The Forest of Peldain

“The lake has more than one title,” Octrago said to Vorduthe. It is known as ‘the eye of Peldain’ because the human eye is like a pool that reflects the soul, and so the phrase really refers to its surface. In the depths of the lake dwells the soul of Peldain. That is our god, if you like, but it has no other name.

“The High Priest has a special duty. He must regularly dive into the lake and commune with the presence there. Only he can do this, for only he is familiar with the spirit. By this propitiation the affairs of the realm are kept in good order. If it is not done, or not done successfully, all will be chaos. Peldain will be destroyed.”

“And the populace believes this?”

“Absolutely.”

Vorduthe nodded. This he could understand. Superstitious beliefs were a reality for the less sophisticated inhabitants of the Hundred Islands, too.

“Then the absence of Mistirea is cause for considerable unease, I imagine.”

“You are correct. And there lies our strength.”

Continuing, they found themselves walking through open countryside with no hint of a road or trail. The air became warm and balmy, the scenery like some other-worldly paradise with numerous little lakes and streams, strange trees and plants.

Habitations also came in sight, in the form of hut-like houses, always accompanied by a small grove of the unfamiliar trees, of which there seemed to be an extensive variety. Human figures were also sometimes visible, watching the passing procession with curiosity, but Octrago ignored them.

He kept well away from any houses until, near the end of the day, they came to a fair-sized village. At first Vorduthe did not recognize it as such and thought they had entered a spacious wood in which people walked. But, spread out between the trees, there were dwellings of various kinds.

“Do not announce me,” Octrago warned the Hundred Islanders. “Remember, I am incognito.”

At the column’s approach the villagers drew back, though they seemed more bewildered than afraid. Mistirea broke ranks and stepped toward them, raising his hands in greeting.

“Do not fear, good people. These men are not here to work you any harm.”

“It is the High Priest!” someone exclaimed wonderingly.

“Have you returned to us?” pleaded another.

Vorduthe wondered why Mistirea was recognizable while Octrago, a claimant to the throne, was not. Then he remembered that the High Priest’s cloak bore the identifying cult emblem. He might, even, be a more famous personage than Octrago.

“Will all now be set right?” a middle-aged woman in a purple gown asked anxiously.

Mistirea lowered his head. “I am here, am I not?”

A mood of relief and merriment flitted over the gathering at these words. The villagers lost their nervousness and flocked around the serpent harriers, but received only noncommittal replies to their questions as the warriors had been ordered. Octrago led the way to a spacious arbor laid out with tables and chairs. This, it turned out, was a place of public relaxation where refreshing drinks were served. As many of the soldiery as could found places in its shade; the rest settled themselves on the moss outside.

A beaker made of a very hard and shiny dark-brown wood was set before Vorduthe. From a large green gourd was poured a cool amber liquid.

He drank, and found the delicious fluid running down his throat almost of its own volition. It had a tangy, acid flavor that was quite irresistible.

Octrago laughed, then quenched his own thirst. Vorduthe idly examined the beaker. It was a fine piece of work, its polish brilliant and perfect, with only one blemish on the outside of the handle. It must have taken many hours of work to produce.

“You have expert craftsmen here in Peldain,” he remarked.

“Craftsmen? We have very few craftsmen at all.”

Octrago pointed through the open side of the arbor to one of the smaller trees growing just outside it. At first Vorduthe did not know what he was trying to show him. Then, looking closer at the tree, he suffered a shock of understanding.

Hanging from the tree, after the manner of fruit, were dozens of beakers identical to the one he had just drunk from.

Octrago again laughed to see his astonishment. “My lord, some facts relating to my country I confess I have not told you. In Arelia it was a matter of amazement to me to see how much labor was involved in everyday life. Practically every item of use had to be painstakingly made by hand—even providing food cost endless time spent in cultivating or fishing.

“Here life is more commodious. Know, my lord, that the interior of Peldain is a garden where human needs are all provided by nature. Look about you. Our trees give us more than our food and drink. Clothing, utensils and dwellings all are grown for us by some type of tree or other. That beaker you just drank from, the platters on which our supper is shortly to be served, the table and chairs we are using—all are grown to shape by our trees. Even the knife to cut your food is tree grown, complete to its edge of tough wood.”