From an entry dictated by Eden Bander and recorded by Brieran:
I reckon it all started for us when we had to ride out of Brinstead with those men on our heels. We learned, that night, what lengths the settlements were willing to go to forget about the battle of Splinter Pass and the drowning of the Land Bridge. ‘Course nowadays we know they were Churan’s soldiers, but at the time neither Ejol nor me had heard anything about the invasion. We’d just been looking to ask old Winster about hopefully performing in his saloon that summer, just like we’d done the two years previous, and suddenly found ourselves riding hard to get away from four horsemen who nearly got the noose around our necks before sunup.
I remembered that the easiest way out was through the factory district. Behind an abandoned locomotive there’s an old forest road that meets up with the Main Road going west. I was on Clapper’s back, listening to what sounded like a stewing mob not but a hundred yards behind us. And Ejol, well, he was rubbing his mouth a lot and cursing under his breath – some feller at Winster’s had punched his face and knocked out a tooth. Course Ejol got the better of the fight in the end. I’ll never forget his words to the ruffian: “Damned rotten thing’s been givin’ me headaches for months. I reckon I oughta thank you. Now, is it my turn?”
Anyways, that’d been hours before; and if I know anything about the average Brinsteader, he don’t like being humbled. If he can’t take care of business himself…well, he’s always got friends. So you see how we’d brought attention to ourselves just when we shoulda been most quiet. Like I said, we had no idea that Churan was occupying Brinstead Common. None of us would’ve imagined in our worst nightmares that they’d actually brave an ocean crossing in those warships. But we knew we were attracting enough of the wrong kind of attention as it was, and we thanked the Guardians that our horses were fresh and we knew a quick route out of there.
Buildings got fewer, and they were only single storeys, so a wide part of the road was outlined with moonlight. There was a dusty flat sleeping out past the post office and the last mercantile. But my thoughts drifted back in time as we rode through that place, cause this had been a route I’d taken with my brother on the last day I’d seen him alive, almost three years before.
The narrow little dirt lanes we were taking grew even quieter as I steered Clapper towards the northwest quarter. Richer folk live there, in thatch-roofed log or brick houses. The road dove south and deeper into squalor. We saw the silhouettes of factories on the skyline. Trails of dust were stirred up by the breeze to whip across my cheeks, and I felt nothing but lonely.
The railway station’s pretty ordinary, just a long rectangular shack facing the tracks. There was a wall of tall pines behind it, and I could see the tiny path twisting around in there like a snake. I waited there for my friend to catch up, and that’s when we heard our pursuers.
First came a shrill whistle, as of one rider calling to another over great distance. I yelled to Ejol to hurry. I reckoned if I never saw that town again it’d be too soon. But Ejol argued. He said it was all open plains between there and my homestead – ten miles of it, and nowhere where we could hide or throw them off our trail. He asked if I had any rifles.
I could only whisper, “three”. See, I lost both my Pa and my brother in a gunfight that happened right there at the homestead on the worst night of my life. The building was burned down, but now I had a new shanty built on the same land.
We decided that reaching my home wouldn’t mean safety, but leastways we’d have more of a fighting chance there than if we were caught out in the open. Now we were on a road I knew well: it leads west and eventually to the Bear River Trading Post (which I hear has been rebuilt as a fort now). Aside from the occasional howling of a coyote, the clap of hooves on the dust was the only sound to be heard. Fear was making us fast and reckless, but somehow we kept on without either of us getting our necks broken.
It’s hard for me to order all this in my head and lead up to things right. Brieran – she’s Jin’s mom, and Marek and Ilhatar’s too – she’s taking down everything I tell her cause, see, I never learned to write in the Brinstead school. But a lot of us in this little settlement (there’s some folks call it a commune) think it’s important that our story gets put down. That way others coming along to walk the same path can know how we came to be here, discovering a new life through the Guardians, coming to know each other and ourselves in a deep way, even as enemies on both sides are fencing us in. And who knows if any of us will be left alive to tell the tale otherwise?
So, I’m trying to trace where it started. We’d gotten out of Brinstead and onto the plains – Ejol and I. I was feeling it was a bad idea to head towards home, but I kept quiet about it. Besides, it seemed there was no other choice at the moment. Ejol pointed out that men don’t follow you out on the open plains for miles just to air grievances or settle a scuffle. The ones chasing us seemed to have some sort of serious vendetta, and I’d begun to wonder if we’d live to see dawn.
There’s a dusty, flat pan some five miles across, and two roads – one of them being the one we were taking - cross right there in the middle of it. There’s some small ridges to the east, with a few shacks at their feet. You can see the short chain of the pointy Black Mountains west of there; and looking at them always reminded me of Enofor, whose home (where we live now as I’m telling this story) lies on the other side. My shanty was in a place where a clearing, shaped like a bowl, had been carved out of Toadstool Forest. We were still a couple miles away from it – but anyhow, it was there at those crossroads that this whole adventure turned around and at the same time got stranger than I would’ve thought possible.
Cause there was a dark horse standing there, tall and still, at the place where the roads met, looking proud and unafraid and unmovable as a signpost driven into the ground. And I tell you, that horse greeted the animals we were riding with snorts and shakes of her head and they all stopped and answered back just the same.
After a while I heard Ejol whisper, “That’s Mitli! Marek’s mare!”
Well, I was taken aback for sure. And anyways, how could he know, seeing her like that in the dark? But I trusted him; so then I started wondering, why wasn’t Marek there himself?
But I swear that the presence of that mare eased my mind little by little; and then I remembered how Enofor communes with animals in the wild sometimes, how crows had saved his life more than once. Maybe his son Marek had something of that gift, too.
Brieran: Eden, I’m making a note here to say that I’m smiling like a proud Mama.
Eden: Well, all right – actually I feel a little more comfortable doing this if it ain’t all my words anyhow. So, here’s what I made of all this: I was sure that the appearance of his horse, here, meant a change in our fortunes somehow. I told Ejol that I thought we would be all right now, but that we should get off the road.
So we did. But he was upset and furious, wanting to know why his nephew’s horse was without her rider. Finally he followed me, leading his horse off the road. There was trampled, springy grass beneath our feet. The Cushman Cattle Road – the one that goes north to south - runs more or less alongside Shale Creek, and so the ground on both sides of it is about the only fertile strip that you see in all those miles of plains. And over that quiet gurgling of the creek we could hear the thudding sounds, those horses galloping and the shouts of the men driving them on.
Then we saw the strangest sight of that whole strange night. Cause the four horses, fast as they’d been coming, suddenly slowed like they were nearing a precipice. The men were cursing and barking at them and it didn’t make no difference. They stopped about five paces from where Mitli was, and then she began to prance.
That got the other animals excited, so they were snorting and rearing, almost throwing their riders off. Then Marek’s mare stopped in the center of the crossroads and straightened again. It felt so tense then, like none of us were breathing. Even the riders were quiet and confused.
Then Mitli reared so that she was almost to her full height on her hind legs. She neighed…and at the sound of that, all those other horses bolted outa there like the hellhounds of Haighin were at their heels. They scattered in all different directions, and no shouting or cursing or whipping from those men in their saddles could make ‘em do otherwise. Ejol and me just waited there where we were until those men were nothing but shadows in the distance and we couldn’t even hear ‘em no more.
Brieran: Four armed and raging men chased off by a prancing horse!
Eden: (smiling sheepishly) That’s no word a lie. And I knew that the superstitions of the average Brinsteader were enough to make them all race to the nearest saloon to drink away the memory of what they’d seen that night.
I like telling that part of the story, though it ain’t necessary for knowing how we met up with Sirrus and ended up living here in Aspen Meadows. So I’ll just mention real quick that we reunited with Marek at my shanty. It was Mitli who led us there, actually. It’d been a year since I’d seen Marek. He looked a little older and more careworn to me, and we soon found out about all the troubles that’d been dogging him in the time that he’d been away. How he and Sheriff Cole had tried to rescue Cole’s daughter and Marek’s ladylove, Jasmine (she’d had a daughter, from me, with her too - but I’ll get into that some other time). How the sheriff had gotten himself killed with the Oskwai, and Marek tried to get help against the Oskwai from another tribe, the Assymyans, who ended up turning against him and taking Jasmine for themselves.
On and on it went…but I think that’s Marek’s story to tell for himself if he wants to. I’ll just say here that when we told him about our experience in Brinstead it was he who suspected that this was the work of Churan’s soldiers, as unbelievable as that seemed to all of us. But, even considering it a possibility, we knew now that we wouldn’t be safe anywhere in the settlements. It was too widely known that we’d fought at Splinter Pass and faced off the Churani at the Land Bridge when our song had drowned it forever beneath the sea. If the Churani had returned, they’d want us for sure. So, we were no better than fugitives and thought that Enofor and Brieran’s homestead out passed the edge of the western frontier would make the best haven for us. But first we had to get there; and thinking that the roads would be watched, after tonight, we decided to ride all night to Trail Town and there say good-bye to our horses and take a ferry south to Bucton.
In a way, it wasn’t hard for me to say good-bye to my home. That ramshackle shanty had been thrown up in a single day. The slanted roof had already been repaired twice and was still riddled with cracks. I’d used the wood from a fence that’d once surrounded the property. I’d been sleeping on nothing but a long burlap sack stuffed with spindly feathers that kept escaping the seams. Besides, I always had that feeling – like a lot of men who’d served in the militia – that few people in Brinstead could understand where I’d been and what I’d seen. Folks may talk about celebrating the territories’ heroes, but the truth was that the deeds of those who’d fought to protect their homeland were seldom talked about. And those who insisted on bringing it up were ignored at first, then bullied, and then…if they persisted, well, maybe worse things happened.
Lots of the militiamen purchased land when the battles were over. The governor and his cronies were more than happy to take their money and give them titles – quite legal, mind – to plots of land out by where I lived. Knowing full well that twenty thousand cattle were driven through there to graze along Shale Creek. The cattle barons don’t do anything that’s strictly illegal, but they can make life hell for most folks until they just pack up and leave. That’s why a lot of those men are on the outskirts now, out west of Bear River. Some of ‘em are here with us in Aspen Meadows.
Brieran: There’d been a time when you’d been inspired to fight for your homeland, to give of yourself so that the culture that’d carried you through your formative years could survive. But once you realized that these people felt indifferent towards your victory you’d given up inside. I remember that for years, your only goal for your life was to see it through. You were not living, only surviving. In a way, you’d returned to Brinstead merely to wait for death.
Eden: That’s right. But even when I first knew that I had to move on, I thought I’d only stay in Aspen Meadows for a short time. I thought I’d be more of a burden than a help on Marek’s quest – mind you, I hadn’t known that Jasmine’s daughter was also mine, at the time. But really, it was just that after Sirrus and the Mirror, I realized that I was on a much bigger journey than I’d ever suspected before. I knew, too, that it was the only way to happiness for me.
Anyway, we took the cattle road and followed it south to where it ends at Trail Town. That’s just a small habitation with a wide thoroughfare designed for the driven cattle herds. I had the last contents of my cupboard in Clapper’s saddlebags: a sack of oats, jar of lard, bag of potatoes, tin of salt, and carrots, cabbage and corn. Maybe it was memories of the Oskwai and Enofor that made me do it, but I dressed in buckskin leggings just like Jin does, put on moccasins and left my boots in the saddlebag, and pulled a beaver skin vest over my shirt. I felt like a frontiersman again.
Along the way, Ejol and Marek cajoled me to sing until finally I gave in. This is the song they heard, and Jin and I wrote it at a time when we were both having doubts about following the Guardian’s Way. I’ll always remember the words:
My dreams, they show me the way through
But in the meantime I’ll chase you
Over piers and tiers of Junamere of yore
‘til roots claim my boots and my body’s no more
Come around, my unseen companion
Your wisdom’s always new
But when you run off on other errands
What am I supposed to do?
Fear of diving in the driving waves
that steal my ground
Free to remain here where the same woes
Keep circling ‘round
Come around, my unseen companion
Your wisdom’s always new
But when you run off on other errands
What am I supposed to do?
What am I supposed to do?
But the time I’d finished, we were at a high vantage point where we could look down on our destination. Trail Town looked like more of a juncture than a settlement, and the thoroughfare took up most of the space. I counted twenty-two shanties and a couple of larger buildings that I guessed were either saloons or markets. The town has a tall wooden barricade that seems designed to keep people out. Taking in the sight, Marek whispered in my ear: “So much of Brinstead is still in the darkness. The Guardian’s presence is sorely needed here. It’s a shame there are not more people like you and I to help bring it.” And I got a little angry, ‘cause at the time I hadn’t the faith in myself that I’ve got now.
Brieran: (laughing) I remember!
Eden: I’m thinking now about how that brown road was hard and cracked like a clay plate left too long in a kiln, and the hot sun was at our backs. We had a couple of hours before the first ferry would depart, but still we wanted to get down to the water. And that’s where we saw him for the first time.
Brieran: Sirrus, you mean?
Eden: Yeah. We passed by all those drab gray buildings, the men dressed in coats, suits and hats as dusty as the town itself, and made our way towards the river. To me, Trail Town felt forgotten by the world, a boot scraping lain on the dustpan, and I was eager to be off.
I’m trying to get the picture clear in my head now. To our right there was a strip of green that edged the harbor, but there were no wharves there. On the eastern side was a neat row of tall butternut trees, and the spaces between them were taken up with wagons and tents and stalls. Booths of cloth and burlap had been set up – some were drab and others were lavishly painted and embossed with big lettering.
I remember that Ejol made a sour face, and told us that there would be snake oil salesmen and all manner of charlatans, preying on gullible fools with phony miracle cures for a whole list of maladies. But the booth closest to us, on the farthest right of the strip, caught our eyes. For starters, it was just a small stage with an object propped there that we couldn’t quite make out. And a tiny man, nearly dancing as he delivered his speech. His beard was down to his solar plexus, and he was dressed in colors so bright that they about near made my eyes ache in that afternoon sun.
But it was when we heard his voice that we all looked quick to each other and then ran to get a closer look. It was so unexpected and out of place in that dour town, his voice, because it was a jubilant sound. We made our way to the small crowd – about thirty people – in front of the stage. A few of them, the ones in front, were children not much bigger than the dwarf himself. Their eyes looked eager, and he had their attention like no schoolteacher’s ever gonna. Me, I was right behind Marek as he wove through the bodies to get closer to the stage. We’ve talked about it since then, how each of us somehow had the idea that this little man’s speech was going to have something to do with the Guardians.
And this is what it was, as best as Marek and I were able to remember it. These were the first words we ever heard from Sirrus, who was to become our teacher:
“I look out now and behold a race of creatures that continue to exist and strive long after they’ve forgotten the miracle of their being. I see how the dimmer that memory becomes, the more burdensome life feels for all of them. If any of you say, ‘something has gone wrong here, it is all awry,’ none will disagree with you. But no one seems able to say how it has gone awry, or when – much less can anyone hope to remedy an illness when they cannot identify it. You have been rendered powerless and ignorant because you’ve never learned any means through which to see the reflection of your inner being. Or else, your race has long ago lost faith and forgotten the value of those ways and means.
Then he swept a satin sheet off of what we saw now was a mirror, and the afternoon sun caught on its sleek surface. That glass glared like it was a sun itself. And Sirrus went on talking.
“I offer you, this day, a tool for that reflection. It does not, on its own, promise salvation. It reveals to men and women only what is inside them. Yet that knowledge – no, that misleads – I will say, that experience may seed the awakening of your generation, and of your children’s generation, and the flowering of humanity in this land.”
He waited for a moment then, maybe to let these words sink in. Then he waved his hands towards the mirror like it was a tray of pastries.
“I doubt that many of you will like what is revealed to you. You have fallen far from the Creator’s vision of your being. I do not say this to shame you. But it is your condition and your heritage; and I see it because the Mirror has taught me to peer into those same depths of darkness within myself. But darkness not confronted is free to sow its corruption forever, whilst darkness that is uncovered and faced can be seen for what it truly is: only an obstruction of the light of the Creator’s love, the light that is the fount of your true being now and forever.
“What can one hope to accomplish with the aid of the Mirror’s truth? To raise oneself from the mound of puppet flesh and, for once, know what it means to truly have a choice.”
Choice. I bet that word had a different meaning for every person who was there in Trail Town that day. But it’s definition changed for me in a big way once I finally got up the guts to have a look into Sirrus’ Mirror for myself.