Like a prisoner released, its bonds of silk were cut in the open main square, and it rested finally free where it was solemnly unrolled. Whether skilled weaver or crass soldier, it lifted the soul to a place beyond words. The carpet cast two dragons, one of north and one of south that danced among its fibers. They faced each other amidst clouds above a distant mountain range, while a plume of smoke rose into the sky from the peak of the middle mountain.
They seemed so alive that indeed they might rise up at any moment and fly up into the celestial heavens. Its texture, color, and pattern were the combined effort of all that was civilization. It was a symphony of living and breathing immortality.
For the next two weeks the infected soldiers of the rebel defense force were gently placed upon the unfurled carpet, where they passed over to the world beyond. The changing light of day cast life into the fibers of wool and silk, but Death ultimately had the final word in the fabric of men. The blisters of the growing pox hardened on the bodies of the afflicted, and these men fell in great number with great speed and in great suffering. The northern carpet from the time of the First Emperor was the definitive and silent witness to the suffering of the rebel troops.
The living worked feverishly to bury the dead. Within days only a few remained standing. The carpet had become a sacred gateway, one that marked the point of departure from world of flesh, and point of entry to world of spirit. It was the elegant platform for the rite of passage, the place of liftoff for the final inevitable flight.
The two young brothers shared it equally; each embraced by one dragon, until they finally stirred and raved no more. The blisters and fever eventually and inevitably brought them cold and lifeless peace. These two were the last to be laid to rest in this manner.
After the boys were buried, the rebel, his second, and the thirty that still remained, fitted their armor, secured their weapons and ammunition, collected the last of their strength, and marched out of the fortress to embrace their destiny.
In the surrounding camp of the imperial forces, word spread quickly that events were unfolding. The fort's large front gate opened, and a ragged group of thirty-two rebel soldiers marched onto the fortress plain. Behind them the enormous gates remained open and the fortress silent. These men had no need for words. They shared a single strategy; a short march into the open and then patience.
The Supreme Commander immediately had their position surrounded at a distance.
The last thirty-two men of the rebel outpost were paired shield and archer. One man protects and one man fires. The sixteen shields formed a ring around the sixteen bowmen in the center. The arrows were placed point first in the snow, ready to be nocked and fired. The rebel held his bow in a left-handed grip. His second on one knee held the shield; his life would end defending his friend and leader, and this was as it should be.
The northern siege had lasted almost a year, and it was time to end it. Once more the rebel looked toward the sky. He did not see Death but thought it strange that the crows had gone. He did not see the raven perched behind him, high atop the fortress wall. The young lion and his second in command were vigilant and at a place beyond fear.
From horseback and cloaked in bearskin, the commander watched the measured amble of shield and bow make its way steadily to midfield. It brought to his mind the slow movements of a tortoise, and he thought about the old one reading the cracks on the sacred shell. He thought also of the victory that she had promised, and knew that today it would be his.
His sword was held high, and with its drop the arrows flew. They were launched from all directions like apocalyptic rain. They were answered in kind but not quantity from the tortoise shell. The falling of men on both sides had begun. The commander regretted now the loss of his catapults, but no matter the finality of conquest was at hand. He watched from a safe distance, both horse and man breathing heavily in the bitter highland air.
It was over in less than one hour. Thirty-two men were now only a tangled pile of human wreckage in an open, snow-covered field. He gave the signal to cease fire and approached the twisted knot of shields, weapons, and bodies. The imperial arrows embedded in the ground around the rebel's last stand looked like the tall wheat of a summer's meadow.
In death the young leader smiled, still protected by the arrow pocked shield of his second in command. The commander finally had the victory he had come for, and with a flash of his monk steel weapon he had the rebel's head. He held it high and turned it to the four directions for all his cheering troops to see. He sheathed his weapon and carried the head by its hair as he walked into the beckoning fortress.
With an arrogant stride he entered the empty city fort, now just four walls and rubble. In the main square, so awed by the treasure before him, he dropped the head and stared in silent wonder. Hatred had so consumed his soul that little touched his heart anymore. The carpet's powerful beauty awoke the remnants of his humanity and a tear rolled down his ruined face.
Between the dragons was the character for two. Not the number but the concept, two as one, or two under the same roof. It was the embodiment of his mission, for this godforsaken northern region and the temperate and civilized southern state were now as one. He knew little about carpets, but it was clear that this one was both ancient and a masterpiece. This was truly a treasure worthy of an emperor, and compared to this, the loss of a few war machines was minor. He was pulled back from his revelry by the arrival of his generals.
He reached down quickly to snatch up the head, and so cover his moment of weakness. Looking into the open eyes of the rebel he mocked loudly, “What fool leaves a carpet like this exposed to the elements.” Both he and his generals laughed raucously. When they had stopped he ordered, “Pack this carpet carefully for transport,” and added harshly, “Should anything happen to the emperor's carpet between now and our arrival at the palace, you will all be executed.”
Once more atop his horse he tied the rebel's head by its hair to his belt. Leaving the generals to their task, the commander rode back towards the tent that had been his residence for the last eleven months. Horse and rider passed by the rebel heap and saw the snow, covered now by a pond of dark red gore. The slaughter of the moon bear flashed through his mind and sent a chill flying up his spine. He saw her blood spreading in the whiteness, and thought he heard once more the sound of orphaned cubs.
He looked up toward the distant cry of a black-feathered bird, pulled the bear hide tighter to ward off the bitter cold, and rode on.
The walled city was empty when the imperial troops finally entered the gate. There were no survivors, but more importantly there was no plunder. Loot is life for the foot soldier, and here there was nothing. The imperial soldiers now tasted vinegar when they had expected wine, and even the hastiest return would not be fast enough for most.
The troops of the southern region flew from the walled city like a plague of locusts that have finished decimating a once fertile field. They had grown to hate this cold land, its rebellious people, and now their impoverished mission. It was whispered among them that the mind of their scar-faced commander had finally lost its delicate balance.
Three days after the rebels' final stand there remained only desolation. The land had already begun to reclaim the area marked by the occupation, now just a waning ring upon the earth like the scar of some great pox. No crows flew, and no animals roamed, the entire area mirrored the condition of the fort, empty and barren. Only the wind and its ghosts blew across the desolate plain, and the thirty-two dead were left to rot where they had fallen. At forest's edge something stirred.
The shredded black rags moved slowly across the great snow white field. They seemed like living calligraphy, perhaps not a character or word at all, merely an accidental spill of coal black ink, dripping down a fresh new page. Slow and determined they made way past the heap of dead upon dead and into the abandoned ruins. As they moved they measured the substance of space and time and spoke the language of persistence, onward toward the dead stone fortress.
Just as outside, inside there was nothing. Nothing at all to speak that here brave men had walked and here brave men had lived, or indeed that here brave men had died. Only a large rectangle outline in the square where once an ancient carpet had lain, spoke that at least here no enemy had dared to trample.
In the middle of this fading print, the black rags hunkered down and skinny arms drew forth the metal begging bowl and began to scrape. It was a task of epic proportion, like the draining of a lake using only a tea cup, but slowly the frozen earth did yield to an old one's unbridled determination. For six days and six moonless nights the futile task continued, until finally, from futility the beggar's bowl had gouged success.
The pit was as deep as its hunched digger, and the dirt was piled around its perimeter like the walls of the ruined fortress. He stood and shuffled from end to end of this dank tomb, and said aloud three simple words, “It is enough.”
He wiped the sweat that ran down his pock-scared face with the filthy hood. His black eyes darted over his monumental effort, and he was satisfied. He climbed up from the even-sided crater and rolled down from the mound piled high around it. He saw beneath his broken fingernails the caked remains of blood and dirt, but he would not allow himself to feel pain or fatigue until after the completion of his task. Only then would he allow himself to feel everything.
Thirty-two trips the beggar made from plain to fortress square. One by one he dragged the frozen bodies to the large rectangular hole and laid them down, with weapons and shields. The last one placed was the headless young leader, and this one he lay beside the second in command.
Once again he muttered his comforting phrase, “It is enough.”
The loose dirt was shoveled back methodically bowl by bowl, until the living earth had finally claimed its dead. Now he was free once again to feel. The ancient beggar staggered in the direction of the southern lands. He wanted to escape the coldness of this place. The beggar quickened the shifting balance of his awkward gait, aware now of the quickened shift of the changing universe.
As he continued his southern walk, he offered silent prayers for the dead of this place, and the many more that were soon to die.
Through the nakedness of three spring seasons, I had seen birds build nests in its branches, and squirrels homes within the hollow rooms of its trunk. I often saw the raven from its great height study me as I stood in silent stance. Ring by ring and day by day, I had grown stronger.
I watched the oak tree as it watched me. I borrowed its strength as I took my stance before it. I had seen its leaves emerge from buds and gracefully unfurl over days like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. The long catkins grew and dangled from delicate branches as the small yellow flowers formed. My oak was by nature's hand both male and female, and so spoke loudly of the harmonious union of two great opposites. From these flowers I watched the acorns grow and fall, some to be eaten and some to be carried far off and take root.
One late summer's day I was standing in stillness beside my great oak. Men are as trees, with feet that root in the earth, a mind that mingles with the heavens, and a trunk that unites and binds the two together. Selah and her black bird seemed never to tire of watching me, even though in tranquility I could now stand for hours.
On this day Selah asked, “Arkthar, did you consult the ants?”
I knew by the smell in the air and the darkening skies that their opinion was unnecessary, for it was certain a major storm was gathering. Just as I had finished my training the rains began, and from under the protective canopy of the oak we stood together and watched the warm afternoon downpour, and listened to the music of the worms. With wind and with fanfare the skies instantly released all the water that they had greedily been hoarding.
I thought of Thor who in his Norse land had done exactly the same as us, and I thought of his lightning, but luckily it did not come. The rain poured down as if from buckets. So heavy was it that from our vantage we could not see out past the length of three horses, but we were warm and dry, and we both enjoyed the power and presence of this storm.
In my thinking of trees, I had always felt them passive. I thought that they grow where they are placed and receive only what they are brought.
It began quietly at first, a soft trickling song. From somewhere behind us we heard the gentle sound of water like the spilling of a single cup. At first not much more than a dripping, but soon it began to increase. It was like listening to a single voice being joined steadily one by one by a choir of great number.
The great oak canopy trapped the sound, and it emanated from all around us. The noise grew quickly from a steady trickle to the sound of a brook, and it continued to grow. I shouted to Selah that I had found its source. We both turned and looked towards the base of the mighty trunk.
From the roots to the heavens the great trunk rose, from this trunk sprang and spiraled boughs like mighty arms. These rose up to forearms and these to hands of branch. Every finger grasped the leaves that reached to touch the rain.
From the heavens to the root the raindrops collected. They flowed from spring to brook, brook to stream. All water was directed by the cracks of the bark as it flew along the underside faster than it could fall to the ground, and was guided precisely to the roots where it was needed. Four rivers were pulled from the sky and from each direction poured onto the roots with the sound of a steady waterfall.
I knew then that my oak, that I once thought so sedentary and passive, reaches actively to the universe to take what the heavens provide. On this late summer's day I understood the power and strength of the oak, and the softness and beauty of water. This tree was truly one of my great teachers, and with this lesson Selah and I turned to each other.