The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  “We were never going to be able to kill Yaangd,” Falhill interrupted. “Our cause only spread to one quarter of the kingdom. People in the south hardly even know there’s a war going on. No one’s told them how Yaangd the Unholy married an eleven-year-old girl against her will and decreed himself Hrash incarnate. Nobody has told the south of the atrocities at Anang and Meireer and Baeldaan. And now Enesma. We didn’t have the power to kill the Unholy King. We could only escape.”

  Drea’s eyes had closed again. “Leave me, Falhill. Leave me to my grief. My shame.”

  Falhill rose. “I will leave. But only so you may rest. Build up your strength, Drea. Do not fault yourself for Jeufyn’s seizure. You saved so many lives.” Falhill gathered up his parchments and made for the door. “Dreahall will check in on you soon.” And he shut the door behind him.

  Falhill was pleased with himself that he could don such a brave face for Drea — when the thought of Yaangd’s child bride back in the hands of the Unholy King and his False Priests caused every inch of his flesh to crawl like spiders.

  “No, listen to me,” his wife told him. “They’re restless — tired of sleeping shoulder to shoulder while you’re in here.”

  Falhill looked around his quarters. “Is that your reason for sleeping above deck? So you can tattle on the families?”

  “I am serious. You need to show these people why you’re in your own bedroom while they have to endure the weather above.”

  “Fine then. I shall sleep above deck.”

  “No,” she spit back, “that won’t fix the problem. They need to see why you’re their leader.”

  “One of their leaders.”

  “They aren’t happy with Drea either. Some of the other ships are starving. Gray Breeze ran out of food yesterday, have you heard? They rely on other vessels to send them food, but few comply.”

  “Then we will send food.”

  Falhadn scoffed. “The people won’t let you. They don’t want to starve either.”

  “Balgray is on Gray Breeze, with her son and daughter.”

  “Her adult children. Don’t try to make me feel bad for—”

  “Balgray has been our neighbor for months. I count her as my closest friend. She’s getting the food she needs.” Falhill left her and hurried above deck.

  Falhill enlisted the help of Drea’s strapping grandson Dreahall. Together they carried a barrel to the gangplank. Sailor Henhall steered Beautiful Yaangdhadn nearer to Gray Breeze. Once people began to realize what Falhill was trying, they started to shout.

  Falhill waved to Balgray’s son Jiridhill, who stood on the deck of Gray Breeze, well within view. “Food!” he shouted.

  A faint whisper on the salt wind — “Thank you!”

  But nearer, shouts of “Traitor!” and “See if we won’t throw you overboard!” and “Are my children supposed to starve?”

  Once Henhall had steered the pleasure barge near enough, Jiridhill could grab their gangplank. The two ships had a bridge. Falhill and Dreahall pushed through the crowd to lift the heavy barrel of salted beef onto the gangplank. But one farmer with five young children tackled Dreahall. The barrel smacked the slatted deck.

  Falhill waved his arms. “Get back! All of you! We are in this together or not at all!”

  “You would starve us all!”

  “If we allow one among us to die when we could save them, we are no better than the Unholy King,” he exaggerated.

  “Don’t let them over here!”

  Jiridhill and others from Gray Breeze now walked on the gangplank. A dissenter tried to shake the gangplank, but Falhill pushed him away. “This is how it is.” Falhill helped Dreahall from the damp wood below. “If you stop me, you are a murderer.”

  “Please!” shouted a gaunt young woman with a babe at her teat.

  “Let us be judged by how we treat those in most peril,” he quoted from the holy tomes. He and Dreahall lifted the barrel onto the gangplank, and Jiridhill had made it across.

  Jiridhill leaned to Falhill. “My sister, Ganjinhadn, she will not stir. We believe it’s too late.”

  Falhill held back tears and hugged Jiridhill, then released him to take the barrel to Gray Breeze. He turned to those aboard Beautiful Yaangdhadn. “A woman is dead!” The crowd had fallen silent. Henhall saw Jiridhill made it safely to his vessel and steered away. “A midwife who escaped Enesma. The daughter of a war hero. And you didn’t want to help them. Remember this. Remember our lowest point.” Falhill scurried off to weep for his friend’s daughter, three years younger than himself.

  But his wife Falhadn caught him on the way below. “Are you going to cry?”

  “Ganjinhadn is dead already. I was too late.”

  Falhadn recoiled. “I didn’t know.”

  “Leave me be. Unless you wish to mourn with me.” He continued towards his quarters, and Falhadn did not follow.

  Several ships had to ration their supplies. Only Gray Breeze had run out, but the seventy-nine aboard had survived another week off of three meals a day — each one of them salted beef and filtered seawater. Beautiful Yaangdhadn remained fortunate, but Falhill had rationed their supplies nonetheless.

  When Falhill told Drea what had transpired with the barrel of beef above deck, Drea coughed his disagreement with how Falhill handled the situation. Until Falhill told him that Ganjinhadn had perished.

  About a month northwest of Enesma, the congress had been decided upon. Drea, Kraek, Falhill, and Balgray would continue on as congressers. My friend Balgray, the widow, now the daughterless — when Drea threatened to put the witch’s husband on the congress, she caved. And I was compliant in the manipulation.

  Also on the congress, Denhall the two-month governor of Enesma, before which he was but a hunter. Falhill had actually met Denhall in Haarzul, where they both lived before heading to Enesma to be with family. His father served as the Unholy King’s blacksmith until the king’s eldest son opened his bowels with his own iron — reportedly for speaking too loudly in the throne room. Denhall was an atheist, who some called Denhall the Debauched.

  Kraek had gotten his wish; his friend Theral, the king’s former justice, joined the congress. She proved her mettle in the Second Battle of the Bloody Courtyard.

  Finally, Yrnhill the younger — Traamis the True’s former apprentice. Yrnhill was a twenty-year-old cleric. In Falhill’s short time spent with the young man, he found Yrnhill…shrill.

  “This is a good congress,” Drea uttered as he leaned against the banister. “We will make a great nation. Fifteen hundred men, women, and children — all of them ready to start a new life, a new civilization.”

  “If we ever find land,” Falhill said. “It’s been some time. A month since embarkment.”

  “Keep heart, my boy. Stay patient.”

  “The food—”

  “When we land, there will be food. Game to hunt, and fruits to pick. The Dog’s Moon wanes. Perfect time to plant farms.”

  “Seventy-three, and you’re the most optimistic man aboard this ship.”

  “You have to be at my age.” Drea coughed. “Any hour now.”

  Falhill and Drea stared at the northern horizon for an hour. But when Drea coughed blood into his hand, Falhill tried to lead him below deck, to rest.

  Sailor Henhall whistled. “Land!”

  “Land?” Drea managed, in between violent coughs. “Let me see.” He pushed Falhill aside and stood at the prow. A hundred followed behind, frantic. Falhill could not make it to Drea. “Independence,” Drea shouted.

  As Falhill pushed through the tight-packed crowd, he saw land. A river emerging from a forest. The sun hung overhead — high noon. The clouds parted to reveal that light blue sky. The smell of salt mixed with the smell of rock and sand. Falhill made it to Drea. Blood and mucus drenched the old man’s arm. Drea spotted Falhill, smiled droopily, and collapsed like bricks.

  Chapter three

  Foundation

  In the womb of a deep hollow next to the river, Falhill beat a
thick iron nail into a structure considerably larger than the temporary houses they were building. Falhill, Denhall, Kraek, and Yrnhill the younger toiled away at building the congress hall, which sat within a spacious cavern. The four men smoothed stalagmites and reinforced the natural ceiling to transform the long craggy cavern into a workable gathering center.

  Hrabhill the elder had found the deposit of marble in this small cave that opened next to the great river — some nicknamed the river the Azure Artery due to its winding nature and the hope of life it gave the protestants. Miner Hrabhill fashioned the marble into an elongated slab table, around which the congress would meet and govern. Hrabhill, whose grandson was Traamis the True’s beloved nephew, carved an image of Hrash guiding the twenty-two ships to this pilgrim land. He planned to carve a creation mural and the faces of each congresser into the slab as well, but he hadn’t had the time.

  “Serpent!” yelped Yrnhill the younger, and he jumped away from where he dug. A short snake leapt towards the opening in the cave and slithered into the daylight. Falhill had to keep from referring to Yrnhill by his sobriquet.

  “Yrnhill the Yellow,” Falhadn had named the lanky cleric-turned-congresser. “I’ve heard men call him yellow in their cups, but it’s started to catch on with the sober as well.”

  Yrnhill hadn’t fought in the Battle of Enesma, but he claimed it was on Cleric Traamis’s orders that he drew no sword. Falhill doubted Yrnhill’s bravery, based on his reaction to this snake. “If there are many more snakes, I might get bitten,” Yrnhill squealed.

  Old General Kraek let out a hearty laugh. Kraek’s hair had turned white in his thirties, and that was twenty years ago. His long, strong arms grabbed at his slight belly. “That one didn’t even have fangs, let alone venom.”

  Denhall joined in the laughter. “Careful — I thought I saw a rabbit hop down there.”

  Falhill had to ease Yrnhill’s embarrassment. “Keep digging away, Congresser. You won’t get bitten. At least there are no bears to contend with, as with the lumberers in the Northwood.”

  Yrnhill the Yellow returned to his labor. He shoveled lumps of rocky soil from the sides of the cavern floor, creating a gutter of sorts. The congress did not desire their underground hall to flood at the faintest hint of rain.

  By the light of a dozen torches, the four men hammered support beams, dug canals, and fashioned a lattice to prevent the ceiling from falling away. They were four of five male congressers, excluding only Drea. Ancient Congresser Drea had fallen deathly ill.

  Only a few moons past, Drea spied these virgin shores from the prow of Beautiful Yaangdhadn when Drea’s legs buckled beneath him. Falhill carried the septuagenarian to his bed, where slept Dreahall. The old man’s face turned green, and his spine stiffened. Drea hadn’t uttered one word for three days. Most saw Congresser Drea as the head of the pilgrim congress. When Drea hit the deck, a vacuum appeared.

  “This is your chance,” his wife had told him. “He would want it to be you. Falhill, this is our chance.”

  But Falhill knew others would want to take up Drea’s mantle. He guessed Kraek would flex his military influence, or Traamis the True would employ his religious authority. King Kraek, he had heard whispered. What do I have but a sick man’s blessing? Falhill hammered a nail into a tall support beam.

  “Shame about the Drysword,” grunted Kraek. “Can’t be helped, it seems. But we must allow a leader to take Drea’s place.”

  Ever the frankest of the congressers, Denhall asked, “And you would like to sit at the Marble Slab’s head?”

  Kraek had the decency to blush. “I would not ask it of you.” No, but you would demand it by sword, Falhill feared. Kraek beat an oaken post into the dank stony ground. “Besides, we needn’t a single man to lead as a king might. We have escaped one evil monarch. No sense in ordaining another.”

  Falhill searched for more nails. “Well, perhaps we can trust each other. But how do we prevent a future congress from elevating a man to kingship?” King Kraek, he couldn’t stop thinking. “We shall put ink to parchment as soon as possible, so our laws may be maintained for posterity.”

  “Let us build our nation before governing it,” Kraek said and finished his hammering. “I need fresh water. Shall I fetch a pot for everyone?”

  Yrnhill’s throat cracked like a teenager’s. “Yes, please.”

  Falhill took this opportunity to lean outside the cavern, basking in the late afternoon sun. He thanked Hrash for the good men and women who accompanied him to this new coast. There had been no obstructions, no difficulties. Outside of Ganjinhadn’s tragic death on the journey north — and Drea’s ill health — the protestant colony had faced few challenges.

  As Kraek queued by the nearby mouth of the Azure Artery for a pot of fresh water, Falhill climbed up the embankment. He stood above where Denhall and Yrnhill continued to work in the cavern. From where he stood, he could make out the fruits of his companions’ toils.

  The ships had anchored at the mouth of a mighty river. The protestants had settled on the west side of the waters. A couple miles up the river, the Northwood stretched as far as the eye could see both east and west. Nearer to the forest, they would build farmsteads. Closer to the shores, they would build hovels for every family. Along the river, they would build a courthouse, tavern, town square, storehouse, and public privies.

  Falhill turned to the north. The myriad trees receded into the dense forest to the north. Singers, sailors, and scribes hacked away at the bark of birch and poplar, alder and willow. The skeletons of a hundred little houses stood roofed and rushed — not three days after their landing. Each house stretched only twenty cubits wide, but within a lunar cycle, every family would sleep beneath their own thick thatch. For now, though, most slept in the bellies of the twenty-two ships. They were building the foundation of a civilization. A nation from nothing.

  They had waited to name their colony, but people had already started to come up with nicknames: Riverside, Treeshadow, New Enesma. But the name most uttered was Independence, Drea’s last word. Falhill expected that would be their new colony’s name.

  To the east, the river roared. Where the river met the sea, the river’s mouth formed a hundred tiny sand islands. To the west, beaches extended as far as the eye could see, with the forest a mile inland all the way down.

  To the south, the tide crept up the sandy beach — the foamy fingers reaching for the foot of the temple. The squarish Hrashery stood three stories high, stacked like a three-tiered cake Falhill had once seen at a royal wedding. Clerics Sharanhall and Jeulcaln carved sacred images into the birch walls while Apprentices Hrabhall and Gaerhall hauled armfuls of lumber to complete the third layer’s outer wall. But Traamis the True knelt on the sands.

  Cleric Traamis had acted as the face of their rebellion. He was the first to challenge the evil King Yaangd — before anyone called him Yaangd the Unholy. Traamis served as holy counsel, one of twelve. The only position higher in the faith of Hrashianity was the High Prophet, who the twelve holy counsels elevated from amongst themselves. And many believed Traamis next in line.

  But Traamis the True didn’t want power. Over three months, Yaangd had commanded temples to fill the crown’s coffers with tithes, appointed his grandson as a holy counsel, and forced the High Prophet to name him Hrash incarnate. Traamis had gathered up two hundred followers to free Yaangd’s captives and escape the capital, but they did not intend to spark a full-scale rebellion.

  Only Traamis survived. Even the men who betrayed Traamis and informed Yaangd of the plot had been hung inside large birdcages in the palace courtyard — eventual carrion for the crows and vultures. But Traamis fled the capital, almost as if protected by Hrash’s very hand.

  He believed he had friends in Anang, but the gutless elders and their hedonistic neophytes did not want to hear Traamis’s veracity. Only Falhill’s parents had shown him provision. His father’s farm served as a vast hiding place for Traamis when the vile prince came looking.

&
nbsp; A swell of pride surged over Falhill’s flesh as he remembered his parents’ sacrifice. His father and mother were considered the first rebels to join Traamis’s noble cause. Protestants had even named his father Fal the First for his support of the priest-hero.

  It broke Traamis’s heart when Prince Yaangdhill descended on Anang, in what the scribes called the First Battle of Anang but the commoners called the One-Armed Massacre. The Twisted Prince swung his single-handed greatsword with his one oversized arm and massacred half of Anang searching for Traamis. Falhill’s parents abandoned their corn and snuck Traamis all the way to Primhadn’s cottage, south of Enesma. Yet another sacrifice, Falhill reminisced sourly.

  His family had whittled away to nothing. Nothing but Falhill and his childless wife. Of course, Primhadn had borne a son three solar cycles past. He would grow up with no mother. Falhill decided he needed to visit his nephew more often. Or, at least ask Primhill if he thought that best.

  Falhill’s eyes blinked. Shouting echoed from outside the temple. The ruckus occurred on the far side of the temple. Falhill could not figure out what was happening. So he ran.

  When Falhill arrived at the Hrashery, a small crowd had gathered. So much happened at the same time.

  Traamis held back his staunchest supporter Miner Hrabhill from swinging his heavy pickaxe. Young Hrabhall attended to Cleric Sharanhall, who lay dazed on the rocky sand. Soldier Shelraadifhall held back Hunter Fenhall — both of them atheists, Falhill recalled.

  The simpleton Rudrud cut through the din with his out-of-tune lyre. Rudrud was a hunched musician dressed in mismatched colors who could only speak in song. He was fresh shaven but covered in muck. Falhill could tell his harp arm was comically larger than his left arm, though Rudrud’s loose, baggy motley tried to hide the malformation.

  “What,” Falhill bellowed, “is the meaning of this?”