Motherheart Priest

母心 牧师

Mǔxīn Mùshī

I

acknowledge

the

Traditional Owners

of the lands

upon which

this story takes place.

Katithandra – 南国 – Nánguó – Southland

Motherheart Priest — Chapter 1

First there is the breath.

The breath guides the mind.

The mind directs the body,

an empty vessel

waiting to be filled.

San dao Jing – Book of Three Paths

Southern Dragon School of Dao

East Ridge, Forestpool Temple - Katithandra (Australia) 1271 CE

The air was dense with future conflict and the old man spat what he could of it into the dense undergrowth. He regretted his action immediately but was captivated by the way the globule struck a leaf and sent it twisting atop the blanket of last dry season’s leaf fall. A small sunskink darted out from under the leaves to pounce upon whatever morsel had fallen from above.

Its small head, no bigger than half the old man’s little finger nail, turned this way and that and found nothing worthy of its effort. Before it could scramble back beneath its protective layer of soon-to-be earth, a crownsnake struck from its ambush amid the stems of a pepperbush and gripped tight its struggling four legged prey.

The old man breathed a slow sigh of relief knowing that the struggles of the skink would be disregarded by the two figures facing off in the nearby clearing. His sounds would have been some part of that life and death scuffle. The two great beings were enmeshed in a more important issue.

The man kept hidden among the leaves of the hillpersimmon and watched the chewing action of the crownsnake. He smiled at how each of the Mother’s Children had their own way of taking food. Unlike other snakes with their fangs at the front, the crownsnake had its at the back of the mouth and had to chew the prey a little to ensure a good kill.

The sunskink would having nothing of this and it’s scales were just firm enough for it to twist back and forth and somehow fight its way free. It disappeared below the sheltering layer of leaves. The crownsnake darted its head side to side then its tongue tasting the air, it slowly followed the trail of the skink into the dark of the earth. The man smiled again, perhaps the snake would find its prey and feed. Perhaps it would become the prey of something larger lurking in the darkness, close to the earth. Perhaps ...

The sounds of future conflict from the forest clearing beyond the tree line drew his mind away from the life and death struggles at his feet. He turned his head slowly toward the duel for dominion over these forests, and the mountains that stretched away in all directions from this clearing.

This wasn’t his country. He was a dry plains man from the East, with dark black skin and tight curly reddish hair, the colour of good ochre. The people of these mountains were paler with dark black wavy hair and were shorter and stockier as is the way of mountain dwellers.

The old man turned carefully, thankful of his dark skin amid the shadows of the trees, the stems of the mountain bamboo and the leaves of the scrub. He shifted his weight carefully and turned his body back toward the clearing fearing that any untoward movement may disturb the forest edge – filled with blueginger and treefern – behind which he’d carefully positioned himself to best keep hidden. At his back now was the trunk of a giant oilleaf tree, the crown reaching high into the hot sun above the cool shadows of the forest.

The memory of the sunskink and its attack on his spit reinforced his careful silent movements. He did not dare distract the two figures facing off in the full sun of the open glade. He could not see them through the scrub, but heard every move of foot and every shift of weight.

At any moment one or the other would make their move and the old man’s future would be decided. Any sound of snapping twig. Any untoward shift of branch or shrub from him, would disturb the concentration of the two rivals and perhaps give one an advantage. Though he had his loyalties, he could not interfere, such action was unconscionable.

He shifted his head a little further and through the forest edge caught sight of the King and his challenger. Both were transfixed by the other as each sought the moment – that split second within which to launch the assault that would decide whose dominion these hills and mountains were.

The old man slowed his breathing to still his nerves, and noticed the leafmantis not three hand lengths from his face. Its stillness giving it the invisibility he longed for and whose presence he had not realised till he had stilled himself and become as the mantis.

The old man allowed himself a further moment and watched a line of greenants descend the stem of the nearest blueginger stem; he dismissed the urge to assuage his tension dried mouth with their tangy flavour. He had stood here now for nigh on a hand-width of the Sun’s passage across the tree-dappled sky and he ached from the stillness. He would perhaps be here another hand-width of the Sun’s journey if this challenge advanced in similar form to the last he had been privileged to witness.

For a moment the King appeared distracted. Had he observed the old man in hiding or was it just a leaf disturbed by some nascent zephyr?

Whatever vagary of chance it had been, the Usurper realised his opportunity and charged. The King turned just in time to meet the full force of the attack and they crashed with the sickening thud of the heavily armed warriors they were. Grappling with each other, they rose to their full heights as each struggled to find the advantage and all the while sought that shift of weight necessary to throw the other to the ground.

Each possessed the weaponry to slash and tear their opponent. Each could strike a deadly blow at any time but neither dared risk their own full capacity in the effort to spill the other’s blood. This was a fight for dominion, and all the better if won without injury. It was not to the death for any wounding could well mean the death of both.

The old man looked on in awe as the King pushed back against the younger and seemingly stronger challenger. Back and forth they strove against each other with the ground beneath them being torn and trampled in turn by their manoeuvres. In their roiling rage they tumbled toward the forest that sheltered him as they sought every move of body and limb to remain upright and gain the upper hand. They were now no more than a dozen paces away and he could smell the reek of their desperation.

Around him the lush forest held silent as if every tree and shrub hung on every roar and cry. They were too close and he could not afford to be a casualty of this battle. Moving as carefully as he could amid the shadows and half light, he drew himself hidden from the worst of the battle behind the fibrous barked trunk of the oilleaf tree.

The ground here was thick with its carpet of leaves but also that tangle of bark and branch which the oilleaf was renowned for as it shed these as well as leaf all year round. The old man gained his new position and turned back to the terrible tumult now not ten paces from him.

The Usurper appeared to gain the dominant stance and twisted back and forth attempting to lure the King into a lunge that would throw him off balance. The King rolled across the twisting body of the Usurper and brought his full weight to bear in the opposite direction like the great wrestlers the old man had trained with in his youth.

The old man, Master Stillness Desert of the Temple of the Mother’s Heart, recognised some of his very own martial combat techniques in the way the King moved. Obviously Desert’s Master had observed some such combat as this during his life, and developed the style he had taught Desert after determining what was most effective.

Desert recognised the roll away as an opponent thrusts, then the roll back over the thrust, and then to move an enemy off balance as they try to recover. Desert knew the King would be wrestling the Usurper instinctively without any recourse to thought, while he’d had to train for hours under his Masters wilting glare to learn how to keep an opponent off balance and not give them time to attack.

The Usurper faltered as the King lunged from the opposite side to which he had been prepared. He tried to recover but the King pushed harder and up over the Usurper, preventing him from regaining his balance; and then it was over.

The Usurper fell sideways his great body unable to recover. He threw his great head at the King in a last feeble gesture as his front legs hit the torn ground. The King reared back, his neck flaring and his colours brightening as his front legs came up and he reared to his full height. The great clawed feet hung threateningly in mid air and he let out a long hiss and the Usurper scrambled to his feet stalking off into the scrub.

The clearing remained silent for but a moment and then all the sounds of the forest returned now that the furore had faded from memory.

The old man was of a mind to prepare himself, and at the right moment rush forth and clamber onto the back of the victorious King of the Mountains. This would cement their relationship and reinforce in the King that Stillness Desert was his companion in all things.

Desert had returned home with his Master nary a year ago from the wars of the Soong Empire and the Qhan of the Monqhul, and he desparately needed to hone his Dragon riding skills. Today, though, he decided he would let his friend enjoy his victory in peace. There would be time enough later for them to ride together in victory to Forestpool Temple.

The King dropped down onto all fours and turning his head back and forth tasted the air with his great tongue. He appeared to Stillness Desert to savour the moment of his victory and the retention of his dominion. Was he reading too much into the way the King held his head or the stiff legged walk. No, Desert knew him too well for that. The nature of the hissing and the guttural huffing were the closest Desert had heard to what he would call laughter and Dragon joy.

Stillness Desert made to move from behind the shield of the oilleaf tree and announce his presence. The King turned and looked directly at the Master of the Temple of the Mother’s Naked Heart. The King’s head was not two fingers, some six paces, away from him. The great mouth began to open and Desert recognised the signs.

He grabbed the bolus of herbs from the pouch at his waist and raised his arm. As the huge maw opened and the great front fangs glinted in the afternoon sunlight, Desert threw the bolus into the waiting maw. The mouth snapped shut and the King turned to the right, away from the old man. Desert hesitated a moment wanting to be sure of the King’s invitation, then rushed from his cover and leapt upon the outstretched front left leg. With deft footing upon the sleek scales he bounded up onto, then sat astride the armoured shield of the neck of the King of the Northern Dragon Mountains, his friend, his companion who had now invited Desert to share the moment.

Stillness Desert scratched around the King's skull and ears and called him great and powerful in the Mountain People’s dialect that the King was used to. Their ritual completed, the King moved off in that slow, stiff legged walk he had when he was going into or coming out of a challenge with another male. Desert made no attempt to guide the King. The victorious regent would make his way down to the grasslands of the lower hill slopes where the fertile females tended to congregate around the trackways of the herds of longleg and leathernose that grazed the hills this time of year.

They would smell his success and know he remained the King. They would smell the presence of Stillness Desert and know him as one of theirs.

The old man closed his eyes and rested his hands on the back of the King’s great head to keep his balance as they made their way down the well worn trackway. Desert had no need to seek the ears to guide the King with careful touch; no, today he would go wherever his friend and companion wanted.

There would be plenty of time later to seek out the King and guide him in ritual to the next Choosing Ceremony at Forestpool Temple. Waiting for this great event were new acolytes, impatient merchants and a cautious new Jomon consul for the King to approve of for the journey south along the Artery of the Mother to the great inland city of Lakemount Temple.

Perhaps Desert might allow himself to travel with them on that occassion and then stay on in Lakemount for the midwinter celebrations. Perhaps he might even permit himself the privilege of riding the Temple’s Queen Dragon in the new years Dragon Dance at Motherheart itself.

Desert smiled at the thought. He loved that time of year. The Seven Sisters rose in the east with the rising of Father Sun and all the land was ablaze with flower and blossom. The rains had been good this season, the land plentiful and most clans had had plenty of children. Enough for many of them to perhaps one day enter the Temple as acolytes.

For many the thought of learning to ride Dragons was enough to draw them into the bosom of the Temple. For others it was the opportunity to blend their knowledge of country with Temple training in the Daoist arts and then return to their clan as law givers, and as Priests of the Temple of the Mother’s Naked Heart.

The old man smiled to himself and for the first time since his return from the wars of the Qhan of the Monqhul, he realised he felt at peace. He rested in the moment and lowered his head and lay it on the neck of his friend. In this pose he immersed himself in the movement of the ride and this drew him deep into the stillness and the unity of self and dragon.

He came out of his reverie reluctantly as the gait of the King changed. He took in the long open vistas of rolling hills and herds of grazing longlegs and leathernose. He turned and looked back upslope to the oilleaf forest and the rock outcrops where dragons often dug out their dens. He chided himself for being so deep in reverie that they had passed by there without his notice.

He realised he was gazing past even these, as if he could see to the coast and his friends at Clifftide Temple. Perhaps if he focussed sufficiently he would see into the far distant lands beyond the Western Sea. He shook his head at the distraction and chuckled at the thought that he was somehow gazing into the future as if it was a far distant land that could be discerned by seeing with the mind and not the eye.

Stillness Desert let out a long slow breath and shrugged off the feeling that sometimes crept up on him after returning from the Emptyness that was the source of everything.

One never felt this good unless the opposite was already on its way.

Such is the Dao.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Behold the man who goes forth amongst strangers,

for unless he carries the Mother with him,

he shall become as the dust of the desert.

Gospel of Jaqub

Court of the Mater of the Holy Reform Church - Jerusalem 1271 CE

My legs shook uncontrollably. Why me, why me, why me, I kept thinking over and over not able to stop myself.

“Please Archbishop, I’m too young, I’ve no skills, I can’t fight, please Archbishop don’t send me.” The Jaqubian Order Archbishop of Jerusalem smiled and laid a hand on my shoulder. There was no warmth in his touch only the rough pressure through the camels wool cassock I wore in this cool weather.

“Brother Maximillian Hart. You have come of age, and all who do so are given their first journey into the wilderness, as did our Lord.” I made to open my mouth again but the Archbishop silenced me with a shake of his head.

“You know this and we have spoken many times of the possible destinations of your journey. Remember that we have no say in where such journeys take us!” The Archbishop looked at me in that way of his that says, trust in the One true God my son, and remember your vows!

I could not still my trembling, and I began to weep.

“Come now my son, where is your faith!” The Archbishop took me by my shoulders then brought my head to his chest. “You are the most skilled linguist I have seen in all my years, so no more doubts.” He stroked my head in that way of his when he was being my father and not my Archbishop, then he slowly pushed me away.

“Now then,” and the Archbishop’s tone was sterner. “Brother Detlef will be personal assistant to Bishop Rodrigo. Your assignment will be to assist him and to learn as many languages as you can,” and he gave me that knowing smile of his, “and to collect as many texts as you deem worthy of inclusion in our library!” I looked down at my hands, unable to meet his gaze and accept his false words of comfort. How dare he lie to me ...

I watched my hands shake with my every panicked breath. I was being ordered out from my beloved library to go east to the Seres, the Silk People, where some Prestor John was supposed to oversee a scion of a christian sect no one actually knew anything about. My dreams of someday being assigned to the magnificent rebuilt library in Constantinople, or my ultimate ambition, to the Imperial library in Palermo were shattered. I made to voice my reservations again, but the Archbishop silenced me with a glance.

“You are well known Brother Hart for your verbosity and I for one have heard your discourse on Aramaic. I also sat through the one on Farsi!” He grinned at me and gave me that other look, that knowing gaze he used when one of his flock was reaching above themselves.

“I am certain you will be safe where ever you travel, for as soon as any one hears you speak they will understand your heart and the depth of your concern for the truth; and they will trust you! Now,” and the Archbishop took me more firmly by the shoulders and steadied me.

“Steel yourself Brother Hart and have faith. You will be most assuredly as safe as you are here within these walls for there will be an escort of Justician Knights to accompany you. Along with their squires and pages; and an entourage of servants with farrier, chef, and apothecary!”

I drew a deep breath and tried to quieten my throbbing pulse. No matter the Archbishop’s words, I could not dispel the sense of dread that had sunk into the pit of my stomach and threatened to turn my legs to clay.

The Archbishop turned and I did my best to follow him from my cell with its single cot and small desk and candles. I took one last look and tried to follow without collapsing.

We made our way along the stone corridor from the cloister of rooms for those of us who served the Archbishop, past the Archbishop’s apartments then along the main corridor with its tapestried walls to the Great Hall of the Holy Council of Rebeccah, Fatima and Mary. The Triple Throne of most Holy Jerusalem.

The Great Hall was full of people and I remember most clearly that it appeared as if the entire Imperium was represented there that day, such was the profusion of colours and uniforms. The hall itself was unchanged with its dressed stone walls as thick as a man is tall and built as such to be an inner fortress within the inner ring of defensive walls of the Holy City.

The Hall’s great roof was built from dense oak and not the pine so commonly used and which burns to a terrible heat when fire breaks out. The outer roof was covered over with thick tiles and so the Great Hall was afforded much relief from the worst of the heat of summer.

The Great Hall had been the first of Emperor Frederichs new constructions and was a statement not just of religious power but also of stability and security. It proclaimed to all who entered; we are here, and here we stay!

These reforms to Jerusalem by Emperor Frederich, our great Stupor Mundi have been so glorious that Jerusalem was once again a great city of the world. Since his middle years when he rebuilt anew the great walls and then this Grand Hall, he has stayed here for half the year and the other in his favoured capital of Palermo. By this action he makes clear that Jerusalem is part of the realm and he of Jerusalem.

I saw gathered there that day, beneath the great beams and buttressed columns, with the ornate hangings and tapestries; representatives of all the Knights Orders of the Empire I knew of, and to my surprise some that I didn’t. There had come to Jerusalem, more than I realised held sacred this place.

I saw numerous bishops and deacons of all the churches aligned to the Frederichan Reforms of the Blessed Joachim. I saw Rebekkan Rabbis and Fatimian Imams and most unmistakablySufi SheikhsofJalal-ud-dinRumi’sOrder. All had heeded the Maters summons to those who worship in Jerusalem, to come and give their blessing to this greatest of undertakings and to those whom the Mater had tasked to carry out the saving of the world.

Ah what a sight to behold, the centre of the Empire in one room!

“Brother Hart, close your mouth and keep up!” I realised that my Archbishop was standing closeby and nearly yelling in my left ear such was my distraction that I had not realised how close he stood to me. I stammered my apology and in a stumbling run tried to keep up with his purposeful stride through the crowd all dressed in their finery.

“His most gracious eminence the Archbishop of Jerusalem” announced the court Chamberlain. The Archbishop strode up to him and a hurried whispered conversation took place. The Chamberlain gave the Archbishop a most disdainful glance.

“This is most irregular, there has been no consultation, nor agreement. This was not meant to occur till all representatives of the various diocese had arrived!”

“Just get on with it Lord Chamberlain!” said my Archbishop with equal disdain. It was no secret that neither had any respect for the other. Each decried his ‘brother’s woeful personal habits’ and complete lack of respect for the other’s position. How the Mater tolerated their squabbling, I had no idea. It appeared she supported each equally and held both in high regard for their effectiveness of office.

“What have you to tell us Archbishop?” asked the Mater standing and making her way forward from the three thrones and her ‘Sisters’. Her robes flowed about her in waves of regal beauty, the likes of which I never tired. The Archbishop bowed gracefully and adopted a most humble stance.

“Your Holiness,” he began in hushed tones just for her ears. “It appears the Polos have made ready to leave on the morrow. Apparently some portent or other is most favourable and they would take ship before two days. They would then transit Alexanders Canal while such portents remain in their favour!” The Mater was joined by the Rebecca and the Fatima, her holy sisters of the Triple Throne. They whispered to each other and after much nodding the Mater looked past the Archbishop to me.

“Who is this?” My Archbishop was taken aback for he was about to launch into a tirade against the Polos and their command of this expedition and their impudence in demanding to leave according to their judgement and not those of the Court of the Mater.

“Aahh yess, aahh, your Holiness, if you please, may I present Brother Maximillian, assistant to Bishop Rodrigo and scribe to our Knight Commander of the Expedition to the Seres.”

“It is good, one so young and innocent, travels with them”, said the Fatima in her Aegyptian arabic dialect.

“He will see everything and nothing”, added the Rebecca in Aramaic. I was puzzled at first then something happened in my mind and I smiled. She returned my smile and nodded, “of what do I speak Priest of the Christos.”

“Gracious Mother,” I replied in Aramaic. “If I may speak truthfully as I have been tasked to do so”, and I changed to High Jerusalemaic Hebrew, “then you say that I am young enough to see everything clearly.” I changed to the local Greek dialect, “not old enough to be blinded by rigid beliefs?”

The Rebecca smiled anew, turned, and walked across to the other side of the chamber whereupon many of her entourage took glances at me while she spoke. The Fatima remained fixedly gazing upon me. Her dark brown eyes, pools of wisdom and prediction, then she too turned and walked off to confide in her officials.

“You have made a good impression upon my Sisters young priest,” said the Mater standing so near to me that her fragrance of myrrh and rose only added to my distraction. She extended her hand for me to kiss. “I pray that you continue as you have today and more so that your gift of tongues aids in bringing our quest, to a most propitious conclusion!” The Mater bestowed a most glorious smile upon me and withdrawing her hand slowly from before me, turned with great swirls of her intricately embroidered gowns and made her way back to her throne.

The Archbishop turned to me and smiled, “You my lad, are a better politician than you make yourself out to be!” and he clapped me on the shoulder. I was quite taken aback for something had just happened that I could not quite grasp the nature nor meaning of, yet the evidence for it was most obvious.

The gaze of the Fatima, the question of the Rebecca and the smile of the Mater. I, I felt, as if I had been blessed. In somewhat of a daze, I stepped back from the edge of the crowd and let others take my position as the Archbishop began his address to the gathered throng.

His Holiness made great praise of our endeaavours and drew us all into a prayer for the success of our crusade. He then described those that would undertake this mission on behalf of the Triple Throne and the Empire and called forth each in turn to receive their blessing.

I watched as our Knight Commander stepped forward and was blessed by the Mater and thanked by the Archbishop with personal gifts. The other Knights stepped forward in their turn, also to recieve blessings and what appeared to be gifts of gold and frankincense.

There upon followed the squires and pages; and then one by one, all the members of our expedition were spoken to and encouraged and blessed.

“Brother Maximillian Hart!” Somewhere I heard my name called but I could not discern from where. A hand grabbed my shoulder and shook me gently. My eyes gradually focused on the countenance of Deacon Antonia.

“Maximillian, come back to us now!” and she shook me gently once more. I roused myself from my reverie. It was as if my indwelling from some few years before had enveloped me once more in its revelation of spirit and I was again resting in the Bosom of the One.

Deacon Antonia ushered me forward with much fussing and tut tutting as to my distractiion. “There is a time and place for everything brother,” and once again I found myself in the presence of the Mater. Her smile was like light itself, and her voice reverberated within my heart and wrote its words directly on my soul.

“Remember that you serve me now Brother Maximillian. Do this for me above all else and record everything you can. Bring the testimony of this quest back to us. Do not hide from anything that you encounter for if we are to succeed in these endeavours we must know all we can of those involved.We must learn who are our true allies, and real enemies before God.”

With this the Mater drew me to herself and embraced me. In that moment she was my Mother.

“Bring us back, that which we need to continue to prosper!” she whispered and then drew me from her presence and kissed my cheeks and held my hands longer than I thought possible.

It was as if I had been born of her in that moment. Drew me at will from her very being as did the pagan goddesses of old. My heart pounded in my chest, my skin flushed and I felt all faculties fail me. I had been reborn, a virgin birth of the Mother herself.

Somehow through the rapture of that moment which faded not with the suns passage, I observed all else which occurred that long afternoon and with my wits return in the evening, I began to record the first pages of my journals of this quest the Mater had blessed me with.

I had no inkling of what lay before me, even though I had sat through hours of Niccolo and Maffeo Polo recounting the tales of their journeys and their time with the Seres. It was as if I was immune to such details of commerce.

Niccolo’s son Marco was to accompany us so he too could make his fortune and it was his questions and summations that I remembered the most.

Marco was of my age and we had struck up acquaintance from our very first introductions, and this appeared to me to bode well for our journey. He was of an adventurous nature with great excitment and optimism for our journey and his future. All I could see was doubt and the loss of my opportunity to join the great Library. Alas I feared I would not see much in the way of written works during this, Crusade to the Land of Silk.

And so it was that we were to horse that afternoon and made Jaffa the next day having stopped but a short while to sleep and rest that evening. We set sail with a north easterly wind behind us that very afternoon for the three ships were ready with crew and supplies and waited only our arrival.

We made the mouth of the Nile in some three days and well before the portents about which the Polo’s made little mention except to the Captain and Navigator of our vessels. I was unable to determine what drove their manner but the journey was uninterrupted and we navigated the lower reaches of the Nile in another few days.

I had never journeyed this far south and though all know of Alexanders Canal, I was most astonished by its engineering and the gates which open and close to allow ships to pass along its course from the Nile to the Red Sea and so out into the Great Ocean if the Indies.

The rest dear reader, I now lay before you and may these humble and honest words clear the doubt and frivolity that you may have encountered in relationship to our most wondrous journey to the Land of Silk and beyond, to the Great Southland.

The journey that changed the world.