A pilgrim's tale

Unto the Friends and unto the Fellowship of the Convocation of the Skoromokh does this humble scrivener and maker of tunes send greeting and salutation.

It having been noted that some may not know much of me (though in perusing the names of those who count the blessing of membership among the mighty pens and talented minds of the consistory I see many with whom I am at least acquainted) and though it goes hard against my training to speak of myself, yet so shall I do to perhaps entertain, and so too enlighten.

First and foremost, I cannot tell you the land from which I come. Or rather let it be said that I can name a land, but none among the peoples of Kyria Sobor, none seem ever to have heard of my fair rodina, or motherland. That blessed land of my youth seems far beyond even the wide shores of this world's seas.

And having said this, I cannot tell you how it is I come to be in the lands of the Sobor. How I come to be in exile from Great Byrennios, that city both fair and foul at one and the same time, is a tale I shall shortly tell. But let it be enough to say that my homeland lies not among the known lands, for we knew no race but that of men, in my youth, in the rodina.

Thus the setting is obscure, the journey incomplete, the song half sung (nay, even half-written), the history muddled throughout, but especially at the start. If you can accept this stricture, then read on, and be welcome.

My name is Nikolai Kyrilovich Khorobit. In the vernacular of my motherland, that would be Nikolai the son of Kyril, ?of surpassing bravery?. I was born in a simple wooden house near the church of the village, for my father was the priest there. I was the fourth of six children, the third son, and from my youth matushka (mama) and batiushka (papa) raised us as best they could to love all and hurt none.

From a young age I learned to sing and make little songs to delight my brothers and sisters and other children of the town. I could make up stories as well, whether of the holy men and women of days of yore or the magical "thrice-distant land" where glowing firebirds and wicked kings vied for domination. I fully expected to spend my life in our village, telling tales and singing songs, perhaps becoming a deacon in the church, or perhaps not. I had no higher expectations, and at the time, no desire to wander the world and see what sights an all-knowing omnipotence might have created for my edification and spiritual growth.

At the tender age of 15 summers, I was blessed (or cursed, depending upon the townsfolk with whom you spoke). I could lay hands upon the sick, and given time, they would get better. I cannot explain this, though my father was at great pains to determine that the source of such power was of the Holy One and not of the Adversary who seeks the destruction of all men. Even before the bishop and synod (council) was I brought and prayerfully healed a sick man who was brought in to me.

But the holy men were uncertain of my gift and so sent me to live as a novice monastic in a small community far in the northern reaches of my homeland, a place where winters were long and harsh, and feral wolves howled in the long nights and the marshy land bred illness as well as saintliness.

It was there that I learned the glory of the faith of my fathers and mothers, and where I learned to read and write with a growing skill. It was also there I began to learn the lessons of humility and obedience and the wages of arrogance and pride. Indeed, the hegumen (abbot) forbade me to use the gift, and forbade my singing and my writing. These were tools that brought about vainglory, he said. Alas, he was correct. I took far too much pride in my gifts, as if I had made them and not the omnipotent creator.

It was in my 21st year that I broke the rule which hegumen Silouan had given me.

On a starlit summer night I danced and sang in the deep woods and reveled in the glory of the creator's world. I was seen, and for my disobedience I was cast out of the monastery and began to wander the land.

How long I roamed I do not know. It may have been long, it may have been short. But it was my foolish and turbulent head that brought me to wander to and fro across the rodina. I went from village to village, usually singing or telling a story for my supper. In a few places deep in the forests or far out on the windy steppes I would even lay hands on those who were ill and heal them. The warm-hearted people of the motherland fed me, and gave me place to sleep. They listened to my songs and tales and thanked me when I left. The priests were not always happy to see me, but when I chanted in the church and showed my knowledge of the services, they often relented in their opposition.

The days seemed to flow by swiftly, like a sailing vessel on the wide River Volga, propelled by the strong wind and by the tireless arms of the sailors who strain and pull on the great oars. It may have been a long time, it may have been a short time, but there came finally a wild and storm-wracked night.

I wandered across the wide steppe, and the pale moon was hidden by dark thunderclouds. Bolts of lightning fell like the wrath of the old gods all around me. I feared for my life, and cried out to the Creator to deliver me from my wretchedness. It seemed the heavens themselves were closed against my prayers, and the storm redoubled in its fury.

I begged the Master of all to save me, assailing the gates of paradise with my pleas that he would relieve my downtrodden spirit and give me a place to call home, out of the wind and the rain and the storm.

It chanced then that my way led across a stream. It seemed safe enough, only the waters stirred by the falling rain. But as I reached the middle of the rivulet, a roaring thunder seemed to roll down from afar, and looking up from where I was picking my path I saw the swelling flood come upon me.

I was torn from the earth and tossed like a bit of flotsam on the rolling and angry tide. I was sure that my end had come, for at that moment the skies opened and great torrents of rain fell. The flashes of lightning were such as at the ending of the world, and my heart was shriveled up within me.

At the height of my terror, I was mercifully stricken unconscious, whether by god-flame or demon-stave I do not know.

I floated upon the bosom of the wave for a time, long or short I do not recall. But when my wits returned, I was lying in the warmth of the sun. The sky spread her blue skirts above me. Green trees whispered in the breeze, and a brook flowed lightly beside my weary, battered body.

Indeed all was so familiar, much like the stream where my brothers used to fish in the far-off village of Khorobit. Yet I knew I was not near my village, though whether close not-near or far not-near I cannot say.

This was not the rodina. I knew it.

"Tis a fine sight ye are," said a hearty, deep voice beside me, "an' och! I thought ye would nivver awake from yer sleepin'! I've wasted the better part of a pint o' good beer on ye too!"

There stood over me, as if striding from the tales I used to tell, a stocky and red-bearded dwarf. In his hand he held a wooden mug from which he was pouring a few drops of rank and undrinkable beer upon my face, I suppose in a misguided attempt to revive me. The sight of him did far more to raise me to my feet than ever his piquant brew did.

It was he who would become like a brother to me in these lands of the "thrice-distant kingdom". Yes, I am convinced that this is where I am, after all those years spent believing it was naught but a fairy tale!.

But it was thus that I did meet the good Baal Fairbane, dwarf of Khorydana, fighter most puissant, brewer most untalented.

From him I learned that I was in the mountains at the edge of the empire named after it?s greatest city, Byrennios. From him I learned also of the complaints of free peoples about the dark and wicked actions of that empire. Had I known then what would later befall me, I should have thanked him most kindly and crawled beneath a rock and hoped to pray my way back to the rodina.

Good Baal took me to the magnificent underground city in which his people dwelt. To my surprise, I was welcomed as a long-lost son. I was regaled with long histories of the proud dwarven people, as well as genealogies of the many fine brews of those same dwarves. Baal also gave me excuses as to why his family's brew-work was so poor, and a sad tale it was.

But to him goes the honor of telling his own tale, for indeed I am not telling his, but my own.

I spent many a day with the dwarves of the family Fairbane, perhaps a long time, perhaps a short time, who can say? I taught good Baal what I knew of home-brewing, which is mightily small when compared to the knowledge of beer, ale and wine which is held within the hearts of dwarves everywhere. It may be my aid bettered the beer of the Fairbanes, but perhaps not.

My healing skill was far more pronounced in this strange land than it had been in the rodina. To the relief of my soul, no one here looked askance at my using it. Indeed, Baal spoke more than once about sending me, by virtue of the coin of the Fairbanes, to a Healer's Academy. Alas, the ongoing troubles with Byrennios prevented any such education.

Even so, many of those wise old dwarven folk were wont to say, like the babushki (grandmothers) of my homeland), "Natural talent will suffice for our needs."

The dwarves of Khorydana were delighted to learn that I could sing, and that I could tell tales. They fairly caused me to expire with pride when Baal announced that my tales were the finest to be heard outside the halls of the Dwarven King. Such praise I am unworthy of, and I ducked my turbulent head and hurried from the halls and made to flee into the remote uplands where I might conquer once again my passion for recognition and the praise of my fellows.

I had a pony saddled and was riding from the gate when I saw the glowing embers of a pipe upon a rock beside the trail, and there in the light of the pale moon, beneath the jeweled crown of stars sat Baal Fairbane.

"Would ye leave wi'out a word t'yer friends?" he asked. And there was a tear in his eye.

I tried to explain my heritage, and my pursuit of deification, that becoming in spirit what the Creator is in reality, and the obstacle that pride is to such sanctification.

"Aye, it may be so," said the dwarf, "an' far be it from me t'deny yer followin' yer god. But I cannae believe He wuild want ye tae wander this world alone....so I'll gae wi' ye. If aught else, mayhap I may teach ye of all tis good an? evil in these lands."

With that he leapt from the boulder and led his own pony around to join mine. When I looked at him in the moonlight, his eyes were brimming with tears, but he gruffly turned away and said, "Well, if we wuild reach anywhere by marning, we'd best be on air way."

Thus we began our travels, and my education in ways of the world of Kyria Sobor.

Much time has past since I first awoke in these lands. Much have I learned, and much have I taught. I have sung and told tales, healed and prayed.

I am content to remain here in this land. It is not the rodina, but it is my home.

to be continued...