Avempartha

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Over the last days, travel became increasingly difficult. The recent spring storms dropped several trees across the trail that blocked the route as formidably as any castle gate. They dismounted and struggled through the thick brush as Royce searched for a way around. Hours passed yet they failed to rejoin the road. Scratched and sweaty, they led their horses across several small rivers, and on one occasion faced a sharp drop. Looking down from the rocky cliff, Hadrian offered Royce a skeptical look. Usually, Hadrian never questioned Royce’s sense of direction or his choice of path. Royce had an unerring ability to find his way in the wilderness, a talent proven on many occasions. Hadrian tilted his head up. He could not see the sun or sky, there was no point of reference—everything was limbs and leaves. Royce had never let him down, but they had never been in a place like this.

  “We’re alright,” Royce told them, a touch of irritation in his voice.

  They worked their way down, Royce and Thrace leading the horses on foot while Hadrian cleared a path. When they reached the bottom, they found a small stream, but no trail. Again, Hadrian glanced at Royce, but this time the thief made no comment as they pressed on along the least dense route.

  “There,” Thrace said, pointing ahead to a clearing revealed by a patch of sun that managed to sneak through the canopy. A few more steps revealed a small road. Royce looked at it for a moment then merely shrugged, climbed back on his horse, and kicked Mouse forward.

  They emerged from the forest as if escaping from a deep cave, into the first open patch of direct sun they had seen in days. Standing in the glade, beside a rough wooden wellhead, stood a child among a pack of eight grazing pigs. The child, no more than five years old, held a long, thin stick, and an expression of wonder on a little round face covered in sweat-trapped dirt. Hadrian had no idea if it was a boy or girl as the child displayed no definite indication of either, wearing only a simple smock of flax linen, dirty and frayed with holes and rips so plentiful they appeared by design.

  “Pearl!” Thrace called out as she scrambled off Millie so quickly the horse sidestepped. “I’m back.” She walked over and tousled the child’s matted hair.

  The little girl—Hadrian now guessed—gave Thrace little notice and continued to stare at them, eyes wide.

  Thrace threw out her arms and spun around, “This is Dahlgren. This is home.”

  Hadrian dismounted and looked around, puzzled. They stood on a small patch of close-grazed grass beside a well constructed of ill-fitted planks with a wooden bucket resting on a rail wet and dripping. Two other rutted trails intersected with the one they followed forming a triangle with the well at its center. On all sides, the forest surrounded them. Massive trees of dramatic size still blocked the sky, except for the hole above the clearing through which Hadrian could see the pale blue of the late afternoon sky.

  Hadrian scooped a handful of water from the bucket to wash the sweat from his face and Millie nearly shoved him aside as she pushed her nose into the bucket, drinking deeply.

  “What’s with the bell,” Royce mentioned, climbing down off Mouse and gesturing toward the shadows.

  Hadrian looked over, surprised to see a massive bronze bell hanging from a rocker arm that in turn hung from the lower branch of a nearby oak. Hadrian guessed that if it were on the ground Royce could stand inside it. A rope dangled with knots tied at several points along its length.

  “That’s different,” he said, walking toward it. “How does it sound?”

  “Don’t ring it!” Thrace exclaimed. Hadrian pivoted his eyebrows up. “We only ring it for emergencies.”

  He looked back at the bell noting the relief images of Maribor and Novron, along with lines of religious script circling its waist. “Seems sort of extravagant for…well…” he looked around at the empty clearing.

  “It was Deacon Tomas’ idea. He kept saying: A village isn’t a village without a church, and a church isn’t a church without a bell. Everyone pitched in a little. The old margrave matched what we had and ordered it for us. The bell was finished long before we had time to build the church. Mr. McDern took his oxen and fetched it all the way from Ervanon. When he got back, we had no place to put it and he needed his wagon. It was my father’s idea to hang it here and use it as an alarm until the church went up. That was a week before the attacks started. At the time no one had any idea how much use we’d get out of it.” She stared at the huge bell for a moment and then added. “I hate the sound of that bell.”

  A gusty breeze rustled the leaves and threw a lock of hair in her face. She brushed it back and turned away from the oak and the bell. “Over there,” she pointed across the rutted path, “is where most of us live.” Hadrian spotted structures hidden in shadow within a shallow dip, behind a blind of goldenrod and milkweed. Small wooden frame buildings plastered with wattle and daub—a mixture of mud, straw, and manure. The roofs were thatch, the windows no more than holes in the walls. Most lacked doors, making due with curtains across the entrances that fluttered with the wind, revealing dirt floors. Beside one, he spotted a vegetable garden that managed to catch a sliver of sun.

  “That’s Mae and Went Drundel’s place there in front,” Thrace said. “Well, I guess it’s just Mae’s now. Went and the boys—they—were taken not long ago. To the left, the one with the garden is the Bothwick’s. I used to babysit Tad and the twins, but Tad’s old enough now to watch the twins himself. They are like family really. Lena and my mother were very close. Behind them—you can just see the McDern’s roof. Mr. McDern is the village smith and the owner of the only pair of oxen. He shares them with everyone, which makes him popular come spring. To the right, the place with the swing is the Caswell’s. Maria and Jessie are my best friends. My father hung that swing for us not long after we moved here. I spent some of the best days of my life on that swing.”

  “Where’s your place?” Hadrian asked.

  “My father built our house a ways down the hill.” She gestured toward a small trail that ran to the east. “It was the best house—best farm really—in the village. Everyone said so. There’s almost nothing left now.”

  Pearl was still staring at them, watching every move.

  “Hello,” Hadrian said to her with a smile, bending down on his hunches, “my name is Hadrian, and this is my friend Royce.” Pearl glared and took a step back, brandishing the stick before her. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  “Her parents were both killed two months ago while planting,” Thrace told them looking at the girl with sympathetic eyes. “It was daylight and like everyone else they thought they were safe, but it was a stormy day. The clouds had darkened the sky.” Thrace paused then added, “A lot of people have died here.”

  “Where is everyone else?” Royce asked.

  “They’ll all be in the fields now, bringing in the first cutting of hay, but they’ll be coming back soon, it’s getting late. Pearl minds the pigs for the entire village, don’t you, Pearl?” The girl nodded fiercely, holding her stick with both hands and keeping a wary eye on Hadrian.

  “What’s up there?” Royce asked. He had moved down off the green and was looking up the trail as it ran north.

  Hadrian followed, leaving Millie with the bucket, her tail swishing vigilantly against a handful of determined flies. Moving past a stand of spruce, Hadrian could see a hill cleared of trees rising just a few hundred yards away. On its crest rested a stockade style wall of hewn logs and in the center a large wooden house.

  “That’s the margrave’s castle. The Deacon Tomas has taken on the responsibility of steward until the king appoints a new lord. He’s very nice and I don’t think he’d mind you using the stables, considering there aren’t any other horses in the village. For now just tie them to the well I guess, and we can go see my father.

  “Pearl, watch their stuff, and keep the pigs away. If Tad, Hal, or Arvid come back before I do, have them take the horses up to the castle and ask the deacon if they can stable them there, okay?”

  The little girl nodded.r />
  “Does she talk?” Hadrian asked.

  “Yes, just not very often anymore. Com’on, I’ll take you to—to what used to be my home. Dad’s probably there. It’s not far and a pretty pleasant walk.” She began leading them east along a footpath that ran downhill behind the houses. As they circled around, Hadrian got a better look at the village. He could see more houses, all of them tiny things, most likely single rooms with lofts. There were other smaller structures, a few crated feed bins built on stilts to keep clear of rodents and what looked to be a community outhouse; it too lacked a solid door.

  “I’ll ask the Bothwicks to take you in while you’re here. I’m staying with them myself, they—” Thrace stopped. Her hands flew to her face as she sucked in a sudden breath and her lips started to quiver.

  Beside the path, not far from the house with the swing, two wooden markers stood freshly driven into the earth. Carved into them were the names Maria and Jessie Caswell.

  ———

  The Wood farm appeared down the footpath. Several acres lay cleared of trees, most at the bottom of a hill where lush wheat grew in perfectly straight rows. A low stone wall built from carefully stacked rocks ran the perimeter. It was a beautiful field of rich dark earth, well turned, well planted, and well drained.

  The homestead itself stood on the rise overlooking the field. The house was a ruined shell, its roof gone, thatch scattered across the yard, blown by the wind. Only a few timbers remained—splintered poles jutting up like broken bones punching through skin. The lower half of the building along with the chimney were both made of irregularly shaped fieldstone and remained mostly intact. Some stones lay in piles where they slipped from their stacks, but the majority appeared eerily untouched.

  Little things caught Hadrian’s attention. Mounted beneath one window hung a flower box with a scallop-edge and the image of a deer carved into it. The front door, made of solid oak, had a latch formed of hand-beaten iron, revealing not a single peg or visible joint. The stones that created the walls, alternated colors of gray, rose, and tan, each chipped to a fine flat profile. The curved walkway was bordered with bushes trimmed to resemble a hedge.

  Theron Wood sat amidst the ruins of his home. The big farmer, with dark leathery skin, had a short mangle of forgotten gray hair that crowned a face cut by wind and sun. He looked like a part of the earth itself, a gnarled trunk of a great tree with a face like a weathered cliff. He rested on the remaining wall of his home, a grass cutter held between his legs, slowly dragging a sharpening stone along the length of the huge curved scythe blade. Back and forth the stone scrapped while the man stared down at the green field below, an expression on his face Hadrian could only describe as contempt.

  “Daddy! I’m back.” Thrace ran to the old farmer hugging him around his neck. “I missed you.”

  Theron endured the squeeze and glared at them. “Are these the ones then?”

  “Yes. This is Hadrian and Royce. They’ve come all the way from Colnora to help. They can get the weapon Esra told us about.”

  “I have a weapon,” the farmer growled and resumed sharpening his blade. The sound was cold and grating.

  “This?” Thrace asked. “Your grass cutter? The margrave had a sword, a shield, and armor and he—”

  “Not this, I have another weapon, much bigger, much sharper.”

  Puzzled, she looked around. The old man offered no insight.

  “I don’t need what lies in that tower to kill the beast.”

  “But you promised me.”

  “And I am a man of my word,” he replied and drew the stone along the edge of the blade once more. “The waiting only made my weapon sharper.” He dipped the stone into a bucket of water that sat beside him. He raised it back to the blade but paused and said, “Every day I wake up, I see Thad’s broken bed and Hickory’s cradle. I see the shattered barrel that Thad made, the fields I planted for him—growing despite me. Best season in a decade. I woulda reaped more than enough to pay for the contract and tools. I woulda had extra. I coulda built him a shop. I might even have afforded a sign and real glass windows. He coulda had a planed wooden door with hinges and studs. His shop woulda been better than any house in the village. Better then the manor. People would walk by and stare, wondering what great man owned such a business. How great an artisan was this town’s cooper that he could manage such a fine store?

  “Those bastards back in Glamrendor who wouldn’t let Thad hang a shingle. They would never have seen the like. It woulda had a shake roof and scalloped eaves, a hard oak counter and iron hooks to hold lanterns for when he needed to work late at night to complete all his orders. His barrels would be stacked in a storage shed beside the shop. A beautiful barn-size one, and I would paint it bright red so no one could miss it. I’d ’a got him a wagon too even if I had to build it myself, that way he could send orders all over Avryn—back to Glamrendor too. I’d ’a driven them there myself just to see the shock and anger on their faces.

  “Morning! I’d say grinning like a lipless crocodile. Here’s another fine delivery of barrels from Thaddeus Wood, the best cooper in Avryn. They’d cringe and curse. Yep, that boy ’o mine, he’s no farmer, no sir. Starting with him, the Woods were gonna be artisans and shopkeepers.

  “This village, it’d have grown. People woulda moved in and started businesses of their own, only Thad’s woulda always been the first, the biggest, and the best. I’d seen to that. Soon this here woulda been a city, a fine city and the Woods the most successful family—a merchant family giv’n money to the arts and riding around in fine carriages. This here house woulda been a true mansion ’cause Thad woulda insisted, but I wouldn’t care ’bout that, no sir. I’d been content just watching Hickory grow up, seeing him learn to read and write—appointed magistrate maybe. My grandson in the black robes! Yes sir, Magistrate Wood is going to court in a fine carriage and me standing there watching him.

  “I see it. Every morning I get up; I sit; I look down Stony Hill and I see all of it. It’s right there, right in that field growing in front of me. I haven’t hoed. I haven’t tilled, but look at it. The best crop I ever grew getting taller every day.”

  “Daddy, please come back with us to the Bothwicks. It’s getting late.”

  “This is my home!” the old man shouted, but not at her. His eyes were still on the field. He scraped the blade again. Thrace sighed.

  There was a long silence.

  “You and your friends go. I swore not to seek it, but there is always a chance it might come to me.”

  “But, Daddy—”

  “I said take them and go. I don’t need you here.”

  Thrace glanced at Hadrian. There were tears in her eyes. Her lips trembled. She stood for a moment, wavering, then abruptly broke and ran back up the path toward town. Theron ignored her. The old farmer tilted the blade of his grass cutter to the other side and resumed sharpening. Hadrian watched him for a moment, the sounds of the stone on metal drowning out Thrace’s fading sobs. He never looked up, not at Hadrian, not to glance down the trail. The man was indeed a rock.

  Hadrian found Thrace only a few dozen yards up the trail. She was on her knees crying. Her small body jerked, her hair rocking with the movement. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Your father is right. That weapon of his is very sharp.”

  Royce caught up with them carrying a fractured piece of wood. He looked down at Thrace with an uncomfortable expression.

  “What’s up?” Hadrian asked before Royce said anything callous.

  “What do you think of this?” Royce replied, holding out the scrap that might have been part of the house framing. The beam was wide and thick, good strong oak taken from the trunk of a well aged tree. The piece bore four deeply cut gouges.

  “Claw marks?” Hadrian took the wood and placed his hand against the board with his fingers splayed out. “Giant claw marks.”

  Royce nodded. “Whatever it is, it’s huge. So how come no one has seen it?”

  “It gets very d
ark here,” Thrace told them, wiping her cheeks as she stood. A curious expression crossed her face and she walked to where a yellow-flowered forsythia grew at the base of a maple tree. Taking a hesitant step, Thrace bent down and drew back what Hadrian thought was a wad of cloth and old grass. As she carefully cleaned away the leaves and sticks he saw it was a crude doll with thread for hair and X’s sewn for eyes.

  “Yours?” Hadrian ventured.

  She shook her head but did not speak. After a moment Thrace replied, “I made this for Hickory, Thad’s son. It was his Wintertide gift, his favorite. He carried it everywhere.” Plucking the last bits of grass from the doll, she rubbed it. “There’s blood on it,” her voice quivered. Clutching the doll to her chest she said softly, “He forgets—they were my family too.”

  ———

  Royce guessed it was still early evening when they returned to the village common, but already the light was fading, the invisible sun quickly consumed by the great trees. The little girl and her herd of pigs were gone and so were their horses and gear. In their place, they found a host of people rushing about with an urgency that left him uneasy.

  Men crossed the clearing carrying hoes, axes, and piles of split wood over their shoulders. Most were barefoot, dressed in sweat-stained tunics. Women came behind, carrying bundles of twigs, reeds, thick marsh grasses, and stalks of flax. They too traveled barefoot with their hair pulled up, hidden under simple cloth wraps. Royce could see why Thrace made such a big deal out of the dress they bought her as all the village women wore simple homemade smocks of the same natural off-white color, lacking any adornment.

  They looked hot and tired, focused on reaching the shelter of their homes and dumping their burdens. As the three approached the village, one boy looked up and stopped. He had a long handled hoe across his shoulders, his arm threaded around it.

  “Who’s that?” he said.

  This got the attention of those nearby. An older woman glared, still clutching her bag of twigs. A bare-chested man with thick, powerful arms lowered his pack of wood, holding tight to his axe. The topless man glanced at Thrace who was still wiping her red eyes, and advanced on them, shifting the axe to his right hand.