The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  Custom dictated the bride and groom’s families greet the guests into the reception. However, neither Glaadhedeen nor Calnhall had family to speak of, besides Cleric Jeulcaln — Calnhall’s fourth cousin, once removed — and Jeulcaln’s widowed wedson Eadnfyhill. Jeulcaln’s living daughter had married one of Fenhall’s brood, so she did not hold a place of honor. Moreover, seven hundred guests were far too numerous to feast. Considering the circumstances, the congress had agreed to arrange the reception banquet, but only forty would eat exceptionally well. The bride, the groom, Jeulcaln’s kin, the congress with their kin, and Traamis with his kin.

  The long banquet table sat on the dais of the newly-constructed courthouse. The marble-hewn chairs — not yet put to use — hid behind curtains. “Perhaps a month will pass,” Falhill had whispered to her, “but the congress plans to hear supplicants within this courthouse.”

  Forty wooden chairs surrounded the lengthy table, and periodic arrangements of blue and green flowers beautified the unfinished wood.

  Kraek and Theral’s families filled half the banquet table — their houses joined by marriage. Yrnhill the Yellow did not sit next to his wife and stepmother; Falhadn wondered whereto Yrnhill wandered off.

  Falhadn sat in between her husband and Primhill. “Do you remember our wedding?” Primhill asked Falhadn.

  “Of course. It’s been — what? — seven solar cycles?”

  “Eight. Primhadn was so gorgeous in her—” Primhill continued on, on the brink of tears, but all Falhadn could manage was to nod along. She couldn’t bear to hear men whine. If Primhill has always been this delicate, perhaps Primhadn married him because he reminded her of her brother. She chuckled at her own joke.

  As the food made its way to the forty guests of honor, Falhill got Falhadn’s attention. “I didn’t think about sitting this close to Eadnfyhill. He’s the groom’s once-removed fourth cousin’s widowed wedson. I thought he was a little far removed to sit on the dais.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  “You remember, he was outside Beautiful Yaangdhadn, when Hrabhill called me a ‘sister killer.’ He was one of the rioters.”

  “Calm down. Eadnfyhill should not be among your top concerns.”

  “Denhall and I never found Traamis’s attacker—”

  “Why don’t you announce it to the whole table?”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  Servant Rudbalhenhedeen presented Falhill and Falhadn with their entrée, a roast turkey breast adorned with smashed redskin potatoes and cranberries all covered in a dark golden mushroom gravy, but Falhadn stood and left. As she exited the courthouse through its rear exit, Glaadhedeen and Calnhall prepared to give their speeches. Just in time, Falhadn thought, hurrying outside.

  Outside the courthouse, festivities commenced much differently. Rudrud strummed his harp while Sarahill beat his large drum. Dancing and drinking. Balhenhill tried to drag his brother Henhall to dance, but he resisted. Laborer Nudntryhill kissed on his plain wife. Young Ulmhall swayed with the widow Sheljiridhadn, which made Falhadn smile. Yeznahadn gave more attention to Zannahill than to her husband. Twenty-year-old Laebmhill played little games with Balhenhedeen, eight years his junior.

  Shadows danced in Falhadn’s peripheral vision. She turned. A couple ran behind the temple, a quarter mile down the beach. Avoiding suspicion, Falhadn followed her curiosity.

  With deliberate footsteps, she crept around the rounded temple wall. The sound of flesh on flesh. “Hurry.” The unlacing of breeches. “Not there.” Falhadn saw legs. Two sets. She craned her head to find Congresser Yrnhill the Yellow. That’s not his wife. She recognized the woman but could not recall her name. A congresser and a cleric, she judged him before remembering her own infidelity.

  She retreated towards the courthouse, working out who the woman was. Sarahill’s tavern, she remembered. The young woman worked in the tavern, southern neighbor to the town square. Her own laugh surprised her. This girl was the tavern owner’s only daughter, sixteen-year-old Sarahedeen. Yrnhill’s first cousin.

  When Falhadn returned, Laebmhill had begun playing a kissing game with the twelve-year-old. His father the Lionheart appeared like lightning to drag Laebmhill from the courthouse steps by the ear. Her friend and fellow teacher Zannahill had rejoined his sickly gaunt wife, and Yeznahadn rejoined her one-armed husband.

  There, it didn’t take long to clear your head, she told herself. Falhadn turned on her heels to enter the courthouse, but she let out a yelp when Balhenhadn appeared as if from nowhere. Balhenhadn, the witch.

  “Fal Falhadn,” she said. “I know how you must feel about me—”

  “What do you want, creature?”

  Balhenhadn recoiled. “Sometimes I have dreams. And my dream last night…”

  Falhadn stared at the large mole on her cheek. Balhenhadn was five years younger than Falhadn, but something had aged her. “You dreamt of me? How flattering.”

  Balhenhadn made a face. “It’s about you and the bride in there. I don’t know how or why, but Glaadhedeen in there is going to… I don’t know the details—”

  “Please, take your time.”

  “She’s going to kill you.”

  Falhadn’s expression turned from disinterest into genuine distress. “Glaadhedeen? The happy herbalist newlywed?”

  “She will go by the name Calnhadn.”

  “Our naming customs are different now. She won’t be renamed Calnhadn just because she married.”

  “I know she will be named Calnhadn, and I know she’ll try to kill you.”

  “Will she succeed?”

  “I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Perhaps not. Keep your witching to a minimum.”

  “The same to you, Fal Falhadn.” And Balhenhadn receded into the crowd.

  The witch’s wedbrother Sailor Henhall still refused to join in on the festivities. He made a scene from across the courtyard. “Let me go! She’s out there, and she could be dead!” Henhall stormed off. Falhadn vaguely remembered that Henhall had kissed Ambassador Balsithedeen full on the lips when she departed. If he misses her so much, why didn’t he go with her?

  She made for the front door to the courthouse, trying to expel the witch’s prophetic vision from her mind. She bumped into Hraghedeen. “My apologies, Teacher.”

  Falhadn backed off. “You’re the one holding a baby.”

  Hraghedeen held her two-year-old babe at the breast. “Have you met Balrudhraghall? We call him Balfen for short. If the congress allows it, we’ll change his name to Balfen for good.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure.” Falhadn feigned interest in the ugly little baby, too old to still suck at his mother’s teat. “He’s cute,” she lied. Hraghedeen lived with Hunter Fenhall — both of them unmarried. Falhadn despised the openness of their sin. The only interaction she ever had with Fenhall or Hraghedeen occurred because Falhadn taught Fenhall’s fourth bastard Rudfalhedeen. And Hraghedeen acted as a mother to all five of Fenhall’s living bastards, though, in truth, she had only mothered two.

  “How’s Rudfalhedeen coming along with her sword training?”

  Falhadn controlled her breathing. “Kraek and Laebm’s foray into brainwashing children? It’s going swimmingly.”

  “Brainwashing? Lionheart made it sound as if this were the teachers’ idea.”

  “I supposed as much.” Falhadn inhaled. “Excuse me, Hraghedeen. I don’t wish to discuss matters which upset me.”

  “Oh, my apologies. I meant no offense.”

  “Honestly, anything you could have to say would upset me. Go dance with your lech.” She left the woman to feed her son.

  Most had finished their meals. Jeulcaln played a sober tune on a set of tuned drums while a few tried to dance. The only lively dancer turned out to be Dreahall. “Whatever you say!” he mumbled drunkenly. “You told me to dance him, I danced him!”

  Falhadn rejoined her husband, who had allowed Rudbalhenhedeen to remove her plate. “You didn’t th
ink I wanted to eat?”

  “You left in such a hurry.”

  “It’s fine. I can eat leftover beef at home.”

  Falhill touched her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  She pulled her hand away. “Please don’t apologize. I hate that.”

  Falhill pursed his lips. “What did you get up to outside?”

  Falhadn debated whether to tell him about his fellow congresser Yrnhill and his familial rendezvous — but decided against it. “Balhenhadn told me she dreamt about me last night.”

  “What?” He fumbled for words. “A dream? Like a dream dream?”

  “A witch’s dream. She told me Glaadhedeen would try to kill me, but not before she changes her name to Calnhadn.”

  “What a strange thing to tell someone.”

  “Don’t put too much stock in it. I shooed her off.”

  Falhadn looked around. Denhall had left the courthouse, and Yrnhill returned to his wife’s side. Dreahall continued to flail about, not at all in unison with Cleric Jeulcaln’s rhythmic drumming. “The middle of the night!” he mumbled. “Are you sure, Grandfather? Dancing with the cleric?!” His grandfather the Drysword descended from the dais to remove his drunken grandson. “But you said I should dance with the cleric!” Soldier Shelwyn appeared to help calm Dreahall.

  Drea spoke over him. “Let’s get you home.” Drea and Shelwyn had to drag Dreahall from the courthouse.

  Falhadn sat bored with her husband. Her wedbrother Primhill had left, Falhill said. Too many happy memories. Kraek danced with his genial-looking wife, Potter Fal. The widow Theral danced with her eldest son. Young Hrabhall danced with Rudglednhall while Hrabhill looked down from the dais in disapproval.

  Just then, a man burst into the courthouse. “Help! Help! My wife! She’s going into labor!” Greishill, she remembered as he ran outside.

  Falhadn stood and ran. “Someone find Sithadn or any of the midwives.” She flew out the door.

  “Make it stop!” screamed the very pregnant woman. Greishadn hadn’t quite reached nine months, Falhadn knew, but her water had obviously broken. “Where’s my sister?!”

  Hysterical, her husband answered, “Balsithedeen travelled east. She’s the ambassador.”

  “Shut up!” she cried.

  Falhadn pushed Greishill aside. “Please, prevent other men from gathering around.”

  “Alright,” he answered and began to drive the men away.

  “It’s Fal Falhadn.”

  “You’re the teacher.”

  “That’s right. My husband is searching for a midwife right now, but I’m here for you until they arrive.”

  Greishadn nodded, frightened. She lay on the edge of the tide, covered in sand. “I was stupid to dance. I got caught up in how lovely… And everything is so… I should have stayed home!”

  “It’s not your fault. And you get to hold your baby sooner than you thought.”

  Greishadn laughed, but pain visibly radiated through bones. “It’s so sandy.”

  “I don’t think we can move you. Here, spread your legs as far as you can. Not too fast.”

  She complied. Falhadn ensured no man was in view and removed Greishadn’s underclothes. And there it was. A dot of light surrounded in darkness. The baby was crowning.

  Averting his gaze, Falhill led Midwife Sithadn to the beach scene. “They’re all drunk. Every single midwife is face deep in their cups!”

  “Even me,” Sithadn burped.

  “Keep your eyes covered,” Falhadn ordered her husband. “Find me a cleric. Have him bring the relics. Preferably not a drunk one.” Falhill ran off. “Greishill, you still there?”

  “Yes, Teacher, some of the men are helping to keep people away.”

  “Lay down your cloak! Underneath your wife! But don’t move her!”

  “How am I supposed to—?”

  His wife screamed, “Just do it!”

  Falhadn asked Sithadn, “Can you deliver this baby? Because I don’t know how.”

  Sithadn looked at her unsteady fingers, then burped. “I can take you through it, step by step.”

  A thought occurred to Falhadn. “Hrash above! Isn’t this your daughter?”

  Sithadn leaned closer to observe the pregnant woman lying on the dusklit beach. “Greishadn, darling, is that you?”

  Falhadn grunted and started to wipe away at the sand in between Greishadn’s legs. “What do I do?”

  Sithadn inhaled, exhaled. “Can you see the head?”

  “Yes!”

  “Put your hand under the…” She chuckled. “You know.”

  “Hrash above.” And Falhadn placed her hand underneath where the newborn’s head would fall.

  “And Greishadn, darling, stop pushing. Breathe. In fact, pant. You know, pant? Like a fat man in plate armor?”

  “Panting!”

  “You’re doing great, darling.”

  Falhill returned with Traamis. “Here’s your cleric.”

  Traamis covered his face. “Hrash save me.”

  “And he’s got relics.”

  “All I had on me were two sea coins and a wooden flute. And the holy tome containing marriage vows, of course.”

  Sithadn stumbled into the high cleric Traamis. “You could put the flute in her mouth, and the two coins over her eyes. You ever seen a hummingbird?” Traamis did not find any humor in her drunken jape, but Sithadn cackled like a hyena. Traamis began to pray, hovering the relics over Greishadn.

  “The head is coming out,” Falhadn informed everyone.

  Greishadn’s sweaty face contorted. “Oh, Hrash, please let me have this baby! Please get this out of me! I’ll do anything!”

  Crying spat out of Greishadn’s nether regions. “He’s crying,” Sithadn cooed. “That’s good. Falhadn, make sure you catch the head. Don’t let it just bobble about.”

  The head of a slimy newborn fell into her clammy palm. For a moment, the baby was breathless, rotten. But the crying returned.

  “Now, Falhadn, check around his neck.”

  “How do you know it’s a boy?”

  “A grandmother knows. Is there a cord around its neck?”

  Falhadn felt around the baby’s neck. Her fingers dripped with black viscous blood. Then, it was gone. She shook her head, then felt the cord.

  “That’s good—”

  “There’s a cord around its neck.”

  “Then why’d you shake your head? Just gently pull the cord over his head.”

  Falhadn did as instructed. The cord did not tighten about the baby’s windpipe, like she had known to happen. Why isn’t it crying? Then it cried again.

  “Keep holding it. Greishadn, darling, don’t you dare push. It’s coming out now. Let nature do its work. And Greishill, are you about done laying down your cloak?”

  “I can’t get it under her without moving her.”

  Falhadn cried out, “Does anyone have a clean knife?”

  Still covering his face while praying, Traamis blindly handed Falhadn a ceremonial knife. She laid it on Greishill’s cloak while she cradled the newborn. It slithered from its mother’s womb. For a terrifying instant, Falhadn held a snake with wings. Then it was a baby once more. She cut the cord and closed Greishadn’s legs. The tide washed past Greishadn and Falhadn.

  Falhadn held the babe, mesmerized. He smiled. Falhadn blinked, and its smile deteriorated into gore and mold. She stared the stillbirth in its face. A boy, she remembered. A stillborn boy. She blinked again, and Greishadn’s beautiful baby boy again sat in her arms.

  “Falhill?” she whimpered, handing the newborn to its father, and Greishill knelt beside his wife. “Falhill? Where are you?” She stood but immediately stumbled into his arms.

  “I’m here, Falhadn. I’m right here.” He hugged her tight. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s a baby boy. Just like…” She choked on her own breath.

  “I’m proud of you. I know how hard that had to be.”

  “Just shut up and hold me tighter.”

 
Falhill obeyed. Falhadn closed her eyes to hold back the tears, but inside her eyelids flashed images of death.

  Midwife Sithadn burped once more. “What a wonderful evening!” And she stooped to pinch her daughter’s drenched cheeks. “What a wonderful baby boy! See? A grandmother knows.”

  Chapter twelve

  Supplications

  “Off with his head, Congresser.”

  Falhill shielded his eyes from the midday sun. On the steps of the courthouse stood Kraek, Denhall, and Laebm Lionheart. Beneath them knelt Soldier Shelwyn, looking older than his fifty years with tears streaming down his craggy cheeks.

  “I don’t answer to you, Kraek. Where is the congress to debate the matter?” Denhall spotted Falhill. “There is the Drysword and Falhill. And the widow Balgray.”

  Theral paced at the foot of the steps, her arms crossed. “About time. Where’s Yrnhill the Yellow?”

  Falhill shot her an admonishing look. “That’s unkind, Butcher.”

  “I’m proud of what people think of me.”

  Drea hobbled ahead of Falhill and Theral, stomped a leather-girded foot onto the bottom step. “Shelwyn, are you alright?”

  A small crowd had gathered — farmers, fishers, grazers. Falhill knew none of them except Kraek’s children.

  Shelwyn sobbed. The gray stubble sprouting from his jowls slowed the descent of his glistening tears. “Drysword, he means to have my head.” The sight of the loyal old soldier made Falhill’s stomach uneasy.

  Kraek kicked him in his side. “He disobeyed a direct order from his general.”

  Drea scoffed. “His general? You mean the Lionheart? Or you, Congresser?”

  “General Laebm the Lionheart will not suffer insubordination. When an outside enemy arrives, General Laebm needs his soldiers to obey every order without question.”

  Shelwyn cried out, “I never—”

  “Shut up!” Kraek kicked Shelwyn in his side again. Shelwyn’s sobs turned to pitiful groans.

  Drea winced. “That is not necessary.”

  “Would the great Drea Drysword have his pet spared?”