Camarilla Game ~ Cloth Part One. Camarilla Game ~ Cloth Part One.“Now carefully wrap the cloth three times around your left hand, being careful that there are no creases save those you make and that the length of the fabric falls to the left of your hand.”
The child considered the instruction for a moment, carefully weighing up the significance of each moment before beginning. Holding his left hand out perpendicular to the line of his body he began to slowly wrap the fabric around his hand, taking care so as not to create any unwanted creases.
“Good. Good. Now when that is done, take the brush from the water and paint the circle I described onto the fabric across your palm.”
Once again, each moment was considered for all of its meaning. The brush was gently taken from the jar and the excess water removed by the slightest tap against the rim. The light from the candles and the wetness of the bristles made the brush glow. Slowly, methodically, a circle was drawn.
Now quickly, before it dries completely, quench the flame in the brazier.”
There was no time for consideration now; he knew that the Old Man would not allow him to be needlessly hurt. His hand darted towards the brazier and the light was extinguished.
“Very good Master Helmudson, we shall resume your training tomorrow.”
– – –
The walk home was long, but allowed for reflection on the days teachings. As Master Helmudson trudged on through the darkness and the snow his mind carefully picked through the events of the previous months; his father (a rough, practical man who normally had little time for the Old Mans kind) knocking dramatically on the door of the Old Mans house. The way in which the other boys had looked at him as his father had taken him from the school. That first glimpse of the house, tall and dramatic against the skyline, and full of foreboding.
He had first seen the Old Man ((did he even have a name?) two months ago whilst he was playing on the edge of the large forest that surrounded their village. He and the other children had always been warned about the Old Man, not in the manner that children these days are warned of the danger of strangers, but rather in the manner that marks a man as living on the edge of society. He had watched them all intently and the other boys, fearful of his gaze had pretended he was not there. But young Master Helmudson had held his gaze just long enough to spark a curiosity in the Old Man.
In the weeks that followed he had seen the Old Man more and more, always in the periphery of his vision, but clear enough that a curious child like Master Helmudson would take notice. His father too had developed a habit of bumping into him, much to his annoyance, but the Old Man was always polite and always inquired about his health in such a manner that his father eventually warmed to him. By the end of the second week each would greet each other in the street with a short, formal bow before a conversation about their respective business was struck. The Old Man would always inquire as to young Master Helmusdon’s schooling, and his father would always reply that it was going well, but that he felt that his child lacked direction. The Old Man noted that he had once been employed as a teacher and that in his advancing years he still occasionally took on students who required further tuition.
His father considered this and more and more would enquire as whether the Old Man currently had a pupil. The Old Man would laugh, but eventually, almost naturally, the Old Man appeared to come round to his father's way of thinking (or was it, with the benefit of hindsight, that his father had come around to the Old Mans?) and took on young Master Helmudson as a pupil.
From the first days of his tuition, the focus was not just upon learning by rote, but on understanding. Subjects were discussed at length and time was taken to ponder the intricacies of a single problem. The focus was not on facts and figures, the how and the where; but rather why? The Old Man also taught him ways in which he could open his mind to other possibilities, that there wasn't a single way of doing something, but multiple paths that could be taken. There was a growing sense that the Old Man was passing on his thoughts to a willing student rather than teaching.
– – –
That night, Master Helmudson considered the cloth, the manner in which he had folded; the ritual of the water that followed. All of it was designed to clear the mind of all external stimuli, to focus inwards on ones own thoughts. That the old man had not told him this was enough to understand its potential, only through experiencing it first hand would he fully understand.
Carefully, he took the cloth from his bedside table, wrapped it three times around his left hand, careful not to create any fold except those that he desired. The remaining length of the cloth hung to the left of his hand. He had no brush, but a small spot of water held upon the end of his finger would suffice. He painted the circle into the centre of his palm and then extinguished the candle by his bedside.
– – –
“It's all about ritual isn't it?” enquired Master Helmudson the next day. “It's not what is done, or how it is done, but why it is done.”
“Yes. In this case it is merely a means by which one clears ones mind. You focus so much upon the task at hand that everything else becomes meaningless at that moment; it is a palate cleanser, nothing more. For some, the cloth becomes the focus, for others, the flame. All I merely did was to give you the options.”
Master Helmudson considered the Old Mans words for a moment. The ritual didn't produce the result; it merely focussed the mind on a single task.
“Thus the walk through the park that focuses ones thoughts upon nature is in itself a ritual of sorts?”
“Yes and no” replied the Old Man. “To the man who wishes simply to be seen to be at one with nature it is purely a walk, much like the socialite and the latest fashion. To the man who wishes to observe nature there is no better ritual I can think of.”
The Old Man stood up from his chair by the fire and imperceptibly adjusted the hands of the clock on the mantle above it.
“May I enquire, but did you sleep more soundly, more restfully than ever before when you had done the ritual the second time?”
“How did you...”
“Oh, come now. Allow an old man his tricks.”
“Yes, but I dreamt more vividly than I have ever recalled.”
“Tell me of these dreams, of what you saw.”
“I will, but answer me one question. Why do I have no name?”
– – –
The Old Man sat still for a while, as if considering the full ramifications of the question and, more importantly, any answers he as to give. His gaze returned once again to the clock above the mantle and he idly played with the hands moving them back and forth as if he wished either to slow down or speed up time depending upon the conclusion he had reached at that moment. He turned to face Master Helmudson and smiled. From the sleeve of his long jacket he produced a small wooden box. He laid it on the table before Master Helmudson.
The box was small, no longer than his hand, and no higher or deeper than his four fingers. Each of the four corners was protected and held together by what was once finely grained metalwork, although the ravages of time meant that some of the finer detail was now obscured. The lid, which was made of ash, displayed two men, each with a length of cloth wrapped around their left hand, turned inwards. Both were dressed in identical garments, simple blue robes similar to those the Old Man sometimes wore.
Master Helmudson carefully opened the lid. Inside rested a single length of white cloth, no more than four feet in length and three inches wide. The simple course cloth looked old and tattered, yellowed with age. An old, wet, musty tang rose from it as if the box had been unopened for too long.
“Iakobos” began the Old Man, “was amongst the first Hebrew Priests to determine the importance of those who dream within our world, although his name is now all but forgotten in these terms. Iakobos believed that the entire world was connected within its dreams and that the deeds, past and future of a man could be understood through interpretation of his dreams.”
“This was his cloth then?” asked Master Helmudson.
“Or one similar to it, I suppose. Like the ritual itself, the history of the cloth is not important; merely what you believe it will enable you to do. Iakobos may have used this cloth in a similar manner that you used the cloth of your bedside table last night, to clear the mind before the night's journey.”
The Old Man sat back down in his armchair and took the length of cloth in his hands, careful not to wrap it around his left hand.
“I, myself, have never been able to travel as Iakobos did: or as you can I suspect. I do however; have an uncanny knack for spotting those who can.”
The Old Man carefully folded the cloth on his lap, before placing it back into the box and carefully closing the lid afterwards.
“I will give you this box and its contents, and a name should you wish, but you will be bound to me. You will pay homage to no other, and in turn no others will be able to force the bonds of homage onto you. For four score and nineteen you will write to me of your dreams, describing in the minutest of detail what you have seen. When four score and nineteen have passed you will be your own free man. Do you except my offer?”
“I do,” said Iakobos Helmudson.
“Very well, then tell me of your dreams last night.”
“Of my dreams last night I had many...”
– – –
