Hamagel: The Story of Three Sisters

The trek to Mount Mandara had not been easy. Days of secret travel had given way to weeks, and weeks to months. But, now their destination was at hand. The team was composed of the three Sisters: Hattie, Margaret, and Ellen; a squad of Arihanta escorts; a Sadhu guide named Pali; a handful of foot servants; and one half-crazy MoG for which no one was sure of his name. They had arrived at the plateau that morning, just as the new day’s sun broke the horizon. All except the Arihanta appeared tired and worn. Of course, the Arihanta rarely showed signs of age or wear or fatigue.

Pali, on the other hand, looked a thousand years old. Exhaling with a painful grunt, he leaned forward in his saddle and, clutching his staff in one hand, he stretched forth a long crackled finger, and uttered a single word as he pointed, “There”. Everyone’s eyes followed in the direction the old man indicated..

The top of the mountain was cold and bare. Despite the fact the plateau was surrounded on three sides by the hard granite of the mountainside, a constant wind blew, chilling the bone and stunting any new growth that dared to sprout. The harshness of the terrain kept the existing vegetation in a struggle for life. The young sapling that Pali identified had survived in the eastern corner of the plateau, a location chosen for a particular outcropping of rock that offered both limited protection and truncated concealment.

The sapling was a cutting from the One Tree that once grew in uninhibited preponderance in Gardenia, the home province of the Sisters. Gardenia was the capital of Anciria—a triumvirate of city states that also included the provinces of Garnet and Gardove. The sapling had been transplanted several seasons before, and cleverly hidden away in an effort to preserve the existence of a more enlightened time, a time when greed and intolerance were not cloaked as substitutes for right and good. Gardenia’s golden brilliance was now muted, diminished almost overnight to satisfy the needs of the Industry. The other two Ancirian provinces, Garnet and Gardove, took a bit longer, but they too were forced to succumb to the perversion of the Industry, a darkness that now threatened the whole of the Social.

The young sapling—a remembrance of a better time—was now engaged in a daily battle against the wind and terrain, its leaves searching for the warm glow of the sun and its roots searching for water. It was young and small, but remained flexible and resolute nonetheless.

Upon arrival, the Arihanta immediately took up defensive positions around the exposed side of the plateau -- as was their way. In a sacred oath, as old as Time itself and sworn in individual secrecy, each Arihantan warrior vowed allegiance. Their dedication and loyalty remained flawless. They did not age readily nor appreciably. It was rumored some were several hundred years old and in the cusp of their prime, while others were just beginning their servitude. No one but the Arihanta knew for sure, and they were a people of few words. Never acting on offense, each oath included a solemn promise to defend an individual AncirThe trek to Mount Mandara had not been easy. Days of secret travel had given way to weeks, and weeks to months. But, now their destination was at hand. The team was composed of the three Sisters: Hattie, Margaret, and Ellen; a squad of Arihanta escorts; a Sadhu guide named Pali; a handful of foot servants; and one half-crazy MoG for which no one was sure of his name. They had arrived at the plateau that morning, just as the new day’s sun broke the horizon. All except the Arihanta appeared tired and worn. Of course, the Arihanta rarely showed signs of age or wear or fatigue.

Pali, on the other hand, looked a thousand years old. Exhaling with a painful grunt, he leaned forward in his saddle and, clutching his staff in one hand, he stretched forth a long crackled finger, and uttered a single word as he pointed, “There”. Everyone’s eyes followed in the direction the old man indicated.

The top of the mountain was cold and bare. Despite the fact the plateau was surrounded on three sides by the hard granite of the mountainside, a constant wind blew, chilling the bone and stunting any new growth that dared to sprout. The harshness of the terrain kept the existing vegetation in a struggle for life. The young sapling that Pali identified had survived in the eastern corner of the plateau, a location chosen for a particular outcropping of rock that offered both limited protection and truncated concealment.

The sapling was a cutting from the One Tree that once grew in uninhibited preponderance in Gardenia, the home province of the Sisters. Gardenia was the capital of Anciria—a triumvirate of city states that also included the provinces of Garnet and Gardove. The sapling had been transplanted several seasons before, and cleverly hidden away in an effort to preserve the existence of a more enlightened time, a time when greed and intolerance were not cloaked as substitutes for right and good. Gardenia’s golden brilliance was now muted, diminished almost overnight to satisfy the needs of the Industry. The other two Ancirian provinces, Garnet and Gardove, took a bit longer, but they too were forced to succumb to the perversion of the Industry, a darkness that now threatened the whole of the Social.

The young sapling—a remembrance of a better time—was now engaged in a daily battle against the wind and terrain, its leaves searching for the warm glow of the sun and its roots searching for water. It was young and small, but remained flexible and resolute nonetheless.

Upon arrival, the Arihanta immediately took up defensive positions around the exposed side of the plateau -- as was their way. In a sacred oath, as old as Time itself and sworn in individual secrecy, each Arihantan warrior vowed allegiance. Their dedication and loyalty remained flawless. They did not age readily nor appreciably. It was rumored some were several hundred years old and in the cusp of their prime, while others were just beginning their servitude. No one but the Arihanta knew for sure, and they were a people of few words. Never acting on offense, each oath included a solemn promise to defend an individual Ancirian noble, vowing no harm would come to their assigned escort as long as logical defense remained. Emotionless and stoic, resting on the balls of their feet, their eyes searched the horizon and nearby surroundings, ears attuned for any out of place sight or sound that might suggest danger or insecurity. Within minutes, satisfied with the security of the plateau, Jacob, the Arihantan Leader, signaled and the remainder of the team began to dismount and make camp.