Part III
The Well of Souls
“That is the way,” he said.
“But there are no stairs!”
“You must throw yourself in. There is no other way.”
7
The Sami sat musing in the tower, his mind filled with the recollection of the of seven young initiates. He could still see the red flush of youth upon their cheeks, and the light of hope and discovery shining in their eyes. The image of their naked bodies lingered in his mind, their smooth, brown skin gleaming in the guttering torchlight, freshly oiled with sweetened liniment as they listened, for the very first time, to all that they must learn.
He had seen many others come before him, naked and willing, ready to pledge themselves to a great cause, and the iron will of one master. Seven gates would be set before them, and they must pass each one in turn. Yet how many would reach the last gate? How many would come to the knowledge of that final truth?
He smiled to himself, for the very notion of truth seemed a strange thing to him now. His hand strayed to the long grey beard on his lap, painted with the glow of the torchlight. His dark eyes seemed to catch and hold the icy fire of cold stars, sharp and remote as they followed his thoughts, gazing at the high lancet window of the tower.
Seven boys had come to him, listened to him, as though spellbound with enchantment. Did they even understand a single word of all he had spoken?
“I do not say these things for any benefit or hope of worldly gain,” he told them, “but only that in hearing them you might be brought to the hidden truth that underlies the whole of the world. Yes, for long you have walked, as shadows walk, seeing and hearing only the barest thread of the cloak of that truth. And while all you have heard may be holy and good, it is nothing compared to the things that will be revealed to you.”
How unseemly of him to use the word truth, he thought. It was nothing—nothing at all. That was the heart of it: all piety, dignity, and forms of behavior; every ablution, offering, rite and prayer, every oath shall come to dust. Even the five pillars of the faith would crumble and fall and the feet of the faithful will turn no more to seek the holy places. Every leaf of the Holy Koran itself will vanish and become empty paper, and all memory of those words will be forgotten.
So it was nothing, nothing at all.
He breathed deeply, taking in the scent of incense where it burned beside him at the edge of a small iron brazier. The thin wisps of purple smoke trailed up from the burner, and his thoughts danced with them. It was all as this, he thought: just so much smoke, so much vapor to be swept away by a great wind. Form and shape were but illusion. Time was a mystery, without purpose, and nothing could be predicted. Nothing was certain, nothing true, nothing written…
That was, in fact, the only truth: uncertainty. It was not a notion for simple minds. It was not something the young would easily embrace or understand. But the Sami was not young. He had seen too many days, lived, and then lived again. Once he thought each day of life was a precious thing, to be savored for the moment and then lost. He knew better now. Once he held tightly, with greed and avarice, and the desire that plagues all men, but no longer. Once he feared loss, knew tears, mourned death. But all that was forgotten and his eyes were finally open. Now he knew the whole of it. Every stroke of the hand or pen, every spoken word, every deed, be it valorous or vile, every hour of the day could be renewed and made again. Nothing was written, and all belief was a futile thing.
And he knew one thing more: that if nothing was written then everything was permitted. Every prohibition and sanction, every stay and all restraint was mere folly. A man could do whatever he pleased, without fear of reproach or condemnation. Only one thing mattered—action. A man’s actions would give birth to the world he lived in. If he found them suitable, then he lived in peace. If he found them unsuitable, then all could be made new. Every destiny could be written anew, and every purpose undone. How strange it was to know this. How strange it was to be the master, sitting at the wheel and spinning anew the threads of Time as he desired. The masses of men moved in ignorance, but he could pronounce all judgment, and every fate was his to command.
The Sami paused in his muse, the faintest inkling of a smile playing upon his dry lips. His eyes narrowed, as with some inner mirth. He moved his arm, seeing the shadow it cast on the hard stone floor and he recalled how the torch keeper had swayed his hand before those seven young boys. The torch moved, this way and that, with ritual motion. Its flickering light cast wild shadows about the room as the seven initiates looked on. It was his cue to recite the next intonation of the ritual.
“Do not be deceived by the changing of appearances,” he told them. “Nothing is as it seems. Everything is mere shadow: the life you have brought to this place, and everything you have ever known—is all a shadow that may dance at the beck and call of he who holds the light.“
As if on cue the drum began beating in his mind again, slow and steady, its dark rhythm cut by the quavering of a horn in the hollowed roots of the castle. He closed his eyes, seeing the servants appear before the seven boys, draped in silken white with bright red sashes trimmed in gold. Each one held a gold chalice, adorned with many jewels. They glided to face the seven initiates, and slowly descended until they rested on their haunches holding out the golden cups before them in offering. He remembered how he had exhorted the boys to take the cups and drink… drink and forget.
With that the Sami opened his eyes, folding his cloak about him in the chill of the room. He knew what would happen to them, seven bright boys too eager for the truth. They would tip the cups and drink, and a languorous mist would fill their minds when the strange haze of the brew enveloped them. Their senses would soon grow dull, and then vividly sharp again. Shadows and sounds would become one. Form and movement would merge; substance and thought would each wear the same garment. Then they would grow still, their eyes heavy with sleep, until, one by one, the cups would fall from their trembling hands and they would swoon in a dreamless sleep.
He did not wait to watch them slip and fall beneath that wild enchantment, for he had other errands to perform. Soon they would awaken in Paradise, or so it would seem. The guards would carry the sleeping boys away, through secret hallways to a hidden garden of delight. For two days they would languish in oblivion, and then awaken. The chamber maids would be at hand to greet them, and platters of fruit and every delicacy imaginable would be set before them. They would be fed milk and honeyed bread, and drink the finest mead that could be had. And each night the maidens would smooth soft, oiled hands over their lean bodies. They would know every pleasure, and the boy in each would be lost forever in the warm embrace of a maid.
So it had been with him once, long ago.
He remembered it still, and almost wished he could release all the days he had lived since then and return to that one moment of awe when he first opened his eyes in unknowing bliss. It was a foolish thought, he knew, for no matter how deeply a man would drink of that cup, there was no forgetting. Once a thing was known, it was known forever. There was no going back to the time of his youth. While he could spin the wheel and change every outward circumstance, he would not forget what he had done. And that was the sadness of it all—that was why a man would lay himself down one day and wait for death. Yes, he knew it could all be overthrown, and he might find himself here again, sitting in this very same tower, with visions of seven new initiates fresh in his mind. Then again, he might not. He would just have to wait and see.