The Book of Habidabad - Of the Nature of ur-Ru

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Of the Nature of ur-Ru

Eight urRu found death, seeing it foretold in their sand paintings and whirling stones. Whenever an urRu died in the Valley, a Skeksis died in the castle, for their bodies were divided but their souls were still linked. Ten were left, the number of stability and completeness needed to sustain the council of the urRu. Of the dead I will not speak, for their presence may be felt anywhere; learn from them yourself. Only of the living will I speak. I will record the name of urSu the Master, who chose death that the balance of urRu and Skeksis might be broken. Wise was he always and subtle in meditation beyond my understanding.

Though I am myself stone, though I have traced in my heart the spirals of the turning heavens, yet my knowledge is nothing to the wisdom that stands in the stones of the urRu, less than the shadows of their standing stones.

I have seen the stars in all their changing courses, I know the turning points of the seasons and of the lives of the Gelfling, but I could never come to the clear vision that the urRu found in their sandpaintings. They had learned to foretell the shaping of the smallest changes, those that seem insignificant, almost imperceptible, but that are the start of great movements: as a dropped pebble releases an avalanche. And in their paintings they could bring together all their present energies to shift, ever so slightly, a small change in the future.

The urRu lived in their coats and through the patterns of their coats; as their souls ascended the Tree of Life, their bodies were wrapped in the emblems of its branches. Great is the stature of that tree, and great the strength given to all who must climb it; and the winds that clutch and sway its branches can be most fierce, and the view downward dreadful. Between roots of that tree thrust themselves, to what light do its branches rise, what fruit will it bear? All must answer for themselves, each alone. But I say this: no tree can flourish far from water, and the Fountain of Destruction that the Skeksis bore on their robes, that they made to pour forth so abundantly, can flow deep channels that carry its waters far from their source.

Numbers are at the heart of the world, the measure of the dance of the heavens; number is music crystallized. The urRu gave me many gifts, urYod gave me the measure of all gifts. It is not that rhythm and balance and pattern are expressed in terms of numbers or cannot be conceived of without numbers, but that beyond all harmony, within all harmony, the numbers that are patterns in themselves determine all forms throughout time or space.

To eat of the food or the urRu is to undergo a long journey. Their herbs were always chosen of the seasons; the true refreshment, they said, lies as much in the waiting between meals as in the feeding. They could wait long, but at times they made great cauldrons of simmering gruel which they devoured with ceremony, without haste but without ceasing the steady movement of their ladles.

I never saw the staffs of the urRu except in their hands, or laid beside their beds, or thrust into the ground to continue the prayer while their masters dreamed. The Gelfling said that the staffs had their own lives, that they would dance by starlight, but there is no end to their foolish inventions.

One thing the urRu would never tell me (I always waited to be told, I soon learned the folly of asking) was the part each musical instrument played in the long song of their lives. I know that they rarely played more than two together, that the harp and lyre would echo each other from within and without the stone circles; and I think they would sometimes sound a complex series of chords with such long pauses between them that even I, who measures my life by the stars, lost the thread of their meaning. But when they all sang together, the world could change.

Of the Nature of Skeksis

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