dries some ephemeral account of what happened and why.
Thus, let me begin this story as all stories are begun, at the beginning.
I was born in a village so small that it had no name.
* The name of the village was added in Belgarath the Sorcerer to justify his name
linguistically. ‘Garath’ could mean ‘of the village of Gara in the archaic form of several languages.
It lay, if I
remember it correctly, on a pleasant green bank beside a small river
that sparkled in the summer sun as if its surface were covered with
jewels – and I would trade all the jewels I have ever owned or seen
to sit beside that river again.
Our village was not rich, but in those days none were. The world
was at peace, and our Gods walked among us and smiled upon us.
We had enough to eat and huts to shelter us from the weather. I do
not recall who our God was, nor his attributes, nor his totem. It was,
after all, a very~ very long time ago.
Like the other children, I played in the warm, dusty streets and
ran through the long grass in the meadows and paddled in that
sparkling river which was drowned by the eastern sea so many
years ago that they are beyond counting.
My mother died when I was quite young. I remember that I cried
about it for a very long time, though I must honestly admit that I can
no longer even remember her face. I remember the gentleness of her
hands and the warm smell of fresh-baked bread that came from her
garments, but I can not remember her face – but then, there have
been so many faces.
The people of my village cared for me and saw to it that I was fed
and clothed and sheltered in one house or another, but I grew up
wild. I never knew my father, and my mother was dead, and I
was not content with the simple, drowsy life of a small, unnamed
village beside a sparkling river in a time when the world was very
young. I began to wander out into the hills above my village, at first
with only a stick and a sling, but later with more manly weapons
though I was still but a child.
And then came a day in early spring when the air was cool and
the clouds raced overhead in the fresh, young wind, and I had
climbed to the top of the highest hill to the west of our river. And I
looked down at the tiny patch of dun-colored huts beside a small
river that did not sparkle beneath the scudding clouds of spring.
And then I turned and looked to the west at a vast grassland and
white-topped mountains beyond and clouds roiling titanic in the
grey sky. And I looked one last time at the village where I was born
and where, had I not climbed that hill on just such a morning, I
might well have died; and I turned my face to the west and I went
from that place forever.
The summer was easy. The plain yielded food in plenty to a young
adventurer with the legs to chase it and the appetite to eat it – no
matter how tough or poorly cooked. And in the fall I came upon a
vast encampment of people whitened as if by the touch of frost.
They took me in and wept over me, and many came to touch me
and to look at me, and they wept also. But one thing I found most
strange. In the entire encampment there were no children, and to
my young eyes the people seemed most terribly old. They spoke a
language I did not understand, but they fed me and seemed to
argue endlessly among themselves over who might have the privilege
of keeping me in his tent or pavilion.
I passed the winter among these strange people, and, as is so
frequently the case with the young, I learned nothing in that season.
I can not remember even one word of the language they spoke.
* These old people are those Ulgos who chose not to follow Gorim to Prolgu. ‘As the
branch that is cut off, they are withered and dying.’ (Because their women are barren.)
When the snow melted and the frost seeped up out of the ground
and the wind of spring began to blow again, I knew it was time to
leave. I took no joy in the pampering of a multitude of grandparents
and had no desire to become the pet of a host of crotchety old people
who could not even speak a civilized language.
And so, early one spring morning, before the darkness had even
slid off the sky, I sneaked from the camp and went south into a low
range of hills where their creaky old limbs could not follow me. I
moved very fast, for I was young and well-fed and quite strong,
but it was not fast enough. As the sun rose I could hear the wails
of unspeakable grief coming from the encampment behind me. I
remember that sound very well.
I loitered that summer in the hills and in the upper reaches of the
Vale to the south beyond them. It was in my mind that I might – if
pursued by necessity – winter again in the camp of the old people.
But, as it happened, an early storm caught me unprepared to the
south of the hills, and the snow piled so deep that I could not make
my way back across to my refuge. And my food was gone, and my
shoes, mere bags of untanned hide, wore out, and I lost my knife,
and it grew very cold.
In the end I huddled behind a pile of rock that seemed to reach up
into the very heart of the snowstorm that swirled around me and
tried to prepare myself for death. I thought of my village and of the
grassy fields around it and of our small, sparkling river, and of my
mother, and, because I was still really very young, I cried.
Why weepest thou, boy?’ The voice was very gentle. The snow
was so thick that I could not see who spoke, but the tone made me
angry
‘Because I’m cold and I’m hungry,’ I said, ‘and because I’m dying
and I don’t want to.’
‘Why art thou dying? Art thou injured?’
‘I’m lost,’ I said, ‘and it’s snowing, and I have no place to go.’
‘Is- this. reason enough to die amongst thy kind?’
‘Isn’t it enough?’ I said, still angry.
‘And how long dost thou expect this dying of thine will persist?’
The voice seemed mildly curious.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve never done it before.’
The wind howled and the snow swirled more thickly around me.
‘Boy,’ the voice said finally, ‘come here to me.’
Where are you?’ I said. ‘I can’t see you.’
Walk around the tower to thy left. Knowest thou thy left hand
from thy right?’
I stumbled to my half-frozen feet angrier than I ever remember
having been.
Well, boy?’
I moved around what I had thought was a pile of rock, my hands
on the stones.
‘Thou shalt come to a smooth grey rock,’ the voice said,
‘some
what taller than thy head and broad as thine arms may reach.’
‘All right,’ I said, my lips thick with the cold. ‘Now what?’
‘Tell it to open.’
What?’
‘Speak unto the rock,’ the voice said patiently, ignoring the fact
that I was congealing in the gale. ‘Command it to open.’
‘Command? Me?’
‘Thou art a man. It is but a rock.’
What do I say?’
‘Tell it to open.’
‘Open,’ I commanded half-heartedly.
‘Surely thou canst do better than that.’
‘Open!’ I thundered.
And the rock slid aside.
‘Come in, boy,’ the voice said. ‘Stand not in the weather like some
befuddled calf.’
The inside of the tower – for such indeed it was – was dimly
lighted by stones that glowed with a pale, cold fire. I thought that
was a fine thing, though I would have preferred it had they been
warmer. Stone steps worn with countless centuries of footfalls
ascended in a spiral into the gloom above my head. Other than that
the chamber was empty~
‘Close the door, boy,’ the voice said, not unkindly.
‘How?’ I said.
‘How didst thou open it?’
I turned to the gaping rock and quite proud of myself, I
commanded, ‘Close!’
And, at my voice, the rock slid shut with a grinding sound that
chilled my blood even more than the fierce storm outside.
‘Come up, boy,’ the voice commanded.
And so I mounted the stairs, only a little bit afraid. The tower was
very high, and the climbing took me a long time.
At the top was a chamber filled with wonders. I looked at things