Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  When he had entered the third mass of clouds, the world again became an enveloping, unblemished sheet of gray, for several moments. In some ways, it was like existing within a realm of absolute, formless nothingness until he was freed back into the sunlight.

  Looking down on the layer, it appeared to his eyes to be solid and dense, to the degree that it almost seemed strange that he had been able to pass through its midst at all. As before, he found that he was grateful for that density, as it completely blocked out the sight of the land far, far below.

  Beyond the third cloud layer, there was nothing left before him but the growing, snow-white patch, and the blue-green, silken firmament beyond it. The biting cold continued to increase in its intensity, almost at the same rate as the air thinned. An urgency developed in Wulfstan, as he started to feel the efforts of the Himmeros underneath him noticeably become more strained.

  Even more alarming, Wulfstan’s own vision was starting to distort, and a pervasive feeling of disorientation was spreading over his body. It was a very alarming development, adding briskly to his fears, as his steed struggled to continue onward. He wondered if he had been a total fool in trusting to his instincts, but he was not about to concede.

  “Keep strong, keep strong!” he exhorted the increasingly beleaguered creature, injecting confidence into his tone, even though he was not at all certain about their fate.

  He prayed silently to the All-Father, with great urgency in his heart, that both he and the steed could keep enough breath in their lungs to reach the gleaming white patch.

  Ignoring his racing heartbeat, as his lungs strove futilely to draw adequate breath in the sparseness of the air, Wulfstan continued imploring the steed to keep pressing upward. For him, the white patch was now his entire universe, more valuable than the world below him, and even more important than his concern for his own well-being. Getting to that white mass was his consuming, irrevocable goal, for it was only through the attainment of that altitude that even the possibility of his hopes could begin to be realized. It was the only place where he could find out whether or not his instincts and dreams held any truth to them.

  Higher and higher, Spirit Wing climbed bravely onward. Wulfstan had unwittingly passed through altitudes that no other Saxan had dared to travel. The dizzy sensations continued to rise inside of him, as the breathable air became ever more scarce. At times, it seemed like the white mass above him was dancing atop a blue-green surface. His mind vacillated between cognizance of what he was doing, and an empty blankness that seemed oddly inviting.

  He shook his head vigorously, and fought with all the force of his will not to give into that nihilistic seduction. He clung onto consciousness with every bit of strength that he had left inside of him, knowing that it was the slim thread holding him to life.

  With little warning, random patches of darkness started to pulse before his eyes, as a particularly lightheaded feeling showered over him. His Himmeros began to snort and whine in the thin air, as its own breathing became laborious in its intensifying exertion.

  The whiteness was closer than before, but still seemed to be at a dauntingly far distance. Wulfstan could only hope that his steed somehow understood the desperate nature of their ascent, and the tremendous need to reach that whiteness. In a fully lucid moment, Wulfstan greatly feared that the creature’s sense of self-preservation would probably cause it to turn away from their course.

  Digging his heels in, and renewing his tight grip on the reins, Wulfstan did everything that he could to convey to the steed his feverish desire to reach that swathe of whiteness.

  “Get there … Spirit Wing … reach for that place ahead with everything you have. You must reach … that … place … “ Wulfstan said, his voice starting to slur and trail off.

  Wulfstan then felt himself spiraling into the abyssal depths of unconsciousness. He fought valiantly against the inner descent, resisting to the utmost limit of his remarkable willpower, before finally being forced to succumb to the overwhelming, unforgiving powers of nature.

  He drifted faster, before plummeting helplessly into the blackness, oblivious to whether his steed was still striving forward, or had joined him in the dark embrace. His last thought was that he hoped that the Almighty would forgive his recklessness, and see that he had only been trying to find a way to help the people of his land.

  *

  DEGANAWIDA

  *

  Deganawida walked alone, proceeding quietly towards the end of the last contingent of refugees. Farther behind him were the warriors protecting the rear of the great exodus. It was one of the few moments in the day that Deganawida had been able to gain a degree of solitude, though every perspective that he took revealed nothing but a gaping, beckoning darkness.

  Deganawida was lost deep within his thoughts, and utterly weary of spirit, body, and mind. Despite the urgency of the situation, and the constant threat from the pursuing invaders, the stalwart clan matrons, supported by the sachems and headmen of the villages, and the Great Sachems of the Grand Council, had done the impossible. They had managed to keep an orderly calm instilled in the mass migration, as it moved ever farther into the southeastern forests of the tribal lands.

  Word had long since spread that the Midragardan ships had been overtaken in the Shimmering River. It was common knowledge that the enemy held the river, and was steadily pressing along two fronts. The newly-arrived forces were marching upon the refugees from the north, while the main invasion force continued up behind them from the west. There were no illusions about the situation; the multitudes of survivors were being herded towards a finite boundary.

  Scouts were ranging far and wide through the woodlands. They took great risks to keep a broad perimeter warded around the huge body of exiles, so that any hostile menace would at least be detected early enough that advance warnings could be delivered to the refugees.

  Whatever weapons could be gathered had been passed out among all that could hold them, including even the older children. Deganawida knew that the weapons would avail the refugees little to nothing, if the iron-sheathed enemy knights were to fall amongst them. Even so, he also knew that the feel of a weapon in one’s hand brought some intrinsic reassurances with it, and bolstered teetering courage. In those areas alone, there was great value to the decision to distribute the weapons among the throngs of refugees.

  The only consolation in taking to the lands south of the Shimmering River was that the tribal people did not risk being pushed into the territory of hostile tribes. Yet the immediate future was now limned clearly enough, as the edge where land and the ocean met marked a place of destiny.

  With a deepening frown, Deganawida shook his head, as one method of hunting deer was evoked in his mind. Setting up temporary camps, tribesmen erected triangular wooden enclosures close by, which were then concealed with branches and other brush. Working in small groups, the hunters would then make their way a good distance from the front of the enclosures, and begin flushing any deer in the area out, driving the deer ahead of them. The creatures were finally herded into the masked enclosures, where the animals were trapped. It was a very effective method of hunting, often resulting in the harvest of a hundred or more deer over the course of a single hunt.

  In a dark way of looking at it, the tribes were now facing a plight similar to that of the deer, with the enemy forces being the hunters. In this instance, the triangular enclosure was the land itself, with the boundaries defined by the open sea. The five tribes were being herded into a most deadly trap, facing no better fate than that of the hapless deer caught within the wooden enclosures.

  Deganawida could only wonder where the Wizards who held affinity for the tribal lands had gone. It seemed as if the only will that prevailed among Wizards associated with the tribal lands was that of the reviled Dark Brother. The hour had long ago grown desperate, and yet there was no sign of the benevolent Light Brother, who had so often manifested to help the tribal peoples in much less trying times.

 
; Even worse, the Wizard that Deganawida’s own name was derived from had not yet appeared, despite a promise made so many ages ago. After setting up the first Grand Council, and teaching the Great Law, the Wizard named Deganawida had departed from the view of the tribal peoples. He had not left before giving a promise to the Five Tribes; that he would return if the peace should ever fail. All that the tribes had to do was call out his name in the midst of a gathering storm.

  “Deganawida, from whom I received my own name, I call out to you, as the Five Realms, and the Great Law, may soon fall into darkest night,” Deganawida suddenly said aloud. “The peace has never been more threatened. We cannot survive what is coming. We need you to return to us in this terrible hour.”

  Debris crunched and snapped under the multitude of steps from the tribal people proceeding forward just ahead of him. His ears sifted out the low sounds of conversation, carried on the breezes that swayed the branches of the surrounding trees.

  If he had expected something profound to happen at that moment, as he was the very one that had inherited the traditional place honoring the Wizard Deganawida on the Grand Council, he was to be sorely disappointed. As he continued forward, drawing closer to the refugees, everything stayed as it was, with no sounds or sights of anything unusual.

  A spark of anger lit his spirit aflame.

  “Deganawida! The peace is failing, and you promised to return to us in our desperate hour! Can you not hear us?” Deganawida said, a little louder, his voice taking on a hint of accusation.

  Deganawida wished bitterly that he were a Wizard, one of the legendary immortals who could do something extraordinary in the momentous hour. Yet he was just a man, even if he had acquired a few exceptional talents and skills over the course of his long life.

  But even as a man, he wished that he could gain some sign from the One Spirit. Whether a great vision, or a small symbol, he just wished that he could see even the slightest glimmer of light within all the suffocating darkness shrouding his people and lands.

  Though he had seen nothing in the way of signs, he did not lash out at the One Spirit in anger, as some tended to do under trying circumstances. He knew that in the mortal world, for reasons that he could not fathom, tragedy and fortune fell like rain upon all humankind; the wicked and the innocent alike.

  It was one aspect of life that he had chosen to simply accept, lest he kindle resentments at the terrible plight of humans. The matter of the current threat, enveloping each and every surviving tribal member, nonetheless battered Deganawida’s conscience relentlessly.

  The tormenting thoughts were abated for a moment, as Deganawida was distracted from his reflections. A warrior came trotting into sight, from the trees ahead. Deganawida welcomed the diversion, as it kept him from dwelling upon the abyss that they were all being shoved towards.

  The warrior was a young Onan, from a village on the northernmost edges of the tribe’s territory. His eyes did not hide the anxiety present within him, though his face mustered a smile, as he lowered his eyes in respect to Deganawida.

  “Deganawida, I have been sent to ask you to come, and eat. A bear has been brought down, a bear of great size and strength, larger than any that the ones that hunted it have ever seen,” the warrior informed him, with an undercurrent of enthusiasm. “Scouts came across the tracks of this bear as they found better paths to the south. They were fresh tracks, and it did not take long for the hunting party to find the creature. None were hurt when they took the great beast. No greater quarry could have been discovered. All see this as a great blessing, and all ask that you come and eat of this great bounty.”

  Deganawida smiled at the young warrior. In the face of all their ongoing trials and hardships, the suffering exiles wanted him to indulge in a meal, of a kind cherished in their culture. In better times, the meat of a bear held great significance within the tribes, often used in sacred ceremonies.

  Bear meat was a cause of celebration, which was a feeling that seemed so very far removed from Deganawida’s heart at the moment. Yet he could not deny the fact that his stomach felt otherwise regarding the prospect of consuming bear meat. He had partaken of quite enough corn meal, even sweetened as it was with the syrup made from the boiled sap of the maple tree.

  Only that afternoon, as he had opened up a bark container to withdraw a small portion of dried fish, he had inwardly lamented that the tribes could not soothe their hardships with the gifts of their own lands. They were being forcibly prevented from harvesting the abundant eel and salmon that made their visits to the rivers of the tribal lands every spring.

  The tribes had been reduced to scraping up whatever they could find along the sorrowful trail. It just so happened that they had discovered a bear on that pathway.

  “All know that you would not wish to partake of a meal such as this, at a time like this. Yet all insist that you accept this gift. You need your strength too, Deganawida,” the warrior said in a gentle tone, when the sachem did not respond immediately.

  “I do not wish to take this meat. Distribute it to the others, who need its sustenance more than I do,” Deganawida said evenly.

  “They knew that you would ask this, and have said that none will eat, if you do not. They will leave this meat behind, untouched, if none of it passes the lips of Deganawida,” the warrior responded, a little more firmly.

  “That would be a very foolish thing to do,” Deganawida said. “You have acquired meat that can feed many, and bring strength to a multitude of weary limbs and hearts.”

  “Then all will make a fool’s choice,” the warrior replied somberly.

  Deganawida placed a hand on the upper left arm of the warrior, and looked the young man in the eyes. He knew that even if his people were under the worst of famines, they were stubborn enough of will to walk away, and leave the meat of ten bears to waste, if they were determined on a certain course.

  “I will accept. But only if this meal is shared with the oldest, and those that are struggling the most. They must share in this meal, if I am to take part in it. That which is not eaten, distribute among as many as you can, for whatever uses can be made of what remains,” Deganawida replied. “This is what I ask, in return for accepting this gift.”

  Deganawida knew that many would benefit beyond the food itself. As the tribal practice was with all types of prey, whether deer, beavers, bear, or anything else, uses were found for all manner of bodily elements.

  Coating the skin with bear grease helped to keep bothersome insects away in warmer weather. The skins of bears made for wondrous fur blankets. Little to nothing of the kill would be wasted, and Deganawida wanted to make certain that all gifts from the animal were put to use, for those that needed them the most during such a time of great necessity.

  The warrior nodded, his dark eyes holding Deganawida’s gaze without blinking. “Yes, Deganawida. It shall be as you ask.”

  “Then I will forgo cornmeal and dried fish this night, and accept this generous gift from my Onan brothers and sisters,” Deganawida answered, nodding to the warrior.

  As he walked with the warrior towards the promised meal, he realized that for a few precious moments, his growing feeling of despondency had been lifted. The unexpected development of the bear meat, and the offering of it to him by his fellow Onan, was, he abruptly recognized, a sign. It was something for him to hold onto during his tremendous ordeal, a glimmering beacon of the purest light; an enduring radiance that was not consumed by the ravenous darkness surrounding it.

  *

  AETHELSTAN

  *

  Aethelstan lowered himself into a sitting position, easing close to the edge of the elevated tier of stone. He looked out over the drop to the sloping ground far below, leading to the shoreline of the cavern-lake. His eyes traveled out across the waters, which were tinted with the pale blue of the glowing patches of light that were so abundant in the Unguhur Realm.

  A few rafts could be seen out on the lake surface. The Unguhur on them worked patiently, with l
ong spearing implements in hand, to draw food from the murky depths.

  Here and there, drifting along the surface, Aethelstan could see the forms of the huge, reptilian creatures that shared the Unguhur’s world. None of his men ventured close to the water because of the creatures, and all had expressed gladness that the habitat of the waterborne beasts did not extend to Saxan rivers. He could not disagree, as even with the far distance he felt a tingling of his nerves at the sight of the massive predators. Yet the Unguhur seemed to be entirely unconcerned with the creatures, living side by side with them.

  He stared off towards the mouth of an underground waterway, where it left the enormous cavern by means of a wide, high tunnel. It was the largest offshoot from the underground lake that he could see. He watched as one of the Unguhur rafts disappeared into its midst, wondering about the task occupying the creature piloting it.

  There was so much for him to learn regarding his generous, and very strange, hosts. He had only the scraps and shards of stories, legends, and a few accounts to work with when he was brought down into their subterranean world. He was absorbing as much as he could about their ways, but the realm of creatures who did not see the sun during the day, or gaze towards the moon at night, was very different in essence from the things of his own life experience.

  A number of thoughts were spinning throughout his troubled mind, as he gazed out across the dark waters, pondering the Saxans’ current predicament. Of those who had taken refuge among the Unguhur, there were just over two hundred Saxan survivors who were entirely self-sufficient in their health. Nearly seventy or so others were like Aethelstan, in need of some minor assistance, not yet free from the dangers of battle wounds, but healing rather well. There were about twenty-five that would need significant aid for some time to come. Many of the latter group were not likely to survive the coming days, as a few of them were already in the clutches of feverish torments, with their wounds putrefying and spreading their malignancy rapidly.