The Rivan Codex: Ancient Texts of The Belgariad and The Malloreon

‘Bread?’ he said. ‘Only bread? Surely, boy, thy stomach is fit for more than bread. If thou wouldst make thyself useful – as thou hast promised – we must nourish thee properly. Consider, boy. Think of all the things thou hast eaten in thy life. What in all this world would most surely satisfy that vast hunger of thine?’

I could not even say it. Before my eyes swam the visions of plump, smoking roasts, of fat geese swimming in their own gravy, of heaps of fresh-baked bread and rich, golden butter, of pastries in thick cream, of cheese, and dark brown ale, of fruits and nuts and salt to savor it all.

And he who sat by the glowing fire that burned, it seemed, air alone laughed again, and again my heart sang. ‘Turn, boy,’ he said, ‘and eat thy fill.’

And I turned, and there on a table which I had not even seen before lay everything which I had imagined.

A hungry young boy does not ask where food comes from – he eats. And so I ate. I ate until my stomach groaned. And through the sound of my eating I could hear the laughter of the aged one beside his fire, and my heart leapt within me at each laugh.

And when I had finished and drowsed over my plate, he spoke again. ‘Wilt thou sleep now, boy?’

‘A corner, Master,’ I said. ‘A little out-of-the-way place by the fire, if it be not too much trouble.’

He pointed. ‘Sleep there, boy,’ he said, and at once I saw a bed which I had seen no more than the table – a great bed with huge pillows and comforters of softest down. And I smiled my thanks and crept into the bed and, because I was young and very tired, I fell asleep almost at once. But in my sleep I knew that he who had brought me in from the storm and fed me and cared for me was watching through the long snowy night, and I felt even more secure in his care.

And that began my servitude. My Master never commanded in the way other masters commanded their servants, but rather suggested or asked. Amazingly, almost in spite of myself, I found myself leaping to do his bidding. The tasks, simple at first, grew harder and harder. I began to wish I had never come to this place. Sometimes my Master would stop what he was doing to watch my labors, a bemused expression on his face. Then he would sigh and return to the things which he did and which I did not understand.

The seasons turned, marching in their stately, ordered progression as I labored endlessly at impossible tasks. Then, perhaps three – or maybe it was five – years after I had come to the tower and begun my servitude, I was struggling one day to move a huge rock which my Master felt was in his way. It would not move though I heaved and pushed and strained until I thought my limbs would crack. Finally, in a fury, I concentrated all my strength and all my will upon the boulder and grunted one single word. ‘Move,’ I said.

And it moved – not grudgingly with its huge, inert weight sullenly resisting my strength – but quite easily, as if the touch of one finger would be sufficient to send it bounding across the plain.

‘Well, boy,’ my Master said, startling me by his nearness, ‘I had wondered how long it might be before this day arrived.’

‘Master,’ I said, confused, ‘what happened? How did the great rock move so easily?’

‘It moved at thy command, boy. Thou art a man, and it is only a rock.’

‘May other things be done so, Master?’

‘All things may be done so, boy. Put but thy will to that which thou wouldst have come to pass and speak the word. It shall come to pass even as thou wouldst have it. I have marveled, boy, at thine insistence upon doing all things with thy back instead of thy will. I had begun to fear for thee, thinking that perhaps thou mightest be defective.’

I walked over to the rock and laid my hands on it again. ‘Move,’ I commanded, bringing my will to bear on it, and the rock moved as easily as before.

‘Does it make thee more comfortable touching the rock when thou wouldst move it, boy?’ my Master asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.

The question stunned me. I looked at the rock. ‘Move,’ I said tentatively. The rock did not move.

‘Thou must command, boy, not entreat.’

‘Move!’ I roared, and the rock heaved and rolled off with nothing but my will and the word to make it do so.

‘Much better, boy,’ my Master said. ‘Perhaps there is hope for thee yet. What is thy name, boy?’

‘Garath,’ I told him, and suddenly realized that he had never asked me before.

‘An unseemly name, boy. I shall call thee Belgarath.’

‘As it please thee, Master,’ I said. I had never ‘thee’d’ him before, and I held my breath for fear that he might be displeased, but he showed no sign that he had noticed. Then, made bold by my success, I went further. ‘And how may I call thee, Master?’ I said.

‘I am called Aldur,’ he said, smiling.

I had heard the name before, and I immediately fell upon my face before him.

‘Art thou ill, Belgarath?’ he asked.

‘Oh, great and powerful God,’ I said, trembling, ‘forgive mine ignorance. I should have known thee at once.’

‘Don’t do that,’ he said irritably. ‘I require no obeisance. Rise to thy feet, Belgarath. Stand up, boy. Thine action is unseemly.’

I scrambled up fearfully and clenched myself for the sudden shock of lightning. Gods, as all knew, could destroy at their whim those who displeased them.

‘And what dost thou propose to do with thy life now, Belgarath?’ he asked.

‘I would stay and serve thee, Master,’ I said, as humbly as I could.

‘I require no service,’ he said. ‘What canst thou do for me?’

‘May I worship thee, Master?’ I pleaded. I had never met a God before, and was uncertain about the proprieties.

‘I do not require thy worship either,’ he said.

‘May I not stay, Master?’ I pleaded. ‘I would be thy Disciple and learn from thee.’

‘The desire to learn does thee credit, but it will not be easy,’ he warned.

‘I am quick to learn, Master,’ I boasted. ‘I shall make thee proud of me.’

And then he laughed, and my heart soared. ‘Very well then, Belgarath, I shall make thee my pupil.’

‘And thy Disciple also, Master?’

‘That we will see in time, Belgarath.’

And then, because I was very young and very proud of myself and my new-found powers, I turned to a dried and brittle bush – it was mid-winter at the time – and I spoke to it fervently. ‘Bloom,’ I said, and the bush quite suddenly produced a single flower. I plucked it and offered it to him. ‘For thee, Master,’ I said. ‘Because I love thee.’

And he took the flower and smiled and held it between his hands. ‘I thank thee, my son,’ he said. It was the first time he had ever called me that. ‘And this flower shall be thy first lesson. I would have thee examine it most carefully and tell me all that thou canst perceive of it.’

And that task took me twenty years, as I recall. Each time I came to him with the flower that never wilted or faded – how I grew to hate that flower – and told him what else I had learned, he said, ‘is that all, my son?’ and, crushed, I went back to my studies.

And there were many other things as well that took at least as long. I examined trees and birds, fish and beasts, insects and vermin. I devoted forty-five years to the study of grass alone.

In time it occurred to me that I was not aging as other men aged.

‘Master,’ I said one night in our chamber high in the tower as we both labored with our studies, ‘why is it that I do not grow old?’

‘Wouldst thou grow old, my son?’ he asked. ‘I have never seen much advantage in it myself.’

‘I don’t really miss it all that much, Master,’ I admitted, ‘but isn’t it customary?’