by Kris Kramer
Something shattered off in the distance, like the sound of pottery breaking, from the other side of the annex. I seemed to be the only one who heard it, though. The guards in the plaza continued talking to each other as if nothing happened, watching an old man drag a heavy sack into the Cynbert estate. I walked around the annex to investigate, a little grateful that something interesting had happened. The back door was clear, as was the walkway leading to it from the main square, so I suspected the sound came from the stables, perhaps from Ewen. I approached the stable’s side door, which hung open just enough to see inside, and peeked through to find Ewen inside, kneeling down in the middle of the floor, crouched over, his arms around his head as if in pain. Pieces of a clay bowl lay scattered on the ground beside him, and another smaller bowl turned upside down a few feet away. A single lantern illuminated the space, making it difficult to see details from where I stood, but I could tell that he wasn’t moving. If his slow, deep breaths hadn’t given away signs of life, I may have thought him a strange statue sitting in the shadows. He didn’t seem to know I’d arrived, and I made no effort to let him. If he was sick, as Eadwyn warned me about, I didn’t want to be near him if something happened. Also, I didn’t want to embarrass him, and myself by calling attention to it. I backed away carefully, trying not to make a sound, until I was close enough to the annex to walk as fast as I could to the courtyard.
The square was just how I left it, but my desire to be out here by myself had disappeared. So I went back inside and decided that sleep didn’t sound so bad.
*****
Even the Church must fill its coffers, and that meant petitioning the landed citizens for donations. The following day, I accompanied Eadwyn as he visited the estates of the city’s lords. Most of the men had been called to serve with the King, but their wives remained and proved to be gracious hostesses, feeding us lavishly when we arrived. Ostensibly, the visits were about the All Saints Day ceremonies that would take over the town in two days, but in reality, the meetings were just a chance for gossip and to pass on news of the fighting, or just local issues with slaves, servants, taxes or the weather. And they always ended with a promise of silver or goods.
I learned through those visits that Osbert’s army had recently set up camp near a town called Monkchester, while Aelle’s men were moving north to meet him. Everyone I met spoke about it practically, as if the battle was nothing more than a political maneuver, but I sensed an undercurrent of worry, especially amongst the younger women. They knew that their husbands or fathers or brothers might not return, though they avoided addressing it directly. A few hoped for some kind of treaty, or a division of land, while others preferred not to even think about it, chatting about rowdy dockworkers or how someone needed to get the farmers in the nearby villages focused on stockpiling more grain.
We spent most of the morning visiting estates near the church, mostly lords whose families had long ago taken over the old Roman houses or halls for their own use. We even visited the Cynbert estate, and I learned that it now belonged to his second son, Baldric, a man well-known for his dalliances with women, married or otherwise. Baldric was with King Aelle right now, but his long-suffering wife, Inedra, hosted us in his place and she proved to be a quite charming and hospitable woman. Early in our conversation, I found myself wondering how much she knew about her husband’s infidelities, but I eventually decided it wasn’t my business. Instead, I let the Roman architecture inside the house capture my attention.
Roman handiwork stood out in stark contrast to anything else found in Britain. Roman stonework especially was masterful, displaying both a sense of function and a claim of ownership on the world around it. Everything they built was intended to last for a very long time, unlike the crude wood and thatch buildings that dominated our towns and villages. So few people now could create like the Romans did, on the scale they did, and wandering these old walkways and buildings, even the ones that needed repair, made me feel nostalgic for a time I'd never even lived in. The heights of the Empire must have been dizzying, and it was disappointing to see only vestiges of that greatness scattered about the countryside, most of it falling into decay. Someone once told me, "We all live in the shadow of the Roman Empire." Did we ever.
Several of the homes had various treasures on display, but two in particular stood out to me that day. One was a stone marker outside a hall that commemorated the disappearance of the Roman Ninth Legion, some six hundred and fifty years ago. Three thousand Roman legionnaires disappeared without a trace in the wilds of what came to be known as Northumbria. The most popular story is that they were ambushed and killed by Picts or Scots while traveling north, though I had trouble believing that, given the huge number of men needed to take out a Roman legion. A slightly-less popular, and less-convincing, story is that the spirits of Britain swallowed them up in retaliation for the Roman slaughter of the Druids on the island of Ynys Mon in the prior century. Britons in the area continued to perpetuate this myth, but even my open mind found it hard to believe that the spirits decided it was better to make this legion of Roman soldiers disappear and not the ones that actually attacked the Druids. That seemed far more prudent to me.
The other treasure was a mural that depicted the god Mithras slaying a bull along with another god whom I knew nothing about. I cared little about ancient pagan gods, but I was reminded of the night I spent in that cave with Arkael, debating the nature of God, all in the presence of a bloody altar used by followers of a pagan warrior cult. The details of that conversation had already faded in my mind, but I remembered the important parts, especially my final question for him. By his own words, he was no divine messenger, but everything about that moment screamed divine intervention to me. I stared at the mural, at the spear Mithras used to slay the bull, and I saw Arkael’s sword in my mind, slaying Caenwyld. I wondered if this was another sign, reminding me of my true journey. As if I could forget.
Thinking about him only drove me to the edges of my patience, so I pushed those worries away. After returning from our visits, I spent the afternoon on chores, snuck in some reading and writing, ate dinner with the others, and then wandered off to be on my own. Only this time, instead of seeking refuge in the courtyard, I decided to go out into the city, where I could be alone.
I strolled across the quiet plaza and listened for the sounds of the city, letting them guide me along. I heard a man shouting at someone from inside his house, though it lasted only a moment and I couldn’t make out the words. Hoofs pattered along on the stone road ahead of me and reigns jingled as a servant led two horses to a stable next to a nobleman’s house across the square from the church. The two city guards I saw the night before chatted near the end of the street, then watched me as I approached. They warned me that it wasn't safe to be wandering the city after dark, but I just thanked them for their warning, told them I was on an errand, and I'd return to the church as soon as I finished. That satisfied them enough to go back to their conversation while I continued on into the heart of the city.
The moon was high by now, and before I knew it I'd reached the bridge again, drawn by habit, mostly. I stood there a while, feeling the cold breeze wrap around me, hearing the shouts and laughs from the taverns and shops that lined the docks nearby, and staring at the river that flowed through the heart of the city. 'You can't step in the same river twice,' I thought, recalling a saying written down by Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher. It meant you can’t ever go back to the way things were, which seemed appropriate right now. Once the water flows past you, it’s gone, moved on to some new place downstream, and life is no different. I’d come to Eoferwic because it was familiar, and safe. But it wasn’t my home anymore. Both of us had moved on, and unfortunately, I was still moving. I was a wanderer, with no place to truly call home. But that had been my lot for most of my life; Always searching for where I belonged.
Shortly after crossing the bridge, I heard a commotion coming from the Silver Gable, the same tavern I’d visited earlier. I sto
od out front, listening curiously to the shouting inside, but unwilling to go in and get myself involved in whatever argument might be causing it. Fortunately, the argument came to me instead. The door opened and Ewen stormed out, followed by a few displeased patrons of the tavern and the man I recognized from earlier as the barkeep. They shouted at him to leave, and not to come back, and Ewen waved them away angrily. The torch lights outside cast a shadow on his face but I could clearly see the tortured expression on his face, and I wondered if that's how he looked last night, hiding away in the stables. Even though I hesitated to be near him, his torment called to me. I could feel his fear, and it drew me closer.
"Ewen," I said, approaching him carefully, trying not to startle him. He looked at me, recognized me, and waved me off. The patrons returned back to the tavern, closing the door behind them, while Ewen stalked away, down the road leading back to the church.
"Ewen, it's me, Daniel. Are you not feeling well?" I followed a few paces behind, not wanting to crowd him in case he was agitated.
"I just need to rest, Father," he said in halting speech. "That's all."
"Is your sickness causing this?"
He looked at me as if I'd somehow offended him. "It's not... not what you think."
"Tell me, then."
"No." His pace slowed enough that I was able to walk alongside him. He smelled heavily of ale. “You wouldn't understand. None of you do.”
"I might surprise you."
"You think I'm drunk," he said harshly. "And you'd be right. But I'm not sick. I was never sick." He stared ahead at nothing, his eyes full of anger.
“Sick from what?” I asked, trying to feign ignorance.
“I’m not stupid, Father. I know they told you about me. Didn’t they?” He glared at me, and I moved out of arm’s reach, just to be safe.
“They told me you were-” I left the implication unspoken.
“Mad. I know. From a disease, they’ll say, but it’s not a disease.” He shook his head. “She made me like this,” he growled. “She's the one who did this to me. She let the demon inside. It’s her fault I have to fight him off."
I stopped dead in my tracks. "The what?" He kept walking, ignoring me, so I caught up again. "She let what inside?"
"The demon,” he mumbled. “He's in my head. A punishment for my sins."
"Why would you say that?" I asked. "Why would you call it a demon?"
"Because that's what it is!" he nearly shouted. His expression became wild with anger, and for a moment, the briefest of moments, I saw in his eyes the same thing I'd seen in Caenwyld’s, a swirling, tumultuous shadow that dredged up every abhorrent emotion I could imagine. During that moment, Ewen become someone else. I took a step back without even thinking. He must have seen something in my expression, though, because he realized what he'd done. He stopped and regained his composure, squeezing his eyes shut and when they opened again, the darkness was gone. He was Ewen again. "I'm sorry, Father. I-I shouldn't have raised my voice."
I was too stunned to move my feet. My mind was a frantic jumble of disordered thoughts and raw emotions that tore at each other like feral cats. I’d waited for a sign from God, anything to let me know my journey of discovery wasn’t over. Had I just seen it? Ewen watched me like a rebuked child, and that's when I realized he was waiting for me to speak.
"No, it's quite all right, Ewen,” I said, struggling to keep my composure. I was afraid, ecstatic and cautious all at once, and I desperately hoped that I hadn't imagined what I'd just seen. “You must be going through a terrible ordeal."
He took a deep breath. "It is not easy."
We walked in silence until we reached the bridge, which is where my curiosity finally boiled over. "Ewen, tell me about this demon.”
He hesitated, his eyes darting between me and the road in front of him. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Nothing? How do you even know it’s there?”
“Why do you care?” he asked. His entire demeanor had changed by now, from angry to withdrawn. “No one else does.”
“I care, Ewen, because,” because I had to make sure I wasn’t mad, I wanted to say, “I want to help. But you have to tell me everything. How do you know this demon is inside of you?”
Ewen stopped. He looked uncomfortable. "I hear it, sometimes."
"It speaks to you?"
Ewen's expression drooped, revealing his exhaustion. "Sometimes. It tries to. I heard it again, just now. Back in the tavern.” He shook his head weakly. “He wanted me to hurt someone. He’s trying to make me his own. I’m being punished."
It was happening all over again, right here in front of me. And this time, I could find out what 'it' was. "Tell me everything, Ewen. Tell me everything you know about this demon. About this woman.” I reached out and grabbed his arm, no longer concerned about any sickness. “Where is she?"
Ewen froze, and his eyes slowly found their way to mine. Once they did, I saw a flicker of the darkness in him. But again, it lasted only an instant before he pulled away from me as if I was the one with a disease.
"No," he said, backing away. "I can't. Just talking about it makes me… I need to sleep. I need rest. I can't fight him forever."
"Maybe I can help-"
"No!" Ewen turned and stalked off down the street. “Just… leave…” he said, but he never finished the words, at least not so I could hear them. I stood where he’d left me, pondering what I’d learned tonight, and where this discovery might take me next.
Chapter 12
The church grounds were empty and silent when I returned, a flickering lantern inside the stables providing the only illumination. The light would dim and flare over and over again, and I imagined the lantern sitting on the wide wooden counter on the far wall, surrounded by coils of rope, brushes, and leather saddle straps, with Ewen walking back and forth in front. I should leave him alone, I thought. His ramblings could be a result of his sickness, a real sickness, mixed with drink. Maybe I’d imagined what I saw in him back on the bridge, and I only wanted his claims of a demon to be real to sate my own desires. Or maybe I’d dreamt up a ruse to distract me from the fact that I’d lost my mind. I should let him sleep, and talk with him in the morning, when both our heads would be clear. That would be prudent.
But that’s not what happened. I moved closer, drawn by the temptation of enlightenment. The demon, the war, the battle over our souls. I had to understand these things. I had to know if my abandonment of Rogwallow still had purpose. The man in that stable was the only link I had left to that sacrifice. I’d already lost Arkael in the middle of the night, I couldn’t lose Ewen, too.
Seek, and ye shall find.
When I reached the stable, I stood next to a small gap in the wood next to the door, where I could peek inside without him knowing. As I suspected, he paced back and forth, running his hand through his thick hair as if vexed by a problem he couldn’t solve. His breaths were heavy, forced, as if in pain. Whatever his situation, he didn’t look eager to be interrupted, and my resolve waned. But still I waited. Whatever I’d seen in Caenwyld, I’d also seen in Ewen, but I didn’t fear Ewen like I did that terrible priest. Caenwyld oozed evil; he stank of it, as if bathing in it. But not Ewen. The conflict in him was plain to me. Arkael told Caenwyld his soul couldn’t be saved, but maybe that wasn’t yet true for Ewen. I shook my head furiously, reminding myself that I still had to prove this wasn’t all the result of too much ale and wine.
When I looked back through the crack, Ewen had stopped, and I caught my breath, hoping I hadn’t accidentally made a sound. His head slowly turned my direction, but I didn’t wait to see where his gaze would fall. I ran as fast as I could back to the annex, around the far side where I couldn’t be seen, and threw open the door. The kitchen was empty and dark, but a light from the hallway let me find my way to my room easily enough. I stepped in, closed the door behind me, and waited, listening for any sound of someone following. I knew without thinking that this was irrational. I had nothing to f
ear from him. He’d never hurt anyone at the church before, so why would tonight be different? Eadwyn said he had places he would go, to hide, to keep those around him safe. He would do the same tonight. My fear was ungrounded.
After a while, when no footsteps had come my way, I chuckled at my foolishness, removed my robes, climbed into my bed, and fell asleep. I dreamed again of that day in the church. This time, I was on my knees, the knife at my throat, and Caenwyld ranted and raved about dark times coming to us all. But I couldn't hear him. He was there, but only on the periphery of my vision. All I could think about was the knife. It was larger this time, more jagged, and I could feel the edges pushing against my skin. The cold blade dug painfully into my neck, and I had trouble swallowing.
I woke up, and everything in my dream faded back to reality... except for the knife.
Ewen crouched over me, his eyes wild. I flinched, trying to move away, but I couldn't. With one strong arm, he held me down, bracing it across my chest and using his own weight to keep me pinned to the bed. The other arm held the knife, exactly where I’d left it in my dream.
"Ewen..." I said, struggling to keep still while abject terror coursed through my body. "What are you doing?"
"You can't see her," he said, his voice raw and throaty. "She belongs to me." I saw the darkness in his eyes again, but it would come and go, only appearing for an instant before flittering away.
"Ewen, let me up.” I pushed against his arm as hard as I could, but I couldn’t budge him. “Please. Don't do this."
"She's mine!" he growled. "She doesn't belong to you. She doesn’t want you."