The old man came to the outskirts of the stone town walls. The walls were barely higher than a man, and they encircled the clustered grey buildings that competed for space within. Wooden shelters and huts leaned against the outside of the wall in hope of some modicum of the protection they offered to those inside.

At each of the four corners of the compass lay a gate and connected gatehouse, in which a guard could often be found lazing as the agricultural traffic passed by, only having to occasionally rise for the inspection of unknown visitors.

On this day, however, the guards were on double shifts and all were out, for each gate faced a veritable avalanche of traffic. Horses kicked up dust and whinnied in the lines upon lines of carts they pulled, and children played around and through the unmoving cartwheels. Hot, sweating adults shifted uncomfortably on hard wooden seats in the midday sun, reins held in hand as if somehow to urge speed upon the arduous process of registering to enter.

The old man was walking calmly and sedately through the middle of all this, untroubled by the heat and dust, when a voice behind him called.

"Ho, venerable sir!" came a strong male voice.

The old man stopped in his steps and turned unhurriedly around. He came to face a young man in an ornate and flowery dark blue uniform trimmed with gold thread, kept through some effort free of the dust of the road.

"My master sits inside this carriage, and he offers passage for one who must be weary from walking."

The man spoke in very formal tones, clipped and direct, staring straight ahead towards the gate.

"He would be most gratified if you would join him, though we shall be some time getting within the town limits."

As the young man spoke, the door to the side of the fine black carriage swung open, a gloved hand briefly visible pushing it ajar. The old man smiled, bowed to the younger, and climbed stiffly aboard.

The inside of the cabin was sumptuous, rich velvet hangings and silk cushions atop soft seats. Despite the fierce heat outside, the cabin was cool and the air dry, maintained by the deep purple curtains closed across the windows.

Within sat a large moustached man in a fine suit, a dark waistcoat under a rich brown jacket, pinstripe trousers adding a lively air, and a tall top-hat sat on the seat next to him. He smiled a broad smile and offered the seat opposite him to his guest.

"Good day, sir!" bawled the gentleman. "I am delighted you accepted my offer - it is too hot a day to be walking out there, and with the crowds coming through for the Call I fear you will not find a place to rest with ease."

He removed his gloves and held out a large hand to the old man, who looked at it for a few seconds before reaching out with his own. The gentleman took the small, frail-looking hand within his and shook it, a handshake of considerable enthusiasm and force that he had always felt gave the measure of the man behind it.

Though he had not wanted to hurt or injure his new guest, he was rather surprised when instead of encountering a light, docile grip he instead felt as if he were the one being guided, his hand's motion locked with the old man's movements, seemingly irresistible.

The handshake was over in a matter of moments, and the gentleman stared down at his traitorous hand in disbelief. By the time he looked up again, he had managed to convince himself he had been mistaken in the sensation of such power from so meek an elderly, clearly guileless man.

"Yes, well..." he cleared his throat at the brief discomfort, "Most glad to welcome you. This is but a humble carriage,"

…and here he swung his hands out in false modesty at the opulence,

"... but it is surely a place of good rest for a weary traveller. So, where are you travelling to, sir? Surely you are not answering the Call? I must say it is not for one such as yourself!"

The man snorted with laughter at his wit.

"I have come to hear the story," spoke the old man, a hush that should have been inaudible above the sounds of the traffic outside yet came through clear and pure. Something within that voice made the gentleman cease his guffaws and straighten, running his moustache between his thumb and forefinger.

"Which story would this be, sir?" asked the gentleman.

"The story."

"Indeed? A fellow of few words, then."

The chortles in the gentleman's voice were more subdued now, feeling forced.

"I suppose, for a traveller to this place, at this time, there is only one story to tell. Do you wish to hear why the Call has gone out, why these people flock to this town, and through it to those distant mountains?"

The old man nodded, and smiled.

"Very well!"

The gentleman's voice regained its booming tones, re-energised.

"A good choice of conversation for such a time as this!"

Leaning back and folding his large arms across his chest, the man began to tell his tale.

"The land of our Prophet lies across the distant mountains, far across the span of seas beyond. An arid land, where date trees grow twisted and gnarled, and the people stand not even shoulder-height to a man of these lands, they say. They say the sun shines higher and hotter there than any place else on the Lord's green earth, and that to suffer the chill of the night is to know the cold of the highest peaks where the old gods lie banished.

“Many years ago was our Prophet born there, to a trifling trader family of little renown. They moved often across the desert land, from villages of rock to towns of flotsam and driftwood, peddling what little wares they had to provide for their next journey.

“The Prophet would play with his brothers and sisters on the cart as they journeyed, much as the children play outside on the road now. They would play such games as they could devise from the meagre items in the cart, and it was during one of these times that the Lord spoke to him.”

The gentleman had a long golden chain that hung from his neck and ran down deep into the inside of his waistcoat, and he pulled on this as he spoke. He drew out a pendant that hung from the chain, an golden hour-glass shape suspended within a bright circle of silver. The precious metal must have been worth more than most inhabitants of the nearby town would ever see, but he did not draw it out to show it off. No, he seemed barely conscious of the fact he had taken it out, for he began rolling it through and across his fingers without looking at it.

"The Prophet had found a seashell, a rounded conch that had lain unthought of and unregarded at the bottom of the wagon for who knows how long. The shell was of a translucent pink such as the boy had never seen, and something within it called to him. He carried the shell away from his family, stepping off from the slow moving cart safe in the knowledge that he could once again catch it up.

“Beside the rocky road on which they travelled lay many collections of cracked sandstone boulders and stones, providing a multitude of places for a young child to conceal himself. Taking advantage of one of these, the Prophet crouched down and placed the shell to his ear, and heard the voice of the Lord."

The wagon began advancing again as the man spoke, slowly rocking from side to side as it progressed.

"Long had the voice of the Lord been hidden in this land, kept from his people by their sin and by their wilfulness! Finally the time had once again come for the Lord to test his people, to judge them as they judged each other.

“And so the Lord spoke unto the Prophet, bidding him have his parents change the course of their passage and head towards the coast, to the great town that stood there.

“Some other mortal would have doubted, would have challenged the Lord to prove himself, but how fortunate we are that the Prophet was chosen, for he knew in his very soul that here was the one true Lord, and he knelt before him with no cunning in his heart! The Prophet agreed to the Lord's bidding, and left to fulfil his commands.

“But as the Prophet left the shadows, the covetous eyes of Salan, his elder brother, looked on..."

They were interrupted suddenly by a rapping on the carriage door, which the gentleman swung open to reveal the young man dressed in blue finery, the driver of the carriage.

"We have passed the customs point now, my lord," said the young man, bowing deeply. "It shall not be long before we reach the inn where we have our reservation, sir."

"Excellent, excellent!" smiled the gentleman, clapping his hands together.

"Now, I must prepare my case, my honoured guest, but I shall continue as I do so. Please forgive such rudeness."

So saying, the gentleman drew a large brown case from below the seats as the driver closed the door and disappeared from view. The carriage began rocking again as the gentleman continued his story, while he unlocked the bag and sorted through its contents.

"The Prophet and his family came to the coastal town, and soon his father's business blossomed. The father would frequently come to the rocky coast where his children played, taking aside his young son and asking his advice, though he was barely a boy of six.

“The shell guided the Prophet and his family well, leading them to great fortune and favour throughout the land. Everywhere the Prophet went he praised the Lord's name in recompense. He tended to the poor and performed great miracles, bringing the rains when needed and breaking the tempests that threatened the fishers of the area. The more the Prophet praised the Lord and carried out great works in his name, the more his family prospered.

“And though the Prophet shared his fortune with all those around him, and hid not a single portion from those who were in need, though his generosity was boundless, still Salan fumed in his jealousy. So, one fateful day, when the Prophet was yet barely a young man, Salan stole the shell, and ran from the land.

“The horror and woe that fell upon the Prophet was terrible to behold. He raged and cursed to the sky at his own stupidity, for leaving the shell unguarded! He implored the Lord to speak unto him once more, but was met only with silence.

“For many years the Prophet was without the Lord's guidance, yet he did not submit to despair or fail the people of his land. He carved as best he could to the ways the Lord had shown him, and was rewarded through his own efforts with yet more riches and power, 'til one day he was crowned king by the acclamation of the people! His people built towers of such splendour as they had never seen, and traded far across the world. They grew in richness and in happiness as one - King and subjects.

“Yet the Prophet was never without fear that he would depart from the ways of the Lord, and for all this time he not once gave up the search for the lost shell, nor his lost brother. And in the fullness of time, his wish to see his brother again was granted."

The old man and the gentleman both looked up as the carriage came to a stop, and the doors once more swung open. The young man was joined now by a handful of liveried servants and a bowing, scraping individual who introduced himself as the owner of the inn. Escorting the gentleman down from the carriage and thanking him profusely, all the while bowing repeatedly, he said how honoured he was, and that their finest room was ready for their illustrious guest's stay.

Turning to the old man, he clearly assumed some connection with the honoured gentleman, and accorded him all the pageantry and hospitality the gentleman had received, until both men stood on a landing outside two large oak doors.

"Well now," chuckled the gentleman, amusedly, "It seems being in my very presence has gained you a fine room for the night! Do not worry..!" he boomed, holding out a hand as if to stop the old man, who had not moved in the slightest, from refusing such largess, "... I am more than happy to provide this for you, so long as you join me for dinner. We still have the rest of the story..?"

The gentleman's question was rhetorical, and he did not wait for a reply as he span and entered his room, servants and attendants bustling around him.

They met again in a wide drawing room across the landing from their rooms, the gentleman arriving well before the old man. By the time the old man sat down, across the wide round oak table covered with the accoutrements of fine dining, there were several empty wine glasses in front of the gentleman. His cheeks were flushed red above his evening wear.

"My friend!" he called, far louder than necessary. "Welcome, and good evening!"

He leaned heavily forward and swept up a wine glass, holding it out behind his chair for the waiting attendant to refill. This glass he slid across to the old man, then took another for himself. The old man bowed in thanks.

"Still a man of few words, I see!" he said, laughing. "Then, as we eat, why don't I finish the tale?"

The old man bowed, a look that may have been gratitude crossing the ever-present gentle smile, and they both began to eat as the story continued.

"It is more than a decade later that our story resumes. The Prophet is now a king, and a beloved one at that. His people live humble yet worthy lives, and his charity knows no bounds. It is, in fact, a holy Kingdom.

“Word of this prosperity reached the Prophet's brother, Salan, one day, where he now lived as a merchant deep within the desert and far from the ocean town he had fled. Salan was a poor merchant and a poor man, and the only passion he felt was the passion that burned at the sight of the shell he kept hanging from a chain around his neck.

“For the shell had never spoken to him; the Lord had never revealed himself to so base a man.

“Terrified of his brother's vengeance, and hoping that one day he may find a way to make the shell speak, he had fled as far away as he could, until one day he had come to this small, wind-blasted town. And here he wasted away, 'til even the fiery hate that had filled him so began to wane.

“But hearing of the success of his brother, and his ascension to the kingship, reignited those fires that smouldered quietly within his soul, and he determined to return and face him, to demand his part of his brother's great fortune. So he journeyed back across the desert, hitching and performing whatever services he could for passage, no matter how dirty or mean.

“When Salan arrived in the kingdom, he was amazed at the luxuriant gardens, the extravagant fountains, the sheer wealth shared by all who resided there. He cursed himself as a fool for abandoning his brother, yet also smiled inside at the thought of all that he would now receive. He set off to his brother's palace, a dusty, dirty, weather-worn beggar in form, a devil in being.

“When Salan came to the great golden gates that led to his brother's throne room, he declared himself to the guards upon the door, but they laughed and mocked him, this filthy creature who claimed the brotherhood of their most-beloved monarch! They turned him away without a second's pause, removing him from the courtyard and warning him on pain of death never to return.

“Salan, unable to enter the throne room, seethed and plotted, but saw no way that he could pass the guards. Frustrated, enraged, he stalked off unthinkingly to a place he and his brother had often played, the rocky coast where once their father had sought guidance from his son.

“And waiting for him there, unknowingly, was the Prophet. Some vagary of fate had led the Prophet to that coast, at that time, some pent up memory of the times in their childhood when they had played together in happiness and innocence.

“Salan saw the Prophet at the same time the Prophet saw him, and despite his filthy, torn robes, despite his matted, knotted beard, the Prophet knew his brother on sight, and rejoiced.

“But Salan did not rejoice for the long-delayed reunion. No, Salan rejoiced for the riches he felt were coming to him.

Such riches as would make mine seem somewhat meagre, don't you think?"

The gentleman abruptly interrupted the story to gesticulate around the room, at the attentive servants awaiting around the room, at the largess on the table, the food they could not possibly eat by themselves.

"I did not ask for this, you know. None of this. This was a fate thrust upon me..."

The gentleman seemed to deflate, eyes staring inward at some unseen memory, some uncalled-for recollection, then shook himself. He drank heavily from another glass of wine, and held it out for refilling.

"Anyway...

“The Prophet took his brother in with him when he returned from his secret solitary wanderings, and led him through the palace. He introduced him to his family, his new-born sons and daughters, and took him to the mausoleum in which their parents spent their eternal rest. He gave him fine new clothes, and fed him the richest of meals. And not once did he ask after the shell, which, though he did not know it, dangled from the neck of his brother not two steps distant.

“And Salan thirsted more and more as he saw the extent of his brother's possessions. It was not enough that he would receive what he asked for; he wanted to take it all. So one night, the Prophet entered his chambers to find his brother awaiting him, the shell of the Lord in hand.

“The Prophet wept upon seeing the shell; he fell to his knees in gratitude, praising his brother for returning what was lost. Salan, enraged at the knowledge that his brother yet loved and trusted him though he felt only hate, struck the Prophet a blow to the side of his head.

“The Prophet entreated with his brother, asking what the cause of such violence could be, and Salan poured forth his scorn. He screamed at the Prophet, ranting and raving about how his brother had taken all that he could have become from him, and demanded his kingdom.

“The Prophet was lost, unable to comprehend the source of such fury from a sibling long missed. He promised Salan that anything he needed, anything he asked, would be his, for he was his brother.

And Salan asked for one thing:

'Make the shell speak to me.'

“And with those words the Prophet knew his brother was lost, for no-one can instruct nor order the Lord.

“The Prophet stood, and told Salan that he was lost, and told him he could still be saved, but Salan would not hear him. He threatened to smash the shell, holding it high above his head.

“The Prophet, seeing the thing he had sought for so long threatened, seeing the holy symbol so profaned, was overcome with an unthinking passion. He struck out at his brother with the closest object he could find, a knife. A fruiting knife, a carving knife, I know not, but it was weapon enough that in one strike Salan lay dead at his feet.

“Now the laments of the Prophet were redoubled! Salan had never understood that it was not through desire for wealth nor power that the Prophet wanted the shell, but merely so he could further the Lord's work.

“Yet the Lord's voice did not come to the Prophet again, for he had struck down his brother, and such a sin cannot be forgiven. This was a law known by men for ages long past, and followed throughout the kingdom. Not even the King, the father of the land, was immune from such a crime. He was exiled before the next sun. He was exiled across the sea, and he came to this land."

The gentleman was now slumped deeply into a large green armchair besides the fireplace, the old man perched on the edge of a similarly substantial chair. He was once more toying with the golden hourglass pendant around his neck.

"My ancestors inhabited this land for generations before the Prophet came, you know. My father and mother were part of the ruling council, worshipping the false gods. I remember the day the Prophet arrived at the city gates, surrounded by the followers who came with him in exile, and those who joined him on the way. I was barely old enough to walk.

“They burned the city, razed it to the ground. The gates, never closed, were broken off their hinges and crashed to the floor, and those who refused to renounce the false gods were bound to them and drowned by the very water they believed sacred. I saw my parents die this way, the water poured over their faces as they yelled defiance of the one true Lord. They were drowned slowly, over hours, and I was made to watch the entire time.

“It was then the Prophet's followers decided I should be brought up in the ways of the great Lord, that some trace of the heathens of this land be redeemed. And so I grew up in fabulous wealth, basking in the warmth of the one true God."

The gentleman leaned forward, eyes curiously sober and heated, and spat into the fire. He stared unblinking at the old man, defiance in his gaze.

"And now we make the Call in the name of the Lord, to go forth and retake the land of the Prophet. Now these people gather from all corners of the continent to return across the ocean in a host, and subdue by arms as they were themselves subdued before."

The gentleman seemed unaware that his hands held the hourglass pendant in a grip so tight his knuckles had whitened.

"There is your story, old man. I hope it has been a good one. I have listened to it all my life, and the flame of it burns within me. It burns my very soul, if I possess such a thing. I doubt it very much, some days."

The gentleman sat back and gazed into the fire as the logs crackled and sparked, seeing the memories only he could, as the old man stood, bowed, and quietly left the room.