Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

by Craig Davis

  Chapter VIII

  The dawn of my ruin slipped unnoticed by any in Gægnian or Feallengod, so little did I realize. But never turned Ecealdor his eyes from Liesan. A fortnight or more earlier he had sent Mægen-El orders to return to the island. First, though, the royal messenger hastened to appear before the king. Mægen-El hurriedly adjusted his tunic even as he approached the king’s throne, bowing deeply to him, and Secanbearn at his side.

  “Liesan arrives at the brink of his victory. I will not again permit Domen to make example of a man of Feallengod. But the people, they will crawl to Domen and invite his influence. They will give their lives over to him,” Ecealdor told Mægen-El.

  “What wouldst thou have me do?” he asked.

  “Domen will not accept the loss of Liesan, another goad added, but he will learn a dreadful lesson. From henceforth he will focus on the proud and weak, the self-reliant and faithless. I number these among the ones who have forgotten me, but I defer judgment upon them now. We remain patient, Mægen-El. You will not return to Feallengod alone: With you I send my watchman, my warning to the people. Perhaps some will listen; most will not. Eventually their mediator will stand upon the land, and the people will see just as Liesan – so have we always known. But for now I rest patiently. Perhaps the people will resist Domen. I will tell them what it means to follow their king. I will speak through my emissary, and they will either hear or close their ears against me.”

  “And who do ye call to be thy watchman, Lord? Is it I?”

  “Gladly would I appoint you, Mægen-El, but you are too strong. Instead, I choose weakness – I send Bregdan,” said Ecealdor.

  “The shepherd?”

  “Who better than a shepherd to lead my people back into their fold?”

  “Very well, my king. I will fetch him out of the pastures, and then we set sail immediately,” said Mægen-El, and he turned to leave, his armor and weapons clattering.

  “With due haste, Mægen-El,” said Ecealdor. “For Liesan’s sake.”

  “Will they listen, my lord?” asked Secanbearn.

  “Their riches lie, and they have come to believe they need nothing, neither from me, nor from each other. Within they waste away, poor and wretched. Will they recognize love in rebuke, or the greater battle? We shall see. Send for Gelic-El, child.”

  At the outskirts of the city Mægen-El mounted his horse, spurring the steed into the wilds surrounding Gægnian at full gallop. Many considered the meadows a rough backwoods, though the waving grasses, cool trees and mirrored pools would appear like heaven itself to one who had not seen and could not compare the king’s courtyards and gardens. I yet remember the elders of Feallengod, long years ago, calling the island just a shadow of the glories of Gægnian, though as a child, enamored of the bugs and flowers, I never truly imagined how they could speak truth in the matter. To hear them talk, the pastures of the royal land stretched far beyond the horizon, where they kissed the deep blue sky, and the black soil yielded abundantly. A smattering of great spreading trees arose from the blanketing wildflowers, giving shelter to man and beast and bird alike. But never have I seen. The king’s herds of domestic and wild animals prosper there, the yield of new lambs and calves increasing with each passing year. Among these gentle creatures did Mægen-El find Bregdan, and so impressed upon him the king’s desires.

  “Who will listen? For novelty tolerates age little, and words come slowly to my mind. Surely my failures make me no longer of any use to the king?” replied Bregdan.

  “Thou wilt speak only what the king has commanded thee, and concern ye not how the people hear thee. Thou hast only to fulfill thy duty. Thy king hast commanded it. Hurry, now, we must depart for Feallengod.”

  Bregdan had grown old indeed, more than a hundred years by his best count, even more so with the burden of vain youth and misdirected loyalty. Long hair and whiskers, looking like bleached wool, framed his face, tan and wrinkled. Under the thatch of white, though, his blue eyes flashed with fiery humor, and a bright smile always brewed. His face fairly glowed at times, so much so that fellow shepherds turned away their eyes, or else broke into laughter. For a truth halting, his throaty voice took the habit of lilting upward to end every phrase. Once Bregdan was called a prince, not unlike Domen, but the power of office made a harsh show of his weakness, and he laid aside those duties gladly to spend his days at a pastoral vocation. Still, as a situation called, Ecealdor never hesitated to draw him out for an important mission, and he obliged.

  “So I embark upon my last undertaking for the king,” he told Mægen-El, standing at the very bow of the king’s longboat.

  “How so?”

  “As my years increase, Mægen-El, do not the number of my days shrink? I feel it. I am sure of it — I will not see Gægnian again. I will not feed my little lambs again.”

  “Thou hast new lambs now, upon Feallengod.”

  “Yes, new lambs to tend. Still Ecealdor’s lambs, too, yes? Peaceful to my heart, knowing so. And if I never leave Feallengod, even if I fall and die in a hidden place, Ecealdor will know where I lie, and that I stood for him, and stood in the gap for the people.”

  “Thou hast often yoked thyself unto his service these many years, Bregdan.”

  “One last opportunity, eh, old friend?” Bregdan’s jabbing elbow made Mægen-El’s ribs to understand. “Maybe this time I’ll get it right.” And laughing, he unexpectedly caught a mouthful of sea spray that set him bending over the rail.

  Reaching landfall upon the far side of Feallengod, Mægen-El and his company hurried to Liesan’s aid. Bregdan breathed deep the salt air and set out for the community in the foothills. Elderly, perhaps, but his pace faltered not as he traveled the land; even Four Rivers proved no obstacle for Bregdan, as he nimbly picked his way along stones, ages ago set within the current as a path to opposite banks.

  “Good day, sir,” he greeted a man sitting at the community gate, toying without muse at a knife and scrap of wood, whiling away the afternoon. His hands betrayed him a man accustomed to labor. “How do you fare today?”

  “One day more or less won’t kill me, sir,” he maundered. “And you?”

  “I must beg your direction, my friend. I arrive upon the island only just, but I bear a message vital for Feallengod. Can you direct me to a place so to address the people?”

  “What message do you bring?”

  “A message from King Ecealdor.”

  “Ecealdor?” The man brightened. “Then you must bring hope with you, friend. Whether praise or correction, this forsaken island hungers for a word, any word, from the king; Feallengod gnashes its teeth, tearing its families apart for want of hope. Follow me into the town square. I am Beorn Feohtan.”

  “But do you not already possess a word from the king?” Bregdan wondered aloud as they briskly walked.

  Beorn led Bregdan into the community. The stranger’s odd vestments of colorful robes, along with his white hair and beard flowing behind, attracted perhaps a dozen curious followers along the path. The mild interest transformed into a stirring within, however, when words began to spill from his mouth; then all the townsfolk seemed to gather, and not an eye could tear away from him. We fell in as well, clutching a fresh new bottle, Gastgedal and I, like a vagabond at a freak show.

  “Men and women of Feallengod, I come to you from Gægnian, Bregdan, just a shepherd and yet still a watchman of King Ecealdor. The gracious king brings you greetings from the halls of his palaces. The noble king wishes to soothe your troubled hearts with good tidings of his faithfulness and patience. The almighty king bids you to return to his side, return to obey his law.

  “I am Bregdan, naught but a herder to the king’s flocks in Gægnian. Once I claimed the name of great prince, but in his mercy Ecealdor delivered me from my pride. Once I made myself a killer of men, but Ecealdor redeemed me from the blood upon my hands. Then again I became a hermit, removed from the people of my ancestors, but Ecealdor restored me. I once lived in rebellion and disbelief, but Ecealdo
r made the works of my hands righteous and wonderful. This same grace he longs to pour upon you, oh people of Feallengod! Turn from your disobedience, and return to Ecealdor!

  “He has spoken to you a law, a law invested with eternity. A law carved upon the stone, but so also to set upon your heads and hands, to guide your thoughts and works in the days of his absence. Remember this law: ‘Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out your blessing upon his people as richly as you receive.’ Return to the selflessness of the king’s law, come back into obedience to him, and he will remember you in love and mercy when he returns.”

  At these words the people murmured, men and women looking about at each other and uncomfortably shifting foot to foot. For so long they had heard the law twisted, for so long did Domen deny Ecealdor’s return, they had come to accept his word as truth, deep within their hardened hearts. As for me, I had considered Domen as no different from anyone else, not with my time nor concern. My conceit rose as arrogant as it was empty. Throughout Bregdan’s message, Gastgedal and I had wrestled over our flask and snuck giggling snorts like teen-age boys on a spree. Now a crack emerged in my façade, and I looked from face to face around me, lost in confusion, and I realized that though I had heard the man speak, I had not listened. But I thought of the stone, and felt it looming over me.

  “Why should we believe you, old man?” A familiar voice came from almost right at my elbow. As it hit Beorn’s ear, I saw him wheel about to locate its owner. “We don’t need you people giving us orders! Go back to wherever you came from! If you’re from Gægnian, where’s your boat? We didn’t see it come in! We don’t believe you.” The crowd’s muttering grew.

  “You judge rightly, I am an old man. And you are a hot head,” said Bregdan. He easily picked the young man out of the crowd, and as chuckles rose and fell, Begietan began to drift slowly towards the back so to slip away. “You people listen like idiots to this stranger! Silly sheep!” he yelled as he left. “He’s a fool! Only Domen has the truth!”

  “He’s right!” others, not so amused, took up Begietan’s cause. “How do we know you come from Ecealdor? Prove it! Give us a sign!”

  “Why do you demand a new sign when you do not accept the sign given you before?” replied Bregdan. “You will be offered only the sign of three.”

  “We don’t need riddles from you! If you’re from the king, show us a sign. If you have come from the king, don’t be too afraid to prove it! We demand a sign!” The crowd grew increasingly restive, and I admit even then the passions of those nearby led me to agree, almost to care. But still not yet did my foot slip entirely.

  “From the beginning King Ecealdor did bless his people with all the fatness of Feallengod. Nothing from the island did he withhold from you, no? He asked only that you not withhold your devotion from him, nor from one another. ‘Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out your blessing upon his people as richly as you receive.’ Simply the standard by which he holds himself, by which he loves you, does he ask of you. Surely this burden you find not too heavy? But you have made yourselves a thick people with unbending necks.

  “Ecealdor has made rich vows toward your behalf. But as well he promises not to restrain his justice always, people of Feallengod. He remains able, and so too willing. Make no mistake, he sends me. He sends me upon this errand of mercy. I beg you, fear his justice, for he offers mercy and therefore you have hope. How long will he withhold? Surely I cannot tell nor willingly say. Weigh my words carefully, people of Feallengod. I leave you tonight, but I return again to this spot on the morrow. My words will echo here again.”

  With that Bregdan pushed his way through the crowd, none of the people attempting to stop him. I fell back against a tree, cradling my bottle, and watched him stride resolutely away and disappear between the tightly bunched houses, and Gastgedal hid behind. Beorn started after Bregdan at first, but soon lost sight of him in the failing light. He halted forlornly, looking after him like an abandoned dog; his hands hung useless at his sides. Begietan, far in the distance now, broke into a run.

  “Let us relieve that flagon of its burden,” whispered Gastgedal.

  All those who had stopped to hear Bregdan twisted a path away from the square, and we milled about until the crowd had cleared. At last we nestled into the worst possible spot, the place of my accusation: Together we drained the contents of our vessel while leaning upon the rock of the law.

  An ill wind flew down my nostrils that day, for an unfamiliar squall settled in my belly along with my drink. Never before did my comfort betray me so – perhaps it came as a curse or perhaps simply a bad day’s work by the shiner. Either way, soon I was depositing everything I could upon, behind and beside the rock.

  Terribly did my head reel, and I had no power to stand or want as much. No more could I do than collapse in the pool of my sick. I have little sense of how long I lay there, but in that time I witnessed the worst sight ever to come before my eyes, Mægen-El in his mercy. In misery I lay there, entrails torn to pieces by spirits, and spirit slain by the inhuman torment of my friend, and did not stir until I felt the impatient tapping upon my head.

  “What is this new shame, then?” the voice of the crier said, and I opened my eyes to see a blurred man swinging his staff like a pendulum, in time with the tapping.

  “Not that I’m surprised to find you again passed out, but by the stone? And see what you’ve done to it! Have you no more regard for the king’s memory than that?”

  I surely said something in defense, but I have no idea of it now nor probably even then.

  “You’ll have to go in for this,” said the crier, producing a pair of manacles. “You’ll spend the rest of the night in the cells for this, you can bet.”

  With that he hauled me to my feet and drove me back across the square, stumbling toward the stockade. I’m not sure whose eyes fell upon me on that journey, but the one pair I could see plain as day in my mind were my old mum’s.

  Gastgedal was nowhere to be seen, leaving me to face the consequences of foolishness alone.

  Never had the drink laid me low in such a way, and within my addled thoughts I with certainty judged that some new effect had turned me ill. Suppose Bregdan did speak for the king – reciting the law, conspiring with that cursed stone, had by a truth worked some witchery upon my innards. He had singled me out and brought this sentence upon me – and apparently spared all others – the drunken heaving as well as my incarceration. And then too Liesan’s nightmare, parading before my memory like a funeral procession, drenched me in sweat and shivering. Tucked away behind the stone, left basically inert in the embrace of sickness, I had borne silent witness to the betrayal of innocence (or so I thought — little did I know). Beaten and bloodied, his body covered with white linen, and my stomach even now heaved sick once again at the image of the man whom I admired above all others. Of all things I ever saw or did, this more than any flowed like bile over my soul. In my ignorant pride, in my inebriated insolence, I came fully to aim my hatred toward Bregdan, thinking that safe, though he be merely a brittle man standing between me and Ecealdor. As my thoughts slowly cleared of their haze, as I sat with the lice upon my straw pallet, I made myself an equal judge to my king, and of my king. My scorn prepared I to spew forth like more vomit, and I left the jail with a clear head and blackened heart.

  Domen, still seething at his disgrace against Liesan, accused spitefully upon hearing of Bregdan’s arrival. Begietan tried to impress him, mightily embellishing his claim of shouting down the king’s watchman, but Domen cared nothing for it. He refused to forget how Begietan had run away from giving up his life to oppose Mægen-El and his ranks of men just hours earlier.

  “The doubt we plant may not survive Bregdan’s weeding. The roots run deep, and entangle what truth remains in their hearts. We must choke it out completely. We must strangle it until the last breath fails. You worthless toad, trying to still his voice! Fool! Bregdan’s own words must fall back upon the people a curse. I must turn the threads
of his covering into a hanging noose. We will convert the people’s doubt into hatred – that alone will turn them wholly against Ecealdor and into their own ruin. So he returns tomorrow – we will let the people hear, and we will bind their hearts to a false hope.”

  Did Domen know? How could he know, or understand, when all called so silently to me? How too could he understand but not know? Yet at just that moment, I have no doubt, I had fallen very neatly into his hand.

  As the morning sun broke over the eastern shores of Feallengod, Beorn left his hovel as usual and tramped through the community. Another nightmare endured, just one more of many sleepless nights passed, still tearing him between the word from Gægnian and the desires of his family. He had no resistance against Cwen as she continued to press his hoarding of the fruit of the orchards; even more so, Begietan had spent the evening at home, goading him to help force Bregdan from the island. Only Hatan had spoken for hearing Bregdan out, but mostly even he just sat sullenly, resigned to obeying a decision he detested.

  “The king has sent this man. We must hear him, the people must listen to him, if we can be saved!” Hatan had blurted out.

  “Saved from what?” broke in Begietan. “What, do I need be saved from you? You people need saving, not me! I’m better off without the king!”

  “Is it not enough for you to berate me into the penury of hunger?” weary agitation pointed Beorn’s voice. “Must I now listen to you revile the sovereign?”

  Beorn’s mind wandered now to what the day might bring in the town square, as he contemplated his feet, one before the other, then the next, and another, and the paving bricks passed beneath him out of sight, left behind to fall into the depths of forgetfulness.

  One night specter passed, another only beginning. Beorn had mercifully missed the spectacle that so came to afflict my eyes, Mægen-El bearing the crippled body of Liesan through the square.

  Now he emerged suddenly from his thoughts and found himself in the square, startled at the odd figure next to a looming stone building. There stood Bregdan. With him he had brought a long walking stick of the Feallengod style. And I, at the opposite side of the courtyard, stared with sullen disgust, just departing my quarters at the jailhouse. The square bore within its basin the most grand and important buildings of the community, muscular structures extending high above homes and shops; its courtyard served as forum for the honorable and knavish alike.

  “A good morning to you, Beorn Feohtan. Do I not look like I belong among the islanders now?” Bregdan smiled, admiring the staff.

  “You have taken up the staff of Feallengod.”

  “Yes, a worthy saying. A worthy tradition. We all must find a strength to lean upon.”

  “You soon may not want to look like you belong here,” returned Beorn glumly.

  “Really, friend, why your distress? Do you not know what Ecealdor has set in motion? Do you not believe that Feallengod will harvest his desires? Whatever comes about, does so only under his notice, and he will make it right! So rejoice! Don’t you long to see your king’s judgments come to pass?”

  Beorn little knew how to respond, but had hardly the chance before a great noise swallowed them from behind. A large crowd appeared from a dozen points, streaming through the narrow streets. At the front marched Begietan.

  “Watch,” said Bregdan with a wink.

  “Why do you still tread Domen’s island?” demanded Begietan.

  “Do you wish to hear more, young man? I am sent as an emissary of King Ecealdor.”

  “We don’t need you or your king here. We don’t even believe Ecealdor lives anymore. The king is dead! Then how do you make yourself leader over us?”

  Bregdan sat erect on a tabouret, worn smooth by generations of buttocks upon the stone slab, set against the building. “I lead only back to the king. I lead only back to his promises. I lead only back to his commandment: ‘Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out your blessing upon his people as richly as you receive.’”

  Curse my tongue for a snake, and curse my ears for hearing only what they wish! That law, that stone – through the morning hours I had resolved if I couldn’t escape its shadow, I would at least rail against it. How quickly can guilt grow into rebellion. And so I entered into revolt not against its words but rather against its spirit. Without knowing, I cloaked myself in the banner of Domen and bartered my soul for no more than the satisfaction of a fleeting vanity.

  “You falsely interpret the law,” I joined in the crowd’s jeering, hooting the sly words in an excited, high-pitched voice; sodden intellect often works well to ridicule trust.

  At that moment I felt a grasping of my elbow and snapped my head to see. There stood Gastgedal with a smirk, back again as though he’d never left me. “Choose well your sides, for the ease of your desires lies in the here and now. And now – ” he finished his thought by passing me a jug he had already mostly drained. Only then did I remember his words through the night, again remembered Liesan, and remembered only too well the last bottle Gastgedal had given me. I snatched away my elbow, turning my foolish attention and wrath again toward Bregdan.

  “A man cannot love another until he loves himself. He cannot truly love the king second unless he loves himself first.” I lifted the bottle to prove devotion to my philosophy. The crowd snickered and stirred, ever increasing in size and unrest as townsfolk appeared out of homes and shops to hear. Soon surrounded, I had to extend my frame to see the object of my contempt, the man whom overnight I had learned to hate.

  “People of Feallengod,” began Bregdan, trying to address all. “Seek the king’s mercy! Will you not repent of your disobedience, and consider your latter end? He will not despise your confessions! Turn from your rebellion, turn away from your stubbornness, and run to his tender mercies! For none can deliver out of Ecealdor’s hand, whether in mercy or judgment.”

  “Empty threats! Wind beneath the covers!” I called like a jester. “I don’t believe Ecealdor’s law. Are we not all men here? Are we not able to make our own choices? Certainly our values aspire as worthily as Ecealdor’s? Oh, great shepherd, mow the field for our feeding, for we forget how to nibble! I say, let us select among ourselves a captain, a leader of our own choosing. Stop your bleating, oh chief sheep, and we will allow you to board your boat and escape in your woolen raiment.”

  Many would say truth resides only in what one believes. Thereby men devise a way to believe lies even when they know them to be lies. The crowd was ripe, ready to listen to anything; and I primed to say it, so the people threw their regard to a hungover fool. Begietan fell silent at my diatribe, only rousing the gathering into more raucous laughter at my mockery. If this man Bregdan had come from Ecealdor, then I knew I wanted nothing in him. If he spoke for the king, I knew I did not want to hear, for what kind of treachery might dwell in his words? The same that left Liesan mere broken remains of a man? Fully did I echo Domen’s words, and cheer with my listeners, I cheered like a madman, for so I was. Already had I given myself over, more like him than myself. I even threw my empty bottle at the old watchman, but to no greater effect than anything else I had ever done.

  I tremble, my lord. Is it the cold?

  “You whited fowl! Crazed rooster! Stretch your neck elsewhere, you croaking bird!” I still stood within the crowd, an anonymous voice to my victim. “Deliver your law back to your king, shepherd, grind your stone into sand and sprinkle it into his beard! Let it become grit between his teeth! For we are done, Feallengod ends its servitude under his empty promise and bloody threat! Be gone with you! Or we expel your carcass, beaten like Liesan!”

  The crowd stood by unknowing; Bregdan would not stand down. “Oh, people! Who stands with Ecealdor? Who among you takes the king’s side? King Ecealdor remains great in his patience, but he will not tolerate faithlessness forever. Is this my life that you now threaten of any consequence? Would you not trade one life for many? People of Feallengod, a warning I offer you, that I leave your presence now! The sun sets upon your
fate!”

  “He finishes!” Gastgedal urgently whispered. “He will show his greatest strength to take hold of the people! Cut his knees from under him, before it’s too late!”

  “What? How?” I rasped back at him.

  “Look into your heart. Say something!”

  A moment flew by.

  “Cock-a-doodle-do!” I crowed.

  Bregdan persisted. “True, my mission recalls Ecealdor’s law to your minds, but my words speak not about the law — I proclaim the promise, the fount of the law. My words speak not of me — they announce to you another. Take heed, for though that conciliation will come, Ecealdor’s long suffering endures not without end.”

  Not ten feet from Bregdan sat the stone of the law, polished gleaming by a million fingers. He lifted his staff high over his head and bellowed, “Now leave this servant depart from you in peace. The kingdom of Ecealdor lies before your eyes; take hold of it!”

  With that, he reached out the staff and tapped the stone twice. Quietly leaning upon the wall, he closed his eyes, and, as the people looked on, he died. The staff slipped from his fingers and clattered to the stony pavement.

  I stood silent for a moment. So easily Bregdan did finish with my cursings, washing his hands of the baleful stone. My rabid spewing cheated, suddenly my fury raged at the old man; I shouldered through the stunned mob and seized his staff from the ground. With lunatic abandon I brought it down upon the stone, again, then again, so severely my hands rattled with the blows. Repeatedly did the rod vent my wrath against the law, until it broke and splintered across the ground, scattering near witnesses. I leaned over the uncaring rock, breath heaving, stubby wand still in hand, seething at the stoic taunting of my futile rant. Then I spoke, words from some unknown source, I heard in my own voice.

  “A sign!” I brayed, my speech growing into a scream as my frayed stick pointed toward Bregdan’s slumping body. “You sought a sign, and he gives one! Ecealdor’s promises fall dead as he is! We have our sign!”