Ship of Magic

Wintrow gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “I haven't studied that far yet.” They walked in the shade of apple trees, under leaves hanging limp in the heat of the day. Ripening fruit weighted the boughs. At the other end of the orchard, acolytes moved in patterns through the trees, bearing buckets of water from the stream.

“ ‘A priest should not presume to judge unless he can judge as Sa does; with absolute justice and absolute mercy.’ “ Berandol shook his head. “I confess, I do not see how that is possible.”

The boy's eyes were already turned inward, with only the slightest line to his brow. “As long as you believe it is impossible, you close your mind to understanding it.” His voice seemed far away. “Unless, of course, that is what we are meant to discover. That as priests we cannot judge, for we have not the absolute mercy and absolute justice to do so. Perhaps we are only meant to forgive and give solace.”

Berandol shook his head. “In the space of a few moments, you slice through as much of the knot as I had done in six months. But then I look about me, and I see many priests who do judge. The Wanderers of our order do little except resolve differences for folk. So they must have somehow mastered the Thirty-Third Contradiction.”

The boy looked up at him curiously. He opened his mouth to speak and then blushed and shut it again.

Berandol glanced down at his charge. “Whatever it is, go ahead and say it. I will not rebuke you.”

“The problem is, I was about to rebuke you,” Wintrow confessed. The boy's face brightened as he added, “But I stopped myself before I did.”

“And you were going to say to me?” Berandol pressed. When the boy shook his head, his tutor laughed aloud. “Come, Wintrow, having asked you to speak your thought, do you think I would be so unfair as to take offense at your words? What was in your mind?”

“I was going to tell you that you should govern your behavior by the precepts of Sa, not by what you see others doing.” The boy spoke forthrightly, but then lowered his eyes. “I know it is not my place to remind you of that.”

Berandol looked too deep in thought to have taken offense. “But if I follow the precept alone, and my heart tells me it is impossible for a man to judge as Sa does, with absolute justice and absolute mercy, then I must conclude . . .” His words slowed as if the thought came reluctantly. “I must conclude that either the Wanderers have much greater spiritual depth than I. Or that they have no more right to judge than I do.” His eyes wandered among the apple trees. “Could it be that an entire branch of our order exists without righteousness? Is not it disloyal even to think such a thing?” His troubled glance came back to the boy at his side.

Wintrow smiled serenely. “If a man's thoughts follow the precepts of Sa, they cannot go astray.”

“I shall have to think more on this,” Berandol concluded with a sigh. He gave Wintrow a look of genuine fondness. “I bless the day you were given me as student, though in truth I often wonder who is student and who is teacher here. I shall miss you.”

Sudden alarm filled Wintrow's eyes. “Miss me? Are you leaving, have you been called to duty so soon?”

“Not I. I should have given you this news better, but as always your words have led my thoughts far from their starting point. I am not leaving, but you. It was why I came to find you today, to bid you pack, for you are called home. Your grandmother and mother have sent word that they fear your grandfather is dying. They would have you near at such a time.” At the look of devastation on the boy's face, Berandol added, “I am sorry to have told you so bluntly. You so seldom speak of your family. I did not realize you were close to your grandfather.”

“I am not,” Wintrow simply admitted. “Truth to tell, I scarcely know him. When I was small, he was always at sea. At the times when he was home, he always terrified me. Not with cruelty, but with ... power. Everything about him seemed too large for the room, from his voice to his beard. Even when I was small and overheard other folk talking about him, it was as if they spoke of a legend or a hero. I don't recall that I ever called him Grandpa, nor even Grandfather. When he came home, he'd blow through the house like the North Wind and mostly I took shelter from his presence rather than enjoyed it. When I was dragged out before him, all I can recall was that he found fault with my growth. ‘Why is the boy so puny?’ he'd demand. ‘He looks just like my boys, but half the size! Don't you feed him meat? Doesn't he eat well?’ Then he would pull me near and feel my arm, as if I were being fattened for the table. I always felt ashamed of my size, then, as if it were a fault. Since I was given over to the priesthood, I have seen even less of him, but my impression of him has not changed. Still, it is not my grandfather I dread, nor even keeping his death watch. It's going home, Berandol. It is so ... noisy.”

Berandol grimaced in sympathy.