[Flashback] As Far As Light Excels Darkness

[Colombina]

Distance was a thing that could be felt. A point came when map or star was meaningless, when the heart knew how far it had strayed. A single man standing in unending sand, Abashai could feel the enormity of the space as never before. He was passing beyond all the familiar crags and wells into territories that had no names.

High dunes softened Abashai's horizon line, shading him like waves. This vast land shifted and changed unseen by mortals. Superfluous beauty rose and died on the sand without witness: hues and shapes conjured by the mechanical turning of the earth. Did glory glow and fade here for the gods alone?

The gods, an uncomfortable thought. A Rapa had baptized Abashai in just enough knowledge of Yahal to sustain him, but he was not full. Was there ever fullness in this faith, or would he be led about by the nose until he could not enjoy the bounty? Yahebah's glories were built long after Biyram died, and the old man never saw his people grow great. The doubt was planted in his thoughts as Abashai climbed the final dune.

Rolling sand finally gave way to ocean like flatness, disturbed only by a lonely gathering of stones. The gathering of stones grew into a red monument and the monument became a prelude. Solidifying in the shimmering heat were the Redstone formations.

They grew more magnificent and unkind as the day labored on. When Abashai finally reached their ruddy feet, weariness had winnowed into his joints.

Here, the terrain was more generous to life. Scrub was tufted between stones and the canyons echoed with the clop of goats' hooves. Smoke even curled from a plateau twenty feet above his head.

"Who's there?"

A silhouette accompanied the question, bending over the ledge. It was a feeble man with clothes that looked like they had been raked over claws. His beard was shamefully short for his age and his head was shorn, but there was a quickness in his expression that argued against madness.

"Come, sit with me," he waved his hand, "Thief or traveler, you can plague me no more than I have already been."

[Abashai]

All he had known was that these red cliffs lay in the path that he felt compelled to follow, so he had climbed. He had dismounted, finding it difficult for the horse to traverse without his leading it. He actually appreciated the unexpected interruption of the stranger above. Picking his way through the massive rock formations had grown monotonous.

Abashai had never refused an invitation to visit by a fire. But those fires have always been surrounded by Benshiran tents. Tents that now lie far behind the vast dunes he could still see shimmering in the distance, beyond the unfamiliar, rocky terrain that tumbled down away from him to the plain far below. He glanced from the distance back up to the waving man.

Abashai's first impression left him wondering at the absurdity of someone, especially this frail straggler, camping out way up here. But in a way, the figure seemed to fit into the arid, hash landscape, as thin and threadbare as the scrawny shrubs clinging to the slopes.

The scraggly man's demeanor was unimposing and inviting... the idea of sitting and resting, divine. Abashai waved back, "Very well!" He dropped the horses reins, not fearing she would flee in such rocky terrain. The mare seemed content to pick at the scrub between the rocks. Abashai struggled to make his way to the rock above, more than once sending a plume of small stones sliding down towards his beast. With a final push, he surmounted the top.

[Colombina]

The man ambled backward on the ledge, further into the shade of a shallow cave. His redstone hermitage was strewn with broken pottery and in one corner was a nest of dingy fabric in deep purples and blues.
"Had to make the space orderly for my cousin. He was just here."
The man's foot kicked something glittering to the side: a narrow silver teapot set with lapis lazuli. Smoke trickled from a pit fire he kept fed with dead scrub and camel dung.

He spoke Shiber to Abashai, seizing upon their shared heritage.
"He tells me to curse Yahal and die." The man huffed a laugh. "Easier said than done. Even at my age."
The man circled the nest of fabric nudging it into a softer shape before he eased into it. Realizing the suddenness with which he pulled Abashai into his affairs, the man tried to pin his tongue. He scratched his chin through his beard as he remembered the proper way to greet a fellow Benshira. One of his fingers held a heavy ring set with beryl larger than his knuckle.

"I'm Toviel of the sons of Benha, of my own Tents."
The last word made him chuckle sardonically and wave his hand broadly across the ramshackle ledge.
"They have fallen from what they once were, but I am still their patriarch." Perching his hands on his knees he continued.
"Gone, all of them. The flocks, my sons, my tents, my servants…" His milky blue eyes hovered over where the pavilion may have once stood on the horizon.
"Both good and evil had been given to me, but I wonder from whose hand?"

Toviel refocused his eyes, casting them to Abashai.
"Now why are you here? A young man with no bride or tent on the edge of his people's land?"
Rummaging in his cushion's layers, Toviel found a wineskin and extended it towards Abashai. The liquid was more water than wine, suiting an old man.

[Abashai]

Abashai reluctantly took the worn wineskin. He typically did not drink alcohol, but the aroma was weak, and it was rude not accept the fellow Benshiran's hospitality. The younger desert man put the spout to his lips and upended the skin, allowing the thin red liquid to drain down his throat. He handed the skin back to the hermit.

"Thank you friend. My name is Abashai of the Sons of Havid." Abashai took a quick glance around the cave. He noted the bright colored textiles, now a ragged bed, the inlaid silver tea set, the beryl ring...all trappings of wealth. Either this old Benshiran salvaged or stole them, or he once truly did own the flocks and servants of a wealthy man.

His gaze returned to the old man, who patiently waited an answer. "It is true, I have no Tent or wife. I travel north. Why I am here," he paused to look out over the rocky, sanguine terrain, "well, I don't know. I felt...compelled, I guess." Abashai had traveled with only that subtle urge to guide him. He couldn't define it, most of the time didn't even realize it was working on him. It was what brought him here.

[Colombina]

Taking back the wine skin, Toviel grinned at Abashai's name.
"A son of Havid. I have known many in my time, most were men of valor."
He caught the absence of a Tent, but made no mention of it. He did linger on another portion of Abashai's reply, though.

"Compelled?"
Toviel chuckled at the word.
"By what, young Abashai? The quest for knowledge, for power or by physical need? Those are the oldest gods and compulsions I know. Our people have a tendency to wander under their influence."
His expression changed slightly, as his prodding grew more direct.
"Or do you keep to the god of your fathers and think his hand sways you?"
The wrinkled Benshira shifted where he sat, "I am a nosy old man, I'd ask your forgiveness, but that would imply I wish to mend my ways. So I will only ask your forbearance."

Toviel began to rock, gathering the momentum to stand. With a mumbled complaint he made it to his feet. He walked towards the ledge, surveying the parched land. The sun was low and sweltering as if Syna was looking for something in the sand.

"I wonder if Yahal remembers any of us. We squat in a ruined land and water flows among the just and the unjust."
He repeated the crux of his inquiry as he twisted to look at Abashai.
"Do you think the divine really pays attention to where we walk or hears the prayers we toss heavenward?"

[Abashai]

Tucking his thumbs in his belt, Abashai took a few steps toward the elder Benshiran, gazing past him at the crimson sunset. The hermit spoke to him as if the younger man were an old friend and Abashai was naturally drawn into the conversation.

"At one time, I did not think the higher one cared. I wondered, 'what is man that Yahal would be mindful of us, the sons of men that he would care for us?.'" The painful memory of his own transgression, more than ten years behind him, rose up like a persistent wound, refusing to mend. "We are flawed and unfaithful, no matter how hard we try." But then, the sandstorm, and the words of the Rapa. What the wise priest had said struck a resonance deep within Abashai, it seemed right. "But of late, I am not so sure the divine does not work its will among men, even to our benefit."

He paused. Toviel was a good listener, and Abashai felt comfortable speaking his mind. They seemed so remote as they looked across the vast expanse of Eyktol spread out before them, maybe they were a little closer to the gods up here on this ledge. "I do not seek power or wealth, or knowledge for its own sake. I guess I do seek understanding, in a way." He struggled to define his motivation. He finally verbalized what he still strove to acknowledge within himself. "I do believe the Holy One has...", 'interfered' came to mind, but he dared not, "intervened in my life."

[Colombina]

Toviel bore Abashai's reply with a set jaw. Each morsel of the young man's hope struck him like a stone, but he would not move.

"I still see the glory of Yahal in the sun," Toviel blinked at the onslaught of gold and white, "But oh, he takes and he takes."
His old fists curled grasping at the wind and memories. Merciless, light continued to break, illuminating the stones in front of them. It bathed the valley in mottled splendor of color.
"This world," the man waved his hand over the pit of gold, "It rejoices when my heart is heavy."

Toviel sighed deep enough to break his ribs.
"It does not care about the Tsanas and the storms that have rubbed out my tents."
Pivoting his body towards the northeast, his hand stretched towards a black mold on a plateau.
"See the shape? The Tsanas wait even now, hoping I will find the courage to face them, to bury my own. They squat over the bones of my wife, mocking my age and infirmity that keeps me from hunting them."

Toviel turned fully toward Abashai and placed his hands on both the younger man's shoulders.
"Maybe you can listen for me. Listen for Yahal's voice, because I cannot hear it."
His tired head bowed between his arms.
"Then you tell me. Tell me, what is faith?"

[Abashai]

Abashai felt the weight of the frail man hanging on his shoulders. His own tragedies now paled in light of what Toviel has suffered. The traveler looked out across the stony landscape to the blackened remains of Toviel's life, obscured by distamce, haunted by the shapes of desert predators. He felt a wave of helplessness. Abashai had just begun his journey, trying to trust in Yahal, trust that he really is there, that the god truly is moving in his life. What encouragement could he offer this broken soul? Abashai's heart felt burdened for the old man.

What is faith? Abashai pondered only a moment. He left his home with no idea where he was going, what was going to happen to him. He went because, in his heart, he knew that he was supposed to. He took no thought of where he was going, how he would provide for himself. He had done what he had never done before, he stepped out in faith.

He looked down at Toviel, the old man's head still bowed. "I am no Rapa, no scholar. I am not even a very faithful follower. But I will tell you what I am learning about faith. When a situation is beyond you, faith is giving up trusting in yourself and putting your life in the hands of the unseen. Faith is believing that Yahal will work his plan out for you, even when you see absolutely no evidence that shows it. It allows me to walk as if what has not happened yet has already happened."

Abashai looked out again to the far plateau. The words he spoke could not have been much comfort. They seemed nice and pious, but Abashai feared they would only sound mocking to the desperate man. But he knew those words to be true, he was staking his life on it. Indeed, Abashai had faith (though a bit shakey) that he climbed up these rocks for a reason beyond is own. "Toviel, my friend. What can I do?"

[Colombina]

Abashai's comfort rained on the old man's heavy spirit. Toviel's quietness said he had heard the younger Benshira's answer, but whether they would take root or shrivel in the desert sun remained to be seen.

His hand squeezed Abashai's shoulder, and he raised his head.
"What can you do?"
Toviel released his grip and half stumbled half walked back. He ran his hands over his balding head, smearing the ash and dust he had anointed himself in.
"You are a good man to offer help to one such as me. A bit of mercy amidst sorrow."

He looked to the terrible black beasts. At this distance they were still only fur on the rocks, mottled by the sunset's heat. Three Tsanas were brooding over bones picked clean. One raised it's snout and snapped at the air, another gave a bird like screech.

"What I need I dare not ask." He twisted his fingers, "I hope to bury my wife's bones, before those animals grind her to dust. So I may know where I should make my own grave beside her."

[Abashai]

Abashai's heart sank as he watched the despair in the grieving man's eyes. To his people, not to be able to bury the dead, to observe death rituals, would be devastating. The rite allowed closure for the family, brought a sense of peace with the final farewell to a loved one, allowed healing to begin. To look out and see the remains of his wife lying to bleach in the sun, underfoot the great beasts, must be driving Toviel mad with grief.

Abashai looked out across the rocks again at the focus of Toviel's pain. The dark shapes, now casting long shadows, bickered with one another with shrill cries, over what he did not want to know. He knew what the man needed, what he dare not ask the stranger to do. The stranger sighed, moved by the tragedy of the moment, the soul tormented before him. Abashai stood up a bit straighter, his jaw set with the weight of his decision.

He looked back down into the mournful, sunken eyes. "You do not have to ask, friend." He placed a gentle hand on the bony shoulder. "I will hunt the beasts." He dropped his hand and looked up into the reddening sky. Yahal, your Penita scrolls say that the battle is yours...I give this one to you. Use me as your weapon.