Raven's Warrior

by Pratchett, Vincent

  He moved past the panic of his voiceless scream searching for a solution to a situation that seemed beyond his control. No one could protect him, he was truly alone. Small hands grasped at anything that they could touch until the fingers of his right closed around a dried and broken forest branch. They were called lossoughs, and he had picked them on many mornings, for nothing was better to start the fire of an early forge than these. The familiar feel brought comfort, and comfort brought hope. There would be only one chance.

  His attacker turned the struggling boy over and fumbled with the task of loosening his own belt. He pressed his filthy hand across the small mouth as he reached down inside his tunic. Here the boy struck. The thick, pointed stick found an eye. The cry of pain cut through the darkness. It was the sound that should have come from the lad but could not. With a kick of both legs, he was free and snatched the warrior’s short sword away in both his tiny hands. He did not stop.

  He hacked the kneeling giant savagely. He smelt the blood and felt its warm wetness paint his face and body, and still he slashed. The rage that was his life drove him onward, unaware of when the man no longer knelt or when the man had perished. The boy was still cutting with all his might when the others broke upon the scene. It was the smith that wrapped him gently in mighty arms and whispered soothing truths, “Vincent, stop now, it is enough.”

  All stood quietly in the forest, taken by the scene that they had come upon. The boy was blood soaked but unhurt, the warrior did not fare as well. His corpse was stretched upon the ground recognizable only by its heavy tattoos. The chest was open and hollow, and in the small clenched fist of his left hand, the boy held the dripping heart of his adversary.

  As is common in the world of war and atrocity, nothing more was spoken of the night’s event. The smith held the boy closely as he led him towards the stable. He saw the look in the lad’s wild eyes and knew that this one now had the taste of blood. That would serve him well he thought, as would the short sword the warrior no longer needed. By midday he had finished sharpening it anew, and this small one had joined the ranks of men. The civil world of fire and straw was now behind him.

  The smith was impressed with the sharpness of his own handiwork. This child is different he mused, and as he placed the freshly honed weapon into the boy’s young hands he drew him near.

  “Vincent, may the force that made you guide and protect your path, and may God have mercy on your enemies.”

  The Shield

  His first foray into the world of men was less than successful, and his first skirmish did not last long. With a child’s foolishness he thought it would be the most memorable, but in fact, he was left with almost no memory of it at all. He picked his target, a large lowlander with a wooden shield, and attacked with all the spirit of a full grown Celtic warrior. That was his only surviving recollection.

  By God’s mercy a large mercenary had befriended the boy and kept a watchful eye. He was skilled enough to finish what the boy had started, fast enough to pull him from where he had fallen, and kind enough to bear the wounded boy home. Vincent had been unconscious for the two-day carry, the first and only casualty of this excursion. He was laid groaning upon the familiar straw and held down throughout the night as he thrashed violently against enemies that only he could see.

  The one that had hauled him stayed with him, watching to see which way the lad would go. The soldier wondered to himself why he had worked so hard on the boy’s behalf. The smith assured him that this one was worth saving, and that he was right to intervene.

  Like the worst hangover, morning light brought agony and confusion. The dull ache in Vincent’s neck contrasted with the sharp pains shooting down from his head. This sobriety was not a pleasant state, and his missing reality would have to be filled in by others gradually, one painful fragment at a time. For now, however, he lay where he was dropped. Eventually he deployed tentative fingers to survey his damaged skull.

  “A simple fracture, leave it alone,” the smith told him, while the soldier added, “You forgot about the shield.” In truth he had forgotten the entire encounter. The event, however, was not without lesson.

  For a Celt the head is the seat of power, the house of the soul, and his would have to be rebuilt. He could not stand. His balance was undone, and there was no hearing on his left side. Fingers again explored, dipping into the clear brown fluid that leaked freely from his ear. It was the smell of it that disturbed him, for it seemed better suited to another orifice.

  Over the changing of the next full moon, the boy lay restlessly for the time of his healing. On the nights when he was alone, the buried memories of the tattooed menace he had butchered surfaced. These were now with him forever, his first express direction from Death. He wondered why his brain would haunt him with these, but not release the events of his own wounding, for surely they would have been more valuable in his growth as warrior. Then again he knew that his mind, no matter how noble its thoughts, floated in a stinking pool of clear brown fluid. Its fluvial discharge still dripped occasionally from his damaged ear. So how much was it to be trusted?

  In time he healed. Although his body was weak from inactivity, his hearing and balance had gradually returned. The boy came to know that death would be his life’s work, and he accepted this without a struggle. It was clear to him that life was brutal and his would probably be brief. He held the short sword in his hand and ran a finger along its edge. His broken head and temporary frailty were a blessing, for with this wound came the strength of resolution. Vincent sought the one that had saved his life and begged for any lesson that he could give.

  The man was rough but not stupid. There would not be another carry home. He introduced the boy to the way of the blade, and Vincent returned the favor by applying the lessons learned with ever increasing skill.

  Life Speaks

  I knew the dreams were upon me that first night, but after wakening to the sounds of warm conversation and the smell of the evening meal already beginning to cook, they quickly faded and disappeared. I heard a rooster crowing proudly over his domain, but continued to lie motionless pretending to be asleep and listening carefully for tones of treachery in a language I did not understand. For the next hour I lay with body still but ears active, expecting anything. Only when I was sure that there would be nothing did I stand up and walk into the main room.

  Merlin and the Sea Lass greeted me warmly and bid me sit down upon the cushions that leaned against the thick stone walls. Together they examined and discussed my torn arm, obviously pleased by its steady healing. She held my wrist quietly with three fingers as if listening to much deeper rhythms, and then both looked upon my tongue as if it was a visual gateway to the inner workings of my battered body.

  Finally and most strangely she steadied my head between her gentle hands and gazed directly into my eyes. I thought it might be her way of spell casting, but I had not the strength to resist and so stared back into the liquid brown beauty that were hers.

  Her father interrupted tersely, indicating points on my body with a well-seasoned finger, and then smoothly she drew her pouch. My body was already jumping up and back even before my eyes told it the painless needles were coming. I would not bear this witchcraft again, and I braced myself for a fight.

  The two were wide eyed at my agility, and their easy laughter rang in my ears. Sea Lass spoke for both as Merlin tried to collect himself. “Judging by your many scars, you have no fear of sword or spear, yet you are terrified by the small steel that will help to make you whole. Father, show him what he fears.”

  Merlin, still smiling, held out the tiny shard to me as if presenting a flower, and I looked at it with wonder. It was a perfect round bladed miniature sword. I took it and pushed against it with my finger. It bent like spring grass on a windy day. Remarkably it rebounded back to its original shape. I had never seen metal so small, so alive, and so skillfully created. “My father made them,” the Sea Lass said, “He is a master.”

  I quickly caught
the beauty of her eyes and spoke strongly, “Just because he owns me does not make him my master.” She mimicked my tone and replied, “That is both honest and profound, but I was referring to his ability to create with metal.” I realized as they began to laugh again that both her statements were indeed true, and that I had misunderstood. I pensively allowed the needle treatment to continue.

  Afterwards I was served a delicious breakfast of rice-gruel, fruit, and honey, and felt more an honored guest than a slave. As I feasted, Sea Lass offered a well-packed lunch to her father as he turned to me and spoke, “I go now to tend the land. You are still very weak, stay with Selah and help her with the household chores. We will speak more this evening.” With that he left, stuffing his lunch inside the chest of his simple work shirt, and I was alone with the one who had already begun to enchant me.

  She moved with grace and lightness around the house, unconcerned by my presence and sometimes singing sweetly in her own language. I wondered why they trusted me, for even weak I am a dangerous man. As I stared at her back, I reasoned that she would not be hard to kill. She turned to me and smiled innocently, untouched by the darkness of my thoughts. Holding two buckets she invited me to follow her while she drew milk from the cows.

  Outside she flung down oats for the clucking hens, stopped and stooped by the path, looking upon a bustling nest of large black ants. As we approached the fields, she walked to the hedgerow and seemed to speak to the briers. The cows came running to her like large happy pets, and soon both buckets were overflowing with their frothy white bounty.

  As she looked up into the clear blue sky at the high flying birds, I found myself doing the exact same thing. “What is your forecast?” she asked softly. It seemed a strange question for such a beautiful day. “A fair and sunny spring day,” was how I answered. Smiling now, she said, “If we move quickly, we will be back to the house before the rains unleash.” No sooner were we inside placing the buckets of milk on the table, than the skies opened up and the heavy downpour began.

  I was quiet for a while, grateful for the warmth and dryness of the house, unsure about questioning her arcane powers, but curiosity overruled and I asked her how she knew. “The hens, the ants, the hedgerow, and the high flying birds all told me the same story of the rainstorm coming,” she said, smiling at the look on my face. “Don’t worry; talking to the world around us is not witchcraft. It is the wisdom of the old ways, passed from mother to daughter since time was young.”

  I heard her words without really understanding, but knew clearly that those words, if uttered in my world, were more than enough to have her bound, burned, and scattered by the winds. As if reading my thoughts, she placed a comforting hand on my good shoulder and spoke in a tone that was both calm and reassuring.

  “Vincent, when you see that the hens will not stray far from where they sleep, you know that a storm is coming.” She continued evenly, “The dirt piled in beads around the opening of the ant’s nest is spread wide and funnel shaped on a fine day. When they build the opening high and narrow, it is because they feel the changing weather. Not even the tiny creatures want their home flooded and their family drowned.”

  She handed me a cup of warm milk and tea.

  “The leaves on the briers turn toward the coming storm and curl up like cups to catch the water. The birds that fly so high are riding and rising on huge pockets of air displaced upward by the next one moving in and under from the direction of the distant ocean. It is not witchcraft; it is just listening to the world of nature as it speaks to us.”

  I could hear Merlin returning from his day, and as his daughter rushed to meet him, I heard the raven’s distant call carried upon the winds. The life that I had lived had evaporated like the desert dew. It had risen from me somewhere over the blistering sands. I weighed the memory of my former grim existence, and knew in heart that it was not worth fighting for. I had fallen helpless and frail into this strange world, like a child lost in an unknown wilderness. There was no escape. I closed my eyes to bring the darkness and drew deep breath to drink it in.

  Exhaling long and slow, I took my first step on a road that I had never walked. Within my soul, the words gathered and then, “I surrender,” tumbled out through my parched cracked lips.

  Dreams

  Merlin’s return was marked by a kiss from his daughter. If they had heard my submission they made no response. His sharp eyes smiled to me warmly. His hands were blackened and his clothes held the odor of a clean fire’s smoke. As he prepared to wash, the Sea Lass threw in the finishing spices to the evening meal and bid me set the bowls on the large round table.

  While we ate, the Sea Lass talked to her father happily about her day. She pantomimed as she spoke, so that I could guess her meaning. I was entertained by her gestures as she spoke about the state of the animals, the eggs collected, and the sudden downpour. The food that we ate was fresh and hearty, flavored artfully with spices the likes of which I had never before tasted. Sharing a family meal was also something I had never tasted, and I was grateful to be part of it.

  Eventually the animated conversation came my way as Merlin knowingly caught my eye and asked, “Vincent, what did you dream last night?” I felt like one struck by lightning as the memory of my night visions flooded back into my consciousness.

  I gathered the details in my mind and prepared to speak my dreams. “Merlin,” I began, “I dreamt of a mountain of fire. The three of us were strangely walking toward it instead of running away. We could see the smoke rise up and darken the sun, and we could hear the mountain roar and cry out with the pains of birth, and in our legs we could feel the earth beneath us tremble and shudder. The wounds in its peak and sides oozed thick molten blood that ran down beyond its base like a slow moving river. We could feel its oven’s heat on our faces, and white ash was landing on our clothes like a new winter’s snowfall.”

  There was a deep silence at the table as Merlin and Sea Lass collected their thoughts. It was clear that my dream meant more to them than it had to me. The Sea Lass poured steaming tea into three small cups. Merlin sipped quietly before he spoke, and then he said only, “Your dreams are strong.” With a wave of his arm they rose and proceeded down a large hallway. I followed them out and into a sparse lamp lit room.

  The sword in its sheath lay alone upon a great oak table. The hollow shelves hewn in the stone walls were filled with parchment, leather, silk, and scroll documents of an age as great as the stones themselves. I had no words to speak and felt like a man cleaved in two. My hands and body reached to touch the star sculpted on the sword hilt, while my eyes and mind reached out to the shelves to touch the ancient words and symbols that I could not read or understand. It was the sound of Merlin’s voice and the sight of his daughter’s gentle face that brought me back to myself, whole once more. Nodding towards the weapon, “It knows you,” he said.

  I watched for permission in Merlin’s eyes, as I lifted sword from table and drew it half way to study its blade. The steel was layered in a pattern of strength and beauty. Its flowing design spoke to me of chaos folded into unity. Its polished surface suggested the texture of boundless ocean waves and endless desert dunes. It was amazingly light of weight yet substantial, and as I held it, it became an extension of both my arm and mind. I could almost feel its birth and pulse, the clang of cold hammer on white hot metal that gave it life so long ago. I slid it back into its sheath reverently and set it down.

  We all retired to the main room and sat by the earthen hearth, but the feeling of the monk’s sword did not leave my hands. I watched the fire play and roll along the soot covered bottom of the large kettle, and listened to the steady clanging of its lid as the water within it boiled and bubbled. I scanned the hearth from bottom to top. I saw the hearth’s earthen floor, its burning wood, the nimble flames, its silver kettle, and its bubbling water, and I wondered to myself what would happen if the lid could not rise up to release the pressure.

  The Sea Lass broke my thoughts with, “Father ma
de the kettle.”

  “I know,” I said dryly, “your father is a master.”

  It had been a long time since I had heard the sound of my own laughter, and as Merlin and Sea Lass added theirs, I felt warmed and comforted by much more than just the glowing hearth.

  The Mother

  I awoke once more to the bubbling sounds of their easy banter and the comforting smell of the delicious evening meal already beginning to simmer. I was sorry to have missed Merlin’s departure, but grateful to share the simple chores of his daughter’s day. The way of keeping a home was new to me, and I had always thought it woman’s work, but now it held my interest. I realized that as my world had changed so too had I.

  I watched her carefully from a distance, moving around the ancient homestead like a queen travels through her kingdom. Her domain was uncluttered and simple, elegant in both design and adornment. The space was functional in its layout. A small room filled with harvest bounty was attached to the simple kitchen, and it was here that Sea Lass spent the early part of her day. She sang as she worked and gestured for me to enter as she continued with her daily routine.

  Sacks of the pale grain they called rice sat patiently on the floor, waiting to be cooked and presented for our sustenance and satisfaction. Her attention was focused on the many plants and herbs that hung root to tip from the substantial wooden beams that lined the ceiling. She had plucked a mixed handful and laid them sequentially on the table before us. Without surprise I recognized none, for botany held little importance in my past existence. Most were dry and brittle and seemed well ready to be thrown out.

  Once again, she must have caught those thoughts, for, smiling, she rolled some desiccated foliage vigorously between her palms and held them up to my face. I inhaled deeply with closed eyes and drank in the infused power of the rugged landscape. The pungent aroma released by the heat of her hands spoke of the season of their past growth, the sun, the rain, the soil, and the gentle balance of their place within it.