thou wouldst have it. Much have I marveled, boy, at thine insistence
upon doing all things with thy back instead of thy will. I had begun
to fear for thee, thinking that perhaps thou wert defective.”
Suddenly all the things I had ignored or shrugged off or been too
incurious even to worry about fell into place. My Master had indeed
been creating things for me to do, hoping that eventually I’d learn
this secret. I walked over to the rock and laid my hands on it
again.
“Move,” I commanded, bringing my will to bear on it, and the rock moved
as easily as before.
“Does it make thee more comfortable touching the rock when thou wouldst
move it, boy?” my Master asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.
The question stunned me. I hadn’t even considered that possibility. I
looked at the rock.
“Move,” I said tentatively.
“Thou must command, boy, not entreat.”
“Move!” I roared, and the rock heaved and rolled off with nothing but
my Will and the Word to make it do so.
“Much better, boy. Perhaps there is hope for thee yet.”
Then I remembered something. Notice how quickly I pick up on these
things? I’d been moving the rock that formed the door to the tower
with only my voice for some five years now.
“You knew all along that I could do this, didn’t you, Master? There
isn’t really all that much difference between this rock and the one
that closes the tower door, is there?”
He smiled gently.
“Most perceptive, boy,” he complimented me. I was getting a little
tired of that “boy.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked accusingly.
“I had need to know if thou wouldst discover it for thyself, boy.”
“And all these chores and tasks you’ve put me through for all these
years were nothing more than an excuse to force me to discover it,
weren’t they?”
“Of course,” he replied in an offhand sort of way.
“What is thy name, boy?”
“Garath,” I told him, and suddenly realized that he’d never asked me
before.
“An unseemly name, boy. Far too abrupt and commonplace for one of thy
talent. I shall call thee Belgarath.”
“As it please thee. Master.” I’d never “thee’d” or “thou’d” him
before, and I held my breath for fear that he might be displeased, but
he showed no sign that he’d noticed. Then, made bold by my success, I
went further.
“And how may I call thee, Master?” I asked.
“I am called Aldur,” he replied, smiling.
I’d heard the name before, of course, so I immediately fell on my face
before him.
“Art thou ill, Belgarath?”
“Oh, great and most powerful God,” I said, trembling, “forgive mine
ignorance. I should have known thee at once.”
“Don’t do that!” he said irritably.
“I require no obeisance. I am not my brother Torak. Rise to thy feet,
Belgarath. Stand up, boy. Thine action is unseemly.”
I scrambled up fearfully and clenched myself for the sudden shock of
lightning. Gods, as all men knew, could destroy at their whim those
who displeased them. That was a quaint notion of the time. I’ve met a
few Gods since then, and I know better now. In many respects, they’re
even more circumscribed than we are.
“And what dost thou propose to do with thy life now, Belgarath?” he
asked. That was my Master for you. He always asked questions that
stretched out endlessly before me.
“I would stay and serve thee. Master,” I said, as humbly as I could.
“I require no service,” he said.
“These past few years have been for thy benefit. In truth, Belgarath,
what canst thou do for me?”
That was a deflating thing to say–true, probably, but deflating all
the same.
“May I not stay and worship thee, Master?” I pleaded. At that time
I’d never met a God before, so I was uncertain about the proprieties.
All I knew was that I would die if he sent me away.
He shrugged. You can cut a man’s heart out with a shrug, did you know
that?
“I do not require thy worship either, Belgarath,” he said
indifferently.
“May I not stay, Master?” I pleaded with actual tears standing in my
eyes. He was breaking my heart!–quite deliberately, of course.
“I would be thy disciple and learn from thee.”
“The desire to learn does thee credit,” he said, “but it will not be
easy, Belgarath.”
“I am quick to learn, Master,” I boasted, glossing over the fact that
it had taken me five years to learn his first lesson.
“I shall make thee proud of me.” I actually meant that.
And then he laughed, and my heart soared, even as it had when that old
vagabond in the rickety cart had laughed. I had a few suspicions at
that point.
“Very well, then, Belgarath,” he relented.
“I shall accept thee as my pupil.”
“And thy disciple, also, Master?”
“That we will see in the fullness of time, Belgarath.”
And then, because I was still very young and much impressed with my
recent accomplishment, I turned to a winter-dried bush and spoke to it
fervently.
“Bloom,” I said, and the bush quite suddenly produced a single flower.
It wasn’t much of a flower, I’ll admit, but it was the best that I
could do at the time. I was still fairly new at this. I plucked it
and offered it to him.
“For thee, Master,” I said, “because I love thee.” I don’t believe I’d
ever used the word “love” before, and it’s become the center of my
whole life. Isn’t it odd how we make these simple little
discoveries?
And he took my crooked little flower and held it between his hands.
“I thank thee, my son,” he said. It was the first time he’d ever
called me that.
“And this flower shall be thy first lesson. I would have thee examine
it most carefully and tell me all that thou canst perceive of it. Set
aside thine axe and thy broom, Belgarath. This flower is now thy
task.”
And that task took me twenty years, as I recall. Each time I came to
my Master with the flower that never wilted nor faded–how I grew to
hate that flower!–and told him what I’d learned, he would say,
“Is that all, my son?” And, crushed, I’d go back to my study of that
silly little flower.
In time my distaste for it grew less. The more I studied it, the
better I came to know it, and I eventually grew fond of it.
Then one day my Master suggested that I might learn more about it if I
burned it and studied its ashes. I refused indignantly.
“And why not, my son?” he asked me.
“Because it is dear to me, Master,” I said in a tone probably more firm
than I’d intended.
“Dear?” he asked.
“I love the flower, Master! I will not destroy it!”
“Thou art stubborn, Belgarath,” he noted.
“Did it truly take thee twenty years to admit thine affection for this
small, gentle thing?”
And that was the true meaning of my first lesson. I still have that
little flower somewhere, and although I can’t put my hands on it
immediately, I think of it often and with great affection.
It was not long after that when my Master suggested that we journey to
a place he called Prolgu, since he wanted to consult with someone
there. I agreed to accompany him, of course, but to be quite honest
about it I didn’t really want to be away from my studies for that long.
It was spring, however, and that’s always a good season for traveling.
Prolgu is in the mountains, and if nothing else, the scenery was
spectacular.
It took us quite some time to reach the place–my Master never
hurried–and I saw creatures along the way that I had never imagined
existed. My Master identified them for me, and there was a peculiar
note of pain in his voice as he pointed out unicorns, Hrulgin,
Algroths, and even an Eldrak.
“What troubles thee, Master?” I asked him one evening as we sat by our
fire.
“Are the creatures we have encountered distasteful to thee?”
“They are a constant rebuke to me and my brothers, Belgarath,” he
replied sadly.
“When the earth was all new, we dwelt with each other in a cave deep in
these mountains, laboring to bring forth the beasts of the fields, the
fowls of the air, and the fish of the sea. It seemeth me I have told
thee of that time, have I not?”
I nodded.
“Yes, Master,” I replied.
“It was before there was such a thing as man.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Man was our last creation. At any rate, some of the creatures we
brought forth were unseemly, and we consulted and decided to unmake
them, but UL forbade it.”
“UL?” The name startled me. I’d heard it quite often in the