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DargonZine Volume 10 Issue 05
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DargonZine Distributed: 08/02/1997
Volume 10, Number 5 Circulation: 656
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Quadrille 1 Alan Lauderdale Janis - Sy, 1012
Pudlong and the Beanstalk 1 Jim Owens Late Spring, 1016
A Turn of Faith Mark A. Murray Naia, 1015
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 10-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright August, 1997 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories may
not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of
the author(s) involved, except in the case of freely reproducing entire
issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions
thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
Every few issues, it seems, I have to write an editorial in
observance of some particular measurement of DargonZine's longevity.
While this is going to be yet another of those occasions, I think this,
like our 12th anniversary issue that we started 1997 with, is a major
milestone that's well worth celebrating. But I should say "milestones",
since in this issue we celebrate two separate but equally-significant
achievements.
The first event I want to draw your attention to is that this is
our 100th issue. Doesn't sound like much? Well, consider that in order
to get there we've averaged eight issues per year for the last twelve
and a half years! That's several generations in Internet-years. In fact,
we have writers on staff who were only three years old when FSFnet
(DargonZine's predecessor magazine) was founded! There aren't many
electronic magazines which can claim to have such a long history on the
Internet -- in fact, there aren't any! We take great pride in the fact
that we are by far the longest-running electronic magazine on the 'net.
The second event we are celebrating today is the publication of our
200th Dargon-specific story (bear in mind that much of the content in
FSFnet wasn't Dargon stories at all, but reviews, critiques, and other
non-Dargon material). The official 200th story is the first part of Jim
Owens' three-part story "Pudlong and the Beanstalk". I think it's
appropriate that this honor fall to Jim, since he was with the project
back during its inception in 1984-5, and he provided some of the better
stories during the early years of FSFnet.
When I spoke to Jim about highlighting him in this editorial, his
response was to talk about how he felt that his writing had matured
through his participation in the project. He wrote:
Here is an excerpt from "Ornate Love", FSFNet 8-1, July 1987:
All night and most of the next day it rained. The
river grew too high to use, and water cascaded down the
cliff face where they had been digging lime. All there
was to do was to sit inside and talk. They talked of
steel, and how to make it, and of metal, and of wood, of
rock, and gold, and commerce, and politics, and of as
many topics as they could find to discuss. Levy found in
Sarah a companion who was as interested in life as he
was, and who, for a woman growing up in an isolated
place, was surprisingly well versed in human nature.
Here is an excerpt from "Pudlong and the Beanstalk", written
July 1997:
"My master has instructed me to build a fire in the
hut for him tonight, so he might do some scrivening," he
hesitated, "and to stay warm, of course." Levy glanced
quickly at Bren. It had been blisteringly hot that
afternoon, and the heat would last until morning. They
said nothing as the youngster continued. "I wonder if I
might have some coals to start it with."
After a moment Levy nodded. "Of course. Take your
wood inside. I'll get a potsherd to carry the coals in."
The novice nodded and re-hefted his load, while Levy
levered himself up and stepped over to the wagon. He
returned a moment later with the potsherd and stooped by
the fire.
"Why should we care if the old man is scrivening?"
Bren asked dourly.
"I don't suppose it's any business of ours," Levy
replied carefully. As he straightened, he and Bren
exchanged a meaningful glance, then Levy slowly carried
the coals to the hut.
"So what does this show?" you may ask. In the first section,
written when Dargon was young and I was less experienced, I created
an excellent opportunity to show the character and personalities of
the individuals in the story, by showing their emotions and
expressions, their inflections and reactions. Instead I chose to
"skip ahead" in the story by merely summarizing the character of
Sarah. In the later story, written almost a decade later, I took the
time to show the interactions, the interplay, the action-reaction
that occurs in a relationship, even a casual one. By showing intent,
attitude, and character instead of merely describing it, I produced
a richer, more subtle story.
The growth of the Dargon Project has also been one of
relationship, of action-reaction. My skill level has improved, but
'Pudlong' would not be the story it is today if it weren't for the
reactions to it given by the other writers in the list. Their honest
critiques and comments shaped and molded the story, changing it from
a raw offering into a polished piece of prose. In the same way
Dargon, through the constant, earnest interaction of the writers and
editors, has grown and improved into the product you are reading
today.
Jim draws a parallel between the his growth as a writer and the
growth of the community of writers who write for DargonZine. I
definitely agree that we have learned a lot along the way, and today
DargonZine is a much more mature and polished magazine than FSFnet ever
was.
Over the years the quality of our stories have ranged from puerile
to professional, and throughout it all we've tried to learn from our
mistakes. But the thing which really has helped us grow has been
continually increasing how much we communicate with one another. Dafydd,
during his tenure as editor, instituted a peer-review process which had
never existed in FSFnet. That enabled us to critique one anothers'
works-in-progress and provide more input and ideas during the fashioning
of a story. We've discussed our stories and debated our opinions about
what makes a story "good", and come to some noteworthy conclusions that
we have shared with one another. Our Web site has enabled us to share
ideas and information more readily, and recently we've started having
annual writers' Summits in order to exchange ideas face-to-face and get
to know one another better.
Over the years, the writers have exploited new Internet-based
technologies to increase how much we communicate with one another, and
through that have established lasting friendships. These relationships,
and the productive learning about writing which has come from them, is
what has kept DargonZine alive for a dozen years, producing a hundred
issues and several hundreds of stories.
With that kind of momentum, you can expect us to continue cranking
'em out for a good long time to come!
========================================================================
Quadrille
Part I
by Alan Lauderdale
<lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu>
Janis, 1012 - Sy 7, 1012
Author's note: This story builds on material presented in Winds of
Change (FSFnet 8-2), A Scent in the Air (FSFNet 11-1), and A Sudden
Storm (FSFnet 11-2), by Becki Tants; it also references The Dream
(FSFnet 6-3, FSFnet 6-4) by John White. It continues the adventures of
Mouse Kervale, who's appeared in three previous mouse tales.
I. An Ordinary, Quiet Life
Mouse threw down her quill, making sure that it landed nowhere near
her present manuscript. She kicked it off her writing desk, then jumped
down to the floor after it. She climbed up to the windowsill and paced
back and forth there several times. But it was cold there, even with the
midwinter sun shining on her. She soon started to shiver, so she jumped
down to the floor again and went over close to the fireplace. She
drifted around there for a while, first warming her front, then her
back, then her front again. Finally, she pushed over a poker with a
satisfying clatter.
Brother Muskrat looked up from his own calligraphy. His eye took
several tries before it finally found Mouse standing by the fallen
poker. But this was to be expected, actually. Mouse, as persons went,
was tiny: no taller than the span from Brother Muskrat's fingertips to
his elbow. Infant-sized, she looked more like a miniaturized adult or a
doll or a puppet than like a child. She acted more like an adult than a
child, too. Most of the time.
Finally finding Mouse standing by the fallen poker, Brother Muskrat
asked "Is it new?"
"I'm a freak!" Mouse shouted. "I'm a freezing freak!"
Brother Muskrat sighed. "It's not new," he muttered, reminding
himself that there were also still times when Mouse acted like a child.
He got up, picked up the poker and stirred the fire.
"Mouse," he said, as a cloud of sparks flew up the chimney, "you've
always been small -- "
"Everyone starts small," Mouse responded impatiently. "Babies are
small. Then they grow up. I'm not supposed to start small, get smaller
and then stay that way."
"Well, that's what happened -- "
"I *know* that's what happened. I was there -- I'm here! This is me
we're talking about. I am three hands high. I've been three hands high
ever since I can remember. I weigh -- what? Twenty lousy mark? A lot
more right now because I'm bundled up in these layers of scraps trying
to keep warm -- and not succeeding very well. Babies weigh measures more
than I do. Everything weighs measures more than I do. I'm ridiculous."
"You're not ridiculous -- "
"I am! Gerevin, I'm seventeen and a half years old now, right?
That's what we figured from what I remember old Pfevver talking about. I
slept for nearly five years under that altar and I was ten when *that*
started. So I'm nearly eighteen!"
Brother Muskrat sighed. Yes, perhaps calling her an adult was
overstating the case. "Being eighteen doesn't make you ridiculous," he
said.
Whatever Mouse was about to say, she snapped her mouth shut
instead. "Ha ha," she finally responded, without mirth. "That's not what
I meant. What I meant was that I'm pretty much grown up and I'm not
grown up at all. I'm grown small. Now, what am I supposed to do with a
tiny life?"
"Calligraphy can be very rewarding," Brother Muskrat suggested.
Because he was a fairly honest man, he didn't suggest the thought with
much conviction. Mouse was of course very skilled at the detailed work
that could make pleasure out of reading, but Muskrat knew that
calligraphy was not the answer she was looking for.
Mouse knew it too. She glared at Muskrat, her temper not quite so
tattered that she would shout a curt dismissal of the whole art. But she
was a little annoyed that he would even bother suggesting it as a
possible summary for her existence. "Very," she finally muttered.
"Tiniest calligrapher in Baranur -- Oh, I'll be a real favorite with the
minstrels for that."
"Do you want to be a favorite of minstrels?" Muskrat asked. "I
thought you already learned how dangerous a little attention can be."
"I know *that*," Mouse replied, idly twirling herself before the
fire.
Muskrat watched her silent dance and smiled. Her small size, he
thought, seemed to magnify her intrinsic grace and prettiness -- even
were she normally sized, she'd be attractive -- into something
wonderfully fey. Magical, he decided, though he knew she hated the word.
He ignored the drying ink on his pen and simply enjoyed for a moment the
sight of her. She was lovely, a pleasure simply to look at. He wondered
if that was all that knight -- that Sir Ongis -- had thought when he'd
taken Mouse and kept her in a birdcage. And that other man, who'd
grabbed her on a riverbank. Had they simply wanted to capture and cage
up beauty? It was a dark notion, possessing loveliness, close -- very
close -- to jealousy. But jealousy was something any lover could
understand, Muskrat mused. Understand, if not agree with.
"I'm going to Dargon," Mouse suddenly announced, coming to a stop.
"What for?" Brother Muskrat asked reflexively.
"Well ..." Mouse's small voice trailed away into silence. She
needed to think about what reason for going to Dargon she cared to say
aloud to Muskrat.
But Muskrat didn't worry about that. Mentally, he was kicking
himself for asking. After all, that was the sort of question a jealous
-- well, possessive -- man would ask a woman. Not that Muskrat cared to
think that he was possessive of her. Rather, he was being protective.
That was normal. That was appropriate for men. Men protected and women
and children needed protection. And Mouse clearly required protection.
Not so much as to require keeping her in a birdcage all the time, of
course, but it was appropriate to offer some.
"I've been very sheltered here," Mouse finally said.
Muskrat put down his pen and stared at her.
"Maybe I've been *too* sheltered here."
"What -- ?"
"I mean," Mouse quickly continued, "I'm grateful that you have all
protected me from the world, while I've been here. It's been almost like
home again, almost, since everyone here has mostly treated me like just
a person. And you've taught me to read and given me work to do writing
copies of manuscripts that you receive. I like drawing the illuminations
and painting them -- and reading through the text to figure out what the
subject of the picture should be ..."
Muskrat half-heard her. He had to wonder, since she'd raised the
question, could protection be imposed when it wasn't wanted? And if it
were, did that mean that the imposition of protection was wrong, or that
the beneficiary was simply incompetent to judge whether it was called
for?
"... And I enjoyed trying to master the occasional mathematical
treatises that Terkan of Dargon sends along from time to time," Mouse
smiled.
"Math books? Oh, you and Brother Martren are probably the only ones
who like those things," Muskrat remarked. "It's a good thing both of you
have a clear hand."
"Thank you. I've been happy here, mostly."
"Mostly," Brother Muskrat repeated. Was the amount of protection
Mouse had at Rockway House stifling? But didn't she need it? Hadn't the
previous kidnapping experiences proved it?
"I just don't think I want to stay here the rest of my life."
"You could if you did want."
"Yes, but ..." There was that pause again. She didn't want. Brother
Muskrat sighed, the image of Rockway house as a very large birdcage
flitting through his mind. Mouse was safe here. She was free to share
her beauty and grace here, but only as long as she didn't want to leave.
If she did want to leave, then even though he'd want to shield Mouse
from the Sir Ongises and protect her from the harsh world beyond the
House, he couldn't do that and remain different from the Ongises. One
sometimes had to be wary of one's own good intentions.
"I have a mission to complete," Mouse declared.
"Mission?" Brother Muskrat picked up his pen and began writing.
With a casualness that tore at him, he asked, "What mission?"
"Sir Ongis Fishteller killed my parents. It can't be right that he
can do that and not get punished for it."
"I thought you did punish him," Brother Muskrat said calmly. "His
wife recovered from a deadly illness and you asked her to hate him the
rest of his life. I thought that was an awfully appropriate
retribution."
"Maybe, but I don't think it was very effective. And my sword of
justice -- "
"You've been reading too much of Brother Anthony's romances,"
Brother Muskrat smiled. But the smile felt empty. If Mouse had been
reading that stuff, then no wonder she was tiring of the calm ease of
Rockway House.
"They're very entertaining. Anyway, the hate's not happening. Ongis
isn't suffering a bit. "
"How do you know?"
"Sir Ongis is at present without a wife," Mouse said dryly. "I
don't know exactly what happened to her since eight years ago, but banns
have been posted for Sir Ongis to get a new one."
"I see. And you think you want to stop this?"
"Yes."
"Because you don't know what happened to the previous wife?"
"Because the prospective one is marrying a murderous fiend who's
probably never loved in his life -- "
"This is a knight's marriage we're talking about," Brother Muskrat
said dryly. "Love can come later, if it does at all."
Mouse glared at him. "That's awful," she said. "She's not even
supposed to love him?"
"Why should she?" Muskrat asked. "She hardly knows him."
"You can say that again. Well, I intend to make sure she does know
him -- more about him, anyway."
"How?"
"Well, the marriage isn't scheduled until next Winter Court, so I
have some time. But since he's a knight, I guess I have to go see Sir
Ongis's lord and complain to him about Ongis being a disgusting dog who
murders wives and parents.
"That's *your* parents, not his."
"He might've done both."
"You don't know that. You don't even know how his previous wife
died."
"She was in perfect health when I left her."
"She might have had an accident."
"A fall from a horse? Brought about by tack that just happened to
wear out when she was cantering along the cliff?"
"You have been reading too much of Anthony's stuff, haven't you?"
Brother Muskrat asked.
"It does give a girl ideas. But Muskrat, the fact remains: Sir
Ongis is unpunished for killing my parents and I must go ask the Duke of
Dargon for justice."
"Well." Brother Muskrat looked at Mouse. He saw a woman with a
purpose, not that he cared especially for the nature of the purpose. Not
when the purpose would carry her into what he considered to be a very
dangerous town -- dangerous to anyone, male or female, small or large.
He saw also a new adult who needed to be free, lest she decide that the
house she was living in was confining her. He saw a girl who needed
protection deciding that she didn't want it just now.
He was about to suggest that Mouse would want an escort when she
said "Well what?"
Brother Muskrat looked again at Mouse. This time, he saw a woman
with a purpose, *her* purpose. She was intent on it, he realized. He
felt suddenly the fact that she *was* fey. She was small and everything
around her was gigantic. She lived in a world that he perhaps scarcely
knew. And her parents, ordinary peasants, were, because they were
ordinary peasants, one of the few things that might connect her to the
normal world. They mattered. Parents always mattered. And resolving for
oneself the deaths of one's parents always mattered. And it mattered
even more if you had some sort of role in those deaths. But for Mouse,
perhaps, it mattered even more than all that. Her parents were still a
connection for her to the normal world. Brother Muskrat shivered. Here
was something important. Also, the room was cold.
"Well, there it is," he only said.
In the succeeding months, as the snow gradually melted and became
mud, and the mud eventually dried, was tilled, and became furrows and
seedlings, Mouse remained preoccupied with the idea of going to see the
Duke of Dargon.
She thought about what, exactly, one should say to a Duke. She
wondered whether one should broach the subject cautiously: She was
accusing of being a cold-hearted, ruthless murderer someone who might be
an extremely good friend of the Duke. But perhaps the Duke scarcely knew
the knight and he was, Mouse was sure, a very busy man. Perhaps she
should come right to her point immediately after introducing herself to
him.
Mouse thought about how, precisely, one should phrase an indictment
of one of a duke's underlings for excessive killing. She'd copied a few
books of legal matters, so she knew that such a message was not
necessarily couched in straightforward language. But she did expect,
from seeing the legal records she'd copied, that a lot of this business
would probably need to get recorded on parchment, so she prepared a set
of nibs and quills and inkwells to take with her to Dargon.
She thought about how one finds a Duke: Did one just ask anyone
around the castle where Lord Clifton was working? (She imagined that the
Duke's keep was rather like Rockway House, only with thicker walls.) She
realized the Duke might be uncooperatively absent when she went looking
for him and she might have to wait for an opportune time to talk to him.
For all she knew, he might travel around his Duchy a lot. Brother
Muskrat helped her with this problem, though, writing for her a letter
of introduction to his colleague, Terkan the Mathematician, since Mouse
knew him only by the occasional treatises he sent for copying. Terkan
was a quiet, scholarly man who would likely not have any difficulty with
Mouse staying in a corner of his house for quite a while until she had
had her audience with the Duke.
Mostly, though, she thought about what she would wear.
This was not because she normally thought about what she would
wear. Indeed, she almost never thought about what she was wearing,
except whether there was enough of it to keep her from freezing when in
the cold. After all, she had just one habitual costume and she wore it
nearly all the time. There simply wasn't much to think about.
But one of the few books she had about the Duke spent a great many
words discussing what people wore when visiting him. And the great many
words boiled down to a simple concept: People wore special clothes,
fancy clothes, impressive clothes, when visiting the Duke. So Mouse
needed a special, fancy, impressive dress. She needed something that
would be suitable for appearing in the court of the Duke of Dargon and
that covered attractively her tiny self.
"At least, I think I want to look attractive," she told Sister
Anne, when she went to consult her on this topic. "Don't I? I mean, it
was pretty unpleasant the results I got the last time I dealt with
aristocrats or the like." She fingered a small rip in her chemise,
pulled her chaperon a little bit forward over her head and tightened
slightly the lacing of her sorquanie. "Maybe I should try to look
plain." She studied her scuffed shoes.
Sister Anne looked up from a close examination of some mushroom
spores, a subject she much preferred over nearly all forms of social
interaction. She squinted at Mouse and then shook her head.
"I don't think you can manage plain, dearie," Anne told her. "Not
with the size you are and the slender bones you have and all. Best for
you to try to look attractive. Everyone else at court will be -- they
don't have much else to do -- so it'll help you blend in."
Mouse nodded at this wisdom and went back to designing an
attractive dress to wear. She consulted Brothers who'd been to
fashionable towns, listened to their descriptions, and then hoped for
the best. It didn't seem too hard, not impossible, anyway. She wanted a
new chemise, one that would fit her more closely than her present one
did. Then, she wanted a cote and surcoat, also tight-fitting above the
waist and flowing attractively below it. All that careful measuring and
precise sewing. Not for the first time, Mouse cursed the Duke for
running such a demanding court.
And new shoes, of course -- Mouse remembered -- though those would
have to be left to Brother Gorim. And once she'd designed the thing,
Mouse had to acquire the materials and make the thing. This took time.
She encountered delays getting things and then she encountered delays
learning to sew well. Nobody in Rockway House knew more about sewing
than she did, which wasn't much. Most of the time, most of the people at
the House looked a little patched together, which was all right in the
community but not acceptable to Mouse if she was going to go talk to the
Duke. So she consulted the one text on the construction of clothing that
could be found in the House -- and discovered that it seemed to be more
loathe to yield its knowledge than any mathematical treatise she'd
encountered. She persevered though, and the number of times she had to
rip out her stitches and start over was not too terribly excessive. But
it wasn't zero either.
The cote was pale blue linen and the surcoat was dark purple.
Brother Anselm had made her wonder about the wisdom of that choice by
mentioning that he'd read somewhere that the color purple was reserved
for royalty. But everyone else at the House had said they'd seen a good
deal of purple in Dargon Town and of course the color wasn't reserved
for anyone. So Mouse had felt better until she started worrying whether
she'd even be noticed in purple.
And the surcoat was velvet. Though Brother Muskrat had said
something about the cost, Mouse had been pleased enough with the
material until a few hot days just before she left the House made her
worry that the outfit might have her sweating too much before the Duke.
But Brother Thibald had told her that Dargon Town was right by the ocean
and didn't get that hot, even in summer.
It all took longer than she hoped it would. When Melrin came, she
was still not quite ready. Instead, it was several weeks after that when
Mouse modelled her costume for Brother Muskrat for what she hoped was
the last time.
"Well?" she asked, tugging on her cote. Truth to tell, it hadn't
come out quite right.
He eyed disapprovingly the neckline. It wasn't especially close to
her neck. "You're sure that's appropriate?" he asked.
"You've asked me that every time I tried this on," Mouse said. "No,
I don't know, but everyone I've asked has said that this is how women
dress at the Duke's court. I've done the best I can."
"Yes," Muskrat agreed, "I regret to say that I can see no flaw or
omission in your work. You're lovely."
"Regret?" Mouse smiled.
"I've already told you several times that the Port of Dargon is a
dangerous place and that I don't think you should be going there by
yourself." Brother Muskrat had found several occasions to reverse his
initial, metaphysical response and attempt to bring rational analysis to
the issue.
"And I've already told you that it doesn't matter if you or any
other Brother or Sister is or isn't available to accompany me to the
city," Mouse replied, having on each occasion evidenced to him that his
reading of her firmness of will had been accurate. "I need to go, and
seeing the Duke is something I need to do myself. We've argued about
this before."
"Repeatedly, and Mouse, you are a very stubborn little woman."
"Why? Because I won't give in and say 'Yes, Brother Muskrat, please
carry me everywhere I need to go whenever it should happen that you're
willing to go to Dargon. Next year, next decade, next century.
Whatever's convenient for you will be fine with me'?"
"You know I do go up to the city from time to time -- "
"But not now."
"It's not a good time now -- "
"Now meaning this year."
Brother Muskrat shrugged.
"Well, now's the only time for me," Mouse insisted. "I want to see
Dargon. I want to see the Duke."
"But are you still sure that that's a good idea?" Muskrat asked.
"Who else is there?" Mouse asked back. "Sir Ongis is a knight. The
Duke's his commander."
"Yes, but are you still sure that it's a good idea asking anyone
for punishment upon Sir Ongis?"
Mouse gazed at Muskrat from the table she'd used for modeling. Then
she looked down at her skirts. She walked a slow circle deciding what to
say. She wasn't absolutely sure that this was the right thing to do. Her
memory of Sir Ongis was horrible and, occasionally, she had nightmares
that featured his heavy, mostly lupine visage. She knew that he would
react badly to her bringing up this old crime. As for the Duke, people
at the House had told her that he was said to be fair and just. So she
had a good character reference but it was at third hand. How he'd react
to this case she had no idea. How could she be sure that this was a good
idea?
But she was sure that she needed to do something. That much she
knew and, until she could think of a better something she could do to
bury her parents peacefully, what she had would have to do. She looked
up at Muskrat and said "Yes."
"All right," Brother Muskrat acceded, as he'd always done before.
"The good news is that your delays in the dressmaking mean that you want
to go up to town at the same time as our first shipment of rhubarb
relish. Could you stand traveling with several dozen quiet jars of
preserve?"
Mouse frowned. "You pack them in a barrel, don't you?" she asked.
"And ship the barrel down the river," Brother Muskrat agreed. "That
would, I think provide you with a fairly discreet entrance to the city."
"I have to pack," Mouse assented.
"Same goes for the barrel."
The barrels were never packed tightly with jars of rhubarb relish,
Brother Muskrat had assured her. There was always a fair amount of hay
-- rough and scratchy hay -- packed in to keep the jars separated. So it
was hardly going to trouble anyone if this shipment had a Mouse packed
in as well. Most of her stuff made reasonable packing material anyway,
certainly as soft as that irritating hay was. She looked at her
rucksack, formerly a pouch that Brother Thibald had kept on his belt
when he traveled. It held now the few miscellaneous possessions that
Mouse had accumulated while living at Rockway House and -- most
importantly -- the clothing in which she intended to call upon the Duke
of Dargon.
So that was how she entered Dargon, sweltering in a barrel.
She'd gotten out of it, of course, when she needed to during the
trip. A hole in the barrel allowed for that, and Brother Muskrat had
worked a deal with the most trustworthy crewmember on the barge so that,
if things went wrong and she was found, it wouldn't be a complete
disaster. That was as much protection as Mouse would let Muskrat provide
her. That and a letter of introduction to the former Brother Terkan in
Dargon that he'd sent ahead.
Unfortunately, the reliable crewman hadn't been around when the
barge was unloaded into a warehouse in Dargon Town. Mouse found herself
looking out the hole in her barrel at a wall that was flush up against
her only exit.
========================================================================
Pudlong and the Beanstock
Part I
by Jim Owens
<gym@ncweb.com>
Late Spring, 1016
Pudlong knew the smell of the earth. He knew the smell of warm,
freshly turned soil, ready for planting. He knew the smell of hot, arid
dirt, aching for a rain that was too long in coming. He knew the faint
odor of beans ripe and ready to pick. He also knew the smell of dead,
wet plants, sodden with the rains of autumn and laced with decay. But
the smell he was smelling was as strange as the sight which lay before
his eyes.
"'Ere, Thully, whadya maka this?" He called out to his wife, who
was a few yards away, pulling weeds from between some bean plants. She
straightened, her long brown hair framing her sturdy face. She stepped
over the rows of plants as she made her way to Pudlong's side. She
stared down at the sight which had given her husband pause.
"Oooo, don't rightly know, luv." She stooped and plucked a finger
full of leaves off a nearby plant and held them up to her face. Thully
studied them carefully. Instead of the usual dark green, these specimens
were pink. Others around her were blue and orange and yellow, and not
just the usual yellow, but a bright, almost glowing yellow. She shook
her head, her loose tresses swaying gently. "You'd thank they'd up and
gone flowers on us." She held them to her nose and sniffed the faintly
perfumed aroma they emitted.
Pudlong put his hands on his hips and shook his head slowly. He was
not a man of great intellect or quick wit. As a peasant farmer he didn't
need to be. His master told him when to plant, and when to harvest, when
to weed and when to pray. His was a life of work and toil, not study or
adventure. As long as he stayed in tune with the cycle of the seasons,
Pudlong was likely to do well, under his master's steady hand. Strange
events like pink bean sprouts just didn't fit into his small world.
But ever since the strange happenings from that wizard started,
Pudlong's nice predictable life had taken a slight twist. It had started
with knights and adventurers appearing in his beanfield: lured to a
nearby cave by the legend of hidden gold, they were whisked away by
sorcery to appear in Pudlong's plot of land. After that the visions
began: strange images, sounds and smells floating above the ground.
Finally there appeared strange lights and mists, in the early evening
and in the morning. Always they happened in this particular bean patch.
Pudlong had wanted to move, but his lord insisted that he stay put. Now
there were pink bean plants growing in his field.
The two peasants continued their labor, moving carefully around the
rainbow- colored shoots, almost afraid to touch them. By the time of the
evening prayers, both Pudlong and Thully had put thoughts of strangely
colored plants out of their heads, concentrating instead on words of
praise for Stevene and words of thanks for their food. By the time they
fell asleep they were too tired to notice the wisps of light dancing
over the distant bean patch.
The next day Pudlong went alone to gather up the strange bean
plants. He carefully plucked up all the pink ones, then all the blue
ones, then the orange, then the yellow, all the while being careful not
to mix the colors. There weren't that many -- each color only filled one
sack apiece. When he was done, he set the sacks together in the center
of the disturbed area. He studied them a while, then walked back to the
hut. He returned with a shovel, dug a hole, poured the uprooted plants
in it, and covered it up.
Sunset found the couple busily mending their sacks in the twilight.
A simple lard lamp shed its light on their work. Pudlong found himself
casting furtive glances at Thully as she wove the plats through the torn
matting. He was fascinated by the play of light and dark across her
face. He had always admired her hair, ever since they had met the week
of their wedding. Years of work and wear had wrinkled her cheeks, but
her hair was still long and smooth. He touched it, and received a
playful slap. She smirked, but did not look up. He poked her lightly in
the ribs, and she squeaked.
"Behave," she admonished, but he poked her again. Another slap
followed. Pudlong let her be for a moment, then tickled her leg,
snatching his hand away so that her slap landed on her own thigh.
"Now what's the matter of slappin' yourself?" he asked innocently.
She reached out an arm to retaliate, but he was already sitting on the
next stool over, where she couldn't reach. She moved to his stool, arm
out and ready to strike, and he slipped around the tiny table to her
vacated spot, staying out of reach. She jumped to her feet to pursue,
and in moments the game of tag became a friendly wrestling match that
lingered into the night. The moon was already up by the time Pudlong
lifted his snoring wife off the floor and laid her in their bed. He
stared a moment out the window at the moon, the swaying branches
silhouetted against its pale face, then lay down beside his mate and
closed his eyes. As he faded into sleep, he wondered how branches could
sway, as there was no wind. No matter, he told himself foggily, there
are no trees near the hut anyway.
The dawn found Pudlong and Thully out weeding the beans again.
Theirs was a world of quiet leaves and moist soil, as each worked face
down, never seeing further than the next plant. As the day slowly
lightened, they were working just east of the spot where Pudlong had
buried the beans the night before. Now Pudlong stopped a moment to stand
and stretch, facing the sun as it brightened the horizon. Thully rolled
back on her rump, yawning. She stopped then, and stared for a moment at
something behind Pudlong. She rubbed her eyes, and stared again. She
then slowly got to her feet, her eyes fixed. Pudlong saw this strange
behavior, and turned around. Thully began to back away, then broke and
ran for the hut, frightened noises coming from her mouth, while Pudlong
just stared at the pillar of green that now stood where the beans had
been interred the night before. Finally, without a word, he just fell
flat on his back and lay still.
Several weeks later, Levy and Sarah Barel were immersed in an
intense discussion.
"No, we are not going. Do you know how hard a trip like that would
be? You say we can take the children along, fine. Do you know what
dangers are out there? Sure, you traveled some before we were married.
But that was before the war. There are murderers loose out there! Packs
of bandits who will kill for food! Not to mention disease, wild animals,
have you ever had to face a wild animal with nothing but a sword? I
have, and it wasn't fun, I tell you. And the kids! It's trouble enough
to take them to the commons anymore, and you want to take them to the
other end of the world!? No, we are not going south to see this magic
bean plant."
"But Levy," Sarah countered, "you promised."
Levy sighed. He stared across the river from the bank where he and
Sarah lay, watching the children splash and swim. His mind was not quite
there, however. He was remembering making that promise to Sarah, that
night in the great hall. They had been arguing, and to placate his wife
he had promised her that he would travel less, and that when he did
travel, the whole family would go. Now his words were returning to him,
and they sounded less pleasant now.
"I agree that it would be a good thing for the children to get out
and see some of the world, but let's wait for something useful to go
for. We don't know anything about this fabled beanstalk from the south.
For all we know it could be a tall tale."
"Very tall, from what I hear," Sarah replied, a slight smile on her
face. Levy was fortunate that she was good natured. Some women would
have picked him threadbare until he consented. She was merely
persistent.
"And what of the farm? Who would tend it while we were gone?" Levy
was grasping now. His best arguments had been easily turned aside by his
mate, and he was beginning to see the inevitable conclusion to this
discussion closing in on him.
"The same people who tended it when you were away for months and
even years as a young man. Why should now be any different?"
"Why now? Only a wife, four children, one not even walking yet, the
responsibilities of the adult son of the village elder, scores of
possible business transactions put on hold indefinitely, and a crop to
tend." These were only thoughts in his head, though. All Levy said was,
"Why should it?"
Sarah got up from the spot where they and the other villagers were
sunning themselves on the warm grass. The first nice weather of the new
year had drawn the whole village to river for the spring washing. It was
as if the immediacies of life had been eased for a brief moment, and
everyone wanted to grasp the chance to relax a moment before the hard
labor of the summer descended. Levy's family was no exception. Sarah
brushed the dirt and leaves off her behind as she walked down into the
water to join her children in their fun.
Levy watched them as wordless thoughts milled about in his mind.
Remembrances of the dangers and hardships of his youthful travels
competed with the fond memories of the wonders and opportunities those
same travels had presented. He took a moment to check Taffy, who lay
sprawled beside him, her legs and arms splayed out like a sleeping
puppy. He levered himself up on his elbows. He would have liked to have
gone down into the water as well, but someone had to stay and watch the
baby. As a father, husband, and leader in the village, his own desires
were not his first consideration.
"Hello, Levy." Levy looked up from his thoughts to see Lara
approaching, stepping between chatting peasants and napping youngsters,
carrying a basket of clothes on her head.
"Hello, Lara. How are you today?"
"Well. If you want, I can watch Taffy for you while you go swim.
I'm just here to do the wash -- it can wait, and she'll be no trouble."
"No, that's all right. I can manage. Thanks anyway."
She nodded and continued down to the waters edge, where she and
Sarah spoke for a moment. The two headed upstream to join the other
women where the water was not yet muddied. They waded out to center of
the shallow flow, where an outcropping of rock allowed them to rest the
bundle of clothes while they worked. While Lara added her own dingy
dress to the pile, Sarah began to wash the clothes, dipping each item in
the clear water, then wringing it and pounding it with a smooth stone.
Watching the two, Levy smiled. Even after four children Sarah was
still the most beautiful woman in the village. There were no lines on
her face, her dark hair held no grey at all, and her breasts and hips
were wide and firm. Listening to her sing to the children at night eased
the furrows from his brow, and all living things thrived under her
gentle care, especially the kids.
Levy shook his head, turning his attention to his offspring as they
cavorted with the other village children in the still-cold water. It
amazed him to think that he had ever been that young. Still, children
didn't stay young forever. Already Eli was strong enough to guide the
oxen in plowing, and too soon his voice would break and he would become
an adult. Eleya, who was currently engaging in a mudfight with Lara's
boy and girl, was not far behind her older brother, and even Jen, who
was chasing crayfish in the shallows, was a help in the vegetable
garden. It seemed like only a bell ago that it had been Jen who was the
baby wrapped in swaddle, and Eli who was so fond of crawling things.
And maybe, just maybe, it hadn't been so long ago that he himself
had been a young, single man, roaming the countryside at will,
discovering new and amazing vistas around each turn in the road. It
seemed like ages ago since he had learned a new language, or visited a
new city, or even seen the towers of Magnus, that huge, sophisticated
city that was the jewel of the King's royal crown.
Suddenly Levy felt rusty, creaky, not quite old, but more stiff
than anything else. The war *was* over, and from what Levy had heard,
this beanstalk was more than just a myth. A happening like this would
not come again for a long time. Perhaps it *was* time to venture out
again, to seek his fortune in the world, with his wife at his side and
his son and daughters with him. He tried to picture this, but each time
he did, all he could see was himself walking for miles in the sun, one
exhausted child in his left arm and another hanging on the right. He
sighed, and turned to cover Taffy up, so she wouldn't get too much sun.
"Daddy, look what I caught!!"
He turned to see Jen standing there, every part of her completely
coated in shiny, grey mud, holding up a squirming crayfish for his
approval. She looked for all the world like a tiny knight, clad in wet
armor. He almost chuckled. "Very nice, Jen. Are there any others?"
Without a word she turned and ran back down into the river,
shrieking with joy as the water sprayed up around her. He nodded.
Perhaps it was his turn, as it had been his father's turn before him, to
give his children the world.
The air wasn't quite as cold for the novice as the water had been
for the Barel children, but nonetheless the hair on his bare skin stood
on end as he carried the scroll carefully to his master's chamber. It
was more fear than chill that inspired this, however. It was
uncomfortable to walk into the master's chamber, naked and unprotected,
but even a full suit of mail would have been little protection from that
man's baleful glare. The novice shuddered as he pushed open the thick
door and stepped inside. The air was warmer there, thick with exotic
odors and rank with age. It was not a friendly warmth, however, and the
novice shivered yet again.
"Finally!" The master emerged from behind a screen to snatch the
scroll from the young man's hands. "You're sure it's the right one?" He
unrolled it without waiting for the reply, his cold grey eyes devouring
the script.
"It has the words you told me to look for, master," the novice
replied, his arms wrapped around his thin chest. "May I go back to bed
now, or at least dress and eat?"
"Dress and eat, yes, but come right back when you're through -- I
may yet need you for something."
The novice nodded and hurried out the door and down the long hall
back toward the his chambers. As his bare feet slapped the stone floor
he pondered. What insanity had prompted the master to pull him from his
warm blankets and thrust him off onto this crazy search with only a few
words to guide him? As he padded along, the novice held the wax tablet
before his face, re-reading the words scratched in its surface. What
exactly was a "legume"? And why was the master so interested in the
legends of the South? He shook his head in disgust. It was too early for
such foolishness.
It was later than he thought, however. The other novices were
already getting ready for the ritual morning washings. Food and clothing
was out of the question. He paused a moment. Should he help them prepare
as usual, or return to the master's chamber? The decision took only a
moment. He proceeded to help the other novices, filling the water pots
from the well and heating them for the master's baths. As he worked he
mulled over what the master had said. With the words jangling around in
his head, he paused a moment by the fire to get warm
Ignoring the movements and voices of the other young men and women
of the novice corp, the novice rubbed his hands over his goose-fleshed
arms and legs, wishing he go outside into the warm sun, instead of going
to stand on the cold stone of the master chamber and shiver with the
novices while a bunch of old men and women chanted and splashed water
around. He often wondered what he had done to be cursed with such a
miserable existence. Still, things could be worse. He could be one of
the latrine-diggers. Finally the water was hot, and he joined the other
novices as they dragged the heavy pots to the master chamber.
A month after its sudden appearance, Pudlong and Thully were still
getting used to the idea of the beanstalk. After the local teacher of
Stevene had come and looked the thing over, they were able to be
convinced to return to their fields, but they continued to glance up at
it with worried looks for several days afterward. Pudlong had wanted to
chop it down, but the lord had refused. He liked having something
strange and unusual in his back yard -- it provided some excitement.
One day, while Pudlong and Thully were working their field, a
strange man rode up to their cottage. He was about forty, with grey in
his beard, but he still looked strong. He wasn't bent, so that meant he
was noble, or at least freeborn. He carried a sword, but no mail, and
his horse had fine livery, but no recognizable ducal crest. As the
couple watched, the man rode his horse over the bean plants to the base
of the stalk. He dismounted, and stared for long mene up into the
foliage high above. Without a word he started climbing.
Higher and higher he climbed, until Pudlong and Thully lost sight
of him among the huge leaves. They finally stopped looking and returned
to their beans. They continued weeding, passing by the massive plant
once or twice as they made their way up and back the long furrows. After
about four bells they both cast startled eyes upward. Had that been
thunder? There were no clouds in the sky. The sonorous boom rolled out
across the land again. Pudlong thought it had sounded more like a loud,
deep voice than any thunder he had ever heard. When it didn't happen
again, they shrugged and returned to weeding, but it wasn't more than a
mene later that they heard another sound -- a scream. They again looked
up, and watched in shock as a tiny figure fell into view, tumbling and
howling. His cacophony ended suddenly as he hit the ground about a
furlong away. Thully covered her eyes for a moment, then they looked at
each other, at a loss for words.
Finally Pudlong spoke. "D'ya rekkin' that would be D'yarn's field
over there?" He indicated the impact point.
"Looks like," hazarded Thully, still not willing to look.
They stood in silence a moment more.
"The Lord hadn't told us we could go out there, 'ad 'e?" Pudlong
asked.
"No, I rekkin' not," Thully replied, staring through her fingers at
Pudlong with one wide eye.
They stood in silence again.
"Then I rekkin' it must be up to D'yarn then."
There was another long pause.
"Rekkin' so," Thully answered. They stared at each other for a
moment, looked over at the poor soul's resting place, then returned to
weeding.
"Can you show me again how you do that?"
Eli trotted along beside Levy and Bren as they walked down the road
together. Behind them came the oxcart that carried Sarah and the girls,
and ahead of them were several other carts: a caravan from the last
village they visited. They had banded together for protection, as was
customary, and were headed for the next town. The Barel's cart was the
last in line. Bren now looked down at the boy. Levy thought he heard
Bren sigh.
"You hold it here, and here," he replied, bending down to show the
child, "and then just do it like this."
Eli did as he was shown, putting the blade of grass to his lips and
blowing. A tentative buzz came forth, stuttering.
"Okay," he replied in thanks, then ran back and climbed back on the
cart.
"You realize he'll be back at least ten more times," Levy
commented.
"I'm never, never having children," muttered Bren.
"How do you know you don't already?" Levy asked. Bren said nothing.
Bren had been hired by Levy to be their bodyguard as they traveled
to see this strange occurrence in the South. Levy often found himself
watching the young man out of the corner of his eye. Levy knew nothing
about him, save that Bartol, Lord Dargon's bard and confident, had
recommended him. Still, Levy was impressed by the stranger's learning.
They were currently engaged in a discussion of religion.
Bren shook his head in disgust. "I can't believe that you of all
people are a Stevenic."
Levy's eyes widened. "Why is that?"
"I mean, you have traveled so much, and you are such a learned man.
Why do you bother with such a foolish old superstition?"
"What gods do you subscribe to, Bren?"
"I have no need of a god to guide me," Bren replied. "I set my own
course. I control my destiny."
Levy smiled as he looked at the young man. "That you do, Bren. That
you do. But surely you must admit that there are things larger than
yourself, that men cannot hope to fully understand?"
"All things large are merely made up of things small," Bren
replied. "Even as a city is merely a collection of individual persons,
so the world is merely a collection of individual pieces." He stooped a
searched for a moment in the gravel by the side of the road. Levy stood
there and waited, watching the cart as it caught up to and passed them.
Sarah looked up from the game she was playing with Jen, a question on
her face. Levy shrugged and turned back to Bren. After a moment Bren
straightened, a rock in his hands. "Look at this rock," he said. Levy
did. It was an aggregate, a stone made up of smaller stones cemented
together. "This looks like one rock at first. Then you see it is really
only small rocks held together. And if you were to look closely at all
these rocks," he waved a hand at the gravel, "you would see that they
are all just made up of smaller pieces."
"Quite so," Levy agreed. "but does that mean there is not something
larger that has put all the small pieces together into the whole?"
Bren tossed the stone away. "Perhaps not, but I see no reason to
change my life just to flatter some large, unknown and unknowable
something."
"Levy," Sarah called from ahead. Levy trotted up to see what she
needed. She pointed up ahead. There the road forked, and some carts were
taking one fork, and others taking the other.
"Which way do we go?" she asked.
"We'll wait to see where the largest number of carts go, then
follow them." In unknown lands, Levy had learned long ago that there was
safety in numbers.
Sarah nodded, watching ahead. Levy did as well, walking alongside.
The majority of carts chose an easterly path, and so did the
Barels. It wasn't long after that they entered a village. Levy
immediately presented himself at the blacksmith shop, to see if there
was an opportunity to work for some quick wages. Failing at that, he
joined Sarah in the market as she bought some food for the journey. They
began asking the usual questions, listening carefully to the strangely
accented replies. Yes, the villagers had heard of the strange beanstalk
in the South. No, they didn't know where it was at. No, they had no lord
here, this was a free town. No, they had no gold or silversmith in the
area, perhaps further north near Magnus. Yes, there was an inn, it was
right over there.
Levy and Sarah thanked the villagers. They had followed the same
pattern in each town they encountered. They did not want to be thought
of as wealthy, so they sought work in each town, taking any small jobs
they could. Only when no work was available would they then find a
wealthy family or merchant and secretly sell them some of Sarah's gold-
and silver-work. They worked as quietly as they could, to avoid
spreading the word that a silver-smith was peddling wares on the road.
Even one loose tongue could easily bring unwanted attention to the
family.
Bren was much more open. Levy had paid half his wages in advance,
so Bren had coin to spend, which he did freely. Of course, he was a
strong young man in the prime of life, well armed and not traveling
alone. He feared little, and was learning much. Each meal at each inn
became a language lesson, or a history lesson, or a geography lesson.
Each time he stopped he would immediately seek out the local inn, and
the local innkeeper's daughter (of which there were sometimes multiple
examples), and promptly impress her with his learning and sophistication
(or sometimes his charm and naivete, depending on the woman). And all
the time he was writing, taking notes. Several years before he would
have scorned such a frivolity -- now it was his hobby, and useful for
loosening tongues.
The group had been traveling for well over a month now. The boat
ride to Magnus had been followed by travel using the cart they had
purchased in the royal city. The tales of the beanstalk had always drawn
them south-east, and were now beginning to take on more realistic
detail. Levy even had a name now -- Pudlong. The image it conjured in
his mind was a hilarious one, but it was slowly taking on a more human
aspect as he weeded the legend from the truth. Levy felt that he was
closing in on the target of his journey.
At the same time Levy and Sarah were working to procure food for
their family, two others were also making the journey south. These two
rode horses, however, and were making much better time than Levy. Of
course, since they started later, this meant that they were not even to
Magnus yet.
The novice cursed his luck for perhaps the twentieth time that day.
His saddle sores were not healing, and the master refused to give him
any help creating a balm to ease them. His own feeble concoctions
smelled bad, and did little. Further, the stupid animal he had drawn
from the royal stables at their last stop refused to gallop for more
than a mene at a time before slowing for grass, requiring the novice to
spur it again or fall behind.
Still, it was better than being cooped up in the sanctuary. The sun
was warm, and the air fresh and mostly unscented. The tedium of morning
washings, afternoon lessons, and evening chores was replaced by simple
riding. Even the master was less odious, even though he refused to do
any cooking or gathering, instead spending his free, non-riding time
staring at the stars at night and reading parchments by day. Each time
they passed through a town the master immediately sequestered himself
with the innkeeper, leaving the novice to fetch food and tend the
horses. But the evenings were free, and the novice wisely spent them
doing absolutely nothing.
========================================================================
A Turn of Faith
by Mark A. Murray
<mmurray@weir.net>
Magnus; Naia, 1015
The sun shone brightly upon me as I walked the streets of Magnus.
The warm light filled my body and drove out the chill of spring. I
enjoyed the beautiful morning on my way to the guardhouse, and it was as
if Cephas Stevene was walking with me, giving me warmth of conviction.
I took it upon myself to visit some of the prisoners and try to
bring them into the light of the Stevene. The people who came into the
Stevenic temple did so of their own free will and needed little to guide
them along the path of the Stevene. They wanted to walk in the Stevene's
Light, but prisoners were different. They neither walked in Stevene's
Light nor wanted to. Bringing them to God looked to be a difficult task,
and I wanted more than supplicating devout followers.
Not knowing where to start, I chose those prisoners who were
sentenced to death. I thought that their souls needed comfort the most.
It was these prisoners that would also be the most difficult to bring to
Stevene's Light. But in that aspect, I was wrong. Of the three prisoners
I met, all seemed willing to embrace the Stevene. It was as if at the
end of their life, they realized that they needed God's loving embrace.
While my visits weren't officially approved by the church (as my
duties did not include them), they weren't disapproved either. As I
approached the guardhouse to visit my fourth prisoner, two guards
stopped me.
"Another visit?" the first guard asked. "This is the fourth one.
What is it you seek to find, priest?"
"You have a new prisoner?" I asked the second guard, not wanting to
answer his inquiry. "Cephas forgive me," I prayed silently, "for I know
that this guard needs your wisdom, too, but I have only time enough for
the prisoner today." My work at the temple demanded most of my time.
"We have three new ones," the second guard answered.
"And all three are to be hanged?"
"Well, no ..."
"I am here to help those whose life is near an end," I said. "The
others can call for aid when they have atoned for their crimes. You have
a new prisoner, and I wish to speak with him." As the guard turned to
open the door, I hoped that my speech wouldn't find its way back to my
superiors. That all were deserving of salvation was a tenet of Cephas,
but I did not have the time to save them all.
"This is getting too routine for my liking," the first guard said.
"But, yes, we do have a new prisoner who is to be hanged tomorrow. Come
on, and I'll show you where he is."
"Thank you," I replied following the guard. We went through the
door to the guardhouse and left the shining sun behind us. There were
enough windows to keep the room brightly lit, but the sun could not be
seen. I still felt the warmth of the sun coursing through me, though,
and silently praised Cephas for that warmth.
Going through that room, we went into a back room where the light
diminished more. Here, there were shadows throughout where the sun's
light could not reach. Crossing this room, the guard unbolted a door. I
looked down those dark stairs, and the scent of mold and darkness wafted
up from below. A cold chill ran down my spine and my body shook
involuntarily.
"It looks so dark down there, today," I thought. "Cephas be with
me," I muttered aloud as I tried to wrap myself in His warmth.
"What was that?" the guard asked.
"I said it feels so cold in here today," I replied, ashamed that I
had not told him the truth. "Why does the cold seem to bother me so?" I
wondered. The chill of the basement seemed colder than before, and then
I realized that the sun had warmed my body so much that I felt the cold
more. "But why am I ashamed to say that I prayed to the Stevene for more
warmth? Is my faith so weak that the cold of a common room can dispel
it?" I had no more time for thoughts as the guard descended the stairs.
With the sun blocked by stone and only torches to show the way, I
walked down into the cellars. The daylight slowly eroded away to be
replaced by the damp, cold earth. Torches were set in the walls to light
the cellar, but there were not enough of them to see into all the cells.
My warmth was holding against the cold, stone walls, but I could feel
the dampness attacking me. It chiseled away at my outer fringes and
searched for entry into my body and my soul.
"He's in here," the guard said, pointing to a cell. I stepp
ed
closer to look through the bars and into the cell. My eyes weren't fully
accustomed to the dark, yet, but in the far corner away from much of the
light, I thought I saw movement.
"Move over here where we can see you," the guard ordered. There was
a swirl of movement as a man stepped into the reflected torchlight. He
was tall with long dark hair that hung in the front covering much of his
face and shoulders. He wore a ragged shirt and torn pants, but no shoes.
His head hung down, and he walked forward as if each step pained him.
His body was bent over somewhat as if some large weight were pushing
down upon his shoulders. From his movements, I guessed that he was an
older man.
"This is brother Tyree, a priest of Stevene, and he's here to talk
with you," the guard told him before turning back to me. "Knock on the
door at the top of the stairs when you want out," he said and then left.
I did not watch the guard leave, as my attention was on the prisoner.
"Do you know who the Stevene was?" I asked as an introduction. When
there was no response, I continued, "Cephas Stevene was a man who
believed in the inherent goodness of all men. He considered all men as
his brothers and loved --" I was interrupted with a snort of derision
from the prisoner.
"Is something wrong?" I asked. The man's head was tilted down and
his face was still hidden.
"What do you know of love?" the prisoner asked in a dry, hoarse
voice, head still hung down.
"I know that --"
"You know nothing, priest!" the prisoner spat as his head came up.
"Don't talk about love!"
"What has happened that you do not believe in love?" I asked softly
as I saw the prisoner was a young man, not an older adult as he seemed
earlier.
"It's not me who doesn't believe, priest," he replied. He moved
forward to clench the bars. "Not me," he repeated staring into my eyes.
"Forgive me for being presumptuous. I see now that there is someone
in your life that you love," I told him, not looking away from his
stare.
"Yes, I loved someone once."
"Loved?"
"She's dead. Murdered," the prisoner sighed and stepped back.
Glancing at me, he said, "No, that isn't why I am here. I would never
harm her, but she is part of the reason that I'm here. It's a sad story,
priest. If you will listen, I'll tell it. If I don't tell it today, then
it will die with me, and no one will know the truth."
"I will listen, just let me get a stool so I may sit." I turned and
grabbed a stool. As I sat on the stool, it wobbled. Not wanting to fall
off, I was forced to move the stool until it was firm beneath me.
Looking up at the prisoner, I saw that he hadn't moved. Before I could
spur him on, he began speaking.
"I'm a farmer's son. If things were different, I would be a farmer
right now. A farmer in a very small village south of here.
"I met Tess --"
"Tess?" I interrupted.
"The woman I loved. Her name was Te'senth, but I called her Tess. I
met her one day while I was hunting in the forest near our village. I
got as close to a deer as I could and was just about to shoot it with an
arrow. I pulled the bowstring back to my cheek ...
The string touched my cheek as I aimed the arrow at the deer.
Concentrating on the deer, I didn't notice, or hear, the figure step
beside me.
"You'll miss," came a soft voice in my ear. I jumped in surprise,
let the string go, and watched as the arrow flew up into the air.
"What --" I screamed turning to the figure. My words were stuck in
my throat as I caught sight of the woman beside me. She was tall,
somewhat skinny, and beautiful with long black hair hanging down in
waves around her head to below her shoulders. Her eyes were dark and
glinted with mischief.
"Told you. I'm never wrong, you know," she said and her voice had a
melodic quality about it. She stepped back, smiled, and looked into my
eyes. I tried to say something, but couldn't find any words. When I did,
it was one syllable questions.
"Who?" I stammered.
"Now, if I told you that, what fun would it be?" she said impishly.
"Huh?"
"A conversation works better when both people are participating
fully."
I stared at her, not knowing what to say.
"If I go away and come back giving you plenty of warning, do you
think you'll be able to say something intelligent? Or are you always
this way?" she asked. I didn't know who this woman was, but there she
was, standing in front of me making fun of me. When I regained some
composure, I was mad.
"That was my supper you let get away!"
"Is food all that you can think of?"
"Is ... ah ..." I stuttered. She was getting the better of me and I
hadn't a clue as to who she was. "No, it isn't, but strangling unknown
women who sneak up on me does cross my mind at times."
"I'm Te'senth. So you can just put that thought out of your mind,
now," she said giggling. The sun shone through the trees and onto her as
she laughed. Like I said, she was tall and skinny, but not so that you'd
think that she was frail. When she moved, she had smooth graceful
movements. I watched her stand there laughing while the sun highlighted
her figure. It was then that my anger left, and I stared at her.
Thinking about how I must have looked when she spooked me, I
couldn't help but laugh. "I wonder where my arrow went?" I asked.
"As high as you jumped, it's probably in the tree tops," she
replied, and we laughed together.
"You looked so concentrated, I couldn't help myself," she told me.
"I do hope that you won't go hungry tonight. If so, I will pick some
plants for you to eat."
"No, we have enough food, but fresh meat was too tempting today.
Where did you come from?"
"My village is that way," she said pointing.
"No, I meant when you startled me. Was I that concentrated?"
"Yes, that's why I couldn't resist. You walked right by me and
didn't even notice me."
"I couldn't have done that. I would have noticed someone as
beautiful as you."
"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" she asked, a smile returning
to her face.
"Yes," I told her.
"No one has ever told me that I'm beautiful. I don't even know your
name."
"Huh? Oh, my name is Mal," I said.
"I have to go, now," she said.
"What? Why?"
"There you go again with those one word sentences. I have to get
back to my village. I shouldn't have stayed away this long. I will meet
you here again, if you wish."
"Meet me here? Again?" I asked full of hope.
"Yes, if you promise to practice speaking in full sentences," she
replied smiling. "In three days, I will meet you here."
"Three days it is," I told her.
"The morning of the third day," she said as she ran away from me
into the forest. "I'll give you fair warning, next time," she yelled as
she disappeared from sight. She was quick and nimble as she ran through
the forest. It was as if the forest was her home, and she was running
from room to room. I should have guessed what village she was from then,
but my head was fuzzy from her presence. It wasn't until later that I
learned who she was, and she never stopped amazing me. Never. Each time
that we met and every time that we were together, she showed me
something new -- something that I never knew existed.
"What were the things that she showed you?" I asked curiously.
"Ah, priest, the most amazing thing she showed me was her love for
*me*. It filled my soul and warmed my being even on the coldest nights.
Have you known a love like that, priest?"
I was about to answer, but the warmth that had filled my body
seemed to have mostly disappeared; replaced with a cold, damp chill that
flourished in the cellar. The chill had crept into me as I had sat
listening, and I hadn't noticed it until now. "Why is my warmth not
holding fast?" I thought. I wondered if my love for Cephas Stevene and
his teachings could be that weak?
"And did you meet her again?" I asked wanting to change the
subject.
"Yes, I did. But before that ...
I walked home in a daze. A wonderful daze, but a daze nonetheless.
I told my family about her when I got home. It was hard not to when my
mother noticed a difference in my attitude. She questioned me until the
truth came out.
It was a small village; word spread, and the teasing started. It
came from my brothers first, then from my friends, and finally from some
of the girls that were around my age. We had a small village, but it
didn't lack for children and young adults.
The most teasing that I got was from Nell. I didn't understand at
the time why she teased me so. Nell and I had grown up together. Where
one of us went, the other followed. I thought we had a great friendship,
and I couldn't understand why she had become so mean to me. Now, as I
look back at it, I think she loved me. But I didn't see that then
because I could only think about Tess.
I met Tess three days later, and then three days later, and three
days later again. I know it was like that, because I always wondered
about it. Three days between each visit and three visits -- something
seemed magical about it, but everything about Tess seemed that way. Each
time we met, she showed me something wonderful. The forest holds
enormous beauty if you know where to look, and she knew.
The first of the three visits happened on a foggy morning. I nearly
got myself lost getting to the same place, but I found it. She was there
waiting for me, and together we walked through the forest. I don't know
where we went, except that I followed her. When we stopped, it was atop
a hill in a what I guessed was a clearing.
"It's too foggy to see anything," I said impatiently.
"Shush and listen," she told me. I did, but couldn't hear anything
at first. When I did hear something, it began as a distant thump and got
louder quickly. The thumping changed to a whoosh as a large bird came
through the fog. It was an eagle and it flew right past our heads in a
slow, lazy way.
The fog had hid it until it was right upon us, and when it finally
came into view, it seemed unreal. Almost like it was an ancient monster
come to plague us. It seemed huge as it soared past us! And close! I
believe I could have reached out and touched it. But I didn't, and it
flew on by into the fog.
"There's two of them, here," Tess said. "They are mates and their
nest is close by. They fly here in the mornings looking for food."
"Amazing," I said as the eagle made a second pass by us, only a
little farther away. The fog was lifting slowly. "Not many people have
seen them, have they?"
"No, not many. But even fewer have seen what waits for us when the
fog lifts."
"What? You have already stolen my heart, are you going to blind me
with wonders as well?"
"Stolen your heart, have I? I thought I had what was freely given.
Do you mean to tell me that I am a lowly thief in the forest?"
"No, I ... um, what I meant is that I ... I love you."
"And I, you," she replied. "Now, be quiet. The fog is lifting and
we must be still." I stared at her while the fog lifted. I looked at
each line on her face, each twist of her hair, each breath she took
until she pointed in front of us. I moved my gaze slowly to look in the
direction she was pointing. At first, I saw nothing, but when a breeze
blew more of the fog away, I saw it. A large stag stood grazing in front
of us. It was larger than any stag that I had ever seen. I started to
count the pointed tines on its antlers, but kept losing the count.
"It is a Great One," she whispered. The stag lifted its head and
looked at us. Not just looked in our direction, but it was as if it was
looking us over -- judging us. I could see an intelligence in its eyes.
"He is beautiful," I whispered to Tess. The stag snorted as if it
heard me.
"Yes, he is, but he gets upset when you tell him," she replied and
the stag bounded away.
That was but the least of the wonders that she showed me. I will
not tell of the other two for they are special to me, and to her. It was
after the third morning that she started to visit me in my village.
"You kept meeting her? Even after the three times?" I asked
confused.
"Yes. Those three mornings were a test, I think. Her way of testing
me, or her village's way. I don't know. At that point, I would have done
anything for her." Mal said as he grabbed the bars of his cell.
"Anything." His hands squeezed the bars tighter and his eyes widened.
The torchlight reflected off of his face and there was a wild glint in
his eyes. He relaxed, let go of the bars, and turned around. "She was my
life," he said. "And I miss her."
"When she came to my village to see me, I knew that I wanted to be
with her the rest of my life. But when she came to the village ...
That was when the trouble really started. Nell hated having her in
the village with me. Rumors about Tess made their rounds -- 'Tess is a
forest spirit', 'She bewitches me', and 'She charms everyone into
thinking she is harmless' were a few. I knew that Nell had started them,
but there was nothing I could do to stop them. I tried, and the more I
tried, the more Nell became spiteful toward me.
I pulled her aside one day, and made sure we were alone. I
confronted Nell about the rumors, but she denied everything. I asked her
why she was doing this, and she stared at me. Had your Stevene been
there, priest, things might have turned out different. But he wasn't,
and he didn't care about our lives. He just didn't care.
Nell started to say something to me, and I saw a tear form in her
eye. I didn't know any better, priest, or I would have known from her
look that she loved me. But I didn't know, and I asked her why again.
She clamped her mouth shut and her tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it
away with a quick brush of her hand, and then yelled that she hated
Tess. That she'd say whatever she wanted to about Tess. I told her to
stop, and that if she didn't, then we would no longer be friends. She
turned red in rage and started to say something. Instead, she clamped
her mouth shut, turned, and ran away.
The rumors never seemed to bother Tess. She came to the village to
visit me and that is what she did. She seemed above all the petty lies,
and I loved her even more for it.
One day while we were walking in the woods, I gathered my courage
for a single question. The most important question of my life.
"Tess?" I began hesitantly.
"Yes, Mal," she replied and stopped walking. She turned to me and
said, "You have a question for me, don't you? An important one."
"Will you be my wife," I blurted out, knowing my courage would not
last.
"Do you love me, Mal?" she asked.
"Yes, I love you."
"I love you, too, Mal. And I knew that this day would come. Before
I give you my answer, I would like to show you my village, my home, and
my family. Will you come?"
"I would follow you anywhere," I promised her. She laughed, grabbed
my hand, and we walked deeper into the forest. It became darker as the
trees blocked the sun, and we walked even deeper into the forest. I had
never been in this part of it before, but the trees were old -- very
old. She stopped before an ancient oak.
"You must promise to never tell anyone what you will see beyond,"
she said.
"I promise," I replied. I would promise her anything that she
desired.
It was beyond that oak that I fully realized who she was. I should
have known before, but my love blinded me to it. I will not break the
promise that I made to her, but I will tell you this. She was an Eelail;
a Dopkalfar. If she had not been holding my hand, I would have run. It
was both beautiful and frightening, the sights beyond that ancient oak.
By the Stevene you hold holy, priest! It was like nothing I'd ever
seen before. She stood beside me throughout it all. And throughout it
all, my love for her grew stronger.
The end result of that encounter was that they would tolerate me.
Not because I was special, but because they respected Te'senth and her
wishes. We would be husband and wife by my laws, but not by theirs. No,
there was no changing their minds on that point.
Many things went on while I was there, but I did not understand
much of it. Tess translated what was needed when it was needed. I spoke
only when asked a question, and I think that may have earned me some
respect.
And Tess -- Tess was bright and lively and glowing. I watched her
as she spoke. Well, it was more like singing, to me, but she was
beautiful. And when we left, I looked at her in a new light. One filled
with wonder and awe.
"Are you saying that the legends are true?" I asked incredulously.
"There really are Eelail?"
"Yes!" Mal said turning around. "The legends are true. Most of
them, anyway. They were Dopkalfar, and if they exist, why can't the
Ljosalfar exist also?
I didn't see much of their village or how they lived, but I did see
them. They can almost pass as one of us. They are a bit taller, though;
a little skinnier with darker hair and dark eyes, too."
"But the legends say that no one has ever seen a Dopkalfar and
lived. The Dopkalfar hate humans," I replied.
"If it wasn't for Tess," Mal said, "they would have killed me. They
*do* exist! Not only that, but my heart belonged to one. I was going to
marry her. When I returned home, I didn't tell my parents about her
being an Eelail, but I did tell them ...
That I had asked her to marry me and she had said yes. They were
not happy at the idea as they had heard the many rumors, too. I tried to
explain to them how wonderful she was, but they wouldn't listen. They
gave consent, but mostly because they knew they couldn't stop it. It was
a long night for me as I couldn't sleep. Sometime late in the night, I
managed to drift off. It didn't do much good, because the town bell
suddenly rang out. Jumping out of bed, I ran outside to see the bright
flames of fire burning a neighbor's house. The villagers were moving to
put out the fire. There was a line of people extending from the town
well to the burning house. Buckets of water were passed quickly from
person to person, but it was in vain. The house burned brightly and the
fire would not be quenched. It burned through the rest of the night and,
by morning, was finally sated.
Five people died in the fire -- Amil, his wife Gail, and their
three children. The last of the flames had just been put out when Tess
arrived.
"There's the witch!" Nell shouted as she pointed to Tess. "She is
the cause of the fire; showing up to ensure her evil deeds were done!"
"Stop!" I yelled. "That is not true."
"I told you," Nell said to the gathered crowd. "I told you she was
evil! Five are dead because you wouldn't listen. She is a witch and a
demon's daughter!"
Tess stood and did not utter a word. I don't know why, but she
remained calm and quiet. I think the villagers took this for a sign of
guilt as their mutterings started to support Nell's lies.
"What are you doing?" I screamed. "Tess did not do this!" Their
mutterings became louder as Nell continued to spout lies. I tried to
tell them; I really did. When they moved to grab Tess, I fought to hold
them back. But there were too many of them. I couldn't believe that the
people who I grew up with -- people who I knew and trusted at one time
people who lived with me -- became an angry mob, intent on taking my
love's life. I fought, I clawed, I bit, and I raged; but it was useless.
They took her. It was when they put the post in the ground on the
ashes of the burned house that I realized what they intended. I pleaded
and begged them not to do this. My own father turned his back to me as
Tess was tied to the post. She never uttered a word as they tied her
there. Even when Nell spit in her face, she merely blinked.
I was bound and held in place as they lit a fire around her. She
looked at me as the fire was lit. I couldn't look away and watched as
the flames started to engulf her.
"They burned her?" I blurted.
"Yes," Mal sighed. "They took her, tied her, and burned her. I
watched as the flames ate her piece by piece. As the wind picked up and
stoked the fire," Mal's voice began to crack, "As the fire burned away
my love both inside and out. But that wasn't enough -- the wind carried
the stench of it to me. It lay around me as I watched her burn and heard
her screams.
"Where was Cephas Stevene then, priest!" Mal screamed as he grabbed
the bars and tried to shake them loose. "Where was his God! Where was
this love you proclaim! *Where!*" Mal shouted at me.
"I ... I don't know," I said feeling the chill seep deeper into my
body. "Cephas," I prayed silently. "Oh, Cephas, how could you allow this
to happen? And why do you not drive this cold from me? Warm my soul!
Drive away this cold!"
"She never stopped burning and ...
That sight was forever scarred into my mind; her screams still echo
in my head; the scent still lingers in my nose. After the fire was gone,
they untied me and left me there on the ground. I got up, left the
village, and didn't look back. I had no family now, for the people in
that village were as strangers to me. Walking in the woods, I knew what
I had to do and feared it. I had to tell her family what happened. I
knew that they would surely blame me and kill me, but life was not worth
much to me now.
I searched for bells looking for the place Tess had taken me. As
the sun started to set, I finally found it. It was only by the Eelails'
wishes did I find them, and for the second time in my life, I entered
their village. For a second time, I vowed never to talk about what was
beyond that ancient oak. What I can tell you was the outcome of my
visit. One of the Eelail translated for me. They knew that Te'senth was
dead, for they had heard her death screams. I did not understand what
that meant and did not have the courage to ask. What they didn't know
was how or why, and they turned to me for that. I told them the whole
story and spared them nothing. Part of my soul died with Tess and I
wanted to die -- only I hoped it was a quicker death than Tess'.
They didn't kill me, nor did they torture me. They never hurt me at
all, except for the fact that they told me their plans. They intended to
attack the village, kill all the people there -- men, women, and
children -- and burn it. Even though I had never intended to see my
family again, it was like a cold slap of winter water learning that they
were going to be murdered.
The Eelail didn't bind me; they knew there was nothing I could do
to stop them. Instead, they took me with them. I don't know why. Maybe a
twisted vision of vengeance in their minds, maybe to punish me in their
way, but I could think of maybes all day and I still wouldn't know. What
I knew, and saw, was the attack on my village. I watched as they swiftly
and methodically slew everyone there. I saw my family die.
After everything was over, I ran away. I wanted to get as far away
from there as I could. I hoped that the further I ran, the further the
memories would be. I ran to the next town. Distance wasn't helping, so I
found an inn and tried to drown my sorrows in cheap ale.
Bells later, and I don't remember how many, Nell walked into that
inn. It was like seeing a demon come to life to punish me for all
eternity. I don't know how she escaped the massacre at our village,
priest. I had thought everyone dead. But there she stood, healthy and
whole, yelling at me.
"You twisted, evil, gutless man!" she yelled. "You killed every one
of them! You killed my mother, my father, my sisters, my brothers, and
every one else! You're --"
I don't know what happened then -- I lost control and before I
realized it, I slit her throat. Blood poured out everywhere. I watched
her eyes open wide and then she fell onto the floor. Her blood was all
over me and I stood there in shock. I looked down at the bloody knife in
my hand and got sick. Vomit and the knife hit the floor.
When the guards arrived, I was still standing there in her blood
and my vomit. Everyone heard what she said. I was sent here for the
King's justice.
"You didn't tell anyone about the Eelail, did you?" I asked.
"No. I couldn't. Most people believed I was in league with bandits
who raided and burned the village. I was even accused of being a
Beinison."
"Yes, I remember hearing something of a search for bandits who
raided a village in Arvalia. That was about you, then. Your sentencing
would have been less severe had you told them your tale," I stated.
"You think they would have believed me? They wouldn't, and would
have laughed at any mention of Eelail. Tell me, do *you* believe me?"
His question went to my very soul and the cold flooded through with
it driving away the last of my warmth. Chills ran through my spine and
limbs. The stool that I sat on seemed a cold and lifeless thing that was
draining my soul away. My warmth had left me. "Cephas!" I pleaded
silently. "Guide me! Help me!" Before I could answer, Mal turned away
from me.
"I promised Tess that I would follow her anywhere," he said, "and I
will. I'll be hanged soon and follow Tess to where she went. I want to
die. There is nothing in this world here for me, now. The woman I loved
was murdered, my village turned on me, my family was murdered. And for
all that I saw, priest; for all that I watched being destroyed in front
of me, you would think that I would have learned something. But I didn't
-- I also murdered. Now, I have nothing left."
"I am sorry," I said as I stood. The cold sapped my strength, and I
suddenly wanted out. I wanted to see the light of the sun. I wanted to
feel its warmth. "Where are you Cephas?" I screamed silently. "Why have
you left me here in this dark, cold room? Why did you bring me here to
hear this?" I made for the door with my faith and my questions trembling
in my mind.
"You didn't answer."
"Answer what?" I asked turning around.
"Do you believe me?"
"Stevene help me," I prayed silently. "I don't know," I said
honestly, and then hurried up the stairs.
I watched Mal's hanging. My unwavering devotion to the Stevene was
shaken. My solid faith changed to questions and doubts; things I would
have to confront if I wanted to turn my faith back around. Why was he
not with me when I was in the cellar with Mal. Why do I still feel the
cold in my soul from that place? Cephas had wandered the kingdom helping
people -- all kinds of people. Even after he was murdered, he came back
from the dead to help those who doubted him. He was the Stevene.
I watched Mal being led to the rope. He didn't utter a word as it
was placed around his neck. As he fell, the rope tightened, and there
was a loud crack. A crack that shook within me, also.
"Cephas be with him," I thought trying to shake the coldness within
me. "Cephas be with me," I whispered as I turned to leave.
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