by Foy W Minson
Emmie propped her hands on her hips and cocked her head so far her ear almost touched her shoulder, as her body language said for her, “Well, yeah.”
Sherri said nothing, but her eyes were still wide.
Dagar started with, “I don’t know if you remember Warren, here,” and indicated the lone fighter. “He came down from Riverhill with Ray, Carlos and Roberto,” he indicated the other three, “…last month for the new academy class. I’m afraid I may have kept them all too occupied with training to get in much socializing. By the end of each day, about all they wanted to do was stagger over to the dining room for long enough to gobble down some vittles, then come back to their quarters to lie down and groan themselves to sleep. But they’ve learned and healed and are probably ready to talk to a couple of pretty girls.”
He took a step back, turned and started to walk back to the door he had come out of, but Emmie wouldn’t have it. “Dagar? Dagar!”
He turned back with a sheepish look. “It was supposed to be a secret. We were going to put on a demonstration at the end of the games in Riverhill next week. Raven and your dad know, and The Judge and the other academy students, but everyone is sworn to secrecy. Now you three. Pretty soon the only ones that won’t know will be Charlie and Billy Ray — and they’re the Defense Militia.”
“But…did he really…I mean, when…I mean—”
Dagar held up his hand, laughed, and went on, “Okay. Warren had been here for a week before I found out he could teleport. It was something he didn’t do often because he didn’t really know how to control it. I just happened to catch sight of him when he moved across his room to get something, although he didn’t wind up just where he wanted to be and had to take a couple of steps. When I asked him about it, he just shrugged and said he didn’t think it was anything worth mentioning because he had trouble controlling it and couldn’t always do it when he wanted. I spoke to Raven about it, and she got all excited. She said she could help him improve his control, and that it was too important to just let slide. She insisted it could be invaluable in combat once he learned to control it. And, now,” he reached out and laid and hand on Warren’s shoulder, “he can. Although, he still has much work to do. We haven’t even touched on him moving more than just a few feet, so we have no idea what kind of limit there is as to how far he can go.” He glanced at the wide-eyed expression Sherri still wore and said, “And, Sherri, I promise you, the devil has nothing to do with it. It’s just an ability like Emmie or Raven have. Or me,” he chuckled. “I can sing…almost.”
Sherri’s smile was thin, like she was afraid it would call down the wrath of God if it beamed too warmly. “It’s just so… I’m still working on accepting the water wheel. And Lila — that child can actually heal by laying on her hands. Can she raise the dead, too?”
A sadness crept over his face as he slowly shook his head. “No, my dear, in that she is no different from you or me. Some things are, after all, truly in God’s hands. The day she learned of her power, when she saved Raven’s life and then had to watch Ronald die because he wasn’t human, her own brother died in battle. She didn’t see his body until afterwards, too late for her wonderful, new ability to be of any use.”
They watched the three fighters Warren had bested gather up their weapons and head for the door. Warren and Emmie moved off to the side, talking between themselves with only flickerings of direct eye contact the way young people do when first meeting and charmed by possibilities.
Turning again to Sherri and Dan, Dagar continued, “There was much valor that day, and Jared, Lila’s brother, though not yet a man when he died, is at the top of the list. There is an actual list, too. I made it up to put on the wall inside the academy, each honored name hand carved into a big, redwood burl Billy Ray hauled up here from the woodshop for me. And above it on the wall where everyone can see it and aspire to it, I mounted Lilaspride, the Sword of Jared. I take it down occasionally to clean and oil, and just to handle the fine weapon it is. Someday, it is hoped, a warrior worthy of wielding it will come along and Lilaspride will be carried once again as a great blade is meant to be.” Thumbing over his shoulder towards Emmie and Warren, he said, “Looks like you’ve lost your guide. Come on inside and I’ll show you my wall, and I’ll tell you a bit more of our history.”
Emmie hadn’t noticed she and Warren were alone on the field until she glanced over as Dagar opened the door for Sherri and Dan. But it didn’t really register as significant, nor could she, for a moment, even remember Sherri or Dan’s, or even Dagar’s, names, or if they were significant. Her aversion to direct eye contact had evaporated in the moment her gaze fell into the deep blue of Warren’s eyes. He was speaking, telling of his home and friends in Riverhill and the thrill of being accepted into Dagar’s academy, although whatever words he was saying seemed irrelevant against the velvet touch of his voice.
“…since my brother was here last year. I must have badgered my mom at least a dozen…”
She could imagine that voice singing a ballad of unconquered lands and surrendered love, but for her ears alone. She could feel the widening smile stretch her lips into her cheeks, and it felt like it was there to stay. She couldn’t imagine why her heart was beating like she had just run the full width of the village, although it felt more like a flutter of butterfly wings than a pulse-pounding throb.
“…out of the tree, and he must have… …alfway across the river. I’ll bet when…”
A small mole low in the middle of his left cheek gave his otherwise beautiful face a flawed look, but no more than the scar Erin wore, and everyone agreed that Erin’s beauty was none the less for it. She wondered if anyone had ever told him how wonderfully his dimples deepened when his smile broadened.
Behind the window facing the practice field, Dagar smiled and nodded as he watched Emmie’s hand slip unguided into Warren’s, and then the two wander off toward the far side, now hardly taking their eyes off of one another.
Turning back to his guests, he continued with his history lesson. “So, when Lila said I should keep his sword for her, I began the design of the wall. I planned out the burl Plaque of Heroes for the names, figuring how big they would have to be with the number of names I had to put on it plus leaving room for others to be added later — something I hope never comes to pass. Still, I wanted it suitable, just in case. Over there on the other side is a full list of the people that were in the Victorian before that final battle we had at the high school, even those that didn’t go to the school. And up there above it all is Jared’s sword, Lilaspride. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Mounted on a wood-framed panel of blue velvet, it was forty-one inches long from pommel to blade tip. The blade was almost two inches wide below the hilt with only a slight taper all the way to a shovel point. Fine etching covered the upper part of the blade. The hilt, glowing in the subdued lighting with the warmth of real gold plating, was cast in one piece with a flared shield pommel and the cross piece curving downwards and tipped with richly detailed lion heads.
Dagar continued with his lecture. “It was made and sold as a replica of Durendal, the Sword of Roland, who was one of Charlemagne’s knights back in the eighth century and a great warrior of legend. Legend said his sword was sharper than any other and was indestructible. Well, it may have been honed to a good edge for its time by the smiths of that time, but I’m afraid I might question its indestructibility. But, now, although Lilaspride is in the image of Durendal, it is modern 440C stainless steel, a considerable improvement. Roland may well have considered it indestructible if he had an opportunity to use it. Wielded by a strong warrior’s arm, this weapon could hew through a forest of eighth century Durendals and still give you a nice, comfortable shave.” He shoved his hands into his hip pockets and shrugged his shoulders, then, grinning at his guests, said, “Okay, that last part might be just a bit of exaggeration. It is a mighty fine blade, though.”
Dan walked over to a rack of swords on the wall off to the side. As he turned to l
ook back, Dagar answered his unspoken question. “More of the same quality, all 440 stainless. There’s a full baker’s dozen there—Lilaspride makes fourteen. I recovered them from the ruins of the home a friend of mine who died back on that terrible first day six years ago. He and I, and Patty, my wife, were members of a renaissance group. We accumulated anything that we could from days of yore, either originals or replicas. We made costumes and those items we couldn’t find to buy, and we put on fairs to celebrate a different way of life, one that was simpler and, perhaps, in some ways, better. That’s how and when I got into weaponry. The roles Patty and I devised were Dagar and Helga. Patty also died on that first day. In our roles, we were an exiled Viking couple employed by an English duke to train his army and to oversee his court of ladies. I did a lot of research, got into fencing and the martial arts, and spent a lot of weekends over the next twenty years learning and honing my skills. I don’t think I’m bragging when I say I got pretty good.
“After the big battle with Morgan’s forces at the Petaluma high school, when I dropped my old identity in favor of Dagar, Patty remained Helga to me. I never did find my friend’s body, but I found his weapons cache. He had most of his collection in a special display case that wound up in his basement when the floor of his house collapsed in the fire. The cabinet just happened to land with the glass front side down on the concrete floor, so the rest of the cabinet, which was built like a climate controlled safe, protected everything inside from the heat. Besides these swords, I found several knives and axes. You may have noticed a rather long bladed dagger Raven carries sheathed on her belt, another fine, modern-made weapon patterned after one from medieval times. Raven’s Claw, she named it.
With a nod of his head toward Dagar’s waist, Dan said, “I’ve noticed you carry a pretty good sized knife on your belt.”
Grinning with pride, Dagar withdrew a formidable looking, double-edged blade over a foot long from its sheath and held it upright before his audience. “I took this one from my own collection before I had to abandon them. It’s a replica of a fifteenth century dagger, made with good modern steel, of course. You may have noticed Emmie carrying a small dagger on her belt. It was also from my collection. Same with the one Jason has, although, if you only saw it from the hilt up you might have thought it was a sword. But it’s a knife, thirteen inches of double edged, modern steel. The one Erin has was Helga’s — Patty’s. It looks like something you should keep in a jeweled case, but it’s a real dagger, good, double-edged steel for use in a real battle. Effective, too. Just ask Erin…although that’s probably a tale she’s not fond of remembering.”
CHAPTER 20
The day had finally arrived. With occasional darts back to various homes to fetch some remembered item, excitement seemed to be infecting everyone in Wolfehaven as they gathered along the riverfront, even those not going up-river.
Sherri was almost tempted to change her mind. Everyone seemed so excited as they milled about near the river and pier, eager to be on their way. She was sure she could still find space on one of the boats if she were to ask. But, when she thought of the reason she had given for not going, she was certain it was the right decision. And, of course, Dan was going to stay behind.
She liked Emmie and Raven, their families, and their friends. Really, no one in the village, now that Jerry, Jackie, and Olen were gone, gave her reason to not want to remain as a part of their community. It was a much more pleasant place than what Napa had become.
The Prophet had so many harsh strictures that he said were needed because so much evil existed. Now, she wondered if that were actually the case, or if, like her new friends claimed, the evil was in the eye of the beholder. She was quickly coming to accept that Reverend Morgan beheld evil in every shadow and at every turn where none existed.
She thought of some of the things he had brought to Napa, and she wondered, now, if they really were improvements, as he had insisted. He had abolished monogamous marriages, including the freedom to choose one’s mate. At least, a woman had no say in the matter. A man could petition for a particular woman, or even a girl, if he wanted. And, if The Prophet felt the union was what the Lord had ordained, it would be so as long as she was not wed to another man. It made no difference how many wives a man already had, if he wanted another, all he had to do was ask. She didn’t think there was ever a matter of payment, but, of course, a woman would never be informed of such a thing, so there could be. The Prophet said it was necessary to do it that way because…well, because he said so. Sherri never did really understand any of the vague justifications she had heard. And any woman that dared to question the Prophet was quickly taught it was not a wise thing to do.
Sherri remembered people chose their mates with no problem back when she was a child, generally resulting in happy marriages and happy families. Her parents loved each other and her, and they were all happy. But the Prophet says love between people is a lie. It is really nothing but lust and fit only for dogs and other beasts that don’t know God.
She had believed him and, although she was only fifteen at the time, she tried to accept Brad when the Prophet gave her to him. Brad was brutal and demanding from the first, even more so, it seemed, than with his other wives. It was hard to understand how such a man could father a girl as sweet and loving as Sarah.
And, oh, how he had beaten her when he saw Daryl. He didn’t believe for a minute that she had been raped — not any more than the Prophet did. Brad would have killed the baby then and there if the Prophet hadn’t stopped him. Of course, it wasn’t out of mercy. Oh, no. The Prophet claimed it was the only way she could save her own soul; but, how could he have ordered her to kill her own child? Did he really think she would, or could, just because he said to? Are the other people in the Prophet’s New Napa really that complacent to something so utterly against their hearts?
Maybe they are. She didn’t have any friends there, not close friends like she had when she was a child, so there wasn’t anyone she could talk to, confide in, or even complain to. Complaints were not looked upon with favor. Besides, the ones she did talk to, Brad’s other wives and the other women in the congregation, all seemed to believe just like the men, that the Lord had placed men over women as the Prophet was placed over men and women. A man’s command to a woman was as sacred as the Prophet’s command was to all men and must be obeyed as well for her to be saved at the end when Armageddon, the final conflict, began. At least, she had never heard anyone voicing any doubts about what was preached.
And now she and her children were able to begin a whole new kind of life, one where they could love and be loved; one in which they could live as they were created instead of the way someone else decided they should be.
No doubt, the folks at Riverhill were as nice as those she had met in Wolfehaven and could already call friends. But, she still had to try to come to terms with the idea that magic was not inherently evil. She could use a week of calm reflection to come closer to accepting it as a tenet by which she could live.
“Okay, everybody,” Erin called out from the foot of the pier. “Group one come on out and prepare to board. Woody, go ahead and bring your boat up.”
Woody, who was already standing in the stern of one of the boats lined up on the riverbank, waved his acknowledgement to Erin and offered a hand down to Raven standing with their children. First she handed up Jamal, and Woody sat the squirming two-year-old on the nearest seat with a stern look and a finger held in the air in front of his face until he settled down. Next, he took Amy and set her next to Jamal, who immediately climbed onto her lap. Geo was already scrambling over the side when Woody turned back for his eldest. Geo had been a pleasant surprise for the two young lovers as they struggled along with the other refugees to establish a viable village in that first difficult year. When Raven asked if they could name him George after Geo, his grandfather, a man she still missed terribly, Woody didn’t hesitate to agree. And, of course, no one ever called him anything but Geo. After Raven climbed up
and over after her son, Woody nodded to the men standing on the bank.
They shoved the boat, a twenty-one foot runabout with modified seating for twenty if a few of them were children and the rest were close friends and didn’t mind a lot of touching. A few of them would always be standing up, anyway, watching out for river hazards to avoid. Once in water deep enough to float it, the craft turned its stern downstream in the slow current near the bank. Woody stood on a seat near the center and guided it out to the wide section of pier where the movers had gathered to install the waterwheel. With as gentle a touch as would be given by a practiced sailor he stopped its forward movement just as the side touched the pier. Then, rather than resorting to mooring lines, on which the boat would bob and sway as the passengers boarded, he raised it a few inches and held it in place as solidly as if it were strapped into a dry-dock cradle.
One of the men on the pier lifted a section of the railing that was hinged on one end and lowered a short gangway across the space. One at a time, the passengers stepped into the boat. Once all the designated passengers were on board and seated, Woody turned the boat back into the river and guided it out past the waterwheel. Nosing it upstream, he held it there, still raised several inches above its natural depth from the weight of its twenty occupants and waited for the other boats.
Sherri felt a chill ripple in her back at the casual display of powers she had never experienced before her first meeting with Emmie and Raven other than Sarah’s playing with pebbles, leaves, and twigs. One after another, the boats moved away from the bank to the pier and then out into the river with their load of eager passengers, and all with minimal effect from the movement of the water, either current or waves, and with no apparent control.
It was like many years ago, but still remembered in moments of nostalgia, when she had gone with her parents to what she thought at the time was the most magical place in the world, Disneyland, and she had ridden in a boat through an underground maze of tunnels as a chorus of young voices sang of wonderful things. After she had gotten out of the boat at the end of the ride, with the music still echoing off the walls, she had noticed a set of tracks along the bottom of the shallow stream. She recalled how part of the magic went away when she realized the boat had not been moved and steered by magic but by riding along those tracks like a train.