by T. Wyse
"Still the relics showed an interesting history to the two, though only in scattered pieces. The thieves had needed to raid the remains of the castle, finding its buried libraries and searching through records of executions and decrees. It had taken ten days and ten tireless nights before they had found the location of the graves, and the anticipation grew maddening as they dug."
"The coffins lay untouched, preserved by romantic ideas and thought, and their brittle and ancient skeletons were all that remained of them save for the two artifacts. Perhaps by chance, perhaps by some hand of destiny it was the man who reached for the Copper Egg, and the woman for the Oaken Coin. They held the artifacts in their hands, thinking not of their tarnished state or mundane appearance, but of an incredible excitement. They had known enough relics in their time, had read legends and lore of things such as this, and even the tiny spark inside of the two items was more power than they had ever seen before."
"They had become the Copper Egg and the Oaken Coin, but to a lesser extent. Nothing but the faintest lingering of power remained. It was a buzzing wasp when once there had been a roaring waterfall, yet it was something to those who knew what to do."
There was a long pause.
"So, what did they do?" She asked finally, a little annoyed.
"They sought answers in the forgotten borders of the ancient Celts. They went to a monument which spoke of the power and history of one of the old gods, a lord of storms and of battle. He was little known, yet the knowledge of him was enough that his power lingered in the monument. The stones still hummed gently with memory, but there was a significance to this site beyond any others, one that betrayed an important truth to those who knew to see it.”
"They waited there, for three days and nights, performing rights and reverence to the god. Each day they called out for him, called out for his knowledge and guidance, and for each of the days the stones sat silent. On the third day they stood at its foot, disappointed and exhausted."
Kokopelli's voice paused a moment, then he explained without prompting. "You see the repetitions in such ways are important in the histories of the world. The number is woven into primal magic, and the very knowledge of reality. It is something which makes the forth repetition so anomalous when recanting stories. Most felt sure that the boy had left them after his patterns of stalking changed upon the fourth day. It is the number which will accrue an understood reaction from the spirit world, whether positive or negative."
"So what did they do?" Amelie asked, cutting his protracted pause short this time. There was something odd about this final fable, something inside its workings required her to ask, to push against some reluctant wall in the little guardian's mind.
"They stood in the morning light, the third night of their third day had become the morning of the fourth. The stone had hummed with energy, and yet now stood silent, indicating that the god had heard them yet bore no interest in their request still unheard."
"They spoke to one another, of the plight of the land. They were thieves, yes, but they had more in common with the ideologists than one might see at first. They discussed their intentions, their backs to the monument. They spoke of the political unrest in their country, of the turning of the people's backs to the primal gods.”
“It was their intention to speak to the god, knowing his curiosity had been piqued, that his attention was still upon them. It began to rain on them, a storm of fury descended down. Even through the howling wind, the pouring rain and the sporadic hail they continued to speak of the way the world moved. They spoke of the newcomers, the engulfing of the land inside their embrace, of the discovery of the new lands, and of other things they thought would be irresistible to any god who listened."
"They braved the night, through deafening thunder and blinding lightning, their stories ceased having been told in full, they waited. They were desperate, feeling that this was the last true chance they had at gathering this power. In the night their shelter blew away, and they were forced to hug against the ground, suffering the elements in their raw fury."
"Neither had remembered falling asleep and yet they both awoke, the land having been changed drastically. The mountain which had once been a lush forest, now was a bare rock monument, stripped down to the moss and the very dirt which it had rested upon. The stone monument stood strong, clean and shimmering, the runed letters etched into its skin shone with a greenish hue."
"Most importantly, a man, his face and body obscured by a hunter's shroud, stood under the cairn, his arms folded."
"Immediately they knew he was who they had petitioned, and rose to their feet to speak. With an oppressive wave of his hand he forced them to their knees, revealing his face. He bore a flowing beard matching his unkempt hair which dangled below his hood. His eyes were fierce blue, shimmering with white and yellow, swimming with a constant electricity inside them. He took a moment, locking his gaze into both of the ones who knelt before him, looking pathetic and wretched, exhausted and soaked from the storm."
"Finally he looked away, and swearing he repeatedly struck a weapon against a rock."
There was that pause again, that lead up for her to ask. "What was it he had?" She asked. The question put Kokopelli off a little, and she feared it had been the wrong one, but he continued nonetheless.
"It was a sword, in some shape or another. 'Damn this all!' He cursed, striking it repeatedly against the rock, slamming his fist against it in frustration. As he struck the sword against the boulders they cracked, giving way with a roaring thunder. He worked his sword like this, swearing and cursing for a time that seemed to linger the entire afternoon. In the end, with their ears ringing from the sound, he strode back to them."
"'This is the weight of your world, and your disbelief!' He shouted at them, his voice booming with rage. Despite his great efforts the weapon was curled upon itself. It had once been a great sword, or perhaps a staff, they were unsure and they were too terrified to ask. For some reason the weapon was shriveling like a dying plant upon itself, curling towards a loose ball around the hilt. 'You say you have a covenant for me, you have an offer and a request?' He sighed, putting away his weapon inside his cloak."
"What did they say?" Amelie sensed the pause coming.
"The woman holding the Oaken Coin begged of him, spoke of the things that had changed, and the way things were changing. 'I am aware, I see them changing. What would you have me do? Would you start a cult, as others have, only to be murdered?' He chuckled, waving them away. 'I cannot resist this change any longer.' The old god had given up, had accepted the change. He brought his weapon out again, and struck it against a rock twice, straightening it for but a few moments before it curled upon itself once more."
"'We come seeking a covenant, to breathe your breath upon these artifacts, that they might again bear power enough to change the course of our history.' The man presented the Copper Egg, the woman the Oaken Coin."
"'You have found two old relics, you are truly vile scavengers.' He laughed cruelly, taking the artifacts from them. 'These two have travelled a great distance indeed. From Rus', and from Hallstat.' He looked at them as precious gems, holding them up to the sun for closer scrutiny. 'Drained and forgotten, disillusioned and mistaken. You have come a long way, old ones, and yet you cling to life and memory, don't you?' He spoke fondly to the things as if they were living and breathing, and indeed in a way they were. 'And before that, from the great city, each, of ...'"
There was a strange pause, an omitted sound within the story. There were sounds, but they were garbled, in perhaps another language unknown to her, and inaudible to her ears.
"'They have seen the hope of the bearers. They cling to their life because of kindness and empathy for you.' He finished, looking down upon them. He handed the relics back to them, the glimmering warmth contained within their hearts felt stronger now, but the power had not been restored at all. 'You know what a covenant entails, I assume?' He spoke down to them, with darkness in his expression."
&
nbsp; "'We do.' They answered in unison.
That pause was there again, the story had stopped a moment. "What was it, the price?" She asked finally.
"What is the price that demons and tricksters demand so often?" Kokopelli purred with a teasing tone. She didn't answer, not wanting to speculate upon what dark price he meant. "The covenant was that they would stand upon his lands, to live upon them for one year, and to give unto him their first born child. They would work the land for ten years in humility and poverty to show him their sincerity, and after that time they would be worthy to become the Copper Egg and the Oaken Coin, and to take the world by their hands, and to turn it."
"There was reluctance, but they accepted in unanimity. They worked the lands with neither his blessing nor interference. It was the ugliest soil, though the forests and foliage had been cleared from it. The rocks and roots were difficult to move out of the way to make for the crops they grew. They grew grapes and berries of unknown origin, only to sacrifice them in front of the monument with each growing season. Winter never came, and so neither did the mercy of a break. They raised animals, and a number of hives of bees at his whim, keeping only the barest and blandest of necessities for themselves. Their lives were hard beyond measure, and yet it was a burden they bore together."
"The child came in the second year, just as their comfort had grown with their situation. Towards the later months she was allowed more niceties of the food, and allowed a somewhat more restful existence. Yet there was no comfort in the sweetness or relaxing, a feeling of dread grew inside her as her stomach swelled. She had thought she could make the sacrifice, that surely there could be another child, that children were not guaranteed life in any measure, and that the sacrifice they were on the path to making was one that would be made for all children within the borders they knew."
"It wasn't until they knew the child, the newborn, that the man let her know his feelings. It would have been comforting to know that he had the same reservations as she, but it merely turned her worry from a gentle ember into a burning blaze. If it could have been his will pushing against her, then she could have blamed him, hated him for the decision, but he agreed with her, and that gave her the illusion of choice."
"The god seemed to leave them alone, perhaps seeing their compassion grow to love of the little being they had created. The child was walking, talking in gibbering nonsense in the third year they were tending the farms of the covenant, when what they dreaded had come."
"He came to them when they ate together. He was little changed by the years, though he had given up smoothing the weapon he bore with him. 'Why have you not sealed the covenant, giving me your child as you have given me the other offerings?' He boomed. The two parents stood between the god and their child, safely in a corner."
"They begged him to show mercy, that they had intended fully to give the child over to him, but they had both fallen in love with the child, and would gladly die in its stead. He refused their pleas, and insisted upon the sacrifice, for the greater good that they had sought. He was hopeful for the changes they had intended to bring, and understood their reluctance to seal the covenant. He gave them three days to do as they had agreed, at the end he would take the child by force."
"They ran." Amelie smiled, filling in the pause herself. "Yeah?" She added, feeling that she needed to question for him to continue.
"Each of the days they steeled themselves, leading the child to the monument. Each of the days a foolish excuse brought them back, agreed on by both of them. In the end, on the afternoon of the third day they ran, as you guessed."
"They didn't manage to pass the borders of the lands in which they were sealed. The god pursued them with his full fury. First the man remained behind, hoping to fight the god, and then the woman, leaving the child alone to meet him in his fury. He brought the child back to the cairn, still fully intending to keep his covenant. The two watched, screaming in protest at the ceremony."
"As he drew back his twisted weapon, his were stayed. In a way he too knew the child, and in a way he understood their pleas. 'You would take back the covenant, knowing well that you will not have what you so desperately sought?' He asked, his wrath having burned away from his old heart.
“'We do.' They repeated in turn.”
“'You would condemn the world you know in order to save this single life?' He asked again, his hands still raised."
"'No, we would not.' The man conceded. 'However this covenant, this perverse return to the old ways has given us little other joy than in our child. In the two years we worked with humility to sacrifice to you we changed. The people we were, the thieves and scavengers we were, would have given the child as we agreed. The farmers we have become, we cannot make the same decision.'"
"With those simple words, the god understood the change in the world better, and the change within himself as he was pulled by the world's tide. He had grown softer, his heart more kind and forgiving. He eased the covenant, and sealed the sacrifice. This action came with a price, one that was needed. 'You have walked my lands, and have sacrificed to me for three years. Four, I think, will be the number that we will end upon.' He said, releasing the man and woman from their bonds and reuniting them with their child."
"They worked with a renewed studiousness that last remaining year. With each passing day, however, they felt a growing regret, the scavenging thieves who had found comfort in the love of their child knew the truth of his decree. He would not release them, he could not release them."
"What happened to them?" Amelie asked.
"At the end of the fourth year, they died together. They were allowed one more year together from the mercy of the god, a fleeting and foolish end, but one that could not be avoided. This was a new covenant, however, and in the ruins of the house they had built ten years passed the day they had begun, the god's footsteps echoed among its rafters. He breathed life into the embered flames of the two artifacts, his new covenant completed. The man and woman, the two thieves and farmers, had written down their history inside scrolls just as they had found, for the next who would bear the titles of the relics."
"That is where they sit, still to this day." Kokopelli finished with a strange sigh.
"But..." Amelie paused, wordless. She had expected some miracle resurrection at the final hour. She had held hope that the loyalty to the child was simply a test of the Celtic god, yet no such clemency had been granted. "That's terrible." She muttered to herself.
"Terrible? Truly?" Kokopelli crackled gently.
"Yes!" Amelie scowled at him, the dress in her hands weighing more gently on her mind. "They did the right thing and they were punished for it, that's the final moral of all this?"
"They took unkindled relics, and saw in them value where few others could have. They were insightful beyond mortal minds.
They stepped where few others have gone, and parlayed with an uncharitable god of the earth. They were brave beyond mortal hearts.
Even in the face of power enough to change their world, they lost themselves in the love of their child, and made a choice. They were decisive when few others could have stood to choose."
"What in their actions do you not see as worthwhile? What do you not see as beautiful? You can disagree with the breaking of the covenant perhaps. You could scream that they had made a bargain, and that the sacrifice of their firstborn was necessary to better their world perhaps. You could argue that they had no place in shaking the dust from old and forgotten legacies, perhaps." He purred. "Yet can you argue that it is not substantial?"
"No." Amelie conceded. She was exhausted more than she had ever felt.
“May it be enough,” came the crackled whisper, lost onto her ears.
17
Ignorance From the Mouths of Babes
As the dark warmth of the bed swallowed and engulfed her, the awareness of the pen rising up passed through her ghostly form. For the first time she felt the trees of the darkened forest sprout up from the indescribable ground, the piercin
g light shuddering into her perceptions.
She fought her hands away from the wall, and perhaps it was that lucidity which allowed her to remember the feeling of coming to the pen this once. She drove herself, away from the wall even as her every fiber screamed for the escape and rest of dreaming.
“Y—” she began, aware of crushing the blue grass underneath with a deliberate and furious path, but the intended words sputtered down her chin in a blue drool.
Kokopelli’s story sought a place amongst the carved dome, so fresh that the snippets of words and blind imagery still fluttered like confused butterflies. She watched, the syllable dribbling down her chin and then slithering into the grass below as they finally settled into place like puppies into huddled sleep.
Only something was different now. The lines, the words, the stories, all shuddered like some clockwork creation. They swarmed up the wall to the height of the dome above, and then descended on webbed lines, becoming a new mobile.
With a still slackened jaw she felt the shapes tremble as an ethereal breeze flowed through the creation. In this form, and with the perfect perception of dreaming, she felt them all as a whole, as a perfect cypher before her.
The circuit of air completed, blowing over each of the snippets, the words still intermingled in chaos and the images a garbled static of frantic and electric colours, and in that moment a revelatory wave washed over her.
She sat up, the information clearing all chaos, all fear, all doubt. It ushered away the last traces of that denying ache.
She shifted over to Crow, either walking or crouching or crawling she could not be sure. Crow sat meditative as ever, but for the first time a pale white skin now layered over her face. Hair drooped out from the still present cowl. Linear carved lines showed the beginnings of clarification, of separation, but it still clung as the unsure shimmering oil.