He was talking to Rona in his kitchen in the first memory. It was of a true, recent event, just days ago in Toruk’s house. Rona was behind the stove cooking something for Toruk and Tame while Toruk sat at a nearby table talking to her. Tame was playing in his room down the hall.
“Rona,” Toruk had said, thankful that his best friend had offered to cook her best chicken meal, for he was not much of a cook himself and had resorted to frozen meals for him and Tame, “you know about the legend of the Sacred Waterstone, rijto (right)?”
Toruk heard Rona turn around and approach him. “What?” she asked, responding in Cetan, for she did not know the Lijian language.
“The Sacred Waterstone,” he repeated in Cetan. “What my father and I had been searching for.”
“Oh,” said Rona, pulling out a chair near Toruk and sitting down. “What about it?”
“Do you think it’s real?”
“Tor,” said Rona, reaching to touch Toruk’s hand, “I’ve known you since we were little kids. Because you thought it was real, I did, too.”
“Well, I think I might have to go back out there to search for it,” he replied.
“Now? In winter?”
“Yes.”
“But why? The government is working on a cure.”
“I think the only cure is the Sacred Waterstone, Rona.”
“So you want to continue your father’s legacy? But why that way? Why not let the mayor handle it, Tor? You and your father tried, but nothing was found. Besides, do you think you’re smarter than all the scientists working on it?”
“Rona, fe tril ni (of course not)! But something tells me that it’s out there. The Sacred Waterstone is out there…maybe on Matla Mountain Peak.”
“Tor, are you serious?”
“I’m very serious, Rona.”
“Maybe you’re just grieving your father, Tor. It hasn’t been that long ago, you know.”
“I know.”
“It’s normal. I remembered I kept hearing my grandmother everywhere for nearly a year after she passed away. All I wanted to do was remind myself of her. It’ll pass, Tor.”
“Rona, the Waterstone is real.”
“And you think it’s on the Mountain?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Matla Peak, Tor?”
“Yes.”
“Tor, this is ridiculous. I think you just need to get some rest.”
“It’s true, Rona.”
“I thought the legend said the Waterstone was hidden in the wilderness somewhere, not on a mountain.”
“The legend is wrong, Rona. It was right about the existence of the Waterstone but wrong about where it was.”
“So, you think it’s on the Peak, the same Matla Mountain Peak that’s over a zillion feet in elevation?”
“Yes.”
“The same Peak that no one in the entire world has ever been able to climb, Tor?”
“Yes.”
“The Peak that’s surrounded by an enchanted Valley that no one in the entire world has ever been able to tolerate for more than a single day?”
“Yes.”
“Tor, are you listening to yourself? You’re tired. Tofer’s gone. Matyp’s gone. You’ve got a lot on your plate. Come on, you sound crazy.”
“Rona, you know me. Have I ever sounded like this before?”
Rona thought for a moment, then she pushed away from the table and went to the stove to check on the food. In the real memory, Rona had continued counseling Toruk against going to the Peak, at least by himself. She encouraged him to take her along or to wait until spring when the weather was better. She repeated her suggestion that he should get more rest and think about what he was saying.
However, in the Meadow of Memory, Toruk’s memory of that event suddenly became distorted. Instead of Rona’s gentle negation of Toruk’s beliefs, in the Meadow’s distorted memory, she viciously attacked him with sour, painful words, ridiculing him, and threatening to break their friendship.
“You’re so stupid, Tor,” Rona said in the distorted memory. “There is no such thing as the Sacred Waterstone. I never believed that stupid Lijian legend anyway! You’re making this up. You’re making this all up so I’ll have pity on you. You’re just a hlak (liar), Toruk Tal, a pathetic, blind hlak! I refuse to be your friend!”
“No!” Toruk cried out as he stood in the middle of the Meadow of Memory, not realizing that the memory was unreal, that it had not played out that way, that it was the Meadow who was tricking him. Toruk was hunched over, lost in his mind, suddenly sorrowed by the thought of losing Rona’s friendship.
Then the memory soon faded, swiftly followed by another. In this one, Toruk was sitting in the mayor’s office, two days before he set out for Satqin Forest. Mr. Colt, the mayor, was seated opposite him behind a desk, surrounded by a cloud of expensive cologne tickling Toruk’s nose.
“Toruk Tal, I’m honored to meet with you. Your father, Tofer, was an upright citizen in Ceto, a model immigrant, especially for a Lijian,” the mayor had said in perfect Cetan.
“Re tyi (Thank you),” Toruk had likewise replied.
“So what can I do for you?” asked the mayor in his usual sing-song voice.
“Well, it’s about the poison.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I have the entire scientific and medical community working around the clock to counteract the poison. Trust me, your parents did not die in vain. We will defeat this mysterious poison, Mr. Tal. Don’t worry. You will be healed one day.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Colt. I think I know how to get the, uh, the antidote.”
“Oh, I see. Go on, Mr. Tal.”
“Well, I can’t really reveal my sources just yet, but I believe it’s on Matla Mountain, on the Peak.”
The mayor sighed. “Mr. Tal, I’ve heard all about the Lijian legend. Trust me, that legend’s just a legend. There is no antidote out there in the wilderness. Any antidote to this poison will come from a lab, a bona fide scientific lab.”
“But Mr. Colt, the legend is true. And the solution is on Matla.”
“Then why hasn’t anyone found it?”
“Well, they probably didn’t know where to look.”
“And you do?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Tal, you’ve gone through a lot in your life. It’s natural to want to search for solutions to problems. It’s part of the grieving process. But let the experts do what they do. I’ve got this under control.”
“But with all due respect, Mr. Colt, people are dying every day from the poison. And we still don’t know where its coming from, whether it’s in the air, the soil, the food or the water. Everyday someone goes blind. Everyday someone gets sick.”
The mayor sighed then stood up. “Mr. Tal, I know,” he said. “This disease has struck everyone, even in my own family. Like you, I wish for an easy solution, too.”
“Then order a team to Matla Mountain,” said Toruk. “I’ll join them.”
“How are you so sure there’s an antidote out there?”
“Well, I can’t tell you just yet, but I am certain that it’s there.”
“A team you say?”
“Yes.”
“A team costs money, Mr. Tal, taxpayer money. Right now, I have a team of doctors working around the clock for a cure. I think I’m going to hang my hat on them.”
“But Mr. Colt-”
“Enough, Mr. Tal,” said the mayor holding up his hand to the young man. “I’ve heard enough. You Lijians love to believe in those mysterious legends and spells and things. But that’s not the Ceto way. Here, we operate on facts, hard cold facts, hard cold data. When my team of scientists finally develop the cure, trust me, you and the rest of Ceto will be the first to know.”
“But-”
“And please do not trouble me about this again, Mr. Tal. Come, I’ll see you out.”
But the memory did not end there. Though in real life, the mayor had respectfully declined to send a team to the Peak while politely wishing Toruk all the best, in the distorted memory, he disparaged Toruk and threatened to arrest him for treason.
“You know what?” the mayor said in the fake, distorted memory perpetrated by the Meadow. “I think I have thought about it, and I decided I will not send a team to Matla Mountain.”
“But why?” was Toruk’s response.
“Because, Mr. Tal, not only am I perturbed by your coming here peddling this nonsense legend, I am angry that you would suggest that I have not been doing my job.”
“But that’s not what I said.”
“Oh but it’s what you meant, Mr. Tal, isn’t it? You came in here to upstage me, to accuse me of poor leadership, to charge me with the death of Ceto residents, didn’t you?”
“No, Mr. Colt, I-”
“And furthermore, you have the audacity to demand that I misappropriate government funds to send a team of experts to hike some deserted Mountain looking for who-knows-what!”
“No, I-”
“Why Mr. Tal? What’s up your sleeve? Did you come here seeking revenge for your parents’ death, or perhaps for your blindness? Did you come here for that? What are you going to do, huh? What’s your plan? Would you have my team of scientists killed out there in the wilderness? Is that what you have planned? Murder? Treason?! Typical Lijian! You’re nothing but a liar!”
“Sir, I-”
“Let me tell you something, young man. I’ve been in politics longer than you’ve been living. I know a rat when I smell one. And you, Mr. Tal, are an immigrant rat! You’ve got something sinister up your sleeve. I know!”
“No!”
“Yes! Don’t you dare leave this office. I’m sending for the guards to bind you up and cart you away under the charge of treason!”
“No!” was what Toruk screamed as the fake memory played in his mind. He was sitting in the Meadow now, his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped around them, rocking back and forth in mental anguish.
“No!” he kept repeating, unable to tear himself away from the mental ruse the Meadow of Memory was playing. It all seemed real to him, the mayor, the anger, the threats.
Meanwhile, the Shadow was enjoying the spectacle. He estimated that it would just be a matter of time before Toruk was overpowered by the Meadow’s corruption and rendered vulnerable to the Shadow’s plans. The creature grew excited at the thought of permanently severing Toruk from his journey.
Then another memory struck Toruk’s mind as he sat there, unable to stop them from occurring.
“You don’t say?” Uncle Quinn had said in Lijian the evening before Toruk left for Satqin, speaking in hushed tones as the slovenly old man sat on his wobbly wooden chair, rubbing his beard crusted with years of dried food crumbs, looking at Toruk intently with seeing eyes full of wisdom. “So the Sacred Waterstone is on the Peak, eh?”
“That’s what the Voice Upon the Mountain told me.” Toruk had whispered, careful not to alert any passersby to their hushed conversation in Uncle Quinn’s dirty old Cetan apartment with its broken windows and cracked walls.
“Well, well,” Uncle Quinn replied, leaning toward the young man, “looks like it’s down to us Lijians to save the world. Fancy that.”
“Ij wavi (I wonder),” Toruk said, his face twisted in confusion, his dead eyes staring blankly. “Father and I had been searching for the Waterstone for a long time. How come he didn’t know where it was, that it was on the Peak?”
“Who knows?” Uncle Quinn said, shrugging. “The Voice Upon the Mountain called you. That’s all that matters, my boy.”
“Uncle, do you think I can make it?”
“You have to.”
“Even with my…blindness?”
“The legend, Toruk. Remember the legend. It said that a worthy soul from far away would find the Sacred Waterstone and save the people.”
“What? I never heard the part about a worthy soul from far away. Besides, I’m from right here in Ceto. And I’m not worthy.”
“Oh but Toruk, you are, my boy. You’re a Lijian like me. Our people come from Liji which is a land as far away from Ceto as the moon is from the sun. You may have come to Ceto when you were but a babe, but you’re still a Lijian, my boy, through and through. And what blind man isn’t worthy, eh?”
“Ij ma kni (I don’t know), uncle.”
Uncle Quinn stood up and paced around the small dirty living room, kicking around crumpled paper and old dinner plates with his bare feet.
“My boy,” he said, rubbing his beard, “I have lived in Ceto all my adult life. After fleeing Liji as a young man, leaving behind all that I knew, my family, my little brother who was your father, I came to this very room to live. I never left. In fact, I will probably die here. It’s only a matter of time before the poison reaches my eyes and my body. And I’ve accepted my low position. I’ve accepted the whispers about me, that I’m nothing but a Lijian vagrant, a blight among my people, a man who achieved absolutely nothing in life. But few remember my great-grandfather, your great-great grandfather, who was the wisest man in Liji. Ke kni ejeltik. (He knew everything.) He advised the Lijian mayor, the Lijian council, even the Lijian judges with the wisdom of his time. He told them to make alliances with Ceto, to open the doors of trade and movement of people between them. He even told Ceto to open its doors to other neighbors, to the Ulans and the Heptos. My great-grandfather did not tell them why he gave that advice, but he told me. You see, Toruk, he was a student of the ancient Lijian texts. He knew what no one in Ceto knew, that a worthy soul would find the Sacred Waterstone somewhere in the wilderness and with it, save the people from future destruction. He knew about the legend.”
“But uncle, I went to the mayor. He’s got the scientists working on a cure and didn’t want to be bothered with the legend. Plus, father never told me about a worthy soul. He knew about the legend of the Waterstone, but he didn’t know about who was supposed to find it.”
The old man returned to his chair then leaned back to unleash a hearty laugh.
“Ah, Toruk,” he said, chuckling, “my little brother had known only bits and pieces of the legend, like most Lijians. I told him everything, but knowing him, he forgot the details and just hung onto the idea of the Waterstone. That’s why he went on those excursions. He knew it was somewhere out there in nature. That’s what I told him because that’s what I knew. But now we know that somewhere is on the Peak, my boy! The Voice Upon the Mountain confirmed it. You said so yourself.”
Toruk had thought for a moment. He thought about his father clinging to his bed in Ceto weeks before, surrounded by him and Tame as they watched Tofer gasp his last breaths and periodically gaze at the picture of Matyp. And just before he closed his eyes for the last time, Tofer’s last words to his oldest boy was to return to the road he had showed him and continue searching for the Waterstone.
“Uncle,” Toruk said after some time, “I don’t know if I’m worthy and honestly, I don’t think I am. But I know Satqin better than anyone in Ceto. And I know the way to Matla. Father showed me. And I…I believe that Voice who called me.”
“Toruk, my boy, go. Just remember the way is dangerous, eh? The Shadow is cunning and poisonous. If you see it, don’t let it touch you.”
“Why?”
“Because with one touch, the Shadow can destroy you, eliminate you from existence just like that,” said Uncle Quinn, snapping his fingers for emphasis.
“Then I’ll run from it. I’ll hide.”
“Hide where? The Shadow lives in Satqin.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“My boy, let me tell you a secret that my great-grandfather told my grandfather who told my father who told me.”
“What is it?”
“The Shadow has a weakness. It’s right here, under his right jaw,” Uncle Quinn said, tilting his head and pointing to a side of his right jaw as if Toruk could see it. “There’s a wound there, inflicted many years ago. It’s still a live wound and if you crush your ijp (foot) on his head, right in that place, you’ll hurt the Shadow long enough for you to get away.”
“On the side of his right jaw?” asked Toruk, trying to imagine it.
“Yes, right there, right on the bottom, right where the jaw connects to his head. All you have to do is step on it, hard.”
“Rijto (Right) …I’ll try.”
“Don’t try, Toruk, do it. If you find yourself in battle with that Shadow, that’s what you have to do. Step on his head.”
“Of course, Uncle Quinn.”
“Oh, my boy! Your father would be very proud of you. I am honored just to be in the presence of a living Lijian legend!” Uncle Quinn said, his face beaming with joy. “Anything you need from me, just ask. Anything.”
“Will you help Rona look after Tame while I’m gone? Just tell them I had to go somewhere.”
“Yes, Toruk, I will.”
“And don’t tell anyone that I’ve gone to Matla. I don’t want people to worry…or try to stop me.”
“Of course, Toruk, of course.”
“I’ll leave tonight.”
“No, young man, leave tomorrow morning, early. You want to get a head start before the Shadow begins his nightly patrol. He comes out right at the start of evening dusk.”
“Alright.”
“And take this,” Uncle Quinn said, pulling out a thick, hooded coat from a nearby rickety wooden drawer. “Put this on. It’ll keep you warm.”
“Thanks,” Toruk said as he took it.
Though the true memory ended there, another version unfolded, a distorted one.
“Eh, Toruk, come back here,” Uncle Quinn said in the fake, distorted memory, his voice deep and menacing. “Sit down.”
“But, uncle, I have to go. I’ve got to pack and call Rona to watch Tame for a few days,” said Toruk.
“If you don’t get back here, I’m calling the police. In fact, I’m calling the mayor’s office right now and will have you arrested for attempting to draft me into your conspiracy. Ah, my boy, you’re going down! I’ll see to it that you never see the light of day!”
“No!” Toruk cried out once again, rocking back and forth in his seated position in the Meadow, his voice echoing across Satqin. The distorted memories were causing him great discomfort, intensifying his headache with emotional distress. Toruk was helpless in his own plight, completely unable to stop the Meadow of Memory’s cognitive ruse.
But the Voice Upon the Mountain would not let the Meadow destroy Toruk. His Voice suddenly boomed, loud enough to awaken Toruk, instantly returning him to the present reality, to his present consciousness.
“Toruk!” called the Voice, his baritone gliding upon a sliver of the Yuli Wind. “Do not trust in dreams. Believe in me alone. I am real. Those distorted memories are not. They are lies. I am the truth. Get up, Toruk. Come to me. I love you.”
“Voice?” said Toruk, so beset by sorrow he was unable to hear the Voice’s words.
“Toruk,” said the Voice, “you must repeat after me. One day, I will command you to speak and whatever I tell you to say, you must say it. My words have power but must be repeated as I have uttered them. You cannot rely on the past or on dreams, whether real or unreal. You must remain in the present, with me.
There will be times, especially during this night, when I will send you memories. But such will be sent for a present purpose, for present communication with me, or to inspire you in the present moment. Always stay in the present, Toruk. When I speak to you in Lijian as I have been, you must utter my words in Lijian to the people. If I should speak to you in Cetan, then you must speak my words in Cetan to the people. You must stay in the present. This is how I confirm that you are worthy to distribute the Sacred Waterstone.”
“Worthy?” said Toruk, tilting his head upwards as if looking at the Mountain Peak in the distance.
“Yes,” replied the Voice. “Now, repeat after me: Do not trust in dreams.”
“Do not trust in dreams,” mumbled Toruk.
“Good, Toruk. Now say this: do not trust in memories.”
“Do not trust in memories.”
“Good. Again: do not trust in dreams or memories.”
“Do not trust in dreams or memories.”
“Trust only in me, the Voice.”
“Trust only in me, the Voice.”
“I am the Voice of the present, the past, and the future.”
“I am the Voice of the present, the past, and the future.”
“I am the only one who can guide you into truth.”
“I am the only one who can guide you into truth.”
“Dreams and memories are fleeting.”
“Dreams are fleeting.”
“No, Toruk! Dreams and memories are fleeting.”
“Oh, right. Dreams and memories are fleeting.”
“Good, good!” said the Voice. “Now it is time for you to move on from here.”
Then the Voice swiftly summoned the Yuli Wind.
“I ammmmm!” the Wind cried in obedience to the Voice’s command, excitedly twirling with ambition.
The Yuli Wind’s powers were much too sublime for the human mind to behold. The Wind was an enigma wrapped within a mystery, a personified being operating behind the veil of human reason, a moving spirit manifesting out of the clean, thin air, imbued with all the mechanical elements born from charity.
A great gust of cold mountain air suddenly enveloped Toruk. It was the Yuli Wind’s torrent, tossing him from side to side, blowing through his clothes, tussling Toruk’s hair. The Wind tugged at the young Lijian’s feet and arms all the while roaring “I ammmmm!” The phenomenon sufficiently startled Toruk out of his tragic ruminations.
“The Yuli Wind?” the young Lijian mumbled as he scrambled to his feet, his coat tails flying around him in the wind.
Once he was on his feet, the Yuli Wind pushed Toruk’s back as hard as it could, forcing the young man into a jog. Toruk found himself confined in the Yuli Wind’s magnificent torrent, unable to move in any direction but forward. When he tried to turn left, the Wind shifted him right. When he tried to turn right, the Wind shifted him left. When he tried to turn around, the Wind swiveled him in the opposite direction.
Toruk was perplexed by the experience, for he was initially unaware of the Yuli Wind’s powers. His father had spoken to him about the Wind only in passing, telling his son that it was a simple, natural Wind which blew through the entire wilderness from time to time.
But indeed, his father was ignorant of the Wind’s true nature, Toruk realized as he involuntarily jogged straight out of the Meadow of Memory, his mind instantly clearing, his consciousness snapping back to the present. The Wind seemed to him to be alive, possessing a unique mind and benevolent will. It felt big and broad, like a strong giant. He could sense its awesome strength, its singularity of devotion, its intention. The Wind revolved not with violence, but with a concentrated intensity, supremely focused on Toruk’s movements. Not only was the Yuli Wind saving him from those distorted, dangerous memories which he mysteriously forgot as he crossed out of the Meadow, but the Wind perfectly returned Toruk to his westward path towards the Chena River.
The Shadow watched it all, cursing beneath his breath, shaking his fist at the Mountain Peak in the distance. Then he signaled to Rame to follow Toruk while the Shadow quickly devised yet another ploy to lure Toruk off the path.