The Boy
October 1st 2006 03:25
Because it's Sunday I thought a religious story might be in order.
The Boy
George L Ghio
© 2005
It was an hour away from dawn as the men were preparing for the expedition to collect salt at the west gate on the edge of the Great Waste. Don Mal, the High Priest of the Temple of Mal, the God of Bad Luck, approached the leader and said that it was time for the boy, who was chosen to be the next Don, to make the journey to the temple in the ruins of the west gate, to eat of the holy rye bread and hear the voice of Mal.
The boy who was chosen stood near. He was fifteen just this last summer. This would be his first trip away from the village. He was aware that not all the chosen boys returned from the temple in the ruins. Just this morning he had donned the dhoti of an adult, never to wear the loin cloth of childhood again.
As the boy was standing on aL-saud Bakahn beach watching the last of the boats being loaded he felt the first pangs of fear. The west gate was eight hundred kilometres away and four hundred kilometres was by boat past the maelstrom.
‘Come on boy. Get aboard, it’s time to go,’ The leader said, not unkindly. The boy was to travel in the leader’s boat. It was the first to shove off from the beach. They had covered no more than two kilometres when the sun cleared the mountains in the east. The steersman swung the boat around to align the shadow of the mast with the prow of the ship thus setting his course due west.
For eight days they sailed like this. Following the shadow of the mast by day and the West Star by night. Hardly a word was spoken to the boy the whole time. Such was tradition. On the fifth night they could hear the muted roar of the maelstrom in the distance, soon leaving it behind. On the ninth morning they sighted land. They had made good time and true course. They were no more than a kilometre north of the landing at the west gate trail. The boy was put ashore first and told to keep out of the way of the unloading. By noon the party was ready to start the march to the west gate. The boy was allowed to ride on one of the large wheeled litters used for transporting the bags of salt from the west gate.
This journey was not without its dangers for this part of the forest was the home of the great horned kudu, which did not like to be disturbed. There were also more subtle dangers like the strangler vine and death crickets. All in all, the men agreed, this trip had been the best in many years. Only two men had been lost and a single day’s march left to reach the west gate. They said that the boy brought them luck. The boy was not so sure as the two men who had been lost were sleeping on either side of him the night they disappeared. The boy had heard nothing and had hardly slept since that night two days past.
The next day the band reached the west gate. The boy did not know what to expect and was almost overwhelmed by the reality. The gate was a massive arch of black granite with two huge bronze gates hanging forlornly from their broken hinges.
The leader of the expedition took the boy to one side of the arch where there was the beginning of a stairway cut into the black stone. He gave him a bag of food and a goat skin of water. The leader said, ‘The temple is at the top. You must be back here three days hence, for that is when we leave. Three days no more. We will not wait.’ He turned away and left the boy to his fate.
The boy looked up the stairs but could not see where they went as the stairs curved up and around the stone wall. He wanted to cry but he no longer wore the breach cloth of a child. He was counted a man and would not cry. He looked up and started his climb. He dared not blink or look down lest the unshed tears burning in his eyes should escape and shame him.
After an hour’s climb the boy rounded a turning on the stair and his breath caught in his chest. Here was an open area where the boy could see the world. Far down on the salt lake he could see the men working and above he could see the temple and in between was. . . the world.
With growing excitement the boy who was chosen hurried up to the temple. He stopped at the door as the priest had said to do and ate of the sacred rye bread. He then had a drink of water. Standing at the door, all was black inside. He closed his eyes and stepped into the cool darkness inside, stopped and waited for several breaths then opened his eyes. In the gloom he could see the stone of the creation on its pedestal in the centre of the room. He approached the stone and put his hands on the spots worn smooth from generations of chosen boys. He stared at the stone. After a while that could have been hours or minutes the black surface began to lighten and the chosen boy witnessed the creation.
In the beginning the Earth was void. Mal, the God of Bad Luck, who was at a party when he heard about it, said “this is not a good thing”. As he lurched out the door, grasping a bottle of cheap rum, he yelled to the parking attendant, “Bring my flaming chariot ya daft bugger.” Gods being what they are and the words spoken by gods being what they are his chariot was well alight when the attendant, complete with the ears of a donkey, crossed eyes and questionable sex habits, brought it around.
Mal leaped aboard spilling the rum down his beard and sped off into the night in a growing ball of fire. Flailing at his flaming beard with the bottle of rum in one hand and the reins in the other the horses flew on winged feet. At mach 3 Mal looked up and said “Holy shit” and hit the Earth.
The impact raised a circular chain of mountains and blasted a crater across a substantial area of the surface creating the world of Helengon.
The chosen boy laughed. He laughed all the way down the stairs. He was still chuckling when the salt collectors returned. He had fits of laughter all the way home. When the boats ran aground at aL-saud Bakahn beach the priest was waiting. The chosen boy started to laugh again but the priest winked at the chosen boy and held a finger to his lips. The chosen boy put on a solemn face and he and the priest went to the temple to get drunk. As was the custom.
The Boy
George L Ghio
© 2005
It was an hour away from dawn as the men were preparing for the expedition to collect salt at the west gate on the edge of the Great Waste. Don Mal, the High Priest of the Temple of Mal, the God of Bad Luck, approached the leader and said that it was time for the boy, who was chosen to be the next Don, to make the journey to the temple in the ruins of the west gate, to eat of the holy rye bread and hear the voice of Mal.
The boy who was chosen stood near. He was fifteen just this last summer. This would be his first trip away from the village. He was aware that not all the chosen boys returned from the temple in the ruins. Just this morning he had donned the dhoti of an adult, never to wear the loin cloth of childhood again.
‘Come on boy. Get aboard, it’s time to go,’ The leader said, not unkindly. The boy was to travel in the leader’s boat. It was the first to shove off from the beach. They had covered no more than two kilometres when the sun cleared the mountains in the east. The steersman swung the boat around to align the shadow of the mast with the prow of the ship thus setting his course due west.
For eight days they sailed like this. Following the shadow of the mast by day and the West Star by night. Hardly a word was spoken to the boy the whole time. Such was tradition. On the fifth night they could hear the muted roar of the maelstrom in the distance, soon leaving it behind. On the ninth morning they sighted land. They had made good time and true course. They were no more than a kilometre north of the landing at the west gate trail. The boy was put ashore first and told to keep out of the way of the unloading. By noon the party was ready to start the march to the west gate. The boy was allowed to ride on one of the large wheeled litters used for transporting the bags of salt from the west gate.
This journey was not without its dangers for this part of the forest was the home of the great horned kudu, which did not like to be disturbed. There were also more subtle dangers like the strangler vine and death crickets. All in all, the men agreed, this trip had been the best in many years. Only two men had been lost and a single day’s march left to reach the west gate. They said that the boy brought them luck. The boy was not so sure as the two men who had been lost were sleeping on either side of him the night they disappeared. The boy had heard nothing and had hardly slept since that night two days past.
The next day the band reached the west gate. The boy did not know what to expect and was almost overwhelmed by the reality. The gate was a massive arch of black granite with two huge bronze gates hanging forlornly from their broken hinges.
The leader of the expedition took the boy to one side of the arch where there was the beginning of a stairway cut into the black stone. He gave him a bag of food and a goat skin of water. The leader said, ‘The temple is at the top. You must be back here three days hence, for that is when we leave. Three days no more. We will not wait.’ He turned away and left the boy to his fate.
The boy looked up the stairs but could not see where they went as the stairs curved up and around the stone wall. He wanted to cry but he no longer wore the breach cloth of a child. He was counted a man and would not cry. He looked up and started his climb. He dared not blink or look down lest the unshed tears burning in his eyes should escape and shame him.
After an hour’s climb the boy rounded a turning on the stair and his breath caught in his chest. Here was an open area where the boy could see the world. Far down on the salt lake he could see the men working and above he could see the temple and in between was. . . the world.
With growing excitement the boy who was chosen hurried up to the temple. He stopped at the door as the priest had said to do and ate of the sacred rye bread. He then had a drink of water. Standing at the door, all was black inside. He closed his eyes and stepped into the cool darkness inside, stopped and waited for several breaths then opened his eyes. In the gloom he could see the stone of the creation on its pedestal in the centre of the room. He approached the stone and put his hands on the spots worn smooth from generations of chosen boys. He stared at the stone. After a while that could have been hours or minutes the black surface began to lighten and the chosen boy witnessed the creation.
In the beginning the Earth was void. Mal, the God of Bad Luck, who was at a party when he heard about it, said “this is not a good thing”. As he lurched out the door, grasping a bottle of cheap rum, he yelled to the parking attendant, “Bring my flaming chariot ya daft bugger.” Gods being what they are and the words spoken by gods being what they are his chariot was well alight when the attendant, complete with the ears of a donkey, crossed eyes and questionable sex habits, brought it around.
Mal leaped aboard spilling the rum down his beard and sped off into the night in a growing ball of fire. Flailing at his flaming beard with the bottle of rum in one hand and the reins in the other the horses flew on winged feet. At mach 3 Mal looked up and said “Holy shit” and hit the Earth.
The impact raised a circular chain of mountains and blasted a crater across a substantial area of the surface creating the world of Helengon.
The chosen boy laughed. He laughed all the way down the stairs. He was still chuckling when the salt collectors returned. He had fits of laughter all the way home. When the boats ran aground at aL-saud Bakahn beach the priest was waiting. The chosen boy started to laugh again but the priest winked at the chosen boy and held a finger to his lips. The chosen boy put on a solemn face and he and the priest went to the temple to get drunk. As was the custom.
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