Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

by Craig Davis

  Chapter I

  The shadows creep late already. One might think that I would begin such an account with myself, and so I have, after a fashion, but in truth the story begins with another. Thoughts of him rampage and make me to shudder, mostly for the cause that I am so much like him as he himself.

  In the days of his purgatory, the progression of days, Domen raged in his head and screamed into the empty air, indestructible drape for his inhospitable rock. Never seen, his screeching often tore at the late hours; at times I swear I heard him in my nightmares. His wretched, bony frame stood defiantly before the sky as he shook his fist against all creation. Bounded on every side by twinkling waters, Domen ruled over the island Feallengod. He possessed our island, and he hated the island.

  “Curse him! Curse him! Damn my hide, who can curse him?” Domen recited under his breath as he picked his way over the shards of his realm.

  The sharp edges of the black crags scraped at Domen’s shins, but they raised neither blood nor complaint. Brown, leathery skin, not likely once the tender flesh of a babe, had long since grown indifferent to such injury. And equally so the stone that lay in Domen’s chest steeled itself against any tenderness that might coax blood from a real heart.

  “Curse him!” Domen’s grumbling grew into a howl, and he bent his brow to the thought under the accusing finger of this day’s sun.

  Absent-mindedly he brushed a stinging wasp from his arm and squinted into the brightness. How he longed for darkness; yet the unmerciful star’s heat beat down also upon the people he saw below, their suffering his only comfort now in the glaring afternoon. Walked I among them? Often I have wondered. But my presence that day or any other mattered not to Domen; his anger pushed him precariously to the edge of sanity, into ever deeper and more scattered hatred for all, against him or no.

  Driven from memory, remote even as the island, the years or eons ago, the days he passed in the king’s presence. Domen could recall only faint shadows of the king’s courtiers, regaling him as most favored. Forgotten too was the name once his, and his wisdom and beauty – tanned now brown as a coconut husk – at that time the envy of all. But the envy itself, no, the jealous longing lived on. Domen dwelt upon faint images of worshipping eyes all the day as he paced to and fro upon his mountain: How all others had coveted his position! How they had wished to put on his garment! Just to wrap around Domen’s cloak for a moment, a brief moment, and that would satisfy them. How often he would bait his underlings, and make them grovel for his attentions! Their praise and flattery revealed their fondest and most elusive desire, yet he himself felt their unsatiated hunger even more so.

  Domen looked about him at the forbidding, desolate blackness of the rock. “Upon my life, I swear I will bring you down!” he cried out, pounding his fists against his head.

  Once so highly exalted, as pleasing as his station had been so long ago, all had fallen to ruin now. An appetite to gain that not his own had undone Domen, and his courts now were reduced to we hard scrabble folk making our living from the soil, our existence vexing him from below just as the birds pestered from above. Ambition for what he could never attain now appointed to him the fate he had plotted for others.

  Domen stood up against the light of the midday sun and twisted the creaks out of his back. His thin frame appeared frail, but a wiry strength surged through him, and he cared not a whit for the pitiful naggery of aches and pains. He did as he wished, he did whatever he willed, not out of joy of the doing, but simply because he willed it. Domen had not a thought for what might be left in his wake; even what destruction that might result he considered only a happy accident. He was his own law, his own master, and nobody could force him to yield.

  Nobody but Ecealdor.

  “Ecealdor! Hear me! I will defeat you yet! You will come under my thumb!”

  King Ecealdor’s decree long ago had given Domen rule of the island and its pitiable population. Even then Ecealdor had made sure the island resided under his sovereignty, and the people remained his subjects first. So Domen took title to the little realm, but gained no means to take possession: He had the kingdom, but not the keys. With no way to steal the island away from Ecealdor, Domen had yet discovered no use for it.

  He crept along the precipice using both hands and feet, clutching the unrelenting rock with his bony fingers as he tested each foothold. Years of navigating the terrain had taught him every shard that would hold his weight and every new step that his taut limbs could reach. Climbing down, climbing upwards, crossing sideways between spires, he made his way to a small opening near the top of his mountain hermitage.

  The little stoop that awaited him at the opening seemed out of place on the treacherous mountainside. Squatting low as he walked, Domen slinked along the level area and into the narrow cave he used for sleeping and scheming. He shot a glance of distrust and disdain over his shoulder as he slipped into its depths, away from the hated light.

  Close to one wall glowed the tired embers of a long-ago fire. Never did it burn any more bright nor dim than this, for Domen could not stand more. The flickering heat and despised light seemed strangely too knowing, reading his heart. Wagging tongues of flame accused him as if to say “You belong to us,” so instead of stoking their mockery, Domen kept them whispering.

  Near the coals, scattered bones of half-cooked birds littered the floor. Never patient with the low burning, to let the flames work their trade on his unfortunate prey, Domen often roasted the fowls only long enough to singe their feathers. Many a bloody meal he partook in his shadows. If indeed sufficient light had existed to view Domen at his eating, the sight would have quickly disabused the appetites of fellow diners, had any been welcome.

  By the opposite wall lay a matted skin, Domen’s rancid pallet. The fur more resembled the dirt on the floor than the animal it had once belonged to; by faith, it surely had smelled better as an animal. Domen didn’t notice. He slept on the mat only out of habit, not because of any comfort it added to the rocky ground, and even then only sporadically. Rough cups and broken pots lay strewn about the floor, among the gnawed bones, jumbled and neglected.

  Domen knew of only one thing in the back of his cave, the lovely, blessed darkness. Darkness so thick as to conceal anything lurking within its folds, and Domen never would have known. A wonderful cloak of blackness, pouring into the depths of Domen’s den, blackness after his own heart. Occasionally he would sink into that deathly womb thinking he would never emerge again. Such would not be the case, though: The one mistress more powerful than his love for the dark — his hatred for everything that lay outside it — always drew him out again.

  This day the hatred boiled particularly hot.

  “Curse him, curse him for an arrogant butcher! You great king, you despot over a servile people! You’ll never see my knees upon the ground, you grand toad! Expects my homage, does he, when I could be just as he is! Who is he to demand submission! Who is he to demand tribute! He’ll be just as I am, or I’ll be dead in the doing!”

  Dizzy confusion swirled within Domen’s head, his thoughts twisting about. Again and again he repeated his charges, punctuated by obscenity, spittle flying, driven by his explosive breath and anger. He could hardly sort his rantings as his mind ran through a litany of grievances.

  Both hands pulled at his hair, clenched in rage, pleased to abuse himself in the absence of more likely victims. “I reigned as the one! Chosen! The favored one! How they all envied my beauty! My beauty! My ... beauty!” Domen fairly croaked. “He couldn’t stand to have me in his sight, that was all of it. He could not tolerate beauty that surpassed his! I could have been just as he is! Yet here I stand, this vile island cages me, my prison! This rock, this ... this puny isolated pebble! He put me here, he put me here! Curse him, curse him!” Domen paced as if addressing a court, a prosecutor accusing the defendant, driving his points with a knotted fist pounding his open palm.

  “Oh, who can ruin him, who can undermine his ways?” lamentation overtook him, his r
asping voice breaking into a wail, the anguish of an animal in a trap. “The armies, the armies! He took my armies, in chains I know not where. He has all the foolish people! Those fools, fools, putrid maggots, they always do his bidding. Who can avenge me? Who can bring him down to become as I am?” The fear that fed his hatred overcame Domen. He again looked over his shoulder, involuntarily, this time not with disdain but panicked at who might be observing. He knew nobody could have crept up the side of his mountain without him seeing, and still, still he looked. The humiliation lay heavily upon Domen, to fear him even here! Domen sat on the floor of his filthy cave, his legs sticking out straight, his back slumped into an uncomfortable hunch. He held his head in his hands as it rocked side to side.

  Suddenly he realized — Ecealdor inhabited his thoughts as his neck bowed. What makes submission? He quickly caught himself, looking up over his still-cupped hands, and upon his face grew a sneer. No, he thought, no longer would he surrender to despair, no longer give his mind over to such weakness as this. No, no indeed. Instead, he would have his revenge ... he would have his revenge, and never in the foothills below did we see the storm arising.

  He peered through the opening of his cave, his bitterness twisting grotesquely across his face.

  The sun now set behind a bank of brackish clouds. Domen drew to the opening, then closer to the brink of the outside ledge. In the gloaming he could see, far below, the people going about the business of their lives in the community, sitting under the mountain’s shadow. Each carried a long staff, according to custom, and some token of a trade — carpenters, bakers, shopkeepers, bankers, musicians, goodwives, children. Oblivious, we followed our vain busy-ness, completely blind to the tortured figure looming above us, ready to pour out his vile incantation upon us. We puttered along the busy streets, passing each other with nods of greeting and words of warmth and encouragement.

  We lived proudly as Ecealdor’s people, so we believed; but our feet treading upon Feallengod made us Domen’s people as well. So had he said.

  Feallengod – your name speaks of wonder and mourning, a great venture groaning under the weight of your time and place. The legends claim that the king himself, in times more ancient than history, one day called upon a great eagle to fly directly into the sun, taking fire upon its wings. Trailing flames through the heavens, the bird returned to plunge into the heart of the Ocean Heofon. Left nothing but ashes, the wind caressed the eagle’s remains, and the rain wetted it with tears, and the island Feallengod arose from its grave. So the king had baptized the birth of the nation with sacrifice, and planted a people to live according to its witness.

  So thus did King Ecealdor place my people upon the island and provide us everything we might need. Lush, tall forests, green meadows and bountiful gardens covered the island. Gentle waves lapped at the sandy beaches, which in turn rose up into rich, fertile soils, which themselves boiled and soared into hills and magnificent mountains. Four Rivers crossed the land, four separate rivers indeed but always called as one by the islanders, pouring over falls and into deep pools until joining into a single stream to flow out again into the ocean. The burbling joy and oneness of the rivers seemed reflected as well in the people, in those generations before the cursing.

  Life flourished on the island then. Fruit weighed heavily upon the trees, bending branches mercilessly. Fish stretched and leapt out of the warm waters, so much so that fishermen gave up their hooks, instead leaning dangerously over the sides of their boats, ready to scoop their catch out of the air with nets. Placid animals roamed the land; great flocks of birds filled the air with flight and song.

  Ecealdor himself dwelt on the island for a time, walking among his people, taking note of their ways. Each man, woman and child knew to go to him with any dispute or desire, or, better yet, simply to sit in his presence, welcome to all. He entertained them in his courts, he hosted great feasts, he rejoiced in their harvests and grieved in their heartaches.

  A time came, eventually, when his thoughts drew Ecealdor away from the island. Other parts of the greater kingdom called him away from time to time, always to return. But in the passage of days his absences grew longer and longer, until one day he did not return at all. Instead, he sent his court messenger Mægen-El to deliver a great document, a law to direct and remind the people:

  “I, thy servant Mægen-El, am messenger of the great King Ecealdor, thy sovereign lord and benefactor. King Ecealdor sends his greetings, his love and his blessings. O people, thy servant comes to give thee skill and understanding, for thou art greatly beloved. Therefore, understand this matter.

  “King Ecealdor, the most high, dost not return to the island of thy habitation. He withdraws elsewhere in the greater kingdom according to the counsel of his will. By his own name he doth swear that he doth not abandon thee. He promises to appear again at a time of his knowing. Until that day, he leaves unto thee the responsibility to carry out his desires and to wait upon him.

  “King Ecealdor, the just, bids thee give ear unto his ordinances. This great law he leaves thee: Obey and prosper. This great commandment he requires of thee: Do not fail to follow. This great word he leaves unto thee: Do not step to one side or the other, but walk faithfully, and thou wilt not be forsaken.

  “King Ecealdor, the powerful, leaves this law to guide thy ways and bring thee blessing and wonder. In this one thing he bids thee obey him: ‘Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out thy blessing upon his people as richly as thee take.’ For he has made thee an inheritance for his prince, and he comes to claim thee, even as he claims his throne. He bids thee to be just as he is, and he will make a way for thee. Follow this word, and great King Ecealdor will never be far from thee.

  “I, thy servant Mægen-El, messenger of great King Ecealdor, leave thee now. May his benevolence forever be upon thy head, across the wide greater kingdom.”

  And the island had not seen Ecealdor since. But the king loved it still.

  My people received the law gladly, engraving it upon a great stone, set in the middle of our community in the foothills. The stone drew men and women, a warm beacon to their hearts, and they often paused to read the words of the law aloud, and bore the words upon their tongues as they went their way. But faithfulness is a constant pursuit. A custom arose that a man would run his fingers over the words as he read, and then we began only to touch the engraving without casting even a glance. Years came and went, and our sightless fingers so wore away the words that they defied reading, even for anyone so disposed. Oh, Feallengod, how you left yourself starving! With no understanding, the stone had turned into a grinding mill.

  Still, the island people went about their lives, passing each other with nods of greeting and words of warmth, each with a vague feeling that, though silent, Ecealdor still saw them somewhere out in the expanse of the greater kingdom. Sometimes we would gather and discuss the law, remembered from our cradles, in the sweet voices of young mothers; sometimes we would debate the depths of its meaning, without knowing even its surface; sometimes we would boldly imagine the day we’d touch Ecealdor again. This beautiful landscape, this wonderful psalm, proclaimed the Feallengod of my childhood, merely one of many thousands.

  No, Ecealdor had not been seen on the island Feallengod for generations, the people said. But still he loved it, so we believed.

  A skulking goblin upon the dizzying heights of his mountain peak, Domen grew ill at the sight of us, the people of Feallengod, so far below, and his mind turned to the time Ecealdor had banished him from Gægnian.

  Slitted eyes surveyed his kingdom, wretched form perched upon his pinnacle. “So I cannot curse him,” he muttered beneath his fetid breath. “I will curse those whom he loves.”