The Sire Sheaf

by Russ L. Howard

  He had heard of the experiences of those who encountered the Dark Seer Katos, in their spiritual journeys wherein they could feel the very darkness of his heart spitting out its guile and treachery. According to their recounting, many a true seer were forced to engage in a fierce spiritual battle in which the Dark Seer sought to extinguish their souls through contaminating powers best not tampered with by mortals.

  Sur Sceaf reined White Fire to a halt and sat perfectly still, scanning every bush, rock, and tree for any physical or spiritual signs of danger. Once as a young blood he had knelt to pray for the aid and assistance of the gods before clearing ritual space and found himself surrounded by a quorum and ennead of dark elves bent on thwarting him. Only the explosion of a blast of white light from the hammer of Almighty Thor sent them on their way.

  Satisfied that he was now alone and safe, he dismounted and led the stallion to a particularly succulent patch of green leafed elf spine where he tied him to the faery bush to forage.

  “Don’t gorge yourself today my friend. We still have a ways to go.” White Fire snorted while Sur Sceaf retrieved his lance from its scabbard and his medicine bag from the rucksack that was tied to his saddle. He carried them to the center of the Haligryft and laid them carefully on the Perfect Ashlar. Pleasant wren songs spilled through the branches of the glade as though in praise. Above his head a raven grokked in discordant harmony.

  Breathing in the rich smell of humus, he walked to the Harrow Stone, the soles of his lambskin boots making no sound on the soft forest moss. Muscles straining, he levered the grinding stone cap far enough off the crypt to see its contents. Peering into the crypt, he reached in and pulled out a hawthorn staff or lance and an age-darkened buckskin bundle, laid it on the mossy floor, and reverently unwrapped it.

  “Oak, Magnolia, and Thorn, into Baldur’s light you are borne.” He then extracted the ritual Cap of Tyranus. Seven-by-seven pointed antlers were attached to a buckskin skull-cap on the back of which had been painted in runic letters, ‘Holiness to the Elf Lord.’ On the front in a dark blue letter was painted Elwas, the God Rune. Once again, he scanned the area to make sure there were no prying eyes, eavesdroppers, dark elves, or predators before retracing his steps to the ashlar. He knew the power of runes. They were not of this world, but were a gift of Odhin from Deep Space. They were keys for opening the windows of Heaven and releasing untold reservoirs of cosmic powers.

  “God of Thunder and the Dark Clouds grant me wisdom this day.” After donning the antlers, he secured the buckskin thongs beneath his well-trimmed beard. With the obsidian point of the hawthorn lance from the crypt, he drew a seven foot circle around the ashlar as a spiritual fence against evil enemies, and the dark spirits that so wanted to thwart his mission and the cause of his people. Facing east, he planted the base of his hawthorn Long Swan lance against the east face of the ashlar with the tip pointing Heavenward. From the lance’s crown hung snowy swan and glistening black raven feathers and on the shaft were two brazen serpents, one rising, and one descending.

  This staff, called the Long Swan represented the backbone and the energy that flows up and down the spine. It was both an operative, as well as a ritualistic tool. It was also the sacred implement for which his beloved brother, Long Swan, was named.

  From his well-used medicine bag, he retrieved the five ritual items and laid them out on the ashlar, in preparation for the ritualistic purging to ward off all malevolent entities within the glen of this sanctuary.

  Before beginning the ritual, he raised his gaze to the cascading waters and invoked the Spirits of the Four Elements to aid in his quest for wisdom and spiritual guidance in the fulfillment of his commission. With bee pollen from a small leather pouch, he marked the seven-foot circle around the ashlar once again. Now, armed with hawthorn and bee, he would be shielded against all evil in this ritual space.

  Next, he placed a beeswax candle on the ground at the eastern most point of the circle, and lit it with his flint. To the south of the circle he dug a hole in the loose duff and placed a white quartz obelisk there. To the west he placed a piece of honeycomb. In the north, he placed a clump of merino wool.

  Standing with his back to the Long Swan and facing east, looking straight at the hole in the Harrow Stone, he raised his arms heavenward in the sign of the swan wings and intoned, “Elf Father,” before lowering his arms to his side. He paused for a moment before moving to the south face of the ashlar, gave the like sign, and said “Elf Mother.” He stepped to the west of the sacred cube. “Elf Son,” in the north then he finished with, “Elf Daughter.” Finally, he returned to the east, sat crossed legged on the forest floor with his spine against the Long Swan and the antlers spreading wide above his head like antennae to receive spiritual light.

  As he faced the lit candle in line with the Harrow Stone, he breathed deeply and intoned, “Wick, Wool, Wax, and Womb. Guide me safely through this, my doom.” All his life people he had respected had told him his doom of fate was to play the role of restoring the Herewardi people to their former glory on Mount Heredom in the faraway Land of Firginia, but all he could think of was to accomplish the commission of binding the three tribes into one joining. That must surely be the first and most important step.

  The initial ritual now concluded, he closed his eyes and felt the peace settle into him. His muscles gradually relaxed, and his mind expanded into the eternities. A beam of light filled his head with bright visions of past and future glories, cascading through his mind like the falling waters that came down the mountain, soothing his senses. For the first time in this tranquil glen teaming with benevolent spirits, he was experiencing what the seers and netters called the fire swan, allowing almost total awareness of this world and, if one chose, a multitude of other worlds. To experience the fire swan or fanisk bird as some call it, was to open your heart for greater and more frequent visions. The skalds had taught him that the purpose of these visions was to bring one in alignment with the will of the gods. Rare were the times he could be alone in ritual space and he reveled in this moment.

  When the visions ended, Sur Sceaf opened his eyes, in peace, and looked at the dramatic moss covered rocks enfolding the sparkling streamlets that threaded the stones like a holy tapestry in this great and ancient Umpqua Wilderness. To his delight, there appeared all sorts of water spirits, which had manifested to his eyes, allowing him to see them clearly. Some leaped into the heavens where they would be clouds. Others sprung into the rocks below where they would become great rivers and small streams to beautify and give variety to the hundred valleys of the Umpqua, in whose belly the Herewardi Nation was now incubating and developing into something new, a joining of three tribes.

  Witan Jewell was chosen in part as the see of the Herewardi Nations’ king because of this wood surrounding the lands as a natural, impenetrable fortification. In the Folk Moot, this wood was known as the Wooden Arms of Os. For it was a maze of mountains, forests, hidden ravines, and punishing slippery slopes covered with slick ferns and flesh ripping brambles into which the enemy legions seldom dared to venture, having been sorely defeated in a battle at the place called Woon Stone.

  Feeling protected, he pulled the beaded doeskin pouch out of his tunic pocket. Inside was a large golden coin his father had gifted him when he received his commission. It was from an extinct civilization called Amerika with a date inscribed on it of 2088. The medallion had been found on the body of the great longfather, Hrus-Syr-Os, by his son, Howrus, who converted it to a talisman which he wore against his heart. It had been passed down from generation to generation through the chain of Fathers of the King’s Blood for the past five hundred years as a marker of the death of one age and the beginning of another.

  Because of its significance as a holy relic, it had been chosen as the token of the Council Fire of the Three Tribes. The Roufytrof had recently decreed that its possessor was to be the high lord of the three tribes, and such was communicated to those with whom he was to deliver the secret communiqué.


  Sur Sceaf stared at the warm, golden coin nestled in the palm of his hand. Gazing into its fiery center, he wondered what deep mysteries and secrets it could tell about the long ago Kingdom of Amerika. In the academy, the skalds had related fantastic tales of the Amerikan denizens building up into the clouds, flying through the skies, building cities in the seas, and digging deep into the bowels of the Ea-Urth. But these were all tales shrouded in the fog of time, and only fragmented stories had come down through the Folk Mouth of the Elder Moot to his generation.

  Because it had been found on Hrus-Syr-Os’s body, the sacred coin medallion came to be imbued with great healing powers. However, it could only be used in the hands of a rightful heir. He or she must be one of king’s blood to employ its power.

  Years ago, Sur Sceaf’s father had used the token to heal a woman who was barren. He had placed the coin between the woman’s eyes and pronounced her fertile. Thereafter, she conceived and bore twins. Such was the power vested in this token, but his father warned, it must be used judiciously. As he recalled the incident, the medallion began vibrating with energy in his hand.

  Holding the gold piece to his lips, he pondered what his father had said upon presenting it to him, “You are of Elven blood. The Great Lord Arundel II prophesied that in the Day of Dread and Terror, when the menace of Pitterdom would force everyone to pray day and night for deliverance, and there would no longer be any place left to flee from them, one of his descendants, the possessor of three bloods, would be chosen to save us. Unto this purpose, you were called and elected. Should you succeed, your calling and election will be made sure by being gifted with the signet ring and the holy anointing of a king of kings. This will be made known when you have successfully united the three tribes and placed us in a position to withstand the horror and might of the Pitter Empire. Unto this purpose were you born, Son, no matter how unprepared and unworthy you may now feel. Comes the time; comes the power. Only initiates of the White Horse Order could give or receive the initial communiqué, and therefore you are to deliver this communiqué to Chief Onamingo first. For, he is of this order. Remember to keep sacred this secret communiqué that no profane ear may hear it until it is accepted by the Sharaka Confederation of Talking Chiefs. Put your whole trust in the Ur Fyr and shape it so!”

  The night before, while he drifted into sleep, his father’s words ran over and over in his mind. His father was right as always; he did feel unprepared and unworthy. Since he had first held the medallion, he had tried to put his full trust in the Ur Fyr, but doubts kept creeping out from the dark chambers of his mind.

  Sur Sceaf recalled with chagrin a time in his sixteenth winter when his father had called him to a very important occasional moot, and how he came into the tent backwards and naked. It had destroyed the solemnity of the moot, and everyone had laughed. Yet despite all his foolishness, he remembered his father had continued to favor him, though some of his older brothers, especially Offa and Melyngoch, detested him for his jovial and light-hearted attitudes. He smiled as he remembered the pride in his father’s face as he had stood before the body of the Roufytrof and delivered the golden token into his hand.

  The glint of the medallion struck the moss mantel draping the Harrow Stone and sent sun cats running up and down its surface. Sur Sceaf kissed the sacred relic and determined to embrace the confidence his father and the Roufytrof had entrusted him with. Carefully, he placed the gold piece securely into the doeskin pouch, pulled the drawstring shut, and returned the pouch safely back in his shirt pocket. He was not to wear it until the chiefs announced him as the king of the three tribes. Now he was prepared to conclude the second part of the ritual, the forty-four perambulations.

  As he looked up at the sky, it cleaved in twain and a piercing column of light descended on him. He felt a surge of confidence and a force of effulgent light enter his being that thundered over him in wave after wave of energy.

  Now imbued with the powers of Heaven, he rose up from the forest floor and was convinced he could single handedly rip up the entire Pitter Empire by its roots. The Spirit of Ur Fyr gushed through his veins, making him once more keenly aware of his surroundings. Suddenly, he was jolted by something he spied out the corner of his eye. It was but a bush. But his instincts warned him it was a possible threat. In fact, he realized it stood in a spot he remembered was empty only a short while ago.

  He withdrew his scramasax from its leg sheath, whirled and leaped forward, poised to strike a deadly blow.

  “Stop! It is I, the Wose!” The husky familiar voice came as a cap of leaves popped off, revealing a full head of wavy auburn hair. “Sur Sceaf, by the nine glory twigs, it is I, Wose.” Standing, the wild man plucked the twigs from his long beard and hair while divesting himself of the rest of his camouflage and crypsis. “Here it is near twilight, and you damn near killed me because you are seeing ghosts.” He spit out a piece of moss for emphasis.

  Sur Sceaf shook his head and exclaimed, “Wose, what in the hell are you doing here?”

  “I had hoped to scare the wits out of you by sneaking up on you as punishment for taking off into the wilderness without me. I am, after all, charged by the gods to be your protector.” He paused while shaking bits and pieces of moss out of his thick hair. “You should have sent for me.”

  “I did not send for you, because you are not yet needed. You always had the soul of a renegade, Starkwulf, even as a king, and now that you’ve given up your crown and become a Wose, you would never be content in the quiet idleness of all the negotiations I will be involved in.”

  “Surrey, I never knew a man who reads the heart of another man better than you. It is true; I’d be totally bored with all the talk you will be doing. Listening to dusty old bulls and damned dull Quailor dycons would likely drive me to thoughts of suicide or worse. Maybe murder!”

  Sur Sceaf laughed. Starkwulf never failed to express his true heart. Since he first stalked Starkwulf the Zamoran as a boy, Sur Sceaf had realized this was a man stripped of all superficiality and not given to the vanities of most men. He was an honorable man, but no longer tolerant of polite society and its pretensions. “There will come a time when I will need you, my protector, and your skills. In the meantime, just keep killing the enemy. Cut the legs off their rat packs. Set their captives free. Try to be patient until I send for you.”

  “A duty I am obliged to perform. Every rat-face I kill brings me closer to draining the life out of that horrible race of oppressors.”

  “By Os, I wish you great success at it.” Sur Sceaf said, returning his scramasax to its sheath.

  Wose shook his head, back and forth. “Surrey, two vessels I must fill.” He held up two fingers. “One is the cup of my guilt. The other is the cup of my vengeance. By slaying evil, I avenge your mo fa, Ludwig von Hollar, whom the Pitters slew mercilessly at Salem whilst he came to my aid. And now that your commission makes you the lightning rod for their evil strikes, you can bet that high priest Pitter bastard, the Skull Worm, along with his Black Brotherhood will be hunting you like a wounded elk. They will hear of your calling and follow the blood trail right to your door. I’ll bet Skull Worm’s nasty little spies are already on winged-rats to tell him the news. Sadly, this means you will never be safe again, my friend. By defending you, somehow I hope to fill the cup of guilt and the cup of vengeance all at the same time.”

  “My only hope is that somehow you will become relieved of this burden you carry. Perhaps time will heal you of unnecessary guilt.”

  “I am resigned to live out my days of grief as a Wose. It is a bruised path I must walk. If I am not killing, I am beset by a thousand demons that give me no peace at all.”

  “I wish it were not so, my friend.”

  “It is what fate the Norns have spun for me, just as they have spun the commission for you to fulfill. I’m not sure which path will be the more bruising.” He grinned suddenly. “Wait until I tell everybody about the ghosts you are seeing.” Wose laughed and wiggled his eyebrows. “It
will be a tale of laughter around many campfires from here to the White Mountains.”

  Wose was a master of martial arts and crypsis and his camouflage techniques were so well honed that he outdid even the best of bush masters. Wose was even once a king, a heretoga and commander of a fyrd, as was Sur Sceaf. His remarkable powers of stealth were renowned among many nations, but Sur Sceaf could not resist tweaking his pride.

  “Wose, tales say you are supposed to be a demon, a one man force of judgment, the Retributive Spirit that has moved over vast lands avenging our people, slaying, burning, and creating mayhem amongst Pitter hell-rats.”

  Wose shrugged. “The tales are all true.”

  “Oh yeah, how come you couldn’t even sneak up on me with my eyes closed? If you want to talk campfire humor, I think my tale will trump yours.” Sur Sceaf heartily laughed for emphasis. Flyting and teasing was the way of the Heathen.

  “Do I hear mockery? Is this the bare-assed boy I once saw enter a moot, mocking me, the great Wose? I am the flyter of flyters; I joust with words better than the best. Don’t you realize I am filled with rage and ruin, my boy, and have a burning passion to destroy? I’ll be kicking your ass, if anybody even mentions such a tale to me. Besides, I wasn’t in full battle mode. I knew I was stalking my best friend.”

  Sur Sceaf placed a hand on Wose’s shoulder. “Well, if you had been any more blatant, you might as well have sounded the lurs to announce your arrival. I easily discovered you.”

  “Well, I fooled White Fire, but what do you mean discovered? Your startle response damn near drove you to kill me! Don’t you know when I am in full crypsis mode, I can move like a mink in a hen house among the Pitters, and in my wake leave dead hell rats for the fowls of the air and the beasts of the forest to feast upon. Even among our friends, the Sharaka, am I not known to be the monster they fear as the Woondigo?”