The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  Falhadn grinned softly. “This time we have together is for learning, not fighting. The teachers have gathered together and decided you children can be smarter than the Old Coast children.” It was true. With the congress’s approval, the twenty-five teachers agreed that every child should read and write by fourteen years of age — an impossible feat in the motherland. Three quarters of the adults who fled Enesma can’t read. Several of the children gasped at this. Falhadn knew a sort of naïve rivalry still existed in their minds.

  Rudfynhall raised his hand. “Will I be able to read? My daddy can’t even read!”

  “Your father can do a lot of things that you can’t do yet. But, yes, you will be able to read. I’m sure your father will be proud.”

  Another of Kraek and Theral’s shared grandchildren, Balgaerhall spoke without being called on. “But what if we need to fight?”

  “If you apprentice to become a soldier, then you will learn to fight. Otherwise, you needn’t bother with sword and shield.”

  “That’s not what Grandma Fal says.” Balgaerhall’s eyes widened when Ulmhall approached him on Falhadn’s silent command. Ulmhall flogged the boy. When he saw his constant floggings had left faint bruises, he loosened his grip.

  Yeznahedeen raised her one arm towards the sprawling yew branches above. “During the lesson, you said today was Jeufynbly. I thought it was called Yaangdbly.”

  “That is a good question. Our congress actually decided that the fourth day of the week should no longer be named after a dynasty who has done some evil things.”

  “Oh! Yaangdbly is named after King Yaangd! And he’s a bad king.”

  “Well, it is named after his family. So the congress renamed this day of the week Jeufynbly, after… Does anyone remember who Jeufyn is?”

  A few hands leapt up, but Falhadn called on Zannahall. “Jeufyn is the nickname given to King Yaangd’s second wife.”

  Balgaerhall interrupted, “I know! I know! Her full name was Jeulrudfynhedeen, but now it’s Yaangdbalhadn. And she’s only like three years older than me.”

  Rudfynhall also interjected, “We’re cousins! Well, distant cousins.”

  Determined to fully answer, Zannahall finished, “Congresser Drea saved Jeufyn from the evil king and brought her to Enesma. But when the False Priest Theul led the attack on Enesma, they recaptured her.”

  Falhadn gestured for her students to calm down. “You are all correct. Young Jeufyn is a symbol of the Unholy King’s repugnant nature. And a symbol of protestant perseverance. Therefore, we named this day of the week Jeufynbly.” Several students raised their hands. Falhadn called on Jeulberuthall.

  “Teacher Falhadn, what happened last night?”

  “What an open-ended question,” she mumbled. Deep breath in. “Miner Hrabhill the elder tried to blame a congresser he did not like for a very evil crime.”

  “A very evil crime?” Jeulberuthall asked with squinted eyes. “You mean murder?”

  “You are too young to worry about such things.” She inhaled the humidity. “But yes, Miner Hrabhill murdered Sailor Henhall. So the congress had to punish Hrabhill.”

  “Behead him,” Jeulberuthall corrected, seeming to relish every gory detail.

  “Yes. Beheaded. Now, you should sleep easy tonight knowing that you have such an honest and strong congresser like Fal Falhill serving this colony.” Her heart stopped. Had she just said that?

  “My grandfather and grandmother are honest and strong, right?” asked Jeulgaerhall.

  Rudfalhedeen made a face. “You mean Kraek and Theral? Are they married?!” She and Yeznahedeen made googly eyes and ridiculous romantic noises.

  Jeulgaerhall spit on the ground. “Ew! No! Not all your grandparents have to be married.”

  Falhadn stretched her smile ear to ear. “Alright, children. Time to go.”

  As the children gathered their belongings, Ulmhall ambled up to Falhadn. “This is my last day.”

  Falhadn opened her arms. “I remember.” She hugged her fourteen-year-old apprentice. Ulmhall would turn fifteen tomorrow, at which point he would begin to apprentice full-time under a new master, the only physician in Hrashhill. Although Ulmhall might teach some students in a few years, he intended on training to heal people for his fifteenth year.

  “I will never forget what you’ve taught me.”

  “The children will miss you. As will I.”

  “But if you ever need that thigh looked at, I’m your man.”

  Falhadn touched her aching thigh, where she had tripped onto a large splinter trying to avoid Henhall’s savagery. “It will heal soon.”

  Ulmhall placed his hand on Falhadn’s arm. “I’ll still see you around. I mean, I’ll be right next door to you during the day.”

  “Keep me updated on that widow.”

  Ulmhall blushed. “She is having me over for dinner for my birthday.”

  Falhadn made a silly sound and punched his arm lightly. “Fifteen years old and you’ve already found your match. I waited until I was an old maid at twenty-two.”

  They continued their banter until the twenty-five little students had lined up with their little belongings. Falhadn and Ulmhall led them to the town square. The parents offered Ulmhall their best wishes, and everyone went their separate ways.

  Now for the victory tour.

  Young Hrabhall wept as his uncle Traamis prayed over him. Rudfynhill stared at the ceiling, and Falhill closed his eyes in reverence. Falhadn, however, watched Traamis’s lips move up and down to create the holy words. I have similar lips, she thought. I could pray just as piously.

  Traamis the Truly Annoying finished his prayer, but Hrabhall would not finish his weeping. “Grandfather,” he whimpered.

  “Do not cry for him. Pray for him.”

  “Yes, high cleric.” Hrabhall bowed his head. Droplets fell from his huge nose as he recited some wordless prayer.

  Traamis looked to Falhadn and Falhill. “Apologies.”

  “We understand,” Falhill answered. “It’s a very difficult situation to take in.”

  “I had no idea that Hrabhill was capable of such things. Of course, I knew he could be forceful. But this is sinful.”

  “He showed no remorse. He mumbled about how the ends justified the means.”

  In between sobs, Hrabhall managed, “My grandfather thought you were a weak man.” Falhill had no immediate reply. “A coward. And a murderer, when it comes to the docks at Enesma. My grandfather believed what he believed in, and he wasn’t going to change for anybody!”

  “We could use more devout men like your grandfather.”

  Falhadn added, “But maybe not the violent criminal part.” She rubbed at her thigh wound. In truth, she had earned the wound when fighting with Sailor Henhall, but in the last half day, Falhill and Falhadn had gotten their stories straightened out.

  The story went thus: Hrabhill the elder killed Henhall and planted his dead body on Falhill and Falhadn’s hovel. But Falhadn saw him before he could run away, and Hrabhill struck Falhadn to the splintering portico. So Falhill grabbed Physician Aerhall to try to save Henhall then left to arrest Hrabhill. And this is how they told it to Traamis and Hrabhall.

  “But my grandfather was in the house the whole night,” Hrabhall sniveled. “In his room — he never left!”

  “That’s what he wanted you to think,” Falhill answered. “He snuck out.”

  “He never snuck out. That’s not like him. Besides, I don’t remember him being wet when you arrested him.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, but your grandfather probably snuck out all the time.”

  “Stop, please.”

  “He killed a boy in cold blood, only a few years older than yourself.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Hrabhall ran up the stairs of his hovel, to his room.

  Traamis donned a miserable smile. “He has been through a lot. His mother — my sister — died when he was young. And his father died in Yaangd’s dungeons.”

  “All of us have be
en through a lot.”

  Falhadn brushed her chestnut locks from in front of her eyes. “We regret the reason for our visit today, but I hope you’ll understand if we leave you and your nephew to your grieving.”

  “I’m reading Henhall his rites tomorrow, on the southern shore.” Traamis stood. “There are plenty of differences between you and me. But I think we both want what is best for the colony.”

  Falhill stood next. “You are a valuable ally.”

  Then, Falhadn. “And a true hero.”

  “Teacher Falhadn, I am glad to know you have diverted from the path your parents set you on. I knew of Governor Hulla, and all he has done to support Yaangd in his blasphemy. And before that, he was no friend of the faith.” Traamis walked up to Falhill and put a hand on his shoulder. “And Congresser Falhill, I hope you know your father would be more than proud. I spent many days and nights with Fal the First. It was obvious he was proud of his children.”

  Falhadn grabbed her husband’s hand and led him to the door. “Have a good day, high cleric,” Falhadn cajoled. “We are sorry for your loss.” As she dragged her husband outside the hovel, a sensation of ecstasy overcame her. I should convince my husband to do this more often.

  Henhall’s family swallowed the lies much more easily. Farmer Henhill’s farmhouse stood taller than a normal hovel, but its furnishings were similar. Henhill had been among the wealthiest farmers in Old Coast before the flight from Enesma. No wonder he convinced Kraek to join their families in marriage a few years back.

  When Henhill only stood four feet tall, graybeards and fishwives called him “Old Henhill” for his overly embellished turn of phrase. At sixteen, he inherited his father’s vast farmland, and for twenty-five years Old Henhill expanded his land until he was the richest man on the Baely River.

  Now Old Henhill managed a farm in Independence no larger than other farmsteads. In this new colony, every farmer was given equal land — no matter how wealthy they were in the mainland.

  In the main room of his hovel, five cushioned settees held Old Henhill with his wife, Kraekhadn with her husband, Balhenhill with his witch wife, Jeulhenhall with his youngest sister, and Falhadn with her husband. Falhill sipped at some hot tea Henhadn had brewed. “Very sweet.”

  “There’s not much sugar left from the mainland,” Housewife Henhadn said, “but when I host a congresser, I serve the best.”

  Falhadn smiled. We kill your eldest son, and you serve us tea. “Thank you, Henhadn.” She did not use her title of “Housewife” since Falhadn knew the title was empty. Housewives were wives of men wealthy enough that they didn’t have to support their family’s income. That didn’t seem to fit with this colony’s custom of rationing all supplies equally. Henhadn still got a ration even if she didn’t work for it. But the congress had decided that all citizens of Hrashhill could retain their mainland occupations if they so wished.

  Falhadn’s mother’s title was also “Housewife”.

  Falhill told their story, then Balhenhill spoke first. “Deplorable. Thank you for ridding this colony of that monster—”

  But Sailor Henhall’s youngest brother Jeulhenhall interrupted, “Why? Why would Hrabhill choose our good brother?”

  Falhill pursed his lips in hesitation, so Falhadn answered, “Henhall was taking a stroll.”

  “In the downpour?”

  “You knew him better than we did. He was a sailor. I imagined he liked the weather. Made the land like the sea.”

  “He hated storms. For a sailor, that means death.”

  “We don’t know.”

  Falhill finally answered, “There are no witnesses as to how Hrabhill captured or killed Henhall. All I know is my wife heard a noise on the portico. She opened the door to find Hrabhill the elder pinning young Henhall’s corpse to the doorframe with a harpoon.”

  Housewife Henhadn let out a yelp for her son, and Old Henhill held her.

  “But why my brother?”

  Sailor Balhenhill answered for Falhill, “Misfortune. That’s why. Chance, happenstance, coincidence.” He touched his wife’s leg. The witch, Falhadn knew. The witch with the prophetic visions.

  Jeulhenhall rose sharply and left through the front door. The family’s patriarch stood. “I am beyond apologetic. I would be so grateful if you would excuse my swift exit.” And Old Henhill ran after his youngest son. Twelve-year-old Balhenhedeen joined her mother and cried into her arms.

  Housewife Henhadn patted her little daughter’s back. “Thank you, Falhill, Falhadn. You did everything you could. Even with the physician living next door, though…”

  “Don’t be afraid to cry,” Balhenhill told his mother. “It’s a sad day.” Balhenhill held his three-year-old son in his arms, named Henhall like the sailor whom Falhill had killed. Falhadn seemed to remember his birthday would arrive in a week or so. He won’t grow up being called Henhall the younger anymore.

  The witch Balhenhadn added, “And tomorrow, we can put his soul to rest.” Her thumb-sized mole moved with her lips. “Funeral rites will be said tomorrow. Traamis has agreed to send him off.”

  “That’s lovely,” Falhadn said. “We’ll be there.”

  Henhadn swallowed her lamentation. “As the couple who swiftly brought down justice on his murderer, you will stand next to the family — the place of honor.”

  “The place of honor?” Drea Drysword asked, lifting a succulent forkful of wild turkey to his wrinkled lips.

  “We do feel honored,” Falhadn replied since Falhill remained in a kind of daze. “That was our day. What about you?”

  Drea washed the turkey down his gullet with mulled wine. “I think Sarahill has convinced me to take his dowry.”

  Only Falhadn, Drea, and Falhill sat at Drea’s long table. And Falhill only half-listened. So Falhadn had to give a reaction for both her and her stupefied husband. “The tavern owner? Do you mean his daughter Sarahedeen will marry Dreahall?”

  “Exactly. And Sarahill is Congresser Yrnhill’s uncle — Sarahedeen is his cousin. So I pray this will help Yrnhill to see what a helpful ally we can be.” Drea brought another forkful of turkey to his tongue. “Falhill? Are you feeling alright?”

  Falhill looked at Drea, then his plate. “Sarahedeen and Dreahall, yes.” He had been mumbling since the execution — distracted as a dog who had lost its bone.

  “Yes, I believe we will hold the ceremony in a few months. A slow betrothal. With Yrnhill’s relation to the bride, I’m sure Traamis will be able to officiate.”

  Falhill stared at Drea, eventually plastering on a mirthless smile. “We’ll be there.”

  He had hardly looked anyone in the eye since Henhall and Hrabhill, least of all Falhadn. He had woken up in the middle of the night screaming, sweating. Falhadn had tried to comfort him, but he pushed her away and tried to sleep in the parlor. When Falhadn had finished teaching her students and went to meet Falhill at the hovel, she found him on the portico, where Henhall’s lifeblood still stained the threshold — now faint as a ghost. He whispered nonsense. Seeing Falhadn, he retreated inside. She coaxed him into visiting Hrabhill’s and Henhall’s families, as Drea advised. But his lucidity ebbed and flowed.

  Drea cleared his throat. “I believe Sarahedeen is an excellent match for Dreahall. What my grandson needs is fatherhood, and as soon as possible.”

  “Then we pray Sarahedeen is fertile as our farms have been,” Falhadn said, sipping on her own wine. Falhadn remembered the night of Glaadhedeen’s wedding when she caught Sarahedeen and her cousin Yrnhill the Yellow kissing behind the temple. She felt a swell of pride for not revealing the tawdry details for a cheap gossipy thrill.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this next part,” Drea began. Maybe the Drysword is a bigger gossip than I presumed. “But Yrnhill’s younger brother was caught with Yrnhill’s wife a few weeks ago. In fact, Yrnhill discovered it, and he came to me.”

  “Yrnhadn and Balyrnhall? What are they? Seventeen?”

  “Balyrnhall is seventeen, but Yrnhadn is still
sixteen. Yrnhill the younger only married her a few months before the Great Flight from Enesma.” Drea leaned forward. “The thing is, Yrnhadn is pregnant. I’ll leave it at that. I’ve already said too much.”

  Falhadn swilled a mouthful of wine, then swallowed it. “Infidelity is a messy business.” She couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes when she said it, and she felt stupid bringing it up. “What do vows mean nowadays?” What are you doing? Just stop talking. “A husband and a wife — that bond is so important.” Falhadn’s gut turned. That’s behind you now.

  Drea cleared his throat. “I also heard Balgray and Denhall believe that Balyrnhall may be stealing food from the storehouse. Details are muddled, but young Balyrnhall has eyes following him.”

  Lightheaded, Falhadn tried to continue her conversation with the old man. “Stealing food? Why would he do that?” Why would I do that? You said your vows. “And Balyrnhall? Isn’t he apprentice to Soldier Kraekhill?” Why do you hate him so much? “That doesn’t really matter, though, does it?” He followed you from Haarzul. It’s not your fault. He followed you. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling.”

  “Food is running low — lower than we anticipated.”

  Falhill looked up. “The storehouse?”

  “We landed almost three months ago. According to Balgray’s maths, our storehouse will empty by the Harvest Moon.”

  “But we have farms, dozens of them.”

  “Balgray believed we should have lasted till after the harvest, just on what was brought from the mainland. And don’t forget, our harvests aren’t assured to us.”

  “A food shortage would cost a lot of lives. What are we going to do about it?”

  “First, uncover if anyone is stealing food, like this Balyrnhall. Then, we cut back on rations.”

  Falhadn remained trapped in a maelstrom of guilty thoughts. Falhill touched her arm. “Falhadn? Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  Drea apparently repeated himself, “If we could contact your parents, they may be able to provide access to a trade route with a friendlier part of Old Coast. What do you think of that idea?”