The old man came to a village. The village nestled within the depression of two hills, not deep enough to be called a valley yet deep enough that a traveller approaching from either end would be afforded a sweeping view of the buildings and their surrounding fields. The land around the village was a motley patchwork of varying colours, shades of green and yellow, brown and grey, and this ran far into the distance.

The buildings of the village were a combination of pebble-dashed ones with red slate roofs and granite-bricked blue roofed ones, speaking of at least two separate generations of building work. A mill stood on the outskirts, sails slowly turning in the breeze that ran constantly between the slopes, and from somewhere within the clustered buildings came the sound of bells.

The old man made his way patiently down through the fields that surrounded the village, sometimes climbing over stiles, sometimes finding a break in the hedges that separated them. He moved at a constant pace, never finding himself at a loss for a way to proceed. Again he displayed a familiarity with the terrain, though none of the inhabitants of this place would ever have claimed to have seen him before.

His steps led him through the maze of small lanes and paths that crisscrossed the village, his stick ahead as if guiding him to his destination. An observer would not, however, have been able to discern that destination from his path, for it seemed more like he was merely enjoying the refreshment of walking, though had the distance he had already walked that day been known it would have shaken any man's mind to its foundations.

As he wandered along a cobbled lane that was the main and only thoroughfare of this small island of humanity, he was joined by a black robed man, who appeared from the door of a small gated house. The man had had a different purpose in mind when he set out, a place he had meant to head to directly, but he was happy to talk with this stranger to their village as he walked.

"Welcome, sir," said the robed man, in affable tones. "I have not seen you in our village before, and I fear you have walked quite some time to reach here by foot. Might I ask where you come from?"

The robed man was ruddy-cheeked and verging on large, though under the slight chubbiness there was a glint of muscle, defined even through the drab cotton cloth that hung loosely over his frame. Life in a village such as this did not allow one to run to fat, for there was always work to be done, even for a priest - as this gentlemen was.

"Well, sir, I take it from your silence that you do not wish to tell me. Might I, then, ask for what purpose you have visited us here?"

The old man paused in his steady pace, and turned to the priest.

"I wish to hear the story," he said, blue eyes fixed upon the brown of the priest's, the content smile still resting on this lips. His words seemed less than birdsong.

"The story? Well, sir, there are a good many stories I know, I can tell you. Some I would tell with great delight, and some I am bound to keep until death. What story is it you wish to hear?"

The priest appeared delighted at the old man's request. He was a lover of stories, especially when he was the one telling them.

"I wish to hear the story," repeated the old man, and it was possible there was just the slightest inflection on 'the.'

"Well then, there is only one story I can assume is of such importance as to be called by such a definite article, and I am delighted - for it is my job as the spiritual guide of the people hereabouts to ensure the story is well known. Thank you, sir, for allowing me the opportunity to once more expound it. Would you care to take tea in my temple whilst I tell you of it?"

The priest gestured in the direction of a building a little taller than those surrounding it, the double-doors a curious arched shape with some ornate gilding framing them. It was apparent that here was a structure that received more attention and more support than most of the others, yet in stonework it was little removed from the rest.

The priest swept aside the doors with a flourish, spreading his arms wide and turning to welcome the old man to his temple. The old man walked inside and looked around, focussing upon every section and notable object one by one.

The room was large and wide, some clever trick of architecture in the high roof creating the effect of more open space than there could possibly be. There were several rows of pews, pews without backs and curiously rounded at the top, meaning that those who sat on them would have to be very aware of their balance to keep from sliding back or forward to the floor. They formed lines facing the altar, which stood on a slightly raised floor at the front, a dark wooden table covered in a beautiful white cloth, on which was placed a golden idol.

The idol portrayed a broad-shouldered man with four arms, sitting cross-legged with a sword resting across his lap. The man's eyes carried no detail. They were blank, a tarnished gold. You could see this sculpture was not made from golden metal, but rather wood covered in gold leaf. In places, the leaf was flaking and the wood showed through.

The priest, having momentarily removed to a side room as the old man looked around, returned carrying two porcelain cups balanced on saucers. He laid them down on a small table that sat in the corner to the left of the altar, and pulled up two small folding chairs that had been leaning against the wall.

"There," he said, with evident satisfaction, "now we can relax and talk."

The priest picked up his cup and took a small sip of the steaming brew, looking over the rim at the old man and raising his eyebrows in invitation to do the same. The old man gently took his and drank.

"So, you wish to hear the story, then? It is the story that is the reason all this is here, of course. I have no doubt you have heard it before, but perhaps never from a mouth as scholastically trained as myself, if I do say. I studied at the seminary, you see."

The priest waited to see if this provoked any reaction from the old man, but, none forthcoming, he continued.

"Of course, you know of the eight Gods, the lords of all. I serve the highest of these; so mighty is he that we do not say his name. His image stands on my altar, as you see.

Well, this land was not always as you see it now. No, indeed, long ago this land was not in fact land, but water."

The priest's eyes drifted and a smile came to his face, his tone self-approving.

"All the land was water, water deeper than one can fathom, and within this watery realm the eight Gods lived. There was the highest, and Jor, the trickster, and Forel, the gambler, and the others whose names I need not mention now, though they are known throughout the land.

And apart from these eight, there was the Goddess. Sister to the highest, she had the most beautiful and fair visage time has ever beheld, and so kind a nature that it outshone even her countenance. The spirits of the ocean could not but weep when they saw her, so great was her beauty, so great that it brought a joy that would overwhelm even the strongest of hearts.

The highest and the Goddess were the closest of siblings, and he would build palaces and kingdoms of the most profound glory for her. He would cause the plants - for there are plants under the ocean, though you could not know. I have seen them, when I crossed the Great Sea for my studies - the plants to bloom in the brightest of colours, and the creatures to dance, all to please her, though she did not want of these things.

The Goddess, for her part, was the protector of the highest. She kept him on the path of righteousness and love that other gods have at times fallen from - I suppose you know the tale of Gora, the fallen one? - She cared for and supported the highest in all his efforts, and his light shone all the brighter when they were together. Indeed, there are those who say the highest is the mightiest of all gods because of her guidance in those days."

The priest had finished his tea during the telling of this, and the old man too. Standing, the priest walked to the back of the altar and produced a clay slab from behind, a slab ill-treated and battered, with a single rune imprinted on it.

"All temples carry the symbol of Jor, though we do loath it so."

The priests eyes narrowed as he stared down at the slate.

"We keep it as a reminder of his crimes. Did you know they have temples to him now, in far away places? I have seen them."

The priests voice carried hostility, anger.

"Jor, the trickster. So foul a god that to even call him by such a title fills my throat with bile. But god he was, and god he is. And god he shall remain until the end of times.

Jor is a loathsome creature, an envious spirit, and he burned when he saw the highest and the Goddess together. He desired to have the Goddess for himself, though she in her kindness paid as much care to him as she did to others. This was not enough for Jor, though. No, it was not enough that he be with her - no other must have her!

And so Jor schemed."

The priest slammed the tablet dramatically on the edge of the altar, splitting it in two, sending grey splinters spinning through the air.

"We break the sign of Jor anew every day," he offered in explanation.

He walked over to a small square trap door flush against the back wall of the temple, and lifted it. Through it was only darkness, into which he tossed the halves of the tablet. The sound of the clay landing atop the many other broken tablets that lay piled below echoed out and through the hall.

"Jor was crafty, and knew that he would not be trusted by the highest, nor the other gods. And so he left their realm, and swam through the currents of the world for years, for aeons, until one day he came upon the spirit of the water.

The spirit of the water was a mind unkindled, formless. Jor discovered it in the deepest, darkest part of the ocean, a land that had never known the light of the sun above. Its whispered presence called to Jor as he swam, a song he could hardly hear and could not identify, though the gods knew all the creatures of the world.

Jor searched many days to find the source of this whispered song, diving further and deeper than any of the gods had before, to the black wasteland of the cold depths. And in this silence, this absolute, true silence, he could hear the song.

Would you like more tea?"

The priest interrupted his recital without warning, looking up at the old man abruptly. Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared into the adjacent room and re-emerged carrying two fresh cups and, wedged under his arm, a glass cylinder.

Placing the cups down next to the finished ones with care, he took the cylinder from under his arm and placed it upright in the centre of the table. The cylinder narrowed in the middle, like an hourglass. It was one seamless piece of glass, and the inside was filled almost completely with clear water, the air at the top serving only to make the liquid apparent within.

"I brought this with me when I returned from the seminary. As the story continues, you will see how precious this is."

The priest sat and returned to his tale.

"Jor heard the song of the water, and was intrigued. The ocean's voice was not one that could ordinarily be heard, you see, for all life makes a cacophony that drowns out such an amorphous thing. Only here in the depths was it apparent.

So Jor called back to the spirit of the water, using his godly powers to strengthen and amplify the song, calling it into being. And after a time - the length of which is the subject of much scholarly debate, you know. I myself wrote a most fascinating piece on the matter - the spirit of the water became consubstantiate.

Oh what a glorious achievement by that most base of gods! Oh that another had found and summoned it!"

The priest spread his arms out dramatically, calling his soliloquy out to the roof and heavens above. Any other soul would have been revolted by such an arch over-actor, by such conceit and egoism, but the old man merely continued listening in earnest.

"For Jor was the first and only god to meet this spirit, and Jor it was that told the spirit of the lands above, of the people and souls that resided within the very body its being. The spirit listened keenly and without guile, being naive and unknowing of the world, and so came to perceive the world as Jor told it. And above all, Jor placed the Goddess.

The spirit heard of her splendour, of her radiance, and the spirit asked many questions of her. Jor, in his cunning, knew that to say too much would be to risk losing the spirit's ear, and so he gave only breadcrumbs of answers, always leading the spirit to ask more and yet more about her. For many days they spoke of the Goddess, until the spirit of the water could take no more and demanded to see her, to meet her.

And Jor smiled, for he knew he had found the method for all his schemes."

The priest stood, beginning to pace the stage in front of the altar, moving in the frenzied, passionate way he did every time he performed this tale for a captivated clergy, strides wide and furious.

"He told the spirit that he would bring her to meet it, that her radiance would fill and brighten this black place in which the spirit was fated to dwell. He told the spirit this, and then he flew! Flew back to the realm of the gods.

His return was marked with gladness and delight, the creatures and gods ecstatic to see their brother returned after so long, and the Goddess was quick to come and greet him. He asked her for her time, and she assented, and for many hours they talked of his travels, of the things he had seen, of the waters he had tasted. And eventually the cunning Jor did reveal to her that he had encountered the spirit of the water, and told her how happy it would make the poor, trapped spirit to see her in her loveliness.

The Goddess, kind of heart in spirit and deed, did not hesitate, but consented to depart immediately, for the idea of the sorrowful, lonely spirit led her to despair. So they departed, saying not a single farewell to those who still rejoiced in the return of Jor."

The priest had stepped up into the pulpit, speaking out over the pews to the empty congregation, seemingly forgetting the presence of the old man.

"When they arrived above the depths, the deceitful Jor asked her to wait, for he wanted to give the good news to the spirit himself and ready it to greet her, and so he descended alone.

The spirit was delighted to see his friend so soon after having departed, and greeted him with roiling currents that swirled around him with more power than a maelstrom, though these subsided when Jor put on a low, crestfallen face.

The spirit was calmed, then saddened, and then enraged as Jor told how he had brought the Goddess all the way here, only to have her refuse to meet the spirit at the final moment. Such a creature as lives in this pitch darkness, the Goddess was said to have cried, could not be worthy of any such as her.

Jor conjured great lies and untruths, deceit upon deceit, convincing the spirit of the water that the Goddess found him repulsive and repellent. As he span his web of lies, the water raged more and more, a storm forming in the deep that tore up the sand beneath and lifted the darkness up towards the surface. Jor heightened such rage and embellished his lies until the bottom of the deep soared up and out towards the surface, blocking the rays of the sun even just below the water’s end

The spirit raged for hours, for days, driving the light away as Jor marvelled at the power he had unleashed.

And within this darkness, a single light shone.

The spirit of the water took the Goddess down into the deeps, never to return."

The priest's shoulders sagged and he let out a great exhalation, the fire of his sermon burning from him. He recovered himself, and walked calmly off the pulpit and fell heavily to the chair where they had drunk tea.

"Jor returned to the realm of the gods alone, satisfied in his deviousness, content in his malice.

But Jor had not accounted for the shock with which the realm would respond to her disappearance. Even in this short time, the space of just a few days, her brother had become fearful in the absence of his sister. When Jor arrived he was instantly grasped by the powerful spirits that served the highest directly, and was dragged with great protest before him. Within the court of the palace, Jor faced the wrath of my lord.

The highest smote him mightily, refusing to hear the lies and deceits that Jor created in his own defence. The malice of Jor had been apparent from the instant of his arrival, the foulness of his action suppurating out of his very being, tarnishing the already darkened realm. The highest knew that Jor was responsible for his sister's loss.

For many weeks the highest rended the being of Jor, forcing him through such a variety of hells that Jor almost lost his very self. Only Jor's hatred remained burning within, and through this hatred he kept the whereabouts of the Goddess well hid. The highest could not make him tell.

It was only when Jor was taken to the window of the highest tower that overlooked the realm that he did repent. All the tortures of the highest could not make him speak, but his first sight of the realm, now dull and grey, the spirits themselves weak, made his tongue wag as if it were a living creature."

The priest abruptly jumped to his feet, gesturing for the old man to follow him through a small doorway that led to some narrow winding stairs. They began to climb as he spoke.

"The highest moved as soon as he heard Jor's confession. He sped towards the depths, but found himself blocked. He could not approach the place where the spirit of the water lurked, nor did he receive any response to his threats, promises, and entreaties.

So the highest tore at the water itself, resolving to drain the ocean until he had emptied it, exposing the spirit and his sister. He threw the sea up in a tempest of great magnitude, flinging it up into the skies, sending up in his rage and desperation even the spirits that had served and loved him so faithfully, where they hang even now above us as the celestial bodies.

The sea raged as it was torn from the earth, churning the land below it to form the very mountains and valleys we know today. Storms raged and lightning scorched the newly-exposed earth, and the remaining spirits gasped in the atmosphere, clawing in this crisis at the dirt around them, forming the flowers, the trees, the creatures of our new world.

Yet for all this power, the highest could not overcome the power of the water. Though its body was rent asunder, the spirit would roll back in on itself, whole and unharmed, remaining powerful at its core. The highest could not penetrate."

The two men came to the top of the winding staircase, and to a worn wooden door that the priest opened with a heavy iron key. Swinging the door inwards, a chill breeze swept in and passed them down the stairs as they stepped out onto the flat rooftop.

From this vantage point, they could see over the buildings of the village and to the distant mountains on the horizon. The priest pointed to the grey of the towering peaks.

"Just beyond those mountains lies the Great Sea, and within its boundless depths still lies the spirit of the water, and held deep within the Goddess cries for the loss of her world, trapped until the end of time. The water contained within the glass you saw holds water drawn from those depths, and with it and the idol of the highest we pray for the reunion of the two, for the time when all mankind's spirits are once again released from this mortal form and re-join our gods in paradise."

The priest rested his hands on the parapet and looked out towards the distant mountains.

"Thus does the story end. And yet..."

The priest glanced at the old man, then turned once more to the mountains, and a weight seemed to fall on him.

"...and yet, I find myself wanting to tell you what I have told no-one else. I find myself wanting to tell you of the times I find myself staring at the glass cylinder my years of study and abstinence were rewarded with and wondering whether I have made some grave error. I find it hard not to speak of the fisher folk I met on my travels who laughed and jested at the fools who paid in gold for water they took from the hull of their ships, amused mightily by the value of a tale of distant travel to some fabled point on the sea.

And I find myself troubled by the teachers I had who spoke less of our lords and more of the worthless peasants they considered their worshippers to be. And troubled by the course my own path has led me to, for at times I too treat my congregation as little more than gullible halfwits..."

The priests eyes widened in surprise at words he had not expected to express before a stranger, and he turned with an astonished face to look at the old man, fearful of what judgement he might find there.

"Who are you, that draw such words from me?"

But the old man did not speak, nor did he judge. He bowed in thanks for the hospitality of the priest, and turned away. He left the village whilst the priest remained, staring out at the distant mountains as the sun settled below the land.