“DURING the Era of Tribulation, all continents and all kingdoms were one. Though there were five regions, five peoples, and five – or more – ways of thinking, all lived more or less in harmony, more so than today, I’d wager. Yet, trouble and ill will came to this land.

“You most certainly have had this related to you; I know few who’ve not heard of this tale from any relation of theirs. There were five brothers, each from one of the five kingdoms, and of course, they eventually went to war with one another and brought the whole of the Ṃārhaḥn into their dispute, though I say Lord Zūryaṃār out of all his brothers had reason to fight. His part in the war was a just one, and I’d have done no different than he.

“During this time, there was a smith who lived in a remote village. ‘Twas situated in a flat land with not much around, yet ever was he diligent in his work, even with a scarce supply of resources. When the land tore asunder, the floods washed and receded, and the rage of the Gods waxed and waned, the smith had, by its end, lost everything: his house; his family; his friends; and even his tools. Now with naught left, one should think he would’ve given up on his life. Maybe even taken it under sheer distress. There are few that could withstand such an ordeal, even fewer who would thence seek, Vukyhaḥ, spiritual release.

“Yet he decided on a different course. He carried to a mountain a pile of stones, and with the stones, mined the mountain’s ore. And when he had mined it, he smelted it but not with a furnace. He walked to a volcano, and using its heat and his hands, he fashioned it into the head of a chopping ax and the head of a pickaxe. His hands were burnt and sizzled but not wholly gone! Thereafter, he approached a cedar and struck it down, and crafted the bases for both the chopping ax and pickaxe. From there, he repeated and added more steps until he could once more fashion all the tools he had once possessed.

“Now all across Trdsyṃhaḥ, droves came seeking his wares in that remote place he dwelt. Kings, lords, farmers, peasants, even babes! Yet he charged only enough to sustain his well-being, for all he desired was to keep to his work. As was in those days, many in high positions would entice him with offers of betrothal, fame, glory, and riches if he worked under them.

“But he would have none of it, sticking to his place and position, and over time the remorse he felt of all he once had vanished. All that remained in him was bliss, free from all that bound him on this Earth, with only duty and purpose in hand. With all desire of results having been cast aside, his mind was ever fixed on the Light that gave him his purpose. Until the end of his life he kept to his work and when his life had run its course, can you guess what happened?”

Tūmbṃār thought for a bit but shook his head.

“He ascended to That One! He had done his part and went farther than any of the Gods! This is the result that Zvokhāryaḥm bears should one follow it to its ultimate point.”

He looked out the window again and saw the specters had left, but the mist was still thick.

He pondered for a bit and said, “Now that I look closer, it might be a week before it starts thinning. While it would be good you left soon, to go now could bring needless trouble. People such as yourself shouldn’t be here but no matter. Would you mind staying here until then?”

“Aye!” said Tūmbṃār. But then he thought to himself and asked, “What is there to do here? It’s going to be awfully boring if I can’t do anything.”

“Of that, you needn’t worry, lad! I’ll put you to good use; perhaps you’ll learn something during your stay.”

The man stood up, and his head touched the ceiling. Tūmbṃār, surprised, asked, “Are you a giant, mister?”

“Hah! You’re not the only one who’s said as such!”

And so for the following week, Tūmbṃār went on various errands with the smith. They would venture into the mist not too far from the house and conveniently happen across ore deposits. They would then mine it with their pickaxes, and seldom Tūmbṃār would loosen the rock with the use of his powers. And every time the smith caught him doing this, he would give him a stern look and send him scurrying away. He did not much like Tūmbṃār using his powers as such, not unlike his teacher, and similarly, he would not give reason for it either, perhaps to evade any subsequent arguments.

With the ore collected, they would bring it back in hefty sacks, and then dump them outside the house. The smith would then pierce his hand into the ground, and the earth would open up. A great opening would form and within its bowl-shaped confines would lava pour in. And the smith would then use his powers to construct a furnace about it and begin to refine and smelt the ore.

Tūmbṃār, while surprised at seeing his use of the powers, often complained about his using them while he could not, but he would always respond in the same manner, “The powers are to be used only when all other options are exhausted. Don’t become dependent on them for every minor thing, for then you’ll find it difficult to live otherwise. There may come a time when the powers have fully departed, and should that time come, what then will you do? If there’s no need for it, better you are without it.”

And when he had completely refined the ore, he would fashion it into various tools and weapons. Each of them wrought, with a silver sheen about it that seemed unnatural, but nonetheless beautiful. And he taught Tūmbṃār afterward how to polish properly, whet, and maintain them which was the only thing he kept close attention to.

Then the seven days passed, with Tūmbṃār having not noticed, and in the dull morning of that last day, the smith lay outside watching the mist and conversing with the ghosts. Tūmbṃār woke up quite late that day, thoroughly exhausted from the six days of work. And when he got ready, he went outside to see the smith meditating. He sat beside him, waiting for him to speak.

The smith, only a few moments after, opened his eyes and looked about himself. Then he moved his left hand in the air and said, “It looks as if the mist has thinned, just as the ghosts have said.” He turned his head toward Tūmbṃār and, with a melancholy smile, said, “You should be on your way, best not linger here long.”

And Tūmbṃār immediately responded, “But wait! I want to stay here longer and there’s still much that I don’t yet understand about the things you’ve said!” and the smith put his hand forward and shook his head.

“In time, you’ll understand all of it. While I didn’t mention it before, I could sense you being led here, as many others have before. But it was much different this time. I could tell just upon seeing you, that there was a greater purpose far outweighing your desire for travel. You may not yet know what that is, but seeing as how evil shall soon come upon Ārhmanhaḥ, it should only be a matter of time. The Gods themselves grow restless. Maybe even the companions whom you’ll soon meet shall help in regard to that. But don’t use your lack of knowledge or desire of being with me to stay here. As I said before, people such as yourself shouldn’t be here. Linger here too long, and you might never leave.”

“Then what’s this evil you speak of?” demanded Tūmbṃār. “My teacher wouldn’t say it to me, but what’s to happen to Ārhmanhaḥ? And what does it have to do with me? All I want is to travel and see if I can become more than just a villager, and if trouble should happen to come my way, then so be it. Maybe it could even be exciting! But for now, I at least want some answers.”

The smith shook his head. “I cannot say, Tūmbṃār. All I know is that ’tis to be a scourge, yet as to its nature, I know naught about it. But we’ll both get our answers when the time presents itself.” Tūmbṃār was left unsatisfied, but the smith then said, “Yet I believe that you shall become great, perhaps in a way you may not wish, but nevertheless holding steadfast to your duty even should much ill come your way. The Light very much shines with you.”

He then stood up and, with Tūmbṃār just a little bit happy over the smith’s words, he had him gather the rest of his things. And with all of it accounted for, they left behind the house and journeyed deeper into the mist.

After some time of walking across the rocky and grassed ground, trees slowly moved into view, and what before had seemed almost barren now looked to abound with life. They soon came into a forest and took to the main dirt trail wider than Tūmbṃār had seen during his travels, almost as if made for giants which he still suspected the smith of being. He could then see animals in the corner of his eyes, and they too looked similarly large, and this greatly confused him.

His teacher had talked much about the giants of the past, but he had never thought there were giant animals as well. Looking to the smith, who realized that he had picked up on the oddities, he asked him about this but the smith evaded the question and thereafter laughed. At the end of the trail, they came upon a long, wide bridge the boards of which seemed twice if not thrice as big as what one would usually suspect. And the rope that held it was even thicker.

“Pass to the other side, child,” the smith said. “When the mist has cleared, walk a bit farther, and you should see a village atop a rather large rock in a valley.”

Tūmbṃār looked up to him and asked, “Will you not come along, mister?”

The smith shook his head and thrust his hand into his pocket, pulling out a shining, blue stone. He dropped it into Tūmbṃār’s sack and said, “Take this with you, it should help you on your travels.”

Tūmbṃār nodded but with sadness, he then walked forward across the long bridge, taking glances at the smith every few feet. The smith waved his hands in the air and continued to do so each time Tūmbṃār looked back. When he was far along the bridge, and the mist obstructed his view behind him, he heard a shout, That One and All shall manifest in you!

Tūmbṃār walked until he made it to the other side. The mist then cleared, and he saw himself at the edge of a forest. When he looked back, there was a huge chasm where only darkness dwelt at the bottom. The smith was gone, and the bridge now looked normal. He shifted his gaze to the sky to see the starlit night and shining moon, as their light illuminated the path forward.

He walked for a long while, going through many different trails and having the animals guide his way forward. And when he had passed the forest, he saw himself at a precipice overlooking a vast grass-filled valley below. Shifting his gaze about, he then saw a rather large rock formation, with concentric rings of farmland about it, and just as the smith had said, a village was situated atop.

He could see lights from the small torches and a great fire burning in the middle. He ran along the cliffside till he could find a gentle slope that led to the grass valley, and from there raced to the formation as fast as he could.

Now standing in front of it, he saw a long spiral path leading toward the top. He walked up and up, slowing in his ascent from weariness until nearing its peak. And when he reached the entrance, he fell backward, exhausted and hungry. Some villagers ran to him and carried him to their Fiyukthi.

On seating him there, they brought him stone plates, and bowls and pots, filled with food and water. It seemed a festival had just concluded, for there was still much food about the place and many small lamps littered across the village. But Tūmbṃār, caring little about it and, famished, plunged his head into the bowls and pots, much to the astonishment of the villagers. The mouthfuls of water drunk and the great bites of food consumed in rapid succession suggested to them that he must have been on the brink of starvation.

When finished, he looked to the Fiyukthi, and seeing that there was still some melted butter in the pot, he cast it into the fire and prostrated himself on the ground, dispensing his gratitude, not unlike the villagers of his home.

A man from behind him shouted, “Gratitude to you, Zayagñavhaḥ, Herald to the Immortal Fire!”

All the villagers then chanted, ĀḤṂ, and Tūmbṃār looked around confused. A man then approached him. Shaved was his head and face, and he wore a sarong. A sash held firm to it, wrapped around the waist, and trailing all the way around his neck. And in his left hand he bore a staff adorned with symbols of the Gods.

He asked, “You must have been very hungry, child! Yet still you cast the butter into the fire! Many of the men and children in the village would do well to learn from you, especially during this time of Sītṛayasav!” To which the villagers laughed.

Tūmbṃār was surprised at hearing the name of that festival, yet laughed in kind and shook his head. “No, mister, I did that out of habit, having seen many villagers in my home do the same, though I understood little of its function and cared little for the words.”

“Ho! Instinctively devout, I must take it! I am sure Zayagñavhaḥ is pleased with the offering, regardless of intention. O! We have not introduced ourselves yet! I am Hūhvar, chief of Ishselātaram, the village of the high rock. From where have you come, child?”

“My name is Tūmbṃār! I’ve come from the north, from a village called Parāftaram. It dwells deep within the Hematite Mountains.”

He then spoke at length about his meeting the smith, but after finishing, he hung his head low and said, “But when I was to leave, I asked him if he’d come along with me, but he refused to. Even though he wouldn’t say it, I’m sure he must’ve felt lonely staying there by himself, even with all the ghosts and the animals around.”

The chief bent down and said, “Be not sad, child. I am sure Jīvaihaḥm, that old grandfather, is content having met you.”

And Tūmbṃār looked to him and said, “You’ve met him, Mister!”

“Aye! As have most of our relations,” he said, casting his hand toward the villagers. They all nodded with smiles on their faces.

Tears flowed down Tūmbṃār’s face, and he said, “I don’t know why, but I felt as if I’d known him for ages. But that I shan’t ever see him again. Even my hunger and thirst feel like they have remembrance.”

The chief embraced him and said, “Cursed was he by the ones he loved for he would not assent to their departure. His attachment to the land was too much for him to bear to leave it. For all his words of wisdom, he could never use them for himself. Yet it must be said that all of us have met him but once, and in likeness ever as a guide. A great deal of time should have passed between when you entered and when you exited. Perhaps as much as a month!” And Tūmbṃār became surprised at that. “I sense that he shall soon depart from this land. The powers do depart from Ārhmanhaḥ, and so his reason for stay will soon come to an end. To the Halls of the Gods or the Forefathers he may go, or to birth he may succumb, or to all he may rise above and journey to That One and All from where naught returns.”

Tūmbṃār reflected on the chief’s words and then on what the smith said. Many of the other children from his village by this point were more than likely taking up apprenticeships, as was expected for those having reached bachelorhood or maidenhood.

It was assumed that would have been the case for him too were it not for the curse. He was still glad that he could travel, very much so! And within the weeks that had passed, he had already seen many new and wonderful things. But all the same, he began to have doubts. What was it that he should really be doing, or really be seeking? And what of all things was this evil? For now, all he could go off of were the desires he held.

He retired for the night in the chief’s house and slept rather soundly. The following morning, he set out from the village with most asking that he stay longer. But he could not, for he wished to keep to his travels. And so the villagers relented and gave him the same farewell, but not without first giving him a more than ample amount of food stuffed into his sack, a welcome addition indeed! He left being glad of heart for having met them.

Though he did not know if he should ever see him again, he would never forget the smith, who dwelt within the mist.