Remnants Of The Sun

by J. A. Day

  If she decided then and there to forget what she had done, and make an effort to be purer next time then surely she could be forgiven by Sol?

  But the purity didn’t last. Every few weeks she would have the burning desire again, and she would wander towards those parties. It didn’t even stop with just the wagon train. Whenever the caravan got to a new town or city, she would sneak into it and sample the kind of parties and women they had.

  But just like the first time, after every occasion she gave in she hated herself and wanted to punish herself. Sonja always vowed to be purer next time.

  This oscillation between desire and shame made Sonja feel more and more miserable being part of the faith. Even though she was going up the ranks, being made Priestess when she was fifteen – one of the youngest ever – and then being promoted to General in her twenties, she felt an emptiness inside, and drifted away from the teachings.

  In her moments of desire she didn’t understand why the Mission was so against all the things she was doing, it made her feel so good and happy. But when she was in her purity moments she got frustrated how others didn’t follow the teachings as strictly or as purely as her. Wasn’t their Mission supposed to be convincing others to follow their example. If no one did, what was the point of proselytizing to them?

  Now her mother was dead. A mother that hadn’t known any of this, couldn't know any of it because otherwise she would have exiled her long ago.

  But now Sonja was an adult she understood the fears about being exiled to the workhouse were unfounded. Nowadays, the workers' side of the wagon train was more and more separate from the faith. Maybe now that the Keeper was dead she should admit to herself what she truly was. Maybe she should quit the faith and be the person that she wanted to be: someone open with who they loved and didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion on it.

  Sonja put her hand on the coffin. She stared at the portrait of her mother, mouthing goodbye. She would tell her friends, and the Mission, that she was quitting after the Quartermaster let them know her mother’s final wishes.

  Every faithful was there at the final wishes speech. Priests and Priestess sat shoulder to shoulder on the yellow wood pews, while Acolytes had to stand at the back. There were also a surprising amount of non-dedicated faithful. At the sides of the pews stood many Baldurs, including Gregor Baldur himself. Even though the Baldur side of the caravan was supposed to be one with the faith, they very rarely came to prayers or events anymore.

  The sky above was thick with clouds, and a light rain pattered down on the heads of the gathered, but many were too excited to be bothered by this.

  Sonja sat at the front, along with her friends: Roose, Britta, and Teresa. Sonja could feel the stares at the back of her head. She heard whispers amongst the gathered, gossiping about which one of her group would be the new Keeper.

  When her mother had died she had not designated an heir to the title of Keeper. This was unusual, a Keeper usually liked to name a successor a few years before they were likely to die - to keep the transition of power smooth. And her mother had been known to be wise when it came to these kinds of decisions, which made people question why there had been such an oversight.

  Everyone knew it would be one of her “children”, but which one of the four would be chosen changed with the cold winds. Some said Sonja, others said Britta, one season Roose was the favorite, and a few weeks Teresa was named. There would also be periods of time when rumors said the Keeper hadn’t chosen yet because none of them were worthy enough.

  Sonja hated the attention of these rumors. She knew that she wouldn’t be chosen as the new Keeper. In the last few years she had barely talked to her mother, apart from a few words about new patrols or where they could travel to avoid raiders. Every time they did talk there had been frostiness in the air, both wanting to get the talk over with as soon as possible.

  And Sonja was perfectly fine with that. Not just because she had finally decided to leave the Mission, but because she knew she probably wouldn’t make a good Keeper. She was too full of shadow and she had deep dislike with the purity angle the faith taught. She wouldn’t be able to handle the responsibility of the whole religion without messing it up.

  The Quartermaster, a thin man with black hair named Sigmund, stepped onto the platform that jutted out of the Keeper’s wagon. The platform held a lectern, which he unrolled a scroll onto. Everyone leant forward and held their breath as he started to speak.

  However, they quickly let it out again and slumped in their chair when Sigmund only mentioned the small gifts the Keeper was handing out. A few of the Priests and Priestesses bowed as their names and items were called out, but it was obvious that they didn’t really care about this and they just wanted the Quartermaster to get to who the next Keeper was going to be.

  Even though they probably knew they wouldn’t get it, Sonja still saw faces of hope amongst the Priests and Priestesses. They still held onto the rumors that her, Roose, Britta, or Teresa wasn’t good enough and the Keeper might say someone else. It made her feel uncomfortable. The people in the faith wanted power a little too readily in her eyes. The scrolls didn’t exactly say ambition was a shadow, but she felt that they came close to saying it.

  The scroll reading came to a part where the Keeper said names of men and women that should be commended and would receive a special medal or title. Many in the rows behind Sonja started to fidget and yawn, making her a little annoyed. Did they not have respect for their leader, were they really only here to know who the next leader was going to be? She thought they should be more cut up about the loss of her mother, but then again she hadn’t felt anything either. Could she really judge them for something she didn’t feel?

  Thankfully, it looked like the Quartermaster was getting to the end. People started to pay attention again, and held their breath.

  “My final act of Keeper is one of naming my successor,” Sigmund said, the pews getting very quiet. “I name the new Keeper: Sonja.”

  Many in the crowd let out groans, sighs, or shouts of “I knew it.”

  All except Sonja herself. She was stunned that her name had been read out. If any of the four were going to get the title, it should have been Britta.

  Britta had the passion and the commitment for the faith. She had always been the Keeper’s right hand woman, and always made sure to bring the teaching of the scrolls in line with their mother’s view of things. It just didn’t make sense for Sonja to be named, and she could see on Britta’s face that her sister knew it.

  Everyone in the space stared at her, even the Quartermaster. They all expected her to go up on the platform and make a speech. They wanted to know straight away how different or the same she was going to be as Keeper.

  She felt all those eyes bore into her, judging her. She couldn’t deal with them, she had no plan for being Keeper. Just a moment ago she was ready to quit the faith...and now this?

  Her chest felt tight and she struggled to breathe. She had to get out.

  Ignoring the cries of surprise or shock, Sonja ran away from the congregation, out of the faith enclosure. She wanted to get lost amongst the maze of wagons.

  THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD ON YOUR SHOULDERS, THE KNOWLEDGE THAT EVERY DECISION YOU MAKE COULD KILL OR HARM PEOPLE, WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT THAT KIND OF POWER?

  ‘The Unhappy King’ by Lysanne Lungbourg

  Sigrun’s mouth was dry and her head throbbed, but it wasn’t as bad a wake up as usual. Usually the morning after a party she would be throwing off the covers and running outside to be sick on the grass. This morning she only felt a slight discomfort in her stomach and a need for water. It seemed she was improving.

  Had the party last night been real? In the light that was streaming through the gaps in the wagon’s slats, the events of what happened felt like a dream. She had been within a table of important people, she had spoken to Yael Hoademaker, and both him and Gregor had made her the Jarl. If any other cattle rancher had told her that story she would have told th
em to lay off the whiskey. And here she was back in her own wagon, usually in the fables the person that had just become the princess found herself in a magnificent castle and woke up to a handsome prince – not that she would want to wake up to a handsome prince, she was more into princesses.

  Sigrun pulled away the covers, and stood up. She felt the roughness of the wood, still the same rickety, splintered planks. She walked to the wardrobe and peered inside, still the same faded and muddy clothes. She brushed her hand into her mess of blond hair and felt the knots of her braid, still the same Sigrun. Nothing was different, and yet why did she have memories that she had been named the most important person in the wagon train?

  There was a knock at her door. Sigrun didn’t usually get visitors. The cattle ranchers were usually a solitary bunch, tending to their own cows and not disturbing others. On rare occasions they sometimes spent the evening drinking, but usually they would ask you first. Who could be at her door? She opened it and found that it was Sven.

  Outside, the bright red light of Manang’s blood eye shone down, painting the sky red. Sven stood in the doorway, looking amused but his eyes kept their steely quality.

  He glanced up and down at her. “You might want to get dressed, you were wearing those clothes last night.”

  It did look like she was wearing the same faded tunic and muddy trousers as she wore at the party, seemingly she had not changed before getting into bed. That at least felt like the aftermath of a normal night out.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m here to give you a tour of your new kingdom,” he said, mock bowing. “I’m your new adviser.”

  “So last night wasn’t a dream?”

  “If it is then we are all participating in it.”

  Sigrun furrowed her brow, feeling the sense of fear and joy that she had last night when being named Jarl. She nodded, and closed the door.

  If this was going to be her first day then she would have to wear something special for the occasion. Unfortunately, the quality of her clothes still hadn’t changed. All her choices were ones of various different levels of mud and grime. She chose the one that seemed to have the least, which because she had chosen similarly last night meant that it had more mud stains than the tunic she was wearing now. Sigrun sighed, surely she could get the Hoademakers to make her some new clothes. She changed into her new tunic and trousers, and opened the door. She stepped down next to Sven.

  The sky above slowly gathered dark clouds and thunder boomed in the distance. Thankfully the weather meant she didn’t have to feel too guilty about not letting her cows out this morning, though she was sure to get soaked with all the walking within the wagon train they were going to do.

  Sven seemed to have the same idea, looking up in the sky and frowning. “I better make this tour quick. We don’t want the new Jarl to be absolutely soaked on her first day.”

  “I’m still unsure how this is all going to work, I mean what is going to happen to my wagon, my cows, my things? Also I have no idea how exactly the political system works. I think you’ve made a mistake.”

  Sven chuckled. “Yes, we are pretty good at making those.”

  Sigrun felt a weight fall in her stomach. So she wasn’t being made Jarl, this was all just a joke.

  But Sven stopped laughing and patted her on the shoulder. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be joking like that. We didn’t make a mistake, Yael and Gregor chose you for a reason. As for how it is going to work, I’ll tell you but we should get going and visit the sights first.”

  She still felt unsure, worried that Sven was leading her on with this Jarl business and she would find herself a fool in front of the important family members. But she was curious, and if it was real then Sven was right and they should get going.

  Sigrun’s wagon, and that of the other cattle ranchers, was located in a field of grass at the edges of the wagon train. This was so the cows could have enough space to graze. It stood a few hundred yards away from the mass of wagons that made up the bulk of the wagon train.

  To Sigrun it felt like she was always separated from other people, that she was a lonely other that many didn’t see day to day. It wasn’t that the wagon train was foreign to her, during the period when the train would first stake its roots in a new place - when the underlying snow was melting so the cows had to stay in their trailer and eat feed - she would find herself wandering through the maze of wagons, meeting people, and attending parties, but it sometimes felt like the wagon train was another town that she was visiting instead of a home.

  Despite being a nomadic tribe, when the wagon train settled down friends, families, and fellow workers would pitch close to each other, creating impromptu streets, squares, and encampments that down the years had been named. Sven and Sigrun strode down Lubben Street, and entered Hoedemaker Square.

  This square was made up of small boxy wagons, which had weavers inside working on looms. Dominating the north end was a long and wide wagon that looked like a house. Standing at the front door, in a fine woven tunic and resting on his cane, was the figure of Yael Hoademaker. His chubby face gazed over the square with a look of control and satisfaction.

  He nodded his head when Sven and Sigrun approached him. Sven nodded back, while Sigrun gave him a small bow. It felt like the right kind of gesture to do for an Elder, though she felt somewhat silly when both Sven and Yael burst out laughing.

  “You’ll have to tell her that the Jarl is higher than us,” Yael said, raising his cane at Sven.

  “Well today is going to be a day full of learning, if the weather holds up,” Sven replied.

  Sigrun felt like she was being talked down to, so straightened up and said, “Maybe you can tell me how it works then. What is the relationship between Elders like you and the Jarl, why do I get to make the decisions but you choose whether I get the role in the first place?”

  “Have you not read your mother’s books, a lot of the why is in there,” Yael said, giving her a questioning look.

  It was true that her mother had made a series of volumes that detailed the history of the wagon train, from its founding by the Mission of Sol to when her mother had been alive, but she had never found the recitation of events all that compelling or necessary to know. She loved the books because they were the last connection that she had to her mother, but she was more interested in hearing her retelling of the fables.

  “Well, since you’re not that interested in history I’ll keep it brief,” Yael said, clearing his throat. “For some time the Baldur’s and the Hoademakers - this was decades before the Mattsons were invited in - wanted more control within the wagon train. They were sick and tired of the Mission of Sol controlling the laws and the destinations they went to. A general strike by both families brought our precious demands to us, but the faith had a clever trick up their sleeve. They stipulated that in an emergency the head of the wagon train could make decisions that changed laws or moved the train. And being in an icy world, with raiders and violent towns within, there were a lot of emergencies, and since the Elders at the time couldn’t both be heads we didn’t get a say in anything. So the Baldurs and the Hoademakers made a deal together, they would elect a head that would make decisions for the people. Thus the Jarl was born. There is obviously a lot more to the story, the families having to wrangle more so the Jarl’s power could be legitimized, and a few stand offs when either side was pissed about the other’s decisions, but that is probably more detail than you want.”

  Sigrun nodded. “Thank you for letting me know. So the Jarl is both powerful and beholden to you.”

  “Not me specifically, but the three of us. All three family Elders try to pick who is going to be Jarl”

  “But there weren't three of you there last night, only two. And it looked to me like the Mattsons were not very happy about the whole reason for the feast.”

  Yael grimaced, and glanced at Sven. “This one is sharp, I give her that.”

  “We can make a politician out of her yet,
” Sven said, smiling. He turned to her. “You are right, Rita Mattson was not one of the people at the party to vote for the new Jarl, neither did she vote out the previous one. The only reason Hannes is not Jarl anymore is because of a vote in the Council.”

  “Why did you vote Hannes out?” she asked.

  Yael rubbed the silver spinning wheel. “I feel it might be best if me and Gregor tell you that together. It is something you will have to be aware of as the new leader. But you should settle into your new wagon first.”

  “New wagon?” she said, surprised.

  “You don’t think you're going to be Jarl in your beaten up, splinter filled wagon do you?” Sven said, chuckling. “You are going up in the world so the place you stay needs to suit.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Sigrun said, feeling that now was as good a time as any to request this. “I think I’m going to need a new wardrobe. None of my clothes fit my new station.”

  Yael nodded. “I’ll get on it right away.”

  The Jarl’s home struck Sigrun as the most opulent wagon in the whole wagon train. While many painted bright colours on their homes, the Jarl’s wagon had an explosion of colors swirling across its mahogany. The dominant color was a bright red, the same color as Manang in the sky, while on top were patterns of gold creating what looked like a forest of trees. In between these patterns were various different runes, some of them of the Baldur, Hoademaker, and Mattson family. The wagon's square frame stood on top of gleaming silver bars and four yellow painted wheels.

  Sigrun was surprised to get to go into the wagon let alone live in it. This wagon felt like one that she would be steered away from, and she would only be allowed in if she did something spectacular or something very bad. She glanced towards Sven to make sure this really wasn’t an elaborate joke, but his amused look didn’t give anything away. He gestured towards the door, which had a silver doorknob and frosted window pane.