章 7: the belgariad pawn of prophecy 7
All of this wonder he gave freely in
exchange for a few meals, a few tankards of ale, and a warm spot in the
hay barn in which to sleep. He roamed about the world seemingly as free
of possessions as the birds.
Between the storyteller and Aunt Pol there seemed to be a sort of
hidden recognition. She had always viewed his coming with a kind of wry
acceptance, knowing, it seemed, that the ultimate treasures of her
kitchen were not safe so long as he lurked in the vicinity. Loaves and
cakes had a way of disappearing when he was around, and his quick knife,
always ready, could neatly divest the most carefully prepared goose of a
pair of drumsticks and a generous slab of breast meat with three swift
slices when her back was turned. She called him "Old Wolf," and his
appearance at the gate of Faldor's farm marked the resumption of a
contest which had obviously been going on for years. He flattered her
outrageously even as he stole from her. Offered cookies or dark brown
bread, he would politely refuse and then steal half a plateful before
the platter had moved out of his reach. Her beer pantry and wine cellar
might as well have been delivered into his hands immediately upon his
appearance at the gate. He seemed to delight in pilferage, and if she
watched him with steely eye, he found quite easily a dozen confederates
willing to sack her kitchen in exchange for a single story.
Lamentably, among his most able pupils was the boy Garion. Often,
driven to distraction by the necessity of watching at once an old thief
and a fledgling one, Aunt Pol would arm herself with a broom and drive
them both from her kitchen with hard words and resounding blows. And the
old storyteller, laughing, would flee with the boy to some secluded
place where they would feast on the fruits of their pilferage and the
old man, tasting frequently from a flagon of stolen wine or beer, would
regale his student with stories out of the dim past.
The best stories, of course, were saved for the dining hall when,
after the evening meal was over and the plates had been pushed back, the
old man would rise from his place and carry his listeners off into a
world of magical enchantment.
"Tell us of the beginnings, my old friend," Faldor, always pious, said one evening, "and of the Gods."
"Of the beginnings and the Gods," the old man mused. "A worthy subject, Faldor, but a dry and dusty one."
"I've noticed that you find all subjects dry and dusty, Old Wolf,"
Aunt Pol said, going to the barrel and drawing off a tankard of foamy
beer for him.
He accepted the tankard with a stately bow. "It's one of the hazards
of my profession, Mistress Pol," he explained. He drank deeply, then set
the tankard aside. He lowered his head in thought for a moment, then
looked directly, or so it seemed, at Garion. And then he did a strange
thing which he had never before done when telling stories in Faldor's
dining hall. He drew his cloak about him and rose to his full height.
"Behold," he said, his voice rich and sonorous, "at the beginning of
days made the Gods the world and the seas and the dry land also. And
cast they the stars across the night sky and did set the sun and his
wife, the moon, in the heavens to give light unto the world.
"And the Gods caused the earth to bring forth the beasts, and the waters to bud with 6sh, and the skies to flower with birds.
"And they made men also, and divided men into Peoples.
"Now the Gods were seven in number and were all equal, and their
names were Belar, and Chaldan, and Nedra, and Issa, and Mara, and Aldur,
and Torak."
Garion knew the story, of course; everyone in that part of Sendaria
was familiar with it, since the story was of Alorn origin and the lands
on three sides of Sendaria were Alorn kingdoms. Though the tale was
familiar, however, he had never before heard it told in such a way. His
mind soared as in his imagination the Gods themselves strode the world
in those dim, misty days when the world was first made, and a chill came
over him at each mention of the forbidden name of Torak.
He listened intently as the storyteller described how each God
selected a people---for Belar the Alorns, for Issa the Nyissans, for
Chaldan the Arends, for Nedra the Tolnedrans, for Mara the Marags which
are no more, and for Torak the Angaraks. And he heard how the God Aldur
dwelt apart and considered the stars in his solitude, and how some very
few men he accepted as pupils and disciples.
Garion glanced at the others who were listening. Their faces were
rapt with attention. Durnik's eyes were wide, and old Cralto's hands
were clasped on the table in front of him. Faldor's face was pale, and
tears stood in his eyes. Aunt Pol stood at the rear of the room. Though
it was not cold, she too had drawn her mantle about her and stood very
straight, her eyes intent.
"And it came to pass," the storyteller continued, "that the God Aldur
caused to be made a jewel in the shape of a globe, and behold, in the
jewel was captured the light of certain stars that did glitter in the
northern sky. And great was the enchantment upon the jewel which men
called the Orb of Aldur, for with the Orb could Aldur see that which had
been, that which was, and that which was yet to be."
Garion realized he was holding his breath, for he was now completely
caught up in the story. He listened in wonder as Torak stole the Orb and
the other Gods made war on him. Torak used the Orb to sunder the earth
and let in the sea to drown the land, until the Orb struck back against
misuse by melting the left side of his face and destroying his left hand
and eye.
The old man paused and drained his tankard. Aunt Pol, with her mantle
still close about her, brought him another, her movements somehow
stately and her eyes burning.
"I've never heard the story told so," Durnik said softly.
"It's The Book of Alorn. [1] It's only told in the presence of
kings," Cralto said, just as softly. "I knew a man once who had heard it
at the king's court at Sendar, and he remembered some of it. I've never
heard it all before, though."
The story continued, recounting how Belgarath the Sorcerer led Cherek
and his three sons to regain the Orb two thousand years later, and how
the western lands were settled and guarded against the hosts of Torak.
The Gods removed from the world, leaving Riva to safeguard the Orb in
his fortress on the Isle of the Winds. There he forged a great sword and
set the Orb in its hilt. While the Orb remained there and the line of
Riva sat on the throne, Torak could not prevail.
Then Belgarath sent his favorite daughter to Riva to be a mother to
kings, while his other daughter remained with him and learned his art,
for the mark of the sorcerers was upon her.
The old storyteller's voice was now very soft as his ancient tale
drew to its close. "And between them," he said, "did Belgarath and his
daughter, the Sorceress Polgara, set enchantments to keep watch against
the coming of Torak. And some men say they shall abide against his
coming even though it be until the very end of days, for it is
phophesied that one day shall maimed Torak come against the kingdoms of
the west to reclaim the Orb which he so dearly purchased, and battle
shall be joined between Torak and the fruit of the line of Riva, and in
that battle shall be decided the fate of the world."
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