CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  ‘There were three threads. The shortest thread foresaw that I would soon be dead, a year perhaps a little more. The second foresaw that although I am without sire, the Lord of the Northern Lands will never become king of the crested folk and, the third, that within two years the Southlanders will hold all the lands south of the Blue Cut. In each thread, the boy is there, a shadow in the mist, a being that dissolves as soon as my tellers touch him.’

  Sharp ran his fingers through his crest, gently pulling and twisting his charms. ‘Conveniently vague or perhaps nothing more than a faerie tale with a single thread of truth woven through it. I do not trust you uncle, and despite your words neither did my father. Once a cunning cunny always a cunning cunny and a kick in the sack might bring a tear to the eye but it does not change the truth of that. It’s not just because what you say is so implausible uncle it’s because you seem determined to spin a tale that implies my father’s abdication and the gifting of the northern lands was all part of some great plan, a plan conceived by two loving brothers. But there was no brotherly love nor did you consort together. He cursed you, he hated you and prayed each day that you would die. I know this because he told me so.’

  ‘He needed you to believe that. The animosity spread amongst his folk and it kept you north of the cut, made you appear to value your alliance with the Troll more than your southern kin. He knew how important spreading the transformation amongst the Troll would be to the Northern Lands if we were to defeat the Southlanders.’

  ‘But according to your tale he died before he knew that his first son still lived.’

  ‘That he did,’ said Soar, ‘and I still mourn his passing to this day. But, had Torrent still been king and had he discovered that his first son lived and was a prisoner of the south he would have likely marched his army south, dashing his warriors in futile waves again and again on their walls until all their blood was spent and the crested lands lay at their mercy. Your father was not known for subtlety, he was a bull horned man and defeat was not a word I ever heard him use.’

  Sharp nodded slowly. His father was indeed a determined man, a king who did not know the meaning of surrender, a leader whose folk would follow him into the sun in search of the lost moon.

  ‘Your brother will need kin to protect him. Until now I have kept him safe but when he crests, the lands south of the Blue Cut will become unsafe for him. For now, he knows nothing of his past, his heritage or what lies ahead of him but this innocence will erode with time. He needs close kin to help him grow and see him safely into his manhood. That is your role.’

  ‘And what do the fates say about the boy’s own talents and his crest?’ asked Sharp.

  ‘The ancient texts have long predicted the coming of a man whose crest will be both unique and dreadful, a growth without symmetry. A man whose very existence is masked by god. I believe Cloak is that man. As for his hidden talents, I do not know, but whatever lies beneath his scars was put there for a purpose.’

  The Lord of the Northern Lands sighed, exhaling a deep breath. ‘Uncle, your telling has heart but I remain unconvinced. You see what you want to see. Is it not just as likely that the tellers and seers see nothing because there is nothing to see?’

  ‘No, it is because you need to be close to the lad to see him. The masking of the boy has been well done, the mists of time beyond the veil swirl around him and hide him from the tellers, so too the sleeping visions of the seers and as for the star readers, they are blinded and cannot describe what they see.’ King Soar paused, his eyes welling with tears. ‘Sharp, my plans have gone awry, the close talents I have sent to take your brother to safety will not succeed unless you support me.’

  Sharp’s tilted his head, a look of confusion on his face. ‘You said no more than a minute ago that there was nothing I or any of my cohort could do to help.’

  ‘I know, and that remains a truth. My plea for aid needs old majic, it is to Boulder Spine and his first brother that I must entreaty and for that I need my close kin to plead on my behalf.

  THREE: The Teller

  Far beyond the fens and out past the broad eastern plains the new sun had already pulled itself clear of the horizon and sent forth spears of warming light. The grey and blush pink of first dawn that had leaked between the sharp snow capped crowns to the north east had gone, replaced now by a pale blue sky and the pure clear light of day. It was now two hours past first dawn light. The morning mist that had hung tenaciously over the delta was melting, the final patches drifting out to sea on the last of the ebbing waters. Cloak had been up before crow light and had been fishing since dawn, checking his lines, re-baiting his hooks and setting new lines below the low water mark. His soft reed basket was over half full, dabs and flounder, flat but fat, a fair catch for an hour’s labour. Clad in a pair of knee length leather trews and a short sleeved canvas waistcoat, Cloak skipped across the jelly like surface in his broad soled sandals. Although his clumsy footwear stopped his feet sinking into the clawing mud, the green brown sludge of the delta still coated his skinny legs, drying and cracking before falling off like the brittle brown shell of a moulting crab. As he moved between his lines Cloak ran his fingers below his crab traps, a row of large flat stones laid out on the surface of the mud, a tidy hidey-hole for any broad backed crab wishing to escape the drying sun.

  Releasing the sling on his rake, Cloak combed the silt and mud for cockles. It was his least favourite task but nonetheless necessary. Some would become bait for his lines, some for soup stock and some for pickling. The raking of the mud was a chore and even with a fair haul of crab secured in his basket, he knew he would be taken to task if he failed to fill his satchel with striped cockle. Raking furiously the loathsome task was soon complete. Sweating profusely, his legs, arms and trews caked in mud Cloak smiled to himself as he scanned the delta. For once he would not be the last to finish his chores as out over the low delta mud several other fisher boys and girls could still be seen scuttling from line to line or raking furiously for their own shells. Rain or shine, four times a week he would be on the delta flats, tending his rills or occasionally, when high tide and school day allowed, out punting the narrow channels of the up water fens, catching silver eels to sell for coppers, money bound for his own pocket.

  Delta Crossing was a thriving port, a sea town as well as a river town whose pattern of daily life was regulated as much by the rising and falling tide as it was by sunrise and sunset. Today was Midweek Day, two days short of High Moon Day when the lowest tides arrived. On this coming full moon the low tide would turn at a reasonable hour, nonetheless, Cloak knew he would still be expected abed early. His tidal harvest fed the family two days a week and provided a slim surplus to barter. Today was a good day, the tide was almost at its peak low, his lines had been set deep and the low tide crab traps, the ones hidden but for a few days each month had offered up five large broad backed crabs. Although fishing was a task it was also a valued freedom and so remained for the most part enjoyable. He had never dreamed of cresting as a hunter gatherer, a fisher or a field hand. Like his friends, he dreamed of being a high clan warrior, a sword talent like his guardian father, a man feared and respected by other men. Unfortunately, his early talent seemed to indicate this was not his path and that a different fate awaited him………….a life as an artisan but until his crest appeared, only god would know for sure. Today, he was just another smooth headed school boy, cloaked in mud and laden with flat fish, nipping crabs and shellfish.

  With each passing day, his lack of cresting weighed more and more heavily on his mind. Walking from line to line Cloak exhaled silent prayer after silent prayer. A prayer with each breath, a prayer with each step, a plea to god to bless him with a crest. Some of his silent prayers were darker, less prayer more petition, pleas that his dream time would be peaceful and restful, not as now, as it had been for some months, restless and perpetually plagued with nightmares.

  As Cloak skipped his way across the mud towards the low tide mark, the new dawn light
cast his spindly shadow far out in front of him. As he approached his water line Cloak slowed, something was amiss, some low thieving barge pirate had been meddling with his lines. Fresh scales lay in the mud, fish had been taken and a trail of deep footfalls, two folk, led off towards the reedy edge of the North Channel. By the size of the muddy hollows and the length of the strides Cloak surmised the thievery had been carried out by a man and a child or perhaps a man and a woman. The imprints were deep, a clear sign that neither thief wore mud sandals, the broad soled footwear favoured by the estuary fishers. This was no theft by a fellow of the delta, this was likely barge folk, vagrants who called themselves sailors but who plied the channels, canals and rivers, never venturing onto salt water or out of sight of land. The tracks were already half filling, black watery mud oozing over the lip of each print. The trail was no more than an hour old, a trail of guilt that would not be hidden for over an hour. Stupid or brazen, if folk wanted to fill a basket there were stealthier ways to take a catch from a line, not that Cloak had been tempted to do so......but there were ways.

  Cloak followed the prints, curious to catch a view of the thieves. His progress was swift, skimming the surface of the glistening mud in his flat sandals, leaping the narrow gullies and easily climbing the steeper channel walls. The track left in the mud was no straight line, the route appearing to lack purpose as it wound its way between reedy islets and across shallow channels, carelessly crossing areas of soft sink mud until they disappeared into a dense wall of sedge bounding one of the larger islets. No attempt had been made to mask the route and from the even spacing of the footprints in the mud, no haste to make an escape.

  At the edge of the islet Cloak loosened his satchel and lowered his basket to the ground before slipping off his heavy sandals and hooking the long laces over a broken reed stem. Following the muddy trail into the reeds, he wound his body between the tall grasses, barely displacing the fronds as he wove his way up onto drier ground. The wind blowing through the tall grasses hissed loudly as the tall stems sparred with each other, the noise made by the brittle reeds more than sufficient to mask any errant footfall. The breeze was in his face, bending the long gold and green grasses into his path. As the reeds grew denser Cloak slowed, the noise of the wind and the thick wall ahead concealing what lay ahead. As he reached forward to part the stalks, the distinctive noise of dry reeds being cracked and the sound of a flint being struck on steel made Cloak freeze. The faintest scent of a small fire being lit touched his nose, tendrils of pale smoke drifting on the air before being drawn off downwind towards the open sea.

  ‘Come and join us young Cloak, you’ve arrived earlier than we expected. We’ve just flattened a clearing and got the fire started, come and sit. We’ll clean and skewer the flatties then roast them. The tea water will take no time, come in, don’t dally, the tide will not turn full in an hour or so.’

  Cloak broke cover, pressing his face past the thin curtain of reeds to scan what lay ahead. The small circular clearing had been formed, five paces across, the reeds and grasses roughly slashed and trampled down. In the centre, a fire-pot hung from a three legged stand, hungry flames licking the edges of a small kettle perched precariously on top. Close to where the fire-pot stood, a thin man in his third decade sat on a stack of reeds. Despite the caked mud on his boots and the smears on his leather breeches he was well attired, a short cloak trimmed with fur worn over a long sleeved fitted jerkin, the collar and cuffs embroidered with silver thread. He carried a high clan crest, a form close too but not quite that of a councilman, a man of law or a man of books and records. His face was thin and his smile overly wide but not forced. He wore no sect tattoos and bar a single silver spine charm, his crest was unadorned. The fire pot was fed by a youth, he appeared not much older than himself, slim, fine boned with a fine temple clan crest. He wore a baggy brown doublet over a moss green shirt and a pair of grey woollen breeches that fell to mid calf. His closed toe sandals looked ill fitting and like the tall man his feet and sandals were thick with drying mud making his footwear look more akin to black brown calf boots.

  ‘My name is Barebranch........., Barebranch Blacksky, and this is One Button, my prentice and aider. We travel the crested lands coast to coast, we seek out and trade in rare knowledge and scripts. We carry messages and exchange information. We also execute sensitive commissions for clans, sects and individuals. Sit, please.’

  Cloak remained where he stood, his crestless head framed by grass, his body hidden from view. ‘Why did you steal my fish?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘Direct and not the question I expected. Not......how do you know my name? But, ‘why did you steal my fish’. Because we were hungry, and also as payment in advance for what I am about to tell you. A bargain, be assured, a real bargain.’

  Cloak cautiously pushed his way into the clearing, the curtain of fronds closing briskly behind him with a swish. Circling the clearing, his back pressed to the swaying reeds, Cloak took crablike steps, staying as far from the two strangers as possible, eyeing up the detail, searching for any conspiracy. Barebranch sat facing the fire-pot as Button hastily skewered the fish and pressed them on to the side of the pot. The heat from the fire in the cast iron pot soon caused the skin of the fish to blister and flake a sign that the thin brown skinned flatties were done. The pilfered catch cooked quickly, the pot lid serving as a single plate.

  ‘Sit down Cloak,’ said Barebranch politely.

  Cloak stood his ground, his back hard to the reeds, the press of the wind making him sway slightly with the fronds. ‘My question remains unanswered stranger, why did you steal my fish? I ask because you are well clad, well crested and well spoken. You have your own prentice, you do not appear to be a penniless barge rat and as far as I can observe you could just as easily stopped me on the path and asked to buy……… avoiding the mud. So I ask myself this; what does that tell me about you? It tells me that you are either theivers or deceivers? Both signs of no goodness.’

  Barebranch smiled at the boldness and straight talking lad. This was a boy who would crest late, a boy whose future could be both blessed and cursed, a lad he must read and tell. Had it not been for a chance encounter with a fellow called Grave, the boy’s secret would likely have remained a secret. This was not a mission for gold, he did not seek payment for this telling, a rare thing indeed, this was a story he must tell, his own future was bound to the tell, indeed, his very own life hung on the telling.

  ‘I’m a man of writing and reciting, a story teller Cloak, and as I said, this........,' said Barebranch pointing at the fish, '......is not a free meal, just a convenient one. I trusted that you would not deny a hungry man a meal and hoped that in payment you would take time to listen to a story, one you have never heard before, a true story, a story that will be of much value to you and you alone. A recital that will shape your future life.’

  Cloak shook his head slowly, pressing his back hard against the reeds, parting them gently. ‘I have no time for tall tales today, Master Blacksky. My time just now is short, the sun rises and the tide will rise with it and when it does it will isolate this isle. The channels to both sides are deep and steep and will be among the first to fill so unless you wish to swim you’ll be stuck here till evening comes. I will not. Enjoy my fish, I’m going to re-bait my robbed line and complete my other chores.’

  ‘Cloak, despite what you surmise I’m not a theiver,’ Barebranch extended his arm a shinny copper held between his long fingers. ‘Here, take a penny for the flatties.’

  Cloak unconsciously licked his lips and pulled at his chin, the temptation to grab the coin from Barebranch’s fingers was high but despite the lure of the coin, Cloak held his ground. As if in answer Barebranch nodded and with a flick of the wrist and some sleight of hand a second shinning coin appeared between his fingers. ‘Two pennies………….one for the pleasure of your company and one in payment from your fish.’

  Two pennies, God and King. Two pennies was near a week’s bounty, his bounty and h
is alone to spend. As Cloak’s greed overcame his caution he stepped clear of the reeds and reached for the coins.

  ‘Deal done, a bargain,’ said Cloak as he stowed the pennies, his anxiety making him fidget nervously. ‘However, whilst the two penneth is welcome I fear it is ill spent. You know my name…….. which leaves me with a wonder but if you knew me well you would know that I have no time for long tales or stories of times past.’

  ‘Ah, the issue here is not a long tale but a short one and it’s not of things past, it’s of things to come………’ Barebranch had anticipated the impact of his words, and let them hang in the air.

  ‘I knew it, your nothing but damned tinkers,’ snapped Cloak, ‘cheating flim-flammers. You seek to pull a sock over my head and tell me day is night. The future, ha, tricky words full of deceit.’

  Barebranch smiled. ‘What harm would it do to know? If it was lies, then it was lies. But if it were true?’ Barebranch again let the words hang.

  Cloak’s mind raced. This man was not a teller of tales, he was a Teller, a god cursed fayre day Teller. A sinner against the book of law and he was offering to tell his future, God and King.

  As if reading Crests mind Barebranch broke the silence. ‘Do you wish to know your future Cloak, to know how you will crest, know how your life will be?’

  Fighting the urge to turn and run, Cloak felt himself nod. It was wrong, he had nodded yet he knew it was wrong, foresight was a sin, to submit to a telling was a crime punishable by three days in the stocks and a daily birching. ‘Yes.’

  Barebranch smiled, a warm smile with no twist of malice.

  ‘Do you have to cast an enchantment on me?’ said Cloak, his voice now trembling.

  Barebranch rose fluidly, adjusting his jerkin and cuffs before removing his cape with a flourish. ‘No Cloak, all I do is I lay my finger tips on your temples and ask you to speak two words........it is as simple as that.’