Dark Humanity

by Gwynn White

  The black gelding nickered at he blew out the last lantern, and he smiled and relit it. “Okay, Midnight, I’ll leave the light on for you.” Occupied with trying to catch a spark to the oil lantern’s wick, he didn’t hear the slight whisper of air as the side door opened. His heavy gambeson with its padded layers also prevented the quick breath of cool night air from altering him to the pending danger. Stephye had long since given up both on the beer and the horses, and was snoring in time to the horses snorting unaware of the deadly menace waiting in the barn’s shadowed hallway.

  Midnight nickered again as the lantern flared to light, and Christol chuckled to himself. “You’re welcome, little mouse,” he said, turning toward the narrow staircase leading to his loft bedroom. Grabbing hold of a chink in the log wall, he began to climb its uneven treads with careful steps, the alcohol and weariness clouding both his brain and his vision.

  “Now!” The command, shouted behind him took him off-guard, as did the rough hands that jerked him off his feet. It was that last thing he felt for a very long time

  Chapter Two

  The incessant pounding that rattled not only the wooden rafters above his head but also seemed to vibrate through his skull and down to his toes, finally worked its way through Stephye's ale-induced sleep.

  “Christol,” he bellowed, “why haven't you settled down that mare!

  He knew without even going downstairs it was the piebald horse kicking at her stall that was causing the very annoying, early morning disruption. True to her nature, she wanted out, and she wanted out the very second the sun peeked through the barn's wooden cracks and shone down to warm her.

  Another rather vicious blow rattled the barn.

  "Christol where the blazes are you? By the priestesses' robes you had better not be at the tavern already."

  Fumbling with the ties of his breeches, he fell rather than rolled off the straw pallet where he slept. Already on the floor, he searched for his leather shoes with their wooded clog soles that made them safer on the town’s cobbled streets. Wet, fall weather made the stones slick and treacherous especially when your footing wasn’t steady to begin with. Finding them against the far wall where he thrown them at a rat the night before, he fumbled his feet into them one by one, leaning on the log walls for support. Finally shod, he pounded his way down the stairs. His clumping footsteps matched the mare's non-stop thumping. He blew a sigh of relief as he pulled open back gate’s latch. Free at last, she galloped around the corral whinnying and kicking happy to be out in the fresh air and sunshine once again.

  After turning out all the horses, and wondering again, where Christol had gotten off to, Stephye allowed himself a brief moment of contentment as he watched them. The goddess’ blessing of enjoying life flowed through their every leap, kick and whinny. Heads high, ears perked, bodies gleaming in the morning sun they lived for just this moment, luxuriating in the life they lived and satisfied with their present freedom and the gifts with which she had blessed them.

  “If only it were that easy,” he mumbled as he remembered his missing friend. “I am going to hang him out to roast over the Goddess’s eternal flame if he is at the tavern, already. He knows better than that.”

  And, that was just the problem. Christol did know better than that, and never did that. His horses were his first love after Ellora, and he would never neglect turning them out in the morning or seeing that they hay mangers were filled. Worry settled on him like a heavy, wet woolen cloak, and the momentary peace became lost in its folds of disquiet.

  “Maybe he’s off to see his mum. She has been failing lately.” He scratched his head, thinking. “I’ll saddle up Bluebell, she’s the fastest.” But, even as he devised the plan, he was aware that there was no other horse missing, and it would have been an all-night walk to his mother’s house. He tried to shrug off the heavy folds of unease, but they just seem to lay more securely around his shoulders. Something wasn’t right, and in his heart, he knew a simple trip to his mum’s wasn't the solution.

  “Have to start someplace,” he said, resolutely throwing a leg across the saddle and guiding the gelding out of the corral. They cleared the alley, and he let the animal have its head, its shod hooves clanging on the cobbles like swords striking shields, loud, jarring and sure to awaken anyone that had the misfortune to be still be trying to sleep at the first dawning of the sun.

  When some people thought of the Goddess, the image of a young woman on the threshold of maturity came to mind. Long hair, a teasing, playful smile and just a hint of breast and hips beneath the flowing gown. She played pranks, blessed lovers, and in her lived eternal spring and rebirth. Other people imaged her as a full woman grown, with a knowing smile full of wisdom and patience and full, round breasts and curving hips shaping the flow of her robes. Gifted with practicality, sexuality, and the management of all creation. Still others saw her as mother. Rotund, compassionate and reliable. Christol’s mum, Marey, was a combination of all three, depending upon her mood and with whom she happened to be dealing with.

  This morning, Marey, was feeling more like one of Athgaard’s demons rather than any of the Goddess’ personae, and the object of her wrath was a two and half foot rooster named, “Cocky.” Stephye could hear her whitewash-blistering curses over the pounding of his horse's hooves as he galloped passed Christol’s home and into the barnyard.

  “By all the devils of Charonyde, spur me again, you flame-cursed creature, and I’ll have you in the stew pot before lunch.”

  Stephye didn’t exactly do a flying dismount from his still galloping horse, although he tried. Instead, his lame foot tangled up in his right stirrup, and he became pulled along on his one good leg. Hopping on this foot for about five feet until the horse came to a stop at the split-log fence in front of the chicken yard.

  “Stephye?” Marey asked, hearing the commotion and turning, the errant bird still hanging by its neck from her outstretched and spur-marked arm.

  Christol’s best friend, tried to gather what remained of his dignity by pulling down his jerkin, pulling up his breeches, and patting his woolen cap firmly back in place. He loosely tied his horse’s reins to one of the fence rails, and cocked an eyebrow at Marey. “That today’s lunch?"

  “May be, if he spurs me one more time. I was just trying to gather the eggs and he lit into me as if I were one of Athgaard’s hellcats come to steal a hen.” She shook her head as if clearing away the fog of her foul mood, and asked, “What are you doing here? Not, that I mind seeing you, you are always welcome here. It’s just that you rode in here like you had coals down your breeches…”

  Stephye’s head clearing shake matched Marey’s. “By the Goddess, I am so shook up by Christol’s disappearance…”

  “Christol’s missing?” Marey’s grasp on the hormonally aggressive bird loosened and it shot out of range, taking refuge in the hen house with the rest of the chickens.

  “Well, I don’t know. That’s what I came to see you about. He wasn’t up to take care of the horses, and you know he wouldn’t miss that. So, I checked all the taverns and then all the smithies and no one has seen him. So, I figured something must have gone wrong at home so I rode out here. But, aside from Cocky, I can see that all is normal, or as normal as it ever is around here.”

  He ducked the blow that he knew was coming, and from the wry grin on his face Marey was well aware that he had been expecting it. “Okay, Stephye. Come in and I will pour you a cup of kaveh, and you can tell me exactly what happened.”

  As usual, Marey’s soothing nature, quickly calmed the easily panicked Stephye, and it wasn’t long before he had shared his story and a soothing cup of kaveh. Although, she was quick-tempered and passionate about both things she loved and those that irritated the blazes out of her, she could keep her head about her, and she knew immediately who they needed to contact. “Go see Ellora. If he’s anywhere, he’s with her, and if he isn’t she will either know what to do, or know how to find him. And, don’t ride your horse into the grou
nd getting there. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s not exactly a wee man, you know. It would take more than three men to bring him down, and I’m sure you would have heard a commotion like that.”

  Stephye stroked his chin as he listened to her. He wasn’t sure why, but her usually impeccable logic wasn’t allaying his fears. Something wasn’t right with Christol, and he knew it.

  Marey shoved her hands into the pockets of her over-tunic as she watched him ride away. There was a tightness in the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there when she had reassured the young man. The tightness spread to her forehead and deep worry wrinkles appeared. Chewing on her bottom lip, she forgot about beheading the hormonal rooster, and headed back inside the cottage. Something wasn’t’ right with Christol, and she just knew it.

  Riesa held the pestle while Ellora ground the herbs for the tonic since there wasn’t a stool, a table or a chair in the hovel where the old woman lay dying. When the tea had steeped, the priestess held the grey head in one arm and the chipped mug in another.

  “Here, Mother, sip on this. It will ease your pain,” Ellora said as she held the cup to the aged woman’s lips.

  “I thank ye, Mistress,” she gasped, each breath coming harder than the one before.

  Ellora exchanged a knowing look with Riesa. It wouldn’t be long now, and she nodded her head slightly to her priestess friend. Riesa slipped silently out of the hut, and returned just as silently with the high priestess’ robes, scepter and an ember from the Eternal Flame.

  The dying woman gasped again, and grabbed at the front of Ellora’s workaday robe. “I wasn’t always, thus,” she whispered. “I was ano gentlewoman once. Wife of the gentry, landed with servants, children and grandchildren. He took them. He took them all.” Her pronouncement given, she fell back against the straw ticking, her hands falling lifeless on her shrunken chest. Her eyes stayed wide and staring as if looking into another realm, one that kept her fascinated enough to block her pain and sorrow. Ellora reached up an untroubled and steady hand, and gently closed them one at a time. She had felt the woman’s spirit leave, had whispered to it and gave it the Goddess’s blessing on its journey home.

  Standing she turned to her waiting friend, holding out her arms for her ceremonial robes. “Her spirit has moved on,” she said, donning her gown, “It is time to help the body do so also.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” came the formal reply from Riesa’s lips. It was the beginning of the death ritual. One that would start with Ellora’s blessing and end in flames and ashes.

  Riesa stood back and watched Ellora go through the ritual motions, blessing the woman’s forehead, eyes, mouth, heart, hands and feet with consecrated oil as she prayed to the Goddess to accept the woman’s spirit into the land of above where no pain or heartache existed, and asked forgiveness for any wrongs committed with the anointed body parts. Riesa knew the doubts that plagued Ellora, but she could not criticize her friend’s execution of her duties. And, even though the dead woman had no mourners, no family, no watchers, the Goddess’ high priestess never falter and never stumbled in this holiest of ceremonies. Ellora was guiding the spirit home, not for the audience, but for herself to allay her own doubts and fears. The high priestess communed with the Goddess in search of answers for her own reality and sanity, and not for the benefit of the dead.

  “Fetch him now please, Riesa,” Ellora said, turning away from the body and removing her priestess gowns. “She is ready for the final sacrifice.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Mithlonde’s soil was the heart of the Goddess. The decaying bodies of her children could not blemish her life-giving holiness. Rather, they served as a final sacrifice, and the fire-purged ashes scattered in the temple gardens. The Groundskeeper tended her children, both the dead and the flowering blossoms the ashes geminated. And for all that was holy, Riesa could not find him this morning.

  She rounded another corner of the maze-like temple gardens, swore under her breath at the empty passage, and ran down another. Half a dozen blue-tipped rabbits scurried away from her, their laminar-blue tipped ears peeking out from under the head high hedges as she darted past. Looking forward, and not down, she never saw the platter-size gopher hole that reached out for her. Her foot went in and her body continued onward, and then down. Jerking her back, and snapping her leg bone loud enough to startle the watching bunnies back under cover.

  For a moment, the pain tempted her to use the basic magic Ellora had trained her to use. But fear conquered both that second of insanity, and the pain. The threat of death and eternal torment in Charonyde for using magic that belong only to the High Priestess sufficiently cleared her mind of that idea. But, along with that clarity of mind came the physical pain, and she could no longer endure either its torment or the thought of lying abandoned in the temple’s garden maze.

  The sound of a woman screaming in agony finally cut through the Groundskeeper’s trance and brought him back to the earthly plane of Mithlonde. Caring for the Goddess’ creations and creatures, tended to capture his mind and soul as he nurtured each blossom to its fullest glory, or healed the small wounds and injuries of her wilder garden denizens. It gave him a peace only service to Her could provide. With his hands in her soil, he touched her Spirit, became immersed in her power. But it wasn’t like the volcanic power that shook the Draekhen Mountains and made them dangerous to all. It was the power of a of a mother’s hand against a fevered cheek that brought healing. It was the power of a soft lullaby that calmed the nightmare. It was the power of a mother’s love that quieted the troubled spirit, comforted the fearful, healed the sick, and, above all else, protected her children. And, when he returned her children to the soil, combined the ashes of their earthly shells with the soils of her soul, her love flowed through him as she gathered her lost child to her and their spirits became one with hers.

  The screams coming from the far side of the temple garden, however, jerked him from her presence. He felt as if he had been blindsided by a kicking horse and he shook his head to clear it and refocus his mind and soul. A second agonizing scream purged his mind of the last bits of his meditative euphoria, and he quickly realized that one of her human children, one of the living that he did not usually tend to, was in need immediate help. Dropping the garden trowel he’d been holding, he snatched up his kit and ran toward the sounds that seemed to be just one hedgerow over. As he bounded down the flower-bordered path, a horse and rider he was nearly trampled him; one that had no business being in the temple gardens in the first place, and when he recognized the rider, the Groundskeeper could not restrain the scowling reprimand that passed his lips.

  “Stephye! By all that’s holy to Her, what do you think you are doing?”

  Again, the young man managed a flying stumble from the back of his still moving mount. Laying on his back and looking up into the face of the irate Groundskeeper of Her temple was not exactly in his plans this morning. Of course, nothing was going according to plan this morning. “I’m looking for Christol, um… Ellora and Christol, I mean,” he said, pulling himself to his feet and lunging for the reins of his horse who was making toward the particularly luscious looking pansies.

  The Groundskeeper had a blistering response ready to flay the skin from Stephye’s back when another scream reminded him of his more urgent needs. “Tie that thing up, and come with me,” he ordered, and not waiting for a response, he bolted down the passage toward the source of the screams. Even as distorted by pain as it was, Stephye recognized the voice. Fear’s mind-numbing snare gripped his thoughts and his heart, and throwing the reins over the nearest bush he rushed after him. If Christol was more than a friend, even more than a brother, Riesa was more than his lover. She was his life, his heart, and his soul, and it was her pain he heard coming from the other side of the temple gardens.

  Without so much as even a hand-carved stool in the small hut, Ellora sat on the edge of the cot next to the dead woman. She gently stroked the weathered cheek as she thought about what this woma
n’s life must have been like before he came to Mithlonde and had changed everything. The woman had never given her a name. Ellora looked at her and wondered. She had been gentry. She could have been a Lyndia, a Giesella, or an Airanna. The high priestess smiled at her silliness, trying to guess her name was futile, but not pointless, not to her and not to the dead woman. A name gave her a history, and a history gave her a place in the past where she had existed and where her life had once had meaning. She decided to call her, Ceara, simply because she liked the way it sounded.

  “What happened to your family, Ceara?” She asked, picking up the lifeless hand and holding it in her own. “They must be with the Goddess or I am sure they would be here for your crossing.”

  “Were they boys or girls, or some of both? Both, I would guess as that is what most mothers want. Sons to carry on their names, and daughters to love and teach.”

  Ellora dropped Ceara’s hand, then, and stared at the rough, bare walls in front of her wondering what this woman had sacrificed in the name of peace. Did your sons tend your fields and supervise your flocks? Did your daughters gather the corn and feed the chickens? Did your husband make you laugh and warm your bed? What did he do to them?

  Ellora’s gaze turned inward, as did her thoughts and questions. It had seemed the best choice at the time. He promised an end to the dragons and their terror. But, we lost more than we gained, didn’t we? We should have waited on the Goddess. We should have trusted her more.

  The sound of a wheelbarrow, heavy with a load of firewood, rattling down the cobbled street brought Ellora out of her musings. Glancing out through the tattered skin that served as the hut’s door covering, she could see that the sun was well into the morning. As she narrowed her eyes against the bright sun shining through the cracks, a frown creased her brow. She fumbled at the Goddess ring on her finger, nervously rubbing it with her thumb as she realized that Riesa should have been back two bell marks ago, and even as she thought this the temple bell struck the midday calling.