Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

When there was a prophet available to give counsel or aid, the people of the land sought him out. Pelmen asked only one thing of these whose lives he touched—that they not take it upon themselves to proclaim his presence publicly.

When the time was right, he assured them, he would do it himself. Most seekers willingly abided by this condition, for until he became known, a prophet was a local preserve, a natural resource which need not be shared. But there were a few who could not contain their wonder. A new prophet had come, and they were witnesses to it! So the news continued to spread, and each day seekers arrived from farther away.

Occasionally he was asked to travel. Wherever he went he was always accompanied by an oddly matched pair of initiates. One was fair and slight and seemed so delicate in his movements the seekers deemed him effeminate. The other hid broad shoulders under the folds of his robe, and more. A telltale billowing of his gown at the hip suggested that beneath it he wore a sword. This was so contrary to the calling of an initiate that many who saw that sword-shaped bulge denied to them. selves they had seen it. But it was noised around that while the Prophet himself seemed holy enough, the two with him were somewhat unusual.

The three rode one afternoon to the home of a local aristocrat, ostensibly for the purpose of blessing his crops. The wealthy farmer’s true motive was to get a look at this miracle worker who had so unexpectedly appeared in his own back yard. He was leery of the presence of a prophet in his neighborhood, for Lamathian prophets had always been notorious for favoring the poor over the rich. But as a local leader he had a responsibility at least to meet the man.

Perhaps the fellow could be of some practical financial value.

The hot, muggy weather had held Lamath in its grip for days, but this looked like the day it might change. Clouds had moved into the region the night before, and now they piled one atop the other into charcoal-colored towers that threatened a violent storm. Rosha’s eyes were on these storm clouds as the farmer led them across his acreage, and he turned to mutter his suspicions to Bronwynn.

“If there was any danger, Pelmen would surely warn us,” she whispered back.

“S-such c-c-confidence may p-prove excessive,” Rosha warned her, but she was no longer listening. Even when the wind picked up to the point that it was wrapping their robes tightly around their legs, and Rosha had to turn his back on the others to keep his greatsword from showing up in bold relief, Bronwynn still would not speak with him about it.

They had completed the tour and turned to ride back to the landowner’s modest palace when a shout went up from among the entourage. Panicked riders spurred their horses around those who led the group, and raced one another to the main gate. Pelmen turned in his saddle to look backward.

Rosha saw the blood drain from the Prophet’s face, and watched as he dug his heel into the flank of Minaliss and jerked forward. There was no mistaking the fear in Pelmen’s eyes. Rosha shouted to Bronwynn to ride as he whipped his own mount into action, then he too swiveled his head to peer up into the black sky behind him.

A dark, living presence as tall as the heavens stalked the earth behind them. It was as if the giant clouds, black with rage, had chosen to chase them down, and now leapt from point to point along the ground on a single colossal whirling leg. Each place that funnelshaped foot touched down, trees and fences were torn asunder. Yet the presence within the wind took no interest in these inanimate playthings, tracking instead the tiny creations that fled its charge on horseback. Rosha whipped his horse again, his blood pounding as he urged his mount to an ever faster pace.

When he glanced back again the tornado had hopped a mile to the south, leaving a once proud silo littered along the ground behind. Then it was again pursuing them, and Rosha saw clearly that he would never outrun it. Yet he raced onward past Pelmen, who sat astride a strangely calm Minaliss, facing into the oncoming cloud.

“You’ll be killed!” Rosha screamed, the thought so clear and the need so immediate his lips would permit no stutter.

Then he was past, his horse flying forward so quickly that he feared to try to stop it. Instead he dropped down to cling to the horse’s neck, and clinched the beast’s flanks between his knees with all the strength left to him in the wake of his fear. The wind roared in his ears, and he realized his scream could not have been heard. He’d seen enough in that brief glimpse to know that Pelmen’s face was still as white as ground flour—the fear still clutched him. Why, then, did he stand his ground? Bronwynn loomed up before Rosha, and he saw she too had turned her horse back toward the wind. As he passed her, Rosha leaned out to reach for her reins to turn her, but his reach fell short and he was forced at last to tighten up on his own steed to try to turn her slowly. Over the roar, he heard Bronwynn shouting at him.

“Look, Rosha! Look!” But Rosha could not look until he had controlled his mount and turned her around. Still trembling, he cast a quick glance up at the black funnel, then sat up straight to search the horizon l for it. He didn’t see it. The whirling wind was gone.

Reality returned slowly. The world gradually came back into focus. Rosha shook his head to clear it, and realized that speech was audible once more. Bronwynn was shouting in his ear.

“Did you see him? Did you see? He stood his ground in the face of the storm and the winds divided around him!

Rosha, Pelmen destroyed the storm!” As she shouted she rode toward that figure on horseback who still stood quietly in the roadway. Rosha patted his horse, and thanked her quietly as he had seen Pelmen do, and urged her back toward the mounted Prophet.

“You’ve done it, Pelmen!” Bronwynn shouted as she reached him. “You’ve controlled the storm.” Rosha reined his horse in to face the Prophet, and murmured, “Are y-y-you all right?” Pelmen looked up, his face still ashen. “Yes.”

“You’ve controlled the whirlwind!” Bronwynn repeated loudly. Rosha noticed Pelmen was shaking.

“No… not I,” the Prophet said. His voice was somewhere between his lungs and his throat. “The Power…” He struggled to get it out.

“Yes, but you mediated the Power,” Bronwynn began.

Abruptly the Prophet’s voice returned, and he cut her off. “No!” Pelmen’s eyes were sharp again, Rosha noted with relief, and the Prophet’s attention came again into the present. “I did not mediate it,” Pelmen explained. “I stood in the wind’s pathway expecting to lose myself inside it. I raised no hand against it. The Power destroyed the wind, Bronwynn. For its own reasons the Power has preserved me.” Bronwynn stared at him in awe. The religious sense within her, stifled in her childhood, experienced a renascence of life. Bronwynn was becoming a believer.

Rosha sat idly in his saddle, waiting for some indication of what to do next. His father’s best friend—and his own teacher—had just survived certain death in the face of cyclone winds. He felt no sense of awe. He only felt an urgency to move on to the safety of the manor. This storm had passed them by. There was no certainty—the next would.

ADMON FAYE was not so foolish as to ride his chartered craft all the way into the harbor of Lamath. The river between the capital and the sea was lined with little fishing villages, and each village had its own businesses that catered to the needs of the sailor. Some miles east of the city Admon Faye paid the pilot the last of his fare, and asked to be put ashore. He made his way into one of these establishments, a dark little beer hall filled with the smells of brew and spices. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim interior-indeed, he preferred the darkness to the day—and he quickly found an empty booth to occupy. His face discouraged any who might offer to keep him company. He sipped his brew in silence—and listened. After a time he had a fair idea of where the information he needed could be purchased, and he joined himself to a pair of drunken sailors.