OR LIGHT A PENNY CANDLE FROM A STAR

OR LIGHT A PENNY CANDLE FROM A STAR

Eric J Drysdale

Fourth Stanza of Galway Bay

Oh, the strangers came and tried to teach us their way

They scorn’d us just for being what we are

But they might as well go chasing after moonbeams

Or light a penny candle from a star.

On a long gone day in a place far away - for generations they’d lived and worked and loved and died in their secret valley, safe from intrusion of and inspection by the people in the world beyond. They didn’t have a formal religion but they did have a bible and a Christian ethic passed on by their forebears which resulted in a curiously effective amalgam that served them well; but ultimately a battered old bible and a secluded valley were no defence against the broadswords and blunderbusses of the world beyond.

On a chill winter morning while the frost still lay thick and heavy on the ground and the sun had not crested the hills that ringed their secret valley, the strangers raged down the slopes. In one morning that came to be referred to as “the morning of the black frost” 100 years of peace were shattered like the skull of a steer under the slaughter man’s hammer. The cries of the widows and the dying rose in the icy air with the smell of blood and of death.

In the days that followed the survivors could not comprehend the evil that had befallen them. They were ill-equipped and unprepared for anything but peace, and suddenly they had been thrust into a maelstrom of horror. The invaders were suffering the vicissitudes of war and their object in sacking the valley was purely to replenish their depleted coffers. Because of their aggressive acquisition tactics they were in a continuous state of war.

For the people of the valley the conditions were simple. To avoid a repetition of the morning’s slaughter, they would pay a tax of fifty percent of everything they produced or earned. The tax would be collected twice a year and any attempt to avoid the payment or to cheat the victor of his rightful entitlements would result in an increase in the tax and selected executions.

The people of the valley adjusted to their new circumstance and existed under the yoke of oppression for two summers but when for the second time they laboured in the spring only to see the fruits of those labours purchased by the currency of fear by the murderers of their relatives and friends, they determined to resist in some way. They gathered in the meeting house and whilst there was uniformity of resolve there was uncertainty of direction.

After a time an old woman spoke up, “Whatever we do some may die and the rest will suffer, so it’s difficult to decide. There’s a legend that on the high mountain lives a beautiful woman of great wisdom. I heard the legend when I was a child and I do not know if she exists, but if she does she may have the answer to our problems.”

That one comment became their seed of hope.

All the adults in the community were involved in preparing the ground, tilling the soil and selecting the seeds to be planted. By the time the full moon rose a second time, and the warmer days of summer were tempered by the onset of autumn, three men and a woman had been selected to journey to the high mountain to seek out Ayrinya, the lady of the legend.

The seed was planted and the germination process begun. By sunrise on the morning of their departure they had already topped the first hill. Turning, they waved for a long moment at the small figures in the valley below and then faced resolutely towards the high mountain once again and strode into the sun.

At first sight it was an oddly assorted foursome that ascended the slope that early autumn morning but on inspection there was logic in the selection: Chezan, the ancestral head of the community, now in his forty-sixth year and running to fat. He had assumed the position on the death of his father eight years before. He’d lost two sons on the morning of the black frost. Banu, the blacksmith, a man of great strength and normally of gentle disposition, his wife had been raped and murdered by the strangers. Mayari the village midwife, her husband, who had been run through with a lance, would never walk again, and she too had been raped; and finally Husta the finest hunter in the valley. He had not lost any family, but his flintlock rifle and the long knife he carried on his belt were patiently awaiting the day when they would avenge for him the death of many of his friends.

In the weeks that followed they moved through the lowlands into the foothills and onto the slopes of the high mountain. Each time they came upon a village, a small isolated community or a scattering of homes clinging together for communal security, they asked questions about the lady of the legend. Some knew of her, others did not; some believed, others did not. But slowly from their questioning they pieced together a montage that became “Ayrinya of the high mountain”. Some believed that the ageless legend was nothing more than the first-born girl child of each generation succeeding her mother. But as they climbed higher up the mountain both the legend and the belief of the people grew stronger.

One afternoon they reached a small village and were in discussion with the chief about their quest when they were interrupted by the arrival of the tax gatherer coming to collect his half-yearly blood money. This time however, it was the warlord himself.

The chief was visibly distressed and said to Chezan, “We do not have enough, but maybe, as it is the lord, he will be understanding”. But understanding and compassion had been replaced in the warlord’s vocabulary by power and fear, pain and perversity. They were only a band of ten soldiers but that was more than enough to enforce their demands when those demands were made against the simple peace-loving villagers.

The warlord’s voice was harsh, enjoying his power. “So you have stolen ten pieces of gold from me!”

“No, no”, the chief tried desperately to reassure him, to appease him, “we did not have the extra, we must survive”.

“Why?” the warlord asked with chilling simplicity, “It is I who decide if you will survive, if you live or die. Hah, I think I will kill you now.”

Before he could act, Chezan stepped forward. “Every villager you kill unnecessarily is one less who can produce for you. I am not from this village. I am from a village in the valley. I will pay you the ten pieces of gold and then you will not need to kill the chief and he will produce more for you next year and the year after.”

The warlord looked long at Chezan and then snatched the proffered gold coins. “Yes I know you; the village in the valley. Two years ago this winter. Well, it seems if you have money to waste on sentimentality and humanitarian gestures your taxes are too low. The next time I come to your village you will pay an extra ten percent in taxes.” He turned to the chief, “Now, my soldiers and I will enjoy the hospitality of this village and leave in the morning.”

Later that evening the chief sat with Chezan and his companions drinking the sour wine of their mountains.

“Chezan, I have not had an opportunity before to properly thank you. You saved my life. I believe the warlord would have killed me for the pleasure, and to demonstrate his power. Why did you intervene? He’s a fiend. You risked your own life and now you must pay an extra ten percent in taxes.”

Chezan squeezed his arm, “It was right”.

“But you do not even know me. I am not a brother or a friend.”

“I did not think I just acted. To know someone or to be related is not the issue. If it is right, it is right.” He shrugged in embarrassment and held out his glass. “Enough of this. Give me some more of your excellent wine.”

The chief smiled and refilled his glass. They sat quietly sipping their wine for a few moments and then the chief spoke again. “You asked about Ayrinya of the high mountain. Tomorrow I will have one of my sons take you to her.”

Chezan looked at the other three for they had been discussing the events of the afternoon. “Thank you; maybe in a few days or a week.”

The chief looked at him levelly, “Why is it that something that was of great importance this afternoon has suddenly become much less important?” he paused, “Could it be that you are going to ambush and try to kill the warlord? You will have more chance if you are eight. I will send my son and three men with you and if you are successful he can then take you to Ayrinya.”

Chezan started to protest but the chief stopped him. “I cannot go myself for I am sick and would be more of a hindrance and a nuisance, and I cannot spare more than four men, but this too is right. There is a chasm a day’s journey from here with a suspended bridge. It will be the perfect place for an ambush. My son will take you across country so you will be prepared and waiting when they arrive. Everything can be organized in the morning after the warlord leaves. Have some more wine.”

The chief had been right. It was indeed the perfect place for an ambush, but the warlord was too experienced a soldier not to recognize this and dispatched half the men first. When they were safely across he then followed in the second group, however Husta had anticipated the likelihood of this and as a precaution spilt their own group so that four were concealed on each side of the ravine with a clear view of the bridge. His first bullet smashed into the warlord’s brain killing him instantly as he reached the centre of the bridge. The other four soldiers on the bridge were dead within moments, but their companions on the far bank, who had already concealed themselves behind the rocks, were not so easily accounted for and before the last one fell to his death in the ravine they had exacted a heavy toll on Chezan and his party. Two of the men from the village died and Husta himself was mortally wounded dying before his blood congealed in the afternoon sun. Chezan suffered a terrible wound high on the right side of his chest, but was unconscious, not dead.

When Chezan regained consciousness two days later, he was in an unfamiliar room. Light filtered into the room through partially drawn drapes, which created a muted effect, but a sunbeam entering the one open window illuminated the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His heart surged and he knew that not only had he survived, but Ayrinya was sitting beside his bed. It wasn’t only that she was possessed of great beauty in classical and traditional ways; the flowing gold hair, the planes of her face, the sweep of her nose, even the jaw line and the carriage of her head, but when she realised he was awake and smiled at him there was an iridescence about the warm brown eyes that lit up her face.

“Chezan, you are awake. That is good. How do you feel?”

Gentle concern and compassion were etched into her features, an intrinsic part of her beauty. The voice was soft and mellow.

He went to move and winced at the pain and then answered, “Sore and hungry.”

“Sore and hungry is good”, she said with a soft laugh. “That means that when the sun rose this morning you were still alive to enjoy the day, and your body is telling you it needs nourishment. There is some broth on the stove. I do not eat meat. The animals of the forest have enough to contend with without my hunger as well. It has many herbs and you will find it good. It will help to heal you.” She rose gracefully and disappeared into an adjacent room. There was an economy about her speech and movement that set her apart from anyone Chezan had ever seen before.

After he’d eaten he slept. He had another meal in the evening, and next morning when he woke he felt much improved. After a breakfast of fruit and gruel made from a variety of grains he and Ayinya talked. He told her about their valley, about generations of peace, about simple family values and about the trauma that had befallen them with the invasion of the strangers. By the time he got to the ambush at the suspension bridge Chezan had the very definite feeling Ayrinya already knew everything he had told her.

“Chezan, you say that you set out to find me in the hope that I may be able to offer a solution, or solutions to your problem. Do you still believe that?”

Chezan deliberated for a long time and then answered slowly, “Irrespective of the legend I believe that anyone who sits in your presence, who is able to talk with you must benefit from your wisdom. But the warlord is dead now and at least some things are different.”

“There will always be men of evil intent who will strive to control innocent people for their own ends. Do you think that one of the warlord’s lieutenants will take his place and demand his taxes or do you think the danger is passed for the moment?”

“I do not know, but I do know that we will not yield in the same way as we did before.”

Ayrinya leaned forward earnestly. “Chezan, I did not suggest that you resist other oppressors any more than I suggested that you must risk your life and step forward to save the chief, or ambush the warlord. Each man must walk down his own road. Each man must seek and find his own destiny and if he is true to himself and can comfortably face himself in the mirror each day, that destiny also must be a reflection of, and true to his ethics, his values and his morality. You will be strong again soon and you will be a stronger leader for this experience.” She picked up an apple and cut it in half, scraping a few seeds into the palm of her hand, “Only an apple tree can grow from an apple seed. Man is like the apple or anything else in nature. Each one of us is the sum total of our experiences, whether they be for good or for ill, and each one of us emerges from the environment in which we grow up and in which we live as surely as the butterfly emerges from the cocoon. And although we are influenced by the events in our life we decide how we respond and whether that be in a negative or positive manner. Over the last couple of years the people in your village and in villages throughout the valleys and lower mountains, have suffered terribly because of the greed of a violent oppressor. And these events have given you a unity, a cohesion and a single-minded focus that you didn’t have before and you must build on that. You must take the good things that have come from this experience and extend them, for in the world as we know it there will always be greedy despots and warlords. Until mankind adopts a Christian ethic and Christian values, whether they purport to be Christian or not, the innocent and the peace loving will always pay the penalties for greed and violence, crime and war, treachery and ruthless ambition. Chezan, you must go back and lead your people into the coming years with wisdom and justice that’s tempered by compassion. Because of what has happened to you, you have the opportunity to instil a communal bonding, not only from the pain and suffering, but from your victory over the warlord.”

The table at which they sat was positioned in a garden abundant with flowers and fruit trees. A variety of birds hopped amongst the branches; a few of the more daring ones even venturing onto the table to peck some remaining grains from his breakfast bowl.

Ayrinya leaned forward taking his hands in hers. “Chezan, will you do that for the memory of me? Will you do that so that in your valley peace and goodwill may be nourished by kindness and humanity?”

Tears were shining in Chezan’s eyes and he squeezed her hands in response. “Yes, Ayrinya, I will. Talking to you has been an inspiring experience. It reminds me of a legend in the valleys of a great leader many generations ago: Li-Zan. He saved the people of the valleys from a tyrant, but in doing so he lost his own life. It is said that Li-Zan was a man who only comes to the people once in a 1000 years. Ayrinya …”, he looked at her for a long moment, “you are my Li-Zan.”

Tears came to her eyes and she couldn’t speak. Finally she said, “Chezan, that is a far greater compliment than you could possibly realise, for you see, Li-Zan was my father.”

THE END