Jadde - The Fragile Sanctuary

by Clive Ousley

  He stopped and looked for Alder in the bustling crowd. He spotted him turn as he weaved between a squad of Brenna meat-guards. The boy beamed, revealing his child bright teeth as he waved to his hero.

  Malkrin forced a smile and waved back as he walked into the alley containing his cottage.

  Back in the familiar smells of his home he sunk into his favourite chair. Its ancient frame creaked under his weight.

  ‘Good hunt my love?’ Cabryce swung quickly down the creaking stair ladder; her usual bright dress had been replaced by practical leggings for walking the muddy alleys. She had the same beaming smile as Alder. For an instant Malkrin resented it – knowing what he was about to tell her.

  ‘Yes Jadde was with us.’

  ‘Good.’

  Malkrin hesitated. She read his body language as he gripped the wooden chair-arms and lent forward. Her lips firmed, and she stared into his eyes.

  ‘However . . . Jadde was not with me.’

  ‘Has the worst finally . . .’

  A disrespecting thump vibrated the door latch. Not a friend, Malkrin thought, and glanced to Palerin on the shelf – one short step away.

  He flung the door open and Beartooth’s leering face glanced beyond him. Malkrin knew Cabryce stood behind him anxious for him to give her details of the hunt.

  Beartooth lifted his gore-smeared hands for Cabryce to see. ‘Fisheye’s blood,’ he snarled. ‘He’s at home, laid on his bed in agony. His wife and child are weeping – because of you Owlear.’

  ‘I will look after his family,’ Malkrin snapped back.

  ‘Not enough.’ He stabbed a finger at Malkrin, ‘People’s favourite no more . . . just a lowly hunter like the rest.’

  Malkrin batted the accusing finger away, his highsense had felt Beartooth tense ready to prod him.

  Beartooth’s face formed a deeper leer. ‘After the elders have finished you, I’ll take –’

  ‘Shut up.’ Malkrin did not want Cabryce learning of events before he had a chance to tell her.

  ‘I look forward to Cabryce sharing my –’

  ‘If I go to exile then I swear I will return to tear you apart.’

  ‘Threats Owlear, I’ll have –’

  Malkrin had had enough after all that had happened that day. He raised his fist. A hand grabbed it.

  ‘Enough – both of you.’

  Cabryce forced herself through the door and between them in a colourful blur.

  ‘Go find your own wife Beartooth,’ she stated assertively.

  ‘Once he’s gone. I will . . . for sure.’

  Beartooth ran his eyes over Cabryce once more and Malkrin emitted a roar similar to a wildcat giving warning to an adversary. He clenched both fists and Cabryce snatched each clump of rigid fingers.

  ‘Indoors Malkrin. Now.’

  But first Malkrin watched Beartooth disappear down the lane toward his elderly parents’ hut. Then he allowed Cabryce to guide him back to his chair. She latched the door tight and stooped before him with arms around his neck and gently caressed his rigid shoulders.

  ‘Do we need to pack our things . . . To travel?’

  He let out a deep breath and shrunk into the seat cushion.

  ‘No. No. They’ll just take one highsense sun from me.’

  He gripped her hand as she stared with glistening eyes. ‘I’m sure, my love, it has always been so.’

  ‘I would have come with you Malkrin.’

  ‘I know Cabryce, but whatever happens you cannot.’

  ‘I will. If your highsense finally leaves you – I will.’

  ‘You must promise me you’ll stay. It’s safe here. I must search for Jadde, to ask for her to return her blessing.’ He reached behind his shoulder and gripped her hand. ‘And I must do it alone.’

  Long seconds passed then reluctantly she nodded. ‘I promise. Now tell me what happened today.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Malkrin Owlear you have been found guilty before the Council of Brenna. Your fellow hunters have testified under oath to your crime.’

  The ancient Brenna warrior Bredon the Fox stared with cataract misted eyes to Malkrin. He forced himself to stare ahead, refusing to meet the Fox’s gaze and so to respect his authority. He looked instead to the solemn Council, appearing impassive although below the surface he seethed with injustice. The assembly of eight decrepit and wizened elders were dressed in their leather ceremonial finery. They eyed Malkrin intently, the gravity of his crime written on their time-worn faces.

  Malkrin returned their stares coldly. He was numbed at how quickly his failure had escalated to the trial in Jadde’s Great Hall of Justice. This was the only crime warranting a full session of the council. The Goddess Jadde had written the laws all those lifetimes ago, when she had the survival of the Seconchane foremost in her thoughts. Malkrin was sure the Brenna had distorted her laws, how could it be this serious to have a few breaths lapse in his highsense? After all he could just become an ordinary hunter – and still be a good one he was sure.

  His father had taught him many skills and he was certain some of them no one else knew. This hunting lore had added to his hero status because Malkrin had kept the tricks to himself. He remembered his father saying; it’s all passed on from Owlear father to Owlear son and it is part of your inheritance. It will help save a hunt on days the game is spooked. He had taken Malkrin into the woods and grassy mountain plains to practise. Malkrin had been a willing learner and aided by his developing highsense had quickly picked up the lore.

  Now in Jadde’s Great Hall black thoughts engulfed him. Would he be outcast and not able to help his friend Halle after all? Could the hunt feed the whole of the Seconchane without him? He created a small highsense to watch the confidence leave him like steam from a cooling meal. What is the use of a highsense that could do that – none, he thought angrily, and refocused on the wrinkled face of Bredon the Fox. The old man pointed a gnarled finger at Malkrin, and then cleared his throat to announce the Council’s verdict.

  ‘I sentence Malkrin Owlear to losing one of his two highsense lives.’ The Fox wheezed and coughed, ‘for a fading talent is a grievous loss to the Seconchane.’ The finger trembled as if Malkrin was floating before his fogged vision. ‘Any further lapse will be your last Malkrin Owlear. Be warned, next time your highsense fails, banishment to the deadlands of Monjana awaits you . . .’ The Fox wheezed, and for a moment appeared to forget the ancient ritual’s words. ‘. . . You will then only be eligible to return when your highsense gift returns to you.’

  Malkrin bowed. The verdict was no surprise. He had conditioned himself to its inevitability these last four days. Jadde had taken a prized highsense from him, and the Council were about to take one of the gold suns pinned to his tunic. It could have been worse; he still had half of his authority. But under his relief a sad wish that he usually kept carefully suppressed surfaced to drown him. He wished he had never been gifted by Jadde. He could have just run off with Cabryce and hunted just for the two of them. Higher in the mountains they could have created their own tribe. They could do it now, and build their home next to a full stream of leaping salmon and a meadow full of tamed mountain goats, and . . .

  No, it was not for him; he had to hunt to help the ordinary people of the Seconchane. Some were here now, at the back of the hall, seated on benching brought in for the trial.

  He tapped his temple for the secret highsense boost that his once mentor Josiath Nighthawk had taught him. His hearing increased as if he’d put a hollow rams horn to his ear. He was comforted by the beat of the two hundred hearts his highsense picked up in the huge stone hall.

  The heart beats turned into a single, thump, thump, thump. He realised it was his own.

  A court attendant strode over with a padded cushion for the confiscated gold insignia. Malkrin ceremoniously removed the golden sun from his tunic and placed it in the centre.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  He left the second insignia still pinned over his heart. The attend
ant stepped back and turned toward the Brenna Council.

  The Fox jerked upright, as if the trial wearied him. As tradition decreed he completed the trial. ‘If there is a second appearance for you here Malkrin Owlear; you will face the trial of Jadde.’

  Thump, thump, thump.

  Malkrin dared a glance at Jadde’s altar, and his highsense tingled for a fraction of a moment. The altar was pivotal in Jadde’s second trial. The rectangular stone was framed by chiselled pillars supporting a marble top. Its time-worn edges sat imposingly on a raised dais before the Council seats. It looked dead with its contours smoothed by many priests admiring hands over countless lifetimes. The altar was endowed with her lost magic and during a serious trial it came to life. Jadde’s presence returned to it to deliver her verdict. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t suffer her judgment . . . ever.

  Thump, thump, thump. He placed a hand on his chest hoping to slow his heart before it burst.

  He nodded grimly and clasped hands before his face in the traditional response. A mix of emotions swirled in his mind, somehow enhanced by his highsense. He felt shame, defiance, and then vengeance. This turned to misgiving as he strode toward the crowd. They parted respectfully, he still commanded some authority. His highsense peered within the sea of faces as he walked slowly past. Some revealed sadness, compassion, others anger or resentment. A few faces gloated with fiery eyes at his partial downfall. On a couple he noticed a combination of all the lowly emotions - they were the dangerous ones. In many minds he caught a whisper, an echo of fact; none who have begun to lose highsense have ever recovered it.

  Malkrin shunned the face-images and their whispering thoughts; and pictured his beloved Cabryce. A slight smile returned as he thought of her bright face and their wedding last fall. His heartbeat slowed.

  He walked out of the great hall into the roaring winter gale and straight past the meandering rows of the ordinary folk’s huts. Past all the broken cart wheels, piles of bleached animal bones and mounds of stones removed from impoverished vegetable patches. Then downhill along the cobbled road to the stone built residence of Josiath Nighthawk. The verdict had been passed and his old mentor would be allowed to council him again to bolster his onetime pupil’s highsense retention. Malkrin thought hard; perhaps he could refocus his inner ear with more advice from Josiath. He would have to admit to all his lapses to benefit from the old man’s instruction.

  Only Cabryce knew of his lapses but Malkrin knew his wife had kept them to herself. She had sympathised, and then as her mood darkened she had maintained a moody silence. He knew she was anxious not to lose her husband and the trappings of their elevated status. Her loyalty humbled him; she was loyal and dismissive of being an accessory to his crime. But he dreaded her being punished if she ever lost her own highsense. The Brenna would be as harsh to her as they were to any man. With his hunting and tracking skills he could possibly survive in the deadlands. But could Cabryce? She had none of his hunting lore or related gifts.

  But it wasn’t just highsense loss that the Brenna punished harshly. They did not need to consult Jadde for all other crimes.

  Often he’d seen a townsperson dragged away for misdemeanours and punished by a month’s hard labour for petty offences. These included theft of food or livestock, drunken fights or not promptly paying taxes. The graver offences involving assault, fraud or adultery meant the culprit disappeared into the dungeons beneath the Brenna homesteads – usually never to return. A deliberately vague proclamation of guilt was then announced in the town square the Sunday after the offender was hauled away. Occasionally a bowed and wrecked scarecrow would totter back to Edentown as a warning – an example of the cruel punishment that would befall anyone for serious crimes. The offender having completed his punishment was then tended by family or friends but was seldom able to resume a place in the Seconchane community. Most died soon after.

  He forced away the grim memories as he approached Nighthawk’s abode. The elderly priest preferred to inhabit this building in the centre of town. He had always proclaimed he was one of the people and chose to live amongst them. Malkrin let himself in through the creaking entrance door; Sire Josiath was waiting in his accommodation, warming in front of his roaring peat and log fire. His shadowed form melded into his favourite high-backed chair made from the warped timber of a dwarf oak tree. The darkened room allowed the glow emitting from the soot stained hearth to flutter shadows across his face. His expression was unreadable and his body indistinct in a thick wrapping of bear furs. Malkrin sat next to him on a low rickety seat, ignoring the bear fur draped over the back that would have kept the chill from him.

  He knew to wait patiently for the priest to speak.

  As Josiath Nighthawk practised this authority Malkrin drifted to carefree days when the whole world seemed vast and exciting. He had been nine summers old and was sitting on a hard wooden stool before the priest. He still remembered the smell of cooked broth and the old man’s welcoming speech.

  ‘A highsense talent is very rare. Master it well and you will be rewarded so highly that ordinary people will think you elevated to sit beside Jadde herself.’ The priest had smiled at Malkrin’s look of awe. ‘Invariably the holder is discovered, like you, at a youthful age and needs to be assigned a priest mentor skilled in highsense education.’ He had leant forward and ruffled Malkrin’s hair and smiled a welcome, ‘to help the newly confirmed high-person cope with his elevated status.’

  Over the subsequent years his mentor had coached him on how to focus his talent. He had deliberately not mentioned directly the negative aspects until the last days of Malkrin’s training. By then Malkrin had puzzled them out for himself.

  ‘It’s a huge responsibility for any young adult.’ He had begun intensely; ‘but be warned young man, the downside is all too frequent. Often the highsense becomes such a burden it’s lost during adulthood - seared into lifelong oblivion.’

  Malkrin had been lucky. Until four days ago he had kept his highsense lapses secret by keeping a cool head and not allowed the intermittent flaw to overwhelm him.

  Back in the present Josiath yawned and rubbed his chin. Malkrin remembered it was a sign he was about to acknowledge him.

  ‘Welcome High Person Malkrin, I’ve been expecting you.’ The priest spoke in his deep gravelly rumble.

  ‘I have lost one highsense life,’ Malkrin admitted bluntly.

  ‘I know. It was the only punishment they could administer.’

  ‘Jadde’s justice has been done,’ Malkrin chanted respectfully.

  Thump, thump, thump. Malkrin consciously calmed himself.

  ‘A just judgment,’ Josiath gave the intoned response the priesthood expected of him. Malkrin’s highsense told him it was uttered through clenched teeth.

  Then Josiath stared intently at Malkrin with the eyes of a trusted old friend. ‘But is it a just punishment?’ He sidetracked his own question. ’Let me tell you a tale.’ He looked down at his soft fingers and turned his instruction to an earlier time.

  ‘Many years ago there lived a young man; tall, long legged and very bright, named Jak Dawe. He showed he had a talent for creating gold from rocks, and silver from the bones of rats. He produced the treasure from his hut on demand, but no one witnessed him actually creating the precious metal. He said he needed solitude on the Snow-mount of Prathar to magic them. All accepted this, and he was assured by priests that his highsense recognition was very close. Until one night he was secretly followed by the Brenna. And in a rift in the snow-mount he was seen entering a hidden cave. Later he emerged with gold moons and silver stars and strange bulbous glass tubes containing metal vines. He had dishonoured himself and the Seconchane. He was put to trial for fraud against Jadde and was banished.’ Josiath paused to look steadily at Malkrin. ‘Another high status man in my childhood had the highsense of hunting fish by standing in murky water and attracting them to his hands. Apparently he stroked them and they allowed themselves to be flicked from the water. He had the honour of hol
ding a highsense for the longest ever. Then he lost the talent. He was elderly by then; his joints stiff and unable to feel the fish. But they still banished him.’

  ‘I know the story of the Fish Flickerer.’ Malkrin was agitated, where was this leading?

  ‘Good, but here’s another tale. Habby Jaywing had an ability to snap sparks from her fingers. She could create a fire without a flint. But as she grew so did the cases of mysterious fires burning people’s homes to cinders. Habby was a jealous girl and all her friends who had fairer looks attracted every husband she sought. The girl had snapped sparks from afar into her rival’s grass roofed homes. She’d hoped her competitors would burn in the blazes. She was caught creating fire in a roof. Habby admitted to the misuse of her highsense and was banished.’

  Malkrin fidgeted; how many more examples would Sire Josiath give?

  ‘Mellkiln Cattail, a shepherd, could stare down a mountain goat and have it eating from his hand. Suddenly he could only do it occasionally – he was banished too.’

  ‘What do your examples amount to?’ Malkrin asked impatiently in case his elderly friend gave more examples.

  ‘That they always banish regardless of whether the talent has been lost through age, illness, fraud, misuse, lost confidence or simply anxiety.’

  ‘How does this affect me?’

  ‘I believe you are the last category.’

  Malkrin felt anger rise. ‘Are you saying I’m worrying the highsense away Sire?’

  ‘You hinder it with the fear of the Brenna’s bullying of failed talent. It handicapped your gift – because you knew you’d held it longer than nearly all recent high-people. Subconsciously you presumed the gift would soon fail.’

  ‘Then I must cast out sensitivity and let it work its will without my pushing.’

  ‘I believe that would be best, my friend.’