The Ancient

PART TWO

Perhaps it is because in order to simply survive I had to remain so much more in tune with the workings of my body, or perhaps it was my Jhesta Tu training, but whatever the reason, I find that I am more apt than the average person to understand the subtle clues offered to me by my unconscious soul. So many things we reveal to ourselves without ever realizing them!

The lightness of my step when I departed Palmaristown, for example, whether in the guise of the Stork or in that of the Highwayman, buoyed me; I felt as if I could leap a hundred feet off the ground. With the road straight before me to Chapel Abelle, the hopes of seeing this man, my father, Bran Dynard, filtered throughout my being and lifted my spirit.

Consciously, I wasn’t even thinking about such things. Consciously, I told myself, berated myself, that this entire journey was no more than procrastination. The real road was south and east, but I was-deliberately-a long way from there.

But despite my pangs of guilt, I felt that buoyancy clearly and acutely, a sense of excitement, and not just because I had successfully deflected and delayed facing my deepest fears. Nay, on this road to the mother church of the Abellican Order, I felt as if I was moving forward on my journey, as if I was taking a very important and exciting stride.

I wondered if I was betraying Garibond, my beloved father-in-practice, who had raised me and tolerated my infirmities without complaint, who had loved me without condition and without embarrassment. My road seemed to be leading me to the man who had sired me, and my road was walked with eagerness, so what did that reflect upon Garibond and his sacrifices?

And what did I really expect from this man, Bran Dynard?

And why hadn’t he come back for me? More than two decades had transpired since his departure from Pryd Town, and he had not returned for Sen Wi or for his child.

As I ponder these many angles, my mind jumbles and shakes and darts in directions unasked for. And to all of them, I have no true answers, I recognize, for I will not know how I feel about Bran Dynard until I have met him. I will not know his answers to my concerns until he has explained them. I will not know the effect upon the legacy of Garibond until long has passed, I am sure.

Indeed, that is the most unanswerable question of all, because the truth is clear and yet clouded by guilt, that most opaque of veils. I loved and still love Garibond with all my heart and soul. I would throw myself upon a pyre of flames to save him, without hesitation! I would do anything, anything at all, to have him back.

Of my sire, I am less certain. Of Bran Dynard, I have only expectations with which to guide my preconceptions.

Well, only those and the Book of Jhest, the tome he penned-or copied, at least. For the contents were such that no one without understanding of the book could properly relay its subtle shades. Perhaps that book remains the paradox of my inner conflict, the source of both excitement and trepidation.

For I would desperately desire to meet the man who penned that book, that marvelous tome which freed me from my abject helplessness, even if he had no connection to me in blood or otherwise, other than the connection I feel in my heart to that which he wrote. On this level alone, I am truly comfortable with my journey.

How could it be otherwise? I desire to meet the man who penned the wondrous book as I desire to meet the mystics of Behr who live the lessons of that book in their daily existence. And this journey is even safer than that, for whatever the outcome of my meeting with Bran Dynard, the Walk of Clouds remains. Hope remains.

Is this then a comfortable step for me? For all of my other fears regarding this stranger, I hold few or no familial expectations, so I suspect that I cannot be disappointed in that manner, and whatever philosophy Bran Dynard may express now, or whatever he might offer or not offer to further my recovery, he has already given so much to me that I cannot hold any anger against him.

Or maybe I do. Perhaps my anger at his refusal or inability to return to Sen Wi and to me will prove a stronger angst than I anticipate, a thorn more deeply embedded in my heart than I now understand.

And so with a resigned sigh, I must admit it may be that the only real comfort of this journey is that it allows me to put off the even more terrifying march to the Walk of Clouds.

– BRANSEN GARIBOND