The First Binding, page 32
Moved by her words and the stirrings of her heart, he agreed to young Chaandi’s plea.
Brahm told her to expect a new child in her village who would walk alone and be the judge of all things. He would watch and listen to Chaandi’s friends and fellows, and through their deeds come to weigh the lives and future of those people. She understood and thanked Brahm for heeding her wishes and giving those she loved another chance to prove their goodness.
Before he left, Brahm asked her for one kindness in return, to which Chaandi agreed. He took her hands in his and pressed them to the place just above her heart, asking her to breathe a breath for him. She did as asked by the god above all and gave him a piece of her own air, a whisper-thin length of her love and her care.
Brahm plucked it between his fingers like it was string, wound it tight so into his own chest it he could bring. Holding it there, he turned to leave without farewell, sighing out another breath as he passed from Chaandi’s view.
He stirred the two pieces of air together, bound tight a new binding of life to sow. With one last effort, he pulled free another piece of a tired old flame, rending a new part of him to leave without name.
It glistened, glowed, burned bright—this fledgling flame Brahm tossed freely into the night.
And with that, Brahm, lord of fire and of all things, vanished from sight.
The next morning, the villagers of Chaandi’s home woke to the cries of a baby on the street.
Tall and broad-shouldered Amman, the local smith, frowned first at this lonely child, then passed it by. He remarked about the sad fate of the world, but did nothing to help the infant. He only spoke of it not being a time to bring children to life and that parents would struggle to feed more little ones in this place.
But the child watched and listened to Amman’s thoughts unsaid. The dark whispers kept inside the deeper places of the smith’s heart. Amman thought of all the many places he could sell the babe. There were trades that dealt in that even in the earliest days, before the Golden Road ran along the world. Amman thought of all the people who might have lost children of their own, eager for another, and what they’d offer for the chance. And a small part of him even considered taking the infant for himself. To raise the child and have a second hand work the bellows and shape the irons, and all to make his life easier. Nothing so much for the child’s sake.
But in the end, Amman passed the baby by, thinking dark thoughts, and doing no good deeds.
Then came Mohl. She of skin like honey in the sun, and hair like dusted coal. Where Chaandi was said to be the most patient and kindest woman in the village, Mohl was surely the most beautiful. She looked on the lonely child with nothing but a face of anger. Bothered by the babe’s early-morning fussing and its cries. But for the sake of her standing, she bent low and whispered to the child loud lies.
She told him she would find his parents, and short of that, a loving home for him. She told him she would bring him to a place of warmth and love. Mohl leaned close and whispered more soothing lies into this child’s ear. Lies loud enough for all the folk to hear. But she had no heart to bring truth to even one of these tall tales, and so content she’d done her due, she rose and left the lonely child to his ails.
After her, Shivthe came before the child. A tired man who worked more with his mouth than ever his hands. A gossip, a talking tongue, and little else. Young, with the beard and fading hair of a man decades older. A man who talked of things to do, but could never be bothered to start to do a single one of them. He stood by the baby’s side, then thought it better for his time to bide. For someone else would surely come and be this boy’s pa and mum. So Shivthe left the boy alone as well, and returned to fruitless thoughts on which to dwell.
A dozen others passed the child by, and did little to soothe his tears or soothe his lonely little cry.
Then came Chaandi, knowing what must be done. She would take the little boy as hers and give him a home where she would treat him like her own born son. But when she approached the baby boy, he fixed her with a gaze not meant for children. His eyes held a power and heat that brought her heart into full fright. His look carried all the glory and fury of Brahm’s own light. And then she knew from where the child came, and knew this babe had all the strength of God’s own first flame.
And he spoke to her then.
“Chaandi, you asked me to give the people of your home a chance, and they squander it so. They turn away a helpless child and think darker thoughts, and that is all I need to know. I am ready to pass judgment.”
She fell to her hands and knees and begged. “Oh, please, son of Brahm yourself, give them another chance—another day. If not them, then let me be the one to show you there is good.” But she looked into his eyes and knew it could not be so. For she had already been judged and weighed by Brahm himself. Besides pleading, there was little else she could do.
But the child had heard her words and silent plea. And he gave the people of her home another day to show a kindness for him to see. “I will give them another chance then because you ask it of me.”
And so went the day into night and a morning to follow. But Chaandi’s promise soon rang hollow. For more souls passed the now older child by. But they all left the youngling there alone, without food or water, and to die.
Now the child of flame, a child without name, stood taller than before. He could balance on his own two legs and hobble in place.
People looked at the boy sideways, remarking about the oddity of his new age and behavior. But they still left him to his own. Not one of them making any honest attempt to try and save the little one and give him a roof and warmth.
And the child of Brahm took all this in. He weighed their thoughts and lack of deeds and judged them as good as any other sin.
The second day passed as had the first, and not one soul offered to feed the child or slake his thirst. But again Chaandi pled that the son of Brahm hear what she had said. “Please, Lord Brahm, son of yourself, give them another chance.” Surely other souls would come to do right by this child of sunlight.
And so the third day came and passed. Then the fourth. Each morning the once-babe growing older, wiser, taller.
Soon whispers spread through the village that this was no mortal child. That this was a monstrous thing, dark, evil, and sure to be wild. Whispers turned to talks of deeds to do. Things better left unsaid, things most vile. Talks of maiming the boy, burning him, hacking him to bits. And the child of Brahm himself heard each and every one of these.
And still Chaandi begged him each night to give them just one more chance.
So he did.
Until the sixth day, when now he rivaled a young man of thirteen, when a traveling bard came along the way. He sat by the boy of Brahm and asked him for his name.
“I have none. And do not need one.”
The bard sank to his knees beside the young man and said, “Everyone needs a name, especially someone without one of their own. Did your parents never see fit to give you one?”
The child of Brahm shook his head. “No. And my presence here requires no name. Nothing for anyone to call me by. It’s by men and women’s actions through which they live and die. Names are fleeting and empty things.”
The bard fell to his bottom, sitting cross-legged. He reached around to his back and pulled free a case that looked to be made of polished glass so bright it caught every scant ray of morning light. He snapped it free and pulled out a mandolin of wood more orange than brown. Its grain held every color of the sun inside against a black as dark as night. And he played.
Passersby stopped and listened until he finished. Coins tumbled through the air to land by the bard’s feet, and he plucked each one up with care, placing them into a neat pile by his side. But the people went on, sparing not a glance for the young man beside him.
Brahm’s child spoke again. “Do you see? They only have eyes and ears for things that amuse them, that turn them from their thoughts, but have little care for anything else.”
The bard gave him a tired smile. “Many people do. It doesn’t mean they’re bad. It can mean they’re tired. It can mean a lot of things, but don’t name something malicious so easily when it could be something else entirely.”
The child of Brahm was unmoved by this. “You haven’t heard their thoughts. I have. You can’t see into the deeper parts of their hearts.”
The bard sank his head and relented. “True. I cannot. But I know someone’s heart and mind today doesn’t have to be the same tomorrow.” He pushed the pile of coins toward the young man.
The son of Brahm himself asked, “What for?”
The bard shrugged his shoulders. “For food? A place to sleep. For water? For anything you think of so long as there’s coin enough to cover it.” The bard’s mouth turned into a crooked and amused grin. “Maybe there’s enough to buy yourself a name.”
“I need none of those things. What I need is to see some glimmer of kindness in man. To see something redeemable. And something worth forgiving.”
“Forgiveness oft has to do more with you than the person to forgive.” The bard idly strummed his mandolin, breaking into a low and steady hum as he did.
That day passed into night with the bard and son of Brahm entertaining conversation with one another. And that night the child held no thoughts of judgment, only honest fascination with the newfound stranger by his side.
Each morning came, and the nameless bard sang new songs, and told the young man new things for him to think on. More coin piled up by their sides. And their conversations deepened.
For more days and nights the child of Brahm staved off the bard’s hunger, thirst, and need for sleep, and all so they could talk and share music.
Eleven days passed, and the son of Brahm, now a full-grown man, had seen and heard enough to finally pass his judgment.
He called all the villagers to the spot where he had been born and they gathered to hear him speak.
But some came with darker purpose and thoughts in mind. And this, the son of Brahm knew.
When he spoke, he spoke clear and loud as a brass bell being struck. “I was born eleven days ago here in this spot. When I was a babe, I cried out for your help—your love. None of you gave it to me.” He turned to face Amman and held the smith’s look. “Some of you held monstrous thoughts inside yourselves. But Chaandi begged me to forgive you.
“Then came the second day, and I grew. I watched some of you turn to darker thoughts still. Some of you grew to hold judgment against me. Me.” He pointed a finger at several in the crowd. “That is not your place. It is mine.
“Then came the next day, and the next, and still you failed me. But Chaandi’s heart continued to prove true. She begged for me to give you another chance. And then another. And yet you only proved my thoughts true over those days. Until a stranger passed through.” The son of Brahm pointed to the nameless bard who had spent the remaining days at his side.
“He played his music, traded his art, and shared his coin with me for free. His heart proved out. When none could be bothered to offer me the slightest kindness, he offered me his time, his voice, and a name. He offered me means to tend to my hunger, to slake my thirst. He acted. He listened. He cared. And for his voice and deeds alone, I’ve come to learn, and I’ve come to my judgment of you all.”
At this, Amman, the smith, could bear no more. He stepped forward and jabbed a finger in accusation. “And who are you to judge us? Who are you at all? You came from no one into our home. I’ve asked around. No one knows your parents, no one was with child close enough to birth a thing like you. You’ve grown in days to be a man. But you’re no man or child. I call you as you are: a monster!”
The young man spoke, “Who am I, Amman, son of Danath? You ask me? You, the smith who cheats his fellow man. I know you for who you are. I know what thoughts you held in mind and heart when you saw me. And they were foul. I know you use poor iron in your works and charge twice what it is worth because people cannot go elsewhere. I know all the ways you deceive. For I am son of Brahm—son of myself. I cast a piece of myself free to be born again, free to live and watch the world among you. I know all things. And I see them. I hear them.”
Amman thought to speak but could find no words.
The son of Brahm called out each one of those in the crowds by name and deeds, listing their sins and dark thoughts for all to hear. “Chaandi’s words and pleas moved me to give you eleven days of chances, and in that time, I’ve been moved to judgment. And I am willing to forgive you all if you but meet what I ask of you.”
Amman looked to the others, seeing none ready to speak—none ready to ask for forgiveness. Yet he found his mettle and stepped forward. “You say you are and are not Brahm, god of all. That you are of him, but not him. Then who are you? How can you forgive us?”
The child of Brahm thought for a moment, and then decided to give himself a name and to answer Amman’s question. “I am Radhivahn, son of Brahm—son of myself—and I am the forgiver. And I will forgive you now if you but walk to me and take my hand.” But before Amman could take a step, Radhivahn picked up a stick and carved a thin long furrow from the man’s feet to his own. Radhivahn then blew a breath of fire along the strip of earth between the two men and it smoldered and burned like a bed of coals alight. “Remove your shoes and walk the fire to me. If you will do so—if you can—you will be forgiven.”
“But it will hurt,” said Amman.
Radhivahn nodded. “Yes, it will. But later it will not. And I will see to you.”
Amman swallowed but did as asked. He removed his shoes and took the first step. The flames burned him. He screamed. He cried. His flesh cracked, blistered, burned. But he took the next step. Then another. He staggered. He stumbled. He fell and crawled until his fingers met the same fate: burning, blistering, cracking, bleeding. Some of the flames licked their way up to his clothing, setting them aflame.
He made his way forward until he was free, crumbling to his knees before Radhivahn. It’s said when he walked clear of the fire, his feet still burned, and held to the flames. And the blood still dripped from his hands. His clothing cindered and fell from his back like feathers formed in fire—wings that quickly died. He sobbed there, at the son of God’s feet.
Radhivahn knelt and placed his hands on Amman’s head before moving them to his feet, rubbing them. “You were the first to ignore me when I was in need, but you were the first to come to me when I asked. For that, I will take away your pain.” As he moved his hands against Amman’s burned feet, the skin healed, the color returned, and soon, the man could stand again. “No longer will your story be the smith who cheats and thinks to sell babes for money. No longer will you be Amman. You are Athan, first of the bridge between me and man. First of my Asir, the hands to hold and guide my world and keep my creations safe from demons and mans’ darker selves.”
Next came Mohl, crying as she walked the burning ground, but she too came. When she couldn’t walk, she fell to her hands and knees and began to crawl, burning them all. She curled at Radhivahn’s feet, too tired and harmed to even sob.
He knelt now by her side and tended to her hurt. “You pretended to care so others would think highly of you. Now you walked in truth across the fire and are low. But I will help you rise and stand again.” He soothed her pains and washed them away. “Stand now, and no longer be Mohl. You are Nahila, my Asir of truth.” And so Radhivahn continued to offer forgiveness to those who would take it, but some tried to walk the fire and burned.
And when their bodies failed, something remained behind and tried to flee. Tainted, twisted things, resolved to remain free. Demons. Things of black smoke and ichor, ivy that wormed their way inside the shapings of Brahm. Things to pervert and lead people astray.
Radhivahn set after them, hounding them to all corners of the world. He brought a piece of his fire with him to keep back their dark taint, and where he could not be, he told his followers to light a flame of their own to beat back the evil. And in the end, there came a night where no corner of the world was without bright flame. On that day, Radhivahn, son of Brahm, son of himself, vanquished the last demon and gave us the world of today.
Or that is what the people of the Mutri Empire believe today. But this is the story, if you care to look for it, where the meaning behind our set days comes from. This is where the festival of light and flame finds its history and name. A great many truths are hidden in stories, and this is no different. Look closely, listeners, for you’ll find many more in these tales.
* * *
I broke from the story, leaving the patrons of Three Tales Tavern to sit and ponder over my last words.
… After the raucous applause they broke into. A few drinkers raised themselves to a shaky stand, leaning on one another for support. They clanked their mugs together and spilled more of their ale than I wagered they cared to. The trio managed to interlink their arms in a fashion I didn’t think possible, then tipped their beers into mouths, cheering more for themselves now and their feat than anything to do with my storytelling.
A fair thing. A good performer knows it’s their job to set their listeners up for joy. Whether they find it outside your talent after the fact isn’t a problem. So long as they’re happy. So long as they’re distracted from the little pains of the world around them. And the fears it can bring.
That’s what good storytelling does. Or, at least tries to do.
Several tables in the taproom turned to loud gossiping. A few whispers caught my ear, talking about what little truth my story may have held. They made a fair point. This was a country of Solus. They had little love, and ears less, for another god’s deeds and stories. But as far as tales could go, it was interesting enough for them to pass beyond anger and instead settle on light mockery and gentle teasing.
I let them have it, knowing no good could come of trying to set them straight.
Life’s often made worse by trying to teach those with wool in their ears and more of it in the space between them.
