Disclaimer: These world and characters belong to David Eddings.
As the years passed, my mind developed and the words of the Angarak speech came to me, I began to ask questions of my mother.
"Mother, why are we here?"
"We are here, child, because the God Torak created the world and placed us on this earth."
"Who is Torak?"
"The God of the Angaraks."
"What is he like?"
"He is very cruel, and egotistical. He demands sacrifices, and many Angaraks are slaughtered for our God."
"But why don't we just say no to Torak? Why don't we say we don't want to give sacrifices?"
"Because if we do, my son, the Grolims will sweep down on us with their wicked curved knifes and drag us to the altar and bend us over backward and cut our hearts out."
"Why are these Grolim so strong?"
"They have sorcery, and with it they can do anything."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
"I wish I was a sorcerer. Then I could stop them."
"Child, if you were a sorcerer, either Torak would force you to become a Grolim, or he would kill you."
"But that's not right! Why should our God treat us this way?"
My mother would give a deep sigh, and take me into her arms. "I don't know, child. I don't know." And lines of worry would come onto her face.
Sometimes, when she was sitting in the garden on the little bench, I saw the same look of worry and concern come onto her face as she sat staring into the pond. I could not bear to see her like that, so I would run up to her and throw my little arms around her, and she would look at me and smile, and the lines would be smoothed away, and the world was happy again. But, young as I was, I did not notice the gaze she cast over me as I walked away.
***
I was young, and the world was bright and beautiful. My days were passed in a long, eternal stretch of joy, of playing, of splashing my feet in the pond, pulling up grass and poking at the earth underneath to see what would come up, watching caterpillars crawl slowly up our tree, lying on my back in the warm grass and watching the clouds and flocks of birds fly by. The winter came, of course, and these days were spent in rolling in the cold, stinging snow, packing fat balls of snow to try to throw over the wall, making snow caterpillars that circled around the garden, and running in, my nose and ears red, to sit by the fireplace and warm my hands and feet.
Sometimes, at night, when I lay in bed and blinked sleepily, I would say to my mother, "Tell me a story," and she would speak in her low, soothing voice, spinning me tales of people who could turn into animals and fly high above the clouds, until I slipped off into oblivion, and woke the next morning with sunlight streaming onto my face, and the wonderful smell of breakfast wafting to my nostrils.
I knew there was a world outside of the walls, but I was not too interested in it. My world was here, with my mother and my elusive father, and the wonderful little garden and its single tree. Sometimes, now, I would be allowed to come down to the large room with the furs piled on the tables, when no one was there and the windows were curtained with gray, and my father would tell me in his quiet voice how this pelt was better than this one, and that one was rotting and would be no good.
This was supposed to be my father's job, I learned. Trappers, lean, evil- looking men with scars, dressed all in leather, came to the house and sold my father their furs, and my father in turn cured them and sold them to other people who would make them into coats and fur capes.
I was eight when I found out what my father's real job was.
It was late at night, and I woke slowly from a deep sleep, turning slightly. The light stabbed into my eyes, and I opened them a crack, to see that a lamp was lit, and my mother was bending over my father's leg.
They were speaking in low voices, and somehow I knew that I was not supposed to hear. I pretended to be asleep, and listened.
"How many were killed?" my mother was asking in a low voice.
"Grolims or Thulls?" my father asked.
"Both."
"We got seven Grolims before we heard the sounds of people coming. We left three of our own and two Thulls behind, but the rest of us got out of there."
"So how were you wounded?"
"A dog the Grolims that were coming had. It slashed at my leg as we ran."
"How many Thulls we rescued?"
"We got ten out of there, and we tore down the altar, too."
"Gareshnyk," my mother lowered her voice still further, "I'm so worried! What if you get caught? What if a Grolim finds out who's behind all this? What if you're killed one mission, and they trace you back to us? I can't bear it if they kill both you and our son!"
"And I couldn't bear it if they killed you. But what are we supposed to do? Sit by and watch this pointless sacrifice go on? I don't care if Torak's our god, he's a monster who revels in the taking of human life! As long as I can continue to liberate the Thulls, I'll do so."
"Gareshnyk... What if they start sacrificing Nadraks? They haven't done so so far, but they'll figure out that it can't be Thulls rescuing their fellow peasants."
"They need the Nadraks. They need the merchant class. They won't sacrifice us."
I let my thought drift away, and contemplated all that I had heard that night.
As the years passed, my mind developed and the words of the Angarak speech came to me, I began to ask questions of my mother.
"Mother, why are we here?"
"We are here, child, because the God Torak created the world and placed us on this earth."
"Who is Torak?"
"The God of the Angaraks."
"What is he like?"
"He is very cruel, and egotistical. He demands sacrifices, and many Angaraks are slaughtered for our God."
"But why don't we just say no to Torak? Why don't we say we don't want to give sacrifices?"
"Because if we do, my son, the Grolims will sweep down on us with their wicked curved knifes and drag us to the altar and bend us over backward and cut our hearts out."
"Why are these Grolim so strong?"
"They have sorcery, and with it they can do anything."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
"I wish I was a sorcerer. Then I could stop them."
"Child, if you were a sorcerer, either Torak would force you to become a Grolim, or he would kill you."
"But that's not right! Why should our God treat us this way?"
My mother would give a deep sigh, and take me into her arms. "I don't know, child. I don't know." And lines of worry would come onto her face.
Sometimes, when she was sitting in the garden on the little bench, I saw the same look of worry and concern come onto her face as she sat staring into the pond. I could not bear to see her like that, so I would run up to her and throw my little arms around her, and she would look at me and smile, and the lines would be smoothed away, and the world was happy again. But, young as I was, I did not notice the gaze she cast over me as I walked away.
***
I was young, and the world was bright and beautiful. My days were passed in a long, eternal stretch of joy, of playing, of splashing my feet in the pond, pulling up grass and poking at the earth underneath to see what would come up, watching caterpillars crawl slowly up our tree, lying on my back in the warm grass and watching the clouds and flocks of birds fly by. The winter came, of course, and these days were spent in rolling in the cold, stinging snow, packing fat balls of snow to try to throw over the wall, making snow caterpillars that circled around the garden, and running in, my nose and ears red, to sit by the fireplace and warm my hands and feet.
Sometimes, at night, when I lay in bed and blinked sleepily, I would say to my mother, "Tell me a story," and she would speak in her low, soothing voice, spinning me tales of people who could turn into animals and fly high above the clouds, until I slipped off into oblivion, and woke the next morning with sunlight streaming onto my face, and the wonderful smell of breakfast wafting to my nostrils.
I knew there was a world outside of the walls, but I was not too interested in it. My world was here, with my mother and my elusive father, and the wonderful little garden and its single tree. Sometimes, now, I would be allowed to come down to the large room with the furs piled on the tables, when no one was there and the windows were curtained with gray, and my father would tell me in his quiet voice how this pelt was better than this one, and that one was rotting and would be no good.
This was supposed to be my father's job, I learned. Trappers, lean, evil- looking men with scars, dressed all in leather, came to the house and sold my father their furs, and my father in turn cured them and sold them to other people who would make them into coats and fur capes.
I was eight when I found out what my father's real job was.
It was late at night, and I woke slowly from a deep sleep, turning slightly. The light stabbed into my eyes, and I opened them a crack, to see that a lamp was lit, and my mother was bending over my father's leg.
They were speaking in low voices, and somehow I knew that I was not supposed to hear. I pretended to be asleep, and listened.
"How many were killed?" my mother was asking in a low voice.
"Grolims or Thulls?" my father asked.
"Both."
"We got seven Grolims before we heard the sounds of people coming. We left three of our own and two Thulls behind, but the rest of us got out of there."
"So how were you wounded?"
"A dog the Grolims that were coming had. It slashed at my leg as we ran."
"How many Thulls we rescued?"
"We got ten out of there, and we tore down the altar, too."
"Gareshnyk," my mother lowered her voice still further, "I'm so worried! What if you get caught? What if a Grolim finds out who's behind all this? What if you're killed one mission, and they trace you back to us? I can't bear it if they kill both you and our son!"
"And I couldn't bear it if they killed you. But what are we supposed to do? Sit by and watch this pointless sacrifice go on? I don't care if Torak's our god, he's a monster who revels in the taking of human life! As long as I can continue to liberate the Thulls, I'll do so."
"Gareshnyk... What if they start sacrificing Nadraks? They haven't done so so far, but they'll figure out that it can't be Thulls rescuing their fellow peasants."
"They need the Nadraks. They need the merchant class. They won't sacrifice us."
I let my thought drift away, and contemplated all that I had heard that night.