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Dayn armallah

 

 

 

 

2. The Temple

Men would kill.

A sudden shudder ran through my body and I started awake from my thoughts. But still the words rang quietly in my mind, till my hand began to tremble and I had to set aside the brush that was still clasped in my limp fingers. When its tip touched the oily paper, it left a small, lumpy stain of crimson, thick and sticky. I stared at it for a moment, then the board fell from my lap as I jerked my body up in mindless, absolute terror.

The whole Hall of Scribes wheeled around at the interruption to glare at me in silent surprise and curious dismay. I got some feeble hold of myself, inhaled deep, and managed to step cautiously enough past my companions sitting in the same row, before starting in blind run towards the doorway. I had to get fresh air. As I pushed out of the door, I registered in the corner of my eye the shape of the Master Scribe as he rose from his customary squat with an angry frown and made towards me.

Once I was safely in the corridor I leaned gasping against a pillar and pressed my neck, suddenly covered with large pearls of sweat, against the grooved stone in a wild attempt to get back my self-control. The anguish began to ebb and I looked into the few fluffy clouds that sailed slowly through the dazzlingly blue midday sky.

The irritated figure of the Master Scribe emerged beside me.

"Seventh Scribe of Red," he barked, out of breath, "whatever does this mean? To rush out like that all of a sudden, without permission, indeed without even asking for one? The damage you might – or may, for that matter – have caused to the precious work of your fellow scribes, not to mention your own, is likely to be beyond measure, given the tasks you were involved in at this present day and time – and as to the damage, should there be any, from which the Almighty Mother us protect in Her infinite mercy..."

The words flowed out of my recognition as I stood there thinking dazedly of my apparition. Of course it had been a mere hallucination. I had been squeezing the ink-stained brush in my hand so long that the red ink had dried too solid to flow in an easy, aquiline shape on the parchment, so that it merely blotched instead. But why had I seen it as blood, if not in consequence of the words that had pierced into my meditation when I had let my mind roam once again into the eyes I had seen so briefly on the day before the Uprising.

Where had those words come from? What had whispered them in my ear? A mystery for which men would kill – man killing man, deliberately taking each other's life, greedily soiling their hands in the steamy stream breaking free from still throbbing veins... That was an incomprehensible thing, an impossible thing to do. Only the barbaric Foresters did it, and – I shivered again – some of our people whom the corruption brought by them had pervaded, men into whom the poisoned air from the Dark Woods had crept and blackened their brain. Why had I not thought of dying for the Mystery instead? For that would have been a thousand times more possible. To die to save a life, to die of unrequited love, or to give happiness to the beloved, those were noble and acceptable possibilities. Where had this horrid idea come from? Was it in the air here, too, within the hallowed walls?

Suddenly I became aware of the Master Scribe who was eyeing me in exasperated anger. He must have already stared at me for a considerable while in silence, for his patience seemed almost at an end.

"Seven of Red, I demand that you answer me," he said. "I demand an apology and an explanation!"

"Honored Master," I said far more weakly than I intended, "I pray you to forgive me my rash and thoughtless action and implore you to believe I am in earnest in saying that I truly am ashamed and... and regret what I did."

The stammer was involuntary. The Master Scribe frowned again when he peered into my face.

"All color has left your cheeks, Seven of Red," he observed a little more mildly. "Are you not feeling well? Still that is no excuse for not asking for a moment's leave when – "

"Honored Master!" Before I fully realized it myself, I had sunken on my knees at his feet and clasped his robe with trembling hands. "I could not help it, I saw a most horrible vision, I dreamed I saw things no words from my tongue could describe... Master, I pray you to be kind to me, I couldn't stop myself before it was too late! I cannot go on today, I am not worthy of the scriptures I am supposed to copy!" The words, to my surprise, came out in choked sobs, in a voice I hardly knew as my own. "Honored Master, I beg for your mercy, although I could hardly expect to have it now, but still I must ask... please, oh please, could you get me the leave to attend the Holy Eve today?"

I pressed my face into the cloth of his robe, trying to be articulate again, and felt his hand on my head.

"I want to purify myself... to face the Holy Mother, ask Her to relieve my mind..."

I clung to his cloth, rendered nearly breathless by the words that had poured from my mouth, staggered at the unheard-of request. And surely it was that plea of mine that convinced him beyond any reasonable doubt that I must indeed be out of my wits. To be granted such a thing would have been considered a wonderful reward even after great and beautiful deeds of skill or bravery. But to ask for it after demonstrating such behavior as I had, just a moment earlier... that was the request of a madman.

His fingers caressed gently my ear-curls.

"Rise, Seventh Scribe of Red," he said in a soft voice. "You need not continue any more today, for I can see that you are in great agony."

I stumbled on my feet and sincerely hoped they would carry me as far as my cell, perhaps even to our own small shrine by the outer wall of the mighty Temple. But his next words almost made my knees give in again.

"Go to your cell, Seventh Scribe of Red, and purify yourself as best you can, before entering the Preparation Chamber tonight."

I looked at his old, grave face for a while, unable to say a word. Then I bowed and rushed on unstable feet towards the house of the Red. When I finally reached again my cool, comfortably dimly lit cell, I sank heavily on the bed and tried to be my own master at last.

To attend the Holy Eve! The very thought of it made my head reel until I felt dizzy. What madness had seized me and made me utter such a wish? Me, a minor scribe numbered Seven in the ranks of the Red, me who had no reason to believe that I ever should be considered anything out of the ordinary in my entire life – me, boldly requesting that incredible honor! And the most incredible thing of all was that I had been granted what I asked. Very obviously the Master Scribe had perceived in my manner something that had escaped my own observation, or even comprehension.

Deep in thought I stripped naked in the middle of the room, let my clothes drop on the floor and wrapped a bathing robe around my body. Absently I walked to the bathing quarters and slipped into the water. Only when its coolness enveloped me and washed the remains of dust, sweat and ink from my skin did I slowly start feeling alive again. I even immersed my head in the ripples, eyes wide open, and then began to wash myself in the prescribed order, leaving no inch without due cleansing.

The smooth water finally restored me to my full senses, and the importance and holiness of the awaiting Eve descended upon me. My lips began to form quiet words, I washed myself in awe, whispering again and again the chant of my nightly prayer to the High One. To wash my hair I plunged into the bath, closed my eyes and let my hands glide through curls that felt like weed floating in the water. And then, like a shadow or a dream, another silken cool hand followed mine, brushed against my neck and shoulder, crept on to my back in what felt like one long caress. I sighed and stretched my arm towards the invisible one, but my wrist hit the tiled edge of the pool and sent a sharp arrow of pain up the muscles. With a little cry I opened my eyes, bewildered.

I was alone.

I quickly dove up from the water, grabbed in terror the bathing robe from the floor and flung it on my shoulders, as if to protect myself. But from what? There was nothing to threaten me here. Nothing in the glistening water, or in the playful light sparks glittering on the walls, or the draped curtains hanging motionless in front of the doorways. No, the terror, the threat was not in this room nor in any other, but in every room where I would set my foot. It was inside me, it would not be left behind any door, however heavily barred and bolted. It would not stay away, for it was somewhere in me. It would come with me. Tears filled my eyes and I clutched the robe pulling it tighter.

Yet I had to return to my cell, for they would soon be coming for me, the ones from the Chamber. Blindly I hurried back and fell on the bed, my eyes dimming again. Shivering inside I let the visions come back, fought to keep them at some distance before they seized me and pulled me out again, tried to look at them coolly and rationally as I knew I should.

But oh, how hard it was! The shadows crept closer and closer and I pressed my fist on my lips not to cry out when the revelation came and I understood one thing. The voice that had implored the Master Scribe to grant that impossible favor, the voice that had sounded so strange to me, had in fact been the voice of a stranger, a complete alien. It was not the me I had childishly believed to know so well by now. No, it had been a new me, something so totally and frighteningly new that I had not recognized it. This voice was bolder, greedier, foolish beyond any limit. It only desired to see those eyes again, it coaxed my old self to believe that the haunting scepters had been just a moment's illusion.

Deep inside my heart I still felt the icy clutch of fear, the fear that it would come again – the blood, the horrible words – but it was suppressed by this other, almost as scaring me that tickled my lips into a smile. Oh, the thought of stepping once more into those shadows, no, stealing soundlessly like a slender lizard into a secret, walled garden, maybe to have a look at some wonders, maybe just to cling helplessly to the forbidding walls – the thought of a secret adventure! This new me whispered right into my ear of undreamed wonders that might have slept even in my own body so long; of the sweet scent of skin on skin; of the...

My eyes opened large when, just as I could almost feel the cool touch again, I suddenly became aware of a knock on my door. In terrible haste I stood up, pulled my bathing robe on once more, and echoed faintly:

"Yes..."

"Come, Seventh Scribe of Red," said a voice so deep and rich that I trembled. "We are the Watchers, and it is time for you to get ready for the Eve."

Without another word I stepped out, and they guided me along the endless maze of halls and corridors, gateways and bridges, until at last, before my dazzled eyes had quite got used to observing the splendor, we stopped in the Preparation Chambers. There I was to stay and go through the infinitely detailed, solemn, complicated ceremony that would make me fit to enter the inner yard of the Temple of Our Mother. My mind was wandering so much that I feared I would never pull through the Preparation, but step by step I felt cleaner, calmer, more concentrated, until the moment came when the last starched robe was pulled over my head. I inhaled the scent of incense and clean linen and my mind was at peace at last.

Meekly following orders I joined the row of others who exceptionally, for different outstanding merits or in need of special favors, had been allowed to attend the Eve on this same day. Even though each one of us had gone through the same Purification that was supposed to rid our minds of everything else but the awaiting ceremony, I noticed that several curious glances were cast at me when I emerged from the hallway and walked towards them. The cut of my hair and the tattoos on my face and ear showed clearly enough what I was: a lowly scribe, a truly rare sight inside the inner sanctum. Yet no one spoke. It was for us to wait now.

After some time the bell sounded, and our group walked in slow procession into the Main Hall. The hall, its shine and light and scented air almost made me faint – and the next thing I comprehended was that we were not alone.

The priestesses stood in long, decorous lines on every side singing a soft, low tune. Their white, draped dresses swung gently in the light breeze, in rhythm with their breathing. The High Priestess and the Sons of the Goddess were not yet in sight. But the giant Goddess, Our Holy Mother, sat in all her glory before us. Her high head was covered with gold, silver, and precious stones, eyes shining an unearthly light; her large breasts were round and high as hills, and the dress that was tied around her waist only half-covered the perfect legs squatting on the dais. I raised my reverent gaze to caress the curving shape of the statue and breathed a wordless prayer.

And then, amidst the chant that grew louder, in the sound of bells and harps, in the glow of light came the highest of the High, lead by the sacred son of Our Mother, the golden king, whose hand clasped the round fingers of the High Priestess. But I hardly noticed them after the first glimpse, because right behind them the lights again seemed to dim around me, all sounds were muted and everything was veiled in the mystery that dwelled in the lustrous eyes of the Radiant One, in the eyes of Him who is like Sun.

Again I had a strong feeling that his title was in some bizarre contradiction to his inner self. I looked into the eyes of the First Prince; and if there came ten or a hundred others in the procession after him, I did not see them and could not be brought to even guess at their number.

My eyes that had only caught a fleeting vision of him before now savored every detail. I devoured him with my gaze. The glowing honey-brown hair, the strangely restless mouth, his broad but so smooth shoulders and arms bearing wonderful bracelets shaped like snakes with enormous emerald and ruby eyes, his shining golden breastplate, the white robe flowing from his oh so narrow waist to his ankles equally covered with gold. I watched him to burn his image into my brain for ever, to remember him as clearly as if he would always stand there motionless in front of me, never to forget him in his radiant beauty. And the light behind him set him apart until every line of him had been etched in inch-deep bleeding wounds in my soul.

For I knew I would never again cast my eyes on him. Never.

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