Robert Silverberg: Kingdoms of the Wall

And he stretched his hand toward me and encircled the thick part of my arm with his fingers, three above and three below, digging his fingertips into my flesh so that I had to gasp with the pain of it: and this was little Traiben, who had no more strength than a fish! Something leaped from him to me in that moment, something of the strange fire that burned within him, something of the fever of his soul. And I felt it burning within me too, an utterly new thing, the passionate yearning to find my gods on that mountain, and stand before them, and say to them, “I am Poilar of Jespodar, and I am here to serve you. But you must serve me too. I wish you to teach me all that you know.”

He held me like that for a long moment, so that I thought he would never let go. Then I brushed at his hand, gently, as one might brush at a glitterfly hovering around one’s head that is too lovely to hurt, and he released me. But I heard him breathing hard beside me, in hot excitement. It was a troublesome thing for me, this frenzy of Traiben’s that had come over him so passionately and that he had passed over into my spirit.

“Look,” I said, desperate to step back from the intensity of the moment, for passion of that kind was something new to me and it was making me tremble, “the Procession is going to start.”

Indeed everyone was uttering little hsshing noises to silence his neighbor, for the grand march was beginning. The Sweepers in their purple loincloths went dancing by, whisking dangerous spirits out of the roadway with their little brooms, and then, in silence, came the heart of the Procession out of the heavy morning mists that lay at the lower end of town. My father’s father’s brother’s son Meribail led the way, all bedecked in a shining and magnificent cloak of scarlet gambardo feathers woven tightly together. Beside him on the one side was Thispar Double-Lifer, the oldest man of the village, who had lived seven full tens of years. Traiben’s father’s father’s father, he was. On the other side of Meribail was another of our old ones, the double-lifer Gamilalar, who had lately celebrated the beginning of his seventh ten. Following these three in the Procession came the heads of all the Houses, walking grandly two by two.

But my mind wasn’t on the Procession. It was full of Traiben’s words, which had set me aflame with new and consuming ambitions. He had put an urgent need into me that had never been there before.

And so I made my vow. I would climb the Wall to its utmost point. I would attain the Summit. I would stare into the eyes of the gods, from whom all wisdom flows, and I would absorb all that they could give me. Then I would return to our lowland home, which only a few had ever succeeded in doing, and most of those no longer in their right minds. And I would teach to others everything that I had mastered on high.

So be it. From that moment on my life’s goal was graven in stone.

And it was Traiben’s goal too. How strange! That frail awkward boy had dreams of being a Pilgrim? It seemed almost comical. They would never choose him, never, never. And yet I understood that when Traiben desired a thing, Traiben was capable of attaining it.

Together we would achieve the Pilgrimage, Traiben and I. We were twelve years old, and our lives were irrevocably set from that moment forth.

The events of that day’s Procession passed before me as though I were watching them in a dream. The heads of all the Houses went past me, stiff with their own importance. Then came the Musicians, filling the air with the sounds of their thunbors and gallimonds and bindanays, and after them the Jugglers, prancing and leaping and turning handsprings and changing shape with careless frenzy as they tossed their sharp-bladed sepinongs high and deftly plucked them from the air. The sacred things were brought forth next, carried on cushions of bronzy green by solemn-faced Holies; and then, walking by themselves to no rhythm or beat whatever, came five or six Returned Ones, moving in worlds of their own, honoring the Procession by their presence but not a part of it any real way. After they had passed Pilgrim Lodge they drifted off into the throng and would not be seen again that day, or, for all anyone knew, that year.

The dancing was next. Each House’s dancing-clan appeared in turn, richly arrayed, doing the special dance of that House. The Weavers did the hawk dance, the Scribes did the shambler dance, the Butchers did the bear dance, the Vintners did the rock-ape dance. The Witches danced the conjuring dance, the Carpenters danced the hammer dance. And so on and so on through the wind-sprite dance of the Jugglers, the waterfall dance of the Growers, the fire dance of the Healers, the sky-wolf dance of the Judges. And finally, masked and robed in the most splendid way of all, came the dancers of the House of the Wall, enacting the slow and majestic steps of the Wall dance.

There was more, much more: you know the pomp and splendor of the Pilgrim Procession as well as I. The hours floated by in dazzlement.

And Traiben’s words continued to burn in my soul’s heart.

For the first time in my life I had some glimmering of who I was.

Do you know who you are? “I am Mosca,” you say, “I am Helkitan,” “I am Simbol Leathermaker,” or whatever your name may be. But your name is not you. “I am Poilar Crookleg,” I would tell people, and yet I had no real idea who or what Poilar Crookleg might be. Now I began to see. Traiben had turned a key in my mind and I started to understand myself a little. Who was Poilar? Poilar is He-Who-Will-Be-a-Pilgrim. Well, yes, but I knew that already. What kind of Pilgrim will Poilar be? One who understands the purpose of the Pilgrimage. Yes. Yes. Because I was born into the House of the Wall, I might have looked forward to a lifetime of performing rites and ceremonies, but that had never seemed to be a thing I was going to do. So I remained unformed and undirected. My future life had no shape. But now I knew—I knew, I really knew, not simply assumed—that I had been born to be a Pilgrim. Very well. For the first time I understood what that meant.

“Look,” Traiben said. “The doors of the Lodge are starting to open.”

So they were, the two great wickerwork doors embellished with heavy bronze bands that are opened only on this one day of the year. They swung back slowly, protesting on their thick stone hinges, and the chosen Pilgrims came forth, the men issuing from the left-hand chamber, the women from the right one. Out into the sunlight they came, pale and blinking, because they had not been seen in the open since the day the chosen ones’ names had been announced, half a year ago. Blood streaked their cheeks and hands and forearms and clothing: they had just performed the Sacrifice of the Bond that is the last thing they do before leaving the Lodge. They were lean and hard from all the training they had undergone. Their faces, mainly, were somber and drawn, as though they were marching not to glory but to their deaths. Most of the new Pilgrims looked that way every year, I had already noticed. Why, I wondered, was that? They had striven so hard to be chosen; and after much travail they had gained what they sought: why then look so downcast?

But a few, at least, seemed transfigured by the honor that had come to them. Their eyes were turned rapturously toward Kosa Saag and their faces were shining with an inner light. It was wonderful to see those few.

“Look at Galli’s brother,” I whispered to Traiben. “Do you see how happy he is? That’s the way I’m going to be when my time comes.”

“And so will I.”

“And look, look, there’s Thrance!” He was our great hero then, an athlete of legendary skill, flawless of shape and tall as a tree, a godlike figure of wondrous beauty and strength. Everyone around us stirred in excitement as Thrance emerged from Pilgrim Lodge. “He’ll run straight up to the Summit, I’ll bet, without ever stopping to catch his breath. He won’t wait for the others—he’ll just take off and keep going.”