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?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said ‘but not mandatory. Thou hast much yet to learn, and one or ten or even a hundred lifetimes are not enough. How old art thou, my son?’
‘I think I am somewhat beyond three hundred years, Master.’
‘A suitable age, my son, and thou hast persevered in thy studies. Should I forget myself and call thee “Boy” again, pray correct me. It is not seemly that the Disciple of a God should be called “Boy”.’
‘I shall remember that, Master,’ I said, almost overcome with joy that he had finally called me his Disciple.
‘I was certain that thou wouldst,’ he said. ‘And what is the object of thy present study, my son?’
‘I would seek to learn why the stars fall, Master.’
‘A proper study, my son,’ he said, smiling.
‘And thou, Master,’ I asked. ‘What is thy study – if I be not overbold to ask.’
‘I am concerned with this jewel,’ he said, pointing at a moderate-sized grey stone on the table before him. ‘It may be of some curiosity in the fullness of time.’*
‘I am certain it shall, Master,’ I assured him. ‘If be worthy of thine attention, it shall surely be a curiosity at least.’ And I turned back to my study of the inconstant stars.
In time, others came to us, some by accident, as I had come, and some by intent, seeking out my Master that they might learn from him. Such a one was Zedar. I came upon him one golden day in autumn near our tower. He had built a rude altar and was burning the carcass of a goat upon it. The greasy smoke from his offering was fouling the air, and he was prostrated before the altar, chanting some outlandish prayer.
‘What are you doing?’ I demanded, quite angry since his noise and the stink of his sacrifice distracted my mind from a problem I had been considering for fifteen years.
‘Oh, puissant and all-knowing God,’ he said, groveling in the dirt. ‘I have come a thousand leagues to behold thy glory and to worship thee.’
‘Puissant?’ I said. ‘Get up, man, and stop this caterwauling. I am not a God, but a man, just as you are.’
‘Art thou not the great God, Aldur?’ he asked.
‘I am Belgarath,’ I said, ‘his Disciple. What is this foolishness?’ I pointed at his altar and his smoking offering.
‘It is to please the God,’ he said, rising and dusting off his clothes. ‘Dost thou think he will find it acceptable?’
I laughed, for I did not like this stranger much. ‘I cannot think of a single thing you might have done which would offend him more,’ I said.
The stranger looked stricken. He turned quickly and reached out as if he would seize the burning animal with his bare hands to hide it.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ I snapped. ‘You’ll burn yourself.’
‘It must be hidden,’ he said desperately. ‘I would die rather than offend Mighty Aldur.’
‘Stand out of the way,’ I told him.
‘What?’
‘Get clear,’ I said, irritably waving him off. Then I looked at his grotesque little altar, willed it away and said, ‘Go away,’ and it vanished, leaving only a few tatters of confused smoke hanging in the air.
He collapsed on his face again.
‘You’re going to wear out your clothes if you keep doing that,’ I told him, ‘and my Master will not be amused by it.’
‘I pray thee,’ he said, rising and dusting himself off again, ‘mighty Disciple of the most high Aldur, instruct me so that I offend not the God.’
‘Be truthful,’ I told him, ‘and do not seek to impress him with false show.’
‘And how may I become his Disciple as thou art?’
‘First you become his pupil,’ I said, ‘and that is not easy.’
‘What must I do to become his pupil?’ the stranger asked.
‘You must become his servant,’ I said, a bit smugly I must admit.
‘And then his pupil?’
‘In time,’ I said, smiling, ‘if he so wills.’
‘And when may I meet the God?’
And so I took him to the
