That Which Overfloweth

by Andre Norton

 

1st Published ~ Grails: Quests of the Dawn (1994) Edited by Richard Gilliam, Martin H. Greenberg & Edward E. Kramer, Published by Penguin/Roc, TP, 0-451-45303-4, $9.95, 387pg ~ cover by Tomas Canty

 

Last Printing in English ~ Tales from High Hallack vol. 1 (2014) Published by Premier Digital Publishing, DM & TP, 1-624-67189-6, $22.95, 450pg ~ cover by Kib Prestridge

 

Bibliography Page - That Which Overfloweth

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There are many tales, legends, stories misshapened by years of mistelling, generations of adding to--or subtracting from. Once there was a man who fled with a handful of followers overseas to the farthermost known portion of the great empire. He took with him, it is said, two things of Power, a staff and another possession which he guarded so jealously that even those who shared his exile seldom saw it.

In the far country he set the staff into the ground in a place which was already known to Power, where older Presences than those the voyager worshiped, had long held steady. And that staff, cut and dried for years, rooted and brought forth blossom so that the man believed he had found that place where the seeds he and his carried with them could flourish. But his other treasure was hidden away--though in plain sight--and so remained through the rise and fall of kings and empires and the passing of uncounted centuries, even into the last years when the world itself grew sick, promising death's coming.

They came in just after dawn, the dire wolves. Since Jan had broken his leg there was no trained sentry on the High Hill. Guran was very young but he had the horn, and he sounded it, before he was picked off by a sky bolt. Thus he bought those at the shrine village a small measure of time.

Not enough.

She Who Spoke had already reached the inner shrine when the alarm sounded. For a single breath she stood tense and still and then she beckoned to those two who had lingered by the entrance in awe of this sacred place.

"There." She pointed to the dressed stone on which stood the unlit candles of sheep fat, alongside the faded flowers of yesterday's offering. Then, in demonstration of what must be done, she set her hands to the edge of the stone, feeling frantically for what was a key.

There were screams from beyond now, the cries of a villa e put to pillage. Death cries. Cassia, as she stooped to obey the Voice, shuddered. She heaved with all her strength as Lana was doing to match her at the other end of the stone. Reluctantly it began to move.

"In with you," the Voice's fingers bit painfully at Cassia's shoulder as she pushed the girl-child toward the black hole they had half uncovered. There was no way to protest that order. Terrified, not only of the dark gap before her but at the sounds which reached them, she pushed into that opening, and, a moment later, felt Lana's weight shoving her yet farther in and down. Then, before she could protest, the stone was swinging back, to leave their thin childish bodies pressed tightly together.

"Lana." There was no answer from the other--she was only a heavy weight against Cassia's shoulder and arm. "Lana? Voice?" she whimpered once again and then was silent.

Her sight adjusted a little. There was a measure of light here, cramped as their quarters were. Now the sounds from outside . . . . Cassia cowered and tried to put her hands over her ears to blot out those cries and yet could not because of Lana's weight.

"Voice?" her lips shaped a whisper, "Voice?"

She scrunched herself forward and found that she could look out--but only at the level of the rough flooring. The edge of a dull green robe swung, blinding her peephole. She could guess that the Voice had not tried to run any more than she had tried to squeeze into this too small place, but was standing at the altar, even as when she called upon the High One.

Lana stirred now, and then shrilled a cry which nearby Cassia viciously stifled, finding the other girl's mouth quickly enough to muffle that. She bumped her head against Lana's and whispered fiercely:

"Be quiet!"

The outside clamor was growing stronger and there was a last piercing scream from just without the shrine. Then they came--Cassia could only see boots cobbled from badly dried skins, the point of a stained blade which still dribbled thick red drops to the pavement.

"Calling down your Word-Wrath, slut?" That voice spoke words so oddly accented that Cassia found them hard to understand. She felt Lana strain and jerk beside her.

"You have come to her, what would you?" That was the Voice and she spoke with such calm that Cassia could almost believe the woman's wits had been rift from her and she did not see these crowding in--three of them, counting by the boots she could see.

"In that, Spar. They keep their goodies in that!" A different voice, puzzling because Cassia had heard it before--when? Who could be evil enough to betray the secrets of the shrine?

"Goodies, eh? Well, let us see these goodies you would guard, slut. We've found precious little worth the taking elsewhere in this swine's pen."

"Spar, the slut's got a knife." There was a roil of movement among those tramping feet, the green robe edge swirled away, freeing Cassia's line of vision the more. There was a choking cry, a hand slipped slowly down over the peephole and was gone.

"Get that ring from her, Harve. You say their stuff's in here?"

Cassia shuddered and Lana twisted in her hold as there came a blow which vibrated through the altar stone above them.

"Oh, so you weren't talking out of the wrong side of your jaw after all, Vacom. Well, well. And here we were thinking that all the good stuff had been combed out of these pens long ago. Black, yes, but that's silver. And this is something better!"

Cassia could understand now what was happening. They had opened the box top of the altar stone and were dragging out those very precious things which only the Voice might touch, and then only after purification. Vacom? Her lips formed a vixen's rage snarl--that trader whose ship had come to grief on the outer reef a season ago and who had been given refuge in the village afterwards until he could join with a band of traders who had come through in the fall. He had been here at Midsummer.

Again Cassia snarled. So that was how he knew about the Precious Things! Sneaking spy--Let the High One smite him with the sloughing of skin and the blindness of eye so that he would take a long time in dying!

“Old," that was the first voice, "this is damn old. And I'd wager on it that those are real stones! We've more'n enough paid for this raid!"

"Hey--you broke it!" There was a sharp protest.

"No. It just comes apart. What's this Inside? Some stinking clay pot thing--we can do without that."

It struck the floor straight in the line of Cassia's sight, a round brown cup just such a one as Farllen the potter made and fired from riverbank clay. Oddly enough, the rough handling it received did not break it; through all her fear Cassia wondered at that.

"That's it. Get this slut's cloak and bag it up." The one who gave orders was already turning away from the altar. He toed the cup and it spun around, out of Cassia's sight.

Cassia waited, her ears straining for the slightest sound. All screams and cries had ceased, the feet she had watched had tramped out. Still . . .

"Voice?" she whispered through dry lips and knew somehow she could expect no answer to that call.

Lana squirmed around against her. Their heads were now so close she could feel the younger girl's fast puff of breath against her cheek.

"Wait." Cassia dared to whisper again, this time to her fellow prisoner.

How long did they wait? Cassia felt the sore cramp beginning in her arms and legs. If they did not move soon they might be too stiff to try at all. She loosened a hand and groped into the dark over her head, feeling along the inner side of the altar. She found that deep groove she sought and settled her fingers well in.

"Lana," she breathed, "find the other turn point."

"They will kill," the other girl protested.

"They must be gone--at least from the shrine." Cassia held on to her patience. "We cannot stay here any longer." Though, of course, Lana might also be right and they would be simply betraying themselves. However, there was little choice.

She felt the movements of the other girl, knew that she was indeed in search of that second hold which would give them a door to freedom.

"Ready? Then move." Cassia felt her nails break, the skin of her fingertips abrade, as she obeyed her own order. Slowly the stone walling them in answered and there was enough light to set them blinking.

Cassia squeezed through that opening. She pulled herself up by a grip on the altar itself and nearly lost her hold when there came a faint moaning from very near at hand. Then she was out, to crouch by the Voice. The woman's robe was rent at the breast and over that she was pressing tight her hands, as if she could so stem the blood which oozed between her fingers. Her eyes were open and she looked at Cassia with understanding and knowledge.

"Voice--let me see!" The girl tried to pull away those binding hands.

The woman opened her mouth and a trickle of blood rilled down her chin.

"This is an end blow, my daughter-in-light. There is no heal-craft which will answer."

Lana had crept to her other side, shaking, white faced.

"Voice--Voice, what--what shall we do?"

"That which is willed for you. First," she turned her eyes, not her head, as if all the strength she had left would not allow more, to Cassia, "give--give me to drink--from the Blessed pool."

Cassia scrambled on hands and knees toward the entrance to the shrine. In going, her hand struck against something which rattled across the floor, and, catching at it, she found what she held was that earthen cup. Clutching it, she moved out. There was the stench of death here. Already carrion birds dropped out of the sky, their blackness an offense in the daylight. Cassia tried not to look at the two hacked bodies which lay most plainly in sight. Old Kazar, who had lost an arm three seasons ago yet must have come to the shrine's defense, sprawled half into the pool. The red from the gash, which had hewn him near in two, swirling out in the once clean, sweet water.

Cassia stood helplessly looking at the befoulment, the cu in her shaking hand. She could not dip out--that...

She edged about the basin in the opposite direction from that body, seeking some place which was still clear. There was nothing--and farther on.... She caught her

lower lip between her teeth to cut back a scream. A child, Rowna's babe, staring sightlessly upward.

Cassia broke and ran back toward the shrine. Alive--why was she alive when all else were dead, dead befouled--lost.

As she entered the shrine she strove for control. She was a Chosen--she must remember that always.

"Voice," she knelt beside the woman whose head Lana now supported against her own thin shoulder.

"The water--it cannot . . . “

"Dip the cup, daughter-in-service, and bring it to me!"

All the old command was in the Voice's words. Cassia could only obey. She returned, found a place at the pool farthest from these two bodies, dipped her cup into the water which was ever thickening with the red stain. She filled it near to the brim and started back, nursing the cup against her breast lest she spill some of its contents. But as she moved--surely that could not be true! The water was clearing with each step she took. As she reached the door of the shrine she might be bearing such an offering as was always brought in all purity to the High One.

"Voice," she cried breathlessly, "the water--it holds no more the stain of death--it is pure."

Swiftly she put it to those lips between which blood still welled a little. The Voice drank.

“How . . . ?" Cassia marveled.

"Drink," commanded the Voice. And Cassia, raisin the cup carefully with both her hands, took a mouthful Not just pure water--this had the richness of the first fruits--she could feel the warmth of it in her throat, and then through her, driving out the death chill, the ragged tatters of fear which had been a binding on her.

"Lana," commanded the Voice for a second time, "drink also!"

Cassia passed the cup to the younger girl and watched her drink. Yet when Lana handed back that small rough bowl it was as full as it had been after the dipping at the spring.

“The cup that overfloweth," the woman's voice was thinner, as if she tired after some great task. "It cleanses evil--brings fresh life again. Things of power exist for our comfort, my daughters. Such may be lost from time, yet always they rise again. This much is true, that those who serve are themselves served in a different way. Now. . . “

She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them again they seemed to Cassia to be seeking, as if they could no longer find her face.

"My time has passed, daughter-of-the-heart. Take you that which is of Power and go forth from this place of death to find what may be healed or cherished under the wide arms of the High One. You shall be led, and when you find the place meant for you there shall be a sign. For a thing of Power knows well where it must shelter. Go with the blessing of sun and moon, earth and sky, fire and water, all that sustains life."

There had been a feast long ago, in a far county. And a cup passed which held the promise of life. Things of Power are never lost though they may pass from the sight of men for a time--yet always they shall come again.

 

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 “Andre Norton's Reading Corner”

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