The Promise

“They’re here!” The almoner shouted, barging through the outer door, his voice echoing through the open halls of the abbey. “They’re here! Grinswal is here!”

Commotion followed. Monks left their tasks and followed the almoner. Some immediately concerned, some in need of answers, and some not yet knowing what the almoner meant.

“Take it to the abbot,” answered a monk.

“What’s going on?” asked the cantor.

“Not the abbot, he’s busy,” countered the novice master.

“Where are they?” asked another monk.

“Take it to Mamot, he’ll know what to do,” the prior heard. He stepped down from his post and went to the crowd. Mamot was a younger monk, but his clear head and devotion to the creed had advanced him quickly. The abbot had taken a liking to him early on and wasted little time in making Mamot his student and prior.

“What is it, Nester?” Mamot asked, meeting the growing crowd.

“Grinswal,” Nester started, recovering his breath. “They’ve landed now. They took the port of Amik, they said.”

“When?”

“Two days ago is what the wanderers said.” There was a slight murmur among the crowds.

“You can’t trust the wanderers, they’ll make any story up for a good coin,” came a voice from the group.

“I didn’t pay them anything,” Nester replied sharply, quickly becoming sheepish at his admitted lack of charity.

“What’s Grinswal?” the cantor asked again.

“Where have you been?” the novice master scolded, hissing between her teeth.

“What should we do, Mamot?” the stewardess asked.

Slowly the crowd’s rustling died down as more eyes turned toward Mamot. He felt each pair as they landed on him one by one, and as he glanced across each one, he felt its weight increase. His throat dried, and the pressure would’ve started to squeeze his chest soon.

“The abbot should be consulted regardless. This is something new to us. There are the laws, but there is no tradition.”

In devotion, there is reward.

“But we need to know more. If Grinswal is truly landed and where they’ll go. We should prepare the abbey and expect extra guests for the near future,” Mamot concluded, nodding to his brothers and sisters to send them off. They dispersed, carrying varying degrees of confidence and concern for the matter, and Mamot watched them until the abbey had mostly returned to the stiller ambiance it had before.

In devotion, there is reward.

Once he had quieted his own mind, Mamot turned and made his way to the abbey. In truth, the abbot had delegated that there would be no need to concern themselves with Grinswal. Trade, commerce, and news were all common from outsiders, and even outsider attacks were what formed Yanafor, the abbot had said. The amassing ships outside their waters were a shadow at best; something that might look intimidating, but far less threatening than aswang spirits their order had dealt with already.

Despite the abbot’s assurances, though, Mamot did concern himself with what was happening on their outer waters. The amassing ships were not trade vessels; they were warships. Blockading and restricting their trade, and now they had supposedly landed. The abbot needed to hear about this.

He was a tall man, towering over all the other monks and nuns in the abbey, but he was thin and well-kept, giving the appearance of an old tree, and the way he walked and moved reminded Mamot of the swaying branches in the wind.

“Abbot,” he said, greeting him with a bow of the head. “There’s news. Almoner Nester says Grinswal has landed on our shores at the port of Amik.”

Mamot waited for his response, the abbot’s long fingers creeping up to adjust his robe like spider legs between strands of web.

“This is news,” the abbot agreed. “This troubles you, Mamot?”

Mamot held his tongue briefly, watching the abbot start to walk along his desk, where papers lay strewn about. Letters, messages, and other communications scattered among scraps and quills; the only place in the abbey that was allowed to remain so.

“Grinswal’s ships are warships, not trade vessels. If they’ve landed, they’re invading.”

“If they’ve landed…” the abbot echoed, his voice trailing off. He turned toward Mamot and placed his focused gaze on his pupil. “Yet we, as the Balance of the Path, know we will be safe in this land, so long as we align our lives. You know what is said,” the abbot’s voice waiting for a reply.

“Right living produces a right life.”

“Precisely. The Diwata and their dire wolves, or even the dwende, teach us this. When the land is well stewarded and our lives are aligned, then in devotion there is reward.”

“But abbot, Grinswal is not of this land.”

The abbot walked up to him, resting a soft hand on his shoulder.

“Everything will work out, Mamot, if we hold ourselves aligned.”

Mamot took a breath and then nodded in agreement. “Everything will work out,” then after a pause, “I will assure the others.”

So he did, returning to the monks and nuns, addressing their concerns. First on the day after the news came of Grinswal’s landing. He reminded them of their purpose and what they did in the abbey. Of their creed and teachings, and it was agreed in the end. Everything would work out, just as it was meant to if they kept their lives aligned.

Then came the second assurance. Two days after the first news, the almoner returned.

“They’ve taken Nangba! The city is taken, and they’re on the hill road now!”

Once again, commotion arose, more of the crowd believing it now. Mamot himself had heard the news earlier, receiving it from his messengers, but he knew the panic would cause disruption. The abbot was right; if their abbey was to come out unscathed, they would need to keep their alignment. Panic would only disrupt.

He assured them again. Their purpose and what they had already accomplished, appeasing spirits and repelling bandits. They only needed to trust in the path and the balance. It took longer, but he eventually convinced them all again, and the abbey returned to its duties, until the next day, when on their gates pleaded the refugees.

Then the abbey got to see. See how little they left with, their wounds, and their fatigue and fear. They grew restless, demanding answers or action.

“Please, first we have to attend to our guests. They are weary and need aid,” Mamot said, moving to help the fleeing peasants and direct attention. He worked.

Worked to tend to the hungry children and the tired parents, what parents had managed to make it out. Worked to delegate and focus the guest master and find supplies and rooms for them. Worked to calm them and his own brothers and sisters, but despite his work, he labored on. Each story, each cry, each sob, each wound only caused another monk or nun to burst under fear. It was not long before he needed the abbot’s help, and the two continued working through the rest of the day and into the night, delivering aid or assurance where needed. For two days it went like this, and for each hour that passed and each message Mamot took in secret only worried him further. Still he steeled himself on, trusting the abbot and his teachings. Everything would work out, and through devotion, there would be reward.

When the messenger arrived, though, things changed. The messenger, not of Yanafor but of Grinswal. Mounted upon a gray horse with banners and armor, the rider armored and wearing a cloak. Escorting her were two soldiers, heavily armored and bearing broad shields, and at the horse’s rearguard was a final soldier, lightly armored and carrying a rod of wood and metal. Mamot had never seen it, but recognized the descriptions as the fabled guns, the boomsticks, of the Grinswal army.

They demanded entry, and the abbot himself saw them in, directing the soldiers through the abbey and bypassing the monks and nuns.

“Please, return to your duties. I will attend to our visitors,” the Abbot dismissed. Hours went by, and while the abbot attended to the Grinswal messenger, Mamot attended to the monks and nuns who were too worried to stay focused. Then they emerged from the abbey, led out by the abbot in silence, the whole compound waiting in a tense silence. When the gates closed, the air was still tense, and none dared move, though Mamot felt eyes and attention waiting on him.

“Abbot?” Mamot croaked to ask.

“Hm?” and after a pause, “everything will work out. Stay true to the path, and the path will reward us.”

Once again, Mamot felt the attention waiting on him. Waiting on him to see how he would respond. If it would be with continued devotion, or if their questions and concerns would get to be voiced out through Mamot.

“Very well. You heard the abbot. Everything will work out,” he said, turning to address the crowd. “We believe in something more, something higher. We need to live that truth too.”

“That truth will be the end of us!” Came a voice from the crowd. There was murmuring that followed. Mamot went to look toward the abbot for support, but he was already making his way back to the abbey. That brief glance though filled more doubt among the monks, and their clamor and debate rose. Some continued to defend the abbot and Mamot, others were more vehemently doubtful.

“Please,” he pleaded, fighting for their attention. “We have to remain strong for our ways to work,” his voice competing as he worked to calm the crowds.

The following days only worsened. As more news came into the abbey and Grinswal got closer, doubt continued to sow through them, and more and more monks and nuns started to protest or even leave the abbey. With each one that left, Mamot felt a pain inside, one that only could be quieted by doubling down on his efforts. If they would leave, then they had fallen from the path and balance.

Then came the final day. The day when Mamot could hear the approaching marches of armored boots, hooves, and the rolling of wheels. In the distance, he could see their approach, like ants moving onto a carcass.

When they arrived at the abbey, it was the same messenger that came before leading ahead, but she kept no escorts with her this time. She only knocked at the door, a folded paper in hand. It was the abbot who let her in.

“We received your latest message just in time,” the messenger said, handing it back to the abbot. He was still tall as ever, but his eyes were dark and his face sullen, and he reminded Mamot now of a dead tree. “You and your abbey will be spared in exchange for your cooperation.”

Mamot watched, frozen, as the abbot exchanged a bow to the messenger.

“You see, Mamot?” he said, turning his empty eyes toward him. “Everything will work out.”