The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  Yrnhill’s irksome voice grated against Falhill’s eardrum; “The temple will cover the cost of more officers of peace if it means finding the culprit behind this vicious attack.”

  Kraek sighed, and his war-weary wrinkles deepened. “Yrnhill, you know I am a pious man. But I cannot allow the faith to contribute anything to the colony’s coffers. That was the Profane King’s first step towards insanity.”

  “And the people hardly use coinage anyway,” Balgray added. She had taken on the duties of treasurer.

  Falhill recalled when Primhill had grabbed Falhill’s shirt and dragged him to Falhill’s half-built hovel. Primhill stayed the whole night, sword drawn. But no one broke down Falhill’s door. Though no assassin had tried to slay another leader, Falhill couldn’t help but feel unsafe. “Denhall isn’t even here. Why discuss this issue without him?”

  But Yrnhill grunted. “Let us agree that Denhall should begin an investigation by tomorrow morning.”

  Falhill raised his hand. “I will volunteer to be his fellow officer of the peace. Two brains mean twice the hunches.”

  The five of them discussed a myriad of issues, taking care not to discuss anything which required a vote — out of respect to Drea Drysword. They all had ideas of what to call their virgin colony. The five settled on Yrnhill’s suggestion of “Hrashhill” for the former.

  Moreover, Yrnhill let the congress know that the commoners derisively referred to the motherland as “Old Coast”. The congress decided to put the moniker in writing.

  Kraek wanted to explore the Northwood, as a few farmers claimed to have seen a strange structure guarded by a black bear. Balgray wanted a proper storehouse to be built for the colony’s food supply; their foodstuffs still sat in the bellies of the ships they sailed from Enesma. Yrnhill wanted another temple erected, but his proposal was denied.

  However, all five agreed on the Primhadn Doctrine — a name conceived by Falhill, of course. The Primhadn Doctrine stated that “Hrashhill would seek to distance itself from Old Coast through altering outdated customs, eliminating unnecessary customs, and adding new customs.” This sparked debate for much of the afternoon.

  “A man’s name is indicative of his journey through life!” Kraek argued. “You’re born a ‘hall’ but you marry and become a ‘hill’. Then, when all your children marry, you shed your suffix, as I have. And Theral and Balgray as well. It’s a beautiful process, and a custom I believe we should maintain.”

  Falhill held up a finger. “Do you know how difficult it is for historians to keep track of which Yaangd decreed this and which Yaangd ordered that? And kings are numbered. Falhill, son of Falhill, son of Falhill — let us put an end to a custom from a time before writing.”

  Yrnhill sniffled. “And there’s the issue if a son is married while another is not. Then the father and son could both be called Yrnhill, for instance.”

  “But I know,” Kraek shot back, “that you are Yrnhill the younger, and your father is Yrnhill the elder — at least until your younger brother marries.”

  Balgray’s brow furrowed. “And there’s the issue of women’s naming. Why is it that a girl is named after her father, then her husband, and then — upon shedding her suffix on the marriage of her children — she adopts the name of her maternal grandfather?”

  Even Kraek’s closest ally Theral opened her mouth. “And when women remarry, they change their name yet again. But only if all their children have not yet married.”

  “Fine!” And Kraek slammed his fists on the table. “I didn’t realize that the rich traditions we brought from our homeland were quite so oppressive. I was under the impression that these customs connected us to our fathers and their fathers and on and on. But clearly I was mistaken!”

  The other four had upset Kraek, who — at fifty-one — had lived longer than anyone else at the table. Perhaps, Falhill considered, we’ll allow King Kraek’s next proposal to go through, so we don't embarrass him too much.

  As luck would have it, everyone seemed to approve of Kraek’s next proposal without concession. Kraek wished for more defenses to be built on the shore and on the riverfront. But Falhill proposed more defenses be constructed than just physical ones.

  In a purposeful defiance of Yaangd's laws which prohibited speaking against the royal bloodline, the rebel congress decreed that none on this new coast may speak well of Old Coast. Yrnhill suggested the temples could take on more responsibilities, such as doling out food and water, but all else rejected the idea out of hand. “Separation of faith and governance,” Balgray put it. “To avoid either the congress or the faith possessing too much power is to avoid allowing a despot like the Unholy King to exist ever again.”

  Falhill wished to discuss more inclusivity for atheists. “So much of our society requires we refer to Hrash, who is of course the one true god. But for those who do not believe he is—” But Yrnhill, Theral, and Kraek all interrupted him at once.

  Kraek boomed above the rest, “I insist we wait for Drea to regain his health and for the only atheistic congresser to actually be in attendance before we discuss such a matter.”

  When the meeting came towards a close, Falhill remembered he had offered to catch a fish for Falhadn’s dinner. Now he felt he had to rest up to gain the energy to spend all day tomorrow investigating. His eyes and back proved too tired for fishing this evening. She’ll understand, he lied to himself.

  But ultimately, Kraek sent the chills down Falhill’s spine; “Best to send Soldier Rudfynhill with you and Denhall. I do fear for your life — out and about trying to find a man who’s willing to kill.”

  “You promised me salmon.” Falhadn’s eyes opened wide with indignation. She had been sitting at the kitchen table when Falhill walked through the door. Primhill and Primhall sat outside on the portico.

  “I have an early morning. Denhall and I have been tasked with investigating the attempt on Traamis’s life.”

  “Denhall? He wasn’t even at the meeting. I mean, didn’t he decline to attend because the Drysword is sick?”

  “Because he’s an atheist. Denhall the Debauched, I’ve heard grazers call him. But we think it will lend credence and objectivity to the investigation.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch you a salmon, but I have a long morrow ahead of me. And there is the stress of King Kraek trying to establish himself as Drea’s successor. Confrontational, demanding, militaristic—”

  His wife interrupted, “Why aren’t you trying to establish yourself as—”

  “Don’t say that. Not with Drea—” The couple began to talk over one another.

  “Be realistic, Falhill—”

  “Do not be disrespectful—”

  “You need to step up and—”

  “How about you teach your students and I’ll—”

  “I will tell my husband what he needs to hear—”

  “Oh, that’s really— How many times—”

  “Don’t raise your voice to—”

  “How many times have I kept my mouth shut when you—”

  “When I what? What are you talking—”

  “When you were pregnant. And then you weren’t.”

  Falhadn recoiled. Her pupils dilated to the point that the ice in her eyes turned to black. She put one hand on the table. Her voice descended into a whisper. “You will never understand what it is like to grow a human life inside you. And then it disappears.”

  Falhill’s heart raced, and his fingers tingled. His voice came out even softer than his wife’s. “I’m talking about the second time.”

  Falhadn rose from the kitchen table. She tried to slow her breathing, then she grabbed the chair. She threw it across the kitchen, and the wood splintered against the slats of their hovel wall. She pointed her finger at him and stepped forward. “I want a bigger house. You need to project an image of power. And I want a building to teach my students in. And I don’t want you to ever bring that up again.”

  Falhill lowered his wife’s finger. “Don’t talk to me like that.
”

  She softened. “I am proud of you for securing your position as a congresser, Falhill. That is not the end of what I expect. You have made it to the Marble Slab. Now, let’s keep it. And build on it.” She retreated to their bedroom, separated from the rest of the hovel by a thick cream curtain.

  Falhill squinted his eyes and exhaled his frustration. He knew he would have to sleep on the cold floor tonight. A fitting omen for the days to come, he mused. He prayed for as much rest for tomorrow’s investigation as he could snag. After all, he would be poking around for a man who was willing to kill.

  Chapter six

  Suspects

  Falhill’s shadow ran across Traamis’s pale neck. The unconscious cleric wore nothing over his chest, only a wrap about his waist. Traamis the True continued to breathe in and out, but the layer of perspiration led Falhill to believe Traamis slept in labored discomfort. Traamis the Tired, Falhill thought mirthlessly.

  The knife wound over his heart had scarred over, but the mess of flesh at his left temple looked as if the attempted assassin had just this morning struck a rock against Traamis’s face.

  Denhall’s shadow ran beneath Traamis’s sickbed and over the feet of the cleric’s faithful nephew. Denhall was a swarthy, muscle-armed hothead — a couple years younger than Falhill — who kept the sides of his hair much shorter than the top of his hair. Denhall the Debauched, Falhill knew he was called in the temple. Traamis’s devout followers could not be excited about Denhall the atheist investigating the hero-cleric’s attempted murder.

  Apprentice Hrabhall stood shorter than both men, and his broad shoulders dwarfed the boy’s head. A faint bruise circled his left eye, and he wore a wool tunic the color of mashed potato. The fifteen-year-old was not Traamis’s only caretaker; Hrabhall’s grandfather Hrabhill the elder swore to protect the famed cleric as well, but the old man had not been home.

  “The rock was to knock him out, I reckon,” young Hrabhall said, uncomfortable with the silence. “Then the knife was to do him in. Hrash above has got a sense of humor, he does. Now, all you know of the knife is that scar, but the rock gave my uncle black blood.”

  Falhill’s arms itched at the mention of black blood. “You haven’t spread any tales of Traamis’s situation, have you? Superstitious wives would make much of the puss oozing out of your uncle’s temple.”

  Denhall added, “I’ve heard women tell their children that black blood means a black soul. Other times, it means a death sentence. Come to think of it, my own mother told me both those things. She was a frightful mother then, though she’s less neurotic these days.” Falhill knew his friend had lost his father to King Yaangd’s deranged wrath, but his mother Denhadn had travelled with the protestants to this pilgrim shore.

  Nervous and uneasy, Hrabhall grabbed Traamis’s limp hand. Falhill noticed bruising up Hrabhall’s forearm. “You’ll come back to us, won’t you, uncle?”

  Falhill tried to smile and reassure the boy, but Falhill had trouble with dishonesty. “We won’t stop visiting until your uncle is—”

  Denhall interrupted, “Physician Aerhall should have that temple good as new by the next moon. Now, you didn’t exactly answer our question.” Denhall stepped nearer. “How long would you guess it had been since the attack by the time you found him?”

  “I heard the struggle; I just didn’t know the truth of it until I walked out to see what was the matter.”

  Falhill blinked. “Take us through that evening, step by step.”

  “By where the moon hung, it was past midnight when I awoke to a muffled cry for help. Only I thought it might be my uncle stubbed his toe in the dark, or my grandfather hit his head on the doorframe. You know my grandfather is a tall man.” Hrabhall raised his hand to expound on this irrelevant detail. “Well, it persisted for a minute or two, so I got out of bed and pulled on some silky breeches, on account of I sleep in my natural state, under the moon’s watchful eye. Traamis says that’s what pleases Hrash. Or, rather, Traamis said.”

  Denhall stifled a moan. “Please, Hrabhall, continue. And don’t dwell on anything that didn’t happen that night.”

  “My apologies, Congresser. All that to say, it took me a little bit to get downstairs. The grunts stopped, but I heard the front door slam shut as I ran down the stairs from my bedroom. My bedroom is right across the hall from here, in truth. But I reckon Uncle Traamis was downstairs in the middle of the night for prayers and meditation or the like.”

  “Did Cleric Traamis often pray downstairs?” Falhill asked.

  “Oh, yes, Congresser! My uncle always prayed, sometimes so loud the neighbors could hear. But no one ever complained; no one would dare accuse my uncle of disturbing the colony’s peace.”

  Traamis the True had earned his unimpeachable reputation through piety and bravery. He had shown more of both than anyone else during the struggle against the Unholy King. Barely nine lunar cycles past, Yaangd sent out a decree to every tribe and every town in Hrashmaad — or rather, “Old Coast” — that declared him to be Hrash incarnate. High Prophet Shelyrbm yielded his ultimate authority, anointed the Unholy King, and granted the throne sovereignty over the faith. Royal heralds read the decree from every town square. Couriers pinned the letter to the door of every temple in the land. Wives gossipped while children whispered about the new priest-king.

  Traamis was the High Prophet’s own wedbrother and a holy counsel in his own right — one of only twelve. The holy counsels were split, to hear Traamis tell the tale. High Prophet Shelyrbm never consulted his twelve on the decision to cede control to the king; like as not, Yaangd threatened the High Prophet and his family. Traamis convinced three of the other holy counsels to abandon Shelyrbm and Yaangd and the crown’s version of the faith. Within a fortnight, those three holy counsels who agreed to follow Traamis found themselves without a head. And the Unholy King filled their empty counsel seats with a child, a whore, and his own court jester.

  But Traamis the True had Hrash’s favor. None ever claimed to see Traamis with a sword or dagger in his hand, but assassins and false priests fell dead before the wayward cleric. Even the prince Jeulyaangdhill fell dead at Traamis’s feet with no explanation, no sign of sword cut or arrow wound. Only then did he earn his moniker, Traamis the True. His name quickly became a rallying cry for those who did not believe Yaangd the rightful leader of the faith.

  Now, this pilgrim shore filled to the brim exclusively with men and women who saw Traamis as a gift from the watery heavens. Who stands to gain from Traamis’s death? Falhill tried to ignore the natural answer — an atheist, such as his friend Denhall the Debauched who stood next to him that very moment.

  Young Hrabhall continued, “He bled all over — I didn’t know what to do. I called for my grandfather, but he was already right behind me. He must have heard the struggle as well. Grandfather cared for Traamis while I ran for the Amputator — I mean, Physician Aerhall.” Hrabhall held back sobbing. “I care for my uncle, more than anyone. He loved me more than anybody ever has. My father was a right sack of unmentionables, but Traamis took me on, not only as an apprentice, but as a surrogate son.”

  “What about Hrabhill?” Denhall asked. “Is your grandfather more like a father, in your eyes?”

  “What? Hrabhill the elder, you mean? Hrabhill the younger was my uncle, but he died too, and childless. Hrabhill is actually my grandfather, but he did raise me these past few solar cycles. Traamis’s sister married my father, and ever since, though they both perished at the hand of the Unholy King, my grandfather swore his sword and shield to my uncle the high cleric. But Grandfather likes to think of himself as Traamis’s personal bodyguard — though Traamis the True would never allow anyone to be his personal guardsman.” He sighed. “I suppose he could have used one though. Where was Hrash when Traamis needed Him?”

  Hrabhall struggled to keep his dignity in front of these two congressers until his surly grandfather Hrabhill the elder walked into the bedroom — pickaxe in his white-knuckled fist and scowl pa
inted across his rugged face. Coward, Hrabhill had called Falhill. Murderer. Falhill’s fists tightened.

  Hrabhill stood as tall as his grandson said. His shoulders swallowed up his neck. He carried a clay pitcher of fresh water and a satchel of strawberries. His mouth hardly opened when he spoke. “Congresser Falhill, Congresser Denhall, it’s about time you visited your high cleric.”

  Falhill decided it unwise to question the men’s choice to name the unconscious man ”high cleric”.

  Denhall jumped in; “We have been investigating since the night it happened.”

  “A likely story,” Hrabhill spit back, “and one that isn’t like to convince anybody with half a head on their shoulders. It’s obvious the congress isn’t functioning without Drea Drysword at its head. But don’t misunderstand me; I don’t want Drea at that marble slab either. Only, nobody else in that cavern knows how to govern. Elections — that’s what we need. Autonomous elections where everybody gets a vote, or, at least, every family. There’s more women than men round here. Women vote and you’ve got an all-woman congress, and that’s just unbalanced.” He set down the strawberries and the pitcher of water. “Hrabhall, you look like a girl babe whose mother’s teat just ran dry.”

  Young Hrabhall had tried to quiet his sniffling, but his emotions erupted. The apprentice wept and howled. His grandfather’s mouth tightened, and his nostrils flared.

  “Hrabhall, you will stop this spectacle!”

  The boy’s whining crescendoed. He blew his nose into his off-white wool tunic. “Uncle Traamis is going to die!”

  Hrabhill the elder grabbed his grandson’s shaggy auburn hair. “You think a woman wants a howler monkey for a husband?” He lifted the boy in the air by his locks. Hrabhall flailed his legs in midair. “Perhaps if you spent less time with that bastard boy, you’d be able to focus more on growing hair on your chest.” He threw his grandson across the bedroom.

  “You shut up about Rudglednhall,” the boy whimpered. “It’s not his fault who his parents were.”