Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

by Craig Davis

  Chapter V

  Winter fully grasped her wasted fingers about Feallengod, cold tendrils creeping across the land and taking hold of hearts. Families withdrew into smoky, isolated parlors to endure long nights, speaking volumes about the workings within the community. Are the waxing and waning of days, the coming and going of dates and hours, indeed so entirely capricious? Why does January lead the year, the beginning of newness held in its frigid grip? To what end do twenty-four hours divide the day? Lives might better be separated simply into day and night, light and dark. The candle implores us to learn, its flickering indecision turning then to determined burning, and then is not. The island indeed endured long nights, three candles’ worth. Time makes for an arbitrary hostess.

  Not so Gægnian, worlds away. Said to pass each season in all its splendor but with no harshness, the days are warm and cool, the nights soothing ointment to the soul. Even the darkness is light. Never have I seen Gægnian, but so I am told; powers and authorities rightfully deny lofty things to such men as I. The buildings there rise into the heavens and spread out over the land like nothing upon Feallengod, the legends say, and I believe. The sky and waters, even the soil underfoot lies about in its mean state, richer and purer than anything we might suppose to compare.

  Surrounding the domain grounds sit great white formations, stone pure as snow and sparkling like ice, billowing upwards to take a seat with the clouds. Just as suddenly their outer rim dives steeply, cliffs crashing into the sea. Waving grasses and flowers fill the valley within, delicate petals playing upon the breeze like an underwater ballet, genuflecting to grand stands of trees, some tall and straight like rain, others squat with twisting branches reaching and turning in every direction as if stretching to reach itching backs. Limbs heavy with leaves extend over the ground, rest and shade to creatures great and small, feathered and furred.

  Long colonnades fill the high city, each building supported as well by a gallery of pillars apparently thrown in place by some brilliant, distracted god, like a cavern of cathedrals. Each column glistens with luminescent color from deep within its core, streaked with golden reds and blue grays, turning every edifice into a petrified forest of sculpture beautiful in its simplicity. Gold domes rise out of the skyline, dominating the innumerable flags and banners ripping in the winds. Broad boulevards, smooth and beautiful, cut slices of the vast acreage, radiating from the central structure, Ecealdor’s palace, radiant with light, blazing with untold splendor, rising through the celestial blue to challenge the sun. But I have never seen.

  I think we islanders have a distant memory of the wonderful stuff, even so distant that we can never truly lay hold of it. Without the memory, how else would we know what we miss, that we long for something better than only the clear pearls of our own fountains? And doesn’t every other heartache pale in comparison? The legends, those stories I stake my life upon now, they say one day the courts of the king will open to the island’s faithful, and I want to believe, how my heart trembles to believe, for I have seen people who abide there. Tales not much better than a child’s excuses abound in my homeland, telling of the citizens of Gægnian, of incredible powers and fantastic happenings, and that I have seen. In the days of my disgrace did I first meet Mægen-El, emissary from the distant king’s presence, and even then I believed. How dark a heart, to see such things and still turn away.

  Reports of Domen’s activity had crossed the Ocean Heofon, a miserable flea hopping from realm to realm and finally to Mægen-El’s ear, sending him urgently through the streets of Gægnian, his armor and weapons clattering with his body in motion. The messenger to the king tenderly carried a tightly rolled scroll in his gloved left hand, and steadied the hilt of his sword with his right. He leapt up the long, staired approach to Ecealdor’s castle three at a time; once at the top he had to brace himself against the heavy mahogany doors for a moment to regain his breath, still protecting the scroll in a gentle grasp of chain metal.

  Inside he paused yet again, prevented by Secanbearn, handmaiden to the king.

  “I have urgent news for thy king, Ecealdor,” Mægen-El said. “It waits not.”

  “Ecealdor resides in the inner chamber,” said Secanbearn. She delicately gestured with her hands as she spoke, in the fashion typical of her people.

  “Then wait it must.”

  “He will soon know of your arrival,” continued Secanbearn. “Come and refresh yourself, Mægen-El. You must have traveled a far distance.” She gestured upon her brow and before her sympathetic lips.

  “I carry the report from Feallengod.” The mask he set upon his countenance declared he had much to tell. “But the message must be revealed to none but Ecealdor.”

  “Yes.” Secanbearn had found great favor in the sight of the king, winning trust from every member of his courts for her gracious purity. Mægen-El knew her word would prove true: Ecealdor must not be disturbed, but he would soon appear. Secanbearn’s thick, raven hair flirted about her knees, and her eyes danced bright and clever against olive skin; her physical beauty had no rival but that of her spirit. She protected her trust carefully, guiding the king’s audiences with no desire to increase her influence. No great spring of love flowed to any woman of Gægnian more than her, yet she remained the virgin servant of her lord.

  Mægen-El himself had called her into the service of the king. In an earlier day — upon Ecealdor’s journeys to distant parts of the greater kingdom — in one of his lands he most noted a young maiden who delighted at sitting before him, in rapt attention to his meditations. When time came to depart, he directed Mægen-El to fetch the maid, to continue the voyage with him. This had been Secanbearn.

  “Maiden, thou hast found high esteem in the eyes of King Ecealdor,” Mægen-El had told her then. “These many days he has seen thee at his feet, and he desires that thou join him in his courts.”

  “How can this be, seeing I have never left my father and mother, and all my many families and peoples? How can I bear to depart from them?” asked Secanbearn, and she made the sign of a fist over her heart.

  “Though within thy darkest day even thy father and mother might deny thee, Ecealdor will shelter thee in his palaces always. He will stand before thee as protector and benefactor, and thou wilt live out thy days in the love and service of thy king.”

  “Then I trust, your word be done as he wills, for I am but his servant.”

  And indeed his word remained so with Secanbearn, and she loyally served Ecealdor, and loved Mægen-El for the day he opened the doors of the high courts to her.

  “Mægen-El,” she continued now, as they walked together into one of the king’s receiving rooms. “Do the people suffer as badly as the rumors claim?”

  “I cannot tell thee except in the presence of thy king,” he replied, and he looked deeply into her eyes.

  “Truth, then?” she said, placing a finger and thumb to her ear.

  “I see I tell thee too much.”

  A door opened wide and dark, and Ecealdor strode in, a handful of servants trailing dutifully distant. A purple robe intricately embroidered with gold draped his shoulders and lightly skirted the floor.

  “My lord,” said Mægen-El, and he fell to one knee. Secanbearn moved as if to leave, but the king stayed her with a gesture.

  “Remain, Secanbearn. Arise, and greetings, Mægen-El, my gratitude for your faithful service yet again. Servants, you may bring us bread and wine, and then leave us to ourselves.” As he spoke, a familiar fragrance filled the air, pungent and sweet like incense and ambrosia embracing. Whether his words, or the breath of his lungs, or just his presence, no one could tell; but neither did one ever forget the lingering savor, dream-like sensation of good tiding, the floating presence of splendid regency attending an audience with Ecealdor.

  The granite walls of the room glistened in the light of a multitude of candles. Statuary surrounded by flowing greenery stood at attention in the corners. Gay tapestries hung from the tiled ceiling, along with heraldic banners; play
fully hiding in-between, delicate bas-reliefs carved into the walls depicted important events from the history of the greater kingdom. Layer upon layer, the warm colors of rugs crafted in distant lands covered the floor.

  Ecealdor sat upon a heavy, richly stained chair, ornately hewn, inlaid with gold and ivory, upholstered in purple. Secanbearn took her place at his side, seated on a low bench, more pillow than furniture. Mægen-El stood before the two, scroll still in hand.

  “Very well, Mægen-El, let’s have your report.”

  Mægen-El handed the scroll to Ecealdor, who did not open it. “My lord, with great regret I must bring this matter to thy attention …”

  “My dear courier, I appreciate your regard for protocol, but you may speak plainly.”

  Mægen-El took a breath and began again, but as mightily as he struggled, the official high language of the courts would not set free his tongue. “Yea, Lord, it is this: Feallengod rouses into rebellion; they have turned away from thy law. Each man thinks of himself first, and turns his face from the need of the other. They do not give of their wares out of love as they once did, seeking more for them than a reasonable price. Some refuse to sell for any price, others neither to purchase out of mistrust. Some go hungry, others shiver with cold because they find neither clothing nor coal, others suffer sickness for the lack of curing. Yet even these out of pride will not give of their goods to acquire what they need. They cling to their lack with unrelenting, irrational lust, thinking themselves rich. Also they starve for grace for as the people have turned against themselves, so they have turned against thee.”

  “Do they then forget the one who established them in prosperity?”

  “They have not forgotten altogether; many speak of thee, but refuse to believe. Others know not nor can tell if they believe. They have corrupted thy law and fallen upon their own wisdom and desires. Much talk pollutes their ears that thou hast abandoned the island and its people.”

  “The issues and events of the greater kingdom are without number, but still I will not ignore what transpires upon Feallengod, where they all fall together. My work there rises to its importance; and the situation cries out, more anguished than I feared.”

  “Lord, I fain even touch upon the depths of the suffering. In each man’s devotion to his spot of land, he has hated his country. In his love for his own life, he has despised life itself. In his desire for liberty, he has put on shackles that bind his hands and his mind. In his desire for intimacy, he makes a mockery of love as he lies with any warm creature. A great cataclysm has befallen the people, making of them a desperate, sick nation, and they do not even know. They starve, starve for thee, and do not even know.”

  “What do you say of this matter, Secanbearn?” Ecealdor gently digressed.

  Secanbearn heaved slightly as she wept; “My heart breaks,” she could only say. One hand lifted and drew down her cheek.

  “Again your wisdom strikes like the archer’s arrow, maiden, for this matter dwells not upon hunger nor necessity nor survival. No, indeed – these people do err in their hearts, and they do not remember my ways.”

  Ecealdor’s face hardened, and he stood from his seat. “I have heard enough, Mægen-El. Time carries about an inconvenient insistence — at last it has arrived. We know whose work has ravaged the garden, do we not?”

  “Yea, Lord.”

  “I must call him back to Gægnian.”

  “Yea, Lord.”

  “The unpleasant task falls upon you, Mægen-El, to order him back to my courts, though I dare say Dægræd-El will not disdain an opportunity to return. Do you need Gelic-El with you?”

  “Nay, Lord.”

  Ecealdor smiled slightly. “I know you don’t. Off with you then, Mægen-El, and a henge go round about you.”

  “Thank thee, Lord.” Mægen-El bowed deeply to the king — a gesture sweeping and grand in its humility — kissed the moist hand of Secanbearn, and walked backwards and bent from their presence.

  “Peace be unto you, child. Your heart bleeds easily,” and Ecealdor knelt to comfort Secanbearn.

  “A sword has pierced my soul, I do believe, from the hurt,” she said quietly. “I see the suffering to come, the blood of many spilled as the chosen land of Ecealdor destroys itself. Many whom we love will die. I don’t understand, my lord, I can not understand. When obedience is so blessed, from whence comes rebellion?”

  “Who can know the heart of man, child? But all these things must be, for so have I planted Feallengod. We will see the conclusion as it settles.”

  “How can your patience run so still, Lord? Certainly a treacherous people have risen against you, led by the father of treason. Feallengod occupies but a tiny speck in the greater kingdom — why do you not send your armies and crush your enemies?”

  “Secanbearn, you surprise me.”

  “I beg mercy, Lord.”

  “Yes, I could bring down all the might of my force upon them; then how many would perish? Would rather I should die myself. For a mighty man, no great glory abides in crushing the weak. Many upon Feallengod bristle against me, I know, and also I know many remain faithful. Some will sell their loyalties to the upper hand, then perhaps again. Not just for their sakes will I remain patient, though, but for the sake of my own honor. I will know those who stand loyal and those who do not, and recompense will come upon both. In that day I will glorify the king and all the host of Gægnian, for by my patience I open to all the gate, an invitation to choose. Whether in forgiveness or justice, each man and woman of Feallengod will be witness to my long-suffering, and that I do judge them rightly. Then will they know me as I am, for better or worse.

  “I did not establish this people upon Feallengod in vain. I do not make them my enemy. Every conflict bears a price; the wise king weighs that price beforehand and waits as it shows its result. Where offense is greatest, child, there fire refines hearts and mercy proves finest. Come, let us retreat into the cool pastures. Perhaps we will find comfort there.” Ecealdor enwrapped her shoulders with his mantle till only her face beamed from its folds, and led her out in silence.

  The clouds floated about as the wind wished, uncaring in the blue sky. Trees stood stoically, unmoved, but flowers waved ever so slightly as the gentle breezes carried dandelion seeds to their destinations. Sea birds balanced high in the air, in search of calm waters.

  Under the same heavenly canopy, Mægen-El proceeded quickly to the naval docks. Fast ships of the royal fleet stood ready, as Ecealdor often had need to inquire of the far reaches of the greater kingdom. All Gægnian well knew Mægen-El, so quickly did he secure a vessel for Feallengod. They would set sail that evening.

  Once aboard, Mægen-El sought out the ship’s hold and the supplies within. As an emissary for the king, he could command from the ship’s mate anything he needed. To face Domen alone, he must prepare carefully: a stout rope, daggers to conceal within his leggings, a coat of mail he could fasten about with his belt. Mægen-El had not seen Domen since his days in the court; surely now he was capable of worse crimes than already laid upon his head. He anticipated hatred no less bitter now than then.

  Satisfactorily outfitted, Mægen-El returned topside until anchors aweigh. He paced the decks of the elegant longboat and watched foodstuffs and other necessities lowered into the hold with block and tackle, levers and strength. Majestic masts pointed skyward like the proud trees they had once been, giving their lives in service to the kingdom. A multitude of stout ropes dangled and swayed like thread from the dizzying heights. The crew scampered up and down the lines, eager to hoist the sails at the order. A fierce figurehead towered over the waters from the ship’s bow, complete with Gægnian’s battle crest.

  At last the ship’s captain gave the command to get underway, and the ship moved sleekly out of port. The sun hung low in the west; the winds played roughly with the vessel as the crew set full sail to the east. The three main masts arrogantly caught the skies, their sets of three sails apiece drinking deeply of the wind’s power. A full com
plement of flags snapped briskly from each. The graceful craft glided swiftly across the surface of the Ocean Heofon, disdainfully putting miles behind her every hour. Mægen-El, on deck that night until the black fell so thick he could not see his own blinking, braced himself against the whipping winds. The ocean’s spray stung his face, turned like a flint toward Feallengod.

  As the days of the voyage passed, Mægen-El’s thoughts insistently, disconsolately turned to the people of the island. He had not seen the land since the day he announced King Ecealdor’s withdrawal, standing on deck of a ship not unlike this present one, watching the island sink into the horizon. That day, so filled with greatness of sorrow, yet also had given rise to an odd feeling of anticipation among the people, like children ready to leave their parents. As the years came and went, he often marveled at the trust the king had put in these people.

  Nights Mægen-El lay in his hammock, gently swinging as mighty waves toyed mischievously with the longboat. Over and over he played out in his mind his looming encounter with Domen. Would the rebel show himself at all? Would he have to force Domen back, or would he return freely? And what might lay ahead for Mægen-El? Doubts crept into his mind whether he would return to Gægnian alive.

  And what of the people — how many would remain from those many years ago? Would he have to fight them, as well as Domen? Perhaps they would rally to the king’s side, and reject Domen’s insurgency. But to gain followers to himself would betray his mission, and he must do nothing to lead the people to exalt him. Still, he would arrive as emissary of the king – would they honor his position? He could not tell, a detail neither here nor there — more to the point, could he discern their purposes once ashore on Feallengod?

  Mægen-El searched his heart. Did his fears show forth cowardice, or wise discretion? What difference was there? As Ecealdor’s representative, he must stand firm — did his faith in the king’s sovereignty fail him? His doubts twisted about until his head pounded.

  Weeks and miles slipped beneath the ship, and Gægnian’s memory gleamed more and more remote. Feallengod drew closer, though still as invisible as the future. Mægen-El paced the decks, turning his thoughts over until they groaned with tedium; and then a cry from on high broke his preoccupation.

  “Land!” Mægen-El peered into the high reaches of the mainmast, eyes weaving through the maze of lines and sails, to see the lookout point off the port bow. Striding to the rail, he could make out a tall mountain range, surrounded by greenery, arising from the bluish haze upon the horizon.

  From that moment he did not leave the ship’s bow, and soon the vessel drew close to the far coast of Feallengod, sailing under the lee of the island, dotted with bays and inlets. A few crew members took Mægen-El to shore in a skiff, as he strapped on armor and weaponry. He drew a deep breath, laid his hand upon his sword, and, as indifferent waves lapped at the exposed land, stepped upon the precarious ground of the weary island.

  ***

  Ecealdor addressed a shadow tinged red within the dark corners. “Choose out your warriors – at last we pitch the battle upon Feallengod.”