Intersections of Hope part 1

It was late autumn in the valley. The day was an overcast one with heavy clouds above, yet the sun broke through partially, creating a metal blue sheet that separated the ground from the heavens. It had rained many days previously and the grass was green and fresh, thriving in the respite, yet animals were in shelter, livestock huddled for warmth, as they knew it was only a temporary lull in the storm.

Below in the valley, the small village lay in anticipation. From this distance the buildings were still distinct and seemingly in the centre of it all was a large building with smoke issuing forth into the air in a sombre procession from only one chimney in the village. It was the town forge and as Rasalt ran, it was all that was on his mind. He had run from the village as fast as he could with his purpose and he knew its importance. He ran towards a cave in the hillside where an old man was said to live. The old man was said to be a wizard and he could bring that power to use. No-one had seen him for many years, as for a person to enter solitude is a simple task. It is the return that is difficult. He had left the village alone and they had done the same. It was a simple arrangement, yet now Rasalt was breaking that agreement by racing to the man as fast as his heart would allow.

After stumbling through bushes and mud, brakes and briars, to reach the cave, he finally slowed. He approached the final rise and found himself walking quietly, almost creeping forward, as if the place itself demanded respect, or fear. He felt nothing unnatural or evil as life carried on around him, the wind gusting into him, a light drizzle dampening his clothes, yet he felt misplaced, as though the land itself knew he would not be welcome yet could not tell him.

Finally his journey was over as he cleared the slope and entered the realm of the old man. As he looked on at the entrance to the cave that was well known at a distance, he knew he was watched. Rasalt drew nearer, a bolder tone to his stride now, he saw that a man who had survived so many years alone must have mastered magic, earthly or otherwise and such a man would demand respect. The mastery of the mind alone staggered him, that he had stayed alone so long. Whichever way he approached it he was still in awe and he knew the situation would be delicate. Seeing the flickering of a fire inside the cave he entered.

It was a simple place inside. Although nothing more was to be expected, Rasalt still felt a despair that a person who lived as such could help him. He saw the fire in front of him and in the small cave leading back was simply a collection of pelts from large predators, a small collection of tools and weapons, and a man watching him with a rabbit on a spit.

“I am Rasalt. From the village.” As he said this his confidence drained, for the man sat unmoving and all the time watching him with unmoving eyes of deep brown. Could he still understand the language? Did he understand anything that had just been said? These thoughts ran through Rasalt’s mind as he waited for what seemed like several minutes. Eventually the hermit gave a nod, a barely perceptible flicker of the head in the firelight, telling Rasalt to sit. He did so.

“I need your help.” It was hopelessly inadequate, yet all he had to say. Again he waited for an age before the man answered.

“Why?” It was not a harsh voice, as expected, but a soft voice that penetrated to his very core, like a velvet blade, embedded in his heart. It was a voice that held much power as it was almost whispered, yet clearer than any Rasalt had ever heard.

This quick vocation from the man was unexpected and threw the boy off guard. “My mother is ill. I need your help. You’re my last hope.” His voice wavered on the last words, not from fear, but from the feeling that the man was so much more than he could ever be He searched the man’s face desperately for any sign of response. “I am the blacksmith. I can make tools and weapons for you.” He paused again for a reply. “She has been taken ill. The Infection is killing her.” The silence was unnerving. It was quiet, yet there was also an aura of silence that seemed to muffle what little sound was created. The lack of noise, absent birdsong, was beginning to frighten Rasalt. “If you help me cure her then you can stop contagion as well. You could save all of us. You must help me!” The last words became desperate and he had run out of things to say. He stopped. Was that a flicker in the man’s face? Had he acknowledged anything the man had said? Rasalt pressed on. “They say in the village that”, this was the most dangerous point, “that you have power, that you are in touch with the earth.”

There was a definite reaction this time as the man moved and cut some meat off the rabbit, which Rasalt had forgotten. Despite its benign nature, Rasalt felt the action was aggressive, as though he was being shunned before he could speak. “Why?”

Rasalt was confused: could the man say anything else? Maybe he really had gone made as some people had told him as he left the village barely an hour ago. “Because you have lived so long alone. Because you have never needed anything from the village.” Anger grew in Rasalt’s voice as he continued, “Because you have lived here alone for nearly fifty years and for a man to stay in such health as yours must have magic in his veins!” He was shouting now, furious at the old man. Why was he tormenting him so? “You must help me!” But still the old man sat eating some rabbit, calmly ignoring the screaming man in front of him.

“Why?” There was no pause this time and the voice had changed. Were before the blade was sheathed in velvet, now it was revealed and it was cold. The chill in his tone that had come about so suddenly stopped Rasalt dead. “Why should I help you? I have asked for nothing because I have expected you to do the same. I left your village to its own ends, whatever they are, and they left me to mine.” The voice was level, no longer anger or emotion at all. “I do not need your tools and weapons because I have my own. They suffice me and will continue to do so. I know who your mother is. She is the town healer, is she not?” Rasalt was stunned. The old man had not shouted, or become angry, yet every word was imprinted on Rasalt’s mind. He also knew of his mother’s importance, which Rasalt did not want to tell the old man. He seemed to control the very air that he breathed and that with the merest thought could suffocate him as he stood here before him. “I have stayed here for fifty years, alone, because I wanted to. All who have been before you understood that, yet now you stand here before me. You ask of me a great deal and all I wish to know in return is, why? If it is too much to ask then you may leave now.” The old man’s eyes again pierced him and he saw in them deep pools of knowledge that he could only see the surface of.

Now Rasalt understood. The old hermit was trying to antagonise him and take control, but there was a way to stop every attack, even an attack as well formed as this one. “As you have asked, I shall answer. I need your help because there is no other way to save her life. If you will not help me then I cannot help her and she will die. I need your help to save her life.” He spoke with a growing confidence and as he got to the end was sure of his words, yet the effect seemed to be the opposite of what he intended. The old man gave a barely perceptible sigh and returned his focus to the fire, the flames now being all that concerned him.

This was enough for Rasalt. The fury inside him again surfaced and he raged at the man. “You must help me or she will die! She is the last of the healers and has no successor. If I can’t bring you back then we will all die. We will all suffer if you will not act. Can you tell me now that you would rather watch a village die than lift your finger to save them! You don’t see what you are dealing with. This is the future of the entire village! I must take something back. Do you understand?”

“Do you understand?” There was no pretence now. The voice became, now, a deadly weapon and all of its power was focused on Rasalt. “Do you even know why you came here? I understand better than you could imagine that your mother is sick and I understand that the villages’ fate is at hand, but there are other villages. Why come all this way to see me; an old man who may not even be able to help? Why come up this mountain, into my life to ask for that which you could not do yourself? Do you even know who you are doing this for? All the time you have been here, all the time you have been disturbing my life, you have talked of how you needed the help and how you are the one who must cure her, and you are the one who must pay the price. Are you the one who lies dying on a bed, your only hope a boy who chooses to gamble her life by visiting me instead of the healer in the next village? Are you the one who is held from death, only by an impudent child who cannot even respect privacy. Now tell me, do you understand?”

Rasalt could not reply. The impact of the man’s words almost made him physically sick. He stood wavering, gathering his strength until he was ready to speak. The old man waited, watching the flames with a look of curiosity. “If that is your answer then I can take no help back to my mother. I hope you understand what you have cost me today.” Rasalt could say no more and so turned away from the old man and left the cool warmth of his fire, leaving his cave and emerging into the valley. Behind him he heard the last words he ever heard the old man say. “I have cost you nothing that you have not already lost. Go and make your mother’s death a peaceful one if you never do anything again in your life.” He left with those words ringing in his ears for the rest of his life. Outside the storm had broken, and as Rasalt left the lost hope, it started to rain heavily. It was a bleak day indeed for the village.