by Ron Glick
Nathaniel took yet another deep, steadying breath. “I am not really sure how much time passed before I realized the reason I could not unclench my fist was that I had the woman's ear clutched between my nails, and I had not wanted to let go my grip.”
Brea gasped at the vivid imagery, but when Nathaniel looked up at her sharply, she quickly covered her mouth and fell silent.
Nathaniel looked at the ground. “I don't remember much after that. Not until late that night, when I woke up in one of Bracken's beds. He was close by and I remember he willingly answered anything I asked, but I don't even remember what we talked about at first. I didn't even feel like I was really even there. I felt cold and empty. When Bracken offered me food, I wouldn't eat, and I wouldn't sleep anymore that night either. So Bracken stayed up with me and we talked all night about things that didn't even matter. About the weather, the crops in the outlying fields around town, stories Bracken had heard about elves and dragons and faeries and some stories Bracken himself had lived through on his own, or so he said. We talked about anything we could except for my mother. Not because he wouldn't have answered, but because I wouldn't ask. I couldn't face it then and I think Bracken knew it and so never pressed.
“The next day, after I finally did pass out for a few hours, he told me what had happened. Some he knew from first-hand, but most of the details he told me he had gotten from those who had come into his tavern later. This priestess had come to town, preaching about Zantel and how the township would prosper if they all converted to His faith. I think she had wanted to create a shrine in Oaken Wood or something. She had been holding a sermon in the street when my mother happened by. She was telling a local shop owner that his business would triple for every coin he gave to Zantel's cause. Of course, she was the local bank for Zantel's coin, but that is how all priests are, aren't they?” Brea was not given an opportunity to speak before the man pressed on.
“The priestess claimed that if Oaken Wood would forsake the old ways, that she had foreseen great prosperity for the town, that it would become a great city or somesuch, with patrons from the far corners of the realms.
“My mother was a druidess of Lendus, the Old God of Bounty and Famine, and she wore his holy symbol proudly wherever she went, a bronze or copper representation of a sprouting seed, I think. I haven't seen the emblem in a long time now, and I never really gave much attention to it in detail. I should have been a better son, but I didn't have the devotion my mother had. Maybe in time, I might have, but at fourteen, I didn't care about what the future might hold.
“At any rate, someone in the crowd pointed her out to the priestess and she singled my mother out, provoking her with accusations of keeping the world's wealth from the good people of Oaken Wood. I guess my mother just smiled and responded that since she never took a coin from the townspeople and the priestess was demanding all they could give, the the priesthood of Zantel were more likely to impoverish the good people than anything she could ever do. The priestess didn't like what she heard and called upon the people to 'cleanse' their town or risk the wrath of Zantel.
“No one has ever been willing to figure out who started it, but the priestess had a fairly good hold on some by that time, I guess. After the first rock was thrown, though, others started in, with the priestess cheering them on. It was only the third or fourth stone, I am told, that hit her in the head and knocked her down. She never got back up after that, but that didn't stop the stoning. If anything, I am told, it encouraged it even more. They could hurt someone and my mother's weakness empowered them, I suppose.
“Bracken said that by the time he reached my mother's side, they were beating her body with sticks, and picking up stones from the pile already around her because they couldn't find anymore new ones to throw. From what I could recall later, there must have been fifty or more stones lying around her body. And from what could be told afterwards, the rock that had knocked her down had likely been the one that had killed her. Her skull had been crushed, but most of the stones looked like they had been aimed at her body after she had fallen down.”
Finally, Nathaniel went silent and did not speak again. Brea could not think of what to say, so she just sat across from him while he stared down at the ground beneath him.
“I never knew my mother,” she found herself saying after awhile. “I'm told she died when I was still a baby. Told by my father over and over again, whenever he wanted to blame me for something. Because no matter how small a thing it was, he would always add on the blame that she had died because of me. I guess giving birth to me had weakened her so that she caught ill and died when winter came in my first year.
“I don't really even know why he bothered to raise me at all. He was a bitter, bitter old man who hated life and hated me for living when my mother had died.”
Brea looked at Nathaniel until he glanced up to meet her eyes. “I can tell from what you've said that your mother loved you very much. When my father died, he left me alone and angry. I never knew what it was like to be loved by a parent, and as I have wandered the world since, I have never felt... compassion, I guess, for any child's anguish, or for a parent's loss. When I took up faith, I chose Imery because I believed that people only lived lives of deceit, pretending to love each other, when in truth it was all a lie covering all the real bitter and hateful things they felt about each other.”
Brea let a tear fall without shame. “For the first time, I think I have learned what real love is, Nate. It's about a mother protecting not only her child, but something precious she held for him, too. And yes, even unto death, sheltering it from any harm. I think that maybe there's more to what two people can share than pretenses and illusions. And it took you and your tragedy to show this to me.”
And she meant every word. Imery's gift had laid out Nate's story in more than words. She had felt the all consuming truth behind those words. She knew Nathaniel's pain, confusion and frustration. She understood the injustice and his feelings of futility. More, she had felt the pure and simple love that a child could feel for a parent, for any loved one. And how devastating a loss like that – losing someone else who was a part of you – could truly be. Nothing like what she had ever experienced and she felt sadder for herself for not having had that kind of emotional attachment herself before in her life.
More still, it reaffirmed in her what she was feeling for the man himself.
“So you think identifying with me will what? Make me trust you more?” Nathaniel's eyes burned with resentment. “I'm not buying, so quit trying to sell me something!”
Brea felt as though she had been slapped. “I didn't... I mean, I wouldn't have... “ She breathed deeply, trying to calm down. “I'm not trying to trick you! I'm not trying to manipulate you or anything else! I just... I just wanted you to know how I felt!”
“And how is that, exactly?”
“I – I don't know. I told you, I've never believed that love could be so... selfless, I suppose is the word I want to say. That's something I don't think I have ever seen before...”
Nathaniel did not know how much to believe of what Brea said. Aside from the general distrust he had for her purely upon the basis of her profession, he just could not grasp the notion that she would willingly share something so asymmetrically opposed to his own story and it still be true. As difficult as it was for Brea to have believed that a parent and child could share more than reluctant coexistence, Nathaniel could not comprehend the scenario that Brea had described. Perhaps it was a difference between mothers and fathers, or perhaps it was a story designed to win his sympathy. Either seemed a likely motivation for what Brea presented, but the one thing that Nathaniel could not so easily accept was how almost perfectly opposite it was to his own.
One thing that clashed with the idea of it being false though was the reminder of the God to whom she swore fealty. Could a priestess of Imery lie? It would be rather pointless to ask, of course, so Nathaniel was left with a lingering doubt and no idea how to resolve it.
/> “I have no idea of what to make of you, priestess,” Nathaniel admitted.
Brea grinned weakly. “That, at least, is something we have in common. I don't know what to make of you, either.”
Brea stood up and stretched. “What happened afterwards? I mean, how did you get over what happened?”
Nathaniel glared. “I notice you did not ask what happened to the priestess.”
Brea looked away to hide her reaction. She should have asked that, she knew. But she also feared she knew the answer. The New Order's priesthood was above reproach. No one would have challenged the priestess' authority, much less sought to penalize her for what she had done. Right or wrong, the priesthood would have risen up against anyone raising a hand to a priest or priestess. Likely, Oaken Wood would have been razed to the ground if there had been any kind of retaliation against the priestess. But she did not intend to say anything like that to Nathaniel.
“I would have asked,” she did say. “I just cared more about what happened to you.”
Nathaniel tried to take the answer at face value, but the lingering doubt of her honesty still lingered. “I tried to live out here for awhile. I was too stubborn to accept help. I almost died after the first winter storm that year. If Bracken had not come out to take me back into town, I probably would have. I fostered with a family in town for a few years, then struck out on my own, hunting and trapping mostly. I didn't come back here until after Mari and I were wed. I didn't trust the idea of raising a family in Oaken Wood. I wanted to get away from the New Order and their influence. And there were far too many 'faithful' in town for my taste after that day. I fowled that up pretty well, right from the start.”
“How do you mean?”
Nathaniel considered a moment before answering. “I just learned that Mari only married me at the bequest of her father to 'breed out' my mother's influence. Seems you New Order types will do anything to kill off the old ways, even prostitute your daughters for the cause.” Nathaniel sighed deeply. “And me all the more foolish for thinking I could be loved by someone like her. Poor little orphan boy, easy to manipulate if you give him the illusion of a real family to call his own.”
Brea's heart twinged. She wanted to tell him that he could be loved, that she ached so badly just being this near and not saying anything. If only he knew how easily she would fall into his arms if only he would give a sign!
Yet she could not do that. Another new limitation she had imposed on herself unwittingly: She would not, could not, take advantage of him like that. For anyone else, she would never have considered their feelings in the matter. In Nate, she wanted his love, but she wanted him to respect her, too. Even if he could be swayed into her arms now to satisfy this grief, would he still want her after the emotion passed? Somehow, she doubted he could ever even get to the point of accepting her as a paramour, but even if he could, it would not last. And she could not bear the thought of that rejection.
“You have to know that's not true, Nate,” she said simply. “Even if what you say is true, and I still cannot imagine it is,” though she so hoped it was, just so he might, possibly, one day see in her what she did in him,” it does not make you unlovable. It would make her a very... cold person, to say the least. But none of that reflects upon you.”
Nathaniel did not want to pursue the topic any further. “Not that you care, but no one was ever punished for the stoning. The priestess absolved any wrongdoing on anyone's part and the magistrate would not investigate. Bracken made quite a pest of himself trying to get something done, but nothing ever happened.”
“I am sorry, Nate. You can believe me or not, but I am sorry. I am not blind to the politics of the clergy. I know that we, as priests, enjoy a great deal of liberty when it comes to laws and common order. And yes, I have taken advantage of that liberty on more than one occasion. But if what you say really happened, that kind of behavior would not be tolerated by the Gods nor their worldly servants in the priesthood as a whole. I know the doctrine of Zantel well enough, as well, to know that he does not ordain violence in any form. His priests believe it is... bad for business and, by extension, profit.
“Something else you might consider, though. Not that I am trying to defend what happened in any way, but there are many people who wander the small towns pretending to be priests in order to bleed a town of its wealth. They come in, collect donations, then move on. As rightful priests, we are charged with finding such charlatans and to bring them before whichever order they are impersonating for justice. I know there was no priest of Zantel nor any shrine when I came to Oaken Wood, so obviously this priestess did not stay long. It does sound to me like this 'priestess' you describe may well have been of this false ilk.”
Brea watched Nathaniel closely to gauge his reaction. But the man did not know how to react. He only stared dumbly back at her. Could that be possible? After all these years of hating the New Order, and it may never have been a real priest in the first place?
After several minutes passed, and Nathaniel did not respond, Brea tried to steer the conversation away from the delicate topic. “Do you mind if I ask what it was? What the nameday present your mom held was?”
Nathaniel blinked, coming out of a daze. He kept learning new things that challenged what he had long accepted as true. He had to wonder if his life would ever again settle down.
“I don't know,” he answered. “I never found out what happened to it...”
Chapter Ten
Mari had never really wanted for much growing up. She was relatively comfortable. She had had a loving family – a somewhat distant father in her earlier years, perhaps, but a doting mother, and a brother and sister who were never really the cause of any untoward trauma other than typical sibling conflicts as she grew up beside them. Her father had supported the family well enough by working books and managing accounts for other businesses and even for the local magistrate's office. She had received an adequate education – she could read, write and knew numbers. She had even learned a couple of exotic languages – a local elvish dialect and a merchant cant. For many, her childhood would have seemed for the most part to have been idyllic.
Except for one notable exception.
She could not escape the image of a beautiful woman with orange-gold locks, her head jarred to the side, the pain on her face as her body fell to the ground. She could not silence the sound of her father crowing with triumph at the impact of the rock he had thrown. Papa even put a stone in her hand and directed her to throw it at the woman who was struggling to get up, her hair covering her face. She was confused why Papa would be having her throw rocks when she remembered well the switching her brother had received for throwing stones at a neighbor boy. Yet Papa had always been so hard to please and this was a chance to make him happy, to make him proud.
So Mari had thrown the rock, with as much force as her little girl frame could produce. She could still hear the thudding sound of it striking the woman's head, and watched the rock fall away from the body as if in slow motion. And she remembered the sudden blossoming of red amidst those beautiful locks of hair after her stone had struck the side of the woman's head. And after that, the woman never tried to get back up again.
Mari remembered then turning her smiling face to see her Papa's, expecting to see him smile down at her with love and acceptance, to see any sign of approval for what she had done. But the great man in her life was not looking at her – he was too busy shouting along with the crowd and throwing another stone of his own. He had not seen her, at all. But if he had not seen her do it then, maybe he would if she threw another?
So she picked up another rock, and another after that, and still another after that, each time looking to her Papa for his warmth and approval, each time disappointed that he was missing her throws. She lost count soon after, and she even stopped looking to her Papa for approval. Even when Papa picked up a stick when he could find no more stones to throw at the side of the road, she could still nimbly run between legs to get more an
d continue throwing. It had become a kind of game, and she did it so well, she kept thinking deep down that Papa would notice and approve. When the game was done, he would sweep her up and congratulate her on how well she had done.
All the while, she knew that there was something not right about what they were doing. She had been told at an early age, so young she could not remember when, that she was not to hurt people. She remembered well the lesson her brother had received for throwing stones of his own, and she had sorely been tempted herself on more than one occasion to do the same when her brother or sister were being especially mean to her. But always the memory of the bleeding welts on her brother's backside reminded her and she never wanted to be hurt like that. She also remembered the ugly purple bruise on the neighbor boy where her brother's rock had hit him on the side of the face. Briefly, she even wondered how the woman lying still on the ground avoided getting such bruises herself. It never really occurred to the little girl that the woman was not a willing part of the game.
Then that ugly little man with the beard had gotten into her face, yelling something at her she could not understand, and had scared her. Mari had burst into tears and run away, afraid the ugly man would chase her. She did not stop running until she had reached home, where she had run to her room and slammed her door.
That was where Papa had found her some time later, curled in a ball on her bed, dried tears staining her face. When he looked in on her, she had felt immediate shame. She had run away and Papa would not be proud of her, after all.