Kingdoms of the Wall

2

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.”

“He probably will,” said Traiben. “Poor Thrance.”

“Poor Thrance? Why do you say a strange thing like that? Thrance is someone to be envied, and you know it!”

Traiben shook his head. “Envy Thrance? Oh, no, Poilar. I envy him his broad back and long legs, and nothing else. Don’t you see? This moment right now is the finest moment of his life. Everything can only get worse from here on for him.”

“Because he’s been chosen to be a Pilgrim?”

“Because he’ll run ahead of the others,” said Traiben, and turned away, wrapping himself in a cloak of silence.

Thrance went trotting past us down Procession Street, a jubilant figure, head upraised toward the mountain.

We were almost at the end of the Procession now.

The last of this year’s Pilgrims had passed by, and had taken the turn past the huge scarlet-leaved szambar tree in the plaza, the place where all roads meet, the spindle marking the point from which everything in our village radiates. They swung sharply around the tree and went to the right: that would put them on the road toward Kosa Saag. Behind them came the final group of marchers, the saddest ones of all—the great horde of defeated candidates, whose humiliating task it was to carry the equipment and baggage of the winners as far as the village boundary.

How sorry I felt for them! How my heart ached for their shame!

There were hundreds and hundreds of them, marching five abreast past me for what seemed like forever. These, I knew, were merely the ones that had survived the long ordeal of training and selection; for many die during that time. Even after those deaths there were still, I suppose, eighty or ninety defeated ones for each of the chosen Forty. It has always been like that. Many come forward, but few succeed. In my year, which was a large one though not unusually so, there were four thousand two hundred and fifty-six candidates: each of us had less than one chance out of a hundred to be chosen.

Yet these defeated ones marched as proudly as though they had been winners—heads erect, eyes staring toward the mountain. It was like that every year, and I had never been able to understand why. Well, it is an honor, after all, to have been a candidate, even an unsuccessful one. But I would not have wanted to be among their number.

They went by, and suddenly Procession Street was empty.

“There should be Sweepers at the end as well as at the beginning,” said Traiben. “To clear away the spirits that come flocking in after the people have passed.”

I shrugged. Sometimes I had no patience with Traiben’s strangeness. My attention was focused on the road to Kosa Saag, off to my left on the northwest side of town. The Pilgrims were in the flat part of the road now and therefore out of sight, with their pitiful train of baggage-bearers still in view behind them. Then the baggage-bearers vanished into the dip of the road and a moment later the first of the Pilgrims reappeared, visible again on the steeper part of the road where it rises just west of the center of the village and ascends into the foothills of the Wall. The double light of brilliant white Ekmelios and blood-red Marilemma cloaked them in an eye-dazzling aura as they made their way up the golden-carpeted road.

Watching them, I felt the most powerful sort of agitation, almost to the point of sickness. I trembled; my throat went dry; my face became stiff as a mask. I had seen this moment of the Pilgrims’ departure every year of my life, but this time it was different. I imagined myself among them, going up and up and up the Wall. The village dwindled to a dot behind me. I could feel the air growing cooler and thinner as I climbed. I put my head back and stared toward the remote unknown Summit and my brain whirled with wonders.

Traiben was gripping my arm again. This time I didn’t brush him away.

Together we counted out the names of the mileposts as the Pilgrims ascended:

“Roshten … Ashten … Glay … Hespen … Sennt …”

Ordinarily the Sennt milepost was as far up the Wall-road as one could see from the lowlands. But as I have said, that day had become one of great clarity, and we were able to make out one more winding of the road, to the milepost known as Denbail. Traiben and I whispered its name together as the Pilgrims reached it. That was where the golden ceremonial carpet came to its end and the stone-paved road lay bare. Here the defeated ones had to hand over the equipment, for they were allowed to go no farther on the upward route. We stared, straining our eyes, as the Forty took their packs and gear from those who had borne them up till now. Then the defeated ones swung around and began their descent; and the Forty resumed their climb, continuing on up the road until within moments they were lost to our view in the mists and twists of the upward path.