The Eye of Night

by Pauline J. Alama

  “Not for me,” muttered Ethwin, but Paddon spoke over him: “What world ended in Kreyn when you were there?”

  “Lady Goldifer's chapel burned,” said Hwyn. “All its icons were destroyed. We tricked our way into it seeking a prophecy, and the Eye of Night turned it to ashes.”

  “Are you sure it was your doing?” laughed Paddon. “Some would say that's all there ever was of her piety. Well, I have been wrong before—I was wrong about the ritual—but I trust your living voice better than the dead voice of ancient prophecy. In the end, neither the wonders I have seen nor the strange tales of the Night-Bearer can change what I think of you. Now come, friends: the lake is waiting for us.”

  The rain had begun again, so we only splashed in and out of the lake to clean ourselves, then climbed back toward the Red Oak house, hoping that the excitement had not delayed the evening meal. As we slogged along the muddy path, it gradually sank into our heads that for all the ominous tales he had heard, Paddon treated us the same as ever. As for Ethwin, if he were at all changed toward us, it was only in being more willing to look at someone other than Trenara, even when the lake-water and rainwater plastered her clothing tantalizingly close around her form.

  “You two seem to have recovered quickly from the legends,” Hwyn said.

  “What else can we do?” said Ethwin.

  “Some might have driven us from the village,” Hwyn said.

  “What? And chase away the first luck we've seen in years?” said Paddon. “Everyone will want you to stay forever.”

  When we reached the Red Oak house, we were so beset with Folc clustering round us to ask about the miracle, to bask in whatever good luck might radiate from us, or simply to congratulate us, that we were in danger of never getting a chance to eat. The aromas of roast chamois and stewed berries mocked us a long time before Girnhild sent children diving through the crowd with steaming bowls for us.

  Halred had come back to see the strangely blessed cattle for herself, and to call all the Folc to an Assembly of thanksgiving the following night. When she saw Hwyn, she ran toward her beaming. “I knew you had not been sent to us in vain,” she said. “Your message in the cave was for us, after all: ‘The time will not be long,’ it said, and here it has scarcely been two days before we see the rebirth we hoped for.”

  “That may be,” Hwyn mused. “It is still dark to me, like so many of the dreams that drive me.”

  “We will pray over it, and learn what we can from my lore-books,” Halred said. And so, at the meal's end, Hwyn and Trenara went off to the priestess's house again, leaving me among my new brethren of the Red Oak. Ethwin at least could escort them, as the little round house lay on his way home; I could only look toward the morning.

  Morning proved me almost prophetic: milk continued to flow like the watercourse that fed St. Arin's Lake, and the chickens had outdone themselves. Furthermore, Guthlac swore that the sheep among which Hwyn had spent two nights were regrowing their fleece faster than he had ever seen before.

  Nor were the beasts all that had changed: the Folc had changed toward us. While no one called Hwyn the Bearer of Night, all seemed to have noticed a pattern in the unexpected blessings and traced it to the stranger who had sung the Rite of Increase so movingly. As we wheeled a barrow of manure out to mulch the fruit-trees, everyone we passed on the way smiled or bowed or lingered to ask whether Hwyn might look in on a kitchen-garden or a goat tethered by a house for morning milk. She always complied, when it did not take us too far from the task we'd promised to do.

  “How wonderfully tenacious they are, to stand chatting with us beside a wheelbarrow of manure on a humid day,” I said as soon as we were out of earshot of the latest petitioner.

  “Success has been known to make worse things smell good,” Hwyn said.

  But soon there was no space for wry remarks, because by the time we reached the orchard, several of the Folc were following us as if they expected to see the fruit swell on the branch before their eyes. No such sudden wonders were revealed, but things went well enough anyway. The Folc were too used to work to simply watch: spades and wheelbarrows appeared as if by magic from any shed along the way, and every watcher lent a hand, making short work of the mulching.

  After we and our spontaneous following had gone to the lake to bathe off the streaks of sweat and mulch, we emerged dripping to find Edwach regarding us with a nervous, uncertain look. After hemming and hawing, and ordering away any Linden kin among the bathers to suddenly urgent errands, he spoke to us in an undertone, so that we had to strain to hear. “My wife bade me—that is, we thought—I was looking for you, to apologize to you.” He looked daggers at the remaining followers, and they slowly dispersed. “I'm sorry I spoke so rashly when—when my son brought you to the valley. I only—you must understand, with three years' bad harvests, I had to think of the survival of my people, my house. But I should have thought better, and invited you in.”

  “It's all right,” Hwyn said. “We understood. Hunger's a hard master.”

  “Then will you lift the curse on my house?” Edwach said.

  “We put no curse on you,” Hwyn said.

  “That's not what I mean,” he said. “They've convinced me now—my wife and son, that is—that my sister was right: I brought this on myself when I broke the guest-code. I should have given you shelter. Jereth is of the Red Oak Clan now, and that can't be taken back, but Hwyn—you have no clan, and yet you're not under vows; you could have one. And my house is half empty. I have but the one son left, Ethwin; he's the youngest, but the others ran off and he will be Elder after me. He's a good lad, as you know; for all that we fight, I know it too. We are so few now, and though I would not have Guthlac know it, we are poor: half our flock miscarried this year. Whatever this luck, this blessing is, we need it more than the others. If anyone needed a Rite of Increase, we did.” He trailed off as if exhausted by the mere words.

  For all the venom that had begun our acquaintance, I could not help pitying this defeated man, sent out by his meek wife to beg aid of the beggars he'd turned away. Hwyn seemed to feel it too; backing away a bit, she spoke gently: “There is no curse on you, for all I know, nor am I in power to judge you, sir. I cannot change my habitation here; the priestess has offered to teach me while I remain here, and I must go where she sends me. But I bear you no ill will, and the luck I carry is not to be hoarded. I think I can be spared for the evening milking.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “You don't know what this means to us.” Then he slunk away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

  When he was out of earshot, Hwyn said, “I'm not sure whether he was trying to adopt me, or to marry his son to me, gods forbid.”

  “I couldn't swear it wasn't the latter,” I said. “And Ethwin's in love with Trenara.”

  Trenara, walking a little off the path to pick red clover, scarcely looked up at the sound of her name.

  “Naturally,” Hwyn said. “Mercy of the gods, what hideous things hardship brings people to! What should I do with this tangle?”

  “Exactly what you proposed,” I said. “Who could be offended by it? Except myself, of course, for I'll miss seeing you at milking-time. Are you spending the whole afternoon with Halred again?”

  “I have to practice hymns for the thanksgiving rite,” Hwyn said, “and then if there's time, she promised to begin teaching me letters.”

  “Letters! If I'd known you wanted to learn, I'd have taught you at once,” I said.

  She squinted up at me. “Strange that I never thought of asking you. But they're the key to much of Halred's lore.”

  “I know there are things she can teach you that are dark to me,” I said. “But I grew so used to being with you.”

  Hwyn smiled. “So did I, Jereth. It's just that there's so much here, so much I can do. But it's not like that for you, is it?”

  I shook my head. “Little use here for a scholar or a sailor, though I seem to be serving as a sort of jester by my amusing attempts to be useful
. And I'm learning things that will be useful for picking up day-labor along the road. But—” I laughed bitterly, “the only thing of use I could offer the Folc was my blood.”

  She put a hand on my arm lightly. “I'm sorry, Jereth. I thought you wanted to stay longer. Why were you so quick to second Halred's urging that we stay?”

  “To get for you what Halred promised. To see you admired for your gifts, honored, valued by someone besides me and Trenara. To give you your due.”

  She looked at me with wonder. “I hardly know what to say. You're so kind.”

  “No,” I said. “This is no gift to a beggar. It's— It delights me to see you loved and valued. It would delight my heart to see you become what you long to be. And it is foolish of me to grudge you the time to do it.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Thank you, my friend, my true comrade. I—” she broke off, as if she could scarcely speak. “No one has taken your place, you can be sure. When we leave, it will be together.”

  “Good,” I said. “I'll be patient till then.”

  “Where are you bound for now?” she asked.

  “To the high pastures,” I said. “They've all been teasing me with my ignorance about sheep. I think they've decided I'll be most comical there.”

  “It's early still,” she said. “I can go with you and still return to Halred in time. And now that they believe I carry luck, no one will call it idle of me to pay a visit to the pastures.”

  But when we met Guthlac on a flowery high meadow, he was deep in discussion with one of the Red Oak Clan followers that Edwach had dispersed with his stare; and Guthlac's eyes looked almost as baleful as his rival's had. “What's this I hear? You're going over to the Linden Clan?” he barked at Hwyn.

  “What?”

  “What has Edwach offered you to tend his cows instead of mine?”

  “He offered me nothing,” Hwyn said, the fire rising in her voice to match Guthlac's. “He asked my help, and I felt sorry for him.”

  “You felt sorry for him! He didn't feel sorry for Jereth when he came wounded and sick into the valley, or for you without food or water in a strange land. You thought my house good enough when you came as beggars, pleading for shelter. Now that your luck has returned, will you bring it to Edwach instead?”

  “How can you think I would rather bring it to Edwach?” By now, Hwyn was red in the face. “You sheltered me, which is a great gift. You sheltered my friends, which is more. And I would rather bring blessings to you than to any of the elders. But I was not warned that the price of your hospitality was to do good to no one else.” She leaned on the word price a little, and it had much the same effect on Guthlac that it had on Halred: his look of angry self-assurance wavered. She went on: “Guthlac, this thing I carry, this luck as you call it, is not to be hoarded. The last man that tried to hoard it ended ghost-addled, whimpering on the floor—not by my action, mind, but by his own. If you begin this way at the first taste of power, you will fall as far. And that will break my heart, my lord of the Red Oak, for I thought better of you, far better.”

  For a while they only stared at each other, a fire looking into a fire.

  “I'm sorry,” said Guthlac at last. “There are old grievances between me and Edwach, and where he is concerned, I am apt to see treachery in every corner. And there is still fear of another kind, for one or two days' bounty of milk is not enough to quell my worries: we emptied our stores for the feast. But you are right: you hold some power I cannot understand, and I should not expect to put my mark on its ear and call it mine.”

  “And I am sorry,” Hwyn said, “that I did not foresee what should have been plain: if it's true that the—that my quest, my calling brought the blessing on your cows, then wherever I bring that blessing, I must cause envy elsewhere. While I carry it, I am not free to choose my path for myself. Can you call an Assembly to decide what must be done?”

  “What—to divide you like a deer between four hunters?” Guthlac said with a sour laugh. “Would you abide by that?”

  Hwyn hesitated. “Not in everything,” she said. “In the end, my path is plain: I must continue my journey. But while I stay, I must not cause strife among the Folc. It will be better if everyone agrees what is best for me to do here.”

  Guthlac nodded. “I cannot call the Assembly, for all the elders are parties to the dispute. But at Halred's Assembly of thanksgiving, the priests may judge all claims.”

  “That will be best,” Hwyn said. “I will tell her.” With that she was off down the green mountain path to rejoin her mentor. I spent the afternoon learning the mysterious ways of sheep and goats, looking forward to the evening.

  That evening's Assembly began much as the first had, with the ritual calling of the four clans, the lighting of the hearth, the naming of priests to listen for the voices of the Four Great Ones. But this time no one challenged our right to be counted among the Folc. When the time came to choose the representative of the Upside-Down God, no one cried foul as Guthlac presented the choosing straws to Hwyn. She drew out a long straw. Next to her, Trenara stared at the choosing straws a long time, as if uncertain what to do with them. “Take one, Trenara,” Guthlac urged. “Or would you like me to give you one?”

  Trenara shook her head, reached out with a delicate forefinger and thumb, and drew out a straw—the shortest one. Smiling broadly, she turned and gave it to me.

  “You again, Jereth?” said Guthlac, his grin as broad as the fool's.

  “No: it was Trenara,” I said emphatically. “Trenara, this is yours. You have to keep it. You stand for the Turning God tonight.” I tried to put it in her hand, but she pushed it away.

  “What! The imbecile?” cried Anlaf. “Why did you give her the choosing straws? It's an affront to the god.”

  “If you cared so much about affronts to the Upside-Down God, why didn't you learn his lore while Wendlac lived, so it would not die with the old priest?” Halred cut in.

  Anlaf opened his mouth to reply, but Guthlac was faster. “Mother Halred, please set aside that old quarrel till we have settled some new ones. How can we look to you and Father Anlaf to keep peace among the four clans if you are still at each other's throats?

  “And Father Anlaf, with all respect to the Rising God and his priesthood, I must protest on behalf of the Upside-Down God, the patron of my clan. Twice he has chosen one of these newcomers—can this be mere chance? Twice you have rejected his choice. This time I dare not choose again. That, to me, would seem the greater affront to the god. He has chosen; who are we to put his choice aside?”

  “If, indeed, it is his choice,” Anlaf said. “The straws were in your hands.”

  “Do you call the Elder of Red Oak a cheat, a blasphemer?” roared Guthlac.

  “Brothers, be still!” cried Maethild. “We have gathered to thank the gods for a great blessing. At this rate, they may never give us another. Make peace, for the sake of the land.”

  That silenced them a while. Maethild continued: “Let us consider this carefully. Can Trenara fulfill the duties of the Turning God's representative?”

  “Can any of us?” called a voice just behind us; I turned and saw Night rising to speak. “If the duty is to stand in the god's place, listen for his voice, and act only as the god would, all of us must ask ourselves whether we can hope to fulfill those duties, being only human. All of us, chosen by lot or schooled in the lore of the saints, are unready. That is not in question. The question is whether the god can make his will known through Trenara—or through any of us. I say he can. Who says otherwise?”

  A little silence followed her words. Then Anlaf, without speaking, threaded his way through the crowd toward Night. He extended a hand to her. “Well spoken, acolyte,” he said. “You are well prepared, I see, to take the vows of the Hidden Goddess, and to take your place as one of the nine voices in our Assembly.”

  She seemed half disbelieving as she clasped the proffered hand.

  “I will concede,” the old priest said, “if I can be
satisfied of one point: can Trenara swear the oath required of the Upside-Down God's representative?”

  Guthlac turned to Trenara: “Lady Trenara, listen. Can you pledge to the Upside-Down God, the Turning God, to listen for his voice in the Assembly and speak or be silent as he bids you?”

  Trenara gave him one of her profoundly blank looks.

  Hwyn touched her arm. “Trenara, can you promise for tonight to say only what the Upside-Down God bids?”

  “No,” said Trenara, then tugged at my sleeve.

  “Yes, Trenara, I picked the short straw last time,” I said. “This is a new time. You won this time.”

  “No,” said Trenara, a bit more impatiently.

  “She can't understand,” Hwyn said. “I'm sorry. We've had a fine theological discussion over it, but she just can't.”

  “Very well,” said Guthlac, “Hand back your straws, everyone, and be quick, or the Assembly will last till dawn.”

  In the second drawing, Night chose the short straw. As she solemnly took her place on the Assembly Stone with Halred and Anlaf, I saw the old priest regard her with the sort of look my abbot used to give a particularly puzzling text.

  Halred began the Assembly: “We have gathered the Folc to give thanks for the wonders you have all heard of, the miraculous increase in the sheep and goats of the Folc, the milk of Red Oak's cattle, and the eggs of Red Oak's hens.”

  “The fish in the lake have also increased,” Anlaf added.

  Halred nodded in acknowledgment, and went on. “This is wonderful indeed, and yet we must do more than give thanks. The gifts of the gods are not to be hoarded, nor to be fought over. We must choose wisely what is to be done with these gifts for the good of the Folc.

  “Many of you know that the newcomer Hwyn, who sang in the Rite of Increase, seems to be followed by these wondrous events. Some of you have begun vying for her attention to get some of the new blessings for your own clan. But it is not right for blessings to be given only to the most insistent, or for their bearer to be torn to pieces by demands from all sides. What, then, must we do?”