The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Nail’s been studying for moons.” Stefan’s face blanched a dark shade of red. “He knows the Ember Lighting Prayers better than all of us.”

  “I’ve only so many robes to go around.” Tolbret reached out and pulled Nail away from the group as if tearing a thistle from the garden. Nail looked toward the others, pleadingly, yet he knew no help lay there. In fact, at the moment, he just wanted to find a spot in the trees behind the chapel and relieve himself. He had to piss something fierce. Too much drink at the feast!

  Stefan spoke again. “I will sit out the Ember Lighting this season. I’m not feeling up to the task anyway. There’s always next year. I shall allow Nail to administer the fire in my stead, and wear my robes.”

  “Nail sits out.” Bishop Tolbret spoke emphatically.

  Stefan shook his head. “I don’t mind. Just reserve a robe for me next year—”

  “Listen, boy, lest I smack you,” the bishop growled. “Nail will not put on an Ember Lighting robe today, nor will he ever, as long as I live.” He riffled through the pages of his holy book, quickly finding what he sought. “The Way and Truth of Laijon clearly states, and I quote from the Acts of the Second Warrior Angel, ‘A bastard shall not enter into the Smoke and Fire. Even to the tenth generation shall a bastard not enter into any Ember Lighting or Ember Gathering of Laijon.’  ” Tolbret closed the book.

  Nail’s heart plunged in humiliation as he looked at the pile of armor through the locks of blond that veiled his face. He felt the lightning burn on the back of his hand flare in pain. It wasn’t the words of The Way and Truth of Laijon themselves that angered him; it was the venom within Tolbret’s voice as he read those words that stung. In that one moment, Nail came to a sudden realization of what Bishop Tolbret truly thought of him. It was sobering. He realized it wasn’t just what Tolbret thought of him, but it was what everyone in Gallows Haven had always thought of him. A bastard shall not enter into the Smoke and Fire. In this world, a bastard was truly nothing. Even in a world created by the great and merciful Laijon, a bastard was nothing. He kept his gaze trained on the cold ground. At least Ava Shay sees the good in me.

  He felt Stefan’s arm on his. “It’s all right, Nail.” But Nail knew nothing had ever, nor would ever, be just “all right.” This little episode was final proof of his one and only place in this world. No one needed a bastard. Not even Master Shawcroft. I will run away from this place with Ava! We don’t need anyone but each other.

  When Nail looked up and brushed the hair from his face, he saw something. Behind their bashful, solemn eyes, it was written on every boy’s face—deep down, Nail could see they were all clearly relieved it wasn’t they who would be excluded from the Ember Lighting robe fitting tonight or the Ember Lighting Rites coming up.

  And when Bishop Tolbret opened the chapel door and beckoned them in, they leaned their swords against the entryway near their armor and went: Dokie, Zane, all the other seventeen-year-olds in Gallows Haven, all save Nail. Stefan lingered at the door, sword still at his side. “Just go,” Nail said, fighting the pain in his bladder, wanting to just run off into the woods and piss. Stefan drifted soundlessly into the chapel, leaving Nail alone with the bishop, shuffling from foot to foot, the stinging pain in his bladder almost too much to bear. There was no kindness or mercy in Tolbret’s stare. “Unless Shawcroft makes your true parentage known, all future Ember Lighting dealings, along with the ceremony itself, will proceed without you.”

  Nail returned the man’s gaze, defiant. Here too was Bishop Tolbret—the very man who had taught him, and every other boy in Gallows Haven, reading and writing, along with the importance of the Ember Lighting Rites—betraying him once again. He recalled how on the grayken hunt, after their harrowing adventure in the bloody ocean, Tolbret had placed his hands on Zane’s head and given a blessing, but when Nail had knelt, the bishop had refused him. Trust no one.

  “There’s one more passage I will read you.” Tolbret flipped through the pages of his holy book again, quickly finding what he sought. “And I quote again from the Acts of the Second Warrior Angel, ‘A bastard shall not be taken in marriage within the church, nor should a bastard perform any ritual therein. It is written for now and forever that a bastard’s place is not within the Church of Laijon, nor will it ever be.’  ” He slammed the book shut and looked at Nail. “I am here to remind you of your place, boy. How does it feel to know you are naught but a bastard, unwanted, even by Laijon?”

  With those words, Nail couldn’t fight it anymore. The anger. The bitterness. The searing pain on the back of his hand. But mostly he couldn’t fight the need to piss.

  He slapped The Way and Truth of Laijon from Bishop Tolbret’s hand. The book hit the ground with a dull thud. The bishop, face lit with rage, bent to snatch it up. But Nail had already pulled down his leather greaves and the front of his breeches—just low enough—and released a raging, warm stream of piss on the book.

  “To the bloody underworld with you,” Bishop Tolbret snarled, jerking his hand away. The two stared at each other a moment as Nail finished, then pulled up his greaves.

  “I ought to order Baron Bruk to hang you!” The bishop stormed into the chapel, leaving his Way and Truth of Laijon reeking and wet on the ground.

  Nail stood there stunned at what he’d done. Almost in tears. But he would not cry, not over this. He would never cry. Not over anything.

  “Not the wisest thing, pissing on Tolbret’s book.” Shawcroft came up from behind.

  Nail turned, disappointed, ashamed, drunk, surprised to see the man here tonight. He didn’t care at all. Music struck up in the center of the keep’s courtyard. Leaving his armor, Nail made his way toward the keep, Shawcroft following, Nail scarcely noticing.

  Villagers had started dancing under a canopy of evergreen boughs near the keep. A row of boys played bagpipes under the Gallows Haven banner that hung from the wall of the crumbled inner courtyard. Several women shook deer-horn rattles as a row of old sailors banged on drums stretched with elk hide. The clatter of their thin grayken-bone drumsticks striking the taut skins sent up a rhythmic beat. Even the village elders who typically sat about the feast smoking their spirit pipes rose to dance.

  Ava Shay was in the middle of it all. She had two white feathers tied in her hair. In the torchlight the feathers glowed like a flicker of flame against her flowing blond locks. She danced with her eyes focused on the ground, swaying, her arms over her head. Her frayed woolen skirt rode low on her hips. Nail noticed a hint of white flesh and the curve of her buttocks peeking above the skirt line when she moved a certain way. As she danced with her arms held aloft, twirling, her faded tan shirt lifted just enough, exposing her belly button and the tantalizing curves of her midriff to the torrid glow of the bonfires.

  “We must talk,” Shawcroft said, still following him, voice barely above a whisper now. “We must talk of what I have found in the mines.” He grabbed Nail, turning him.

  Nail only noted what the man was doing and saying with a certain detachment, his eyes on Ava as she twirled slowly, her waist swaying like a slender fall of water.

  “You must understand,” Shawcroft continued, “I had good reason for killing that Vallè Bloodwood.” Nail pulled his gaze from Ava. He had not expected the man to mention the Vallè woman again. He thought he detected a small measure of sadness creeping into the man’s eyes. Then he realized it was not necessarily sadness growing there, but fear.

  “I wanted you to know that dark creatures such as her can be killed.” Shawcroft spoke in a frank tone. “I fear we will run into more of them in the coming days. And I do not want you to be scared. That woman’s motivation is destruction and pain. Indeed, the motivation behind all a Bloodwood does is to destroy. War is coming. There are things that the White Prince and his minions may seek to annihilate in every corner of Gul Kana. Secrets are hidden within the very fabric of this land. In the coming days, Nail, remember that. Hatred and vengeance are a dangerous combination.”

 
; The man’s words only angered him. “Hatred and vengeance are dangerous. That I’m to remember, while my own mother’s name remains hidden from me, whilst I am forced into servitude to a man who cares little for my well-being? Baron Bruk offered me employ. Legitimate work. Not gold digging and treasure seeking. Everything you do is pointless. Hatred and vengeance are the worst of things? What of murder?”

  Shawcroft’s face paled. Nail forced his eyes to remain impassive, determined to show no weakness in front of him, and placed his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  “We are nearing the one-thousand-year anniversary of Laijon’s great sacrifice,” Shawcroft said. “For good or ill, many prophecies are soon to be fulfilled. Our world is changing, Nail. You are now a man, and things will be changing for you, too.”

  Jenko Bruk caught Nail’s attention. The baron’s son was heading toward the keep’s courtyard, straight for the dancers, straight for Ava Shay. Nail’s heart fell into a black, heavy rhythm as Ava welcomed Jenko with open arms, kissing him on the lips.

  “Everything I’ve done has a purpose,” Shawcroft said. “Moving us to Gallows Haven. Mining. Killing that Vallè woman. Soon you will learn the why of it all.”

  But Nail could barely hear the man’s words through the jealous rush burning in his head at the sight of Ava and Jenko. The firelight gleamed off Jenko’s shined armor and his sword clanked against his greaves as he broke from his kiss with Ava before walking away. Nail’s emotions were whirling painfully through his entire body. His previous drinking, along with the parade of conflicting thoughts rampaging through his brain, did not make clear thinking easy.

  “Everything you do has a purpose?” he sneered at his master. “I don’t even know who you are, Shawcroft. Or is it Ser Roderic?” From the corner of his eye he never lost awareness of Ava’s continued dancing. Jenko was still walking away from her through the crowd. Perhaps the kiss had meant nothing. Just a friendly kiss.

  “The mines,” Shawcroft said. “I’ll show you what I’ve found.”

  “Leave me alone.” Nail stalked away, no longer listening, anger welling in his heart, souring his insides. Jenko had kissed her! And she him!

  “Come back, Nail,” he heard Shawcroft say. But he kept going. Kept walking. He unclenched his jaw and smiled as he approached Ava. The bonfire’s light was playing on her skin. Her eyes caught the flickering light too, so that she appeared to have flames growing within her. Nail’s heart was like a caged beast in his chest as he held his hand forth. Somehow he knew his heart would stop racing once he felt her delicate touch.

  “May I have a dance?” he asked.

  “I dare not, knowing Jenko watches.” The look in her eye was one of shame.

  Nail’s hand froze, now poised awkwardly before her.

  “I’m with Jenko tonight.”

  Nail could feel his pulse like a drum in his ears. His lungs began to throb as the breath swelled inside him. He tried to keep the hurt from his face. But seeing the pitying look that came over Ava, he knew he had done a poor job of it.

  “You are a good friend, Nail, like a brother to me. I can always count on you. We’ve shared much. I treasure our time on the mountainside together. Me carving. You drawing. Us talking. You do know that, don’t you?”

  Nail swallowed hard as he felt the anger slide down his throat, with it traveled a sense of foolishness followed by light-headedness and finally strength. He looked up, flicking the hair from his eyes. “Why Jenko?” he asked, the question coming out rough, accusing.

  “Any girl in my situation and so near her Ember Gathering would consider herself lucky to fall under the eye of a man like Jenko.” A good deal of the softness in her voice was now missing. “His future and standing in Gallows Haven is assured. A blessing for me and my siblings. Jenko will be captain of a grayken-hunting ship someday, a baron even. I’ve spent my life praying for such fortune.”

  So near her Ember Gathering. Nail thought about what the bishop had just said about his own Ember Lighting. Was everything meant to be so unfair? He desired to say something that would confound her, something that would allow himself to walk away with some semblance of dignity. But cutting remarks about Jenko being naught but a braggart and a rich man’s son full of nothing but arrogance came and went; most would sound desperate anyway. After all, he was as big and strong and confident as Jenko. He thought of her wood carvings . . . and his drawings. I’m more talented and creative than Jenko . . . but with no blood kin . . . and not near so rich.

  “How could you be with him?” he asked, knowing he began to blush as the words spilled out. “You’ve nothing in common.”

  “You deserve someone better than me.” When Ava spoke, a portion of the softness had returned to her voice. But it was obvious by the look in her eyes that she knew she had hurt him on many levels, deceived him, and she was now doing her best to smooth it over. “You will make some lucky girl happy too . . . one day.”

  And what girl could possibly ever consider herself lucky to be with a slave? A bastard’s worth as a person was measured differently from that of a legitimate son. Nail knew his place in this world now. For a surety.

  The musicians struck up another lively jig and dancers swirled to life around them. Ava Shay quietly left, not meeting his gaze as she walked away.

  Shawcroft awaited him at the edge of the feast grounds. Nail wandered in the opposite direction and continued on toward the ocean. But the beach seemed naught but a dark and lonely place. Baron Bruk’s black cauldrons were lined up like dark sentinels, their thick black smoke billowing up into the sky, casting an ominous pall over the stars now. He looked back and could no longer see any sign of Shawcroft.

  He’d probably sat there an hour when he heard giggling and turned to see Stefan leading Gisela Barnwell down the grassy slope. As the two drew nearer, their laughter grew more distinct. Gisela was kissing Stefan vigorously. He held his new Amadon bow in one hand whilst his other circled the girl’s lithe waist. Stefan’s dark hair flopped over his eyes as he and Gisela stumbled down the beach. Stefan’s greeting was just a drunken slur as he passed by. Jealousy welled up in Nail at the sight of the happy pair.

  Zane and Liz Hen Neville were playing fetch with Zane’s dog, Beer Mug, at the edge of the feast grounds. Nail watched the dog bound about with youthful enthusiasm, catching sticks for a delighted Liz Hen. Pets were full of unconditional love that they never betrayed. He remembered Radish Biter. He had pulled the calf from a muddy bog one day on his way home from the mines. Radish Biter had become a fine milk cow and the closest thing to a pet he ever had. But a pack of silver-wolves had attacked her. A good-sized chunk of her hindquarters had been shredded. The wounds had become infected until the cow could no longer stand on her own. Nail attempted to nurse Radish Biter back to health. But she just wallowed in the center of the corral, wasting away in piles of manure. Eventually Shawcroft ordered Nail to cut the cow’s throat to ease her suffering. That was the one and only time Nail could remember crying. Shawcroft had scolded him, saying tears were only for the weak-minded.

  Nail noticed two others drifting away from the feast grounds and out into the darkness. Hand in hand, this new couple stole quickly from the keep and down the grassy knoll. It was Jenko Bruk and Ava Shay. They loped down the beach and into the ocean, splashing in the water as they skipped southward along the shoreline, running, laughing. Ava pushed Jenko into the water. He stumbled and laughed and threw her in too, holding her under for a time. When he let her up, she sputtered and beat against his chest with her delicate small fists. Jenko grabbed her wrists and shouted at her. When he released her, Ava clung to him, thin, willowy arms around his neck. Jenko picked her up by the waist and slung her over his shoulder, muscular arms wrapped tight around the back of her thighs. They continued down the beach, Jenko carrying her like a sack of potatoes.

  Nail, hidden by the night’s cloak of darkness, remained unseen. He didn’t know why he did it, but he pulled out his sword and followed.

  Baron
Jubal Bruk’s manor was a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky a mile south of Gallows Haven. A two-story, gray stone affair, complete with an upper floor and a basement and a long wooden wraparound porch, the manor was set against a thicket of tall oak. Many outbuildings, sheds, and barns dotted the land round about. Nail marveled that the baron and his son lived alone in this vast expanse.

  The night was alive with ghostly color, everything bathed in a pale silver sheen. He had lost track of Jenko and Ava in the darkness. Sword still drawn, he circled the house, moving with as much stealth as he could muster. He heard a goat scratching at the dirt behind a picket fence, its bell tinkling. That and the drone of the nearby ocean added a sense of dread to his mission.

  He detected the sound of voices, and a sparkle of yellow light sprang up between the slats of a barn less than a hundred paces south of the house. Nail headed that way. He could hear talking, male and female—the timbre of Jenko’s voice rough in contrast to the soft pleading of Ava. As he approached the barn, Nail imagined the girl struggling to free herself from Jenko’s clutches. He felt for the reassurance of his sword.

  Torchlight flickered through the wood-plank walls of the barn. Ava giggled. Nail’s blood froze as he realized there was no fear in her voice or sounds of a struggle.

  Nail drifted closer to the barn and risked a glance through the wooden slats. With his face pressed against the coarse wood, he peered through the crack. The lofty barn was filled with an orange glow of hay and light. A center post in the barn held a lantern hanging at eye level; above that was a hay-filled loft.

  In the alcove under the loft stood Ava, naked from the waist up, lamplight flickering along the gentle hollow of her stomach and the quivering swell of her chest. The delicate curve of her hips was mesmerizing. But the real shock was seeing the pale pertness of her exposed breasts, nipples the color of faded roses. Nail’s mouth went dry.