Merrin rubbed the froststone fitted into the side chest cloth. The jolt came and itched with a certain rapidness. Weak, he realized, the froststons grew weaker by the passing of days. Soon, they would require a journey to cintry range. No casters were allowed within the mountains—such an expedition was the sure outcome in chill depletion.
Merrin cupped his fingers and caught the dripping rain. Maybe I will be allowed to join, he thought, that is if leim allows. A sneer came as he splattered water over his face. Ash trickled down in gray trails, and again, he domed the fingers. Water filled, and he washed. Of course, this was a casual thing…Soon, he would do the dance of self. Better to do so with unashed skin to receive the fresh dusting of the same. He sensed a certain courtesy in his actions.
Steps approached—slow, casual. Ashman. A figure peeked out from the cave, the instant sky flash casting a gloom glow over his person. Merrin did not return the gaze. He was entranced. The far mountains and sky lights were enough of a mesmerization. But the ashman did speak, voice a certain baritone.
"Lurevain, night to you."
"Night to you." Merrin did respond.
"The shamans ask for you."
"Why?' What a stupid question, Merrin cringed in mind. "I suppose the light of the dance must come then."
"They did not use those words." A tone of self-preservation sounded through.
But. "Would you use those words then?" Merrin asked, eyes still far locked on the rising steam and sparkling fulguration.
The ashman maintained a brief silence. "I have yet to see you dance. So I wouldn't know."
Merrin jerked his attention to the ashman, staring. Black dried hair, short ending by the ears. Gray skin, ashed. Eyes, however, were a deep pool of blackness, with the sclera brighter in comparison. More, he was younger. A saiden from observable accounts.
He must have only recently been ashed. Merrin thought and said, "I suppose no better blessing can exist for you but to see my dance before you hunt."
"I have hunted." The ashman said simply, face blank.
"And you haven't seen my dance?"
"And I haven't seen your dance."
Merrin shrugged. "Talk about bad luck. In this world, enjoying the niceties is what separates us from animals."
"I enjoy myself as any other ashman."
"No, you don't." Merrin fattened his hands on the wall and stood. Sliding past the ashman and into the cave. He said as he went deeper in. "If you haven't seen my dance, then you have not enjoyed anything in this world."
The cave knifed into two sides—left and right. Both walls were dark, beautifully smeared with ash and soot. Graphics, amateurly drawn, scattered over it. He followed the left, stopped, and watched one. This image, in its entirety, seemed like an attempt at the tale of Lynor and the dragons. Merrin knew this story as it came, as many things, from the lowlander world. This one, this fictitious man, had killed a dragon. Dragons, if some accounts held true.
Not that it mattered. The image on the wall was a stick person, holding sticks against curled scribbles. Child drawings. Even now, he did not understand the need to entertain such things. But who knows? The chiefShaman had sanctioned it. Merrin felt the soft ground, sat on it, and launched. His underside burned with a certain heat. That expressed a groan from his lips and a wince.
Yet, the method of travel bore fruit as he reached another part of the cave. Now, he stood, staring at the vast chamber. Murals, hand-made by older ashmen. They were slabs of stone pressed into the walls. Images, graphics, each revealing some story. Merrin bothered little for it, as his eyes shifted to the center.
There, gathered in wide circles, ashmen, older ones, swayed and sang while beating skin drums. The sweet oud melody wasn't absent. That thrilled Merrin. He moved forward, dropped his stoneknife on the floor. Normally, a thing of disrespect, but the dance called for it. For freedom. To become one's self. He flexed the shoulders, cocked his neck and heaved a breath. Ashy. Dry, a certain warmness that flowed into the pleurae and chest. He smiled.
His steps slowed, a pacing in accordance with the beat. Eyes were upon him. Ashmen, the young and the old. They watched, and Merrin saw, in partial perception, some dipping into ash bags, ready to sprinkle.
Light spewed from the lamps. Few, as kindling, rested midpoint within the circles. Smoke rose from them as flesh, beast skin burned for the needed soot. This was why he washed. This ash was newer ash. His skin begged for it.
The circle in the center parted, and Merrin strode into it, standing there now, Ashman pounding on skin drums. Voices howling songs—all swaying in a certain possessed uniformity. It was beautiful.
And he parted his arms and legs and twirled. The song followed. Higher, higher, voice bellowing. He jumped, spun in the air, and landed airily. Now, he was fitted well into the deeper self. External awareness was gone, replaced by instinct. Instinct, the outcome of unconscious cues, became the thing of eternity, and in that manner, he perceived the world.
The music was played, yes. The drums were pounded, yes. The ashmen sang, yes. Oh, and the ash fell. Like soft rain, sweet dust of crisp friction, he felt it over skin. Over the body, and it swelled the sense within. Like an intoxication—a thing of moss effect, he felt the elevation of the mind, and moved his body in accordance to its whims.
He danced and danced and felt the voiding of time. Meaningless. Song and dance alone remained. And he reveled in its certitude. That was the beauty of the dance—freedom in surrender. He masked his mind with bliss and liberated his skin with the ash. All was accounted for. Every part of him. His collective enjoyed the motions. More, he felt a unity with the others—outside this cave, the ash mountains were tremendous, surely, somewhere else, the dance, not the one of self, but another was done. Perhaps, an imitation.
An elder ashman chimed a song. "Elu sang the song, and the darkness heeded him." Merrin recognized this as the tale of creation. The church had offered this knowledge. "He danced in the loneliness of it. A dance of one. A dance of self." Of course, Ashmen inserted things into it. Beliefs held as facts. "From his dance, he created 10 aspects of his being. The origin to be the beginning, the sister to be the closest, the crow to hold the luck and wealth. The father to teach and protect. All ten for man and the world."
His tone rasped. "But he declared in himself the end was to be of fire and soot. The ash is the unmaker, and we dance in reverence to it."
Merrin sank into the waves of cogitation. The song often did that to him…Such beauty wrapped in rhythmless words. He marveled and danced. And felt the fading of external recognition.
How long had passed? He wondered—not that it mattered. Not now, at least. Nothing mattered, just the steam from the kindling and the sprinkled ash. A feast for the senses.
A voice shattered it. "Merrin!"
His eyes snapped open, and he fell to the side. Imbalance brought by the abruptness. Who? That answer came with the shifting of visual perception. There, standing at the mouth of the cave, leim, tall, dark with deeply ashed hair, wore a scowl. The adorned clothes were tattered in cuts and rouge threads. No merry to the dance emerged, just anger.
He's livid. Merrin disguised the thrill with annoyance. "Didn't you see the dance was going on?" he spat, "This is a custom thing. You stopped the dance, you should not." Eyes were upon them. Nods, whispers. The other ashmen agreed to the spoken words. A deliberately instigated outcome.
Leim frowned—the aged lines bending on his head. Teeth, too, revealed in the whole expressiveness. Brown, of course, he never did brush. Not even with ash. Leim exhaled and said, "I am sorry for the disturbance." The words were not for Merrin. The next, however, were. "Come!"
"Why?" the natural defiance.
"I-Said-Come."
Merrin shrugged to the toned finality, scanned the cave, and smiled. "I will be back."
"He will not." Leim retorted.
Annoying.
They left the cave and passed through many intertwined paths. Rather confusing for the untrained eye. Ashmen eye. In a way, the caves were a weapon. Ashmen could disappear, and only by the means of the almighty himself could they be found.
Or casted means…Merrin spat and heard the sizzling of the moisture.
Soon, they entered into a smaller cave—more of a round hallway. All sides led to a narrow pathway. Merrin guessed this was rarely used, hence Leim's decision.
He does not want others to hear him….He sneered. Sometimes he acts as a lowlander.
Merrin leaned on the dark wall, felt the rough crudeness, and smiled. Leim was before him, rooted, a face of bottled rage.