CHAPTER 46 – All Ecstasies

Whereas the priest and the spirit had wandered away from Saphienne amicably, with ease befitting a close friendship, when they concluded their conference a change came over their demeanour. Nelathiel moved with vigorous, hulking purpose, the honed angles of her body further emphasised when she slipped one arm loose from her robes to expose the prominent muscles of her shoulder. Holly kept pace with her through slower, longer strides, swaying and drifting as if she were still borne aloft on the breeze that had carried her into the shrine.

Together, they returned to Saphienne and wound twin circles around her in opposite directions, both gazing upon her fiercely — their expressions mirroring the countenance of the idol rising beyond. At last they halted so that each stood equidistant from each other and the statue, enclosing, perhaps entrapping her in the sacred space.

As one, the pair crouched.

“Comes now a child of elves to meet Our Lord,” intoned Nelathiel.

“Comes now a child of elves to know her god,” replied Holly.

“Let her ask now what runs within His heart.”

“Let her ask now what beats within her own.”

They bowed their heads to the ground, then smoothly sat cross-legged on the grass, leaving Saphienne standing, mystified.

“You can sit or stand,” the priest smiled up at her, though her tone was still more formal than when she and Saphienne had last spoken. “Whichever is most comfortable.”

“But do not be at ease,” Holly warned. “Our god is near. Ask what you came to ask — upon Him, peer.”

Sensing that the verse was instructive, Saphienne turned to face the icon, and knelt down to imitate their bows before she sat. The gaze of the god fell exactly upon where she was sitting; she belatedly realised that the winding, walked circles had subtly driven her to stand in the appropriate place. Her teachers remained silent behind her, waiting for her first question.

She decided to keep it simple. “Who is Our Lord of the Endless Hunt?”

“Our Lord,” answered Nelathiel, “is one among the three hundred and sixty-four gods and goddesses worshipped by the elves and spirits of the woodlands.”

“Nameless He is,” continued Holly, “as are They all. To know our gods is to discern Their hearts aglow.”

Saphienne studied the gold rings inlaid into the eyes of the otherwise realistically painted icon: polished to a mirror shine, she could see herself reflected in their lower edges. “What sets the heart of Our Lord of the Endless Hunt aglow?”

“To hunt,” the priest decreed. “Our Lord is never satisfied. ‘Our Lord Who Knows No Triumph,’ is one of the lesser titles that attest to Him, for He is eternally driven to seek what cannot be caught.”

“So too,” explained the spirit, “is He defined by His pursuit. Without a quarry, what the hunter? Mute be He — to chase, His only absolute.”

Saphienne frowned. “A god of obsession?”

Yet neither elf nor bloomkith replied.

She supposed ‘obsession’ was pejorative… and yet, since they hadn’t corrected her, Saphienne was confident she wasn’t wrong. Nor was obsession inherently good or bad, now that she thought about it; the danger of an obsession depended upon its object.

Then she smiled up at the god, realising what Holly had tried to tell her a mere moment ago. “A god of obsession; a god who asks us to question the worthiness of what we most concern ourselves with.”

A melodious, descending hum of satisfaction conveyed Holly’s approval.

“Good,” Nelathiel said. “All our gods and goddesses are approached in this way. What do you see when you look upon Him? What do you feel? What do you think, when you meditate upon His nature?”

“Poesy,” the spirit agreed. “Faith is grown from living rhyme.”

Saphienne had expected holy doctrine to be more authoritative… which felt foolish to her now, as her thoughts turned to how elves expressed themselves through art. She reconsidered the eclectic offerings left around the shrine, along with the diverse interpretations they evidenced. “…But it can’t all be subjective,” she complained. “There have to be facts… truths of our faith, held in common.” She gestured to the idol. “You told me that I’m looking at him right now, as surely as if he were physically here–”

“He is here.” The priest spoke softly, but firmly.

“There are other shrines to him, though,” Saphienne said. “And I have to imagine that, if he manifested here by other means, you would consider him more present than he is now. This seems like a contradiction, so let me ask: just where are the gods?”

Holly laughed mildly. “The gods are everywhere, across all time. The world is Theirs, beautiful and sublime. Behold you now but dimly, child, the clime from which the gods ascend: our paradigm.”

“Which is to say,” Nelathiel translated, “that spirits have a better understanding of the gods’ immanence in the world than elves. Thanks to their wisdom, we can contemplate the gods as both at one with the world and manifest within it — for spirits remember what came before the lives they live.” She laughed at herself, conscious of her limited understanding and how little she had explained. “Spirits are bodiless, while you and I are bodies; both we and spirits were once boundless; the gods are both bodiless and embodied, and remain boundless. How that is possible is a mystery with which we are called to wrestle.”

The riddle made little sense to Saphienne. She wondered whether any truth lay behind what the priest and bloomkith were saying, or whether they were reading meaning into the imprecise language of presence and absence… perhaps much like the paradox that Filaurel had once posed to her. Could they never fully understand the gods because – ultimately – each divinity was just a symbol for the unknowable? To Saphienne, their struggle to reach a satisfying answer appeared unwinnable–

She laughed, keenly aware of the presence looming over her.

“Whether or not the gods are knowable doesn’t really matter to you,” she realised, her voice betraying her growing amazement. “The pursuit is real; your faith is real. Contemplating mysteries is the point, isn’t it? That’s the important thing, held in common between the faithful.”

“Spy I a halo,” murmured Holly, “swift descending down.”

“You’re quick to grasp what others have scarcely touched,” Nelathiel admitted, a little unnerved. “The articles of our faith consist of the ancient ways, the stories of our shared gods, and the truths that have been and are revealed to us through contemplation of divine mysteries. Our enactment of the ancient ways, our performance of the gods’ stories, and our struggles with the mysteries are interconnected: each informs upon the whole.”

Saphienne could feel the shape of what she held. “Which means… any answer that doesn’t contradict the stories of the gods, the ancient ways, or truths that have been revealed–”

“Subjective truth the gods to us decree,” interrupted Holly. “How we might reconcile? We must agree.”

“…And that gives rise to the consensus of the woodlands,” Saphienne inferred. The elaborate choreography that held the society of elves and spirits together felt tenuous. “Meaning, the ancient ways are a code for living together in peace, the stories of the gods instructive in what we should strive to emulate, and the rest is left to us?”

“Sounds simple, when phrased like that,” the priest admitted. “And I see now why the gods willed you to this shrine. Tell us, Saphienne: do you?”

Whether or not the gods had willed her there, the lesson that Nelathiel wanted Saphienne to infer was obvious. “There’s never an end — pursuing the truth while upholding the peace is constant work.” She tilted her head as she studied the sculpted face above her. “Thankless work, I expect… since it’s without triumph.”

In keeping with their ritual, Holly tested her as well. “Tell us: what does Our Lord in His hand hold?”

She squinted at the spear-like implement, unfamiliar with its curved head. “I expected he would have a bow, or a spear… but I don’t recognise what he’s holding.”

“And if you were to guess? Come now: be bold.”

Being forced to answer without enough context to form conjecture was uncomfortable, but she imagined that was the point. “A hunting implement… a weapon. But… I’m reminded of a sickle, or scythe.”

“What Our Lord of the Endless Hunt holds was once a scythe,” the priest confirmed, “before it was repurposed for war. We are not surprised that you don’t recognise it, just as you wouldn’t recognise that war falls within His purview. He is not alone in that regard, but like His fellow gods and goddesses, Our Lord has not been invoked for such purpose in a very long time.”

Old knowledge resurfaced as Saphienne listened. “A triumph was once a ceremony to celebrate victory, wasn’t it? But he is Our Lord Who Knows No Triumph. Is that because he never stops waging war, or because there’s never any victory in it?”

Again, her teachers were silent.

Eventually, Holly spoke. “The child is ready for the mystery.”

Nelathiel replied, “Whose winds will lead this elf unto herself?”

“Mine,” said Holly, and Saphienne flinched as the spirit placed her glowing hands upon her shoulders from behind. “I will guide this child along the path.”

“Saphienne,” said the priest, coming to stand before her with clothed and bare arms folded together, “do you wish to contemplate the mystery of how the ancient ways came to be? If you are unprepared, they will await you. Time unending is your birthright — and the liturgies your rightful inheritance.”

Anticipating a challenge, Saphienne squeezed the coin in her hand. “I do.”

 

* * *

 

Crouched behind Saphienne, Holly continued to hold her shoulders as Nelathiel retrieved the teapot left before the icon. The priest lifted the lid with a smooth and exaggerated flourish, setting it aside as she placed the pot before Saphienne; her hands cupped over the revealed opening as she repeated a mantra. “The waters once covered all we behold,” she said, and yellow light tinged with streaks of red shone from her fingers, fresh water pouring between them to fill the pot.

Holly reached past Saphienne, palms held upward. Nelathiel returned to the ornate box, fetching a bundle of cloth that she unwrapped to reveal dried and chopped plant matter, pale and musty in the daylight. She tipped the pieces onto the spirit’s hands, prompting Holly to repeat a mantra of her own. “What dies yet lives in vivid memory,” she whispered into Saphienne’s ear, and the glow she summoned was tinged with the orange of sunset as it reduced the fragments to fine powder. Preparation complete, the spirit dropped what she held into the teapot.

As Nelathiel replaced the lid, Saphienne asked, “What is that?”

“To water, mushrooms added,” the bloomkith reassured her. “Holy brew.”

Lifting the teapot, Nelathiel and Holly both clasped it together while the two repeated a shared mantra: “May sunlight ever warm our woodland vale.” Once again, the spell was tinged with red, and palpable heat swiftly boiled the pot. Holly continued to hold the vessel aloft as Nelathiel fetched the handleless cup, the spirit waiting until the priest wound the cloth that had held the mushrooms over the spout before she poured out a measure of the infusion.

Satisfied, Holly set the teapot aside, returning her hands to Saphienne’s shoulders as Nelathiel offered the cup.

“Drink only a sip,” the priest cautioned Saphienne.

“No,” the bloomkith said. “Slight though she be, Saphienne is strong.”

While the face paint hid much of Nelathiel’s expression, the gold and the green gave contrast to her uncertain gaze. “…She is very young for this, Holly.”

“Drink deeply from the cup.” Holly squeezed Saphienne in reassurance as she spoke. “Trust in my song.”

Enough had happened to Saphienne of late that, even though she felt no fear for her physical safety, she had cause to hesitate. Accepting the cup, she sniffed, and tasted, and her lips curled up and brow wrinkled in a wince of disgust. “It’s bitter.”

“Drink,” urged Holly.

Steeling herself, Saphienne focused her attention on the idol, meditating to suppress her other senses as she drained the cup.

Prying the empty grail from her hands, Nelathiel poured herself a much smaller measure of the mushroom tea, drinking it with her eyes closed. She held her peace for a moment. Then, animated by the demands of the rite, she returned the ritual implements to the box and bowed to the idol — only to stand, and reach, and lift down the war scythe, handling it with apparent familiarity.

She faced Saphienne with weapon braced against her hip. “Listen. Hear what you seek after, and follow it. I will go ahead to prepare the performance; Holly will attend you.”

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Addressed, the spirit shifted her glimmering form away from Saphienne. She was watching her attentively when Saphienne glanced back.

Nelathiel left them without another word.

 

* * *

 

No immediate change came over Saphienne. As the minutes passed, she listened to the birdsong and the waving trees, wondering what would ensue. Her patience dissipated as the sun reached its zenith, and she spoke quietly to Holly as it shone directly overhead. “Thank you for attending, and for advocating to your sisters–”

“Do not speak,” Holly chided her. “Listen now: hear what allures.”

Flushing hot with embarrassment, she was surprised to feel sweat break out on her brow. Her stomach clenched without warning – nausea rising in her throat – and she fought the discomfort as her mouth dried and her heart beat faster. A chill raced through her, goosebumps rising. Intellectually, she could tell that the mushrooms were having a medicinal effect–

“Saphienne!”

Blinking, she looked behind herself. Holly had risen and was standing, nearly floating, to one side of the shrine. The bloomkith said nothing as Saphienne studied her.

Troubled, Saphienne asked, “Did you call for me?”

Yet the spirit did not say.

Feeling paranoid, Saphienne looked up at the idol. The god before her was unchanged, though the longer she stared, the more she could swear that his hungry smile grew wider at the sight of her. Perceptual distortions, she realised; she would have to be careful to remember–

“Saphienne!”

This time, Saphienne’s eyes lit up even brighter than the daytime, her face unguarded and astonished as she twisted around. The coin slipped from her hand, and she let it fall. Her attention was on the voice she had heard, somewhere out there, under the trees.

“…Kylantha?”

Laughter squealed among the boughs.

She tried to stand — and stumbled, her legs clumsy and relaxed. Holding herself, she rocked on her feet, the colours of the forest glittering and weaving in the corners of her eyes. “Kylantha? Is that… it can’t be you.” Saphienne shook her head, panic rising as her heart pounded. “I’m… this isn’t…”

But Kylantha giggled, her voice carrying from just beyond the steps. “If you want to try to find me, you can try…”

Saphienne would have ran, were she able. She walked a few paces on numb feet, unbalanced, then stopped, kicking off her shoes in frustration, attuning herself through sense of touch to the grass and stone. She went on until she reached the steps that led from the hillock, and balanced there precariously, shrugging off her satchel, leaving it where it landed as she started her descent.

Holly tread after her, close but unobtrusive.

As she reached the offering trees Saphienne blindly looked around, unsure of herself, elated and alarmed, watching the world drip and run in colours that were heightened beyond even what Hyacinth could make bloom. She was sure she was mad; she was sure she was sane at last.

“Where are you?” she whispered.

“We’re dancing,” Kylantha replied, nearby.

Saphienne spun, her feet remembering their steps. “…I look for you, but I don’t see you anywhere…”

“When they’re fourteen, they can travel with the adults.”

Her eyes dulled. “You were taken away. This… I don’t understand…”

“Let’s go somewhere we haven’t been. Somewhere no one expects us to go…”

“Where?” Saphienne was struggling to understand where Kylantha waited. “And what will we do, when we get there?”

“See things we haven’t seen before.” She was receding. “We need to practice for when we travel.”

“Kylantha!” She trailed after her, slowly smiling as she drew nearer to her glowing white dress. “We’re going to travel?”