Boulder in the Sky

Thank you for bringing me my food. Please have a seat while I get your gold.

Why do I have my arms raised? That’s a good question. Do you have a minute?

Do you see that man across the gorge? Right across from us. The one who has his arms raised, like me.

Now look right up into the sky, above the center of the gorge. If you squint, you will see a black speck just beneath the clouds. That is the reason we have our arms raised.

If either of us moves from here, a giant boulder – the size of a mountain – will plummet to the ground below and destroy the village laid out below us. We cannot allow that.

How did we get here? Well…do you have a few minutes, then?

Do me a favour. Raise your hands while I tell you this story. That’s better. I can transfer the spell to you for a little while and rest my arms.

My name is Melric, and the man standing across the gorge from us is Reeve. We are both mages.

Fifty years ago, we both came to the village that stands below us. I arrived first, and I was overjoyed to find a friendly town without a mage. I had started to settle in as the village mage when Reeve showed up.

A village this size can only support one mage. There wasn’t enough work for both us.

Neither of us wanted to leave. It’s a friendly village, well-situated and this gorge protects it from enemies on foot.

Only one of us could be the village mage. So, we each fought to show that we deserved to be chosen.

Of course, it didn’t help that he used white magic, and I used black magic. “Black” magic. People believe it is an evil thing. The word “black” has taken on such negative meanings: black cats, blackmail, being blackballed…

But black magic is simply another type of magic.

White magic is performed for the good of a community, and black magic is performed for the good of an individual. If you would like a fruitful harvest, or good weather, or a happy festival? Use the weaker white magic. To heal a sick elder, cast a love spell, or bring wisdom to one who is addled? That is my specialty. The much more powerful black magic.

But white magic and black magic both use the same tools. The same equipment...and the same ingredients. Only the spells are different.

There is only so much adder’s tongue, feverfew, and so on that grows around a small village. In order to do our work, Reeve and I had to work together to catch the reptiles and animals…plant and harvest the herbs…and so on.

We had to trust each other enough to share what we gathered, and so we developed a grudging respect. Then we began to spend more time with each other. And before we knew it…we were lovers. This, over the course of three years.

Despite our differences, we spoke the language of magic to each other. When two mages come together as one…imagine a broken egg becoming whole. Two halves no longer separated. Mended…reunited…completed. I cannot explain it better than this.

Why does Reeve have that angry look about him? A bit more of the story, and you will know.

We loved each other, Reeve and I, but in our competition, we grew to hate each others’ beliefs. White magicians like Reeve are weak. They give and give and give, and lose themselves in their spells. He hated my black magic because he thought – wrongly – that it was evil.

So.

Reeve started to spread rumours around the village that my black magic was sourced from demons. From below the ground itself.

Naturally, I had to defend myself. Naturally, I started to spread my own rumours, that Reeve’s white magic could not satisfy the true needs of the villagers. He could not heal one who was sick – only groups when they fell ill with the plague, for example, and it exacted a terrible toll on him.

We both continued to work our spells, and as time went on, the ingredients we needed started to become scarce. Most of the villagers did not care: they were happy to have two sources of powerful magic in the village.

At some point, we stopped working together to gather the ingredients. Instead, we hoarded what we could scavenge. The affection and respect we had once felt for each other turned to hatred. And now you know why Reeve’s face is so grim.

That is the point when disaster struck. Or rather, when disaster prepared to land.

A thousand years ago, in times when all humans had the power of magic, our village had been at war with another village. Who knows the reason; it was lost to history. The other village used their combined mental powers and launched a great boulder towards us.

And a thousand years ago, our village cast a spell that would keep the boulder hanging in the sky – even further up than it is today. The spell would protect our village from destruction for an eternity.

At least, as long as the spell continued to be powered by the substances scattered around the village – the hangman’s rope, the agrimony, and so on. The very substances Reeve and I had been harvesting and using in our work. A thousand years later, there was no one left who remembered their original purpose.

The thousand-year-old spell eventually shattered, and the boulder began to plummet towards the frightened villagers. Reeve and I ran to either side of the gorge, and together we cast this temporary spell of holding fast.

How long have we been here? My robes were once new, and my hair was cropped short. Reeve’s beard was blond, and his skin was unlined. That should tell you how long it has been.

We stood in our positions, protecting the villagers, and time passed.

You do not see any villagers in the town below? Well. The villagers eventually moved away. They did not want to live under the threat of a boulder in the sky, and I do not blame them. Also, we had exhausted nearly all of the magical supplies. They moved on and started a new village elsewhere.

Why do we not let go? Is it not obvious? The magic we have cast is intertwined and balanced: white and black together.

If I should let go, the stone will be attracted towards Reeve as it falls, and it will crush him. If he should let go, I will be crushed.

If I hate him, why do I care if he perishes? There is another matter at stake here.

We are both very stubborn. Perhaps you have guessed this by how long we have been standing here. If I should let go, it would falsely prove that Reeve’s pitiful white magic was superior. I cannot allow that. If he should let go, I would finally have the proof – not that I need it – that my black magic is superior.

You might think that nobody could be that stubborn for over fifty years. You might think that we still love each other, secretly, somewhere in our hearts.

No. We stand on opposite sides of this gorge. There is no middle ground. There can be no compromise. I do not love Reeve. I loathe him, and he loathes me.

Here ends my story. Thank you for keeping your arms raised. I shall resume casting the spell now.

And thank you for the food, and the company. Here is your gold. Some extra for your time.

On your way out, you may wish to pay Reeve a visit. I have not seen him eat in some time. These foolish white magicians continue to believe that they can survive on sheer will alone. He might pay you some gold to fetch him a meal.

A message? I have no message for Reeve. He knows my heart, and I know his. I will stand here facing him until this gorge collapses, if I must.

I am sure he will surrender before then, of course. It is only a matter of time.