THERE ONCE was a poet named Obbok who lived in the court of the King of Rhoon. He had written thirteen books and was a poet in good standing and on third day of every week he would recite his poems before the King and his vassals and the ladies of the court. Each time his audience would applaud politely when he finished, and at banquets he was given a place of honor, as befitted a person of his high calling.

Now, by the time Obbok was entering into old age his son began to show great promise at poetry also, and it was sure that he would succeed Obbok in his position. The young man's verses showed a proper regard for meter and rhyme, and treated those subjects poets usually write about in the manner they traditionally treat them. Thus he was exactly like his father in all aspects of literature and content to travel the sure path that lay before him.

But Obbok was not satisfied, and between his appearances in court he dreamed. He dreamed of what it would be like to be a great poet, to have the power to move men with his words, to evoke laughter and sorrow and awe, to carry them to the very ends of the universe, to traverse eternity itself, from the Days Before Time to the Ending of All, to wrench the hearts and souls of his listeners with his songs.

He knew that the respect given to him was borne more of ritual than appreciation. Often he would see the King's eyes wander as he recited, and the ladies would whisper among themselves, and the nobles tended to sneak out before he was finished. He wanted to put an end to this, to mean something to the people, to uplift them and contribute something to their lives.

So he sat down one day and considered the things that great poets write about, these being gods, nature, and wars, and he composed verses about them in his usual style, and delivered the verses at the appointed hour on the appointed day, and the King was as polite as ever. He thanked Obbok and praised his poetry in the customary manner, and when the poet left the throne room the men went on with their gaming and arguing, and the women continued their chatter, and servants were reminded of urgent tasks left undone. All was as before.
Sorrow came to the heart of Obbok, for he knew he would die soon and his body would be laid in the Hall of Bards along with his ancestors, and no one would remember him, and when his son died the same thing would happen, and the process would continue until the ending of his line.

He resolved than to pray to the gods, and thrice daily and thrice nightly he climbed to the top of the Tower of Stillness and communed with them, yet nothing came of it and the next performance was like the one before, like all the ones of his lifetime and the lifetimes of his father and grandfather, no doubt also like all the times his son would read until he too passed from the lands of the living.

Many months passed and Obbok was greatly unhappy, until one day it was mentioned to him by a scribe that south of Rhoon and Lan and east and south of Dzim there was a mountain called Cloudcap, whereon dwelled a holy prophet named Amayar who spoke with the gods as if they where his kin, and was thus the possessor of great wisdom.
This news lifted the heart of Obbok, and he arranged for an absence from court, and three days later he set out on his horse for Cloudcap, and the King and his nobles scarcely noticed that the poet was gone.

For three days and three nights Obbok rode southeast from the capital at Klor, and on the morning of the forth day he crossed the river Xrum and entered into Lan. Two days later he was at the feet of the mountains which divided Lan from Dzim. He had to wait six days there until a caravan came along, for the mountains where infested with robbers, but finally one did come, and in the company of twenty Rhoonish tea merchants, he made the crossing. Four more days brought him to the southern frontiers of Dzim, again to mountains similarly haunted. This time there was no caravan, for no traders went into the seven wastes beyond, and Obbok crossed alone. He was not molested and he reached the Last Hall by evening, and early the next morning traded his horse for a camel and set out across the desert.

Five more days and nights passed and he stopped only briefly to rest and draw water from one of the few oases to be found in the region. He guided himself by the sun and stars, till finally he espied Cloudcap on the morning of the sixth day, standing tall above the world, caressed by the light of dawn.

Of the prophet Amayar he found no trace save for an old abandoned hovel which could have as easily belonged to a beggar or a thief. It was all but buried in the sand, its roof blown away, obviously uninhabited for many years. So it was that Obbok himself ascended the mountain to speak to the gods.

All that day he struggled up the precarious trail, till by evening there was no trail at all, and he inched his way over seamless and up all but vertical cliffs. This was not work suited to an old man's muscles, and many times he was tempted to lie down and rest where he was, but he did not, for this was a sacred mountain from which blessings flowed and the lands spread out, and on its slopes no man could sleep. Such a thing would be a horrible sin in the face of the gods. Does a slave dare dose before a great king?

Dawn was just lighting the east when he reached the summit, and as the sun rose Obbok performed the proper rituals with earth and air and fire and metal, and he invoked the gods, that they might aid him in this our of need. All that day and into the next night he called out to them, never pausing, his voice never silent.

Now Gheeznu, the god of poets, is a small and insignificant god in the eyes of the Great Ones, and he is not often involved in the important affairs of the universe. Thus it had happened that he had nothing to do at the time that Obbok addressed him, and he decided to hear the old man's prayers. He peered down from his ivory seat in the Land Behind the Sky, looked down through the clouds and corporeal airs, and saw there on the summit of Cloudcap the tiny figure of Obbok the poet. And for reasons not known to theologians he granted Obbok's wish. 

Some say that he was moved by pity, while others claim he meant what came after as a moral lesson to make men content with their stations in life, although another school of thought holds the whole affair to be one of the mischievous pranks the gods often play upon men. But regardless of the motivations of the gods, which are only speculation, the results where definite and obvious.

Obbok's fire rose until it touched the sky and the tops of the flames vanished into the clouds overhanging the peak, and when it again receded and burned low and extinguished itself, lo! there was before the aging poet a wondrous scroll not even hot from the fire, engraved in nine and ninety languages, none of which could ever be deciphered by men. Obbok took up this scroll with great reverence. He wrapped it in his cloak lest his hands soil it, and hastily departed from that holy place, shouting thanks aloud to the gods as he did.

On his way back across the Seven Wastes he pondered over the writings, and as he rested in the Last Hall he gazed at the scroll often. Men saw it and recognized its nature and source, and Obbok was treated with great respect, as one touched by the divine.

In truth, though, nothing happened to Obbok until he returned to Klor and laid the scroll on a special stand which he commanded his apprentices to build. Exhausted then he retired to bed without trying anymore to learn the meaning of the thing. And that night, as Time strode across the world and his hounds drove the day fleeing before them, the spirits of the gods came between the stairs masked in dreams, and to them the scroll in Obbok's chamber shone like a bright beacon. The clustered about it and read thereon the instructions of Gheeznu. And thus wondrous things entered into the head of Obbok that night.

He saw all eternity as a continuous strip, past, present, future, and end molding into one. He saw the primal chaos which spawned the gods, and against which they battled in the days before Time. Revealed to him was the shaping of the world in the hands of the various deities, and the reigns of the Kings Before Men, the driving into the sky of the immortal dragon which threatened to devour the world and still nibbles at the sun. He saw also the coming of Time from the mists of chaos, and he knew then how the brothers Time and Fate drove the world before them with sword and hammer and toppled Throramna, the Father of Cities, and smote also the ancient lords of Entia, toppling their corpses into the jaws of the jackal Death. The coming if man Obbok saw, and before the eyes of his dream, kingdoms rose and melted away like seasons before the onslaught of years. And from the Farthest East he saw the hounds of time come, unleashed by their master, howling after the lives of men. Makilor and Baul Naran came and went. Even his own kingdom died before a flood of savages from the south. He saw new continents arising, only to sink again beneath the seas, and he caught a glimpse of the war the gods fought over Entia; he gazed in horror at the coming of the Walker, the return of chaos and the dimming of days, the final death of the world and the gods. And yet more was revealed, all the secret thoughts of men laid bare. He saw into their minds and hearts, discerned nobility, self-sacrifice, stupidity and cowardice, love of country, greed, treason, murder and love -- all the things which make men what they are. The veils were drawn back yet further and he saw into the hearts of the gods themselves, and in them he saw the same things again, plus their contempt for all creatures lesser, their conceit and contempt for one another, and finally of the One who is greater than the gods and keeps the universe in a bottle in his pocket.

At this point the gods cried out and the world trembled, for the spirits had shown too much, and the gods recalled them at once and send the Sisters of Forgetting into Obbok's sleep. But it was too late, for Fate and Time, who are impervious to the gods, again strode over the world scattering the night before them, and the dreams of Obbok left him with the coming of the morning. And the gods where very much afraid, save for Gheeznu, who seemed rather pleased with himself.

Great was the wonderment that seized the awakened Obbok. He roused his servants even though it was before the accustomed hour, and sent them scurrying to fetch all the quills, ink, and writing parchments the could find. There was fire in his face that made them all fearful, and they went off at once. Soon a great pile of writing materials was in Obbok's chamber. Night and day he wrote, and wore out quills, and higher and higher grew the pile of pages. Cautiously his apprentices and servants approached him and laid out a meal before him, only to remove it again when they saw it was cold. They muttered among themselves, saying, "Surely the Master is possessed by a demon or devil," for Obbok had never previously taken writing seriously and had only composed verses out of necessity or boredom. Now, of course, the heat of inspiration was in him, but the others did not understand, for they knew nothing of the true meaning of the mysterious scroll.

One day the King sent a messenger into the room of Obbok to summon the poet so that he might hear some of this new poetry that the whole castle was talking about. Yet the poet did not come, and the messenger spoke as if to one deaf, for Obbok did not speak or slow his hand, and the messenger was moved with fear when he saw the look on the old man's face.
At this point the King grew angry and sent his guards to seize Obbok and bring him to the courtroom at once, for never before had anyone dared to ignore a royal command, and the King would have an explanation. The guards went, but when they came to lay their hands on the bard, Obbok did look up, although he paused not an instant from his writing, and the terrible glare frightened the guards, for they saw something in those eyes that was not of mortal Earth. They too turned and fled.

Then the King himself came to Obbok and the poet paused for the briefest of seconds and spoke a single word which gave reason for everything and caused the King to fall down on his knees and beg forgiveness for the interruption. That word was a god word, and it had come at the very end of the dream. It was never intended to be uttered by the mouths of men or heard by their ears.

The King withdrew, and all the castle was moved with fear and bewilderment at this new thing. All activities stopped. Everyone waited for Obbok to finish his work as they would await the sentence of a harsh judge, and the court soothsayer proclaimed a miracle of the first order, bidding all go and purify themselves in the temple, then return and hear the wondrous revelation of Obbok.

And after fifteen days Obbok called out from his room and bade his servants lift him into bed. With failing voice he commanded them to bring food and water, and medicines, for he was exceedingly weary. These things were done and Obbok slept for two days after he had eaten, and none dared enter and read the manuscript while he slumbered.
Finally the poet roused himself and sent word to the King, informing him that he was ready. Nearly all the people of the castle came to hear him this time, every lord, ever general, even the guards from the walls and the cooks from the kitchen. All stood in silence and complete attention was on Obbok, and the ladies did not whisper among themselves, and no one dared slip out.Obbok came and recited his poem before them and it was four thousand and nine stanzas in length.

There is some confusion as to what happened after that. No books tell of it, and the whole affair and especially the ending of it has been shrouded in great secrecy. The King died shortly afterwards, and it is only by piecing together the accounts of the various servants and courtiers who where not present at the recital that the tale is known at all. And yet no two of them have ever been able to agree on certain parts of it.

According to some, so terrible was the content of Obbok's poem that its words drove all who heard it mad, and for this reason none who heard it could tell any of it, and if asked they would only roll their eyes up to the heavens and mutter something obscure, or else not respond at all. Great were the secrets revealed that day, all the things beyond the knowing philosophers, and no one had the courage to understand it let alone repeat it. Fervently they begged the Sisters of Forgetting to slay them, but there was no relief. Many went out and slew themselves afterward.

And others claim that the King declared Obbok to be possessed by a devil, and he had him hanged from the highest tower. The poem was cast into fire, according to this version, for none dared leave it around. It had the power to corrupt.

Yet others will tell you that it was Obbok who went mad, and after speaking the final verse he collapsed to the floor and whimpered like a child begging gods and men to forgive him for what he had done. He was carried away and locked in a remote tower in a distant castle, for it would have been bad luck and poor form to allow a madman to wander about one's court.

And still others insist that while all were dazed by the effects of the poem, Obbok grabbed the manuscript and fled from the court, and not able to destroy his work, he hid it in a place from which it will issue forth on the last day, rendering men helpless with its words and bringing back Chaos, causing the final death of the universe. And those who tell the tale this way believe that Obbok still walks the world in the guise of a minstrel, and he sings only of simple things and pleasant happenings, of the birds of the air and the bees of the flowers and the coming of spring. Those that behold him see a sorrow beneath his calm and do not ask of it.

And finally there are some who swear by all that is holy that as soon as Obbok finished his poem, the floor rent apart and a demon sprang up into the throne room, devouring Obbok and the manuscript in a single gulp and thus the blasphemy and horror of it were removed from the lands of mortal men.

No one can be sure of any of these things now, for there is a new king in Klor, and Rhoon is troubled by wars and no one has time to bother with the past. Furthermore the King has been cautious and has decreed that anyone prying into the matter will be tortured to death by devices unimaginable, learned by wicked sorcerers from demons conjured for that purpose alone.

The son of Obbok dwells in the court now, and once every week he recites his new poems, all of which deal with the subject matter common to courtly verses and written in the classical manner. They are applauded out of courtesy, and the ladies whisper and giggle during the performances, and some of the men slip away unnoticed, and the poet is given a place of high esteem and privilege in the court, as befits one of his noble calling.