by Craig Davis
Chapter III
More a laborious burden than ever in the generations of his family, Beorn’s work weighed heavily on him come morning. His back ached at his tilling as he dug around the entwining roots of his orchards. Tree branches seemed to reach out with crooked, plaintive twigs to grasp his coat, a silent plea to return to older days, to join them again in fellowship of the earth. Sullenly he shook off their touch. Without sleep through the night watch, his head rolled like a millstone upon his neck. Late into the moon’s passage had Cwen pressed her point, and in the end he could do no more than simply put off his judgment. He still could not wring sense from her words: Never before had he known her to have a selfish thought, but never had she been so forceful as now. What stranger had so influenced her desire for the fruits of the orchard? His heart hung low in his chest, more sobbing than beating, for there he knew.
His grown sons, Begietan his firstborn and Hatan the third, joined in his daily toil. Raised in the Feohtan tradition, both learned to tend the orchards from an early age. First with their grandfather, then only their father, they grew into men working the black soil in the trees’ lush shade, taking their lunch on the soft grass, going their separate ways for the evening. Every plant, every tree became their passion; they knew when each did well, when each required pruning, how to cajole them into bringing forth fruit. The orchard grounds became a second home, sleep sometimes beckoning under the leafy canopy instead of the sons’ own roof. Yet Begietan’s heart had always wandered elsewhere.
Fire blazed within Begietan, standing taller than his father, with arms strong for pulling the bow and an eye sure for letting the arrow fly. He shared his father’s towhead, gold like the sunrise on a wheat field, but little else; a multitude of scars marked him and his life. Begietan learned the building of things, and his designs ranged from instruments of music to implements of iron, and he made them work. Indeed, with nothing but his hands and back he had built a room onto the rear of the Feohtan hovel, which he used for his lone counsels. Begietan tilled the ground of the orchards, but with no vigor except that born of discontent.
I never had much use for Begietan; perhaps some things I did understand, without understanding that I understood. Regardless, though one might think the days would draw us into friendship, in our youth I maintained a goodly distance. He largely roamed alone. Perhaps I simply did not give myself over to my appetites quite as eagerly as he. Perhaps something in his eye showed his intent flowed from places unknown to me. Regardless, even as I fell in with companions who would join in my gluttony from the world’s trough, I did not number Begietan among them. I’m not sure I ever spoke a word to him, until the very moment that I had to.
First-fruits of an infant marriage, his parents did marvel at Begietan, as what new parents do not? Cwen especially could make no end of her doting, with ecstatic endearments of unreserved love and grand expectation. The praises that fell upon his ears must have grown up only thistles in his heart, as he took them for truth and soon believed himself the best Feallengod could produce.
He first found his interest in the hunt as a child, not even as tall as the bow, I am told; Beorn happily trained him at the target. Begietan immediately showed his skill, and took to always wearing a loaded quiver, even to his bed. But soon shooting the bull’s eye eventually, predictably, grew wearisome for him, and so he sought moving targets; then Beorn forbade him to shoot at wildlife.
“Wait,” he said, “and at your thirteenth birthday we will go out together and seek game.”
But the child showed the impatience that often lies at the root of anger, and one morning he left the hovel before his parents and brother awoke. Bow in hand and quiver full, he ran along the edge of the foothills — away from the community — alone with his ambitions, settling behind some fallen rocks at the bottom of the high mountains, near a pool of still water. As the sun rose, activity rustled awake in the rushes at the water’s edge, and quiet quacking floated gently from the bramble. Before long the waterfowl began to emerge. One arrow, and then a second, missed its mark and slid with a glup into the water. Then a third found its target, and a bird lay dead in the shallows.
The young Begietan exulted over his kill for a moment before pulling the prey from its watery grave. Skillfully he dressed the bird with his knife, and soon an open fire was turning the flesh brown and crisp. By himself, squatting and gnawing, he enjoyed the morsel — away from the demands of his family’s hunger, away from their begging plates — witnessed by only a single pair of searing eyes from high above.
Back at the hovel that morning, Beorn set out for the orchards, wondering about the cold pillow where young Begietan had laid his head the night before.
Hatan, the third son, I never really knew, a matter to still grieve over, but probably one that gave him much benefit. His birth came fully a generation after Begietan. In fact, even as the fates fell hard upon Feallengod, he had not aged much beyond boyhood. However, the number of his years belied his head and heart, those of a man — I see well now. He helped tend the orchards, not out of duty nor as of being compelled, but out of love: Love for his father, love for the king’s generosity, love for the soil and bark and leaves themselves. After completing a day’s work, he often would tarry and walk among the trees, wondering at the intricate designs of each leaf or at the depth of the roots hidden in the ground. He would marvel at the wisdom of Ecealdor for the order of the garden in the midst of its diversity.
Often Hatan and Beorn spoke of the king as they bent to their labors, until the work surprised both by abandoning them to a leisurely afternoon. Many a morning the air filled with their voices, joined in songs of Feallengod:
“Beautiful in the midst of Heofon,
“The joy of the greater kingdom,
“Lies elegant Feallengod,
“Chosen land of Ecealdor.
“Appointed to her greatness
“To the glory of the king,
“Prepare for your glorious service,
“O chosen land of Ecealdor.”
Young Hatan shared as well his father’s weakness for the Lady Cwen. He came from her womb in mourning, the son born third but to be counted as second, and as such his birthing pains became healing salve to her. As a babe he wriggled in the cradle of her arms, basking in the warmth of her smile even as tears fell upon his face. His chubby fingers found the curls of her hair for play, and the gold disk as well, and he cooed and gurgled in the security of her embrace. Even now she asked very little of him, but what desires she made known he fulfilled gladly. He hoped for nothing from her but a deep glance and glad smile.
Second son Astigan bore the shadow of tragedy, entering the world after Begietan’s birth and leaving before Hatan’s, and too good for it in between. I count it the greatest blessedness of my youth to have called him friend. Unlike his brothers and even my own, Astigan made pact with me as kindred spirit, a lover of the land and the animals that fed from it. Many times I joined him in the meadowlands, simply to lounge in the tall grass and allow the gentle wildlife to nibble our clothing. He could talk endlessly about anything, high or low; he’d tweak my brain with wordplay until I couldn’t follow anymore; he dreamed about what lay beyond the island. He brokered goodwill among the people, showing the same spirit of generosity as his mother, often helping her distribute the harvest of the orchards. His voice sang with laughter; oh, how well I remember the warm evenings, spent laying rollicking scorn upon each other as fools in competition.
“Shall I bring down the doe that stands beyond that thicket?” I pointed into the distance.
“Using what? The great multitude of words echoing about in your brain?” he asked.
“With my sling.”
“Oh, so you will use the stones within your head.”
“Come on,” I persisted. “I wager I bring her down with one throw, and leave some buck a widower.”
“And never would his sorrow come so ‘deer.’ ” And he tootled upon a reed whistle.
�
��What?”
“That doe belongs to the king, you know.” Astigan’s joking retreated, or so I guessed.
“Surely,” I replied.
“Why would you steal from the king, sneaking about in the tall grasses, when you have but to ask and his managers would grant you a hart?”
“But the sport of it —”
“Of the kill? Or the craft?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“Then let us sneak instead into the orchards tonight and swipe a couple of pears, ’ay? Pair of pears?” His voice crackled with hoarse intrigue.
“But those just belong to your family.”
“Then I grant them to you.”
Astigan saw to his duties faithfully, and gave his devotion to his parents and his friends and to Ecealdor without restraint. Like a school boy’s first, innocent love, I in turn devoted myself to Astigan’s friendship. Over long hours we shared our hopes and plans, always full of great bravado and adventure, never considering that hardship and disaster might loom over the horizon. So lost I became that I began to think of Ecealdor even less often than his law, and I forgot the foundation of all things good that I had come to rely upon. My king! Your mercies flow so tender, to overlook such foolishness, and in your grace you allow the hard lessons that teach against such ill-begotten devices. For surely the crashing waves of time knocked away my sandy foothold and swept me away in their unforgiving strength.
I believe then too came the time I first caught sight of that old man, that old beggar who attached himself so grimly to my life. Like a tick he sucked the blood from my heart. On one of those days, from across a crowd his face bobbed over the others, grasping that knotted staff of his, a grizzled glow staring me down from afar. I could not tear away my gaze. He looked pleased for no reason. Gray and white speckled whiskers, a jolly grin baring ragged teeth, he said not a word. In fact, he drew no closer that first day, as best I remember, but never after that did he seem far from me. Time and again, I caught sight of him peering at me like a hungry man at a leg of lamb.
Not with sorrow so much as utter disbelief did Beorn and Cwen face Astigan’s loss. The day began as all others but ended as none ever before nor since as he disappeared and was not seen again. After work in the orchards that afternoon he took leave of his father and brother and went into the community. The basket maker remembered Astigan’s visit to his shop, and the miller recalled his small purchase of oats and corn. Two of the townsfolk related their crossing his path as he walked briskly toward the meadows, where flocks of sheep and herds of goats and deer abide. I myself raised my staff in greeting to him on the street, all smiles and warm words, too busy for more than a handshake, the last time ever I saw him. What happened afterwards drifted into mystery. Though Beorn, Cwen and Begietan searched the island for weeks, never a trace of Astigan revealed itself, never a merciful hint, at least to hear those who talked of such things. I tried to search as well, but I could not bear to enter again, alone, into the waving, lying peace of the meadowlands, afraid of what I might find, afraid of finding nothing. So he remained in the rolling meadows, perhaps in body and perhaps only in spirit.
Astigan, my friend — how my arms did ache for you.
The moment I heard seared my brain, and I grieve even yet over the memory. The heartache burned and bled like nothing I’d ever known: A crushing, grinding butcher of that unthinking happiness I’d grown to love more than love itself and thought would never desert me. Without my truest friend, I felt abandoned and alone, a jagged half-soul let loose to wander barren lands. That day began my decline, as I grew to disbelieve any good thing, to see no pure nor noble essence in the eyes of any man. The fault lay with someone, someone should have to pay; if the guilty remained unpunished, then I would have to bear the penalty in my grief. What we accuse of each other, we likely are guilty of ourselves. And so I lay upon my fellows the untrusting anger and betrayal I felt within myself. In this as well I slew Astigan, by not choosing instead to honor his memory by imitating his character.
From that time I sold my youth cheaply, for years working the quarries and docks, then the docks and quarries, as the opportunity arose, kissing my coins farewell quickly on pleasures and vice. Other times I simply wandered the streets, accepting equally the offerings of the generous and the scorn of the judgmental. Ever closer drew that old man, wizened geezer, friend and enemy, his staff more stout than most, closer and ever nearer. At whatever opportunity arose I gaily spent my labors, and always he seemed to stand witness to my hedonist bankruptcy. Then at last he spoke, from behind me I heard his voice for the first time, knowing full well it was his own. A copper had fallen into my hand from a man well able to give more. In the same breath he pointedly suggested for me a shave and a bath, and turned away quickly. His bag dangled lightly from the side of his belt.
“Take it,” said the voice.
Instead, I turned to face the speaker. A filthier man I’ve never seen, nor surely will I ever, his coat and trousers stiff with dried mud and sweat. His hair stuck out in all directions, so dusty that I could not tell its true color. Two blue eyes gazed directly into mine, but they seemed dim and glazed. Several days’ growth framed his pasty grin.
“You were wise to let him go,” he said. “You did the right thing.”
“I never thought of taking his purse,” I protested.
“Of course not,” he clapped his hand upon my shoulder. “You did well. You should feel proud.”
“Have you been following me about?” I asked.
“Me? No! I have seen you though. You look like you need a friend.”
“My best friend is gone, and I fear I’ll never see him again. I have no heart to invest again.”
“Well, I will be your friend. You have nothing left to lose – you see I have nothing,” he held out his arms and smiled, so illustrating his sincere poverty. “Together we must make our way upon the island, comrades in arms, counseling each other, each guarding the other’s back. What say?”
“I wish no trouble. I cannot stop you.” He had stuck so close to me already, I thought I might as well know him.
“What do you with that copper?” he enthusiastically indicated my hand.
“I’m hungry.”
“Food is easy,” he confided, sidling close to me. “Better to give that over to drink. What good is food when it clogs the throat, when you can’t wash it down? Bottle first, then I shall show you the end of your hunger.”
Too easily I gave in, and quickly we had a small flask. For his brain power he claimed his share as he led us out of the community. The way was familiar to me, and so we arrived at the Feohtan orchards. Climbing upon the stone wall to reach the low branches, by stealth we filled the fronts of our shirts like baskets. These were the fruits Astigan had once granted me, and now I took them shamelessly. Like weasels from a henhouse we climbed into the near forest lands to eat.
Struck with horror at the insult to my old friend, but also excited by the bare insolence of the crime, and then again horrified by my duplicitous delight, I cradled my treasures. Fully I baptized myself in the sweetness of taste, to forget the bitterness of all else the fruit stood for. I tried to imagine Astigan’s lanky frame casually tossing a grape high into the air, but all I saw across from me was that old man, smirking and smacking with his livery lips. Apples and pears, fruits of every nature, their juice smeared our faces. Our outward stickiness was matched by the hard fullness of our stomachs as we each gnawed the remains of a core, reclining under grand foliage.
“Fine, fine,” the old man said. “A fine appetizer, but much more awaits us this blessed night.”
“What more?” I belched out. “I’m stuffed.”
“Don’t let your stomach fool you, boy. You may feel full, but it’s a cold full. You can’t ever be satisfied until your belly is warm.”
“I do feel cold,” I observed, squirming upon the ground.
“Then we must warm you. I take it as my duty to see to your pleasure, sire.” He arose and b
owed with mocking deepness. “And I know just where to serve your satisfaction.”
Again we entered upon the highway, the same way that we had come, and soon arrived at the familiar path. After thieving the work of their hands, I came to the Feohtan’s hovel to beg their indulgence. Which is worse, forthright theft or the knavery of swindling charity? Yet there I stood and was hardly going to walk away. The food offered indeed steamed hot, and the comforts warm, that fed my flesh but stabbed pure death to my spirit. At the Feohtan door I hung my head low, never sure if Cwen identified the face she had so often seen across her own table, so low did I hold it. But my new friend held his high, wide, simpering grin punctuating his grand enjoyment of it all.
Often we visited the hovel after that night, and not once went I away from that house empty, neither with blows of harsh words struck at my heart. Yet harder did my depression bear down upon me, and I boasted no use for anyone, not my new companion, not even myself. From job to job I went, from store front to sheepfold to tavern, sometimes for a day, sometimes for an hour, sometimes only to have a table upon which to sleep, and my life had no reason nor purpose. Nobody grieves innocence more than the guilty.
Keeping Astigan’s memory alive, calling to mind his servant’s heart and honoring his legacy of gentle obedience, had grown ever more difficult for Beorn and Cwen in all the passing years. For his sake the medallion of the fawn was struck, to continually lay upon Cwen’s breast.
“Mother speaks the truth,” Begietan said sharply to his father. “These orchards belong to Feohtan, and the harvest should remain ours.” Little did even he know.
Beorn’s head snapped up as his blurry attention jerked back into the conversation. His mind had fallen awash into a dream of billowing images and meaningless words. Shoulders hunched over his hoe, eyelids weary with distress and exhaustion after his sleepless night, his heart tried to find the middle between pleasing Cwen and pleasing Ecealdor. The day’s work itself could not keep his mind alert.
“Let us not speak more of this matter, Begietan. These words break my bones. I cannot think any longer.”
“Father, go sit in the gate,” Hatan said. “You need to take some rest. Begietan and I can finish up the work, and we’ll come meet you there later.”
“No, I will stay. I’ll be all right.” Beorn leaned on his hoe and rested his forehead upon the back of his hand.
“No, you go. You’re no good to us in this condition,” said Begietan, and he winked at Hatan. “After a nap you’ll feel good as new. Just don’t let the town elders see you asleep at the gate!”
“So you’re both against me, are you?” Beorn said with mock indignation, then acquiesced with a nod. He stood straight to the point of bending backward, and rubbed his eyes clear with the clean back of his glove. “All right, then, but you two do a good job this time. No — too tired for jesting. I’m sorry — this old head — I’ll make it up tomorrow. Just don’t forget to put up the tools,” he said over his shoulder as he ambled off toward the community.
The sons worked side by side in silence for a time. The sun’s light dappled gently in the leaves of the trees, spinning away in the lazy breeze. Eventually Begietan paused to plant his fists on his hips. “I say we’re finished.”
“Well enough, then,” Hatan replied.
“Hatan, you know what Mother wants, don’t you?”
“Yes, but never have I known her to think this way. Something has happened. You know me, hating to ever deny her heart’s desire, but neither have I ever seen Father so troubled.”
“Well, I say we long ago should have protected our crops. You people have been giving away what’s ours for years.”
“Yes, and we have never lacked for it.”
“Look, I say we don’t wait for Father to come around. Let’s just do as we wish, and as Mother wishes.” His laughter sneered but was hearty with arrogance.
“How can you say that? Father deserves better than ridicule.”
“He’s a farting old man. Mother can beg him all she wants, but in truth we don’t need him to agree. Even your puny frame makes you a match for him. Trust me. I can make him behave by myself if it comes to that.”
“Begietan! Your words, they shame our family! How can you dishonor Father? He’s still head under our roof.”
“He’s an old man,” Begietan repeated, his eyes hot. “I’ve had enough of living under his authority. I will have my way! I don’t care if he can’t sort out his feeble mind.” He threw a handful of tools into the wooden shed, crashing against the back wall, with much disdain.
“Begietan, what you say! What you say!” Hatan’s voice shook as he struggled to find some meaning in his own words.
“Oh, snap out of it! If he gets in my way, I can fix him quick enough. I know what I want. And the same goes for you — you can join me, or join Astigan, if you like.” Begietan shouldered his quiver and snatched up his bow. His expression bore down, grimly stern, but he didn’t show it openly to Hatan.
“Astigan?! Brother, what do you know of Astigan?”
“His precious fawns, he would not allow me one. He wouldn’t shed a fawn’s blood for me, so I took his instead. You pup, ‘Astigan!’ you cry, but you didn’t know him! I did! You’re no different from him, the same simpering nursemaid. Well, my time has come, and I intend to claim it. I say the orchards are mine, and I’ll hold back its produce to myself if I like.”
“I thought you searched. You gave days to looking for him — so I was told. Mother has always said so.”
“Ah, I searched. I searched well. When I searched his grave, I found only what I wanted to find.” And only then did Begietan’s eyes find his brother.
Hatan stumbled, and a knot caught in his throat as he struggled to react. Could he even say the words? Everything before him but Begietan’s red gaze faded to blackness as he croaked his reply. “You killed him, then? And you have kept this cruel secret? Haven’t you seen how Mother has suffered all these years?”
“Do I owe my parents an explanation? Did I ask for birth? Let them wonder!”
“Why do you tell me this? Why now must I become part of your crime? I can’t bear the burden. This will destroy Mother!” Hatan staggered and sat heavily upon the orchards’ low wall, one trembling hand gripping his head.
“By your own word, then, would you destroy Mother? No — she isn’t going to find out, is she? Or will she lose another son? Better to give Mother what she wants, no? Consider it, Hatan. She has suffered enough all these years, as you say. I want her to be happy, don’t you, and let her have her way? I think my way is best.”
Hatan had no reply. He suddenly saw Begietan as the giant man he had worshipped as a small boy. Again flashed days of sunny frolic, when Hatan had run after him in the fields, his short, pudgy legs never able to keep up. Clambering upon the safety of Begietan’s strong shoulders, sturdy as a god’s. The transparent tricks he had loved to play on his older brother. Memories multiplied beyond counting. But now, and even then, Begietan stood before him no more than a murderer.
“I — I don’t know. I feel sick. You disgust me.”
Begietan stood over his brother, looming like a vulture with plans, and shoved Hatan’s head roughly with the heel of his hand. “To each his own, nursemaid. You’ll decide something, I’m sure. Let me know — I’ll be nearby. Remember, twice before I have been an only son. Good day to you, Hatan,” Begietan laughed and threw an obscene salute as he strode off toward the mountain.
No, I never did have much use for Begietan.
The gray November sky built upon itself on the horizon. Hatan sat on the walls of the orchards and hung his head. Many had been the day he sought solitude there, in the joyful contemplation of the gentle life that flourished. Today he considered death, and betrayal, and deceit. More than all else, however, he considered hatred: Begietan’s, and what it begot, and his own now raging within him, and where it might sweep him.
Youth played lightly indeed with Hatan, setting him at the mercy
of the passions common to men and escalated in boys. A multitude of angry reasons to destroy Begietan swirled about in his head. Easily could he stalk him from the back, to cave in his skull with a stone. Then Cwen would have two dead sons, and two sons murderers — whatever evil his heart gave rise to, he could not exact it upon Cwen. But he knew Begietan held no such reservations; Hatan feared him enough to do exactly what he said: Against both his sons and his wife, Beorn would give in and keep in hoard the orchards’ produce. His honor at home and in the community might survive intact. Even in his innocence Hatan knew if he opposed Begietan — even while protecting the horrid secret of Astigan’s killing — he and Beorn both might soon lie in a hidden gully.
Only one way lay before him to save Beorn, and especially Cwen, from their hearts being crushed yet again. He determined to persuade his father to follow Cwen’s desires, that he might not be overthrown in his own home, that he might one day reclaim his authority.
The great billows gathered overhead, blotting out the sun and bringing dusk early to the land. His chest heaving, Hatan abandoned his sanctuary and headed for the community gate.
“Good evening, Hatan.” Beorn’s mind revived, rested not so much from ceasing labor, but rather from the healing fellowship he shared with the townsfolk, each man and woman passing through the gate.
“It is a dark day, Father.”
Beorn looked overhead. “Yes, the sky grows dark early these days. Winter comes upon us quickly. Where is Begietan?”
“It is a dark day, indeed, Father.”