by Craig Davis
Chapter XII
The poets of my homeland say the chill winds of autumn drive the color from a man’s soul and into his cheeks. No longer so enslaved to the bottle, suddenly able to apply reason to the way I had long lived, I solved all mysteries. I saw the truth plainly now, and as well the hearts of the community. As time passed, the hazy act of kindness rescuing me would quickly fall into a well of forgetfulness, no clearer to me than my deliverer’s face. Had I not rescued myself from the grip of the fermented fruit? Had I not reclaimed my own seasons? True, I might drink the dregs could I find them, but spirits no longer reigned over me. Even the pleadings of Gastgedal could not move me. I would rule myself, and leave the foolishness of the island’s control to others. Ecealdor or Domen mattered not to me – neither could mete any effect upon me, my own lord. Fool! Such stupidity reserves itself only for the most arrogantly enlightened.
Not as discerning as I, Hatan, impetuous, immediately forgot his promise to remain watching for Coren in the orchards. Giving up on his day’s work as hopeless anyway, he cast aside his implements and ran to the community. Even to his young eyes, darkness and misery had swallowed up the recent weeks upon Feallengod, robbing from him as well any desire to run anywhere. At this moment, however, he found he could not sprint fast enough. He leapt like a deer and whooped at the top of his voice, his legs churning beneath him. His arms reached high, palms open to the heavens, the wind slipping exuberantly through his fingers.
His father! He must know! An urgent desire ignited to set his father’s doubts to rest. Beorn’s words heard outside the open window nights before had burned in Hatan’s ears, but now they washed away with cooling water. He had seen the son of the king! Who could now reckon Ecealdor distant and uncaring? He sent his own son!
The breeze in Hatan’s face blew clear the dejection that had hung upon his mind like shackles. His heart raced speedily, as did his feet; his spirit fairly flew over the ground. Laughing and singing he ran along, hair flowing and his half-unbuttoned shirt flapping behind him. He must find his father!
Beorn sat in his place at the great stone gate of the community, protected by high wrought-iron fencing. The cold, black paling high overhead long appeared like a giant hand to me, ordering a halt to all who would enter in the city walls; now I believed it prevented those who would escape. For months the people had cast their glances sideways at Beorn, biting their tongues as they passed through the gate. Though wavering like a flame in the wind, his professed faithfulness to Ecealdor, even while withholding food from the orchards, had stirred the community against him. The people did not gladly turn their eyes from hypocrisy; most spoke to him only to curse and spit. Now, however, since his meeting with Domen – though he did not speak openly of it – almost as if by sorcery he had found favor with the community again. The people reconciled with him, made as one — at least to his face — though the produce of the orchards still did not reach their tables. A scoundrel even yet, at least he was their scoundrel.
In that verdict we took our places together. His new alliance with Domen was no better than the putrid service I had given, though I continued to tell myself I had not sold my soul. The price I settled for had turned bitter indeed, and as keepsafe of his secret, I stood ready to return that same bitterness upon him. As Beorn and I each slid further into decline, we came to understand one another, each eager to stab the other in the back as quickly as say hello. I don’t believe Beorn ever did recognize me as one who once begged at his door, making easier the browning of my nose. But he knew as well as I, when the opportunity required, our expedient friendliness would be the first sacrifice, and the second whoever didn’t keep the sharpest eye upon the other. Still, he suited my purposes to befriend: The consulate had gone so far as to name Beorn an elder of the community. The camaraderie among his fellows remained tarnished, but he fully enjoyed the people’s good graces returned to him. Beorn had bought a place in a fellowship of thieves.
“Father, I have seen the prince! Coren has come!” Hatan called as he ran to Beorn. His lungs heaved, struggling to drink in breath as the air battled back. His wrenching could not stanch his enthusiasm, though, and he laughed despite no air to laugh with.
“Coren comes to Feallengod?” Beorn’s pipe slipped within his grip. “Ecealdor’s son?”
“I have seen him, Father. In the orchards, he came and talked to me.”
“Ecealdor said he would return himself,” Beorn said, creeping skepticism in his eye and voice.
“But Coren is the prince, the next to take up judgment! Surely he speaks for the king!”
“Where? Where can I see him?”
“He said he would seek out Domen. Then he was to return to — uh-oh.” Hatan realized what he had done, and cast a glance toward the direction of the orchards. What if Coren returned to not find him waiting?
Hatan had not long to worry, for at that moment a low murmur from just outside the high walls of the community rose into clamor. Beorn and Hatan glanced at each other, and Hatan broke into a wide grin; they hurried around the bend of the stone structure to behold a large gathering of townsfolk. There in the midst stood Coren, speaking from atop a knoll. His voice rang rich and resonant, but without pretension, and spoke no judgment against Hatan’s broken promise as he caught his gaze.
“I saw you beneath the trees, Hatan! Come and join me here on the cool grass! Come, draw your father near!”
“There he is! Coren!” said Hatan happily, pulling Beorn by the arm.
“This claims to be son of the king?” Beorn squinted at Hatan. “He dresses as a peasant! Do no servants and guards wait upon him?” Hatan knew nothing to say, and so simply directed Beorn’s attention back to Coren.
Though he had walked the island only a few short hours, already Coren’s listeners pressed in on him to hear. The ones closest sat upon the ground; the furthermost strained on their toes to catch a glimpse and attend to his voice. Turning about and lifting his arms, a graceful arabesque as he spoke, he appealed to the people with hands and feet, as with his words.
I think I hear the voice now. Did it float through my window as I slept in delirium that day, mixed with my moaning? Or does Mægen-El now whisper into my ear? Oh, blessed ink! You pour your life onto paper in gracious words, never to spill out again! You are spent on more than you could buy.
“Again I say to you, people of Feallengod, you separate yourselves from the glories of Ecealdor. All Gægnian weeps for you, and the greater kingdom longs for the day of reunion. Ecealdor sends his watchmen to you, not for discipline but to regather each one who straggles outside these walls. Every wayfarer remains dear to him, and every beast of burden fallen into a pit cries out worthy of saving. Ecealdor bears witness of his love for you, oh Feallengod, that he has sent me to you.
“Feallengod, Feallengod! You wither like a vine, twisting upon yourself and choking out your own blossoms. How prospers a vine no longer green? Of what use the wood as it dies? The twisted timber fails, unworthy for building or beauty — it becomes suitable only for kindling, to burn in an inferno.”
Coren’s eyes found Beorn, and he pulled a great handful of seed from his sack. High above his head he held the grain, letting it trickle from between his fingers to find a home in the beaten soil. “If the gardener labors over his trees, digging around the roots, fertilizing the ground, will it then bear bitter fruit? Can a pear tree decide to produce thistles? If the gardener sees deadwood among the branches, will he let death creep into the roots, or cut it off? Therefore the blight is pruned away. When the tree prospers again, it bears an abundance of fruit. But he casts the deadwood into the fire; it burns brightly for a moment, then dies again. The cutting claims some green wood, but saves the roots; the tree suffers for a season, but then soon returns to fertility. Return, Feallengod, I call for you to return.”
Beorn stared at Coren as he listened, then dropped his head as though his neck had been broken. His pipe’s stem stuck high into the air as he scratched under the back of his
collar. Looking to Hatan, he complained, “He makes no sense. If he’s a prince, why cares he for farming — that just makes me doubt him more. Why make such a journey to talk about trees? Why take on a mission to orchards? If he really carries the king’s bloodline, he doesn’t look, or sound, like what I was expecting.”
As Coren pled on before the crowd, Beorn felt a slight tug at his belt. As he turned toward its pull, a small figure nervously snatched its hands away from his purse. Beorn yelled and struck out with the back of his hand at the man, obliging him to scurry a safe distance away. There he stood for a moment, shifting his weight, one foot to the other, holding his shaking hands together at his chest. His head made short, jerking movements as he looked about, as if to duck out of the sight of the people. I watched as he awkwardly searched about for someone or something. Chanting indistinctly, the strange creature stumbled back toward the crowd and kicked apart a wooden frame on his way; a young man of the crowd leaning upon it was sent headlong into a muddy pool. The shriveled figure disappeared into the milling mass of people.
Beorn turned his back to the crowd, and to the words bathing its ears, returning to his hovel and wife. In the days that followed Coren walked from one end of Feallengod to the other and back. Thus did the prince cast his seed, but only debate took root and grew: Had Coren come from Gægnian, or made he bold as merely grand pretender? Only I knew the truth: Not one thing relied upon the matter. My own allegiance lay to my self interest. If the company in my presence carried a particularly rough look and argued the cause of Domen, then I grew into the greatest partisan in the room. If the discussion favored Coren, so did I — though this seldom occurred. If a brawl ensued, all the better. Gladly would I release my frustrations on the heads of other men, knuckles proudly sore and bleeding. No other pursuit made my thick heart move. This at least too satisfied the pleading of Gastgedal, happy in any sort of hedonism. As I would make my exit, swinging and spitting, I would pledge anew loyalty to myself alone. I heard no persuasion to follow anyone else, or so I thought; very soon I would learn otherwise.
Once arisen restored from my rented bed, I had resumed my sickened existence within the alleys. My life no longer under their threat, I cared little for the streets’ cruel hazard, the elements’ mean tinkering, proudly again striking upon my own ingenuity and provision. Let these other fools watch for signs of change, and prick their ears at every word; I made myself deaf, and blind, dead to the defense of right and wrong. Often I crossed paths with the itinerate prince; often I cast eyes upon Hatan, surprised as well at the sight of his father. Surprised, I say, knowing what I did about Beorn, but then, there I stood among the listeners as well, perhaps leaning against a wall, perhaps munching the remnants of a pastry found cooling upon a windowsill. No telling what other kind of villains also fell into attendance. For the moment, I could contentedly lick my fingers and smirk knowingly at my fellows. Hatan, lost forever to foolish idealism, spent more and more time away from home, away from the orchards, and near to Coren.
“What will you do to stop Domen?” he asked. “He has seduced my brother and my father, and most all of Feallengod. All power on the island rests upon him now, and his followers refuse to hear you.”
“Domen indeed makes himself strong, and he has taken advantage of his place upon Feallengod for now. But a time comes when Domen will fall like a bird stricken in the sky. Suddenly upon him, violently, his doom approaches. He knows it looms, but his face now turns only toward his own desires, and he will not believe. Much remains for us before that time, young friend, for you and I.”
In those same days odd occurrences began to plague Feallengod. Items disappeared from their places, fires sprang up in homes and barns, attackers fell upon unsuspecting people in the dark. Whole households, each man and woman, mysteriously became ill, and noises and fears in the night so troubled others that they declined into madness from lack of sleep. Families entered into their homes to find the furnishings moved about. Some claimed to see shadowy figures skittering away from the corners of their eyes, slinking into the darkness; others swore imaginations were just running wild, fed by rumor. After some weeks of such happenings, suspicions grew into conflict within the community — well did they choose me as one of the accused. My habits had not gone unnoticed, and before I knew to run, tolerance ran dry.
“What are you doing there?” one man yelled, startling me as I helped myself to his well.
“Keeping myself alive, old man,” I retorted.
“Stay away from my well! My entire family is down with fever! Are you the one tainting my water?”
“No,” I said.
“What if he is?” offered Gastgedal.
“You are that scrawny villain, aren’t you?” the man bellowed. “You have nearly killed my family, and my livestock!”
“I’ve done nothing to you,” I said, draining off the ladle.
“Stand back, or we may leave you more water than we take,” Gastgedal added, offering his pizzle.
“Get off my property!” the man failed to understand our good-naturedness. “Get off or I’ll kill you!”
“Don’t make promises you have no intention of keeping,” I said, half-threatening and half-sorrowful. Gastgedal circled around toward the man’s back.
“I will kill you, I swear, by stone, I’ll kill you,” he seethed, and before Gastgedal could move, he grabbed up a shovel and caught him across the head with it. Gastgedal spent the next several minutes smelling the dirt of his homeland. I lurched at the man, eager now to vent my memory on empty rampaging. But before I could lay my talons upon him, the man introduced his shovel upon me and turned my day into night. When I awoke I lay draped across a garbage dump, Gastgedal’s grin flashing gaping holes at me.
Yes, many a beating did Gastgedal bait me into, and many did I enter eagerly. Earnestly did the people disabuse me of my bloody-knuckle way of settling of issues and making impressions. The pressure mounted so greatly that I abandoned the streets and drifted closer to Domen’s men, seeking protection where power was found. Alas — convenience led me more so into the alliance, but though I might believe myself still master of my fate, in reality Domen had paid his earnest money, and would soon demand his goods.
So the months passed, strife and bitter envy entering into the hearts of Feallengod. The trees traded their green for bright shades of gold and russet, and then finally nakedness. Coren faithfully pressed his campaign, and where he sowed from his sack grains and fruits arose for the hungry to glean, but his summons to reconciliation increasingly found stone ears. Only a handful of followers remained faithful to their “Magister” — their master.
“Serenity do I desire for you, people of Feallengod. Not for my sake do I seek quiet for the island, for I will return to Gægnian and my father. For your sakes do I wish still hearts, for when I depart, your spirits will flutter with hatred, turmoil arising from one you can no longer provoke. If you so hate me, then also you hate my father. What you wish upon me, you will visit upon those who follow. And so for them, I desire serenity, though I can promise only injustice and suffering. Into that affliction I must go before them.”
Beorn didn’t know what to make of this talk. “Who hates him?” he asked Hatan. “I don’t understand him, and I confess I don’t follow him, but who among us hates him?”
“All of Feallengod, it seems,” he returned. “I give my love not to this dirt, just the dust of my ashes. Coren has said we march either with him or against him, Father; no place lies in-between. For those of us who listen to him, Magister is the only man worthy to follow.”
“I know, I see that in you, Hatan,” Beorn put two fingers and a thumb together and thumped upon his breastbone sternly. “I also have made my choice, and I must remain faithful. I took a vow, which I cannot break. While your ‘Magister’ speaks a multitude of words, Domen has restored me in the eyes of men. But I see I have lost your loyalty. You have left our home, just like Begietan, and your mother grieves for your absence. You have separate
d yourself from us.”
“Not like Begietan,” said Hatan curtly. “Not one bit.”
“Look, Domen approaches!” Beorn’s tone turned to relief, happy to change the subject. “Now maybe plain talk will deliver the peace Coren prattles on about.”
From the east indeed appeared Domen, circling the crowd that milled about Coren, Begietan swaggering behind. Domen had remained absent from the community for a time; now he silently stalked the periphery of the people, shoulders hunched low, as Coren continued his appeal. A handful of men straggled in his wake, I among them, like vagrants following a slops cart.
“He would rob the orchards of their power,” I heard Domen mutter. “This seed he casts — he would grant even the life from the tree hidden within the island soil.”
“Many of you agree not that I descend from the king,” said Coren. “Just as you refused to believe Bregdan, nor any of my father’s watchmen, even to Fulwiht, you deny that I emerge from Gægnian. I tell you, I will fulfill the testimonies of Bregdan, I will mediate for my people, and I will exchange these dusty garments for the robes of the king. Secretly your hearts seek a sign from me — you will receive a sign: The sign of the seamrog.”
A small disturbance arose at the edge of the crowd. “Stop it! Stop that fellow!” a man cried out, and he swung his elbow at a small, ragged person who only barely ducked away from the blow.
“Fela!” Coren’s voice boomed over the crowd’s undercurrent.
Fela stopped short, his heels kicking up bits of rock, then nervously approaching Coren. His eyes begged mercy from every puzzled face as he wound through the tight maze of bodies, holding his hands to his chest, finally blurting out, “The prince! The true prince!”
“Fela, first you burden Gægnian with treachery, then this tortured island. You have vexed this land long enough.”
“I know you be …” Fela began.
“Enough,” broke in Coren. “Begone.”
“Not the dungeons. Please, worthy prince. Not yet the dungeons.” Fela kept his head low, his crazed, confused expression visible only as he glanced side to side. I saw the terror in his eyes, for the sake of merely hearing this man.
“I said, begone,” Coren repeated with firm emphasis.
“Yes, sire.” Fela scurried away into the far woods, and never did I see him again, nor either was accused of any further deviltry.
Domen studied this scene for a moment, and a small notion took root in the manure of his brain. A burr in his hide had suddenly offered opportunity.
“You and Fela work in alliance!” he screamed over the top of the crowd, standing as tall as he could, his finger accusing Coren over the people’s heads. His gamboling spine, now jerked straight, shot an arrow of pain through his back. “You conspire with that little knave!”
“Domen, I thought perhaps some strong man had tied you up. I have expected you.”
Domen ignored the remark and continued his diatribe before the crowd. “This faker joins in league with Fela, that putrid gremlin who vexes you these many days. How many of your households has he attacked? Did not these two appear upon Feallengod at the same time? With your own eyes you see Fela obey his master. Believe your eyes! They must conspire together! You can’t trust him!” He shook the crookedness of his finger angrily at Coren.
“Clever, Domen. Would you fool even these I have winnowed? I warn you, allies who turn upon each other choose the doom of their destruction.” Stunned by this unconcerned response, I nudged and made some offensive joke to the man next to me, my old acquaintance Cirice, quarry dust likely still caked under his nails after these many years. I kicked at a patch of seed Coren had sown, sending some from the soil and into barren rocks.
Domen did not pause in his rant. “If you want to rid your sufferings, dispose of Coren as well as Fela. You know to trust me, you see me move about you. I have dwelt upon Feallengod for the best of any man’s memory. I offer you leadership and possessions and riches for your lives. I offer you power and flesh to slake your lusts! Coren arrives out of the blue Heofon, and what does he grant you? Drop everything you desire and obey his demands! He promises only suffering — he said so himself, and it begins with Fela! He delivered Fela upon you! Would Ecealdor so send to his beloved people? No! Feallengod has known only trouble and striving since Coren’s coming! I say begone with him!”
Restless murmuring arose above the shuffling of feet. My little group gave greatest voice — though I could not lure Cirice into speaking — prodding the passions of those nearby. Some looked to Coren for his answer, and some cast their eyes to the ground. Others shifted toward Domen.
“What did you come out to see?” Coren’s voice sounded like a trumpet. “A man in soft clothes and glinting jewels? Perhaps a man laden with heavy armor and perilous weapons? Do you wish power, or strength? Many will find my words sweet to the senses, but to most they taste sour indeed, and you choke upon your swallowing. Those of you who will believe I come from Ecealdor will know; those who will not believe, will know as well.”
At that, many broke from the crowd and went their way. Beorn again shook his head, faced filled with disdain, running his fingers through his hair. Again he looked to Hatan, “What answer is that? What defense before the nation? Domen demands Coren be cast into the sea, and he responds with riddles. Is he insane, or simply a liar?”
“Certainly you see, father? Surely you understand?” Hatan followed, pleading as his father walked away, casting his hands behind in disgust. In the background the fading voice of Domen bleated repeatedly his charges against Coren. I remained as long as Coren spoke, turning aside his appeal to reason with shrewd ridicule — my cutting remarks frayed yet further the rope as the stone dangled over my head, and I strained to heave it aside.
Beorn answered Hatan, “This I understand: For years I waited upon Ecealdor. All my life I believed his law and his promises, and I believed he would return. I believed that Feallengod would provide everything ever we could want and I would live out my days in peace and security. I dreamed that one day I might see Gægnian. A fool’s pretense! This life I did not imagine, I do not want, but I have to believe only what I can see. This man you love claims the king’s authority, but he does no more than talk and talk. He plants seeds like a common laborer, for stone’s sake! If he’s from Ecealdor, why fear to take charge? Why will he not take his kingdom?” Beorn’s voice rose, and the end of his walking staff punished the earth with each phrase.
“You have waited, Father. Ecealdor graciously awaits in his patience as well. How better to show his love than to send his son to walk among us? He has work he will do, Father, I’m sure he will.”
“My patience is done, Hatan. I’m finished waiting. I learned all about the promises, from my father and grandfather before him, longer than you I have known them. The king is great in his glory and might, not puny and weak. In my judgment Coren is no more than a fraud, and he should be rebuked for saying he’s from the king, because in truth he is not.”
“I believe him, Father. You will see, he speaks for Ecealdor.”
“If he is the son of the king, still he is not what I expected,” said Beorn. “By stone, he is not what I want!”