The Heretic's Song (The Song's Of Aarda Book 1)

by K Schultz

  The next morning was a fine day, but Rehaak obsessed that Raamya had hired assassins to kill him and take the hut.

  After pondering the problem overnight, Isil assured him that since the whole town acknowledged his claim to the hut, Raamya dared not interfere with him. Neither Isil nor the townsfolk would tolerate it.

  The King had granted Isil a monopoly on freight transportation both into and out of New Hope. Since she supported Rehaak’s claim, Raamya risked her censure if he meddled with Rehaak. She could deny Raamya the supplies she brought monthly, for him, refuse to haul his lumber and logs to the city, and devastate Raamya’s business. The hut was not worth the risk, or the cost.

  “But how can we be sure he’s not involved?” Rehaak asked.

  Remember duh feeling yuh had afore we was attacked on duh trail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it duh same as dis time?”

  “Yes, only much stronger.”

  “Well, dat happened long before Raamya even knew yuh. Raamya has no grudge with me, den or now. In both attacks, you were duh only one dere, Rehaak. It seems tuh me dat dose guys with duh fancy pig stickers was after you, not me, even back den. An all dat talk about robbin us were just nonsense tuh distract us. Trust me it’s somethin else dat’s got dem riled.”

  “Oh,”

  Rehaak could no longer argue the point. Her reasoning was sound. Instead of racing to protect her, he had actually run to receive protection from her.

  Isil smirked at him and said, “Can yuh reply in words of more dan one syllable?”

  Rehaak grimaced at her, she was using his own words against him.

  They ate a breakfast of porridge and fresh berries, while exchanging village gossip and news from Narragansett. When they finished, they hitched the mithun and she left for New Hope.

  Isil’s final words to him were, “Methinks yuh should be lookin fer duh hand of duh Creator in dis mess. If’n he be in it, he’ll be findin a way out fer yuh too. By duh way I buried dem other pig stickers in a safe place if’n yuh wants tuh start a collection.”

  “No thank you, I have enough.”

  In spite of her homespun exterior and speech, Isil had great wisdom. She was right. Isil had none of the doubts about the Faithful One that plagued Rehaak. He supposed generations of forebears believing as they did, and teaching her to do the same had that effect. In contrast to Isil’s multi-generational history of faith, Rehaak acquired his beliefs on his own. He had no heritage of belief.

  Rehaak’s skeptical nature, questioning, looking for evidence of things she trusted as truth without proof, might be a character defect, or a great strength. He was not sure which, but he was incapable of blind faith.

  After she left, he returned to fishing, trapping small animals for food, cooking and cleaning. In those daily tasks, and in preparing herbs and healing potions, he found his own healing in the peaceful power of the forest glade. The fear that followed the attack faded, but never disappeared.

  Although, outwardly, life returned to normal, Rehaak reduced the frequency of his visits to New Hope to avoid entanglements in the cogs of local politics. In spite of the logic of Isil’s assurances, he was still suspicious that Raamya planned the attack. Fear gave him a heightened sense of the hostility between factions in New Hope. Townsfolk had heard of the attempt on his life and were forming their own ideas of who was responsible. People took sides, but Rehaak wanted to avoid becoming the reason for contention between the villagers.

  Rehaak hated political wrangling arising from living in community. Someone in every town attempted to benefit from other peoples’ misfortune. In spite of the undercurrent of politics, and in spite of this unknown new threat, his life ran smoothly. His excellent memory, prepared him well for life as a small town sage and healer.

  The days passed without further disruptions.

  From time to time, he was sure he caught glimpses of wolves watching him from the undergrowth, but he may have imagined it. The wolves risked their lives, guarded him, and the knowledge gave him comfort. When Rehaak trapped more than he could use, he left an offering of meat, which always disappeared, but he never found wolf tracks anywhere.

  Another year passed. Rehaak had shelter, food, and powerful mysterious guardians. Life was wonderful, except for the dreams that began to haunt his sleep.

  Chapter 9

  Rehaak dreamed dreams of nakedness and escape, and did not understand their meaning. Similar dreams occurring with increasing frequency, were variations on the theme. This time he walked naked, on unfamiliar streets. The light had a gray quality to it, as if it were perpetual twilight in this place, but it was twilight without a sundown. There were no splashes of color, no golden orb sliding below the horizon, no blaze of red or yellow on the clouds, the sky, grayer than overcast. The gray was spiritual. It affected everything, including the light.

  Rehaak stood, on the gray street, in the shadowless diffuse light, terrified, knowing that the doors of the houses could open; someone could walk out, and see him naked. There was scant cover anywhere. While deciding on a direction to flee, the inevitable happened. Doors opened and people, as colorless as their clothing, streamed into the street, the color muted, not eradicated, subdued to almost gray.

  In growing panic, he moved, scuttling, hunched over, trying to cover himself. Rehaak presented a pathetic picture of shame and fear, scrambling from one shrub to the next. People were everywhere. Each time he found concealment, someone new walked out a door, or someone moved allowing him or her to witness his state of undress.

  In Rehaak’s frenzy to cover himself he didn’t realize, that no one noticed him. Shame and fear of exposure, drove him onward, while the faded people, lived their dull lives, in their washed out world.

  The fact they either didn’t see him, or didn’t care he was naked, gave him no comfort. Any moment someone might become aware of his nakedness and alert the faded masses to both his presence, and his lack of clothing. He went, crouching, creeping, crawling in the gray-green grass, or running terrified from one inadequate hiding place to the next. His private parts flapped, obscenely exposed, with every jolting step.

  Before long, he neared the outskirts of town on the edge of a washed out forest. Rehaak sprinted for the cover of the forest in a wild rush, hoping to at least limit the duration of exposure, desperate, he streaked towards the dark wall of trees. No one noticed.

  The forest, darker and grayer than the town, the wide spaced trees, larger than the shrubs in town, afforded him less cover than ever. Nothing grew under the canopy. The branches were too high to reach, offering no chance of hiding in the foliage. Compounding the problem, gray people were here too, in numbers plentiful enough to see him.

  He went on, scrambling from one hiding place to the next. In the center of the forest a large storehouse, of gray limestone offered the hiding place he craved. Inside the storehouse it was darker than the forest, but once inside, he found the unusual and unwelcoming darkness hid nothing.

  People wandered here too and exposure still threatened, and there was nowhere else to run. An ocean wave of fear and frustration engulfed him. It lifted him, smothered him, and then smashed him, with brutal force onto the rocky shore of despair. He woke, sweating, and breathless, sticking to clammy sheets.

  “What does it mean?” he shouted into the darkness. “Why can’t I get a decent night’s rest? Leave me alone — Damn it —”

  Rehaak flung his blanket to one side, rose, threw on his clothes, and fed the fire. Although his anger boiled and steamed, he shivered, as he paced in front of the fire. He kicked the door open leaving it swinging wide. Rehaak stood in the doorway, his back toward the hearth fire. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he headed for the privy.

  Even had it been a fine day, a dark fog of frustration surrounded him, but it was neither fine nor day. The night was wet and windy, with an edge as sharp as broken flint.

  “It must be near dawn,” he muttered

  Rehaak hated these nights awa
ke and alone with the brutal attacks of doubt and despair.

  The corpse that mutilated its own body haunted Rehaak. He feared he too was dead inside, but still capable of inflicting injury to himself and others. The color had leached from him, like the nameless villagers from his dream. He didn’t fulfill the promise of his early days and became a colorless hulk, ambling through the world without purpose or direction.

  Rehaak failed to change into a better person during his exile. He understood that he could never run far enough to escape himself. There wasn’t a single event he could name and say, “Here, here I strayed off course.” Was there still time to change his course and did he have the fortitude to walk back?

  The right way was narrow and precarious to travel, and behind him, a long string of broken promises and tiny compromises, when piled one upon another, formed a monument of rebellion. Rehaak’s choices led him by small steps to where he now stood as naked and ashamed in real life as he was inside his nightmares. He came seeking refuge, and found shelter for two years, but now his place of healing and peace imprisoned him.

  Rehaak’s relationship with The Creator was the problem. True, he had obeyed once, but that obedience cost him his comfortable life in the city when the exiled him.

  He lived in safety and comfort in his exile, but extinction still threatened Aarda. It was years since he abandoned his mission to warn his people of the danger. He lived in petty rebellion for so long, he no longer knew how to follow and obey his Creator.

  Desperation and defeat dominated his emotions since the dreams started. He had nothing left to give, and felt hollow as a pumpkin lantern; a smiling face, without the candle inside to give light to the smile.

  The Dark Ones drew nearer and the Abrhaani were not ready to meet them. Rehaak knew that he must warn them, but where could he go where they would heed his warning? His abandoned mission haunted his thoughts, like a vengeful spirit. He had reached his thirty-fifth summer, but felt no wiser than when he left home as a youngster. True peace eluded him.

  How could he be at peace. The Dark Ones were coming. Destruction followed in their wake and he did nothing, because he felt powerless without real evidence to prove his claims. His jaw clenched in frustration, and his shoulders tensed with anger, as he finished. Rehaak turned toward his hut in silence, raindrops on leaves and soughing wind the only sounds.

  In the three summers since he took possession of the huts and repaired it, he had spent most of his time alone. Rehaak didn’t want company from anyone who could place demands on him. Isil became the only exception to his isolation, but she never made demands, and she had no expectations of him.

  Rehaak trusted her, more than he trusted anyone, but he still found it impossible to share his deep fears and his failure. He tolerated her company, and even valued it, but their friendship did not go deeper. When she passed by with her freight wagon, her visits were his only moments of peace.

  Rehaak needed time to heal his emotional wounds in the early days, but isolation developed into a habit. As time passed, he longed for company, yet feared having people near him.

  Nowadays Rehaak rarely made the short trip into New Hope. He felt uncomfortable with the bustle of village life. His ability to sense people’s emotional states had heightened and the surging tide of their emotions overwhelmed him.

  The Dark Ones were coming, they would perish and Rehaak saw no means of preventing the disaster. Knowing the townsfolk, and building friendships with them, would only deepen the pain of their deaths and his sense of guilt for failing to warn them. Rehaak came when they called him to tend their sick and traded only when necessary.

  Rehaak sighed, and spoke to The Creator for the first time in recent memory, tired of running and getting nowhere. He had nowhere to hide from the tidal wave of destruction approaching his people. He begged The Creator for one more chance, not believing his God heard his prayer, much less answered it.

  The light from his hearth glowed through the open door of the hut, ruining his night vision, but guiding his way. Heavy overcast and drizzle, typical of spring, made it difficult to see the trail ahead, but the path was familiar enough to navigate.

  As Rehaak walked toward his hut, a groan sounded, and something heavy hit the forest floor in the bracken ahead, He stopped, but heard only the patter of rain on leaves. Rehaak walked ahead, a few steps later, his foot caught on an obstacle and he sprawled headlong onto the muddy trail. He spit out a mouthful of dirt and rubbed the muck off his lips, as he looked back towards the thing that tripped him.

  His night vision returned after a few seconds. Rehaak crept over to inspect a heap of wet cloth lay across the path. A large man lay on the wet soil. Rehaak turned him onto his back but it was too dark to recognize him. The big man’s breathing, was shallow and labored. He could leave him here to die and bury the corpse in the morning, or drag him into the hut and try to revive him. He suspected he would regret the decision in years to come but he chose compassion.

  Rehaak slipped and fell several times, soaking his own clothes and he fought to untangle the stranger’s clothing from the underbrush along the trail homeward. Before the stranger’s feet bumped across his threshold, sweat stung Rehaak’s eyes, in spite of the chill in the air, once inside, he released his grip and closed the door.

  “Let’s see who you are,” he said.

  The man’s long mud caked hair looked pale colored. The unconscious stranger’s face was tinged with blue, around the eyes and lips. His fair skin, was not the usual green-bronze of an Abrhaani complexion. Though the frame was a man’s, the face belonged to a gangly, beardless youth. He was a lad about to enter manhood, lean and muscled, accustomed to hard labor, and at least half a span taller than Rehaak.

  “Well, now we have a puzzle. Let’s get you dry and warm. If you make it through the night, I’ll listen to your story.”

  Rehaak inspected the boy’s belongings as he removed belt, dagger and homespun garments from him. He hung the clothes on the clothesline beside the fire to dry. Rehaak rolled the stranger close to the hearth, hoping the warmth radiating from the stone might revive him. Apart from small cuts and scrapes, there were no wounds. A walk through the dark forest explained the minor bruises and abrasions, but they didn’t explain the reason for the youth’s presence in the forest.

  Rehaak covered him with his spare blanket and sat facing the hearth with the boy’s supine body between him and the fire. He stretched out his legs, leaned back in the chair, lit his pipe and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

  The boy provided something to keep his troubled thoughts at bay until morning came. The youngster’s appearance. puzzled him. Abrhaani, especially the villagers in this area, were swarthy like Rehaak.

  Rehaak had read of the Eniila from the books he studied and from stories told by traders. This man-child fit the descriptions and there were rumors of an Eniila smith who lived near the village of Dun Dale. He had never been to that village. New Hope contained enough people for him to avoid.

  Villagers said the smith had crossed the Syn Gersuul from Baradon years ago, but this lad was too young to be him. He must be the smith’s offspring, but why journey, at night and alone?

  After the wars the Eniila and the Abrhaani had fought, it was strange, that people of that hard, violent species would live among the Abrhaani. It was decades since the Eniila drove the Abrhaani from the coast of Baradon, but both species had long memories. The Eniila and the Abrhaani were uneasy neighbors with only the Syn Gersuul keeping them separated. The Eniila were not sailors. From what Rehaak heard, they avoided the water.

  Trade had sprung up between the former enemies. These days the Abrhaani traded from their ships, instead of the cities they had built along the coast of Baradon. The Abrhaani docked in Eniila ports, which had once been their own. Eniila warlords now occupied those ports. The Abrhaani remaining on the continent were slaves, who worked in the mines and did other hard labor for their Eniila masters.

  Rehaak sat, smoked, and pondered his op
tions.

  When morning came, it caught Rehaak by surprise. He had fallen asleep in the chair, his pipe lay on the floor beside him, and only embers remained in the hearth. Rehaak hated falling asleep sitting up, because he awoke with stiff joints and a backache for days afterward.

  The boy had not moved, although the youngster’s color and breathing had improved. Now that his hair was dry, it was as blonde as ripe grain. The lines and curves of his face, though relaxed in sleep, hinted at the strong features of the man he would become. Rehaak stoked the fire, and went to fetch water from the stream for herb tea to ease his back pain.

  Once the boy awoke, Rehaak would send him back where he belonged. If he didn’t recover, he would bury him next to the others at the edge of the forest.

  Rehaak didn’t know the folk in Dun Dale because he limited his trading to New Hope, but now he wished he had more information about that village.

  Rehaak had built a wall around himself, but even if he wanted to join their community he might have found it difficult. Everyone in Narragansett wanted to know everyone else’s business, but people out here tried to escape their pasts and valued their privacy. What they did, before coming to New Hope was no one’s business but their own.

  In Narragansett, Rehaak was a public figure; here he was an outsider. When someone needed healing he healed them, and because of that, most people treated Rehaak with respect. He was an outsider, odd and untouchable, even here, where odd or untouchable was the norm. The residents valued his skills, not his company. Rehaak knew the difference and accepted it.

  Rehaak gathered up his water pot and his smoking things, slid his robe on, and latched the door behind him. Once outside, he took the trail that snaked through the trees to the stream. Rehaak’s footsteps squelched, in the soft mud of the trail, breaking the morning stillness.

  Chapter 10

  Consciousness returned, Laakea awoke, warm and alone, with the familiar sound of fire crackling in a hearth. Laakea’s last memory was firelight that drew him forward with its promise of warmth. All else was blackness, until he roused on the packed earth floor, in front of this fire.