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Council with the Dead
After fighting their way through the most treacherous southern parts of the plains, the pilgrims were faced with an immense rain slicked rock face that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. There were yawning jaws that led into a tunnel so shadowy there was no way of knowing what lay within. Guardedly they shuffled into the murky passageway that narrowed as they advanced to the point that Braska -artificially the tallest of the group- was forced to squat so that the tines of his helm didn't scrape on the roof.
Jecht was again humming something that vaguely resembled the Hymn of the Fayth. It was as though remembering those times in Zanarkand with Linnya and the bedtime lullabies brought the Hymn roaring back to the forefront of his mind. Whenever he recited it, it reminded him of that warm feeling of home. It was a shred of hope in a totally desolate foreign world.
"You should stop singing the Hymn, Jecht." Auron said, somewhere between a suggestion and a command.
"And why would I do a thing like that?"
"Because you butcher it with that awful tenor of yours."
The guardian extended a flat palm behind him and stepped up first into the darkness, leaving Braska and Jecht in tow.
"Why'd you let that jerk-off follow you around anyhow, Braska?"
"I saved his life not so long ago. Auron was once a Warrior Monk of Bevelle, the armed guard of the Maesters. He was highly revered and in line for a big promotion, to second-in-command."
"So what went wrong?"
"Marriage was forced upon him, the hand of the High Priest's daughter. Nobody should be forced to marry, he told me afterwards. Marriage is a symbol of love, not of necessity. So, he declined and was discharged from the Monks for it. The promotion went to his friend Kinoc instead."
"Ouch. So that would explain the stick in his ass."
"After that, he drifted for a while on the streets of Bevelle and soon hit the bottle. I heard of his misfortune and wished to find him, to ask for his aid. I soon learned he liked to drink at the Bottomless Mug, a dive of a tavern on the waterfront of Bevelle. Yevon extremists had chased him into the streets, pushing him around and even threatened to kill him. He was drunk and unarmed, so I convinced the aggressors to spare him in the name of Yevon.
"I fixed him up with food and new clothes. He insisted he owed me a life debt. After telling him my story, I think he saw my resolve, maybe he empathised with the way I had too been cast aside by Yevon's priesthood, and he offered to become my guardian."
"So I wasn't the first drunk drifter you got on your team."
"There's more to it than that, Jecht. I see real potential in our party. I do, you know. All of us have a strong motive and desire. Auron and myself have something to prove to our peers. You have a strong desire to get back to Zanarkand and see your family again. Zanarkand… the final vestige of our journey."
In his slightly restrictive robes, Braska shuffled on in his unique manner, leaving Jecht a second or two to reflect on why he was really there. Soon, rock gave way to vine and they had reached the tree village of Guadosalam. It had been planted and cultivated centuries ago for the purpose of housing the Guado tribe. Though many had sought their fortunes elsewhere, this was their spiritual home and their roots were deepest here, so to speak.
Jecht eased his fingers across the walls of the tunnel, scaling over the cool, smooth matter that peeked out of the walls through weaving vines. It was the same material that he had discovered in the forest, throbbing with brilliant blue light. It reacted to his touch as though alive.
"What is this stuff?"
"We call it sphere matter." explained Braska. "Simply water with a higher concentration of pyreflies in it than normal, crystallising it."
"Like the Blitz Sphere, you mean?"
"Correct. I suppose it serves best here as a natural light source, but it can be harvested and used in sphere cameras, like yours."
"A natural light source? What's powering all of it?"
"Memories." was the cryptic reply. "Any large gathering of pyreflies in a watery area will eventually birth sphere matter around there. As we are so close to the both the Farplane and the Thunder Plains, it's no wonder that the matter grows abundantly here."
Braska slid his hand along the innards of the tunnel, leaving a resinous gloss on his fingertips. "Places with a high level of pyreflies are like windows into the past. The pyreflies react to, maybe even feed off of people's thoughts and memories; sometimes an especially large, lingering group of pyreflies can 'remember' an event or a person and they reappear like ghosts. The Al Bhed would have you believe that the entire concept of the Farplane is based on this notion."
Jecht had switched off long before Braska had finished, figuring the summoner wouldn't mind the sound of his own drivel for a little while. He stood still and felt the dew on the ground soak into his calloused feet and it soothed him. This Guadosalam was indeed a place of natural beauty, of healing. It took his mind away from the fat head he had woken up with.
The sights, smells and sounds of the town met them in full as they emerged from the tunnel. It was essentially the inside of a hollow tree, with extremely thick off-shoots sprouting from a central column, wide and stout enough to support people and even shops. Living platforms had grown inwards, allowing the residents to set up homes there. The twisting structure scaled up as high as forty feet before merging into the roof of the tree.
There was an exciting spicy waft in the air that instantly made Jecht's belly rumble and saliva form at the sides of his tongue. Voices floated in the air: soft, eloquent and lingering, as close to musical as you could get without actually singing. The words were a mixture of well-educated Spiran and that of an antiquated tongue, the original Guado language that had began to dwindle in recent years, since the Guado had seen the light of Yevon's teachings around fifteen years before.
"This some kinda tree or somethin'?"
"Guadosalam… home of Jyscal Guado, saviour of these people." Braska explained.
"Who?"
"He is the leader of the Guado. By bringing the teachings of Yevon here, he redeemed a once aimless people."
"Sounds like a load of hoo-ha to me." Jecht retorted, just quiet enough so no one could hear him. He was yet to be impressed by Yevon.
Further up was a trough with sparkling water that filtered down from presumably a concealed geyser. Jecht buried his head up to the neck without a second thought, feeling the warm and excited currents tickle his ears and away. He was in the water again, his home away from home. He opened his eyes and observed the rippling image of coins at the bottom, some shiny, some rusty and faded. A splash at his right ear alerted him to a solitary Gil sinking until it met the base with a delicate clink; the image of Auron with his thumb extended through the surface of the water skewed and strained above him.
Guado Manor, the focal point of the entire town, had a humble beauty that reflected the tree people and their modest ambitions. One would expect the esteemed Lord Jyscal to reside in a loftier estate, such as the Palace of Saint Bevelle, or in the imposing climes of Gagazet. The manor jutted from the vines in the walls, giving it an enigmatic quality, like the thicket was trying to swallow it, or hold it captive. The sphere matter that throbbed through from behind gave the vines the appearance of flittering flame, of an explosion of growth. There was a branchy awning that overhung the entrance and reinforced the manor like a ribcage.
The manor itself was distinctive from the rest of the buildings in Guadosalam through its sheer presence and eminence alone. Three steps led to a set of well-lit double doors, manned by a stocky Guado guard. "State your business." He said stolidly.
"I am Braska. Lord Jyscal is expecting us."
The Guado offered an elegant bow to the summoner that belied his build, and stood aside. "Please, this way, milord."
Braska courteously trundled up the steps and through the doors as the guard opened them for him. The reception area was radiant in its natural beauty. Two opposing staircases –of course fashioned from branches- curved upwards towards the master bedroom, while directly in front of them was a set of double doors. Along the walls in ascension with the stairs were old portraits of former Guado leaders and their kin- a literal family tree. The images weren't charcoal and acrylic on parchment as one may expect, but specially crafted spheres. Each portrait was as alive and as sharp as when it had been first recorded, that distinctive watery ripple pouring down the image. Jecht rapped one of the images with a knuckle –drawing a curt groan from Auron- and it was glassy, not soft, hardened over the decades and centuries.
Jecht gave each portrait a second or two. In most cases, the Guado leaders were grizzled old geezers with stupid hair and dots in the middle of their foreheads, and their wives were tired old hags, but one particular woman caught his eye. She was human: a pretty brunette who reminded him in no small way of his wife. But she was haunted by something, something permanent, terminal.
"She was Jyscal's wife, Sara." Braska affirmed.
"'Was' meaning she's no longer with us?"
"A sad tale." The summoner replied, his eyes wandering to the floor. "Jyscal Guado, leader of these people, had realised the benevolence of Yevon's teachings after his life was saved by a priest. He took Yevon into his heart and into the hearts of this previously unenlightened race, even to the point he took a human Yevonite wife.
"While the people frowned upon this dilution of their heritage, they were delighted that Jyscal taught them the ways of Yevon. What they couldn't forgive was the offspring of Jyscal and Sara: Seymour, half-man, half-Guado. Under increasing pressure, Jyscal reluctantly banished his wife and son to the remote island of Baaj, where Sara eventually died of a wasting disease."
"Death, death and yet more death." said Jecht glumly. "Sounds like a grade one a-hole to me. What kind of guy'd bail like that… on his wife n' kid…"
The double doors creaked and swung open and there with arms aloft stood Jyscal's assistant, Tromell: a short and wizened Guado in his mid forties, plump with the advancing years. He was decked out in a lime green overcoat with blood red arms, which widened significantly at the wrists to accommodate his huge webbed fingers. The jacket shrouded a simple pair of charcoal pants tied into a bow with a yellow cord. He brushed a hand through his green roots and straightened the curls out of his beard in anticipation of his guests.
"Damn, why are all these Guado so funny lookin'?" Jecht asked, just loudly enough for Tromell to hear.
"With all due respect, sire," Tromell replied, bowing to Jecht, "Thou is no oil painting thyself." Jecht smirked as Jyscal's number one led them into the banquet hall.
"This estate hath housed many, many fine Guado leaders o'er the centuries." He touted, like the consummate host, "And its current incumbent is arguably the greatest."
Tromell's voice carried a regal and probably snobbish tone, riddled by that archaic tongue. He was a proud man, proud of the history that he had been the right hand to. He had even witnessed the recent transformation of the Guado from a group of self-guarded hermits to a race finally aligned with the rest of the civil world.
The banquet hall was a delight to behold, very much like the rest of Guadosalam in general. In front of them was a round table embellished with a silken white sheet. Atop of the table was a vase crammed with bouquets: carnations, roses and lilies all flowing from the top, spilling out of the vase and blooming down the sides. Spattered around the vase was an assortment of fruits, especially fat and mature for Jyscal's visitors. Jecht grabbed a water melon piece and sank his teeth into the soft red husk, juice spraying onto the floor and drenching his beard. Tromell gave an awkward, but ultimately happy smile of approval. He extended his hand to Braska and Auron to join their eager friend in dining at the table. The summoner considered the selection carefully and then picked a ripened bunch of grapes. It throbbed with purple juice, and he nibbled at each one in turn, taking his time to savour each one exploding onto the roof of his mouth. Auron took impatient chunks out of an apple, the nearest thing to hand.
"Is it Guado tradition to make people wait?" he thought out loud, with no answer from an indifferent Tromell.
This room was exquisitely furnished, with velvet poufs lining the walls. Semi-opaque red sashes hung from the roof, air pooling inside them. Vines crept in through cracks in the ceiling and fingered down the walls, trying to overwhelm the intricate, Guado décor of the room.
There were three large orbs suspended just above the head height of the average Ronso and a pendulum swooshing backwards and forwards in predictable rhythm, with the sound of time. The orbs tingled with sparkling blue lustre as Braska stretched his fingers towards them. He didn't quite have the reach, even on the tips of his toes and the light faded as he returned to the ground.
Braska knew that this room was in essence a giant sphere crafted by the Guado in an effort to communicate with the dead that wandered the Farplane. The Guado had a mystical affinity for magic and pyreflies, due to their race having evolved in such close proximity for many generations. Only the wisest of Guado leaders were permitted council with the dead, whose untold memories of the ancient past filled the summoner with an excitement and frustration that could have burst from his sides.
At the far end of the room, a side door slid open and emerged Jyscal, the leader of the Guado. He leant his weight down onto his left hand, which clasped a wooden stave, and he shuffled lopsidedly towards Braska, his gown trailing along the woolly green carpet underfoot. His hair was different to the other Guado: distinctively sprouting off in all directions, but mainly channelling into a point at the top. It was now a dull teal -maybe the Guado equivalent of grey- and was symbolic of his many years in command, of his experience accrued. His beard was neatly groomed and long. The gold robe that hung from his wiry shoulders put him above the rest in terms of standing too. It made him look stronger and physically more capable, rather than the spindly man he really was.
"It's good to see you again, Summoner Braska." The Guado said.
Braska performed the prayer, this time kneeling down, as was expected when addressing a Lord or Maester.
"Please, no formalities here, I won't have it." From his hunched position, Jyscal threw a glance over to Jecht. "Ah, you must be Jecht, the man from Zanarkand."
"Yep."
Jyscal extended his hand, which Jecht eventually shook. "I've heard a lot about you on the grapevine."
"Oh, yeah? Like I'm just some kind of nut? Or another victim of Sin?"
Jyscal rolled his tongue in his cheek for a moment. "Yes actually, a little bit of both. Some even say you're a heretic with a death wish. But I am well informed by my good friend Braska that you are genuine, or at least you think you are. If you were affected by the toxin, it's unlikely you would have physically been able to make it this far from Bevelle. Please, let's sit and discuss this."