(cont'd)
They both stopped their antics and while one held the boy by his collar, the other made some lewd remark about what they were going to do to the stranger as well. The young man made no reply but in a very fluid and deliberate manner approached the two bullies and when he got only a few feet from them he began twirling the staff in a very deliberate and slow manner. He stopped and took a stance in a slight crouch, feet spread apart and staff held high over one shoulder. One of the thugs pulled out a wicked looking dagger and sprang at the young man who at once quickly and deftly sidestepped the much larger man. There was a dull thud and a cry of pain as the staff was brought to bear against the small of his back, the impact and his own forward momentum crashed him against the stone wall and he fell unconscious to the dusty ground. The young man twirled the staff as he spun around and once again took his stance before the other ruffian. The man snarled in a most unpleasant manner, dropped the young boy and pulled out a short sword with which he made several threatening gestures toward the immobile stranger. He charged the young man much in the same manner as had his ill-fated cohort. This time the young man's staff entangled he attacker's legs and the bully went face down in the dirt. He quickly recovered and raised the broad-bladed short sword only to have it knocked out of his hand by that infernal staff. He made a move toward it and was rewarded with a sharp whack on the outreaching hand. He let out a loud yelp but forgot about the blade for the moment. He made a dash for the open street but once again the staff came into play, this time to his neck and he fell to the ground once more. Time and again the big fellow would rise only to be reproved by the staff until at long last, in great pain and out of breath he begged for mercy and the young stranger stepped back and allowed him to leave.
"You have saved me and my belongings, I am in debt to you." The boy said.
"You owe me nothing, boy. Go your way and stay clear of these back streets."
"What is your name that I may tell my parents of my deliverer?" He asked.
"I am a traveler, a minstrel and there is no need to speak any more of this."
He left the boy and picked up the belongings he had left for the moment and resumed his trek to find a tavern. He found one at the edge of town, approached the innkeeper and asked if he might earn a meal, a drink, and a night's lodging with a song or two. Although he had money from the market square, he preferred to pay by entertaining with his talents. The cash was for when there was no time for such things. The innkeeper was a pleasant enough fellow and agreed to the bargain. A minstrel was almost always welcome in a tavern where his peculiar talents were appreciated as perhaps nowhere else. Unlike the traveling merchants which were all business, the minstrels brought joy and humor in their happy songs and witty tales of faraway places, a welcome break from the drudgery and ordinariness of the everyday life. The night wore on and if the day's travels had wearied the young jester he never allowed it to show as he kept the laughter rolling and, much to the good pleasure of the innkeeper, also the ale. He kept his audience until exhaustion and the alcohol reduced them to staggering zombies and amid loud protests and upheld tankards of splashing ale, he bid them all a good night.
He helped the innkeeper tidy up, took his meal of cold meat, bread, and ale and gratefully allowed himself to be led to a room in the back. There was no window and the air was stale. There was a straw pallet on the floor with room for nothing else but himself and his meager belongings. He curled up on the straw after bolting the door and drifted off into a guarded sleep.
He was awakened by the early morning sounds of the rousing city coming through the sun-baked clay walls. The four hours of sleep on the few inches of straw between him and a stone floor had not replenished the energy he had spent in the last twenty four hours or so but it would have to suffice. He gathered his belongings and slipped out into the already busy streets and headed for the market square. Busy mornings are not a good time to barter for bread with amusing anecdotes and cheery songs so he bought bread with the previous day's earnings and sat on a bench, away from the flies, to eat it. He felt a presence behind him and he turned.
"Well, good day to you, my young, wayfaring stranger. I hear that you have already gotten into the trouble you promised to stay clear of."
The young man looked up into the bearded face of the first man he had encountered in the great city, Ahad, chief of the guards. He rose from the bench and still the man towered above him.
"If you speak of the incident with the young boy, I was merely..."
"Enough said!" Ahad cut him off. "The story was recounted to me by the boy."
He regarded the young minstrel with the practiced scrutiny of a soldier evaluating an enemy. It was not the first time that the young traveling had been evaluated in such a way and so he knew how to stand and what expression to wear. The soldier's face betrayed confusion as if he were trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what he had heard. He was wise enough, however, to know the limits of what a cursory examination could reveal and the tale that time itself would eventually tell. He accepted for the moment the face value of things and reserved further judgment for yet another time and walked away.
The young man was no stranger to such a scenario, it was one that repeated itself in as many cities as he visited. He sat down again and finished his bread and took a long drink from one of the wineskins and watched the bustle of the city dwellers. It was no idle curiosity that kept him on the bench for the better part of the morning, nor was it for lack of something to do for now the crowd was milling about and it would be a good time to earn a few coins. Instead he waited and watched with trained discipline and deliberation of purpose. He allowed part of his conscious mind to drift back while part continued the vigil at hand, for this also was part of his training, the triad of Ali-Kah. It was a way to rest while working, a diversion to replenish the spirit while at the same time continuing the task at hand. It was a form of mental discipline that few-- let alone those of his age --could master but one that was imperative for the task at hand.
He began with Shi-ke-oontah, the ancient art of invisibility, that strange ability to assume a posture and expression that allowed one to be seen by the eyes but ignored by the mind. The ability to blend into the very fabric of one's surroundings by sheer force of mind and discipline of body. While part of his mind took care of that task, another part of his mind continued the search for what he sought while the remainder of his consciousness began the ritual of the Oon-tay, the most difficult of the three stages of the Ali-Kah to master and perform.
In his mind's eye he conjured up the quiet, tranquil, afternoon meadow, the gentle swaying of wildflowers in the warm, spring breezes that swept up from the south. The sky was painted with pastels, blues, soft yellows, and subtle purples. This was his Oon-tay. For each Khali-ti had his own, unique place or situation that brought him the comfort and haven from the harshness of the reality at hand, a haven from the windstorm. For some it might be the ocean, for others a kindly figure from the past, for him it was this remembered meadow from boyhood. He peered closer and saw the butterflies and bees and the myriad of winged creatures delighting themselves on the variety of nectars there for the taking. There was the gentle gurgling of a nearby brook of clear, cold, spring water that flowed perpetually over a bed of smooth stones, the lifeblood of the meadow and all her children. An eagle soared in his lofty kingdom, riding currents in the heavenly ether, an experience and pleasure that God reserved for his empyrean creatures and denied to mortal man. The serenity of the pastoral scene siphoned the anxiety and fatigue from his every fiber until it seemed that to be any more tranquil would be death itself. That was the point that he sought and that was what he had attained. With the deliberate care one would use to extricate himself from an entanglement, he brought himself out of the Oon-tay and back to the reality of the moment, refreshed and alert as a twenty-two year old man can be. All of this he did while remaining as immobile as stone, virtually invisible to the multitude of scurrying humans all around him.
A figure in the outer periphery of his vision began distinguishing itself from the mediocrity of the crowd. It was a young man, no, his inner vision corrected what the eyes were seeing. This was a young woman dressed as a young man. How intriguing. Remaining in his state of Shi-ke-oontah he observed her approach. At will he heightened his state of awareness and sensed the uneasiness that the clandestine female was experiencing. It was all there to see, the quick, small, unsure steps, and the furtive glances at her surroundings, always careful to avoid eye contact with her fellow pedestrians. There was another air about her as well and this is what sparked the young traveler's interests, what caused him to concentrate even more intensely on the hooded figure before him. Her skin --what little he could see of it-- was the color of milk, clearly not that of a laborer, perhaps she was a harlot? No. It was too early in the day for that, creatures of the night sleep late into the day. A few strands of hair spilled out from under the hood and they were the color of spun gold and their appearance suggested pampering and much combing. The garment itself that she wore though plain enough was of a fabric that, to the practiced eye, suggested nobility or at the very least, wealth. She walked past him, her foot missing his baggage only slightly, and his nostrils drank in her fragrances. She smelled of rosewater and myrrh, two items not available to the commoner. There was also the unmistakable lingering of just the slightest suggestion of nard, that costly item so rare and difficult to obtain here as to put it beyond the reach of all but the highest nobility. For the young man had been to the land of the origin of the costly perfume. It lay a great distance to the east of the mountain upon which the great city was situated, a strange and exotic land of not only spices but beasts of incredible size and strength and yet domesticated by the inhabitants, of the brilliantly stripped tigers that could tear a bull to shreds with its sharp claws. It was also a land of wise men, of men who had mastered incredible and ancient secrets of mind and body control from whom he had learned much and rounded out his unique education.
Edited by - Frenchy on 10 June 2000 12:45:20