The Hermit
The old hermit seems to carry the weight of existence on his hunched shoulders. He is peculiar and intriguing enigma that brings a sense of solace.
Danan. The Third Great Age. 3031.
eyes squint into a small fire where cinders fly, and blustering flames cast shadows on rugged cavern walls. Smoke rises from the damp wood, stinging his eyes. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, mingling with the tang of burning wood. Faint echoes of water drip and trickle. His body aches beneath his damp robes, and a soft bundle of rags supports his throbbing head.
A frail old man sits, cross-legged, across the flickering flames. He tugs at his long, gray hair, matted and clumped with ash and dirt, which dangles down to his waist. His dark, unkempt, grayish-white beard extends well below his chest. His bushy, gray eyebrows blend into an endless monobrow. One eye, clouded with a cataract, stares blankly across the small flames at Danan. The other eye, owlish in appearance, is bright blue, wide, and wary above a three-toothed smile. Their eyes meet, blinking in unison, appraising each other with unwavering attention. The old hermit gestures to Danan to drink.
“Thank you,” Danan murmurs, feeling dazed. His voice sounds hollow, a timid whisper beneath the gentle melody of the flames. He reaches for a small cup set before the fire, his fingers wrapping around the smooth, clay cup. His bloodied and cracked lips sting as he drinks, yet he relishes the sweetness and warmth of the tea. Danan shuffles upright, propping himself on his elbows. His world spins as his grimy fingers rub circles into his refocusing eyes. He avoids the old man's eye contact, his gaze flitting around the cavern, then drawn back to the flames.
The wiry old man stands, precarious as a crumbling arched bridge, leaning for support on a tall, wooden walking staff. He arches over like a weeping willow, bending at a near right angle. His stale, tattered robes drape off his fragile, pole-like frame. He prepares to speak, but his words elude him. Like a fish on dry land, his mouth contorts into uncertain shapes." His voice scratches out from his unused vocal cords. “It’s been a while since I last spoke. I get so few guests these days. Ah, more tea?” The elderly man stooping almost to breaking point as he picks up the steaming teapot, hobbles to the fire with the aid of his staff. The hermit lowers himself to eye level with Danan and reaches over the licking flames, pouring Danan another cup of sweet honey tea.
Grateful, Danan drinks. “Sir, how did I get here?” He scratches his head as he scans the scant, dank cavern. “Where am I?”
The old man chuckles with a hacking wheeze. “You fell onto my porch. The One only knows how you survived. Quite out of the ordinary.” He sits, staring at Danan through the flames, one eye wide with curiosity, the cataract eye unblinking. “You must have taken a shallow fall—any higher, and you would have been beyond my help. So, the real question is, who are you? Who lands on my porch?” The hermit tilts his head in curiosity, his one eye blinking slowly with an unwavering gaze.
“My name is Danan. I am a scribe from the monastery, in the service of Lord Varesh of the Elim.” Danan’s voice trails off into awkward silence.
The old man bursts into hacking laughter, his smoke-rimmed eyes welling with tears, "Lord Varesh, aye!" Danan startles with a flinch as the old man falls into a bout of coughing. The hermit abruptly shifts from deep laughter to moments of somber contemplation. He gazes into the distance, lost in thought, muttering to unseen companions, as if holding conversations with himself. He then settles back into a sudden, stony silence. “A scribe, walking the old path,” the hermit muses to himself as he pours himself a cup of tea. His old mind delves into a timeless archive of distant memories. “It is rare for a monk to leave the monastery. It is even rarer for a monk to follow the old path. I’ve lived here for an age, and you, young Danan, are the first scribe to find your way to my humble home.”
Danan stares around the cold and empty cave, lingering on a pile of meagre firewood, a pair of cups, and a shallow bowl. In a darkened recess, there is a sack of barley flour and a simple wooden chest. A cluster of bioluminescent fungi casts an eerie glow, and sparkling bluish luminescence emanates from crystals embedded in the cavern’s stone. “You live here?”
“Why, yes, master monk. We made our homes here."
“There are more of you?” Danan interrupts, surprised.
“Oh, yes,” the old hermit chirps. “How many and where? I do not know. We devoted ourselves to lives of prayer and solitude in these caves. Fortunate for you, I am a simple healer with a little craft in herbs and medicine. You are without broken bones and in good health. Some bruising is natural, but the tea will help.”
“I am most grateful to you, sir." Danan fidgets, unsettled by the hermit’s firm, one-eyed stare. He clasps the object hidden within his robes, sighing with relief as he feels the round ball close to his heart. Then, changing the subject, he asks, “Sir, what is your name?”
The old man’s monobrow rises as his bright blue owlish eye shines in the hypnotic firelight, lost in distant memories. “Nirtesh.” The old man drifts back from his wanderings. “There are a few people in the valley who remember me. I have some ink and parchment, and The One provides.” A hacking chuckle morphs into an aged, wheezing cough. “After the fall, those loyal to The One made the climb to guard the holy throne, leading the disciples back to the light. The chosen few who succeeded became the leaders of the first communities.” The hermit takes a deep swig of tea and lets out a contented sigh. “And thus, The Order of The One was created.” The old man’s cataract eye shimmers like a blue ball of lightning. “I had no intention of climbing to such power. This cave was empty, so I made it my home.
The sound of horns blasting a deep call from the monastery far above heralds the first sunrise. The resounding blast reverberates through the cavern, shaking the mountain. Dust falls from the cave roof, covering Danan in a cloud of fine grit. The first pale rays of the rising sun frame the cavern's entrance and cast a radiant, golden glow into the cave mouth.
“You are most welcome to stay, but I hazard a guess that your task is pressing. You are, of course, welcome to continue on the old path, although I cannot guarantee all the ladders are in such fine working order.” The old hermit gestures to a rope net at the mouth of the cave with a cunning three-toothed grin. “The winch will lower you safely to the valley.”
Danan casts a nervous glance at the rope net. “Will it hold?”
“Bundles of wood, sacks of barley flour, the occasional sick child—yes. A monk?” The hermit shrugs. “This turn is full of welcome surprises.”
Danan’s mouth sets into a dubious grimace as he glances, skeptical, at the large rope net, gaping with holes and fraying knots. “How does it work?”
The old hermit stands, his fragile hunchback creaking in silent protest. “It’s quite simple. You climb in, and I lower you down. The pulley system is in good working order. Fret not, master Danan, I won’t let go.”
Danan stares at the frail old man. He’s nothing more than a hunched cloth of baggy skin, brittle bone, and protruding veins. He rises and ambles on reluctant legs to the sprawled-out netting. The wind gusts into his face as he peers over the cliff edge and down to a rich, dark green forest. Danan clambers into the net with a resigned sigh.
The old hermit reaches up to the pulley rope. His skeletal body dangles in the air as Danan rises from the cavern floor. The ropes squeal, the net creaks, and the pulley wheels protest under Danan’s weight. The old man slides the rope between two wooden wheels and lowers him earthbound. Danan’s arms and legs flail through the net’s holes as he looks down at a sea of misty green treetops.
“Farewell, Danan," the hermit calls, his voice crackling. “Until we meet again.”
“Meet again?—.”
In a blur of the dawning sky, spiraling ropes, and mossy rock, Danan loses sight of the hermit. Twisting and jolting in the air, the net bounces off the rugged cliff face as Danan mutters his prayers. He peers between his legs to see a rush of green poking up from a valley of ghostly mist. The air is thick and damp, filled with the smell of wet ferns and musty leaves. Danan inhales a deep breath of fragrant wild garlic and flowers in full bloom. He hits a damp thicket with a soggy thud and crunches onto a pile of bracken beneath him.
Danan takes his first breaths of life beneath the clouds. He gulps, drinking in the thick, warm air. His head swims as his senses overload. Shards of serene sunlight cut through the thick green canopy, where woodpeckers knock and rap as leaves rattle. The wind sings between the creaking trees while songbirds chirp and honeybees hop from flower to flower, dancing in a buzzing waltz. Exhausted and disoriented, Danan lies flat on his back and stares up at the looming forest canopy. A voice breaks Danan from his daydream.
“He’s late,” a harsh voice says, thick with a Thielian accent, dropping his h’s and stressing his a’s.
“He’s alive,” sniggers another surprised voice.
Danan wriggles, trying to free his aching limbs from the mass of mangled netting. His ears pricking to understand the slang, he then peers over a thick wall of tall bracken to glimpse the voices.
Alright, lads, help the holy man up and get him sorted,” a firm yet playful captain commands.
“I’ll give him a drink before we set off. It’s a long road,” calls another voice.
“No shit, halfwit, three fucking turns without a bed, booze, or brothel,” banters the first voice. “This cunt best be worth the coin.”
“This cunt’s a holy man, so watch your fucking tongues, you inbred twats. Treat him with fucking respect,” barks the captain. “He’s an honored guest of Lord Varesh.”
“Honored guest? He’s half-dead,” another voice snorts as it approaches Danan. “What’s wrong with the gateway winch?”
“We ain’t paid to ask questions. Just get him to the carriage so we can get off. Mount up and keep us out of bother. No beggars, no charity. We only stop to eat, piss, and shit. You got it?”
“Aye, captain.” A disgruntled chorus agrees as one.
“We can have breakfast at that inn. What’s its name?”
“The Old Goat, that’s it,” another deep voice rumbles in, “half-decent ale and good pie.”
“You lot can eat old goat pie, and I’ll eat some fresh muff.” Chimes in another voice.
“Yeah, some old goat’s muff. Dry as the desert with skin like sunbaked squid,” declares another voice.
Boisterous laughter howls in a melody of metal and stomping hooves.
"Alright, that’s enough, I’ve got a splitting headache. Jorgon, get the holy man up. Give him a drink so we can get off. Three more turns with you bastards is enough to drive me mad,” prattles the captain.
Heavy footsteps approach Danan, the dull metallic steps crunching through the bracken, until a metal face peers over the thick brush. A yellow feather comb flies from his polished helm, and then, with a loud grate, the knight pulls up his visor. Flat eyes emerge with the slightest edge of a smile on a hardened face.
“Welcome, monk. We’ve been expecting you.” The knight's accent cuts thick with Thielian. “Forgive the urgency. We have a long ride ahead of us. No doubt you are thirsty. Here, have my flask; drink, take rest and worry not.”
Danan’s legs buckle as he stands. The knight steadies him with a reassuring arm around his shoulder and passes him his water bladder.
Danan gulps it down, then recoils as the bitter liquid stings his cracked lips. His voice slurring out from a groggy mouth, and his words fumble over numbing lips. “Thank you, sir. I must rest now. Forgive me, I am—".
Thud. Danan’s world is unconscious black.
“And he’s out!” calls the knight, Jorgon, to a chorus of laughter. “Fell like my cock after too much ale.”
“What cock? You mean that shriveled acorn?” banters another soldier.
Captain Jon perches beside an armored driver of the horse-drawn carriage. A pair of fidgety bays stomp and rake the wet forest earth. Tall and heavyset, the captain’s silver armor gleams like jade as it reflects the lush forest landscape. His shining helm is raised, with golden hair that falls to his shoulders. A jovial smile of near-perfect white teeth shines from within his open helm. “Jorgon, pick him up. That tonic will knock him out for at least three turns. I’m hungry, thirsty, and want some young muff.”
“Aye, Jon,” comes a happy chorus of approval from the mounted soldiers.
Danan’s legs trail through a carpet of green leaves and pinecones as Jorgon drags him under his arms, then opens the carriage door and flings his limp body onto a plump, cushioned seat. The carriage door slams shut on Danan as he gives a violent snore with a mouthful of drool.