Legends of Luternia

by Thomas Sabel

  “The bread swells to five times its size,” explained Prester John, “that’s why you have to chew small bites for a long time and drink plenty of water.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” She let loose a second belch, louder and longer than the first, then a third. “How long will this go on?” she asked between belches that were coming on at a faster and faster rate.

  “Oh, I’ve known men to belch for a week,” Prester John said with a smirk. She glared at him, groaned, and belched for what seemed like an eternity. Then she stopped, looked a bit green, and lay down in the dust.

  On the second evening in the village, Prester John led them in evening prayers. He was about to give the benediction when he froze, arms upraised. Tension flowed from him, the tension of mercenary memories taking over. A whisper came from the dark edge of night, “Were you….” A pause. “Were you praying?” The last word was barely audible.

  “Yes.” answered Prester John.

  “Sh…. not so loud. To whom?” the voice challenged.

  “To God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” replied Prester John.

  “Please, if you would, follow me.” The shadowy image led them into the barn and warned them, “Be careful.” They followed to the place where Ulrik had seen the man and the girl disappear. A trapdoor opened from the floor and a pale light showed the way down a set of stairs. The shaded figure stepped aside and presented the entrance as an invitation. Warily, Prester John descended, followed by Clarissa and then Ulrik, who kept looking back over his shoulder.

  The light from single candles spaced far from each other dimly marked the passage. As they walked, several other shadows fell in behind them, blocking the way out of passage. They stopped in front of a set of closed double doors of iron and wood, blocked by two muscled and grim-faced guards. When Ulrik, Prester John and Clarissa turned to go back they saw the way blocked by the robed and hooded ones; the candles extinguished, the passage black. The one who invited them approached, the hood still covering his face, and took his place between the guards. “Do you know the sign?” he asked. Prester John stooped down and drew an X in the dust. The hooded figure responded with the counter-sign, a P superimposed over the X, then stood to face Prester John and said, “I am Cleopas, acting deacon and leader of the village,” he said as he turned back his hood to reveal a strong and determined face.

  “I am Prester John, of the Abbey Santa Sophia.” They exchanged the ritual kiss of peace.

  Whispered “Amens” sprinkled with a few “Alleluias” rose around them. Hoods fell back and the guards opened the doors to a brightly lit hall lined with statues carved into niches along the walls, sparkling in whiteness.

  “We heard you praying outside, which is why we brought you here. It’s too dangerous to pray in the open now. People who do so tend to disappear.” explained Cleopas.

  “Is that why you’re down here?” asked Ulrik.

  “Yes. This was a salt mine until the salt ran out. The miners had carved this chapel for themselves out of the salt. We had largely forgotten it until the dark times came upon us. Worship is safer down here. All who follow the Christ are welcome. As the darkness spread across the land, more and more believers moved down here to hide from the prying eyes of the spies from Castle Åræthi. This is the cross we are now called to bear.”

  At the mention of his home, Ulrik’s ears perked and he said, “What has happened at the castle? What have you heard?”

  “The Mage now reigns.” said someone in the crowd.

  “They say the king is dead.” said another.

  “And not only the king. Everyone who’s not loyal to the Mage, including the crown prince.” said still a third.

  “Bah, I heard the little princeling ran away like a coward,” chimed in yet another.

  “Aye, took off at the first sign of trouble, disguised so no one would notice.” said still another.

  “That’s not true!” said Ulrik. “I was sent to help my father, I didn’t run away!”

  The eyes of everyone in the crowd starred at Ulrik. When the prince began to step forward, Prester John put out an arm to stop him but the prince pushed the arm aside and moved deeper into the crowd.

  “What you have heard are lies. I’m Crown Prince Ulrik and I’m not dead. The Mage sent me to find a cure for my father.”

  Rumbles of disbelief came from the crowd: “likely story…. How do we know you’re the prince….Why should we listen to you?” said several voices in the crowd.

  The crowd glowered and encircled Ulrik, Prester John, and Clarissa. Before the circle closed, two stepped forward out of the crowd and stood before the travelers. Ulrik’s heart rose when he recognized one to be Christian. The other, a rough-looking man with a dense beard and unshorn hair was unfamiliar. Christian raised his hand and the crowd became quiet. “You know me and trust me. Many times have I passed through here, bringing God’s Word to you, although I haven’t visited often since the darkness has grown. As you believe me, believe him, for he is Prince Ulrik, and what he says about being sent by the Mage is true.”

  The rough looking man stepped forward to address Ulrik directly, “Ulrik, the ioni flower is an empty story. Christian and I continued your quest. We learned it never existed, I’m sorry.”

  Ulrik looked at him, saying. “Then you must be . . .”

  “Barty,” said the rough looking man who opened his shirt to reveal a crimson scar. “It’s me.”

  “But the beard, and the hair!,” Ulrik exclaimed.

  “And you’ve lost your baby fat and look nearly as strong as me,” Barty replied. The two embraced.

  Christian interrupted, “This is the time for giving thanks to God for all the many blessings he has brought together here, today.” Ulrik and Barty took places among the rest. Christian and Cleopas invited Prester John to join them in leading the service of prayer and thanksgiving. Clarissa stood apart until Ulrik motioned her to come and stand next to him. She accepted his invitation but eyed Barty suspiciously.

  A simple and filling fellowship meal followed. Ulrik and Barty sat together, oblivious to the conversations around them as they related their adventures to each other. Barty said that after Ulrik and Edgar fell from the sky-ship, the pirate was secured in one of the ship’s lockers until he could be handed over to the authorities. Unfortunately, he added, pirates have their own sort of friends who helped him escape. Ulrik also learned that during the quest for the flower, Christian’s winsome conversations led Barty to the faith, “Or as the Spirit worked through him,” Barty said in correction.

  “But the flower?” pleaded Ulrik.

  “It never existed. Only a story, a legend that once such a plant may have been but now is long gone, if it had ever been. We chased a chimera.”

  The image of his father’s pleading eyes and voice rushed into his memory like a storm. “Then what about my father?” said Ulrik.

  Prester John, who was sitting nearby, leaned into their conversation, “Flower or no flower, we trust in God above all else.”

  Before Ulrik could tell Barty of his adventures, Cleopas stood and called for quiet in the hall. The sound of chairs and benches being shifted around signaled the time for the stories to be told. Christian began by telling them that Abbot Peter sent him to keep an eye out for the prince and his companions and to meet up with them at Aereopolis, “At that time the abbot also hoped the flower’s juice was real and would cure the king, but more importantly, I was to insure the prince’s safe passage across the desert. I confess I failed but the Lord turned my failure into his success.” He continued to tell them what Barty had told Ulrik, then introduced Prester John as a pastor sent to protect and train the prince. When Prester John rose to speak, an old woman, gray and worn by years of heartbreak also stood and made her way through the throng to him. She never took her eyes off of him as she inspected him, turning her head this way and that like a curious bird.

  “I know you. You didn’t always have that scar. You weren’t a pastor either. You rod
e with a band of mercenaries, didn’t you? My husband tried to stop you from stealing our grain and you rode him down, do you remember?”

  Prester John blanched at her accusation and his painful memory. “I hated you for years until my heart could hold no more hate.” All eyes watched Prester John’s reaction to her. Her voice began to soften as she drew near to him. “My heart broke from the hate, but the Lord’s love and grace picked up the pieces and put them together. Now, I can tell you face to face what my heart said to me: ‘Forgive him.’ I forgive you and thank God you’re here to help.” She held out her thin arms to him as he fell into them, and quietly wept. The crowd dispersed expecting his part in the story to be told at another time.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When everyone emerged from the chapel and went into the village, it was far into the night, but they realized a new day had come. With the rising sun the villagers shed their robes and went about their business openly, women fetching water at the well, men preparing to restore the town. A group of boys who took the opportunity of newfound freedom to run through the streets came running up to Cleopas who talked with Ulrik, Prester John, and Christian.

  “We know where they are,” they said, out of breath from their running and the excitement of the day. “The spies—we found them. We left Narve to keep an eye on them. Come on.” The boys turned, leading the others across the village to the abandoned windmill. When they got there, the boys ran along the hedgerow calling for Narve in low voices, “Narve, Narve.” No Narve. The biggest boy called loudly, “Narve, where are you?” By this time the villagers had the mill surrounded. The door to the mill moved on its one remaining hinge.

  Narve poked his small head around the corner and then ducked back into the mill, trying to pull the door shut. The biggest boy went up to the door, grabbed it with both hands and jerked it off the hinge, letting it crash to the ground. “Narve, get out here before I bash you one,” he threatened.

  Cleopas put his hand on the bigger boy’s shoulder and pulled him away from the doorway, “There’s no need for that. There’s been enough of that kind of talk already.” Christian went to the door’s threshold, sat on his haunches and gently called, “Narve, it’s me, Christian. Remember me? It was a long time ago but I used to tell you stories, remember? Everything will be all right. Why don’t you come out and tell us what happened? I’ll protect you.” The villagers watched and waited for Narve, a boy quite small for his age, to slowly emerge.

  “Mr. Christian, you won’t let him beat me up, will you?” When Narve saw security in Christian’s eyes he came out into the light. The villagers formed a circle around Narve and Christian. Being safe from the other boys as well as the center of attention emboldened the small boy. “They ran off, both of them. I was told to watch them and watch I did. I even tried to follow them until they went into the woods. They said they needed to make a report, or something. But then I got afraid because I knew the others wanted to catch them and hand them over to the prince for a reward ‘cause princes always give rewards, they say. That’s why I hid.” He looked up at the surrounding crowd, sought out Ulrik with his eyes and asked, “Can I still have my reward?”

  Everyone looked to the prince for the answer to Narve’s question. Ulich didn’t know what to say. He looked at the boy, only four years separated them but Narve saw him as an adult, a royal prince who came from a distant land; a prince who rewarded faithful subjects. He knew that many waited to hear what kind of answer he would give to an eager boy. He tried to remember how his father had rewarded loyalty before the illness came. Ulrik called Narve over to him and commanded the boy to kneel. Ulrik placed his hand on the boy’s head. “Narve,” he tried to announce but his voice cracked, causing twitters among the villagers. Prester John coughed loudly bringing silence. “Narve,” Ulrik said, this time in a voice clear and determined. “You have been faithful to me when you could have fled. You stayed at your post despite your fear and made an honest report. For this I name you “Friend of the Realm” and to you shall my door always be open.” Ulrik stepped back and looked to his mentor for approval. Prester John nodded. Narve stood, pulled himself to his full height and strutted past the bigger boys.

  Barty moved to Ulrik’s side, leaned in and whispered, “Friend of the Realm? I never heard of that title before. Starting something new already?”

  “It was the first thing that came to mind. I didn’t know what else to do,” Ulrik whispered back.

  “I don’t know what you two are whispering about,” said Prester John, “but with those spies on the run, the Mage will hear what has happened here sooner than I would like.”

  A taller boy rushed to them and reported that two men were coming toward the village from the direction of the castle. “What about my reward,” the boy asked. Cleopas stepped in, “Reward? For doing what you should be doing all along? Get on with you.”

  The two men were soldiers in ragged uniforms of the castle, hungry, and bewildered. They straggled in, bringing news about the castle. “We had to get out of that place. Evil it had become, plain evil. We were the last soldiers left, just the two of us. The Mage’s own scum showed up and drove off the others. Harald was trying to keep the troops together, I think. Not sure why we hung around.”

  “The Mage’s taken full control of the place,” said the second.

  “Except for the kitchen,” the first interrupted, “Rupert’s holed up in there with the old cook; how she hangs on is beyond me. It’s like something is protecting her—strange it is.”

  “Amen to that, as my grandmother would say. Like I was saying, we had to go. I know soldiers aren’t supposed to desert their king and all, but we had no choice especially after we saw what happened to old Geoffrey.”

  “He wasn’t quick enough in following the Mage’s orders, so he was taken to that new pen at the bottom of the wizard’s tower. Chucked him in there and all that came out were his boots. Don’t know what’s in there but we weren’t going to find out.”

  They learned that the wizard had been busy since Ulrik had left, gathering his own army of mercenaries and pirates, as well as building a strange pen for his new pet, as the Mage called it. The soldiers didn’t have any new information about the king but presumably he was still alive.

  Ulrik, at the advice of his mentor, called a council meeting with Barty, and Cleopas to form a plan. Seeing how hopeless the people had become, thinking he was dead and the Mage in full control, he asked Christian to go through the countryside and use the abbot’s network of eyes and ears to let the people know he was very much alive and would not allow Mage to have his evil way unopposed.

  The presence of the prince and his allies generated new courage in the villager’s hearts. The only one unmoved by all the events was the old man who had kicked Ulrik awake after his first night in the village. When he learned the object of his foot was a crown prince, he let out a great, “Gee-ruff” and went back into his house, the dog following at his heel.

  Cleopas called the villagers together, telling them their hiding days were over but now, they were in greater danger than before. Together, the villagers decided to first restore the barnlike building to its proper use as their village church. They began by repainting it, inside and out. The clapboard siding went from gray to a bright white, like a beacon shining forth. Inside, the walls were painted a serene blue. The altar was taken out of hiding and placed above the trapdoor. Candelabras were taken from all but forgotten closets and polished until the silver shone like a bright full moon in winter. Prester John led the rededication service to tears of thankfulness.

  Ulrik thoughts turned from the village to the kingdom so he consulted his map. Now the village, labeled “Fastholm,” appeared clearly and distinctly on the scroll. “There’s something else,” commented Prester John. “Look here.” East of the village the image of two crossed swords appeared.

  “An old battlefield?” wondered the prince.

  “Or one that will yet be fought upon.”

  As C
hristian did his work, word of hope spread. Folks from many different parts of the realm started arriving at the village, some seeking help and others offering help. One family of five, barely alive, had recently escaped the Mage’s men in search of “taxes” and had spent the past week in open fields. Some appeared ready to fight like Sir Maximilian, an aged knight, who claimed to have known Ulrik’s grandfather and proclaimed, “I may be old but I’m not dead.” He proved his liveliness with a display of swordsmanship equal to that of Prester John’s.

  One afternoon a short man and his even smaller wife eagerly approached Ulrik and bowed before him. Ulrik urged them to stand upright. “Your majesty, please, tell us how our Nathan is doing?” asked the man.

  “Nathan?” asked Ulrik.

  “Surely you know him; he lived with you at the Castle Åræthi. Three years ago some men from the castle came seeking apprentices for the king’s advisor. Nathan was always a bright boy, but he had no future on our poor farm. We were told he would live at court and learn the ways of wisdom and power. Nathan was smallish then, but he must have grown since.” the man said.

  Ulrik remembered the boy who wore the hand-me-down robe that dragged in the dirt, but how could he tell them what the Mage did with such apprentices? He called Prester John over and then, as gently as he could, told them what he knew. The boy’s mother collapsed into Prester John’s arms while the father began to scream and howl before running out into the fields. His anguish could be heard for a mile. “Hayden, come back,” his wife called.

  For two nights the man wailed so loudly that sleep was impossible. When he returned, he carried a rough wooden club in his hand with bits of sharpened flint worked into the cracks in the wood, and his face set as hard and sharp as the shards in his war club. “I want to fight,” he announced, and he joined the other recruits training in the common meadow near the village.

  “Watch out for him,” warned Prester John. “He doesn’t want to fight; he wants to die and take as many with him as he can. I’ve seen it before.”