“But it wasn’t her, she—”
“No, it wasn’t her fault! You just stood there frozen and useless while this crazed nag tore the square apart!” the lieutenant growled. “You are a disgrace to this kingdom. This death and this loss are on your hands now.” The loathing dripped off the lieutenant’s lips as he spat the words. He had found someone to blame the horrendous events of this day on after all.
“No!” said Cal. “I didn’t … I mean …” his voice trailed off as the words to explain the situation escaped him. “Didn’t you see the Owele?”
“I’m sorry … the what?” the lieutenant said, narrowing his eyes.
“The bird with the purple eyes … the glowing, purple eyes?” Cal gestured feebly into the air, but as he searched the eyes of the lieutenant he realized that his effort was in vain. They had not seen the Owele; no one had seen the damnable bird save Dreamer and him.
The Priests stood up from their toppled platform, dusting off the dirt from their green robes. The more embarrassed and enraged of the two called sharply for silence from the crowd. He made his way over to the lieutenant and the red-faced groomsman in an overly deliberate and offended manner.
“Is this boy one of yours, Lieutenant?” the Priest seethed.
The scene was almost too painful to watch. The soldier had ten times the strength and ten times the training, not to mention an unsheathed blade. None but a captain or commander should be able to correct the young lieutenant with such brashness. It was obvious to all who witnessed the reproach that the real power lay with the one who knew how to wield fear.
“He is, Priest. He is one of our apprentices, a groomsman in training,” the lieutenant respectfully replied.
“And what, young apprentice, do you have to say for yourself? Are you actually blaming this abominable occurrence on a mythical Owele? With glowing eyes?” The Priest’s words were swimming in a sea of outrage and incredulity.
“No sir. No, I just—”
“Then how do you intend to make amends for all of this?” the Priest demanded.
The other groomsmen quickly moved their horses from the square, leading them to the stable and praying that the wrath Cal was about to incur would not be unleashed upon their hides as well. Only Michael stayed, bridle in hand and a pale horse at his side. He cringed for his friend as he watched the shaming scene unfold before him.
The lieutenant replied, “Perhaps a public lashing is in order. Let us see if he stands as still underneath the whip of justice as he did amidst the chaos of the square.”
“Hmmm,” sneered the Priest, “that would teach him a lesson in duty under pressure, but what about the losses, and panic … the timber?” he asked, pausing for effect as he made a gesture for those present to come close and listen to his judgment upon this careless young man.
“I have a better idea, Lieutenant,” the Priest said as a sickening smile crept across his bearded face. “It would seem to me that the THREE who is SEVEN is in need of res-ti-tu-tion to atone for such failure and folly!” He spoke slowly and deliberately to add weight to his already harsh words.
“I order you, apprentice groomsman, to the northern forests. You and your bloodied horse will pull the carts and serve the axes of the real defenders of light, until the Priest King Jhames himself hears word of your atonement,” the Priest said as he pointed with his flint-adorned scepter at the young man standing in the center of the square.
“Lieutenant, you may inform the young man of his new assignment,” said the Priest.
Lieutenant Marcum stared at the young man. Where once only anger and rage lived in his gaze, now something more akin to compassion filled his eyes. “The lad deserves a lashing, but banishment to the North, my Priest? Is that not a bit severe?” asked the lieutenant. “I happen to know that this is one of the most skilled groomsman that has ever been under the Citadel’s command, and—”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Priest. “Skilled you say? I do not see where his skills came to our aid on this dark day, do you?”
Lieutenant Marcum could not come up with a satisfactory response, for it was true that the young groomsman had done nothing to restrain the reckless horse in his care.
“Perhaps I should hold you accountable for his restitution then?” the Priest said sarcastically.
“No …” said Marcum with a sigh. “No, I see that this is a just ruling, to be sure. I’ll send word to the master groomsman right away and inform him of his apprentice’s new assignment.”
The Priest nodded, accepting the apology of the lieutenant in the most dramatic of ways before returning to the ledgers and accounts of the timber rations.
Michael stared in shocked silence. He had just witnessed his closest friend, his brother really, banished to the dark forests of the cold North. His heart began to break, but the decision had been made and there was no reversing it. Michael and his pale horse turned and slowly made their way back to the stable yard, walking with heads hung low and leaving the bewildered and bloodied mess of the square behind them.
Chapter Seven
Cal stood with Dreamer’s reins in his hands, hearing the weight of the words of the Priest and feeling the accusatory stares of all who looked on.
When the Priest turned to leave, the young lieutenant came and spoke in Cal’s ear. “Son, you heard the Priest. Tomorrow morning you leave for Piney Creek, and you might be there for some time, so make sure you say your farewells.”
“Tomorrow?” Cal protested.
The lieutenant stopped him from further objection.
“Get this … horse … cleaned up,” he said with contempt in his voice. “You leave first thing tomorrow.” With that he took his leave, signaling there was to be no more discussion of the matter.
Cal and Dreamer walked with heads hung low towards the main stable yard, defeated by circumstances that were no fault of their own. By now most of the people had gone back to their homes or to the taverns, and so the walk, thankfully, was only silently shameful.
Cal, without so much as looking at the mare, spoke. “I saw the Owele, even if nobody else did. I know that mess back there wasn’t your fault.”
Dreamer nickered with what seemed like genuine understanding.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he told the bloodied horse.
As they made their way into the stable yard, a handful of the other groomsmen came to say their apologies and awkward condolences. No one was truly happy to see Cal go, since most of what they knew about the care and calming of horses came from watching Cal. They would miss him, but all of them were secretly grateful it wasn’t their charge who had reared and bucked and caused all the chaos.
Cal put Dreamer back in her stall and went out to draw a bucket of water to wash the blood from her face. “No sense in wasting any time sulking,” he said under his breath. “It’s not going to change the situation, is it?”
“No, it won’t,” said an older voice from behind him. “It won’t change the fact that I am losing my best apprentice. In all the days that I have known you and your family, I have never pictured you to be much of a troublemaker. And yet, this is now twice today that someone has drawn a blade on you with the intent to open you up.”
The master groomsman spoke like a teacher who had just assigned extra homework. “Perhaps the retreating forests will be a safer place than these paranoid streets for you to mature for a while.”
Cal finished pumping the water into the bucket, and with resignation in his voice he said, “Yes sir, perhaps it will.”
“Take a strong saddle, a heftier one than she wore today. Where you are going, speed will be of no concern to you. Durability and practicality are what you must prepare for now,” the old groomsman said. “And here.” He tossed Cal what looked like a small wineskin. “Take this liniment with you. She is going to need it … hell, you are going to need it.”
Cal caught the small leather pouch with the wine cork for a stopper. He knew this liniment well, and he knew the great cost of
this practical gift.
“Thank you, sir,” Cal humbly spoke.
With that the master groomsman nodded his farewell, and Cal carried both the bucket and the pouch back to Dreamer’s stall.
After the blood was washed and the horse was fed, Cal packed the saddle bags with extra shoes, a brush, a small length of rope, a few dried apples, and, of course, the skin of liniment. He set aside a sack of grain and a large horse blanket and was satisfied that he would have everything he needed for the trek in the morning.
With one last look around the stable, he said goodnight to the horses and began to make his way back home. Westriver used to have a crisp, clean smell to its air; now all anyone could smell was the burning of timber laced with the toxic aroma of fear. His nose tingled and his eyes grew wet. It may have been the smoke getting to him, but as he wiped the tears from his face, he acknowledged to himself that this very well could be his last silver night to walk these smoky streets.
For such a strong and proud kingdom, he thought, one would have never guessed that what they truly feared most was not uprising or enemy, famine or plague … but darkness. Hearths once used solely for cooking now seemed to blaze day in and day out, as if by their low glowing embers they might ward off the creeping night.
Cal navigated his way through the back streets, walking through the smoke and shadows past the rows upon rows of grey-stoned houses towards his family’s modest home. He looked towards the small stone wall in front of the house and what he saw resting there made him stop in his tracks.
“You didn’t think I was going to let you go just like that, did you?” a voice called.
“I didn’t know what to think, to be honest,” Cal replied. “I thought I might have embarrassed you right along with the rest of them. I thought—”
”You think too much, brother,” Michael interrupted.
He got up from the retaining wall and made his way over to Cal, grabbing him by the shoulders and looking him in the eyes.
“Now listen here, horse face … I don’t know what that was that happened out there, but I know for sure that you were not the cause of it.”
Cal tried to speak, but Michael wouldn’t let him.
“All you need to worry about now is making ‘Res-ti-tu-tion’,” Michael said with a mocking piety, “as fast and as quietly as you can; then worry about getting that backside of yours back to the stable yard. I mean, come on, you can’t expect those horses to last long with the lousy bunch of groomsmen we’ll have tending to them now, can you?”
“Apprentice groomsmen,” Cal said with laugh.
“Exactly,” said Michael. “Now here, I have something for you, but don’t you go getting attached to it. Just because those Poet-loving parents of yours never gave you a flint … doesn’t mean you need to travel through the forest in the dark.”
Michael took a small leather thong, which had a carved, leaf-shaped piece of flint attached to it, from around his neck. He reached out and put it in the hands of his best friend. “Just make sure I get that back. I had to memorize half of those old Priest’s words to get the blasted thing, and I don’t think I have the time or the wit to pass that kind of test again.”
Cal gripped Michael’s hand with both of his own. He looked him in the eyes and with all sincerity said, “Thank you, brother. I mean it … thank you.”
There was a moment of finality that passed between the two young men. Not one of fear or apprehension, but rather a moment that carried with it an understanding that things would never (and quite certainly could never) be this way again.
Michael then spoke words that he had never uttered before, feeling them come from a deep place that he rarely ever frequented. “May the THREE who is SEVEN be with you, and may the hope that you carry in your heart … well,” Michael paused and stared determinedly at the ground, warding off the awkwardness of the unfamiliar words, “… light your way home.”
Cal responded with a heartfelt, “May it be so.”
“Well, you better go see about getting your things together,” Michael said. “So I guess this is goodbye. For now.”
The two friends embraced, and then parted ways for what they knew would be the last time in a long time.
As Michael made his way down the dimly lit street, Cal shouted out to him. “Hey, horse face, don’t be so stingy with the apples, you hear? You never know when you will need one of those horses to return a favor!”
“I hear you,” Michael said, without even looking back.
Chapter Eight
That night Cal was haunted by the Owele dreams again. Like before, he found himself alone, lost in the thick of the forest with half-eaten snakes at his feet, paralyzed in the stare of the terrible creatures. He slept but never truly rested, and with each fearful waking Cal found himself feeling a greater disdain for these damnable birds of prey.
The morning came too quickly, but Cal dragged his exhausted and now exiled body out of bed and towards the stable yard. With his pack thrown over his shoulder, he took in the greying borough of Westriver, hoping to imprint a memory of home that could get him through his ‘res-ti-tu-tion’ in the harsh North.
By the time he made it into the gates of Westriver’s main stable yard, the other groomsmen were hard at work readying the scouting party’s mounts. Cal felt a twinge of embarrassment as he walked with his head down towards Dreamer’s stall, avoiding as much eye contact as he possibly could. He felt out of place now, wanting to just get in and get out before things grew more awkward than they already were.
He walked past the rows of horses standing at the ready before he finally reached his wounded traveling companion. As he unlatched the wooden gate he couldn’t help but feel pity and shame when he looked at her.
“It was … I mean, it is a pretty face you have there, girl. Oh I’m sorry you got dragged into this mess,” Cal told her.
The angry red lines marking the mare’s face had stopped bleeding the day before, but Dreamer carried with her a woundedness that seemed to go much deeper than the scabbed talon marks.
Cal carefully stroked her nose and ears, staying clear of the gashes cascading down her flaxen face. As she relaxed under his gentle hands, he moved in closer and embraced her neck. With his left hand he rubbed her shoulder, and as he placed his right hand just below her throatlatch he spoke with a language that made no sound.
Her warm breath against his back began to slow as he felt the pumping of her strong heart underneath the palm of his rough hand. He could feel his own heart working in rhythm, pulsing in harmony with the heart of the large mare. Cal exhaled very slowly, and then it was as if something clicked in place between them and a connection was made, bringing with it a queer sort of understanding.
The apprehension Cal and Dreamer both felt, not just about the trek they would be making, but also about the bridle that would have to be fitted on her tender face, seemed to melt away. A hush calmed their fears as Cal backed away to look her in the eyes; what he saw when he looked into them was nothing less than trust.
Dreamer lowered her head and Cal began the careful process of fitting her for their journey.
“That’s a good girl right there,” he whispered. “You and me … yeah, we’ll be just fine.”
After Dreamer had been bridled and saddled, her bags were fitted and supplies secured. Cal climbed atop her strong back, and they set out together on the long road north.
There was not sadness in their faces as they rode out past the stable yard and made their way onto the main road that led out of Westriver; rather, there was a determination. It was as if they both somehow accepted the fact that they were commencing a journey towards a metamorphosis that was sure to leave them wholly unrecognizable.
Leaving the city of the dying tree was not something practical people did these days. Since the darkening began, creatures both vile and venomous had begun to grow brash in their disregard for the boundaries of the civilized. Though for centuries they had been held at bay by the power of the amber and s
ilver lights, they were no longer confined to the wildernesses and shadow lands beyond.
The northern guard constantly had its hands full, especially in the last twenty years or so as more branches began to fall. Highwaymen and petty thieves alike had made a living wreaking havoc on the small communities that pocked the northern territory outside the protected borough of Piney Creek.
Even the outliers, the nomadic tribes, and the forest dwellers had moved south, seeking refuge in the plains to the west. The hospitality of the North had long since faded away, and what replaced it was more ominous than welcoming. Rumors had begun to spread of an evil much darker than thieves and raiders. Inside the walls of the northernmost part of Haven, guards and grandmothers alike told their dark tales. Reports of wolves and shadow cats making off with livestock and small children sent a chill of fear that kept all but the desperate or dedicated from venturing too far past the high walls of the city.
The woodcutters moved among the abandoned villages nearest to the dying forests. Cutter camps, as they were called, were the only small pockets of relative safety in this darkening wild. Safety, mainly because of the day in and day out noise, the myriad of burning braziers, and the sharp bite of hundreds of gleaming axe blades that had claimed many a hide and many a head.
Cal had barely made it out of Westriver before it became obvious that the light was significantly dimmer than what he had grown used to over the last few years. The journey on its own would not be an easy one, but now that it was compounded with lessening of the amber light, he realized it might be trickier than he first had anticipated.
Since his parents had raised him with the words of hope and tales of beauty that the bygone Poets had once freely taught throughout all of Haven, Cal, instead of turning to grey thoughts of loss, chose to brighten his journey a bit with a song his mother used to sing to him as a young boy.
“You can see, you can see if you want to.
You can do, you can do what you ought to.
The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) Page 6