Back to The Burning Land


The Awakened City

Prologue:
The Brethren's Covenant

(A night-story told by Brethren foster-parents to their spirit-wards)


Tonight, little one, I will tell you one of the most wondrous tales I know--of how the thirty sons and five daughters of the First Messenger, by Ârata’s favor, became the Brethren. It’s a tale of the past, for twelve centuries have gone by since that time. It’s a tale of the present, for those thirty-five souls are still alive upon the earth. And it is your tale--for it is the story of how you claimed your birthright, and became immortal.

Long ago, so long there are no words for the years that have fled since then, the god Ârata fashioned our world and everything in it out of his own bright substance--Ârata, as tall as the sky, with skin the color of the hottest flame and hair and eyes like new-minted gold. For eons he ruled unchallenged over his creation. All was perfection in that time, the primal age. But Ârata’s dark brother Ârdaxcasa coveted Ârata’s light-filled world, and on a storm of shadows came to seize it for himself. The gods fought--long they fought, and terribly, till the lands were stripped of life and sank beneath the seas. At last only our own great continent of Galea remained. There, in the southern desert called the Burning Land, Ârata vanquished his Enemy in a cataclysm of holy fire and, grievously wounded, lay down inside the earth to sleep. His golden Blood poured out around him, alight with his divinity. If you had been able to see him, little one, it would have seemed to you he lay within a lake of flame.

As Ârata fell into unconsciousness, the communion between his great mind and the small minds he had created was severed. Our world was abandoned to the emptiness of the cosmos. Time began its cruel flow, and death came into being. This is why we speak of Ârata’s slumber as the Age of Exile.

Now, in the violence of Ârdaxcasa’s destruction, his flesh was turned to ash and every living creature breathed a portion of it in. The Enemy’s cold dark nature took root in us, beside the warm bright nature Ârata had given us. Thus evil was born into the world. From that moment, all was war--each man within himself, every man with every other, the very earth wracked with storm and quake, plague and drought and every kind of ill. At last the chaos grew so terrible that Ârata could no longer rest. In a dream, he summoned to the Burning Land a man named Marduspida, to whom he gave three things: a teaching called the Way of Ârata, with Five Foundations of thought and practice to govern humankind during the time of the god’s slumber; a Promise, that one day he would rise to cleanse his Enemy’s darkness from the world and usher in a new primal age; and a sign, a single drop of his fiery Blood, rendered hard as crystal by the passing of the ages. Thus his Messenger would be known.

Marduspida, the First Messenger, returned to Arsace. He wrote down all of Ârata’s words in the holy book called Darxasa, and set out to bring its wisdom to Galea. We, his thirty sons and five daughters, became his first disciples. Those were years of trial, little one. There were many more kingdoms then than the seven we know now, and in most of them Ârata had been forgotten. The people turned from the teachings of the Way, the cities cast us out with stones and curses--even, sometimes, at the points of swords. But they were also years of joy, as we seeded Ârata’s word across the lands, and humbled Ârata’s Aspects that had come to be worshiped as separate gods, and founded monasteries and temples in Ârata’s name.

The time came when our father, who had not been a young man when he received the god’s call, could no longer travel. He retired to Baushpar, the city gifted to our faith by King Fârat of Arsace. Our holy city was not grand then, as it is today. The streets were narrow and the dwellings small; the First Temple of Ârata was not yet complete and as for the Evening City, our beautiful palace with its many rooms and corridors and courts and halls, it had not even been dreamed of. Our father lived in an ordinary house, with an ordinary garden. If you try, little one, you may remember it, for we sons and daughters often visited him there.

At last our father’s final illness came upon him. He summoned his children to his side--some of us near, overseeing the rebuilding of Baushpar, others distant, traveling and teaching in far lands. When we were all assembled, he kissed us farewell, each in the order of his or her birth. Then he took from around his neck the great necklace that had been made to hold the crystal of Ârata’s Blood, which had not left his body in the thirty years since his emergence from the Burning Land. And he said:

Two things I bequeath to you, my sons and daughters. They are all in the world I have to give, yet no man ever gave so much. The first is this holy sign, this Blood by which Ârata marked me as his Messenger. It will mark you as my inheritors. The second is the fearful hope, the terrible duty, that Ârata laid upon me: to spread his word and his truth through all the kingdoms of Galea. With my dying breath I charge you--forever and for all your lives, guard his Way. Teach his Promise. Proclaim the certainty of his return.

He spoke no more, and soon after died. We buried him in his garden, as he had wished. Then we gathered to discuss how we might honor his bequests. At once, little one, we were presented with a difficulty. No one can say when Ârata will return--and though the Way must go on for long and long, we human creatures go on for only a little while. How then could we do as our father asked? How could we guard the Way, and teach the Promise, and proclaim the certainty of the god’s return, not just for all our lives but forever?

The purpose we Brethren follow makes us one, as if we shared a single heart. Yet we are also thirty-five separate souls, whose qualities and humors are as various as a handful of colored stones. As we often do, we fell into argument. Some proposed the creation of a priesthood, to guard the Way when all of us were gone. Others declared that we should pass leadership to our sons and daughters, as kings and princes do. Still others rejected every plan, but could suggest no scheme of their own. At last, when the dispute had eaten up a week of days, Utamnos rose to speak. He is not only the eldest of us but also the wisest, and it is his way to listen rather than to dispute. Till that moment, he had not said a word.

These arguments only circle the truth, he said. Our father did not say to us “for all our lives and then forever” but “forever and for all our lives.” It must be us, do you see, brothers and sisters? It must be we who guard forever.

But how can we do that? cried Kudrâcari, whose temper it is to challenge all that others say, that they might find a way to say it better. We are mortal. We cannot go on forever.

Then, Utamnos replied, we must ask Ârata to make us immortal.

Can you imagine the amazement that came over us, little one? None of us had thought of it. Yet it was so clear, so simple.

How may we accomplish such a thing? asked Sundit, her practical mind turning, as ever, to the how and why of what must be done. Ârata sleeps. How shall we make him hear us?

We will fast and pray, said Baushtas, whose faith shines like a beacon on a mountaintop, so high and pure is it. Our reverence will summon him.

We’ll sleep, said Artavâdhi, who is twin to Baushtas, her faith as perfect as his. We’ll entreat him in our dreams.

A sleeper needs noise to rouse, objected Dâdar, whose impatience drives him always to seek the directest way. We’ll go to the Burning Land with drums and kanshas, and sing him awake.

Vivaniya, ardent and impulsive, leaped to his feet. Let us do all these things! he cried. We will raise such a storm of entreaty that Ârata cannot help but wake!

What if we anger the god with so much noise? asked Hysanet, the youngest of us and the most gentle.

Do we know what it is we ask? This from Taxmârata, whose somber spirit turns always toward the darkest question. The weight of mortal years is almost more than a man can bear. If Ârata grants our request, how will our souls endure the centuries?

It is too presumptuous, Ariamnes declared. He is the most stubborn of us; his thoughts are like ironwood once they take root. The god will never grant such a boon.

Do you speak for Ârata, then, brother? laughed Martyas, who delights in piercing others with the needle of his wit. Perhaps it’s you we should entreat!

Utamnos held up his hands for silence.

Ârata will hear us, he said. We are our father’s children. But there is a thing you’ve forgotten, brothers and sisters. In matters of entreaty, there must be exchange. If we ask, we must also give. What gift shall we give to Ârata? What shall we offer him?

Well, little one, a perfect storm of discussion followed. Some suggested material gifts: images, inscriptions, houses of worship. Some suggested gifts of faith: new ceremonies, fresh hymns, special chants and catechisms. Some suggested gifts of soul: so many hearts brought to the Way, so many lands. No, Utamnos said to each as it was proposed. No. At last Kudrâcari grew angry.

Who are you to tell us No, and No, and No? she cried. Is your knowledge greater than ours? If so, why do you keep us in ignorance?

Here is what my heart tells me, sister, Utamnos replied. These are gifts of doing. They are things accomplished in the world and thus born of the world. But the world is dark with ash. The gift we give to Ârata must have no ash in it. It must be wholly bright.

Sundit said, How can any gift be wholly bright, when we who give it are as stained as the world?

There was silence, little one, for none of us knew how to answer. Then Utamnos said:

Though we do not know what our gift must be, let us offer it even so. If we are pure and free in this intent, the god will tell us what to do.

So we went apart, each of us to a place that he or she found holy, where Ârata’s bright nature seemed to speak most clearly through the world’s veil of ash. For twelve days and nights we meditated, and fasted, and sang, according to our preference. On the thirteenth night the god walked into our dreams, as he had walked into our father’s, high and terrible as a storm. He was all the colors of flame and gold. On his body gaped the thousand wounds inflicted by his Enemy.

I have heard your call, children of the First Messenger, he said in a voice like the ruin of mountains, like the draining of oceans. I will grant your entreaty. Your souls shall not sleep with the passing of your mortal flesh, but will remain awake across the centuries, born always into new vessels. Thus will you guide my Way until I rise to cleanse the world and usher in the new primal age. In exchange for this boon I will accept the gift you offer, the bright gift that has no stain in it of my Enemy’s ash.

Great Ârata, we answered, trembling with the god’s majesty, tell us what the gift shall be.

And the god said: When the time of cleansing comes, I shall not burn away your darkness, as I will for others, that their light may shine undimmed in the glory of the new primal age. Instead, whatever brightness remains in you I will take back into myself, who made you. Others will rise, but you will not--the end of the Age of Exile will also be your end. That is your gift, children of the First Messenger, if you choose to give it: your own light.

Ah, little one, it was a fearful thing to hear. The boon we asked was great, and we had known that what Ârata demanded in return would be great as well. But none of us had imagined anything so great as this. To live forever in the Age of Exile, but never rise into the brilliance of the new primal age. To be immortal in the time of ash, and nothing in the time of light!

Of what came next, I will say only that just as there were those of us who were truly ready, and vowed the gift at once, there were those who struggled and denied. No names need be spoken; each remembers who he or she is. In the end, even the most fearful of us could not turn from duty--to Ârata, to his Way, to our father, the First Messenger. In the end, all gave freely what the god required.

Many weeks later, we gathered in our father’s garden. Our bodies were weak with fasting and with trial. Yet already we could feel the change, the separation of our souls from our human shells, which had been indivisible before. We were no longer sons and daughters, but Sons and Daughters: the Brethren. Around our father’s grave we joined hands, and swore a Covenant to Ârata and to each other--to guard his Way, to teach his Promise, to proclaim the certainty of his return, for all our lives and forever.

So we have done across the centuries since. So we will do across the centuries yet to come, until the day of Ârata’s return. It is a long work, little one. We know now that it is true, what Taxmârata said at the first council: The years weigh heavy on a mortal soul. Even those of us who struggled with the gift no longer fear the giving of it. When the Next Messenger arrives to herald Ârata’s awakening, we will be glad, at last, to sleep.