Receive, O Lord, Thy Departed Servant

Hymn (Translated from the Russian)

“What delight is there in this life that is not mingled with earthly sorrow? Whose hopes have not been in vain, and where among mortals is there one who is happy? Of all the fruits of our labour and toil, there is nothing that shall last and nothing that is of any worth. Where is the earthly glory that shall endure and shall not pass away? All things are but ashes, and a phantom, shadow and smoke. Everything shall vanish as the dust of a whirlwind; and face to face with death, we are defenceless and unarmed; the hand of the mighty is feeble, and the commands of Kings are as nothing. Receive, O Lord, Thy departed Servant into Thy happy dwelling-place.

“Death like a furious knight-at-arms encountered me, and like a robber he laid me low; the grave opened its jaws and took away from me all that was alive. Kinsmen and children, save yourselves, I call to you from the grave. Be saved, my brothers and my friends, so that you may not behold the flames of Hell. Life is the kingdom of vanity, and as we sniff the odour of death, we wither like flowers. Why do we toss about in vain? Our thrones are all graves, and our palaces are but ruins. Receive, O Lord, Thy departed Servant into Thy happy dwelling-place.

“Amidst the heap of rotting bones, who is king or servant, or judge or warrior? Who is deserving of the Kingdom of God and who is the rejected and the evil-doer? O brothers, where is the gold and the silver, where are the many hosts of servants? Who is a rich man and who is a poor man? All is ashes and smoke, and dust and mould, phantom and shadow and dream; only with Thee in Heaven, O Lord, there is refuge and safety; that which was flesh shall perish, and our pomp fall in corruption. Receive, O Lord, Thy departed Servant into Thy happy dwelling-place.

“And Thou, who dost intercede on behalf of us all, Thou, the defender of the oppressed, to Thee, most Blessed One, we cry, on behalf of our brother who lies here. Pray to thy Divine Son. Pray, O most Pure among Women, for him. Grant that having lived out his life upon earth, he may leave his affliction behind him. All things are ashes, dust and smoke and shadow. O friends, put not your faith in a phantom! When, on some sudden day, the corruption of death shall breathe upon us, we shall perish like wheat, cut down by the sickle in the cornfields. Receive, O Lord, Thy departed Servant into Thy happy dwelling-place.

“I follow I know not what path; half-hopeful, half-afraid, I go; my sight is dim, my heart has grown cold, my hearing is faint, my eyes are closed. I am lying sightless and without motion, I cannot hear the wailing of the brethren, and the blue smoke from the censer pours forth for me no fragrance; yet my love shall not die; and in the name of that love, O my brothers, I implore you, that each one of you may thus call upon God: Lord, on that day, when the trumpet shall sound the end of the world, receive Thy departed Servant, O Lord, into Thy happy dwelling-place.”

-Translation by Maurice Baring, from "The Puppet Show of Memory," which I just finished reading yesterday. A large section of it is about his experiences with the Russian people before the Revolution.

 

Action Figures to be Noted

 

What Happened Five Years Ago: The Death of Socks

 

9/23/2019: Socks is looking VERY poorly and slow today, especially by evening. I fear he is on his way out. … Watched "Miss Hokusai" on Netflix. Went in and cleaned up at 8 PM. Put Socks up for the night and finished the movie. ... Time for a rosary, then bed.

But before I could go to bed, Socks died. He had been passing a rickety evening laying on the couch; I noticed he had passed some liquid (peepee? drool? stomach stuff?) so I cleaned it up and moved him into the bathroom on a towel. While I was praying the Rosary (and during my first decade, which was with the intention - with the help of Sts. Francis and Gertrude - for, if not healing, and least an easeful passing for him) he made a little call. I went in the bathroom, and he seemed to be going out. He had made one last poop on the towel. I cleaned it up and moved him and the towel into the shower. When I checked on him about 30 minutes later, he was gone.

9/24/2019: Woke up at about 5 AM. Wrote a poem about Socks and posted pictures of cats on Power-of-Babel in tribute. One tends to think of pets in some way as shields against fate or hostages of fortune, that they'll have to die first before you can go. I always used to joke that Socks would outlive me, that he was never my pet but a fellow inmate. But things seem a bit lonelier just thinking about him lying in there. Now have to break the news to Andy and dispose of the body. And move one almost brand-new litter box. It's now 6:10 AM. Prayers and Catechism.

Went to wait on the kitchen porch at 7:30 AM. Both Susan and Andy were up, and I told them about Socks. They were sad but took it well; he was, after all, 14 years old. I got two kitchen bags: one for Socks until Andy can bury him this evening, and one to empty his litter box.

At 7:20 PM Andy came in and got Socks to bury him; I remembered to take out cat food back to the bin and found myself growing maudlin about throwing away a plastic Ziploc bag I have used for his cat food for years. It is truly the end of an era. Now that even his body is out of the house, things seem even emptier. I guess I could have action figure setups again. He knocked over:

0n January 29, 2013, the Balrog

On June 25, 2015, the big Gandalf.

I keep having this weird reaction, where I realize that I have these little habits and mental spaces that no longer apply now that Socks is gone: I don't have to worry about him running out when I open the bathroom door, I can clean the top of the toilet off without it being covered with cat hair half an hour later. I thought about sweeping up, and then thought how he liked to chew on the straws if I paused. He was here for almost 8 years at least, and that wears a groove in your head. When he came here [into the guest house], I had a job at Gatti's, a bank account, a unit at Grapevine Storage, and all 10 toes. The girls were still in school.

9/25/2019: I still find myself with that hesitation before opening the bathroom door, as if anticipating the need to check the floor for cat poo or having Socks rush out. Just being able to do my business without having to angle around the litter box is a fresh sensation. … Washed out the litter box and moved it out to the bin piles so I can shower. … 9/26/2019: Took the cat box [the pen that had his bed] out to the garage.

Bier Hier!

 

“The boys from both schools used to meet in the evening before supper at a restaurant called Hasse, where a special room was kept for them. Braun was an earnest and extremely well-educated youth, a student of geology. Before I was taken to Hasse, he said I must be instructed in the rules of the Bierkomment, that is to say, the rules for drinking beer in company, which were, as I found out afterwards, the basis of the social system. These rules were intricate, and when Braun explained them to me, which he did with the utmost thoroughness, the explanation taking nearly two hours, I did not know what it was all about. I did not know it had anything to do with drinking beer. I afterwards learned, by the evidence of my senses and by experience, the numerous and various points of this complicated ritual, but the first evening I was introduced to Hasse I was bewildered by finding a crowd of grown-up boys seated at a table; each one introduced himself to me by standing to attention and saying his name (“Mein Name ist So-and-so”). After which they sat down and seemed to be engaged in a game of cross-purposes.

“The main principles which underlay this form of social intercourse were these. You first of all ordered a half-litre of beer, stating whether you wanted light or dark beer (dunkles or helles). It was given to you in a glass mug with a metal top. This mug had to remain closed whatever happened, otherwise the others put this mug on yours, and you had to pay for every mug which was piled on your own. Having received your beer, you must not drink it quietly by yourself, when you were thirsty; but every single draught had to be taken with a purpose, and directed towards someone else, and accompanied by a formula. The formula was an opening, and called for the correct answer, which was either final and ended the matter, or which was of a kind to provoke a counter-move, in the form of a further formula, which, in its turn, necessitated a final answer. You were, in fact, engaged in toasting each other according to system. When you had a fresh mug, with foam on the top of it, that was called die Blume, and you had to choose someone who was in the same situation; someone who had a Blume. You then said his name, not his real name but his beer name, which was generally a monosyllable like Pfiff (my beer name was Hash, pronounced Hush), and you said to him: “Prosit Blume.” His answer to this was: “Prosit,” and you both drank. To pretend to drink and not drink was an infringement of the rules. If he had no beer at the time he would say so (“Ich habe keinen Stoff”), but would be careful to return you your Blume as soon as he received it, saying: “Ich komme die Blume nach” (“I drink back to you your Blume”). Then, perhaps, having disposed of the Blume, you singled out someone else, or someone perhaps singled you out, and said: “Ich komme Ihnen Etwas” (“I drink something to you”). When you got to know someone well, he suggested that you should drink Bruderschaft with him. This you did by entwining your arm under his arm, draining a whole glass, and then saying: “Prosit Bruder.” After that you called each other “Du.” Very well. After having said “Ich komme Ihnen” or “Ich komme Dir etwas,” he, in the space of three beer minutes, which were equivalent to four ordinary minutes, was obliged to answer. He might either say: “Ich komme Dir nach” or “Ich komme nach” (“I drink back”). That settled that proceeding. Or he might prolong the interchange of toasts by saying: “Uebers Kreuz,” in which case you had to wait a little and say: “Unters Kreuz,” and every time the one said this, the other in drinking had to say: “Prosit.” Then the person who had said “Uebers Kreuz” had the last word, and had to say: “Ich komme definitiv nach” (“I drink back to you finally”), and that ended the matter. If you had very little beer left in your mug you chose someone else who was in the same predicament, and said: “Prosit Rest.” It was uncivil if you had a rest to choose someone who had plenty of beer left. If you wanted to honour someone or to pay him a compliment, you said “Speziell” after your toast, which meant the other person was not obliged to drink back. You could also say: “Ich komme Dir einen halben” (“I drink you a half glass”), or even “einen Ganzen” (“a whole glass”). The other person could then double you by saying: “Prosit doppelt.” In which case he drank back a whole glass to you and you then drank back a whole glass to him.

“Any infringement of these rules, or any levity in the manner the ritual was performed, was punished by your being told to “Einsteigen” (or by the words, “In die Kanne”), which meant you had to go on drinking till the offended party said “Geschenkt.” If you disobeyed this rule or did anything else equally grave, you were declared by whoever was in authority to be in B.V., which meant in a state of Beer ostracism. Nobody might then drink to you or talk to you. To emerge from this state of exile, you had to stand up, and someone else stood up and declared that “Der in einfacher B.V. sich befindender” (“The in-simple-beer-banishment-finding-himself so-and-so”) will now drink himself back into Bierehrlichkeit (beer-honourability) once again. He does it. At the words, “Er thut es,” you set a glass to your lips and drank it all. The other man then said: “So-and-so ist wieder bierehrlich” (“So-and-so is once more beer honourable”). Any dispute on a point of ritual was settled by what was called a Bierjunge. An umpire was appointed, and three glasses of beer were brought. The umpire saw that the quantity in each of the glasses was exactly equal, pouring a little beer perhaps from one or the other into his own glass. A word was then chosen, for choice a long and difficult word. The umpire then said: “Stosst an,” and on these words the rivals clinked glasses; he then said: “Setzt an,” and they set the glasses to their lips. He then said: “Loss,” and the rivals drained the glasses as fast as they could, and the man who finished first said: “Bierjunge,” or whatever word had been chosen. The umpire then declared the winner. All these proceedings, as can be imagined, would be a little difficult to understand if one didn’t know that they involved drinking beer. Such had been my plight when the ritual was explained to me by Mr. Braun. I found the first evening extremely bewildering, but I soon became an expert in the ritual, and took much pleasure in raising difficult points.

“These gatherings used to happen every evening. If you wished to celebrate a special occasion you ordered what was called a Tunnemann, which was a huge glass as big as a small barrel which was circulated round the table, everyone drinking in turn as out of a loving-cup. A record was kept of these ceremonies in a book. The boys who attended these gatherings were mostly eighteen or nineteen years old, and belonged to the first two classes of the school, the Prima and the Secunda. They belonged to a Turnverein, a gymnastic association, and were divided into two classes—the juniors who were called Füchse and the seniors who were not. The Füchse had to obey the others.”

-         The Puppet Show of Memory, by Maurice Baring.

All quite clear, now? I was so taken with reading the first four chapters of his autobiography in Maurice Baring Restored that I went ahead and downloaded the entire book free on Kindle and am now reading it entire. Unfortunately it is one of those editions that occasionally break out into a salad of gibberish and punctuation marks (an artifact of poor scanning, I believe). But I can usually make out what it means.

The Lord of the Rings: The Window on the West (Part Five)

 

 

The Tale 

          The last Ranger to return is named Anborn, and when Faramir asks him if he has anything to report, the man tells him of a strange, doubtful sighting. It was no Orc at least, but what it was he is not sure; the gathering dusk made it hard to judge the size of the thing. Maybe a large squirrel? But if it was, it was black and had no tail. He didn’t shoot at it, as Faramir had directed them not to kill any wild animal needlessly. He watched it a while to see if he could figure out what it was, then hurried on. Anborn thinks it hissed at him as he left.

          Maybe as the Unnamed (Sauron) extends his influence over Ithilien some of the beasts of the overshadowed Mirkwood are making their way into the land. Mirkwood is said to have black squirrels. If so, says Faramir, that would be an ill-omen for the land: ‘We do not want the escapes of Mirkwood in Ithilien.’ Sam thinks he sees Faramir shoot a glance towards the hobbits, as if he suspects they know more about this dark, furtive, hissing creature.

          Frodo and Sam lay back on the bed provided for them, watching the men passing in the torchlight, until Frodo suddenly falls asleep. Though Sam is exhausted as his master is, and there’s really nothing he could do against all these men anyway, he determines he must stay awake and on watch. As the cave grows darker and darker and the falling water whispers of sleep, ‘Sam stuck his knuckles in his eyes.’

Notes

The black squirrels of Mirkwood are of course mentioned in The Hobbit, when Bilbo, Thorin, and the rest of the dwarves are passing through the dark, tangled forest. When they are running low on food, they waste a lot of arrows bringing down one lone squirrel. ‘But when they roasted it, it proved horrible to taste, and they shot no more squirrels.’

The name Anborn is nowhere explained by Tolkien, but some have speculated it is from Elvish an-, meaning long, and -boron, meaning steadfast. It’s a good thing Faramir had given orders about not killing needlessly, or Gollum might not have been around at the Cracks of Doom.

I find the use of escapes for ‘overflow or leakage from’ to be an interesting and uncommon use.

Sorry this segment is so short; perhaps I will have another bit later this week. Remember back when I could get a whole chapter in one post?

Notice of Delayed Delivery

If you've tuned in expecting the usual Monday post on LOTR, it has been delayed until later in the day. Please be assured it will be here today, though perhaps as late as this evening. It's just personal biz; I'm a little meh this morning. In the meantime, here's a photo the delivery lady took of me last Friday as I slumped there with my bandy legs and groceries. Independent corroboration that I do, indeed, exist.

Vile Temptress!

 

Ever since I heard that certain shipments of Tangy Cheese Doritos are being recalled, I want to try them - an uncontaminated bag, of course. Not sure that they are available locally as neither HEB nor Walmart has it, but what a coup by the company to raise awareness of them! Of course, not recommended on my diet.

Pass It Along

 

Yesterday (or was it the day before yesterday?) I saw a LOTR group on Facebook posting about Jimmy Cauty's famous poster, and one commenter noting that she knew there was a Hobbit poster by him as well, but she couldn't find a high-resolution copy. I shared the one I had found. Well, today I saw it reproduced for another LOTR group. Coincidence? Maybe, but somehow I wonder. Not that there's anything wrong with it, and I don't own it or anything, and I got it from someplace I didn't acknowledge, either. But there it is.

But the Inner Gollum protests:

From a Letter to My Brother Mike, July 27 1987 (Off on a Journey)

 

Dear Mike, 

It has now been ten hours since you have gone and already I miss you.  All of my life you have been there, almost never more than half an hour away, and now every minute carries you farther and farther away.  I look at my books placed in your shelves & am reminded of you, I type this letter on your typewriter and am reminded of you; every now and then something will occupy my attention, but then I think of you with a start and feel guilty for having forgotten for a moment.  

I have noticed something strange. Things do not have a past until they are gone.  I mean they have a past, but they are not in it.  It is awful feeling so torn, but I don't feel any despair.  I know from the past that things I think are gone forever turn up where least expected.  I hope you will turn up soon.

 

[Found in his papers ten years and more after his passing.]

Friday Fiction: Shutting the Door

 

SHUTTING THE DOOR

 

The Domain of Doors is a place that baffles the eye and brain when one tries to understand it. There are some sages who say it does not exist in the form that travelers to that realm describe it, that it merely adopts such a shape when a mind enters, either bound by the limits of comprehension of the visitor or perhaps even voluntarily assuming such an appearance for the observer’s benefit. If so, there must be a mind observing it now.

It is still, however, baffling. If it is a room, it is a dizzyingly high room, with a roof that mimics the sky. It is an evening sky, or a morning sky, depending on one’s point of view: bright sunshine all along the horizon (or the wall’s perimeter, behind the doors, if it is a room) that fades into a pellucid blue dome until that deepens into darkness sprinkled with stars. The only thing that is observed to change in that roof is a moon, which frequent visitors (and there are a few) have observed in different phases, hanging at different heights. This seems to argue that what looms above is a sky, except that it curves visibly inward to a rounded conic peak like the roof of some cyclopean cathedral that the eye sees but refuses to accept as a notion about sky.

And, of course, there are the doors. Not an infinite number, it is said, but so many that there might as well be. They line the room (or the horizon) like a fence, each framed and connected to the next by a woody, leafy vine that grows as high or low as required. Nothing (from the inside) can be seen past this bramble; the sky rises from right behind it. Although there is an immense variety to the doors as to structure and composition, there is an apparent limit of height to them: nothing much below three feet and nothing much above twelve. The bramble rises and falls like a wave between these variations.

There was a dark, grim iron door at one point along the wall. Suddenly, around this door’s granite jamb, just visible under the vine leaves, there was a brief glow of jagged runes, and the door swung open silently on ponderous hinges. Two figures stepped through, and the door shut noiselessly behind them.

“And it’s as simple as that?” The speaker was a tall raw-boned young man with startled, light-blue eyes. Although he was dressed in rather fancy new robes of embroidered linen, his fading tan lines and rough, scarred hands showed that his newfound affluence was only of recent date. He looked around briefly, possessively, rubbing his scruffy chin in speculation.

“As simple as that … and as unfathomable.” The other grinned bleakly. “As all the greatest powers are.”

The young man looked at his companion. The other man was even taller than he and encased head to toe in black armor. The only part of him visible was his pale, austere face, revealed by the raised visor.

The young man looked at him curiously. It was not often that his master exposed himself like that. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times he had seen that face in the blinding rush of his apprenticeship. The world saw merely the snarling stern mask of the visor; he had seen this face only in the most private places and moments of his training. That it should be bare thus in the open argued that the older man felt secure here.

“There,” the armored man said, noticing his scrutiny, and pointing away to the middle of the chamber. “That’s the main feature of this place. The doors are nothing compared to the power of that. That is what I brought you here to see, Dunwolf.”

“But surely the doors …” the young man said, turning, then stopped, struck with awe. It had been too big, too overwhelming, too unexpected for his eyes to grasp it at first. But now that he saw, he was drawn forward to it almost thoughtlessly on faltering, cautious steps. The older man followed him with a muted clank of mail, a grim, satisfied, almost painfully proud expression on his face.

“I, alone and first of all our world, discovered this place. I, Barek-a-Rhalken dun Karrahd. And now I reveal it to you.”

“It … I …” the young man began, then trailed into silence again. The two figures walked forward side by side, looking dwarfed and insignificant as they crossed the marble pavement in the face of the thing they approached.

At first it had seemed to Dunwolf like an enormous tree, trunk thick as a towering fortress, with an immaculately trimmed orb of foliage on top. A sound, low and rumbling, like a grumble of constant thunder that never faded, filled his ears. The closer they came to the stony ring that surrounded it, however, the more he had to accept what he was seeing.

It was a fountain, its vast, singular pillar of water thrust up with unimaginable force, falling back within itself with a glassy yet turbulent smoothness. On top of it, ponderous, impossible, slowing turning on the play of water, was a huge translucent green globe. When they reached the waist high coping that surrounded the lake from which the water arose, Dunwolf reached out and put his hands on the railing, neck craned back, gazing up in wonder. The older man stood behind him, arms behind his back, a black column in a world of green and white.

“The Fountain of Forever,” Barek said evenly, never taking his eyes off his apprentice, gauging his reaction. “And you see the sphere atop it?”

“Yes,” said Dunwolf. “Oh, yes.”

“That ... that is our world, or the shadow of our world. That is Ortha, figured here in small. See? There is the outline of Forlan, just turning away from us into the shadows. A pretty thing, isn’t it?” he said, almost bitterly. His eyes squinted. He held out one mailed hand, fingers curved. “From here, it looks like one could just … reach out, grasp it, and bite into it like a green apple.”

“The shadow of our world?” The young man could not take his staring blue eyes from the spectacle.

“An echo. A twin. A mirror. There is no word for what it is, exactly. But know this. What happens to Ortha beyond those doors, happens here, and what happens to this orb in this place affects our world.”

Without warning Barek raised his hand and a bolt of red lightning shot from his fist, gathering in crackling serpents of power from his feet to his aiming arm in an instant. Dunwolf recoiled as the bolt hit the ponderous globe above him. For the briefest moment scarlet fire spread, engulfing the world, but then it had passed like sheet lightning, quenched in the placid depths of the quietly turning world.

“What … what did you do?” Dunwolf’s voice trembled.

Barek shrugged.

“Back on Ortha, that would have leveled a mountain. Here, it is …” he grimaced. “Dissipated, somewhat. But for a moment, every being on earth felt a touch of my power, if only as a moment of unease, or a bit of dust shaken from the rafters. However, …” He turned to Dunwolf seriously. “I believe there is a potential for more.” He gestured to the stone railing. “Have a seat. I have brought you here to unfold my deepest plan. But have a care that as I speak you do not fall backwards.” A wintry smile. “The results would be most unfortunate.”

For the first time the young apprentice bent his head and really looked down into the pool from which the fountain rose. Although startled at what he saw, he did not gasp or flinch, but turned and fell to his knees, holding onto the stone firmly, and leaned his head over to look more intensely into the depths he had suddenly perceived below him.

“Are those stars?” he asked at last. He reached out one tentative hand. “Is this water?”

“It looks as if they were. It feels as if it is. But nothing here is quite what it appears to be.” Barek moved over and stood next to him, looking down. Below them the dark blue water deepened to black as if mirroring a night sky, and in the depths there twinkled many colored sparks of light. Dunwolf glanced up, confused. The few pale stars in the roof above did not match those below.

“I’ve made several fetches and sent them down to explore. None have returned.” Barek grimaced.

“But … but nothing can stop a fetch! Weak as they are, they always come back!”

“Indeed.” The armored man turned his back to the stone railing and sat next to Dunwolf, who turned from the impossible waters and toward his mentor. “You will understand, then, why I wish you to be careful. I do not want to lose you. You are most important to me now.”

“I?” The younger man grinned. “I’m just beginning, I guess. Give me a hundred years or so and I might be a worthy student.”

“I am not given to sentiment or flattery, my friend, and I don’t want to see false humility in you either, Dunwolf,” Barek said severely. The smile faded from the other’s face. “You must grasp your power and own it. You do yourself and me a disservice if you try to evade the responsibility of your power. And you are powerful.”

The younger man looked abashed, and looked down, his hands laced in his lap.

“You have learned more in nine months than some who have come to serve me have in nine years. I knew when you came to join me that under your mud and rags that I had found someone who had the same vision, the same drive that I knew in myself. More than just wanting to learn the spells, you have an intuitive insight into the power, an almost … playful,” the word was bleak in his mouth, “approach to magic that I had when I too was young. The years, responsibilities, take that away. But while it lasts, it is … wonderful.”

 Dunwolf looked at his master in surprise. For a moment Barek had sounded wistful, lost. The next moment his grim façade had closed again.

“But enough of that,” he said. He turned away. “Have you ever wondered how I managed to bring the Ogres over to Forlan so quickly, so that I surprised even the Morgs with their diligence on the seas?”

“Well, no, I guess I always assumed they were there, hiding in the caverns of Thoravil, waiting to burst out at your command. You mean …?” His eyebrows shot up questioningly, incredulous, gesturing at the circle of doors.

Barek almost cackled.

“You’d be surprised what can be accomplished a little bit at a time. Little drops of water, little grains of sand, can wear away a mountain or make a desert in time.” He gestured to his left. “The Ogre homeland is on the other side of the world. It is very crowded, very … competitive. Under their own management, it had devolved into something rather poor; not as they are here under my regimen. Many were eager to accept my offer of relocation, of conquest. There was only one condition; their total allegiance. Even their enemies must admit, once they have sworn to something, they are unwavering. It saves thinking, I suppose.”

“But it must have taken years, decades,” Dunwolf was stunned.

“Not as long as one would think. So much can be achieved with continuous effort. I brought them over, squad by squad, never resting, for a while indeed hiding in the mountains, building their fortresses, building their numbers, until I deemed the time ripe and led them from the Knash into the soft lands. I almost had the victory then.”

He looked up angrily at the green globe turning slowly above them.

“My mistake was being too generous that time. I gave the kings the chance to join me, to unite in a rule that would cover all Ortha, but they would have none of it. The stubborn fools!” He turned to Dunwolf.

“Or perhaps I was the fool, thinking they could change. There are only certain men, like you, like Groka or Jaradin, who understand my vision and have joined me. And what I can see now is that there will only be peace in this world when the so-called ‘free’ peoples have been ground into the dust.

“Free!” he sneered. “Free to loll around and follow their own whims! Free to waste their time and treasure in their own pursuits! Well, not for much longer. We will show them how a world should be run!”

“What do you mean to do?” The young man sounded eager, excited. “How can I help? There are a quite a few folks I know that I would like to see crawl!”

“Oh, it must go much farther than that.” Barek put a hand on Dunwolf’s shoulder and looked him seriously, full in the face. “It must be nothing less than the extermination of every last obstinate Morg, every stubborn Ghamen, and every single independent Man who does not share our vision. Then, and only then, shall there be peace. My peace. And the world shall rest at last.”

Dunwolf looked dumbfounded.

“I … how … can this be done?” he asked incredulously.

“Oh, yes,” said Barek triumphantly. “And now, finally, with you to help me, it shall be done.” His eyes began to wander restlessly, feverishly around the Domain.

“The number of Ogres, even if I could gather every last one of them from their exhausted homeland, is not enough for my plan. I need allies, powerful allies, to help with the conquest. And they are here, all around.”

“What do you mean?”

“These doors - they lead not only to other doors on Ortha. If you go far enough - and it takes a while, for distances are deceiving here - you will reach doors to whole other worlds, other universes – if you know that word – and in those worlds are hungry powers that are eager to lend their strength to mine. With such allies, the conquest of Ortha is assured, allies that even the Yorn themselves would be hard put to deal with.”

Dunwolf was hesitant.

“That sounds … perilous.”

“For one alone, perhaps, but for two – for you and me – I think there is no limit what we could accomplish. I need you … as a watcher on this side.”

Barek looked at his apprentice. He could see fear and uncertainty haunting the corners of his eyes. The armored man looked wildly around the Domain. He knew he had to distract the boy, to quash that growing unease.

“Look there,” he said, pointing with one mailed hand into the distance.

Dunwolf squinted. Far off, he could just make out two figures, accompanied by some sort of spotted beast. It seemed to be a couple of boys, one with a rather large head, the other wrapped in what looked like a blue cloak. They entered one of the doors and disappeared.

“Children. Mere children, not of this world, but using the doors safely enough. Imagine what we, with our knowledge, can achieve.”

“Not of this world? You know this? What is their world like?”

Barek waved his hand dismissively.

“A sad, silly place, almost powerless as we understand power. I have been there. When we conquer it - and we will conquer many worlds, once Ortha is mine – it shall fall with no difficulty.”

“Many worlds …,” Dunwolf murmured. He pointed up at the globe. “Do they see us when they are here? Do they see Ortha?”

“I do not think so,” his master said dismissively. “I have spoken to several travelers as they pass. They see the place they have come from. Sometimes, when we have looked together, we glimpse each other’s world, for an instant.”

“Are all worlds simply one world then?”

“It matters not.” Barek stood and brushed his cloak as if sweeping the thought away. “What matters now is Ortha, first. And the part you must play. A most important part.”

He gestured all around them.

“I have good reason to believe that when no-one is here to observe this place, it returns to a state of existence unimaginable to our minds. All this – the fountain, the sky, the doors – is an appearance assumed for our sake. Things I have tried to leave here until my return have vanished. Unmade, I believe, when this nexus re-assumes its other state.  I need an agent, a trusted agent, to remain here, to force it to keep this manifestation until my purposes are fulfilled. Dunwolf.” His voice dropped. “I believe that in you I have found the power and the trustworthiness to achieve those purposes.”

“Master,” Dunwolf reached out his hand, pressed it down on the other’s armored shoulder, and looked him solemnly in the eye. “I am honored.”

Barek smiled.

“I knew I had found the right man.”

He dropped the visor over his face, the scowling mask covering his warm expression in a movement that startled his apprentice for a moment.

“Now I must go get in touch with my first ally from another world and prepare them for the transfer.” Barek’s voice was weirdly metallic, harsh and hollow inside his helmet. “It shall take them some while. Then we will return to Ortha until they are prepared, then we shall come back and together we will enact the massive transfer, and the final conquest of our world will begin.”

Dunwolf dropped his hand, eyes wide.

“So soon.”

Barek laughed.

“If you ask me, not soon enough.” He turned and began marching off to the left. He raised a hand in farewell. “Await me here, Dunwolf, my Gatekeeper!”

The young man watched as he clanked off into the distance. When he could no longer see him, he sat back down against the railing and sighed, eyes closed as he listened to the rumbling of the waters falling ponderously behind him.

“Something bothering you, son?”

In his shock, Dunwolf almost fell over sideways as he scrambled to his feet and turned to confront the sudden voice, power instinctively gathering at his fingertips to attack the unknown presence. The fire died away with a whispering crackle as he oriented on the source of the voice.

A frail-looking old man, dressed in blue robes covered by a red cloak, was sitting on the balustrade before him, watching him mildly. He leaned on a twisted black cane. If he had been troubled about the possibility of Dunwolf’s blast of magic, he didn’t show it. His hazel eyes, magnified behind some kind of device of two little panes of glass held together by wire over his nose, looked at him with fatherly concern.

“Is it about your friend? I know I would be, if I were you. He seems to be in serious trouble.”

“Don’t worry about Barek, old man,” Dunwolf said warily. “He can take care of himself. He knows what he wants, and he has the power to do it.”

“But that might very well be his trouble,” the old man said, stroking his long white beard. His eyes twinkled. “He knows what he wants, but what he wants might not be what he knows, if you get my meaning, sir.”

“No, I don’t,” Dunwolf snapped. “Don’t try to confuse me with word games.” He pulled the short sword from its scabbard with a rasping hiss and held it at arm’s length, pointing at the other’s heart. “Who are you?”

“Dearie, dearie me,” said the other. “What are you afraid of, son?” He patted the stone rail next to him, hand light as a leaf. “As for my name, I don’t have one in your world, though if I did it would probably be something like … Jonn Keraph, maybe? Perhaps Jonn would just be easier. Sounds like a Morg name, doesn’t it?” He smiled.

Dunwolf scowled.

“That’s just a name. Don’t think you can fob me off with a name. What are you?”

The old man’s smile broadened, and if anything, his eyes twinkled brighter behind his deepening crow’s-feet.

“Oh, now that would take some telling, and I don’t know as we have the time. And really, what are you, behind a handful of names and words?”

“Well, I’m human, anyway; I can certainly tell you are not.”

“It’s the ears, isn’t it? They’re a dead giveaway.” The old man reached up and felt the top of his right ear. It was certainly pointed, more so even than a Wose’s. “But even without that, you can sense it, can’t you, Dunwolf? I can feel you trying to read me, even now, with your wizard-sight. What’s that telling you, son?”

Dunwolf paused, squinting, sword lowered.

“Beyond your physical presence, nothing,” he admitted.

“And what can you infer about that?” The old man raised his eyebrows.

Dunwolf sighed and put the sword away.

“You’re powerful beyond my senses.”

The old man patted the railing again.

“So why don’t you go ahead and sit down, and we have a little talk?” He paused. “That’s all. Just talk. I promise I won’t do anything else.”

Dunwolf glared at him intently, then shrugged.

“You know, I believe you. I don’t know why, but I do.” He sat down gingerly, nevertheless, a good arm-span from the old man, never taking his eyes from him. “But I think you owe me the first question. What are you, and what are you doing here?”

“Well, technically that’s two questions, but in a sense, they are connected. The truth is, that although I have a place in and visit many worlds, this is my home, you could almost say my house. All these doors,” he gestured around them. “Are my back doors. I pretty much keep track of who’s coming and going through them. Oh, my. Words can be so limiting. I’m always here; at least part of my attention is always here. And that’s as close as I can come to explaining it.”

“You’re not … you’re not Morlakor Shyreen, are you?” Dunwolf looked angry. “Because if you are, you have some explaining to do!”

“Your creator? Oh, my, no. Not anywhere like as important. A humble servant, I.” The old man bowed his head with jovial modesty, then his face got serious. “Now it’s my turn for a question. Your friend Barek, now.” He hesitated.

“Yes? What about him?” Dunwolf said warily.

“That dark armor he wears? You know what it is, do you?”

“Of course. It is the Blackmight.” The young man straightened up proudly. “It is the height of magical achievement, the mightiest combination of craft and lore that man has ever accomplished. Only he could have conceived it. Only he has had the will and the power to undertake it.”

“And you know what it does?”

“It makes him nigh invulnerable. While he wears the armor, age cannot touch him, hunger and thirst mean nothing, weariness cannot overtake him.” Dunwolf was almost burbling, gloating with excitement. “With the Blackmight, Barek can finally unite the lands, bring peace to all, and take up the mastery that has been denied since the Brotherhood was first split.”

“Indeed.” The old man looked grave. “And what have been the first steps in this great new path to a Golden Age?”

Dunwolf’s mouth went suddenly tight, defensive.

“He brought the Ogres into Forlan.”

“Ah.”

The young man bridled at his tone.

“You don’t understand! None of the other races would heed him! He needed an army, to make them listen. And the Ogres are much more civilized under his leadership. In time, all the peoples will have to become one, and there will be peace!”

“And what have been the first fruits of this path to peace?” The old man asked gravely. “The path that all will ‘have’ to walk?”

“It’s not his fault!” Dunwolf said hotly. “It’s their fault! All the fools who won’t see his genius!”

“The fools? Do you mean the women and children of Tarith Keb? The farmers of Raktul? The Ghamen tribes of Fegh and Lest?”

The young man stopped, taken aback.

“Accidents,” he said at last. “They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Have you seen them?” The old man pointed to the green globe looming over them, still slowly turning. “I have. In there. Have you? Have you seen the blank faces, staring at the sun, the bloody corpses turning black with flies, the flesh turning on Ogre spits? Or have you lingered far back in your friend’s fortress, learning his spells, listening to his words, following his dreams. Those golden dreams have led to grim realities so far, my friend.”

“I … I have heard … things,” Dunwolf hesitated. “But … there is always damage along the way in implementing any design. You have to break eggs if …”

“People are not eggs, Dunwolf. Each person is a unique witness of creation. No plan is worth their wanton destruction. Or their enslavement.” The old man looked at him sadly. “And I’m afraid your friend Barek is as much a victim of his own plans as the smallest babe killed by his horde.”

Dunwolf rounded on him angrily.

“What do you mean? Barek is no-one’s victim! He is a great wizard, a great warrior! He does not know fear, he does not know hunger, he …”

“Ah. That is why you admire him, is it not? When he found you, lost and alone, an outsider, he was everything you were not. He had the power you wanted. Power to end your own fear, your own hunger, even your own loneliness. He understood your fears, didn’t he? Because, you know, he has those fears himself.”

“You’re wrong! With the Blackmight on – “

“The Blackmight is his fear made solid and plain.” The old man shifted his weight on his cane and sighed again. “I have seen this sort of magic many times, and it never ends well. Without fear, without hunger, without sleep, he is no longer human. And the armor cannot protect him from loneliness; it feeds it. He has destroyed himself.”

“He has no weakness! He is almost a god on earth!”

“No. Slicing pieces of yourself away, hardening parts of your soul, replacing your senses with things made with hands does not transcend your humanity; it diminishes it. Removing yourself from the world does not make you invulnerable; it has left him as something less than a man. Oh, echoes remain, but they are growing fainter.”

The younger man had drawn nearer as the elder man spoke, staring at him with incredulous intensity, almost fascination. The other man was exerting no power, weaving no spell. But Dunwolf felt that he himself was changing, his eyes opening with his heart at the simple truths that he was hearing, truths that had been floating in his head unconnected and ignored. He was very close when the old man looked up. Close enough to see the tears in his ancient eyes.

Dunwolf was shaken. He stepped back.

“He is writhen,” the old man said bleakly. “Being consumed like a stick in the fire, and before he is done, much of your world will burn with him.”

“Tell me … Jonn,” Dunwolf began slowly. “I – I don’t know how or why, but I hear the truth in your words. They’ve made me face … well, things I’ve felt, but never wanted to face before. Is there any way you could … ” He hesitated. He had almost said ‘stop’, with all that implied. “That you could help him? Put an end to this?”

“I? No. It’s not my place to do so. But there is something you could do.”

“Me? I’m just an apprentice. There is no way I could oppose him!”

The old man shrugged.

“It is not my world. It is yours. While you are here in this place, I can advise you, but I cannot make decisions for Ortha. That is for you.” He smiled. “And you are stronger and cleverer than you think, you know. And now, my young friend, what will you do?”

Dunwolf’s head raced. He started pacing up and down the pavement.

“Well, first of all I can’t let him bring any of these allies from other worlds in,” he muttered. “That would be disastrous. But how could I stop him? The minute I would oppose his will he’d know …”

The old man jerked his head up as if hearing a sound.

“Well,” he said. “You’d better think quick. He is returning.” He smiled encouragingly. “Good luck.”

Dunwolf blinked. In the space of that blink, the old man disappeared.

The young apprentice stood as if turned to stone as he watched the dark figure of his master approaching from the distance, his armored feet clanking heavily on the paved stones, eager and implacable. As he drew nearer, Dunwolf could not help but assess his condition with newly opened eyes.

Whatever the nature of these allies that he had been visiting, just being in their presence had caused a change in Barek. To the young man’s wizard’s sight, there was a new aura of intensified wrong about his friend that he suddenly realized had always hovered around the man’s presence, like a faint smell of danger. He had always imagined it was just power, and there was power there, a draining power. But the faint smell had now deepened into a stench that was all too plain.

It smoldered in Barek’s triumphant eyes when he reached his apprentice and threw up his visor.

“The deal is struck,” he said, grinning wolfishly. “Our new allies are mustering their forces. The Tekkel are a mighty folk, and hungry for conquest, potent in battle and quite … cunning in invoking fear in their enemies. The fools in the White City will wish they had bowed to me when they had the chance!”

“Do you … do you think they should be given another chance?” Dunwolf looked searchingly into the face of his friend. If, somehow, he could be brought back from the brink … “Certainly, live subjects are better than dead ones. In the face of such powerful foes, they might think twice.”

“No, they have had their chance,” Barek said gleefully, too distracted with his plans to really listen, it seemed, deaf to the appeal in his apprentice’s voice. “Now they must pay the price of their short-sightedness. And it is a price the Tekkel must have in return for their services.” He put an eager hand on his Dunwolf’s shoulder. “We return to Thoravil to prepare. Tomorrow we shall come back here, and your new honor as Door Warden shall begin as you oversee the beginning of our conquest.” He looked around, gloating. “Ortha is just the first step. One day all these doors and their worlds will be ours! And your power as my keeper shall be great!”

They began walking back to iron door to Thoravil, Barek’s hand still on Dunwolf’s shoulder, hurrying on his apprentice’s reluctant steps, ignored in the excitement of his plans.

“The opening spell is simple enough. What you must remember now are the Words of Welcome I taught you. Repeat them in your mind; they must be flawless. The conditions of the world of the Tekkel are different than ours; the spell will help adapt them to Ortha’s environment … ”

“The Words of Welcome.” Dunwolf’s voice was dull. His mind was whirling. “Yes. I remember. They are important. A few words changed, a missed gesture, and it could go quite differently.”

“Exactly. So be diligent.” Barek finally seemed to notice the younger man’s mood. He tightened his grip on the shoulder and gave him an encouraging shake. “Don’t worry. You shall do fine. I would not ask this of you if I did not know you had the skill. You will serve me well.”

They reached the door and Barek began the motions of the opening spell.

“Tomorrow will be a brand-new beginning for us both.” He pushed the door open and started to step through.

“Yes. Yes, it will,” Dunwolf breathed.

Something in his voice made the Dark Lord look back even as his apprentice closed the door behind him. For a brief second Dunwolf saw his baffled face, betrayed, turning to fury. Then Dunwolf shut the door on him forever.

In shuddering breathless syllables, he spoke the spell he had just now improvised hastily but surely in his head, weaving the Words of Welcome virtually backwards, setting wards, locking doors, nearly sobbing the name Barek when it came into his spell-speech. After a moment he stepped back trembling to see if his enchantment would hold.

For a brief pause the grim iron door just stood there silently, almost as if it were looking at him. Then suddenly it boomed as if struck with a battering ram, its metal screaming in pain. Dunwolf stepped back fearfully as the blows resounded again and again, the air around him quaking as each strike landed with redoubled force. He put desperate fists to his ears as the sound roared to a thunderous crescendo.

Then suddenly it stopped. Dunwolf lowered his hands and raised his head slowly. Cautiously he approached the door, stretching forth a hand to touch it. Before he could, he drew his fingers back in alarm. The black iron was sending off waves of heat.

He retreated again, slowly, watching as a spot on the door began glowing dull red, then bright red, spreading out to the door posts, brighter and brighter until it glowed white-hot. He watched it with squinting eyes behind spread fingers held in front of his face. There was a sudden flash so brilliant that even the reflexive squeezing of his eyes shut had no effect, and for an instant he flinched, sure he would be engulfed in molten iron.

But there was nothing. He blinked his eyes, lowered his hands.

The Domain of Doors was as peaceful and cool as it had ever been. But of the iron door to Thoravil there was no sign. The portals that stood on either side had closed together, and there was not even a space to show that it had ever been.

“That was not necessary, my friend,” he whispered at last. “I could never again have come calling that way, I think. But I understand.”

He looked left and right, then began stumbling his way along the line of doors, suddenly very weary. After a moment he raised his voice.

“Alright, Jonn-whoever-you-are, if you can hear me, hear this. I’ve locked him out, and incidentally anyone else going to or from Ortha, for as long as I’m alive. If anyone from our world wants to use the Domain, they’ll have to come to me. Let’s just hope I don’t get evil, eh? Or blinded by folly again.”

He walked along, examining the doors, thinking out loud.

“Of course, assuming I don’t just get killed, even a life extended by magic will only last so long. From what I know of the Blackmight … well, there’s no limit to how long Barek can endure. He might just wait me out.” He chuckled grimly. “Guess I’d better start looking for an apprentice. One I can trust.” His voice fell. “Not like me.”

He paused before a stout oak door, gleaming with forest-green paint and brass fixture.

“Well, this looks Morgish. I should warn them, I suppose. Barek will most likely send out strike forces, if only to find me. Thank goodness he kept me a secret behind the lines; at least there won’t be any wanted posters out in the Western lands.” He looked up at the turning globe in the distance. “You listening, Jonn? Not even going to come and wish me hail and farewell?”

There was silence, except for the far-off eternal rumbling of the fountain.

“Didn’t think so,” he said glumly. “Left to live with my own choices.” He smiled sadly. “But hasn’t that always been the way?”

He muttered the spell and stepped through the door, shutting it behind him. In the sudden stillness a small, uneasy breeze rustled the leaves of the vines between the doorways, then all was peaceful and empty again.

 

First Draft finished: 6:11 AM, July 25, 2019.

 Notes

I think this was in a way the crown of the original run of 'Morg' stories, even though no Morgs actually appear in it. It dealt with what could be seen as the beginnings of the Goldfire epic, even though it was almost the last thing written. In the original story, Barek was just another powerful, distant Dark Lord and Dunwolf an ancient wizard. Here I finally got to show Barek on stage, as it were, show Dunwolf in his raw, morally ambiguous youth, and reveal the origins of their relationship.

It also explores more thoroughly the concept of the Domain of Doors, an element that was not present in Ortha at first, but only slowly drawn into it over time. It actually had its origin in old 'swingings', tales which John and I wove as kids as we swung back and forth and let our imaginations fly. One long strand featured 'Charlie Brown' and 'Linus', as they went on fantastic adventures that Charles Schulz had never conceived, in one of which they visited such a place, as yet unnamed. In Shutting the Door they are seen at a distance by the two wizards, accompanied by Snoopy. 

Also appearing in a cameo role is John Craft, our ultimate Elvish wizard, conceived in the Peanuts playings, first incarnate in the Alben stories, the One True Wizard of the Babellian Multiverse. Of course he had to appear here.

One stray Tekkel appears in the crossover story Remember the Bellamy, in which the Tekkel are described physically.