rested on the ground with the warmth of a loving parent.
To the right of Gaius was his lover Tel’Myra, the Wood Mother, and her icon was a beautiful maiden with cold and wary eyes, a circlet of woven vines set upon her brow. With her right hand she held a wilting flower close to her breast. In the left she held a long knife which was much spoken of in the myths of Mescona, in which it drips ever with the blood of those who prey upon the innocent. Tel’Myra was the gentle rain of spring, warm and nurturing, and yet also she was the mother wolf in winter: savage and jealous and deadly. The fury of The Wood Mother was the wrath of the thunderstorm, and her blessing the warmth of the summer sun. She was the patron of mothers, woodsmen, and lawmen.
To the left of the icon of the Earth Father was Blind Harl, the god of festivals, and his face was covered by a smiling mask with no eyes. His was merriment and song and coin and finery, for he was a god for times of plenty, unseeing of the woes of the world. He was the patron of entertainers, artists, and merchants, and he received little worship in times of true hardship. In a common folk tale, Harl the Blind God is asked why he is not upset about the woes befallen by his friends, his worshippers, or even himself. Harl laughs and says that such matters are not his concern. ‘Mine is but to make merry,’ he tells the asker, ‘Old Blind Harl does not dwell on things that are past, and he is not jealous nor wrathful nor envious. Mine is song and dance, and the laughing of children, and the wailing of the harp.’
In more easterly versions of this tale, the asker is Cann, the young and eager god of order and civility who was virtually unknown in the western frontier of which Dormis lay at the far end. Cann, ever conscionable, calls the masked god a shiftless and irresponsible fool, but Harl merely laughs again at this remark. Perhaps because of this myth, in the eastern reaches of Mescona it was not uncommon for Blind Harl to be called the Fool God or the God of Fools. In those civilized burgs, the carefree – some said hedonistic – attitude espoused by Harl in myth was irreconcilable with the predominate urban mindset of progressivism and industry, and the few who did pay him homage were gamblers, entertainers, and artists. In the lonely western frontiers, the peoples knew enough of hardship to recognize the good of merrymaking without becoming lost in its excesses.
These three gods looked down from their place on the altar at the worried faces of the people of Dormis, whose rapt attention was focused at the gods’ feet, where the priest in his off-white robes stood with his hands raised for silence. What little murmur there was died away, and the chaplain’s sonorous tones soon carried through the breadth of the church as his sermon began.
“Friends, brothers, sisters… Thank you all for taking time the time to come today.” He paused, taking the time to meet the worried gazes of a few of his parishioners. “The time of sowing will be upon us soon, I know, and so our labors are many and we are all of us weary…” He raised his hands for emphasis, regarding all the peoples gathered before him, to whose labors he referred. “But some things, I fear, are of greater import even than the planting of the fields. So it was that necessity drove me to call for all of Dormis on this, the day of worship, to bring before my people the gravest of matters.” The priest shook his head slowly, pausing as if to gather his wits. “Still, it warms my heart to see my pews so burdened this day. Would that they could be so taxed every week, but some of us prefer to pay homage to the gods with their labors…And let these most pious of souls be blessed, for surely, then, they are not in need of my guidance. Did not Gaius once say onto us, ‘Once blessed is he who kneels before the altar, thrice blessed is he who kneels before the plow’? But I digress, friends. We have much of import to discuss.
Suddenly the priest grew very serious in his disposition. “These are troubled times. Before we begin, let us pray now for the souls of the dearly departed. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters who were lost in bygone days and are not here with us today.” All lowered their heads in prayer, eyes closed as they gave their unspoken pleas to the gods. The priest too closed his eyes, and he raised his arms in supplication to the heavens, the long sleeves of his robe hanging down at his sides. “Lords Above, accept our willing souls into your heavenly abode, that we may dwell there in peace everafter. Banish us of weakness. Banish us of selfishness. And most of all, banish us impiety from our hearts, that we may be closer to your glory in life, and if we be worthy, pass on to join you in the heavens thereafter, to dwell in eternal serenity with our mothers and fathers long gone.” There was a time of silence, and finally the priest lowered his arms and the villager began to raise their heads.
When all had finished their prayers, the preacher continued. “Troubled times indeed… Even recently, two of our own we so tragically lost, and that wound is still raw and fresh. Now another lies stricken and ill… More than ever, we must steel our faith and surrender not to despair …or to blasphemy, that worst of transgressions, cursed among the acts of men.” The face of the middle-aged priest showed hesitation, and for a moment he did not go on. He looked out on the rapt faces of all the village, and their worry was his. He laid a hand upon the wooden podium before him. “I may seem to veer away from the matter at hand, good neighbors, but with a heavy heart I must profess to tell you that blasphemy, wretched and accursed, is what brings us here today. But that I will come to, in time.
“Word travels fast, and I am sure that all know of the recent events to which I refer. It all began some time ago. Livestock going astray. Strange cries in the night. And now dear Edmain Larkin, so young and strong, lies in the throes of a fever which no herb will diminish. Our Heavenly Lords, blessed be their names for all time, do they test us so?” His voice rang with emotion with this final question, but quickly he continued in answer. “Long since our troubles began have I prayed, thinking it so…” A look of joyous understanding began to form upon the priest’s face. “And now, finally, brothers, in their holy wisdom, the Lords Above have seen fit to grace me with the merest portion of their boundless knowledge… In troubling dreams I have seen visions, sent from above. I saw strange lands and vistas and heard voices in their breadths which knew many things, though I did not profess to understand their speech. Long I journeyed on a road that I did not know. The heavens wheeled, transient, overhead, and I thought myself damned and lost.” He paused for dramatic effect, shaking his head as if in memory of his confusion. “I found that I drifted on a sea that was endless and lay long past all horizons, and for a time I lay thirsty, for I dared not to drink of the waters around me.” The priest looked around at his parishioners, and every eye and ear was fixed upon him.
“After a time I looked upon the sea and saw that it was flat and smooth as the finest mirror. Though I could not in truth partake of those shimmering waters, in their depths my eyes drank deep of sights unimagined. In those tranquil waters I beheld glory and beauty that made me weep.” The priest gazed out into the air above his audience’s head, and his eyes were unfocused as though he was looking at something far beyond the horizon, though he was only staring at the stone doors of the church. “Yet also I saw in those waters the endless depths of true despair.” He spat the words in quiet revulsion. “I saw cast in true and vivid form the most hideous of lies.” His gaze fell back onto the faces of his audience, and some shirked from the intensity of his stare.
“I saw hate, bloated and black and festering, like a corpse left to rot in the sun. Flies dwelt in that loathsome cadaver and they buzzed in my ears. They told me my name in a mad and desperate whisper, and I swatted them and the waters around grew unstilled.” The priest appeared perturbed now, his memory cast back to those vivid dreams. He continued, ranting. “The buzzing grew louder and I watched as the waters danced and jumped. Swarm upon swarm of loathsome flies vomited from the festering corpse that was Hate, and they rose in their hordes from the boiling sea until their black masses blotted out the blistering sun. They spoke then, but it was not with any words. In that infernal buzzing there was despair and loathing and wickedness…and in such company I found a grain of purest truth, but then my vision came to an end.
“I woke in a cold sweat and knew that I had been touched by the divine. These were dark tidings I had been given, and as befitted this grim prophecy, foul was the messenger indeed.” He let this sink in for a moment, seeing confusion and worry on the faces of the crowd. “But it was not strange to me, who is in all things the unquestioning servant of the Lords Above, be their ways eldritch and inconceivable or their message an omen of illest fate. I do not question it, as no man should when handed an edict by the gods themselves. Mine is but to bring the Word before my people – and here listen well, friends, for the Word is this: There is no heavenly cause for the unwholesome happenings which have blighted our lands. Just the opposite, in truth. Some, good friends and neighbors, have said that we are besieged by devils, witches, beasts of myth.” The disquiet on the faces of villagers was unmistakable now, and the priest loathed again that it was his place to bring such grim news to his congregation.
“To this question my message is answer: it is no such enemy that threatens our borders. We are not threatened by the arcane or the eldritch, if there be such things within our borders, nor even the infernal, damned and accursed. In my words some may find relief, but it pains me to say that the truly wise will find only greater despair in my tidings.” He shook his head sadly.
“Indeed it is the most earthly of threats that assails us…And yet for its earthliness we are bare and unprotected before it. What is a devil to a follower of the Lords Above, from whose divine majesty no infernal thing may but flee? A devil dare not set foot in these holy lands, blessed as we are by the heavens against threats from below. Only the faithless lend fear to such immaterial things as demons when the most terrible of threats yet lays within our borders.” He did not leave time to dwell on this, pressing on. “Within our very hearts. Yes, my friends. Our foe is crueler than any devil. Our true adversary is more malign than any mere monster. Our foe – as, it seems, is our eternal fate as men – our foe is man, who for all that he may be righteous may be all the more terribly wicked instead, if he should turn from the gods and so wither his soul to ash.” The crowd was silent and still. Some were agape and did not know what to make of this, unsure where the priest was getting at. The priest reached out a hand, palm up, and met the eyes of each of the front row in turn as his eyes scanned the breadth of the crowd.
“Do not be surprised by my words, sons and daughters, for each of us here knows well the tale of the black-hearted fiend who in truth blights our lands. In my dreams I heard his name echo across the placid waters of the sea of knowledge, and in the thousand thousand faces of the Lord of Flies I saw his face, the grim countenance of our loathsome foe, and I knew that neither heaven nor hell held his godless soul.” His voice was filled with unmasked contempt now, and it was building slowly in volume. “All know this name and fear to speak it, but I will say it now, as it was told to me by the gods’ black messenger, and I will be unafraid: Antonius Ricker! Antonius Ricker. Antonius Ricker who is cursed by his own hand. Antonius of the house of Ricker, who on his deathbed forsook the gods of his soul and forever blighted the lands of our fathers. His blasphemous spirit lingers still, I tell you… and in its enduring hatred it has by years grown terrible and potent.” There were mixed reactions among the congregation. Some had their heads bowed and hands clasped in prayer, clutching icons of Tel’Myra and Gaius. The more earthly-minded parishioners looked skeptical, but worried.
The priest was conscious of these questioning eyes in the crowd, and he balked, grief marking his features. “Do you doubt my words? I, who am bereft of a beloved father by the wicked curse of this godless spectre that is a cancer upon our people?” The priest was beginning to lose his cool, his emotions overly stirred by the topic. He was almost shouting now. “Listen well, for by the word of Marcus the Sheriff, may he be blessed and the gods ever rest him, on his deathbed the blasphemer Antonius of the accursed house of Ricker spoke these words: I curse Gareth Falmer, may his icons fall upon his head while he kneels at the altar.” The priest paused, catching his breath, visibly agitated.
He continued: “Twenty years later on the day, Gareth my beloved father, blessed among men, kneels before this very altar for his morning prayer and though he knew it not before the end, my father was that day made a martyr of our people. The blessed stone of the thousand pointed star which once graced our temple cracked and fell upon him. Yet the gods in their cruel wisdom saw fit to spare me, who knelt beside him and held him in my arms as his lifeblood spilled, until his spirit went finally to rest. What other proof need we that the abominable curse wished upon us by this loathsome heathen is all too horribly real? It was not my father alone that Ricker cursed, too, but all of Dormis!” At this there were gasps, though most knew by heart the tale of the miser’s curse. Some of the congregation looked on the verge of tears or bore a haunted expression of quiet hopelessness. Falmer looked down for a moment and regained his composure.
His habitual expression of warm caring returned, the priest went on. “I have not called you here to frighten you, people of Dormis. Nothing could be further from my desire, and yet I knew not what you deserved besides the uncensored truth.” His calm voice took the edge from the worst of their anxiety despite his continuing grim tidings. The crowd began to settle back down. “I fear now for our lives, our lands…our souls. It is of the highest import that we pray now to the Lords Above – all of them – for strength, that we might weather this storm that assails Dormis. I shudder to think that these words should be needed, but if any doubted the danger of the dread lands to the east, where the house of Ricker once stood, pay heed now.
“None need be told to disdain those lands. Go there not, nor even anywhere near. Hence forth none shall be abroad alone in the woods at all. Not even in pairs shall any be abroad at night.” He pronounced this curfew with total authority, and none questioned him. “Bolt your doors, dear neighbors, and keep close your children, most precious of all things in this world. I do not profess to be the Sheriff, friends. I can pass no laws upon you, nor enforce them if I did. Mine is only to tell you the will of the Lords Above. But harken to me as I tell you that any who violate this curfew endanger not just their very soul, but those of all the people of Dormis.” Eyes widened throughout the room. “For it is by preying upon the righteous that this evil grows strong, and by that terrible strength it may overwhelm us still, if we are not vigilant.”
“A menace lies upon us; every man, woman, and child. With every passing day it creeps closer, testing us with the cruel patience of ageless malice. But we shall not shirk in our duty. No godly man shall let the evil of despair into his heart, nor pass pity on this wicked soul, for then only shall he be truly damned. Let any pity in your heart be replaced by courage and disdain, and let your righteous hate armor you against the foul blasphemy that assails even our hearts and minds…” Again the preacher’s voice dripped with scorn, but it softened as he went on. “This evil is as the blackest of shadows upon our lands and our people, but it may sometimes be that the brightest of lights are seen only by the shadows they cast. And so I bid you, good people, let this darkness be the compass by which you find the light within yourselves, and know that though clouds may pass before it, no shadow may ever fall upon the sun. Now let us pray.”
The priests raised his hands once more and all bowed their heads in silent individual prayer. Some turned to the broad-shouldered figure of Gaius, that his strength might be theirs in these dark times. Some gave themselves to Tel’Myra’s warm embrace, that her keen dagger might bleed dry the wickedness that assailed them. Blind Harl’s icon was for the moment scorned, but the statue bore still its unchanging grin. Minutes passed, and finally Falmer went on as eyes rose to meet his gaze once more.
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“Man prays on top of mountain for seven days, asking gods for wisdom.
On seventh night it rains, and gods tell him ‘Wise man has dry clothes.’ “
- Native Mesconan folk tale
All of Dormis stood clustered about the squat white-washed steeple that served as the local chapel. It was a chill and windy Sunday morning, and though it was only just past dawn, the grey sky showed no promise of improvement in the hours to come. All the peoples of village stood before the tall doors of the church, chatting worriedly amongst themselves. Children ran about and played, despite the best efforts of their fearful parents. Many gazed, nervous and impatient, at the smooth stone of the large sundial that sat in the capacious garden beside the steeplehouse, where the young folk were chasing each other about with the boundless energy of youth.
Finally, the church bell tolled its deep and resonant tone. The high stone doors cracked slowly apart, and a man with simple hempen robes and a shaven head stepped out through the gap. He looked about the crowd with a bearing of evident satisfaction, and he smiled. “Neighbors, good morning.” He said congenially and waved toward the now-open doors of the chapel in welcome, ushering them inside. The crowd responded with a chorus of soft greetings. “Please, come in and take your seats. We have much to discuss today.” He spoke softly and without hurry.
The crowd began quickly to file in, and the preacher stood to the side and greeted each family by name as they passed him. Most returned his greetings warmly, even if to some of them individually the priest’s tone as he thanked them for coming was as if to add an unspoken ‘for once’. Dormis was not a large village, and soon nigh all of its people were within the snug confines of the chapel. The white-robed preacher followed the last of them in and shut the tall doors firmly behind him. Though he was middle-aged, he made his way with quick, spry steps past the rows of cedarwood pews and ascended to the pulpit. On this raised dais he stood tall behind the simple wooden podium and looked out on the sea of worried faces in the crowd below.
Behind him lay the white stone altar, set about with three smooth-carved stone icons of the local deities, such as they were. Above these hung a broad banner of fine silk, and it was emblazoned with the thousand-pointed star of Heaven United. Here, as in every layman’s depiction, the symbol of the Thousand Pointed Star was represented abstractly, with an arbitrarily large number of points that depended chiefly upon the patience of the artist who had painted the image in question. Some parishioners claimed this star was the sun, the great celestial gem which is heaven, from which all life flows and of which each god is but a facet that casts its own shade of the purest light of the greater whole. Others, more pantheistically-minded, maintained that the holy symbol was merely an abstraction of the pact between all gods, by which was begot the church of Heaven United, which teaches that all deities are but a path to the same righteous divinity. This was a common debate for which the greater dogma had few simple answers. This largely informal pantheon referred to all gods collectively as The Lords Above, and all gods were theoretically equal in the eyes of the religion’s adherents.
Some years after the establishment of the church of Heaven United, some of the more cynical religious scholars away in the civilized south claimed that this dogma had been conjured by mere men, by design blanketing the worship of any conceivable deity under one all-encompassing doctrine. This all-inclusiveness, they said, was key to the quick proliferation of the religion, leading to its virtual theological dominance of Mescona. This theory began to gain strong ground in various institutions of higher learning throughout the east until the support of it was quickly recanted by virtually all of its academic adherents when professor Ritchard Hogdens, perhap too-zealous a supporter of the so-called False Dogma Theory, was burned at the stake for blasphemy in the year 278, along with all known copies of his recently-published thesis highlighting various supposed inconsistencies in the written dogma of Heaven United. Though later historians would insist this act had surely been engineered, if not perpetrated, by the church itself, no witnesses of the highly publicized act were seen to come forth, and no public indictment was ever made by the local constabulary for that violent act of censorship.
Though it was the talk of the countryside in the years following 278, burnings due to accusations of blasphemy or witchcraft had at one time been a relatively common act, chiefly in the more dogmatic western frontiers of Mescona. It was only in the later and more civil modern times that burning at the stake fell out of practice as a punishment for acts of heathenry. Even in those later years, blasphemy and witchcraft were still popularly considered crimes in some regions, though very few documented arrests were ever known to be made citing either reason in the modern era. The dogma of Heaven United had a fairly narrow view of blasphemy – witchcraft being essentially an unknown practice in modern times – which generally encompassed only those that actively insulted or scorned all of the gods collectively. Though it was considered bad judgment to not pay homage to the patron god of one’s own profession, in the popular view as long as a given individual paid heed to at least one god, they were not a heathen or a blasphemer, and all was well.
In fact, despite the all-encompassing doctrine of the church, local favoritism was a common and accepted practice. In Dormis there were, for the most part, three gods, and the stone icons of these stood watchful atop the white altar. Here in the center of the altar was Gaius, the Earth Father, who loves the green earth and all that grows upon it. He was the patron of farmers, miners, and all others who lived off the land. His icon was a man, hunch-backed and broad-shouldered, who stood tall and proud with a spade in his strong hands. His expression was one of tranquil happiness, and his eyes rested on the ground with the warmth of a loving parent.
To the right of Gaius was his lover Tel’Myra, the Wood Mother, and her icon was a beautiful maiden with cold and wary eyes, a circlet of woven vines set upon her brow. With her right hand she held a wilting flower close to her breast. In the left she held a long knife which was much spoken of in the myths of Mescona, in which it drips ever with the blood of those who prey upon the innocent. Tel’Myra was the gentle rain of spring, warm and nurturing, and yet also she was the mother wolf in winter: savage and jealous and deadly. The fury of The Wood Mother was the wrath of the thunderstorm, and her blessing the warmth of the summer sun. She was the patron of mothers, woodsmen, and lawmen.
To the left of the icon of the Earth Father was Blind Harl, the god of festivals, and his face was covered by a smiling mask with no eyes. His was merriment and song and coin and finery, for he was a god for times of plenty, unseeing of the woes of the world. He was the patron of entertainers, artists, and merchants, and he received little worship in times of true hardship. In a common folk tale, Harl the Blind God is asked why he is not upset about the woes befallen by his friends, his worshippers, or even himself. Harl laughs and says that such matters are not his concern. ‘Mine is but to make merry,’ he tells the asker, ‘Old Blind Harl does not dwell on things that are past, and he is not jealous nor wrathful nor envious. Mine is song and dance, and the laughing of children, and the wailing of the harp.’
In more easterly versions of this tale, the asker is Cann, the young and eager god of order and civility who was virtually unknown in the western frontier of which Dormis lay at the far end. Cann, ever conscionable, calls the masked god a shiftless and irresponsible fool, but Harl merely laughs again at this remark. Perhaps because of this myth, in the eastern reaches of Mescona it was not uncommon for Blind Harl to be called the Fool God or the God of Fools. In those civilized burgs, the carefree – some said hedonistic – attitude espoused by Harl in myth was irreconcilable with the predominate urban mindset of progressivism and industry, and the few who did pay him homage were gamblers, entertainers, and artists. In the lonely western frontiers, the peoples knew enough of hardship to recognize the good of merrymaking without becoming lost in its excesses.
These three gods looked down from their place on the altar at the worried faces of the people of Dormis, whose rapt attention was focused at the gods’ feet, where the priest in his off-white robes stood with his hands raised for silence. What little murmur there was died away, and the chaplain’s sonorous tones soon carried through the breadth of the church as his sermon began.
“Friends, brothers, sisters… Thank you all for taking time the time to come today.” He paused, taking the time to meet the worried gazes of a few of his parishioners. “The time of sowing will be upon us soon, I know, and so our labors are many and we are all of us weary…” He raised his hands for emphasis, regarding all the peoples gathered before him, to whose labors he referred. “But some things, I fear, are of greater import even than the planting of the fields. So it was that necessity drove me to call for all of Dormis on this, the day of worship, to bring before my people the gravest of matters.” The priest shook his head slowly, pausing as if to gather his wits. “Still, it warms my heart to see my pews so burdened this day. Would that they could be so taxed every week, but some of us prefer to pay homage to the gods with their labors…And let these most pious of souls be blessed, for surely, then, they are not in need of my guidance. Did not Gaius once say onto us, ‘Once blessed is he who kneels before the altar, thrice blessed is he who kneels before the plow’? But I digress, friends. We have much of import to discuss.
Suddenly the priest grew very serious in his disposition. “These are troubled times. Before we begin, let us pray now for the souls of the dearly departed. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters who were lost in bygone days and are not here with us today.” All lowered their heads in prayer, eyes closed as they gave their unspoken pleas to the gods. The priest too closed his eyes, and he raised his arms in supplication to the heavens, the long sleeves of his robe hanging down at his sides. “Lords Above, accept our willing souls into your heavenly abode, that we may dwell there in peace everafter. Banish us of weakness. Banish us of selfishness. And most of all, banish us impiety from our hearts, that we may be closer to your glory in life, and if we be worthy, pass on to join you in the heavens thereafter, to dwell in eternal serenity with our mothers and fathers long gone.” There was a time of silence, and finally the priest lowered his arms and the villager began to raise their heads.
When all had finished their prayers, the preacher continued. “Troubled times indeed… Even recently, two of our own we so tragically lost, and that wound is still raw and fresh. Now another lies stricken and ill… More than ever, we must steel our faith and surrender not to despair …or to blasphemy, that worst of transgressions, cursed among the acts of men.” The face of the middle-aged priest showed hesitation, and for a moment he did not go on. He looked out on the rapt faces of all the village, and their worry was his. He laid a hand upon the wooden podium before him. “I may seem to veer away from the matter at hand, good neighbors, but with a heavy heart I must profess to tell you that blasphemy, wretched and accursed, is what brings us here today. But that I will come to, in time.
“Word travels fast, and I am sure that all know of the recent events to which I refer. It all began some time ago. Livestock going astray. Strange cries in the night. And now dear Edmain Larkin, so young and strong, lies in the throes of a fever which no herb will diminish. Our Heavenly Lords, blessed be their names for all time, do they test us so?” His voice rang with emotion with this final question, but quickly he continued in answer. “Long since our troubles began have I prayed, thinking it so…” A look of joyous understanding began to form upon the priest’s face. “And now, finally, brothers, in their holy wisdom, the Lords Above have seen fit to grace me with the merest portion of their boundless knowledge… In troubling dreams I have seen visions, sent from above. I saw strange lands and vistas and heard voices in their breadths which knew many things, though I did not profess to understand their speech. Long I journeyed on a road that I did not know. The heavens wheeled, transient, overhead, and I thought myself damned and lost.” He paused for dramatic effect, shaking his head as if in memory of his confusion. “I found that I drifted on a sea that was endless and lay long past all horizons, and for a time I lay thirsty, for I dared not to drink of the waters around me.” The priest looked around at his parishioners, and every eye and ear was fixed upon him.
“After a time I looked upon the sea and saw that it was flat and smooth as the finest mirror. Though I could not in truth partake of those shimmering waters, in their depths my eyes drank deep of sights unimagined. In those tranquil waters I beheld glory and beauty that made me weep.” The priest gazed out into the air above his audience’s head, and his eyes were unfocused as though he was looking at something far beyond the horizon, though he was only staring at the stone doors of the church. “Yet also I saw in those waters the endless depths of true despair.” He spat the words in quiet revulsion. “I saw cast in true and vivid form the most hideous of lies.” His gaze fell back onto the faces of his audience, and some shirked from the intensity of his stare.
“I saw hate, bloated and black and festering, like a corpse left to rot in the sun. Flies dwelt in that loathsome cadaver and they buzzed in my ears. They told me my name in a mad and desperate whisper, and I swatted them and the waters around grew unstilled.” The priest appeared perturbed now, his memory cast back to those vivid dreams. He continued, ranting. “The buzzing grew louder and I watched as the waters danced and jumped. Swarm upon swarm of loathsome flies vomited from the festering corpse that was Hate, and they rose in their hordes from the boiling sea until their black masses blotted out the blistering sun. They spoke then, but it was not with any words. In that infernal buzzing there was despair and loathing and wickedness…and in such company I found a grain of purest truth, but then my vision came to an end.
“I woke in a cold sweat and knew that I had been touched by the divine. These were dark tidings I had been given, and as befitted this grim prophecy, foul was the messenger indeed.” He let this sink in for a moment, seeing confusion and worry on the faces of the crowd. “But it was not strange to me, who is in all things the unquestioning servant of the Lords Above, be their ways eldritch and inconceivable or their message an omen of illest fate. I do not question it, as no man should when handed an edict by the gods themselves. Mine is but to bring the Word before my people – and here listen well, friends, for the Word is this: There is no heavenly cause for the unwholesome happenings which have blighted our lands. Just the opposite, in truth. Some, good friends and neighbors, have said that we are besieged by devils, witches, beasts of myth.” The disquiet on the faces of villagers was unmistakable now, and the priest loathed again that it was his place to bring such grim news to his congregation.
“To this question my message is answer: it is no such enemy that threatens our borders. We are not threatened by the arcane or the eldritch, if there be such things within our borders, nor even the infernal, damned and accursed. In my words some may find relief, but it pains me to say that the truly wise will find only greater despair in my tidings.” He shook his head sadly.
“Indeed it is the most earthly of threats that assails us…And yet for its earthliness we are bare and unprotected before it. What is a devil to a follower of the Lords Above, from whose divine majesty no infernal thing may but flee? A devil dare not set foot in these holy lands, blessed as we are by the heavens against threats from below. Only the faithless lend fear to such immaterial things as demons when the most terrible of threats yet lays within our borders.” He did not leave time to dwell on this, pressing on. “Within our very hearts. Yes, my friends. Our foe is crueler than any devil. Our true adversary is more malign than any mere monster. Our foe – as, it seems, is our eternal fate as men – our foe is man, who for all that he may be righteous may be all the more terribly wicked instead, if he should turn from the gods and so wither his soul to ash.” The crowd was silent and still. Some were agape and did not know what to make of this, unsure where the priest was getting at. The priest reached out a hand, palm up, and met the eyes of each of the front row in turn as his eyes scanned the breadth of the crowd.
“Do not be surprised by my words, sons and daughters, for each of us here knows well the tale of the black-hearted fiend who in truth blights our lands. In my dreams I heard his name echo across the placid waters of the sea of knowledge, and in the thousand thousand faces of the Lord of Flies I saw his face, the grim countenance of our loathsome foe, and I knew that neither heaven nor hell held his godless soul.” His voice was filled with unmasked contempt now, and it was building slowly in volume. “All know this name and fear to speak it, but I will say it now, as it was told to me by the gods’ black messenger, and I will be unafraid: Antonius Ricker! Antonius Ricker. Antonius Ricker who is cursed by his own hand. Antonius of the house of Ricker, who on his deathbed forsook the gods of his soul and forever blighted the lands of our fathers. His blasphemous spirit lingers still, I tell you… and in its enduring hatred it has by years grown terrible and potent.” There were mixed reactions among the congregation. Some had their heads bowed and hands clasped in prayer, clutching icons of Tel’Myra and Gaius. The more earthly-minded parishioners looked skeptical, but worried.
The priest was conscious of these questioning eyes in the crowd, and he balked, grief marking his features. “Do you doubt my words? I, who am bereft of a beloved father by the wicked curse of this godless spectre that is a cancer upon our people?” The priest was beginning to lose his cool, his emotions overly stirred by the topic. He was almost shouting now. “Listen well, for by the word of Marcus the Sheriff, may he be blessed and the gods ever rest him, on his deathbed the blasphemer Antonius of the accursed house of Ricker spoke these words: I curse Gareth Falmer, may his icons fall upon his head while he kneels at the altar.” The priest paused, catching his breath, visibly agitated.
He continued: “Twenty years later on the day, Gareth my beloved father, blessed among men, kneels before this very altar for his morning prayer and though he knew it not before the end, my father was that day made a martyr of our people. The blessed stone of the thousand pointed star which once graced our temple cracked and fell upon him. Yet the gods in their cruel wisdom saw fit to spare me, who knelt beside him and held him in my arms as his lifeblood spilled, until his spirit went finally to rest. What other proof need we that the abominable curse wished upon us by this loathsome heathen is all too horribly real? It was not my father alone that Ricker cursed, too, but all of Dormis!” At this there were gasps, though most knew by heart the tale of the miser’s curse. Some of the congregation looked on the verge of tears or bore a haunted expression of quiet hopelessness. Falmer looked down for a moment and regained his composure.
His habitual expression of warm caring returned, the priest went on. “I have not called you here to frighten you, people of Dormis. Nothing could be further from my desire, and yet I knew not what you deserved besides the uncensored truth.” His calm voice took the edge from the worst of their anxiety despite his continuing grim tidings. The crowd began to settle back down. “I fear now for our lives, our lands…our souls. It is of the highest import that we pray now to the Lords Above – all of them – for strength, that we might weather this storm that assails Dormis. I shudder to think that these words should be needed, but if any doubted the danger of the dread lands to the east, where the house of Ricker once stood, pay heed now.
“None need be told to disdain those lands. Go there not, nor even anywhere near. Hence forth none shall be abroad alone in the woods at all. Not even in pairs shall any be abroad at night.” He pronounced this curfew with total authority, and none questioned him. “Bolt your doors, dear neighbors, and keep close your children, most precious of all things in this world. I do not profess to be the Sheriff, friends. I can pass no laws upon you, nor enforce them if I did. Mine is only to tell you the will of the Lords Above. But harken to me as I tell you that any who violate this curfew endanger not just their very soul, but those of all the people of Dormis.” Eyes widened throughout the room. “For it is by preying upon the righteous that this evil grows strong, and by that terrible strength it may overwhelm us still, if we are not vigilant.”
“A menace lies upon us; every man, woman, and child. With every passing day it creeps closer, testing us with the cruel patience of ageless malice. But we shall not shirk in our duty. No godly man shall let the evil of despair into his heart, nor pass pity on this wicked soul, for then only shall he be truly damned. Let any pity in your heart be replaced by courage and disdain, and let your righteous hate armor you against the foul blasphemy that assails even our hearts and minds…” Again the preacher’s voice dripped with scorn, but it softened as he went on. “This evil is as the blackest of shadows upon our lands and our people, but it may sometimes be that the brightest of lights are seen only by the shadows they cast. And so I bid you, good people, let this darkness be the compass by which you find the light within yourselves, and know that though clouds may pass before it, no shadow may ever fall upon the sun. Now let us pray.”
The priests raised his hands once more and all bowed their heads in silent individual prayer. Some turned to the broad-shouldered figure of Gaius, that his strength might be theirs in these dark times. Some gave themselves to Tel’Myra’s warm embrace, that her keen dagger might bleed dry the wickedness that assailed them. Blind Harl’s icon was for the moment scorned, but the statue bore still its unchanging grin. Minutes passed, and finally Falmer went on as eyes rose to meet his gaze once more.
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