The Eighth House

The Eighth House

by Gerald R. Stanek

Copyright Gerald R. Stanek 1994, revised 2002, All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition 2011

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Of Rautha

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

And the ground shook

And the Mouth of Rautha opened up

Swallowing the harvest and Hargoth the Braggart

And the people were afraid and fled

But Rautha kicked Her legs

Until trees fell in their path

And the mountain slid beneath their feet

Pulling them back into the valley

Thus it came to be known that She of the Earth

Desired the people to serve Her

And one was Chosen to listen

So that Her needs might be met

And in return

Rautha is Merciful

Rautha is Wise

Rautha Provides

Rautha Hears

And when He saw that Rautha was served well

He of the Sky became jealous of Her

of Despite he caused the women to become barren

And the people shrank in number

Then He made himself known

And when the people saw Him in the Sky

They made a Great Table to serve Him

And sent the Chosen to listen to Him

And He was pleased

Thus it came to be that He of the Sky

Matches the people one to another

And assures their numbers

Chapter One

Come, Grandmother, sit here.

A stool was provided; Grandmother sat and leaned back against a clean spot of wall with a sigh, quite out of breath. She had come alone, made her way down the many stairs and along the many corridors without assistance as an act of defiance to those whose charge she was and who would have discouraged her from coming at all for fear of the strain to her aged frame. But she had to see for herself, the end of it all. She had to see it done. The adults had, at long last, finished the heavy work some days past; a ceremonious celebration was planned for a few days hence, in which she, as the eldest and most direct link to the Beginning of the Discovering, would be treated like a fragile relic, with more care and regard than would be comfortable. In the interim, she knew, the young people would have been put to washing out the last of it. So she had snuck away from the watchful eyes and made her way to the bottom.

Oh, thank you my dear, she said breathlessly, I just wanted to watch for a moment; this is the last room, you know.

Of course, Meina said softly, returning to her work. She dipped a sopping, black rag into a bucket of black water and sloshed it against the filthy wall. Other figures around the dimly lit space slowly returned to their task, scouring the ancient stones, but quietly; the playful jibes, the overt grumblings and groanings, the shouted conversations the old woman had heard on her way down the corridor had disappeared. She was disconcerted; the joy of youth had drawn her down to this place as much as the momentous occasion the completion of the work represented. Yes, she wanted to see the job done with her own eyes, yes it meant everything to her to know the toil of her long life and her mother and father’s and her Grandfather’s had not been in vain. But to see and hear the young and vital working and playing, as near to death as she was; this was her great joy. She felt she had taken the very life out of the room.

Go on the way you were, she shouted at them testily, Don’t mind me. Think I am not here. Though the youths knew exactly what she meant, it was impossible for them to return their demeanor to what it had been before this reverend personage had come into their presence. Nevertheless, they attempted to obey her order, and with obvious effort began quiet conversations completely devoid of humor or playfulness. One young man softly slipped words into Meina’s ear, while his hand lay lightly on her back. This made the girl’s mouth turn up slightly and her eyes brighten with amusement, though she tried to hide it. Instinctively, the old woman disliked him — wooing her granddaughter in front of her, and with a joke made at her expense, no doubt. A sigh of disgust escaped her, followed by a wrenching cough, perhaps brought on by the musty damp air.

Are you all right, Grandmother? asked Meina, wringing black streams from her rag.

How right can one be at my age, the other grumbled under her breath. It was likely she had never spoken to the boy, she was sure she didn’t know his name, yet there was something familiar about him.

Why don’t you tell us a story, Grandmother, the young woman suggested. A number of the older children moaned and winced.

I don’t know any stories, child. It had not been her intention to intrude, only to witness.

"But what about Grandfather, and the Lowering of the Light,…"

Yes, put in another, "Tell us of the Beginning, and the Bringing of the Spade and…"

I’m sure you’ve all heard those tales a thousand.. coughs finished her sentence. When she said Grandfather, Meina meant her grandmother’s mother’s father, Paalin, and all in the room understood. It was sweet of them to pretend interest, the old woman thought, but she knew no one wanted to hear her prattle on about things long gone. That would surely silence the room — quite the opposite of what had drawn her there in the first place. Her time was coming to a close. It was their time to pull new tales from the lives they were living.

Please Grandmother? It would make the work go faster, Meina suggested. Here the young man, the unknown yet known young man, by way of ingratiating himself to the girl in his eye while at the same time displaying his superiority, offered his own suggestion, "Yes, tell us, was he truly a master?"

It was an impertinent question, for he knew the answer, it was in his voice. And there was more in his voice, a certain shape to the words, a sound slightly out of place.

What is your name, young fellow? she asked.

Raakin.

Raakin, she repeated. It was not familiar to her, but she could hardly remember the names of her own offspring, let alone those of others. No, Grandfather was not a master, she said slowly, "To be a master one must hold the light… and the dark in the mind as one. Grandfather sought the light only."

"But was he not a reader of runes and… and a dreamer of dreams?" He was determined to take the old woman to task on her ancestor’s reputation. Fool, she thought, This will not win the girl. I am not your rival, though I have her love.

Who has said so? she asked, a snap in her old voice, for despite what the learned had done to counter it, the belief was still widespread that dreaming led to madness. Then it came to her, she knew who this Raakin was, she hadn’t seen him since his thin beard had come, but the face was recognizable; now the beard itself brought another man and time to mind.

Some. I have heard it said, he replied. The boy’s grandfather was one of the few who had come from outside; something about him had made her uneasy. He had used the same light touch on her own shoulder so many moons ago, but she had turned away and chosen another.

Ah, you have heard it said.

I have, he asserted, and to his dismay he noticed how Meina’s expression had changed from one of girlish admiration to one of affronted womanhood. The air of confident wit flew from his face.

"Did you know my grandfather?" the old woman asked.

"No, but…" he responded quietly.

What? she asked, knowing full well what he had said though she hadn’t heard.

No, I did not know your grandfather, he admitted loudly.

Oh, I see. From the way you were speaking, I thought perhaps.. Raakin shook his head.

"I knew your grandfather," she said.

Oh?

Yes. He often spoke of things he knew not. You would be wise to avoid the same habit. The boy had learned quickly and remained silent. This statement made, she began to cough violently. Her granddaughter rushed to her assistance, stroking her back and keeping her from falling off her seat.

Come, Grandmother, Meina soothed, You should get out of this foul air. She took the old woman’s hand to pull her to her feet.

No, she coughed, pushing the girl away. After struggling for her breath she pointed to the foolish young man whose sparse beard could not hide the redness of his face, and croaked, "You… you will help me back to my room." And she held out her hand to the boy. Sheepishly, he stepped forward and pulled her to her feet. The two slowly made their way along the corridor, the old leaning on the arm of the young, pausing for breath often. The corners of her eyes were filmy with age; she was forced to turn her head to look at him. He ignored her as she studied his face. It was so like the grandfather, and made her just as uneasy. Still, that one had become a fine man, a hard worker, and was good to his family; though she was ever grateful to have avoided his advance, she had come to realize her repulsion was nothing more than fear of one unknown to her; now she recognized she had been too harsh on the son of the son.

Raakin, your grandfather was a good man, she offered.

Yes, he agreed firmly.

"Worked hard for us all. But he did not know my Grandfather any better than you. His… opinions… were not based upon proper understanding. I suppose he said Grandfather was… simple?"

"Well…"

Don’t worry, I have heard all Ignorance can say of him and more. Would you like to know the truth about my Grandfather? she asked, knowing he wouldn’t dare say no.

Yes, of course, he mumbled.

"He was not simple, far from it. Simple of heart, perhaps. The meanness of the world was ever unforeseen by him. It’s true he was a dreamer of dreams, some by night and some by day. Grandmother had much to do with that. Each had dreams: strong, peculiar, and long lasting; but it was when they dreamt together that your world and mine were changed. Perhaps it is so that those who cannot forget their dreams risk their minds, but… those who cannot remember them are surely lost. As for Grandfather, he may well have been mad in mind, perhaps he was artless, but one thing that must never be said… here she stopped and tightened her grip on his arm, pulling it till he looked her in the eye,is that Grandfather was a coward."

"My apologies, I never meant…" she stopped him with a wave of her hand.

"You never said it, child, no need to apologize. Just remember that his courage has changed your life as much as it changed mine. And remember that he began as you — a boy who thinks he’s a man because he has grown to a man’s height and has a man’s hair and a man’s desires — remember that he, like you, was mistaken in his expectations, that because he survived childhood he felt entitled to more than air to breath, ground to stand on and daylight to work by."

A perplexed, dull expression accompanied his mumbled response: "I don’t un… I’m not…"

The girl, boy, I’m talking about the girl. This made little more sense to him, but the old woman continued as they arrived at her room, pulling him in and sitting him down to hear all she had to tell.

"He said I reminded him of her, one evening, was when I was young. I had light hair, you know, before it was grey, and blue eyes. Something in the way the light caught my hair that night, and he began to tell me everything, and confess all the foolish things that make up youth, all the things one tries to forget as one grows old. Jalayna was her name, he said. He wanted her, and she him, but things were different in those days. She was the one he looked for, always; the one whose smile fed his own, the one he had expected to be matched to since they had learned to walk. He said he could remember the way her hair looked that night, the night of Kaanar’s Acceptance. He said he could remember the whole evening like it was yesterday.

Kaanar, his friend, waist-deep in the water. Twelve score moons had passed since Kaanar’s birth. It was time he became a Servant of Rautha. Kaanar standing in the river, the Chosen at his side. Kaanar was naked of course, as Grandfather had been the night of his Acceptance, as every other man had been in their turn since Rautha had made Herself known to the people. Some however, are luckier than others; Grandfather’s Acceptance had fallen under the moon of planting. How cold the water was that day! The memory made him shiver, though this night of Kaanar’s was under the moon of thunder, and he, Grandfather, was fully clothed, witnessing from the river bank.

The Chosen, clothed as He always was in a full length cloak with its enormous hood covering His face, turned young Kaanar toward the setting sun. Kaanar, now more than ever, was to avoid looking into the hood, which was ever an unseemly thing to do. How the Chosen could see out well enough to work was a wonder to all, but He always managed, as he did now; pulling the hairs away from Kaanar’s face and carefully scraping the skin with His cutting stone. A man must be clean the first night he approaches She of the Earth. Grandfather watched the breeze steal the hairs from the Chosen’s fingers, and carry them lightly down to the water and away into the shadows. Now and then a drop of blood would fall into the water and chase the hairs downstream.

When his face was bare, the Chosen pulled Kaanar closer to the bank and rubbed his bare skin with handfuls of clean, fine sand. Then He pushed the young man’s head under the water, pulled it out and stood him upright. The Chosen slopped onto the bank, water pouring from His drenched cloak. Kaanar followed, as red as a berry from the cleansing. The clean cloth was all laid out on the ground nearby. Kaanar stretched out on it, taking care not to touch it with his hands or he would have to be cleansed again. The Chosen wrapped it about him and tied the new cord around his waist. Kaanar’s father brought forth the shoes he had made for the occasion and the Chosen tied them about his ankles. All this was observed in silence. Then the floppy hood turned, and He strode up the nearby path, all the men of the valley following, one by one.

Grandfather followed with the others. Darkness was fast approaching. Two score and ten had passed since he had become a servant of Rautha, and he had gone up the high hill many times since then, yet his hands were slick and his chest tight as he climbed. The Chosen and Kaanar stopped abruptly when they reached the top of the hill; the others followed the path around them, encircling the great blackness that was so difficult to discern in the dusk. Cautiously, they stepped closer, until they were a mere pace away from the mighty Mouth of Rautha.

Then the chanting began, in the old tongue; the Chosen calling out the words first for the others, save Kaanar, to follow. The sound was low and full, giving each man the sensation that he was the only one speaking, with a voice as large as the high hill.There was a pause while each man took a handful of grain from his cloak and threw it into the black. This was only a token for Kaanar’s Acceptance; harvest was yet a moon away.

Then the Chosen took Kaanar by the arm and pulled him one step closer to the black Mouth of Rautha. We present Kaanar, he called. The other men remained silent. This night he holds ten score moons. We pray that You accept him as Your servant. Then He began again, with Kaanar calling out in turn as he had been carefully taught.

By now it was very dark. Even stepping directly backward might cause one to stumble and fall, yet Grandfather knew he had but to wait. Any moment the Chosen’s torch would be lit by the Breath of Rautha. No one knew how this could be, yet no one doubted it. They had all seen it happen time after time. Rautha was the Provider; the spark of light and the warmth of fire were Hers to give.

When at last the Chosen’s torch sputtered to life, He turned and gave fire to Kaanar’s torch, who gave fire to his father, and so on and on around the circle of men. Then all backed up and followed the path down toward the village; all save the Chosen, whose home was nearby on the high hill, where He would always be near should Rautha have some cause to speak to Him.

At the base of the hill all the women and children were waiting. Kaanar’s mother was weeping, and she held him for a long time when she saw that he was all right. Grandfather congratulated Kaanar in his turn and stood there amidst the others, listening to their talk. His younger brother and sister, Polimn and Nara, were chasing in and out of the clusters of people with others their age. All the while, his eyes were searching through the crowd of faces for the one he wished to see.

As some of the men took their women in hand and began leaving the gathering, Kaanar’s father said Wait, I have something to say to you all. then paused until he had everyone’s attention, though many had already guessed what he was going to say. The Chosen has informed me that my son, Kaanar is to be matched. Everyone gave the appropriate reply, He of the Sky has blessed you.

Yes, agreed the father, He is to be matched to Keela, when she is of age, which shall be six moons from now.

May your match be fruitful! shouted many of the people, as they again set off toward the village.

Grandfather scanned the faces, remembering the unexpected silence there had been after his own Acceptance. There had been no cheers that night, no announcements, no matches made. He spotted his own father up ahead in the throng of people moving down the trail. His father nodded to him and hesitated, they walked along together, stride for stride; then he saw her — Jalayna, surrounded by her family. She did not see him. He would have quickened his pace to reach her, but his father would know why, and disapprove. This night of all nights he longed to see her face, but she walked on, and he said nothing, stuck at his father’s slow step, his eyes following the shimmer of her golden hair which glowed in the light of their torch. He could see how soft it was, and could almost feel it in the palm of his hand. He wanted to call to her, to turn her face toward his.

Then her father turned away from the main path, to take his family home. Suddenly the flowing hair whirled, and their eyes met, as though she had known all along he was there, as though her need was as great as his — but the smile so looked for was not found, there was anguish on her face. That was the moment, he later recalled, that changed his life forever.

There followed that night harsh words with his father, confused wanderings about the village and the fields; he was angry, fretful, and dazed, until he found himself waist deep in the river, several leagues from home. The rocks were slimy under his feet, foam splashed into his eyes, and warm drops of blood dripped down his face as he worked the cutting stone against his skin. It was painful, it was risky, it was perhaps mad, but as Grandfather saw it at the time, it was his only hope.

Jalayna was to be matched to another, the Chosen had given word that evening. When he heard, Grandfather had been wild with anguish, the same anguish he had seen in her face moments before. He had spoken back to his father, he had smashed a chair with his foot like a petulant child. He had thought to pull the walls log from log until nothing remained. He had thought to run up the high hill and thrust his hand into the Chosen’s hood. He had thought many shameful things, and searched all his understanding for a way to change his fate, and so he was there, in the water, at the far end of the valley, beyond the fields of grain, beyond the fields of roots, beyond even the fields of fruit, at the foot of Eida’s Table. For he knew in the end it was not up to his father, nor Jalayna’s father, nor the Chosen, nor yet Merciful Rautha; it was up to Eida, He of the Sky.

After scrubbing himself as clean as he could, Grandfather washed the round fruit he had gathered from the trees on his way; their yellow skins shining grey in the light of the halfmoon. His cloth and cloak he tied tightly on, dropping the armful of fruit into his hood in order to leave his hands free. Revitalized from the cool water, he approached the looming shadow of the Table alert and hopeful. Eida alone held the power to bless a match with children; it was the Chosen’s task was to assure a match that met with Eida’s approval; but this time the Chosen was wrong. Grandfather knew it. If she were matched to another, Jalayna would be barren. He knew it. The Chosen was often wrong, it was clear to all by the many barren matches in the village. He was wrong.

The valley had come to an end; its bountiful fields and fruit trees were far behind him. Through the gathering evergreens, he followed the path as it wound up the steep hill and around the Table’s base of stone, depositing him at the foot of its long dark stair. Though he had been there three times before to assist with the harvest offerings, it was still a marvel to him. His father’s father’s father had helped to erect the enormous structure; it was said a thousand stones were needed to form the base. From each corner of the base rose a massive timber whose foot lay deep in the hillside. Five score of the tallest trees had been felled and brought to the site from all over the valley, and it was said that nine leagues of cord were used to strap the various cross members and braces into place.

To one side lay the huge basket that the Chosen used to haul the fruit to the top. It was large enough for a man to sleep in; when full of fruit, it took ten hands and the longest rope ever made to pull it up to the Table. Opposite the basket was a ladder, used to repair the lashings and replace rotted timbers. Said to have six score rungs, its top was indiscernible. Cautiously he began to climb.

Eida’s Table itself sat atop the mass of poles and timbers, braces and posts. It wasn’t a flat, broad space as he had imagined, rather it was a kind of bin or hold. As he drew nearer, he could see the individual logs used to make its walls. Soon they were in front of his face and the last rung was in his grasp. He climbed until his waist rested against the top of the wall and he was looking down into the bin.

All was in shadow. It seemed bottomless, and its edges were indistinguishable from the dark background of valley below. A feeling similar to that one had on the high hill came over him — an urge to back away from the black. Instead, he bent forward and peered into what seemed like a mouth. It did not seem empty.

Grandfather straightened himself and breathed deeply, searching the blanket of stars for the courage to finish what he had started. It seemed impossible given the distance he had climbed, but the twinkling lights were no closer than when he had begun. Carefully, he retrieved one fruit from the hood of his cloak, held it out over the Table, and boldly invoked the name of He who cares for the Sky.

Eida, he called loudly, Please hear me! His words disappeared into the night. The sound of his voice made him wish he had not spoken at all; it seemed so small. It couldn’t possibly be heard, or if heard, would never be heeded. I serve You, he said softly, and dropped his offering into the pit. He stared after it a long while, without blinking, until the breeze dried his eyes and they began to tear. He pulled another fruit from his hood and dropped it into the black. Eida, please hear me! he called again. His voice seemed to belong to someone else. His ears ached for a response, but none came. He heard only the wind whistling through the trees. Of course not, he thought, I am not the Chosen. I will not be heard. Grandfather was mistaken in his expectations.

His eyes searched the Sky, but found only stars — whitest white on blackest black, yet their twinkling reminded him of the pale blue of her eyes twinkling in the sun. The breeze blew his hair over his bare face and it seemed as though she were with him, as though it were her hair waving.

Jalayna, he whispered, as though her name might be invoked.

Above the mountains, across the valley, the sky began to turn from black to blue.

O Mighty Eida! he shouted with all the force he could muster, You who care for the Sky! Please hear me! Reaching behind his head, he took all the fruit from his hood and threw them, one by one into the bin. I serve You! he hollered, but the wind rushed the call back down his throat. The sky was too vast, too full of wind, and altogether empty of ears. He could yell no more. The hope that had pulled him up the long ladder was gone. The anger that had driven him the length of the valley was gone. The sadness that remained only fatigued him. He had not slept and the first rays of the sun were gushing over the mountains. Blinking the tears away, he peered down into the Table, trying to see more clearly. The bin seemed to be about half full of dirt. Why would there be so much dirt in Eida’s Table? Grandfather wondered.

Now the whole sky was a deep blue, and the stars were disappearing.

Leaning over the edge as far as possible, he was able to identify the golden, freshly picked fruits he had just offered, strewn about the bin, but it was still too dark to see anything else. His eyes begged for more light. He waited, bleary eyed, sleepy, clutching the edge of the table against his thighs.

Suddenly a bird landed on the other end of the Table, looked at him briefly, then flew off. He watched it glide down to perch at the tip of a nearby tree. The tops of the evergreens at this end of the valley were all sunlit and waving gently in the wind.