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PSL: Travelling
Dec. 20th, 2020 06:06 pmHe’d found her by her reputation, as far as she could tell. That in and of itself should have been shocking: how could she possibly have a reputation here, on the public road among strange people whom she would meet briefly and then never see again, far from any town or community which had ever seen her work? But Mistress Izun had taught her better than that. Don’t assume that you are passing unknown through the world, she’d said. Never assume that you are unregarded or unwatched - there will always be someone watching you, judging you, deciding whether you are someone to be trusted, or respected, or abused. Everything you ever do - or do not do - will be noticed by someone. And they will treat you accordingly. So always do what is right, always act properly, and always offer help rather than harm.
Of course, she’d said this back in their tiny and isolated village, in which everyone really did know everyone else’s business. It was easy to believe she was being watched there. Here, far from home, it might be easier to believe that there really was no one watching one small, lonely young woman among all the other travellers. But Mistress Izun knew what she was talking about. She’d never been wrong yet, as far as Ardan knew, and here was some more proof: someone had told the strange man now walking next to her that she was a good healer, and obviously they’d been credible enough that he believed them. Perhaps it had been the boy on the last caravan whose leg she’d mended, or the old man whose rash she had cleared up with salve. Anyway, he’d come to find her among the bustle of the way station as she’d been trying to barter her way onto another caravan, and he’d told her that he needed a healer. That was how, instead of another caravan, she now found herself travelling alone with this stranger.
It had been a quiet journey, so far, and not just because she was no longer surrounded by the noise and chaos of another caravan full of people and goods and donkeys. There were just the two of them, one tall man and one small woman, and a horse carrying supplies. The road was deserted, as they’d left the slow-moving caravans far behind at the waystation - there seemed nothing but dust and hot sun and the cleared forest on either side for miles. And her new companion was quiet as well; despite seeking her companionship, he’d offered neither conversation nor complaint since they’d set out. She’d felt no need to force conversation on him in return; after weeks of braying donkeys and groaning cart wheels and screaming babies and endless, endless babble, the silence felt comfortable. Her senses began to relax as they walked, as if the noise had been a physical weight on her eardrums only now being lifted.
The fine gravel crunched under their feet in an uneven rhythm, the horse’s hooves, the man’s heavy boots, and her own lighter footfalls. In the clear space to either side of the road, early autumn cicadas droned and crickets shrilled and the grass sawed in the wind. The air smelled of dust, and heat, and horse sweat. By the position of the sun in the east it was still mid-morning, but already the day promised to be scorching. She pulled her headscarf further over the crown of her head: it would not do to suffer from heatstroke on the road.
“We must stop soon,” she said, sometime later, finally breaking the silence. Her own voice sounded small in her ears compared to the loud voices of the world around them. She pointed ahead: in the distance was the squat, round shape of a stone well, the first on the road since the last waystation. Nearby there would be a trough to be filled with water for the horse, as there had been near all of the other wells on this stretch of road. She looked sideways at her quiet new companion. “We can fill our waterskins while the horse drinks.”
Of course, she’d said this back in their tiny and isolated village, in which everyone really did know everyone else’s business. It was easy to believe she was being watched there. Here, far from home, it might be easier to believe that there really was no one watching one small, lonely young woman among all the other travellers. But Mistress Izun knew what she was talking about. She’d never been wrong yet, as far as Ardan knew, and here was some more proof: someone had told the strange man now walking next to her that she was a good healer, and obviously they’d been credible enough that he believed them. Perhaps it had been the boy on the last caravan whose leg she’d mended, or the old man whose rash she had cleared up with salve. Anyway, he’d come to find her among the bustle of the way station as she’d been trying to barter her way onto another caravan, and he’d told her that he needed a healer. That was how, instead of another caravan, she now found herself travelling alone with this stranger.
It had been a quiet journey, so far, and not just because she was no longer surrounded by the noise and chaos of another caravan full of people and goods and donkeys. There were just the two of them, one tall man and one small woman, and a horse carrying supplies. The road was deserted, as they’d left the slow-moving caravans far behind at the waystation - there seemed nothing but dust and hot sun and the cleared forest on either side for miles. And her new companion was quiet as well; despite seeking her companionship, he’d offered neither conversation nor complaint since they’d set out. She’d felt no need to force conversation on him in return; after weeks of braying donkeys and groaning cart wheels and screaming babies and endless, endless babble, the silence felt comfortable. Her senses began to relax as they walked, as if the noise had been a physical weight on her eardrums only now being lifted.
The fine gravel crunched under their feet in an uneven rhythm, the horse’s hooves, the man’s heavy boots, and her own lighter footfalls. In the clear space to either side of the road, early autumn cicadas droned and crickets shrilled and the grass sawed in the wind. The air smelled of dust, and heat, and horse sweat. By the position of the sun in the east it was still mid-morning, but already the day promised to be scorching. She pulled her headscarf further over the crown of her head: it would not do to suffer from heatstroke on the road.
“We must stop soon,” she said, sometime later, finally breaking the silence. Her own voice sounded small in her ears compared to the loud voices of the world around them. She pointed ahead: in the distance was the squat, round shape of a stone well, the first on the road since the last waystation. Nearby there would be a trough to be filled with water for the horse, as there had been near all of the other wells on this stretch of road. She looked sideways at her quiet new companion. “We can fill our waterskins while the horse drinks.”
The Sage and Pupil
Apr. 8th, 2019 10:02 pmNo one in the village visits the site of the old monastery anymore. The animals avoid it of their own accord, and even the hungriest sheep never step foot on the hill leading up to it. The children say that it's haunted and spook each other at night with stories of the strange things that reside under the ravaged foundations or within the windblown standing stones. But the older people of the village don't think it's haunted. They think that things far worse than mere ghosts hide in the ruins of the monastery; they will never say what it is. They say it's best not to talk about it.
But Ardan isn't afraid to come here. People are afraid of anything they do not understand, she knows: and if there is something here that no one understands, something strange enough to scare people, she wants to know what it is. This is what has driven her to become a healer, after all, what has given her the daring to seek tutelage in her chosen profession. There is a thirst for knowledge within her that cannot be quenched.
So she follows carefully but quite eagerly behind her new master as they set off into the monastery's ruins. Under their feet the old cobbles that used to make up the monastery's outer walkways are almost completely overgrown with long grass; above them the stones that once made up the monastery's fortified walls rear like broken teeth. The sound of summer cicadas is very loud in the forest surrounding the ruins, but within the ancient bounds of the monastery itself, nothing makes noise. In the relative silence, the sound of their passage across old stones and through the grass seems almost noisy.
What's left of several outer buildings dot the hillside around them, their existence only hinted at by the sketchy outlines of foundations - a lump of stone jutting from the ground here, a line of discolored soil and crumbled chalk there. But the monastery itself has not been so thoroughly destroyed by the unkind hands of time: still the skeleton of the building stands, round as a gigantic beehive, falling apart by slow degrees. The stones that built it are carved into perfect, equal bricks and stuck together with mortar so tough that it even outlasts the stones themselves in some places, creating stretches of wall that look like nothing so much as hardened nets, or megalithic spiderwebs. The roof had once been made of stone and mortar too, but it has mostly fallen in by now. The inside of the building is relatively bright because of this; if you look up, you can still see the purple-blue of the late summer sky shining like the round reflection at the bottom of a well above you.
Ardan steps carefully over some fallen masonry as she follows behind her mentor. She squints against the sunlight as she looks up at the back of his golden-haired head. She doesn't dare ask when they will stop: her teacher does not take well to being questioned.
But Ardan isn't afraid to come here. People are afraid of anything they do not understand, she knows: and if there is something here that no one understands, something strange enough to scare people, she wants to know what it is. This is what has driven her to become a healer, after all, what has given her the daring to seek tutelage in her chosen profession. There is a thirst for knowledge within her that cannot be quenched.
So she follows carefully but quite eagerly behind her new master as they set off into the monastery's ruins. Under their feet the old cobbles that used to make up the monastery's outer walkways are almost completely overgrown with long grass; above them the stones that once made up the monastery's fortified walls rear like broken teeth. The sound of summer cicadas is very loud in the forest surrounding the ruins, but within the ancient bounds of the monastery itself, nothing makes noise. In the relative silence, the sound of their passage across old stones and through the grass seems almost noisy.
What's left of several outer buildings dot the hillside around them, their existence only hinted at by the sketchy outlines of foundations - a lump of stone jutting from the ground here, a line of discolored soil and crumbled chalk there. But the monastery itself has not been so thoroughly destroyed by the unkind hands of time: still the skeleton of the building stands, round as a gigantic beehive, falling apart by slow degrees. The stones that built it are carved into perfect, equal bricks and stuck together with mortar so tough that it even outlasts the stones themselves in some places, creating stretches of wall that look like nothing so much as hardened nets, or megalithic spiderwebs. The roof had once been made of stone and mortar too, but it has mostly fallen in by now. The inside of the building is relatively bright because of this; if you look up, you can still see the purple-blue of the late summer sky shining like the round reflection at the bottom of a well above you.
Ardan steps carefully over some fallen masonry as she follows behind her mentor. She squints against the sunlight as she looks up at the back of his golden-haired head. She doesn't dare ask when they will stop: her teacher does not take well to being questioned.
