The Everlasting Man: A Spiritual History of Mankind

‘There are two ways of getting home,’ Chesterton writes, ‘and one of them is to stay there. The other is to walk round the whole world till we come back to the same place.’ The Everlasting Man is for those of us who are having a hard time getting home by the first way. This refreshing and intensely unique work of Christian apologetics invites us to step back and make an imaginative effort to see the whole idea of Christianity from the outside.

The Everlasting Man is a brilliant annihilation of the clichéd assertion that Christ and his religion stand side by side with similar myths and religions, which Chesterton denounces as 'a very stale formula contradicted by a very striking fact.' It is the story of the spiritual journey of collective humanity.

In true Chestertonian style, there are sections that tend to be a little repetitive and wordy, but they are all so incredibly witty and entertaining that we forget to be exasperated. The author makes generalizations in order to emphasize his point, and probably oversimplifies some things, but his insight is remarkable. His reverent sincerity is not in the least compromised by his devastating sense of humor, and his knack for turning secular dogmas inside out and transforming them into solid arguments for the legitimacy of Christianity is astounding. By putting the Christian story into context, he endeavors to demonstrate that Christianity is a sensible, enlightened conclusion that has yet to be successfully contradicted.

The first chapter, which is really an attack on H.G. Wells’ Outline of History and focuses primarily on how man is fundamentally different from animals, is admittedly a little dated, and Chesterton’s speculations concerning prehistoric man show the influence of early 20^th century Darwinian thought. In the face of the intimidating ‘new science’ and the tremendous implications thereof, Chesterton felt the need to demonstrate that Evolution and Christianity were by no means mutually exclusive, and show how the secular Evolutionist's sociological explanations of man's religious development have no basis in fact.

Moving on, Chesterton provides an in-depth analysis of paganism, which is inestimably beneficial for anyone who is hopelessly confused as to why there are so many religions, and how to make any sense of the confused and chaotic history of mankind. He distinguishes the several universal elements of human religion, and explains the historical, mythological, and philosophical roots of Christianity and religion in general, highlighting the legitimate role of each and contrasting the Western and Eastern mindsets. He calls to our attention a certain awareness of God which manifested itself from the beginning of civilization in every mythology, in every culture.

Getting deeper into the ancient tangled tree of mythology, the book makes a crucial distinction between mythology and the two darker branches - demonism and eroticism - that grew up alongside it, complicating the scene. Eventually, the development of demonism led to a major conflict that culminated in the epic power struggle between Rome, which represented the best of paganism – honor, virtue, justice, structure, and an ethical concept of man and society – and Carthage, which represented the very worst – a demon-infested, devil-worshipping inhumanity. (I guarantee you will never look at the Punic wars the same way!) In the end, a Roman victory was what preserved a state of civilization capable of receiving the ultimate divine revelation – the Messiah incarnated.

The second half of the book is about the coming of Christ Himself, the escape from Paganism, and the growth and role of the Church. It explains Christianity’s relation to comparative religion, contrasting it with Islam, Buddhism, Confucianism and Hinduism, showing how all other belief systems overlap, and how Christianity is fundamentally different from every other creed and is the ultimate consummation of all genuine religion, transcending all others.

Chesterton also talks about the ‘melting pot’ movement that came to ascendance during the decline of Rome, blurring the lines of cultures and religions, and wantonly mixing gods and traditions from every corner of the globe. For awhile it threatened the newborn Church with extinction, not by extermination but by absorption and compromise, seeking to undermine the concept of a single almighty Deity, a concept that had been rigorously preserved for thousands of years through Judaism, which was the only creed with a god who was ‘narrow enough to be universal.’

In the end, the Christian story was what fulfilled all the mythologies. The Christian story was what broke the philosophers’ static and circular infinity and produced a philosophy that could move forward. The Christian story is the greatest story because it is true. The real purpose of The Everlasting Man is to retell that story in a new and revelatory way by putting it into context.

[Cross-posted at The High Tide Journal.]

Arguing About Slavery

As appropriate as the title is, William Miller’s landmark book is not really about arguing about slavery. It is about the fight for the right to argue about slavery in the first place – a subtle, but significant distinction. Miller takes us back to the pre-Civil War America of the 1830’s and 40’s, an America where any discussion of the issue of slavery at all was taboo. Arguing About Slavery is a compelling account of a fascinating and all but forgotten episode in the history of the greatest humanitarian victory of the age. The Civil War itself has a habit of eclipsing everything else around it. But the fact is that battle over slavery didn’t start with Sumter or the Confederate Secession. It started twenty-five years before Lincoln’s inauguration, on the floor of Congress.

The country was divided on many things, but slavery was not one of them. The North vs. South mentality, as it then existed, was based almost entirely on industrial threats to agriculture and the economic and social implications of this tension. The institution of slavery was practically embalmed in the Constitution itself; it had been the great compromise of the Philadelphia Convention in 1787. Now it was a part of America and the greatest contradiction of its time went virtually unquestioned by the republic that led Europe to liberty. Even the Northern states that had abolished slavery within their borders, ignored it elsewhere. It was an embarrassing reality that was best not brought up, because nothing could possibly be done about it. In 1830 Abolitionism was a pathetic minority movement that tried to survive in Maine and a few other northeastern states, and was resented and considered radical even by the North. The violent anti-abolitionist reaction to the formation of the American Anti-Slavery society reflected public opinion. It was not encouraging.

But, as is always the case in a good story, there were a few brave people who stood up to the tyranny, people who not only saw the evil of slavery as a crying shame, but had the foresight to realize that it must either be abolished or drag America down into moral and eventually social collapse. Enter John Quincy Adams, cast as the indomitable hero. After a long, productive life of celebrated public service, Adams, nicknamed ‘Old Man Eloquent’ returned to the House of Representatives at age sixty-three, to fight his final political battle.

Using the original transcripts of the Congressional proceedings, Miller tells how the change that started in the House of Representatives infected the rest of the country, and brought about a 180-degree transformation that was nothing short of miraculous. Full of wit and color, the story is told with lively characterization, wry humor that borders on comic relief, and plenty of historical context that makes the era come alive. In addition, we learn a great deal about the practical side of how Congress actually works, about rules and technicalities that are constantly being manipulated to serve a particular purpose.

The book doesn’t get to the Emancipation Proclamation or the Thirteenth Amendment. It ends with the overturning of the infamous gag-rule which had officially prevented discussion of slavery in Congress for years. It was the end of a long, tedious battle against the suppression of free speech and the right to question the moral justification of an accepted conventionality – the right to argue. It was the beginning of a much larger battle that would ultimately decide not only a massively important moral question, but also the destiny of millions of desperate human beings. But that battle could never have been fought if it weren’t for the movement that started in Congress with a few courageous men arguing about slavery.

[Cross-posted at The High Tide Journal.]

Book Reviews

These are some of the books I have recently finished, with some brief thoughts concerning each.

An Essay on Man by Alexander Pope = B
Four epistles, written in verse, and each covering one aspect of the nature of man. Namely, the nature of man in relation to the universe, in relation to himself, in relation to society, and in relation to happiness. The ideas and topics presented are generally profoundly obvious, though the poetic way in which they are written can make them difficult to follow in some places. The book certainly has a beautiful way of putting truths, and there are places where the meaning is involved and even controversial.

Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift = C
Must be appreciated for its inventiveness and originality, but is ultimately depressing and despairing. Extremely unrealistic, not only in the fictitious creations that populate Swift’s imaginary lands, but also in the actions of the characters and in the way events fall out. The protagonist is despicable and the book is filled with unnecessary vulgarity. The final conclusion is that man is entirely evil and irredeemable.

A Tale of A Tub by Jonathan Swift = C
Clever, but rather dull and difficult to follow. Written for a specific age and people, and was significant in its time, but is no longer very relevant.

The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis = A
Furnishes invaluable insights into the tactics of the Enemy, heightens spiritual discernment and awareness and provides the knowledge and means to apply the principles of spiritual warfare.

Are you Liberal, Conservative, or Confused? By Richard Maybury = A
Most enlightening book. Explains the state of politics and how they got that way, explains the real meanings of political labels. I must disagree with a few fundamental elements of the author’s worldview, but must also admit that it is infinitely better than the norm.

Founding Father by Brookhiser = B
Colorful biography of George Washington. Accurate, detailed and fairly unbiased, as far as I can tell. Was not organized very well.

Ethics of the Dust by Ruskin = B
A rather stilted account of the origins of crystals and minerals that seemed forcibly translated into dialogue and did not hang together very well. Fraught with plenty of moralizing, dull and obvious in some places but valuable and profound in others. Quite impressive for its day.

Macbeth by William Shakespeare = A
Rivaled by Hamlet only, Macbeth is about as good as Shakespeare gets.

Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis = A
A wonderful reworking of the myth of Psyche and Cupid, with deep spiritual insights.

The Time Machine by H.G. Wells = B
Very possibly the first of its kind, the Time Machine is an excellent combination of science fiction and romance that influenced many later writers. Story-line and climax well done. Weak in scientific/technical details and in original descriptions of the future.

Manalive by G.K. Chesterton = A
A fascinating, abnormal story that is not what it appears to be. It intriguingly combines crime and romance and leaves one inspired and satisfied. Excellent writing.

Yours, Jack by C.S. Lewis = A
A complete collection of Lewis’ letters to numerous correspondences. Reveals details about Lewis’ personal life, his worldview, his steadfast faith and his reasons for it, and provides encouragement and inspiration to the individual reader.

The Dark Tower by C.S. Lewis = B
An unfinished story that deals with time travel, alternate realities, and higher dimensions. What would have been an improvement on Well’s Time Machine, if it had ever been completed. Also includes a valuable collection of other short stories Lewis never published.

Eragon by Christopher Paolini = B
I wanted to find out what all the hullabaloo was about this. It was an enjoyable read, with an intriguing story-line and a colorful cast. Much too obvious in its emulation of Star Wars ideology and Lord of the Rings imagery. I fundamentally disagree with New Age philosophy that Paolini promotes in this book.

Black by Ted Dekker = B +
Switching back and forth between alternate realities - the modern action-packed thriller and ancient mythological fantasy, Black is a classic story of the struggle between good and evil, of a mission to save the world. Emotional and involving with a marvelous reworking of the Fall. Weak writing and poor character development in some cases. Right on the line between A and B.

Utopia - The Land of Nowhere

In 1516, Sir Thomas More published his controversial work, Utopia, a book in which More's adventurer,Raphael Hythloday describes an imaginary land that he says he stumbled upon across the Atlantic somewhere in the New World which had just recently been discovered. Utopia is a perfect image of the ideal communistic world. Everyone lives in peace, everyone is equal, and there are a set of simple laws that hold the society together and cause everyone to work together as a community, thus making Utopia one of the richest and most successful countries in the world.

At first sight, Utopia is enticing. There are none of the evils that plague our own world. Everything works together perfectly. Crime is so rare that one may almost count Utopia to be free of it. The system works so well that no one need work more than six hours in the day. They pursue the arts and the sciences in their leisure and everyone has the chance to be educated. Everyone follows the law and go along with the way of things. They are rich, prosperous, learned, and - at least it seems so - happy.

As one goes deeper, there are things that turn one off. For instance, there is no such thing as individualism. At least, it is certainly discouraged. People are meant to be uniform products of the system. Educated and intelligent products perhaps, ‘good’ and ‘moral’ products perhaps, but no more. There is no such thing as private property - everything is shared among everyone. Everything that one produces must be handed over the ‘state’ to be shared out equally among everyone. One relies upon the system for everything. But then, one might say that, so long as the system works, it is well. One might say that through a kind of slavery the people have obtained true freedom. And then, one might say the opposite. That through the obtaining of freedom the people have become unwitting slaves to the system. An excellent system, maybe, but is it enough? Personally, I would throw my lot with the outside world with its grief and joy and risk utter slavery to obtain utter freedom.

To me, the Utopian’s alarming Epicurean philosophy is one of the worst aspects of their society. I have read little about their beliefs as yet, but their religion, or lack thereof, seems to me, to be nothing save a replica of that of the Romans. God(s) who are nothing save an image on the surface. When the cloak of religion is taken away, the starkness of their Epicureanism is truly frightful. Pleasure is their only goal. To follow after pleasure is their sole occupation. Thus their clever system that lessens their labor as much as possible. True, the Utopians follow only after pleasures that do not result in unpleasantness to anyone else. Also true, the Utopians follow only after ‘real’ pleasures. For example, there is no ‘real’ pleasure, according to them, in a piece of gold. One cannot eat it. They do not use money in their trade, so it has no way of giving pleasure. Hoarding treasure for its own sake is not pleasure. There is no wisdom in preferring purple cloth over plain cloth. If they are both equally soft, the one color does not give one pleasure over the other. One might say that there is good sense in the Utopian’s pursuing of ‘real’ pleasures. There is nothing else, with their façade of a religion. But one might say that is the ultimate reason why not. If there is nothing else, than pleasure will have to be enough. But what if it is not?

More seems to realize that such a revolutionary idea must remain nothing save an idea for a good time yet. He says that ‘this thing cannot come to pass until all men are good, and that, I think, will not come about for a good many years.’ The word Utopia means nowhere. But there were some who took the idea and left the last warning. The knowledge that men must be ‘good’ before Utopia can become a reality did not stop ambitious men such as Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin. It is very probable that the whole terrible idea of Communism arose from More’s sixteenth century book, and there is little probability that it has left the world any better than it found it. There are plenty of controversial ideas in Utopia, of objectionable statements, of questionable conduct. But the question of whether or not Utopia would be what the world needs will never be answered. For that is the one ultimate flaw in Utopia. It is impossible to achieve.

The Silmarillion and a Pre-redemption World

I received an interesting comment from a reader on my last post:

"I have just one little criticism; for Tolkien's about to be about redemption is a nice thought but I don't think thats what it is about. Tolkien's writings are more about the "deeper reality". He tries (and very effectively) to portray the battle of the spiritual world though fiction. The LOTR is a perfect example of how he illustrates the "deeper reality" through his "fictional" writing. But in fact his "fiction" is closer to reality than books that are about "reality." The idea that his writing is about redemption is thoughtful and hopeful, but not really logical."

Thanks for sharing your thoughts, Quin. I do believe that Tolkien meant to portray the battle of the spiritual world though fiction, and that he did it very well. That is one of the reasons that I love his books. But I also think that Tolkien meant his fictional world, in which, it must be noted, he purposefully created numerous parallels to the 'real state of things,' to be a pre-redemption world, as I think is made quite plain by the quote that I posted and by other similar allusions. And I will take the liberty of pointing out that I did back up my opinion with a logical quote, whereas you did not support your opinion with any evidence.

I will note that Tolkien made it very clear that he was not trying to write an allegory. To Milton Waldman he writes, "I dislike Allegory - the conscious and intentional allegory - yet any attempt to explain the purport of myth or fairytale must use allegorical language." Tolkien's works were not allegories, and therefore can not be expected to carry a specific meaning or symbolism for everything.

Nevertheless, Tolkien does not try to deny that certain aspects of his book represented and were meant to represent, if indirectly, certain Biblical truths. In his letter to Milton Waldman he makes it quite clear that the Ainulandile and the Valaquenta are a fictional picture of the Creation of the World and the Fall of the Evil One. The End of the First Age was the story of the fall of the Elves, who, are the central characters in the Silmarillion.

Tolkien goes on to say:
"In the cosmogony there is a Fall: a fall of Angels we should say. Though quite different in form, of course, to that of Christian myth. These tales are ‘new’, they are not directly derived from other myths and legends, but they must inevitably contain a large measure of ancient wide-spread motives or elements. After all, I believe that legends and myths are largely made of ‘truth’, and indeed present aspects of it that can only be received in this mode; and long ago certain truths and modes of this kind were discovered and must always reappear. There cannot be any ‘story’ without a fall - all stories are ultimately about the fall - at least not for human minds as we know them and have them."

Towards the End of the Second Age, we observe that the Fall of Numenor, or the Fall of Men, is in all probablity another allusion to the Fall in the Garden of Eden. There are similar allusions throughout his books, such as the quote I posted, and, while they can certainly not be pinned down as allegory, I think that their original sources can be tracked. What I am trying to say is that I think that it is sufficiently obvious to both of us that the Fall of the Elves and Men in the Silmarillion was a fictional allusion to the Fall of Adam, and thus, the entire race of 'real' men. It is equally obvious, to me at least, that Finrod's words to Andreth were a fictional allusion to the future coming of Christ. Assuming that that supposition is correct, it is only logical to conclude that Tolkien meant his fictional world to be pre-redemption. As I said in my comments on the quote from Morgoth's Ring, I posted that quote because I think it may be helpful in realizing that Tolkien had purposefully created a pre-redemption world, and because it was not a key theme in his books does not mean that he was trying to avoid it.

As an afterthought, I do encourage Tolkien fans to read his letter to Milton Waldman. It is very interesting and offers valuable insights into the motives behind Tolkien's works, and the nature of those works.

A Journey Into Prydain- Part Two

A Journey into Prydain
Part Two

(Go here if you haven't read the first installment of this review)

So much for the history behind The Prydain Chronicles. But there is another issue, however sensitive, that I feel the need to cover. What about the magic in these books? Magic is a very delicate subject. If you look at the Old Testament you will notice that seers, prophets, diviners, angels, evil spirits and supernatural miracles are all there. They are there because they actually existed- and still do today. And it sure makes for an exciting read. Now, are they all wrong? Of course not. For example, certain men, prophets and angels had supernatural power or shall we say 'magic' bestowed upon them from God, himself. However, God forbade anyone to seek power from a source other than Himself. Certain witches and false prophets in Biblical times received their power from another source and they were condemned by God. Remember, ALL power originated from God, even the Enemy used to be on God's side, was created by God as one of his glorious angels, AND RECEIVED HIS POWER FROM GOD. But overcome with pride, wanted more glory and so rebelled against God, using this power for evil purposes. But God will not allow his glory to be stolen without consequence. This, I believe is why 'magic' or power from any secondary source besides God is not good.

By the way, a major theme in The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings is the RECLAIMING of this God-given power that the enemy has stolen and perverted. (That is why the mythological creatures are submitted to Aslan, the Christ figure.) I don't believe these works are flawless, but they are definitely worthy reads. It saddens me that some people see anything magic in stories and immediately condemn them without carefully studying God's Word and 'rightly dividing the truth.' I am sad for them because they miss out on the power of Story. God has given us Story to help us see the invisible and inspire us in the great battle between good and evil that is still going on today. I draw much of my inspiration to fight for truth by reading about the flawed characters of the Bible as well as characters from legend and history.

If you have read The Prydain Chronicles, you will understand that the story's theme is the classic Good vs. Evil and for that reason appeals to all kinds of writers. But the question is this? Did Lloyd Alexander's characters receive their power from the Source of all good or from elsewhere?

Even though he kept a defined sense of light and darkness, the source of 'power' or 'magic' was not always clearly defined in his stories. For example, there are three enchantresses (who I mentioned above as the Three Norns) who are not depicted as evil. They are not depicted as good either. A quote from The Black Cauldron:

"You still don't understand, do you? We aren't evil!"

"I should hardly call this good."

"Of course not. We're neither good nor evil. We're simply interested in things as they are."

Often, in ancient mythology, characters were 'neutral' and it is obvious Mr. Lloyd did the same in writing his stories. But we know from the Scriptures that there is no such thing as neutrality. We are either on the side of Good or Evil. So I think that this passage can be very confusing, even dangerous, especially for young readers. I think there are also a few other places where he stepped over the line.

But just because we disagree with a certain aspect of a book does not always mean that we have to condemn the whole book, but if such errors are prevalent, our conscience often lets us know that certain books just don't honor God - they honor another source and are not worthy of our time. (That is one of the reasons why I don't care for the Harry Potter Books.)

I have mentioned some faults of The Prydain Chronicles, but it does have a lot of good messages about courage, failure and sacrifice, all of which were very cleverly woven into the story. Even though the plot sounds very intense and serious - that is what I expected before I read the story - it is nothing of the kind. It is very humorous, maybe a little too much, but still very inspiring, very tender at times and sometimes made me cry. A good book always makes you laugh and cry before you are finished with it.

Although I can't say these books are superb literature, they are very good and I think a careful reader grounded in the truth, can enjoy these books as light reading.

Raora

Hereward the Wake - An Epic Journey to the Furthest Heights of Glory and the Utmost Depths of Anguish

At first glance, Kingsley's 'Hereward the Wake' is a rather ominous book. It has small print, old language that is now out of use, and a dismal introduction and preface. When I first began to read it, I made the mistake of tackling the preface. I read about three or four pages, put the book back on the shelf, and didn’t open it again for several months. When I finished Scott's 'Talisman,' (an absolutely wonderful book that everyone should read,) I picked Hereward The Wake up one more time, and decided to see if it would redeem itself in the first chapter. After the first chapter, I was hooked. It was absolutely thrilling and it improved with each subsequent chapter. It left Talisman and Ivanhoe far behind. I did not touch another book until I finished it, two days ago. You could almost hear the wild northern wind and the wilder northern sea singing through the pages. It has all the spirit of a Viking saga, and it is not far different.

The story is a true one, the outline of which Kingsley said that he took from the bishop Leofric's biography of Hereward's life. But Hereward the Wake is not a biography. True, it is history, not fiction, for the most part but it is also a story, a real story, with everything that a real story should have.

I will give an outline of it here, and then give my own thoughts on it afterward. The story is set in England, towards the close of Edward the Confessor's reign. Hereward Leofricsson, commonly called The Wake, is the son of Leofric (Not the bishop who wrote the biography of the Wake), a noble of Edward the Confessor's court and the ever-famous Godiva. He is a bold, daring youth, with the hot blood of all his Danish forefathers, and he lives with his mother in a town called Bourne, where his father is the holder. Early in his youth he is made an outlaw as a result of his unruly behavior toward the Church. I will not go into to whether or not I think he deserved such a fate - the details are too many to put down here, and if one reads the book they should be quite able to decide for themselves. He runs away north, to Crowland, fights for awhile under Gilbert of Ghent, in whose service he slays the Great White Bear, only a few of which were left in the world even in his time. Then he decides to be a Viking, and goes further north, from one wild island to the next, and gets into - and sometimes out of - all kinds of thrilling adventures. This may have been my favorite part of the book. He ends up in Flanders and there he falls in love with a wise and beautiful woman, Torfrida. She was interested, as was common in her day, in some fanciful ideas of magic - love potions etc. and that fact, called by some, and perhaps rightly so, as witchcraft, may prove to be an objection to some readers. But I can say that, while witchcraft is always wrong, it was only a passing fancy that she repented of soon after.

And then comes an end to his wild Viking dreams. News comes from England - Harold Hardraade, the hero of the Vikings, has been killed by Harold Godwinsson, who, in turn, has been killed by William the Mamzer. The Normans are conquering the land, slaughtering the chiefs, enslaving the people. After a difficult period of indecision, he decides to come back to the 'real world' and join the resistance against the Norman tyrant. His chief hope is that the Danes will come join him and place Sweyn, the only rightful heir, upon the throne. He and Torfrida embark on a long journey of danger, anguish, despair and heartbreak. As the situation grew more and more tense, I felt sure that Hereward and the last of his brave companions would die at Aldreth, fighting for England to the end. When I finally did come to the end I was shocked. I cried for the rest of the book, and I was tempted not to finish it. But I did, and I am glad that I did, though history is not always what we would like it to be. I will not tell you what did happen, but I will tell you that The Wake's death was far from satisfactory. Even so, as the merciless truth of history, it was not a complete failure - it had a memory of past glory, a shadow of what had once been and was no more, like the 'last echo born of a great cry.'

Beowulf

‘Beowulf’ is my favorite book this term. I read the original old-English poem, translated by Frederick Rebsamen, and I loved it. It definitely has its place among my favorites, and I highly recommend it.

The setting of the poem is up in the northern countries of Denmark, Sweden and Götland around the fifth or sixth century AD, and the hero of the poem is a Geatish warrior-lord – Beowulf. The author of the poem is unknown, but it is believed that he lived around 1000 AD. Probably the most well known event in the story is Beowulf’s arm wrestle with the monster Grendel who has attacked the Danes, and then his underwater fight with Grendel’s revengeful mother, the water-witch.

Later on in the story, Beowulf encounters a fire-dragon. (Now, listen carefully, does this sound a bit like the Hobbit or what? I always wondered where Tolkien got his ideas…)
Many years ago, this dragon stole a vast treasure-hoard from some Danish king or other who does not enter the story. He has never been a concern until an escaped slave stumbles upon the treasure while the dragon is sleeping and steals a golden cup in order to purchase his freedom. When the dragon realizes the loss, he ravages the entire countryside in revenge. The news is carried to Beowulf, who sets out to defeat the monster and bring peace to the land. The dragon is killed, and so is Beowulf. This last fight is so well-written and moving that I memorized it. You can read it below.

Interestingly, the poem has some Christian elements in it. God is mentioned thirty two times as ‘God,’ and over sixty times using another name – Shaper, Wielder, Glory-King, Measurer, Father, Deemer, etc. Throughout the story, it is shown how Beowulf, the magnanimous hero, trusts entirely on his own strength and courage, (see line 12) and in the end, it fails him. I thought that was very interesting.

The poem does not rhyme, because poems in the time that it was written used alliteration rather than rhyme. For example, (line 55) Flushed with fire fury to flash away the life. The alliteration gives the poem spirit and rhythm.

Today there are many versions of it in poetry and prose, and I have not read them all, but I think Rebsamen did a wonderful job in preserving the Germanic poetry in the translation. I also liked how Rebsamen created lots of compound words to capture the feel of the original language.

Here is the scene of the last fight between Beowulf and the dragon.

Notes: Wyrd is an old Germanic word for fate or destiny.
Naegling is Beowulf’s sword.

*See if you can find the alliteration and the compound words that the author has created.

“Wyrd will decide the way of this meeting
And man’s Measurer. My mind is strong
No more will I boast of monster in the past
Wait here in these woods in your webbed corselets
With shields and spears to see which of us
Will manage to survive vicious war wounds
Or kneel here to death. If luck moves with me
I will gather this gold, or give my life here
If cold death-bale carries me away.”
Beowulf rose then, with his round iron shield
War-helmet gleaming went with his years
Under the stone-cliff – in his strength he trusted
One against all, no way for a coward.
His tread was still young after years of war-clash
At borders of his land when boar-banners rushed
To the sounding of horns. He saw by the cliff-wall
A stone-barrow standing, a stream broke from it
Burst from the wall, bright with fire-flash
Blistering the sand - he could step no closer
Unburned by that breath nor bear that dragon-heat
Standing so close as his shield grew hotter.
Then from his breast, bolstered with anger
The lord of the Geats loosened a word-blast
Stormed stout-hearted - under steep gray-stone
His battle-stout voice boomed to the mound.
Hate was awakened the hoard-guardian knew
The sound of that leader – there was little time then
To settle for peace. From the stone-treasure cave
Burning breath-flame burst in a flash
Old anger-fire – the earth trembled.
The strong hall-king hefted his shield then
Sought some relief from that singeing blast
That ringed serpent was ready for combat
Greedy for revenge. The good warrior-king
Unsheathed his sword then, swift in its edges
Old treasure-blade. Each of those fighters
Warrior and monster was wary of the other.
Beowulf stood still with his steep iron shield
Death faced with death as the dragon coiled then
Swelling with fury simmering with rage.

Then Beowulf’s companion Wiglaf enters the scene:

He stepped through that hell-reek, hoisted his weapon
Brought help to his kinsmen, kindled him with words.
“Beloved Beowulf, bear up your heart
You said in your youth of glory in yore-days
That you never would allow while life held to you
The lowering of your name. Now known through the earth
Great-hearted Beowulf bear up your mind-strength
To finish this dragon – I will fight beside you.”
After those help-words the hell-serpent came
Raging gold-miser glaring with death eyes
Flushed with fire fury to flash away the life
Of that hateful challenger. Hard flame launching
Shriveled the shield-wood seared through mail-coats
Now helpless to bear that hot serpent breath.
The young hall-thane hid beside his lord
Held to the iron round hoping for relief
From those awesome flames-spears. The old battle-king
Remembered his glory-name mightily struck then
With his sharp blade-edge born so strongly
That is stuck in that neck. Naegling burst then
Broke upon that bone Beowulf’s trophy sword
Old and battle hard that best of honor-blades
Failed him at need. The finest of smith-steel
Could give him no help. His hand was too strong
Over-swung each sword as stories have told me
Struck too forcefully when he stepped to battle
Wonder-hard weapons did not work for him.
For the third time then, twisting in hate-coils
That monstrous fire-dragon mindful of his feud
Struck past that shield went straight to Beowulf
Bit round his neck. Beowulf stopped then
His life-force draining, in dark blood welling.
Then, as I heard, that hall-king’s champion
Young kin-warrior came to that monster
With craft and weapon-skill as his king had taught him
He ducked past that head, hot flame belching
Burned his hand then as he buried his sword,
Burnished treasure-blade in that black snake belly.
Then that great fire-breath grew feebler at last
That blistering blast bellowed more softly
As the blade took hold. Then Beowulf rose
Gathered his mind-thoughts, grasped his short-sword
Bitter and battle-sharp broad steel edges –
The Geat-lord struck severed the ringbones
They felled that fiend, found his life-core
Cut him to hell-death kinsmen together
King and his soldier so should a man
Be a thane with his lord. The leader of the Geats
Fought his last blood-fight the bourne of his deeds
Daytimes of this world.

The Brendan Voyage

Right now I am reading a book called The Brendan Voyage by Tim Severin. It is a very interesting book.

In the Medieval Ages, there was an Irish monk called St. Brendan, who supposedly crossed the Atlantic, all the way from Ireland to America, in order to bring the gospel message to the people there. Until 1976, hundreds of years later, most people considered the story a superstitious legend, on the grounds that in St. Brendan’s day, boats capable of performing the feat did not exist. But in 1976 Tim Severin, a man who believed that the story was more than a legend, set sail to prove its feasibility.

The Brendan Voyage, written by the same man, is a true account of his journey from Ireland to America. It’s amazing. Severin has a description of the boat that St. Brendan supposedly used, a map of the route taken, and a record of the adventures that the monk and his fellow preachers had on their journey. From this account, he creates the boat and prepares to sail across the Atlantic.

There’s one drawback, however. The boat in Brendan’s description, as well all traditional Irish boats, is an ancient Irish curragh made of leather ox hides. Everyone is positive that a leather boat will perish on the Atlantic – everyone except Severin. He completes the leather boat ands sets sail.

He is taking the prescribed route, following that of St. Brendan before him, from Ireland, up past Scotland, to the Hebrides, up to the Faroes, on to Iceland, from there to Greenland, and then to his destination, Newfoundland, off the coast of Canada. Rough seas and dangerous winds confront him everywhere in the wild northern waters. The idea is terribly risky. But in the end, he succeeds and proves the Legend of the Brendan Voyage.

I have not finished the entire book yet, but so far, it is great. The story itself is incredible. And the author has a knack for keeping the entire account interesting. It also has neat photographs of the different stages of the journey. I certainly recommend it.

Forth Eorlingas

The Keeper Of Nimrah - A Sample

The Keeper of Nimrah

Written by Raora aka S. Johnson

A half-stifled scream ripped through the air, and the echoes leapt back from the crumbling walls of the ravine. Jaron stopped breathing. His feet skidded to a stop in the loose gravel that crunched under his splitting leather boots, and half-turning, he looked back. Barely three minutes ago he had given the dying man down there his sworn word that he would not look back. But he did anyway. He could not stop himself.

The body lay limp and unmoving, slouched against the carcass of the fallen horse. The name formed on Jaron’s chapped lips, hoarse and cracked. “Jamin…” Barely more than a whisper, but somehow it carried back down to the rocky floor of the ravine, and Jamin opened his eyes. He was still alive. He did not look at Jaron, not even for a second. That would have given him away. He just stared blankly up at the masked shadows above him and a single silent word slipped through his gritted teeth, contorting his face. “Run.” There was no sound at all, but Jaron read the shape of it on his lips. Still he did not move. With tremendous effort, Jamin sucked the air into his collapsed lung, and whispered, “Run.” And then the spearhead drove through his chest and lodged in the crumbling red rock beneath him.

For a moment Jaron stood still, in spite of everything, and bit the inside of his lip until the slippery skin burst and blood stung his mouth. The taste shocked him to action, and he blinked hard and sprinted out of the ravine.

He stumbled out onto the hard dry footpath that twisted along the brink of the ravine and ran. Blindly, but with every nerve alert, seeing everything, hearing everything, feeling the late afternoon breeze on his sweating face and the ripping red agony in the thin gash that twisted under his arm and across his ribs. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a dark figure running parallel to him along the bottom of the ravine, less than a bowshot away. A moment later the sound of quick, hard footsteps on the path behind him jarred his practiced ear. They were after him. There were at least two on his trail, and there were sure to be plenty more lurking in the mountains on every side.

He left the path and struck out across the ragged wilderness and up the side of a boulder-strewn hill. It was steep going. He ran like a hunted deer, twisting and zigzagging, looking for a way out - somewhere to hide. Bronzed, muscle-hard legs leaping over the hillside, sweating even in the cool stillness of a spring evening. Firm set lips, almost calm. He had long since given up hope, but he never panicked. He was far beyond panic now. One moment he was sprinting up the hill, a dusky figure among the lengthening shadows. The next, he flung himself on the ground behind a giant red boulder.

He pressed himself into the shadow of the rock, pulling his knees in, and leaned his head back against the stone. Then he froze every muscle, by sheer strength of will, and fought to control his heaving chest, which felt ready to collapse on itself. For several minutes, he heard nothing. Maybe he’d lost them. His right leg started cramping. He did not move.

Then he saw them. One of them, at least. It was coming straight towards him, from the other side of the hill. Framed in the slanting light of the still brilliant sun, it was just a faceless black figure, still far away, sharply outlined. Jaron sat perfectly still, willing himself to be invisible. The shadow of the rock was the only cover he had. Maybe they wouldn’t see him. But the knot of fear pulsing in his stomach told him that they already had. His fingers inched their way to his belt, and closed around the hilt of his broad hunting knife, as he mentally measured the shrinking distance between them, timing the moment for him to leap up and make his last stand.

Suddenly a crunching footstep behind him, directly on the other side of the rock, made his blood run cold. That must be the other one. He did not dare turn his head, even though he knew they must have seen him.

The next moment there was a wooden creak and the snap of a bowstring, and the black figure heading for him stumbled and then crashed to the ground with a hoarse, half-human shriek.

There was a voice, right behind him. “Jaron?”

A man appeared from behind the rock.

“Akin?” Jaron whispered, disbelieving his eyes. The strings of tension stiffening his face slackened.

Chapter One - Bridia

For a moment it lingered above the horizon, a disc of glowing fire, burning on the brink of the vast expanse of gray hills looming dark against the pale sky. Then it slipped into darkness, swallowed up by the grim shadows. It left the western sky ablaze with brilliant shades of crimson, gold and violet, wrapped in swathes of blue. But, all around, the sky was swiftly darkening as the glow of the departed sun began to fade, and in the northeast a seething legion of heavy-laden storm clouds streamed just over the shadow of the mountains, promising a fierce battle in a few hours. Here and there a star could be seen, glistening feebly somewhere just beyond the circle of light, where the ominous darkness crept in from every side.

"It is gone," Jaron said beneath his breath. “The night comes quickly.” He stood very still on the narrow path, like a gray statue, slender and very tall, and beneath the ghastly mask of red dust and dried blood that crusted his face, he was very young. There was a long narrow scar across the left side of his mouth and his dark hair lashed wildly about his face in a tangled frenzy. He was wearing a worn tunic that made him blend in with the dismal rocky surroundings and a belt adorned with intricate patterns was bound about his waist. It bore an empty leather quiver, a curved knife with a hilt of darkened birch-wood, and a long scabbard. A double-bladed war axe was slung on his back, and he carried a long grey bow that was almost his equal in height. The left side of his chest was gashed open - a thin, shallow wound twisting across his ribs, exposed to the frantic wind through a wide tear in his clothes. His cloak was tattered and his hands were stained with dark blood up to the wrists - his or his enemies or both.

"Jaron." A voice ahead called his name, and he looked down. In the deepening twilight, the surroundings were dark and deceptive. Scattered over the hillside, gnarled scrub oaks struggled for existence among the massive boulders that dotted the landscape. The immense rocks, often taller than a man, lay strewn all around, menacing shadows in the gloaming, as if some giant had hurled them down from the mountains long ago, in some forgotten age of the world. Sometimes he was almost certain they were moving. Farther down there were groves of wild olives eking out an existence on the barren hills and crags, but not here, and farther up even the stunted oaks dropped out of existence as one approached Haran. Nothing grew in Haran. As far as anyone knew, nothing ever had. It was all empty red rock, bare of any living thing.

This was the wasteland of the northern mountains of Haran, the straggling foothills that stretched for several miles before the real mountains began. To his right, a short distance away, there was a steep ravine of broken earth that crumbled into the shadows below. He could just see across the empty gulf to the opposite side, gray and sinister in the growing dusk. He could see the mountains far off in the distance on his left, so immersed in shadow that he could no longer make a distinction between shadow and mountain and they looked more like phantoms than anything else. But they were real, he knew that much - too real. That was the mystical haunt of the Mahdai warriors.

There was a road that wound through those hills, and came out on the other side, an old highroad that was called the Entyra, but he never went out that far - none of the men of Bridia did, nor did anyone from the wide lands south of the mountains. It was forbidden ground to them, and with good reason. For though no one ever spoke of it, everyone knew that somewhere out there in the wilderness of towering mountain peaks, rocky gorges and steep cliffs, there was something else besides the savage hordes of blood-thirsty mountain Mahdai warriors. They called it Marok. The age-old evil that had defiled Haran past all redemption. And somewhere out there, lost in the unbroken darkness that no starlight could ever quite penetrate, the shadow of the mountain fastness of Nimrah kept the land paralyzed with an ancient, half-remembered fear.

No one knew where to find it. No one wanted to try. Sometimes on long winter evenings the women crooned their children to sleep with timeworn songs of the Battle of Nimrah, songs that no one remembered to have written, and few remembered where they had come from. Occasionally, on blustery nights when the weather was wild and there was a rough storm blowing itself out on the frozen windswept waste outside, a wandering story-teller would sit in a fire-lit hall and strike up an old tune on some weathered harp, and tell the story of Nimrah of Haran in order to earn some supper and a night’s lodging. To the people, it was little more than a legend, but the men of Bridia knew better. They knew well enough that there was something deep within the mountains that the legends of Marok had been built upon - something real. But like everyone else, they avoided it as much as possible and only Jaron and a few others fully knew how very real the threat was. He sighed and closed his eyes, remembering.

And then out of the dusky stillness, a long hollow note sounded from somewhere so far away that it seemed to come straight out of a dream. He shuddered as the lonely horn call rang faintly through the ravine, rousing the mournful echoes and shattering the calm. The Mahdai were awake. When the twilight deepened and the dusk fell and the grayness of the world chilled the hearts of men, then they awoke. Scarcely anyone ever saw them. Four years ago, during the war of Eor, the men of Carasul had defeated them beneath the walls of the city and driven them back into the mountains.

But still they stole through the darkening land, clinging to the shadows, and sometimes they would come all the way out to the edge of the hills. A deep coldness preceded them and followed in their wake. They did not go past Bridia - Jaron made sure of that. He lived to keep them from ever doing it again. No Mahdai had set foot in Ayta for four years, and that was a long time, in the reckoning of the men of Bridia. The men of Carasul paid no tribute to Nimrah - not yet. But the prophets use to say that a time was coming again when the Mahdai would forsake the shadows and men would forsake the sun. They would break, like everyone else, and the shattered fragments of the Kings of Ayta would tumble into the dust of no return.

"Jaron," the voice called again.

"Yes, Akin, I am coming." He took one last glance at the fading light above the hills, and then stumbled down the steep rocky path. The effort strained him, and he winced and pressed his hand against his wound. It came away stained with red.

"Are you alright?” his companion asked as he came down. “Watch the edge.” He was many years older than Jaron, a battle-scarred warrior with a lean, wolfish face and the fierce black eyes of a hunter.

"Yes," Jaron replied, and smiled grimly, "I have walked this path every night for many years, Akin. I know where the edge is." But he nearly stumbled again as he spoke. Akin held his hand out, and helped him down to more level ground. "It is getting dark," Jaron said.

"I know. A little ways further. I think we can reach the caves before the light is completely gone."

"The Mahdai will come soon," Jaron said in a low voice. They will follow us as soon as the darkness falls, and if we have not reached the caves by then they will kill us. I cannot fight again, Akin."

"We will reach the caves. They are swift, but they are not wizards. They cannot ride the wind. Look there." He pointed a ways ahead to where the ravine widened and its ragged cliffs gave way to a deep valley, "Bridia is down there. I can just see the ruins of the north tower. It is hard to tell in this light, but the caves cannot be more than a half a league away. They are probably not even that far."

"You should not speak so loud," Jaron reminded him quietly. "There are others abroad that would be glad enough to mar the sundown with another death, or stain these rocks with the shedding of more blood.”

"No doubt. I am sorry.” A moment later he went on in a soft voice, “Jaron. What happened last night…”

"I do not want to talk about last night, Akin,” Jaron interrupted quickly. “Jamin is not coming back - leave it at that. We do not forget things, up here in the mountains, but sometimes it is best not to speak of them. Remember, and be silent."

"Jaron,” Akin began, and then stopped short. His voice sank to a whisper. “Something is moving beyond the red boulder to your right." Jaron stopped abruptly and stood as still as the stone in question, following Akin’s hand with his eyes to a dark shadow a hundred yards ahead.

“I see it,” he said quietly. His fingers tightened around the long bow. “They are here. Mahdai. I knew they would come. And we are so close. So very close.”

“I think there is only one, Jaron.”

“There is never only one. And right now one might be enough to take us both. I am not strong enough to fight them again.”

“Are your arrows spent?”

“Yes. And the string is wet. They have finished sporting with Jamin and have come back for us.”

A moment later a cry rang out from a ways ahead.

“Jaron! Akin!”

Akin smiled. “It is Aldain. Not any of your phantoms after all. Aldain! Up here!” The figure below rode up the path towards them and dismounted. He was a tall man, clad in the garb of a scout, his face all but hidden in the folds of his hood. But a pair of shadowy eyes stared out at Jaron from beneath a dark mane of unkempt hair.

“My lord.”

Jaron smiled grimly. He took a step forward, but caught his foot on a stone and collapsed into the man’s arms.

“I am sorry.” Aldain said softly. “I should never have let you go.” He lifted him up as lightly as a child and set him on the horse. “But now we are safe. I will take you to the caves and Elial will clean that wound, and then you will sleep. Tomorrow everything will be well again. Come.” He took the reins and walked the horse back down the path. Akin followed close behind.

“I have been looking for you for almost two days,” Aldain added under his breath to Akin.

“He has been sorely wounded. I did not find him until late yesterday afternoon. He was in a terrible fever all night.”

“Mahdai?”

“Yes. What else? It is a miracle that he lives at all.”

“What of the other? Where is Jamin?”

Akin shook his head. “I think he drew them off. He is gone. The only reason Jaron is alive.”

“I was afraid it would be this way,” Aldain said quietly.

“He will not speak of it."

“We cannot let him leave the caves again.”

“No.” They continued walking along the crumbling path. It was all but dark now and only the faintest hint of crimson graced the western horizon. Everywhere else the night had fallen, vast and forlorn, and on every side the harsh, lonely cries of the mountain jackals pierced the otherwise unbroken silence. The path before them grew indistinguishable and uncertain. Some fifty yards away a lofty precipice rose into the sky directly in front of them, sinister and ominous in what little light there was. And then, a little ways ahead, they saw a dim light shining from a great height above them. Then another one, lower down, on ground level. And then another, a ways to the left.

“Look,” Aldain said in a low voice. “Elial has lit the lanterns for us. He has lit them every night since you left, trusting that you would come back. We are nearly there.”

He quickened his pace, and soon they came up to the entrance of a large cave in the cliff-wall ahead of them. Three guards in long dark cloaks raised their spears to let them pass, and from somewhere within the cavern there were low voices. Several of the men, tall dark men heavily armed, ran out to meet them; they bore smoking torches that smelt strongly of scorched animal grease and the unsteady flames trembled back and forth, casting flickering shadows on the wall. Aldain took Jaron off of the horse and set him on his feet at the entrance.

Jaron leaned against the wall of the cave and pulled his torn shirt over the wound under his arm. Then he slipped the hood of his cloak off. A cry of ecstatic surprise rose from the men, and in a moment he was swept off of his feet once again and carried into the cavern, amid a wild tumult of questions. Someone had run ahead and they could hear him crying, “Jaron has come back!” Aldain smiled and followed them.

Akin gave the horse’s reins to one of the men, but before he went in he spoke softly to the guards. “Keep a close watch tonight. Put three extra men at the outer gates.”

A quarter of an hour later the men of Bridia, some thirty or forty of them, were seated cross-legged around a blazing fire inside the largest cave, and in the back several of them were setting a low round table of rough wood with whatever meat they had in store then. It was not much, but there was new wine that had been sent up from the valley, a thing that did not happen often, and that was enough to get their spirits up in spite of the scanty fare. It had already been opened, and the men drank freely.

Jaron was sitting on an old wolf skin, leaning against the wall. He and Akin had told every one very briefly what had happened; how he and Jamin met up with the Mahdai on their way back to the caves, how they had killed Jamin. Now there was an awkward silence. A silence that was somehow familiar, because they had all faced it so many times before. At length Jaron stood slowly to his feet.

“I am sorry that I could not save him,” he said in a quiet voice, staring at the ground. “The men of Bridia have learned well the lesson that there is little that separates life and death. A few moments of laughter, a few moments of pain. Many others of our companions have been cut off without warning. And one day our time will come. But, at the least we can know that if there is any place for valiant men beyond this bloodstained world, then the men of Bridia will sit at that table. And even if there is not, the memory of the Heroes of Haran will live on with us, and no Mahdai killer from the accursed depths of Nimrah itself will ever take that away.”

A reverent silence fell over the chamber. Then he lifted his head and asked in a clear voice. “Will you drink with me?” The men stood and raised their wooden cups. “To Jamin.” He could have said something else, but he knew that nothing he could say would move them so much as that name, and so he drank to Jamin only. They all repeated the toast and drank, and afterward there was a heavy silence.

As he felt the cool liquid on his lips, a treacherous mist sprang into his eyes and the shapes of the men, the cups in their hands, the wooden table, the crumbling walls of the cave - all faded into indistinct grayness and he could see nothing but the fire, the raging tongues of flame leaping upward towards the low blackened ceiling, the dark heat, the smoky light. A blinding white pain pierced the left side of his body, and he fell against the wall. The half empty cup slipped from his fingers and crashed to the ground. Aldain ran to his side and held him up. The wine spilled out in a crimson pool around the cup and someone refilled it and set it on the table.

“Take me to Elial,” Jaron murmured, “and have the men eat without me.” Aldain took him out of the cave and as he went out, Jaron heard them questioning Akin.

“You did not tell us he was wounded,” one of them said.

“An ill-omen,” someone else muttered.

Outside it had started raining. The sky had been clear an hour ago, but already the storm that had been brewing in the north had swept down with a fury. “Will you go to the upper caves?” Aldain asked.

“No. I have not the strength to climb tonight. Where is Elial?”

“He is not far. I will take you to him. Come.” He half-carried Jaron along the base of the cliff to another cave, much smaller than the last.

“Elial is in there. I do not know why he did not come up tonight. Have him clean that cut and bind it up. Do you want me to come back for you when he is done?”

“No. I will stay here. Tell the men that I have had a little hurt and I will not see them tonight.” Jaron stepped up into the unlighted entrance and, holding onto the wall for support, he stumbled in. Aldain watched until he disappeared in the darkness and then he sighed and went back.

“Elial?” Jaron flung the question into the shadows. It seemed a long time before he received an answer. But it came at last, and the voice was gentle and scarcely audible.

“So you are come back.”

“I am.” A few moments later the dim light of a lamp lit up the dark room. It was quite small, with a low roof, and it was bare save for a couch of animal skins - mostly jackals - in one corner and an assortment of stone and clay jars of all shapes and sizes in the other. The man who had lit the lamp set it on the ground and came forward. He was a dark young man with long lank hair the color of a newborn wolf’s pelt. In one hand he held a shallow clay bowl half filled with a cloudy liquid.

“You came back,” he said again, and his mouth twisted into a half smile.

“I told you I would.”

“But I didn’t believe you.”

“Elial,” Jaron said slowly, his eyes on the ground. “Jamin is dead.”

He nodded. “I thought it might be that way. I am sorry.”

Jaron shook his head, speaking frantically, and trembling. “My quiver is empty, Elial. I stood on the cliff as they came and shot them down, I do not know how many. The dry ground ran with their blood. But it was not enough. It is never enough!” He lowered his voice. “And then I left him. Left him with the Mahdai, half dead, and ran.”

“You couldn’t save him.” Elial set his hand on Jaron’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “It was not your fault. At least they did not take both of you.”

Jaron twisted out from under the gentle weight on his shoulder. “I do not need anyone to tell me that. I failed him. All of you - again.” He stumbled and fell to his knees. “I need water.”

Elial half-carried him across the room to the couch, and laid him down on it, breathing hard. He untied Jaron’s sword-belt and set it against the wall.

“Keep it within my reach.”

“I will.” Elial took the bow off his shoulder and set it beside the sword. “You will have to let me take that shirt off,” he said, and he began to strip it off with agile fingers. He tossed it into a corner and brought a jar of water and a coarse cloth.

“Drink some of this.” He poured some of the water out into a wooden vessel and put his arm under Jaron’s head as he drank.

“How bad is it?’ Jaron asked, straining to look at the torn skin, bruised and plastered with half-dried blood.

“It is not terribly deep, but it is not a clean cut either. What was the weapon?”

“A crooked knife. Akin tied it up, but it festered over night.”

“I thought as much.” In the lamplight his face was drawn and anxious.

He made as to turn away, but Jaron seized his wrist. “Tell me the truth. Is it poison?”

Elial shook his head. “No.”

The grip on his wrist tightened. “Swear that it is not poison. If I am going to die, I want to know.”

“Trust me, Jaron. I have never yet told you an untruth. It is nothing more than what would happen to any man slashed open with a Mahdai blade. But it will take awhile to heal completely. You will have to stay here for several days.”

“I will not be able to stay here long,” Jaron said in a low voice, but Elial did not hear him. He bathed the wound with the wet cloth - the soothing coolness relieved the burning pain somewhat - and then he lifted the clay bowl off of the ground and washed it out with the liquid. Jaron winced and ground his teeth. “What is that?” he asked with an effort, “It is like Mahdai poison.”

“It is stone-water from Ismara,” Elial said softly. “It will purify the wound and soothe the pain so you can sleep.”

But Jaron heard him speaking through a dark red haze that throbbed in his head and clouded his mind. The lamplight wavered and trembled and became an intense white fire that flooded the room until he could see nothing else. He flung his arm over his eyes to block it out. A rush of terrible pain stabbed at him and he gave a cry of agony as he felt the flesh on the left side of his body being torn with a sharp crude coldness that burned like fire from the underworld.

“No! Elial! Please!” He felt a hand on his sweating forehead and the white fire faded back to the flickering flame of a dim oil lamp. Elial was kneeling beside him, binding the wound up in a long strip of cloth. There was a small knife on the ground beside him that was dripping dark blood onto the dusty floor. The pain did not subside for awhile.

“I am sorry,” Elial said gently. “I had to do it before I wrapped it up or it would not have healed well. It is over now.” He wiped the knife clean and put it away somewhere among his other tools. When he came back, he sat down and put a cool cloth on Jaron’s brow. “If you make it through the first night then you will be alright in a few days. It is not as evil as I first thought. You will be able to run again soon.”

Jaron was not listening. “Do you remember Bridia?” he asked, staring up at the smoke stained ceiling with a strange look in his eyes. “Not the miserable caves that we skulk in now like hunted wretches running from a hound. The old Bridia. Can you remember the city in the valley before they burned it? Can you remember the sunlight coming through the windows in the morning? Can you remember all the men that fell there, fighting on the walls with the setting sun in their hair? Their faces come to me at night sometimes when I am alone, and then I curse myself and wish I were with them.”

“Jaron.” Elial spoke softly, so softly that his voice could scarcely be heard above the wind outside. He ran his fingers gently through Jaron’s dusty hair. “Do you remember the prophets?” It was a question, not a remark.

It was a long time before he got an answer. But Jaron spoke at last, and his voice was broken. “Yes. I remember.”

“How long has it been since you saw Maldek?”

Maldek. Maldek the old prophet. Yes, Jaron remembered him. “It has been a long time now. Last I saw him was nigh on three years ago, but it seems a great deal longer. He was at Carasul when I came back, where he and Galmir were leading the attack on the Mahdai. The one that sent them flying back from the walls of Carasul like frightened crows. But he left soon afterward. He never told me where he was going, and I never asked. I do not think anyone has seen him since the war.”

“You do remember?” Elial asked, and unmanly tears filled his eyes.

Jaron bit his chapped lip so hard that a little bead of bright blood sprang up. “Remember what?” he muttered, sitting up. “This?” Jaron jerked violently on a worn leather thong that he wore around his bare neck and it snapped and came off in his hand. There was a small irregularly shaped piece of ivory strung on it with one word engraved on its smooth surface in a flowing script: Ertherok. “I have worn this ever since I was a child,” he said, fingering it slowly. He held it up to the lamplight, and it shimmered faintly. “My mother hung it around my neck the day I was born. Maldek came to Carasul on the day of my birth and gave it to her. I never took it off.”

“I have seen it many times, but I never asked you what it was. Is it a life-charm?”

“No. At least, I never thought of it like that. It is a piece of ivory. But the word that was written on it, the Ertherok, that is what made it sacred to me. I wore it for her sake, and I wore it for the prophet’s sake, and I wore it because I believed in what it said, like they did.” His lips were set in a hard line and the scar across his mouth grew very white. His stormy eyes had lost their flame, and they were very dull and gray, and looked as if they could never cry again. “But she is dead now,” Jaron went on in a leaden voice, “and Maldek left us, Bridia is lost, and Narith and Laytha are dead. The hope that men once had in that word is also dead. And I will not wear it any longer.”

The charm slipped off and dropped to the ground. There was a hollow ring as it struck the stone floor. Elial watched it fall in silence, every muscle in his body strung taut like the cords of a harp. Jaron did not look at it, but he gripped the broken thong in his sweaty hand until his nails bit into his flesh and he realized what he was doing and let it fall.

“You need to sleep,” Elial said quietly.

“Sleep? I can’t sleep.”

“Lay down.”

“I don’t want to sleep, Elial. They’ll come back. The dreams.”

“No they won’t. Not tonight. I will be here. Lay down.”

He pressed rigid fingers into Jaron’s chest and shoulder, compelling his reluctant body back onto the stiff skins. Jaron lay down, knocking his head against the hard floor that shoved up under the shallow pallet in a gesture of half-hearted defiance. “Close your eyes,” Elial whispered. “Come on.” And Jaron, accustomed by long habit to doing whatever Elial told him, sank his eyelids down over the dry hurting in his sore eyes, and slipped behind the soft darkness.

He slept. Nervous, fragmented sleep, nodding in and out, sometimes so close to waking that the only thing between was the hair’s breadth of shadow sheltering his eyes, and the light and the face above him started fading onto the scarred surface of his consciousness. But sometimes so far and deep that there were many unremembered worlds flooring the great gap from reality.

The hours crawled, but there is no relation between hours here and hours in the place where dreams are made, the place without clocks. Elial never moved from the side of the couch, except to bring water and cloth to wash Jaron’s sweating face. It was uncomfortably cool in there, and Elial had a jackal skin flung around his shoulders, but Jaron never stopped sweating. It was a violent sleep, and he moved almost continually, rolling and tossing and sometimes muttering strings of fractured words. The clouds that no one saw got slowly heavier and thicker, hanging low over the caves. They were almost ready.

It was still dark outside when Jaron got tired of sleeping. Something roused him, some unidentifiable sound or motion or thought, which had its origin in the things around him or came from inside his own mind. He opened his eyes - the stain shapes on the ceiling leapt onto his vision, glaring back at him. It was time. He sat up stiffly. Elial rubbed the blinking sleep from his eyes and leaned forward. “Are you alright?”

Jaron stood carefully to his feet. “Ask Akin to get me a fresh horse.”

“Why?” Elial asked, without moving.

“I am riding to Carasul.”

Elial sprang to his feet, instantly worried. “Do not be a fool, Jaron.” His voice had a new edge to it. “You know that you are not strong enough to make that journey.” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “I know how much you want to go,” he said softly. “I know.”

“She is waiting. Last night, I saw her there. And the night before. She was waiting.”

“It was a dream, Jaron.”

“I know. But she will be waiting. I promised I would come. I promised I would be there. I have to go.”

“You are mad.”

“I am not. I will come back to Bridia soon. Very soon. I swear.”

“You are not yourself. You were nearly killed last night. You have lost much blood and you are very weak.” He lowered his voice, “She will not remember that promise. A year is longer than you think.”

“That is a lie,” Jaron muttered fiercely. “Don’t ever say it again.” Elial frowned sullenly. “You have cleaned the wound,” Jaron went on. “There is nothing else to do. I will send Galmir up with a fresh company to keep the pass until I come back.”

“I will send for Galmir, if you command, but I am the healer right now, and you will not go anywhere until I say you are able to.”

Jaron turned on him fiercely. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

Jaron’s eyes blazed. “I am the King’s son, not a sick child,” he said between clenched teeth. But even as he spoke his step faltered and he nearly fell.

“You have started it bleeding again,” Elial said quietly. “You are weary and the fever is heavy on you. You do not know what you are doing. Lay down.”

“No. Give me my knife,” for Elial had taken the sword belt up from the ground when he got up and he held it.

“I will not. Your sword is gone, and you are out of arrows. Wait until I can send and have it made ready.”

Jaron pulled his wet shirt back on. “Give it to me.”

“No. At least wait for the dawn. You will never make it to Carasul alive if you journey in the dark. The new moon is not until tomorrow. You have time. Wait till tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow!” Jaron insisted, exasperated, and wrenched the belt away from him. “I have been sleeping for hours. It will be light any minute.” He stumbled to the entrance of the cave.

“Let someone come with you!” Elial ran after him and grasped his wrist. “Jaron, you cannot do this. Please.” But Jaron did not listen. He jerked himself free and thrust Elial away from him. “You are cruel to make us face this again,” Elial said quietly. “We only just got you back.”

“Have you ever found anything in this life that was not cruel?” Jaron shot back, without turning. Elial said nothing, and Jaron staggered out into the rain. But, before he left, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Elial was standing at the entrance, lamp in hand, looking after him. The ivory charm was pressed to his lips. For a passing moment Jaron’s eyes lingered on the warm lamplight, and then he turned and the darkness swallowed him. A blast of freezing wind swept into the cave and the lamp went out.