Legends of Coldorn

008.The Magic of Dashkir: Leaving

In ages past, after the city of Dashkir was destroyed, two strangers walked away. Rex and several of his friends managed to save themselves from the flood waters, staying afloat clinging to broken branches. As the water carried them towards the city walls, they managed to climb one of the guard towers before the rising water carried them over the walls. The nightmare of seeing their city destroyed seemed to go on for hours before the weight of so much water burst through the city gates. A torrent of water spilled out into the desert along with debris and many of the dead. At last the water seemed to slow at it’s source. The force of the geyser bursting from the spring weakened the cliff foundations and sent chunks of rock crashing to the ground around the spring.

Numb with shock, Rex and his friends stayed on the roof of their tower throughout the night. In the morning, they made preparations to leave, raiding the guard towers and nearby houses for food, water, and whatever else they might need for a long journey. Between the six of them, there was only one with an injury. He would slow them down, but Rex couldn’t leave a friend behind.

Govan, Sheerabeth, Misha, and their father also survived the storm and flood. Though Vadeem was injured they found safety in the upper floors of his house. When the water had receded, they began searching the city for survivors. With Govan and Sheerabeth both able to hear lifesongs, they divided the city in half and before night had fallen again, they had gathered a total of thirty-five survivors.

It took another day before they were all able to travel. Many of the survivors were injured and they made slow progress out of the ruined city. Vadeem remembered from the oldest records what general direction to take to get to the abandoned trade route. They all hoped they would find a city or village that could provide food and shelter. No one was making any long term plans. Their only thought was to find safety. It helped tremendously to have Govan and his flute, though it was many days before he played another song. The first time they ran out of clean water, Sheerabeth was the one to play the watersong and brought a gentle rain shower. She continued to play while they filled their waterskins, and as soon as she stopped playing, the rain stopped as well.

At first, Govan tried to keep his distance from his fellow survivors. He walked several paces ahead of, or several paces behind, everyone else. The catastrophe had come up so fast, he wasn’t sure himself if he had been the cause of the city’s ruin, or if it had been Rex, or even if it had been just an unbelievable coincidence. But for a people so terribly afraid of strangers, these survivors didn’t seem to fear him any more. Perhaps it was because the thing they feared most had already happened. Whatever might happen next, was largely unknown to them all. Except the last part of the prophecy stayed in the back of Govan’s mind, gnawing away at him. What could it mean?

The one in the Ways of Magic.
The other gone astray.
Face to face again,
The end will come that day.

Over and over, Govan replayed in his mind the events of the past few weeks. From meeting the FirElf and his first undisciplined attempt at playing the watersong, to the mindless terror he felt when he met and killed a Hidari warrior with the firesong. He tried to reconstruct what he had done wrong when he thoughtlessly played the notes that somehow brought him to this desert so far from home. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was some song that could send him back home again.

But mostly, he thought about the contest with Rex. He was so careful, making sure he played the correct notes, thinking precisely about what kind of water he wanted, a gentle shower, and where he wanted the rain to fall in the square. He couldn’t see how he could possibly be responsible for the geyser of water that erupted from the spring, shaking the very foundations of Dashkir, or the deluge that poured from the sky or the resulting storm. He thought too about the notes Rex played. Rex had played the exact same notes as Govan. So who was to blame?

Govan was still pre-occupied with such thoughts as signs of civilization became visible on the horizon. They altered their coarse and soon arrived at a small oasis. They expected the villagers to be shocked at the arrival of thirty-five people from Dashkir of all places, but it soon became clear that they knew all about the destruction of that once great city. Rex and his friends had arrived there first. Knowledge that Rex had survived filled Govan with dread. Was this going to be the end foretold in the prophesy?

When Dashkir closed itself off to the outside world so long ago, the trade route crossing the Gabir desert shifted to take the longer route around the Gabir. With no more traders, smaller settlements along the old route, like this one, ceased to thrive. This outpost was a generation or two from being unable to sustain the inhabitants.

Govan was relieved to learn that Rex and his friends hadn’t lingered in this oasis, but had pressed on, north, to the sea. There was much discussion about whether Vadeem and the people of Dashkir should stay at the oasis or continue the journey. Many of the survivors had been injured and needed time to grieve and recover in the oasis. Govan, homesick and weighed down with the weight of his responsibility for what had happened, was anxious to try to find his way home.

Govan had also decided to go north, towards the sea. He didn’t know what lay beyond the sea, but Vadeem and his daughters had spent considerable time talking over what they knew of old records and of the stars. They seemed sure Govan’s homeland was a great ways to the north, beyond even the ring-shadow. Govan had never heard of the ring-shadow and no one from Dashkir had ever seen it. In the old records, there were accounts of visitors in Dashkir who had been traveling all around the world. They told of a great ring in the sky and how its shadow moved across the surface of the middle of the world.

Govan wanted more than anything to get home. After the part he played in the destruction of their city, he couldn’t ask anyone from Dashkir to help him get there. His only hope was that perhaps all, or most, of the survivors would want to continue traveling. But they didn’t. Vadeem and the older survivors, the injured, and those with young children were content to remain in this dwindling oasis. They’d never had a desire to see the outside world and they had no such desire now.

Surprisingly, Sheerabeth, Misha, and several others offered to continue traveling with Govan, perhaps not as far as his homeland, but at least across the desert. Vadeem also wished for his daughters to go, though he knew he may never see them again. He couldn’t bear the thought of them trapped in a village with no future. He thought too that perhaps they would find a thriving settlement not too far away, and come back for him. By then, he might be better abe to travel too.

After spending a week preparing, they said their goodbyes and set out in the footsteps of Rex and his friends.

And here we are at the same dead end. I don’t know where they go next. Sounds like a perfect time for a tale to get “lost.” I’ll start a new tale at some point well beyond where I’m leaving them now. What happens to them between now and then? Use your imagination.

The Magic of Dashkir: The Prophet’s Tale (shorter)

In ages past, when the desert of Gabir was far smaller than it is now, the Ra’uf lived under the oppression of the Wa’il. Between the desert and the armed guards patrolling the high protective wall, escape was nearly impossible. Most escapees were captured and hanged. Others got lost and died in the desert. But the Ra’uf still tried at every chance.

An opportunity for escape came on the final night of the spring festival, during the eighth year of the reign of Raeem. While the soldiers enjoyed the festivities more than they should have, a party of twenty-three Ra’uf men, women, and children crept over the walls into the Gabir desert. Although they never reached their destination, more is known of their escape because of how they survived their failure where so few had before.

Several days into their journey, they were overwhelmed by a fierce sandstorm and forced off their path. When they could safely move on, they found the storm had removed all traces of the path they were trying to follow through the maze of canyons and crevices that was the Gabir.

With no choice but to press on, they made their way north. They rationed their water as carefully as they could, but it was not enough. At the base of a high cliff, they drank their last drops of water and waited to die. Following their death rituals the eldest of their company began to speak, reciting from The Ways of Magic passages that would bring comfort to the dying. As his voice failed, another picked up where he had left off. Soon, they were all by turns speaking the sacred words to one another.

But then, an extraordinary thing happened. A child was the first to see it. A creature approached from the distance, perhaps a sand ray at first, then shifting, and lifting itself up off the ground in the shape of a man, or a woman, no one could tell, for it was still seemingly made of sand and moving with the graceful flow of a ray. It spoke just one passage from the Ways of Magic, “They who sell what they’re freely given walk not in the Ways of Magic.” Then it began to hum a simple tune. The song grew in intensity until suddenly, an enormous spring of cool water gushed up from the rocks a few feet away.

Stunned and speechless, no one moved, until the child reached out a tentative hand to touch the water that was by now spilling out all over the ground. Finding the water real, and not a mass hallucination, they gulped the life-giving stuff, splashing, laughing with the kind of hysterical relief that comes from being saved from so close to death.

Not until they began filling their containers, lest the flow of water stop as suddenly as it had started, did they notice that the FirElf had slipped away un-noticed and un-thanked. No one knew how long the water would last, but faced with the prospect getting lost in the desert, they stayed by the spring. As a precaution, in case the water should soon fail, they sent out small teams in search of other settlements.

The spring never failed. The refugees carved shelters in the cliff, dug canals to irrigate crops and orchards, and lived simply and freely for several generations. Gradually, as the population increased, the descendants of the twenty-three began to look to the world outside their oasis. Scouting parties eventually found the way to Awan and soon a trade route was established. In time, the oasis of Dashkir became known throughout the land as a city that welcomed travelers. There were no walls, no gates. Every comfort was lavished freely on weary travelers. Every home had an extra room, every table an extra place set for the unexpected guest. The people lived to hear stories of far off lands and adventures.

After many generations, the water wasn’t given so freely. It was first suggested, then expected, then demanded that travelers should give something of value in exchange. The people of Dashkir became rich and proud. But they were a people who had lost their way.

One day, late in the evening, a lone traveler came to Dashkir. He left at dawn the next day without speaking to anyone. In exchange for water and lodging, the only “gift” he left behind was a collection of scrolls. It was a letter-perfect copy of The Ways of Magic with an addition that came to be called, “The Stranger Prophecies.” There was no mention of Dashkir by name and no one thought much about them until they began to come true.

The Stranger Prophecies
Rumblings from below.
Quaking, breaking, shaking,
Out of rubble, you will rebuild.

Fire from above;
Smoking, scorching, burning,
Out of ashes, you will rebuild.

Water from all sides.
Gasping, sinking, drowning,
Out of mud, you will rebuild.

Unseen death from the ground.
Coughing, stinking, dying,
Out of the graves, you will rebuild.

Shaking, burning, drowning, dying.
A shadow of what’s to come.
Out of this, you will never rebuild.

A stranger will come hearing Magic.
A stranger will come hearing none.
One will be the unmaking
Of all the FirElf has done.

A stranger will be called a brother.
A stranger will be called a thief.
Too few will follow the one.
Many will perish in grief.

She will know one from the other.
She will know which one to choose.
Follow the wise man’s daughter.
You’ve everything to lose.

The one in the Ways of Magic.
The other gone astray.
Face to face again,
The end will come that day.

007.The Magic of Dashkir: Strangers

In ages past, before the spring of Dashkir went dry, a stranger was lost in the desert. Govan didn’t know how long he sat in the sand trying to get his bearings. Everywhere he looked there was more rock and more sand. Everywhere he listened, the songs of rock and sand were the same. He noticed the sun was rising and from that knew his directions, but he didn’t know where he was so he didn’t know where to go. His mind was numb, but he finally decided that he must go somewhere to get water. As far as he could tell, one direction was as good as another, so he set off, keeping the sun behind him.

He grew ever more thirsty as he walked, and though he had his flute and knew how to play the watersong, he was terrified to play another song. Hour after hour he walked. Early in the afternoon, he finally caught sight of something in the distance that looked man made. He tried to quicken his pace, but the sun beat down on him, sapping his strength. As the sun set, the air cooled. As he drew nearer in the failing light, he noticed a few lights shining from the structure. And from the distance between the lights, he could tell that it was a huge structure, bigger than anything he’d ever seen before. Far bigger even than the Somer clan’s mead hall.

Night was well advanced and the quarter moon high in the sky by the time he arrived at a gate in a wall where one of the lights had been shining from above. The wall extended a long way in all directions, both side to side and up. It was far to high to climb over. But there was a large gate. And next to the large gate was a man sized door. So Govan did what anyone would do. He rapped his knuckles on the wood and hoped that somebody kind would come.

Somebody did come. Somebody whose lifesong was nothing like any lifesong Govan had ever heard before. Somebody cracked open the door just a bit and hollered, “You’re not welcome here!”

“Please, may I just have some water?” Govan pleaded.

The door opened just a bit more and Govan caught a glimpse of a man with dark skin and hair wearing long colorful robes. Govan had never seen anyone like him before, but thirst made him bold and he moved toward the door. Light from inside the room fell upon Govan, whose ghostly white appearance seemed to have greatly startled the already cautious guard. The guard muttered an oath, stumbled away from Govan, tripped over a chair, and falling backwards, hit his head on the edge of the table. He lay still where he’d fallen on the floor. Govan knelt beside the man and tried to rouse him. Fortunately, he was still breathing and Govan could still his lifesong, but he didn’t wake as Govan shook him.

Govan was about to yell for help when he noticed a jug of water on the table, and the remains of what had obviously been the guard’s supper. He grabbed the water jar and gulped down half of it before noticing another door opposite the door he had just come in. He picked up a chunk of bread from the guard’s plate and thinking to find help, opened this door. He was again outside, but he was surprised to find himself inside a large city. The room he had been in, was the interior of a great wall surrounding this city. There were many buildings, large and small, and Govan didn’t know where to go to get help for the injured guard. He tried to listen for lifesongs that would tell him which way to go, but all the songs were so new, he hesitated. And then he heard an alarming sound. Somebody nearby was beating on a great drum. As the drum echoed around him, Govan saw lights flicker in the windows of some of the nearby buildings. And then there was shouting. And then people, mostly men, came out of their houses and rushed in the direction of the drum. In the direction of Govan.

He didn’t know what it meant, but he could tell the people were angry and afraid. He remembered the guard’s first words to him, “You’re not welcome here!” And he realized that the people, though rapidly approaching as one, were afraid of him for some reason. So he ran. With a little help from the moonlight, he dodged between buildings and down narrow pathways, ever alert to the lifesongs of his pursuers. Though he was a stranger and didn’t know his way, his ability to hear their lifesongs gave him a tremendous advantage in the chase. Before long, he had put enough distance between himself and them to stop and catch his breath.

In the quiet, he became aware of a familiar song, the watersong. He followed it until he came to its source, a canal running along the widest road he had seen yet. Wherever this wider road intersected with a narrow road, the canal also branched off, delivering fresh water to all the houses along the way. Govan filled his jugs and munched on his chunk of bread. He couldn’t imagine why these people were afraid of him, but he didn’t want to risk finding out. Gradually, he heard the approach of more strange lifesongs. Then more drums, as if the alarm was spreading throughout the city. Carefully avoiding pursuit, Govan made his way, following the canal to it’s source. The canal led him deeper into the city, towards a cliff that seemed to mark the edge of the city. It was at the base of this cliff that the canal led to great spring. three other canals also carried water away from the spring and into the city.

Caves within the cliff looked to have at one time provided shelter, but that seemed long ago. They seemed like a good place to hide, so that’s what Govan did. He found the deepest cave he could still see in and quickly fell asleep.

Rex was jolted awake by the pounding of the alarm drums. It was no drill. The day had finally come. The day everyone feared. The day everyone knew would come. The day Rex alone had planned for. Somehow, despite high walls, locked gates, and armed patrols, a stranger was loose in the city of Dashkir. And Rex set his plan into motion. He retrieved the flute from the hiding place he’d made for it and slipped it into a pouch he’d made to wear under his robes. He dressed quickly and collected Sheerabeth and her sister, Misha. He didn’t need Misha, but the twins were nearly inseparable, and he needed Sheerabeth. She could hear Magic. She could hear the lifesong of the stranger and therefore track him no matter where he went. All they had to do is find a place to start.

The trio made their way quickly to the wall, and from there, they followed the wall until they came to the watch tower where the stranger had first been seen. The guard who had raised the alarm was awake, though his head was bandaged. He didn’t seem to be able to tell them much about the stranger, just that he’d taken bread and water and run off towards the heart of the city. He couldn’t even show them the road the stranger had taken for he had been struggling to get to the alarm drum.

After asking a number of witnesses still gathered about the gate, Rex learned what road the stranger had last been seen running along. It was a place to start. He, Sheerabeth, and Mishsa set off, but they couldn’t pick up his trail. As dawn was breaking, Rex changed his tactics. Again starting at the gate, the three of them began a systematic search. They walked every road in the city. They even ventured into the Founders’ caves without finding a trace of the stranger.

Rex knew the gates were too well guarded for him to have escaped. He had to be somewhere in the city. If he could hear Magic as well as Sheerabeth, or better, perhaps he could be eluding them. Rex wondered if one person could hear better than another. The Ways of Magic didn’t say. There was no record of there ever having been two people in the same place who could hear. The other possibility Rex had to consider was that Sheerabeth could indeed hear the stranger and was shielding him for some reason. But why would Sheerabeth lie to him. Hadn’t he alwasy been like a brother to Sheerabeth and her sister? He wanted desperately to confront Sheerabeth, but he knew he had to be careful. If she was lying to protect this stranger, it wouldn’t help Rex for her to know that he knew. The Stranger Prophecies warned that many would perish if they followed the wrong stranger. He had worked too hard to earn their trust to risk jeopardizing it now. There was so much at stake, he had to figure out a way to follow Sheerabeth without her hearing him. He would need help from his friends.

Exhausted from their search, he took Sheerabeth and Misha back to their father’s house and warned them to stay safe. He left them then to find his friends, friends he knew he could trust. Using what Rex knew of how far Sheerabeth could hear them, they mapped out a strategy to follow her.

After a night of so little sleep, and a day full of searching, Rex knew Sheerabeth would need a good night’s sleep before resuming the search. The next morning, he wasn’t surprised when she suggested the she search alone. She had reasoned that if the stranger was the one prophesied, he could certainly hear how many people were following him. Sheerabeth said he might be willing to be found if just one person was on his trail. After making a fuss about her safety, Rex agreed to let her search alone. And then he and his friends carefully followed her. Straight to the Founders’ caves.

It was all Rex could do to hide his disappointment as he realized that Sheerabeth had known all along where the stranger was hiding, that she had lied to him. He wished he could get close enough to hear what they had to say to one another, but he needed time to think. He needed time to cope with Sheerabeth’s treachery. His friends had all arrived at the caves, having taken different routes to avoid detection. Rex motioned for them all to follow him away from the caves.

It was with a heavy heart that Govan woke some time later. Before drifting off to sleep, Govan had hoped that he would awaken in his own bed in his father’s house. He thought perhaps he had been dreaming, or that whatever Magic had brought him to this desert city, might have somehow sent him back. He realized he had better accept his present circumstances, so he set about finding something to eat. Keeping well out of sight, he made his way along one of the canals towards a yard with familiar looking fruit trees. He picked several pieces, eating a few immediately and filling his pockets with more for the rest of the day. He then snuck back to his cave.

Some time later, Govan was surprised to hear an approaching lifesong. The lifesong he heard was much like the other life songs that had been pursuing him during the night and so unlike anything he heard at home. He so was captivated by the strange melody and rhythm, he didn’t try to hide from whoever was approaching. She entered his cave slowly, a girl about his own age. With her dark skin, straight dark hair and fine features, she looked nothing like the girls at home.

“Are you hungry?” she asked as she offered him a meat roll.

He took it from her and after tasting how good it was, ate it quickly.

“How did you find me?” he asked her.

“I can hear Magic, like you, right? I followed your lifesong.” she answered.

He nodded. “I didn’t mean for the guard to be hurt. He fell. And when I went to get help, it seemed like everyone was mad at me, or afraid of me. I haven’t done anything. I just needed some water.”

“That’s good to hear, that you didn’t mean to hurt him. But how did you get here? Where did you come from?”

He tried to explain about his family and the flute and the FirElf, and the whole story. Except he left out the part about killing the Hidari warrior. He didn’t want to frighten her and it had been an accident, more or less. He didn’t know how to tell her where he was from, only how it was different, even the stars in the sky were strange. That made Sheerabeth think he was very far from home indeed. She seemed to know more about the night sky than Govan. And she knew far more of The Ways of Magic.

They spent a long time talking about Magic and lifesongs, and how Sheerabeth had never played a note of Magic or even seen a flute. But they had The Ways of Magic written down on scrolls they could ready any time they wanted. Govan’s people had no written language, so Sheerabeth drew some symbols in the sand and taught him what they meant. Govan in turn, taught Sheerabeth how to play the songs for fire and water. She was a quick learner, and easily made the connection between thinking about the result she wanted as well as playing the right notes. She was eager to try something else, but neither of them needed anything else, so that was the end of the flute lesson.

Sheerabeth explained why the people of Dashkir were so afraid of strangers, but promised to talk to her father about how they might help Govan get back home. She gave him all the extra food she had brought and made him promise to stay safe in the caves. But there wasn’t time to stay safe in the caves. They clearly heard the approaching lifesongs, but only Sheerabeth knew they belonged to Rex and his friends. There was no way out of the caves without meeting them.

When Rex entered the cave, he motioned for his friends to sieze Govan. Ignoring Sheerabeth’s protests, Rex took Govan’s flute from him, and led the way out of the caves and into the town square. News of Govan’s capture spread quickly through the city and the square filled with people eager to catch a glimpse of the Stranger. A current of fear swept through the crowd as people remembered that Rex could also be considered a Stranger.

The council was rapidly assembled in the town square as the unruly crowd demanded something be done. The crowd was divided, with some calling for Govan’s immediate execution for assaulting the guard and stealing food and water. Others called for Govan to be put out of the gate and left to the mercy of the desert. Still others demanded Govan and Rex both be put out. A smaller and less emotional group recalling the words of The Stranger Prophecies, thought the matter should be decided solely by Sheerabeth, the wise man’s daughter.

Those who insisted on referring to The Ways of Magic finally prevailed, in a manner of speaking. According to The Stranger Prophecies, one stranger could hear Magic and one could not. Seizing Rex, they reasoned that the one who could not hear should be the one put outside the gate. As far as anyone knew, Rex had never claimed this ability, but since nothing at all was known of Govan, they decided a contest should be held.

Reluctantly, Rex was forced to give back Govan’s flute and Govan was forced to demonstrate his ability or be put outside and left to die. Tentatively, he raised the flute and began to play the safest song he knew, the water song. A gentle light rain briefly fell upon the assembled crowd. In the afternoon heat, the rain evaporated almost immediately.

Rex, furious at how the people were turning on him, and determined to prove himself worthy of their trust, raised his own flute and as he had carefully watched Govan, Rex played the same notes. But it was not gentle rain that fell. Rex’s song summoned a downpour.

Based on the sheer volume of water, the answer seemed clearly decided in Rex’s favor. He stopped his song amidst the cheers of the crowd. But the rain didn’t stop abruptly. Before any action could be taken against Govan, the storm intensified. The rain changed the temperature and air pressure enough to generate high winds, thunder, and lightning.

Terrified people scattered in all directions as lightning struck in the square, killing some where they stood, setting ablaze trees and buildings nearby. The storm gathered strength, roaring through the streets, swirling desert sand upward into a cone of clouds. Hardly anyone noticed the water, summoned by the song, now surging through the canals, until there was so much water the canals couldn’t contain it all. What had once been a source of life to the city, became another source of death, rushing down hill from The Spring, sweeping people away until the walls of water met the walls of stone that had once protected the city.

The city of Dashkir would never be rebuilt. The protective walls had given way under the force of so much water. Crops, orchards, and live stock had been destroyed along with most of the people. The spring had been choked by debris when the cliff face caved in on it. without water, nothing could survive for long in the Gabir desert.

006.The Magic of Dashkir: Govan

In ages past, when the Hidari and the Somer were still at war, a child was born to hear Magic. Govan lived with his father and brothers on the outskirts of the Somer lands. Together, they tended the Somer flocks. None of the nearby clans had written language, so what little they knew of The Ways of Magic had been passed down as bedtime stories mothers told to children. Because Govan’s mother had been killed in a Hidari raid when he was so young, his gift was largely misunderstood. His ability to hear even the stealthiest approach kept him from being the target of much mischief at his brothers’ hands, but that was about all. If his father knew what an advantage this skill would be to the Somer warriors, as surely he must have known, he showed no inclination to offer his youngest son’s services to the clan.

As Govan grew up, his continued belief in such childish things as Magic and FirElves led to much teasing from his brothers, so he learned to keep quiet. That’s why he never told a living soul about meeting a FirElf in the woods. He had gone into the woods alone to listen, as he often did, to the symphony of songs he alone could hear. He listened to the slow and steady songs of the trees, marveling at the subtle differences in each kind of tree. He tuned in to the simplicity of the nearby stream, the happy fluttering notes of birds as they flew in and out of his range.

He’d been nearly asleep, his back to the trunk of a fir tree, when subtly, the trunk shifted as though the tree was taking a breath. He thought he’d only imagined the tree moving. And then it breathed again, slowly and deeply, as if it hadn’t breathed for generations of time, as indeed, it hadn’t. Slowly, after many such breaths, the tree shifted and shrank until it wasn’t much taller than Govan himself. And it began to look less like the fir tree it had been and took on the shapes of other woodland life. Never holding one particular shape, or even combination of shapes, it was rather like all the shapes moved fluidly across it’s underlying tree-like form. And then a face appeared, a face not unlike Govan’s own.

At this, Govan laughed. He laughed at the absurdity of seeing his own face reflected in the trunk of a tree. He laughed at a tree with branch-like arms and legs, a tree with the fur of passing squirrels and the beak and feathers of nearby birds. But mostly, he laughed out of the shock of seeing something from his mother’s stories standing right before his eyes.

“Awake, Sleeper.” said the FirElf.

“I think it is you who have come awake.” said Govan, when at last he found his voice.

“Awake, Sleeper.” the FirElf repeated.

Govan stared at the FirElf, unsure of the proper response. Was there a customary greeting for the animation of a FirElf?

“Awake, Sleeper.” insisted the FirElf.

“I am awake, am I not?” asked Govan.

“He who speaks The Ways of Magic speaks the Truth.” answered the FirElf, if an answer that was.

Govan searched for something from his childhood. In a flash of inspiration, or desperation, he remembered that many of his mother’s fables were about people whose dull everyday lives were interrupted by Magic, as his was now. “Awake, Sleeper” was commonly spoken by someone in the story to indicate such an interruption was at hand.

“Awake, Sleeper.” Govan responded. Did the FirElf just laugh, he wondered.

“He who plays what he cannot hear, walks not in The Ways of Magic.” said the FirElf.

Govan thought he’d heard that before, but he couldn’t be sure. He stared dumbly at the FirElf, certain it was expecting something from him, certain he hadn’t the faintest idea what to say or do next. For some reason, he thought the FirElf might be hungry. “Do you want something to eat?” he asked, offering it some of his food.

“He who plays when there is no need, walks not in The Ways of Magic.” said the FirElf without accepting the food.

And so began Govan’s brief instruction in The Ways of Magic. No matter how much he begged, the FirElf would not come home with him, would not take any steps to prove its existence at all to Govan’s family or clan, always with the vague and unsatisfying explanation that, “Believing stops where knowing begins.” The FirElf could hear the approach of others even before Govan could, and always retreated into its dormant, tree-like state when anyone drew too near. Govan could never be sure if the FirElf did this deliberately, to avoid being seen, or if was the natural result of the other person’s unbelief. But when Govan came to the woods alone, the FirElf would greet him with similar phrases about The Ways of Magic. The FirElf never seemed to engage in idle conversation. Govan learned that if he repeated the FirElf’s words, the FirElf would respond with new phrases, so before long, Govan could recite quite a few passages about The Ways of Magic. And then one day, the FirElf gave Govan a small metal flute. Govan couldn’t begin to imagine where the flute had come from. After all, it’s not as though the FirElf had pockets. And the craftsmanship of the flute was so much finer than anything Govan’s people could fashion. He longed to play it, but something in the FirElf’s manner prevented him from doing so. He was sure it wasn’t quite right to play it just to see if he could. So he tucked it into his own pocket and carried it with him everywhere he went.

One night, Govan was watching over the flock by himself. As he often did, he found his attention wandering from the sheep to the stars in the sky. He scanned the horizon and found the most familiar shape, the Shepherd’s Staff which the Hidari ignorantly called the Fisherman’s Hook. From there, he traced out more complex shapes, like the Warrior’s Bow, and Fire on the Mountain. He was so lost in the stars, he was startled to hear a wildcat approaching on the far side of the enclosure. He ought to have been aware of it much sooner. In a flash, he grabbed his staff and, skirting the flock, snuck up behind the big cat. Though he moved quickly, and quietly, he wasn’t quite quick enough. Govan swung his staff just as the wildcat leaped towards an unsuspecting sheep. Govan’s first blow missed. The second swing struck the wildcat sideways, but not before the cat had raked her claws into the flesh of one of the precious sheep. With a shriek, the cat bolted away. With a sob, Govan sank to the ground beside the dying sheep.

At once, he remembered his flute, but was there a song that could save the sheep? If there was, he’d never heard it before. But perhaps the FirElf could help. He gathered the animal in his arms and raced into the woods to find the FirElf. When he found it, he laid the wounded animal at its feet, or were they roots. Govan watched in awe as the FirElf stretched out its twiggy hands to the sheep and began to hum a complex song Govan had never imagined. Even as the hands of the FirElf grew woolen, the sheep began to revive. Right before Govan’s eyes, the gashes in its body closed up and were healed. Soon, the sheep was standing on its own legs and nudging Govan’s legs as if it was ready to be led back to the flock.

Govan thanked the FirElf and began to carry the precious sheep back home. He hadn’t gone far when the enormity of what had happened washed over him and he found himself on unsteady legs. He sat down on a log and closely examined the sheep. There wasn’t a scratch on her. If it weren’t for the blood on her wool, no one would ever know. And then it dawned on him. If anyone saw blood, on the sheep or himself, they’d want to know what had happened. How would he explain?

So he gathered up the lamb and carried her to the stream. The sheep complained loudly about the cold water bath but Govan didn’t enjoy it either. After he washed off as much blood as he could, he rubbed dirt into the wet wool and on his wet clothes so the mud would cover any spots he missed. He hoped no one would ask what happened, but at least he could truthfully say he had chased off a wildcat. He would let his brothers assume he’d gotten dirty in the process. Satisfied with this plan, and with his own fierceness defending the flock, Govan returned the the sheep and waited out the dawn.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when in the morning, his brothers took no notice of him or the state of his clothes. As much as he didn’t want to have to explain how the sheep had been healed by a FirElf, a real live FirElf, he wanted so much to tell them how brave he had been chasing of the cat. Instead of going home to sleep, he wandered off into the woods. Perhaps this would be the day the FirElf would teach him how to play a song on his flute.

It was a cold morning, and as Govan recited what he knew of The Ways of Magic for the FirElf, he began to shiver. The FirElf gathered a bundle of sticks and leaves into a pile and began to hum a simple song. Govan recognized it has the song he heard when something was burning. And just like that, the pile of leaves caught fire. The fire burned just long enough for Govan to warm his hands and when it went out, the FirElf gathered up a bigger pile. But the FirElf didn’t re-ignite the flame. Instead, it taught Govan how to play the song for fire.

“He who plays without thought or care, walks not in The Ways of Magic.” said the FirElf.

Govan nodded his head. He’d heard that one before. Many times. Thinking very carefully about the pile of twigs and dry leaves, and about how he’d move his fingers on the flute to produce the correct sequence of notes, Govan played his first song. The pile of leaves began to smolder and soon tongues of fire were licking the branches. As soon as the fire looked certain to remain burning, Govan stopped playing the flute. He jumped up and down with glee at what he had done. Immediately, he begged the firElf to teach him another. So moving closer to the stream, the FirElf began to hum the song Govan recognized as water. The water in the stream began to flow faster towards the shore where the FirElf was standing. It stopped humming moments before the water could overflow the stream bank.

Again, the FirElf showed Govan what notes to play, and Govan immediately began to play. But he hadn’t thought very carefully about what he was doing and all of a sudden he and the fire and the FirElf were drenched in a downpour. The rain stopped as soon as Govan stopped playing, but he was already soaked. And if a shape-changing FirElf can be said to have an angry expression, this one certainly did.

“He who plays without thought or care, walks not in The Ways of Magic.” said the FirElf.

No matter how sincerely Govan apologized, it was clear the day’s lesson was over.

The next night, Govan was again watching the flock alone. He kept himself awake by rehearsing everything the FirElf had taught him. He repeated all the Ways of Magic he had learned and he practiced putting his fingers over the holes in his flute to play the two songs he had learned. He was also watching the sheep, but he ought have noticed their fear before he actually did. He ought to have heard the approaching lifelong before he did. It was unfamiliar to him, so he knew it was no one he he’d ever met before. Though expecting a stranger, he wasn’t expecting a Hidari warrior.

They noticed each other at almost the same instant and for a moment, neither of them moved. Then, after sizing up Govan and finding him wanting, the warrior raised a lethal sword and attacked, crossing the distance between them at full speed. In a panic, Govan raised the flute to his lips and began to play the firesong. He was unprepared for the resulting fireball that utterly consumed the warrior mid-stride.

He immediately stopped playing before the fire could spread. And the reality of what he’d done struck him. He had, without a thought, just killed a ferocious Hidari warrior. And he couldn’t tell anyone about it. His family knew nothing of the FirElf, nothing of his learning The Ways oh Magic or learning to play the songs he could hear. There was really no way he could explain a dead Hidari warrior without also explaining everything else. And had fought the enemy and won.

In this fog of shock, he stared at the flute, hardly believing something so small could give him such power. Idly, he raised it to his lips again. He wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. He wasn’t intending to play another song. He just started stringing notes together, not of any song he’d ever heard before. He just liked the way they sounded together.

But the playing of those notes, in that way, had consequences Govan had never dreamed of before. He had a strange sensation of falling. His vision blurred and all the lifelong he’d heard all his life faded into a few moments of silence. And then he had the sensation of waking up suddenly from a dream but he knew he hadn’t been asleep. He knew he wasn’t asleep now. Gradually his vision and hearing return. But he saw and heard things he’d never seen or heard before.

Where once there had been the familiar sheep in their enclosure, grass, trees, the stream, and his father’s house, now there was rock, spindly bushes, and sand as far as he could see. And it seemed to be dawn, or perhaps dusk, he had no bearings. And not an animal or human in sight.

Worst of all were the sounds he heard, or rather the sounds he didn’t hear. He could still here the music, but it was so different from what he heard at home. He couldn’t remember ever not hearing the song of water somewhere in the distance. All his life had been spent by the stream. But here, wherever here was, there seemed to be no water at all.

005.an Excerpt from The Ways of Magic

FIRST LIFE

In the Valleys of Javed were
Air and Earth and Water and Fire,
And there, first life.
Created by Magic,
In the shape of trees,
FirElves first were made to be,
In the green valleys, under skys of blue,
Though sleeping ‘til the others came.
And the ring shadow fell and all was well.

Then through the rushing waters fish did play
And in quiet pools they found their rest.
And the ring shadow fell and all was well.

Then through the air, birds did soar
And in the boughs of trees did build their nests.
And the ring shadow fell and all was well.

Then on the ground the animals crawled,
Fur and scales and pouches and tails, 
And the ring shadow fell and all was well.

FIRST FALL

Then waking, hearing, shaping,
The FirElves dormant ceased to be.
To choose what they will,
A shape of their own musing,
Or forever abiding in the will of their Maker.
And Alvah was the first FirElf to fall.
Born of fire, at ease in the air,
Feeding in water, at home everywhere,
A phoenix, the willful FirElf chose to be.
And the ring shadow fell and all was not well.

SECOND LIFE

Magic breathed life into fire, Hadyn.
And for him, Magic breathed life into air, Haizea.
Magic breathed life into water, Quan.
And for him, Magic breathed life into earth, Avani.
Twined as the suns in the sky, Hadyn and Quan.
Like sisters too, Haizea and Avani.
And Quan was made to hear.
In the Valleys of Javed,
Alongside the unfallen
Day after day,
Learning The Ways of Magic.

SECOND FALL

The fruit of every tree,
The meat of every creature,
Food to be.

The shade of every tree,
The cave of every mountain,
Shelter to be.

The course of every stream,
The pool in every glade,
Cleansing to be.

Save one.

The pool forbidden,
Brings shapes unbidden,
For them it was not to be.

But how coud it be
Alvah whispered to Avani.
Why shouldn’t we
Avani whispered to Quan
To hear the songs
And know not the shaping
Was almost more
Than Quan could bare.

Why shouldn’t we
Dared Quan to Hayden
Come swim with me
Hayden invited Haizea
To swim in the pool
To be shaped like the FirElves
But they were not made for this
That afternoon swim
For a shifting shape did come
Shifting from life to death
From growth to decay
Til one day they would die.
And the ring shadow fell and all was not well.

004.The Magic of Dashkir: Rex (he needs a better name)

In ages past when the springs of Dashkir sustained life in a sea of sand, a baby was left at the gate. There were no unaccounted for births within the city. Guards patrolling the perimeter hadn’t seen anyone approach from the outside. A trail of foot prints leading to and from the gate was quickly lost on the rocky ground. As a result, Rex never knew his parents. Never knew why he’d been abandoned outside the walled city.

But two things he knew. He was a stranger in a city doomed to destruction at the hands of a stranger. And he owed his very life to the persuasive words of Councilor Vadeem. For when the Council convened to determine the fate of the child, it was Vadeem who used all his political might to spare the life of the boy. The first stranger to come to Dashkir for uncounted generations. Arguing as he did for Rex, it followed that Vadeem would assume responsibility for the care of the boy. So that’s how Rex came to be raised in Vadeem’s household with his wife and twin daughters. To Sheerabeth and Misha, Rex wasn’t a stranger, he was a brother.

Rex proved to be a remarkable child with an inexhaustible ability to memorize the written word. When he first read The Stranger Prophecies, he realized at once why the people of Dashkir, outside Vadeem’s family, seemed to fear him. Children he played with one day were suddenly cool towards him the next. Other children, with whom he might have played, were hustled away by vigilant parents. So he read and remembered every scroll he could put his hands on. He wanted to learn The Ways of Magic so completely that no one could ever mistake him for the other stranger, the one that would one day destroy his adopted home.

In the course of his study, he learned that long ago a child in Dashkir had been born to hear Magic. And a FirElf had brought that child a flute to play the songs he heard. He wondered why no FirElf had ever come to train Sheerabeth to play the flute. But he knew she didn’t even have the flute. Perhaps because there was no FirElf to train her, the Council had never given her the flute. Nowhere in his reading did Rex learn that a FirElf’s training was required. That’s when it occurred to him that perhaps the Council didn’t know where the flute was.

Rex had always assumed that it was kept in the Council’s private rooms; rooms that were forbidden even to the servants. He had heard that one of the rooms held one of the first vessels used to capture the water from the spring when the waters first flowed at the founding of Dashkir. Surely that bowl was older than the flute. Could the Council has misplaced the flute and not the bowl? Could the flute have been stolen or hidden?

Given how closely guarded the room was, stolen seemed unlikely. But hidden, perhaps to keep it from falling into the hands of a stranger. The likelihood of the flute having been hidden grew in Rex’s mind until he couldn’t let it rest. He had to know. The best way to know was to read whatever records the Council kept in those rooms. And the best way into those rooms was to be one of the Council. But how was Rex, a youth, and a stranger, going to be elected to the Council? He resolved to become a friend to everyone he met. And he resolved to meet everyone in the city.

He started with the nearest neighbors, jumping in to help whenever he saw a need. He weeded gardens, carried water, and tended to chickens and pets. As he grew in stature and strength, he widened his circle of friends. He tutored younger children in their studies of The Ways of Magic. He helped with household repairs. By the time he turned sixteen, he had met, and helped, every family in the city. And he knew them all by name.

When Rex was elected to the Council, it was all he could do to keep from running directly into the private rooms to look for the flute. But he was nothing if not disciplined, so he waited to be invited. When he was invited, to fetch a record from a previous meeting, he was dismayed to see the contents of these rooms. In addition to a niche containing several precious relics from the past, the three rooms were walled from floor to ceiling with record scrolls. The job of finding out what happened to the flute, if indeed there was a record of it, was much bigger than Rex had ever imagined.

Rex devoted months pouring over old records. At first, he tried to be discreet about his reading, but this left too little time for actual reading. So he made reviewing the records part of his daily routine and left the other Councilors to wonder why. At last he found what he was looking for, in way. There was a reference to the flute, and the fact that it had indeed been placed somewhere for safe-keeping. The actual hiding place was written in the form of a riddle.

Note to self: write a riddle.

He was elated to figure out the solution to the riddle and eagerly expected to find the flute. What he found instead, was another riddle. And after that, another, and another. It was maddening to be so close to finding the flute. But finally, after solving thirteen confounding riddles, he found the flute buried in one of the caves reputed to be part of the original settlement. He found it. And he kept it.

He kept it safe lest it fall into the hands of another stranger one day. A stranger Rex knew in his bones must surely come.

003.The Magic of Dashkir: The Prophet’s Tale

In ages past, when the desert of Gabir was far smaller than it is now, the Ra’uf of Bardu lived in the grip of the Wa’il, working land they could never own for profits they would never see. The Wa’il controlled housing, jobs, trade, education, and even arranged marriages amongst the Ra’uf. A high wall and forbidding desert to the north prevented the Ra’uf from leaving that way. Soldiers of Bardu patrolled the roads to the coast south, and east and west around the desert, making escape nearly impossible.

Every few years or so, some Ra’uf would attempt to leave. More often then not, those that fled along the roads were captured and hanged in the public square. Those that fled out into the desert were usually never heard from again, likely dying a slow death in the heat without water, or a quick death in the jaws of a wildcat. But every once in a while, a few Ra’uf fled across the desert and survived the journey to Awan.

Over several generations, stories spread about life in Awan for immigrants. After seven years of state-labor, immigrants would be free to live where they would, work where they would, even marry whomever they wished. Other stories painted a different picture, a picture of labor contracts being extended beyond the original seven years, of food and housing prices so high, real freedom was out of reach of most immigrants. But no matter how faint, even a glimmer of hope was sometimes enough for the Ra’uf to risk their lives.

A few of the Wa’il, sympathetic to the plight of the Ra’uf, did their best to covertly help the Ra’uf leave. They knew about a few landmarks in the desert marking the faintest of paths to Awan. They knew the patrol routes of the guards, when and where escape into the desert would be hardest to detect. And they knew who else among the Ra’uf might be willing to go at the next opportunity.

One such opportunity came on the final night of the spring festival, during the eighth year of the reign of Raeem. While the soldiers enjoyed the festivities more than they should have, a party of twenty-three Ra’uf men, women, and children crept over the walls of Bardu into the Gabir desert. They had little to take with them. Hoping to one day farm Awan land, they took only food, water, and a variety of grains and seeds. Although they never reached Awan, more is known of their escape because of how they survived their failure where so few had before.

Several days into their journey, they were overwhelmed by a fierce sandstorm and forced off their path. When they could safely move on, they found the storm had removed all traces of the path they were trying to follow through the maze of canyons and crevices that was the Gabir.

With no choice but to press on in the general direction of Awan, they made their way north. They rationed their water as carefully as they could, but it was not enough. At the base of a high cliff, they drank their last drops of water and waited to die. Following their death rituals the eldest of their company began to speak, reciting from The Ways of Magic passages that would bring comfort to the dying. As his voice failed, another picked up where he had left off. Soon, they were all by turns speaking the sacred words to one another.

But then, an extraordinary thing happened. A child was the first to see it. A creature approached from the distance, perhaps a sand ray at first, then shifting, and lifting itself up off the ground in the shape of a man, or a woman, no one could tell, for it was still seemingly made of sand and moving with the graceful flow of a ray. It spoke just one passage from the Ways of Magic, “They who sell what they’re freely given walk not in the Ways of Magic.” Then it began to hum a simple tune. The song grew in intensity until suddenly, an enormous spring of cool water gushed up from the rocks a few feet away.

Stunned and speechless, no one moved, until the child reached out a tentative hand to touch the water that was by now spilling out all over the ground. Finding the water real, and not a mass hallucination, they gulped the life-giving stuff, splashing, laughing with the kind of hysterical relief that comes from being saved from so close to death.

Not until they began filling their containers, lest the flow of water stop as suddenly as it had started, did they notice that the FirElf had slipped away un-noticed and un-thanked.

No one knew how long the water would last, but faced with the choice of maybe, one day being free in Awan, or the prospect of being truly free in the desert, all twenty-three stayed by the spring. As a precaution, in case the water should soon fail, they sent out small teams in search of the route to Awan.

The spring never failed. It flows to this day. The Ru’af refugees carved shelters in the cliff, dug canals to irrigate crops and orchards, and lived simply and freely for several generations. Gradually, as the population increased, the descendants of the twenty-three began to look to the world outside their oasis. Scouting parties eventually found the way to Awan and soon a trade route was established. In time, the oasis of Dashkir became known throughout the land as a city that welcomed travelers. There were no walls, no gates. Every comfort was lavished freely on weary travelers. Every home had an extra room, every table an extra place set for the unexpected guest. The people lived to hear stories of far off lands and adventures.

But one day, a family living near the edge of the city found a trader’s cart with three passengers near death. They had gotten lost along the way and run out of water. The family gave the traders water and food, and cared for them until they were well enough to continue their journey. The traders were so grateful for the water and care, they gave lavish gifts to the family that had found them.

With that one generous act, the city of Dashkir was forever changed. As if a veil had been removed from their eyes, they saw at last the power of their spring. Soon, the water wasn’t given so freely. It was first suggested, then expected, then demanded that travelers should give something of value in exchange. They traded precious metals, fine cloth, exotic spices and rich foods for it. The people of Dashkir copied the traditions, fashions, and artistic styles of their visitors. They became rich and proud. But they were a people who had lost their way.

One day, late in the evening, a lone traveler came to Dashkir. He left at dawn the next day without speaking to anyone. In exchange for water and lodging, the only “gift” he left behind was a collection of scrolls. It was a letter-perfect copy of The Ways of Magic with an addition that came to be called, “The Stranger Prophecies.” There was no mention of Dashkir by name and no one thought much about them until they began to come true.

The Stranger Prophecies

Rumblings from below.
Quaking, breaking, shaking,
Out of rubble, you will rebuild.

Fire from above;
Smoking, scorching, burning,
Out of ashes, you will rebuild.

Water from all sides.
Gasping, sinking, drowning,
Out of mud, you will rebuild.

Unseen death from the ground.
Coughing, stinking, dieing,
Out of the graves, you will rebuild.

Shaking, burning, drowning, dying.
A shadow of what’s to come.
Out of this, you will never rebuild.

A stranger will come hearing Magic.
A stranger will come hearing none.
One will be the unmaking
Of all the FirElf has done.

A stranger will be called a brother.
A stranger will be called a thief.
Too few will follow the one.
Many will perish in grief.

She will know one from the other.
She will know which one to choose.
Follow the wise man’s daughter.
You’ve everything to lose.

The one in the Ways of Magic.
The other gone astray.
Face to face again,
The end will come that day.

002.an Excerpt from The Ways of Magic

‘In the beginning,
There was the land,
The sea, and the air.
And before the beginning, there was Magic.
Two suns lit the world by day,
And a single moon by night.
But it was Magic that breathed life
Into the plants and animals
Over the lands and in the seas.
It was Magic that moved wind through the air.
Magic was woven into the essence of everything,
Like a melody is woven into a song.’

001.Prologue

In ages past, life on Coldorn was much like life on Earth. At times embracing their place in nature, at times rebelling against it, the people of Coldorn struggled to find purpose in their existence. Were they at the mercy of an invisible, all-powerful force? Were they created by such a force to live in harmony with it? Had they themselves created or imagined such a force?

At times in Coldorn’s history, one was born who could hear this force, this Magic. Not a simple hearing, as with your ears, but another hearing, deep inside. They heard a song of creation, the lifesongs that defined each living thing. Other creatures on Coldorn were actually shaped and reshaped by the lifesongs of their surroundings. The FirElves, as they came to be called, not only heard lifesongs; they could sing them as well. There were seasons when many people believed in FirElves and followed their sacred writings, The Ways of Magic.

Coldorn had its share of heroes and heroines: those who overcame extraordinary challenges to inspire their world. Some were blessed to hear Magic and walk with FirElves, others were deaf to lifesongs and walked in The Ways of Magic alone. These are their stories. These are The Legends of Coldorn.