Wars of the Aoten
Chapter LI
A new day dawned in the village of the Rufoux, and the sun rose, but did not see nor care.
For the first time since the Aoten came upon Medialia, the Rufoux homeland would see a wedding. The busyness of the preceding days had come to a conclusion, the planning and preparation fulfilled, the celebrations complete. The hour of the solemn ceremony approached, and in typical fashion, it belonged to the early morning.
Artur emerged from his hut, only recently doubled in size, so early as to find the Raspars still sleeping, huddled together tightly, leaning upon each other and against the stockade wall. As he walked past the open fires of the compound, his clansmen greeted him with the ragging banter of his distant past. Over the years he had learned to give it out generously, but he never thought he would again have to take it.
“Can’t wait another hour of sleep, eh, Artur? Or does your lonely pallet not appeal to you so much now?”
“She’ll still be around at noon, man. No need to rush her into anything.”
“Mog’s goblins, Artur, she’s young enough to be your daughter. Or Geoffrey’s great-great-great-great-great.” And then a breath. “Great-great-great-great …”
Artur smiled and laughed at his tormentors and punched one or two to show his love. His saunterings through the village ultimately led him to Geoffrey’s hut, which he ducked into without warning. Inside he found his father once again decked out in his armor, still fitting after all the centuries gone by.
“Father! I hardly recognize you. You again look like a Rufoux warrior.”
“We do well to note this day,” said Geoffrey. “When Sylva writes her history, for those who can decipher it, they will read what it means to be a Rufoux man. And I have always been a Rufoux warrior.”
“Yes, you have.”
“Let us go from here, Artur. Lo, your bride lurks about for ye within the city walls.” The mocking of the Raspars’ dialect that he and Artur toyed with had almost become a habit within his own speech.
Andreia had withdrawn to her family’s large home, which she shared with her parents and still a dozen brothers and sisters younger than eighteen. Her last day among them overflowed with tears and laughter, rejoicing that she would not go lacking in the vast years left to her, grieving that her life among them, longer than anyone had ever expected or feared, at last would come to an end. Now the time of tears had passed, and all her relatives’ hands, as well as others, busily adorned her beauty until she surpassed the inspirations of any poet who might come to live in another age.
As the early shadows crept shorter across the village, as the sun seemed to slow its pace in the sky, Artur himself finally made his way to the community hall, to wrap himself in the ceremonial wedding robes. On the way he ran into Theodoric, walking with Pepin.
“Artur! A good day to you, and a happy coupling with your new wife! It is the Melics’ custom to refer to the bride as ‘the daughter’ or ‘sister of your flesh,’ but of course that is not the case with the Rufoux. The bee’s power erupts from its sting, but to impose it upon another means only death for itself. Still, I hope that Andreia will become the sister of your spirit.” Pepin nodded and smiled.
“Thank you. You will see your first Rufoux wedding today, I think.”
“I saw one once before, but from far away, and the view was leafy. I used to give much of my time to observing, you know. You are quite sure we are welcome?”
“Of course!” Artur sounded insulted. “If trouble arises, I will take care of it. But I’m sure no trouble will be had today.”
“Would you like music?”
Artur thought for a second. “Chanting is part of the ceremony. We have never had music, so the customs neither allow nor forbid it.”
“Well, we’ll come prepared,” said Theodoric as they took their leave. Pepin merely smiled.
A single stroke brought forth a loud tone from the giant bell that hung at the back end of the community building, harkening the Rufoux to gather. Geoffrey stood at the front – his helmet replaced by the tall, white miter – Wyllem and Arielle standing at either side as attendants. Wyllem held aloft a lit torch, Arielle bore a sword. To the left gathered Artur’s vast collection of brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. Andreia’s family stood with her to the right, at last redeeming the time of their humiliation years before. Behind Geoffrey lay the small stone altar piled with kindling.
Artur bore the robes, reserved for weddings only, that had been handed down to every Rufoux groom for generations upon generations. The skin of an aged thylak, pure white, draped his shoulders, fringed with long and resplendent feathers from the exotic birds of Medialia. Gold-blue paint highlighted his skin, the shadows darkened with a kind of purple-emerald. On his head rested a helmet similar to those made gifts to the other chieftains, the light of the surrounding torches and candles glaring off its burnished surface. Yet this helmet bore a single difference: An exquisite display of luxurious feathers hanging from its sides and back. Peeking in and out of the decoration was a stowaway hummingbird perched high upon Artur’s shoulder, testing the bright red hair of the nape of his neck with its delicate tongue.
To the other side of Geoffrey stood Andreia, in a gown entirely woven of flowers, the product of Melic hands. The breeze played teasingly with the fragile fabric of petals, every color segregated to form a swirling pattern around her body; a train of stems spread about her feet. Her hair twisted into several tight Bedoua-braids, then wrapped around over the top of her head, leaving her ears, neck and shoulders bare, smooth and a creamy pink. Her slight frame and slender figure made her appear more likely a nymph or faerie than of Rufoux stock, but the look on her face could not be mistaken: Finely carved features showed diligence and satisfaction, the suffering and serenity of Medialia’s hardest race.
The other clans peopled the compound outside the community building. Melics sat high upon the walk at the top of the walls, while Raspars lined the foot. Bedoua collected to one side of the building, clicking like great crickets, and the Koinoni stood apart to the other side. For this occasion the skins covering the structure had been removed, so all could see inside. The low humming, born more of habit than tradition, emerged from the Rufoux as soon as they sat.
Geoffrey raised his face and open hands. “Oh Mog, we come here today to acknowledge the greatness of your power and the power of your anger. We gather to join this slender youth (and at this he slipped a glance at Artur’s stocky frame) and tender maiden together for the good of the families, the good of the clan of the Rufoux. We gather as witnesses and partners to their marriage, as they fold their individuality into each other and into the whole of their people.
“Oh Mog, the fire has been lit for this man. The dove has been taken in your anger. We pray that your will binds this couple, Artur and Andreia, as with a bronze band, and you will make them four arms in defense of the Rufoux, four legs in defense of the Rufoux, one heart in defense of the Rufoux. We pray that you will burn in them love for themselves, love for the clan, love for the borders of the Rufoux. We ask that you will use them to bring up a great army to defend our lands in Medialia.”
Geoffrey looked down blankly at the hordes of people about, suddenly realizing what he had recited.
He took the torch from Wyllem in his left hand, and the sword from Arielle in his right. Turning to the altar, he raised each implement to the sky. “Thus do we bring this man and woman, Artur and Andreia, together. Thus do we declare them one.” And he struck the torch heavily with the sword, breaking off the flaming end and sending it into the kindling upon the altar; the sword flew from his thumbless grip and flipped point-first into the ground. Quickly a hungry blaze burned on the crude hearth.
Geoffrey turned back again. “Artur and Andreia,” he said. “Do you today pledge yourselves to each other in marriage?”
The two nodded.
“Then pledge yourselves to these vows by saying ‘yea’ in response. Do you, Artur and Andreia, pledge to give your bodie
s only for each other — in marriage?” Geoffrey’s voice cracked, and he fell silent for a moment.
“Yea.”
“Do you pledge not to withhold your bodies from each other in your marriage?”
“Yea.”
“Do you pledge to make a new family of your marriage, many children added to strengthen the defense of the Rufoux?”
“Yea.”
“Do you pledge to destroy either one who may violate these vows, or any outsider — ” Geoffrey stopped short.
Artur studied his father’s face. “Yea, father, we are still Rufoux.”
“Any outsider who would lead you to break these vows?”
“Yea.”
“Do you pledge to fan the flame of love, to forge devotion between yourselves, among your family and within the clan?”
“Yea, and all Medialia.”
“Artur, what do you offer to Andreia today, as proof that you can protect and provide for a wife and family?”
For a moment Artur looked at Geoffrey like he was crazy — what had he been doing his whole life? Then he pulled off his necklace of therium tusks and draped it around Andreia’s neck.
“Andreia, what do you offer to Artur today, as proof that you will provide and produce children to the house of Artur?”
Andreia turned to her kin, and an elderly woman handed her a silver statuette, about a kronyn tall. Artur recognized it as an idol brought to the land from the east by the Koinoni, a fertility goddess of the finest workmanship. A beautiful nude figure of a woman, and surprisingly heavy, she leaned delicately forward, raising her arms and prominent breasts on high. The soft curves of her form, highlighted by the silvery finish, shone in the sunlight, and an expression of tranquil joy enveloped the vague features of her face.
“Then be you married before the witness of Mog and all his people, the Rufoux.”
The Rufoux stood and cheered, and as they lined up for the excruciating head-rubbing ritual, their humming enjoined with Melic harmony. Eventually the singing evolved into playing, and the playing into dancing, and Artur found that the final hand upon his head passed much more quickly than he remembered from the first time. The celebration spilled out into the stockade grounds, and the clans of Medialia mixed and made merry as never before.
Though not taking part in the ceremony, a glowing Pepin made sure he crossed the couple’s path with Carolingia. “You made a better bird in my dream,” he could barely restrain his glee, and Artur looked at his feathered regalia and remembered. “Come, my love,” Pepin said flatly, and Carolingia glanced at Artur, bitter at the vows he had spoken, but not thwarted.
Artur paid no mind, and instead considered the goddess. “How much did the Koinoni require for this?” he asked Andreia.
“It came to me as a gift from Picta. I would not deal with Koinoni.”
“I love you like the day itself.”
The morning slid into the afternoon and matured into evening as the festivities continued. Finally a half-moon crept into the sky, and Geoffrey, still in his warrior’s armor, once more commanded the attention of the gathered masses. He stood stiffly, his ancient bones giving no quarter to the years passed, and extended his hands to his clansmen. Voices fell silent, ears leaned expectantly toward a grand oration, and Geoffrey’s face glowed. Surely a blessing and gentle good night awaited.
“Today I have seen the desires of my heart met. I have seen my son Artur, the greatest of the Rufoux, joined in marriage, defeating the fates and the years that would deny him contentment. I have seen Andreia grafted onto my family, a young woman finally allowed life again after a youth bent under devastating guilt. I have lived to my purpose, and I have seen the world of my memory pass away. So I will gain my final desire.”
Geoffrey lifted his fists and tilted back his head. “Oh Mog,” he bellowed. “You hollow tomb! You empty wash pot! For long ages I have sacrificed myself upon your altar, and you have proven yourself too weak to take me!”
Geoffrey’s arms shook as his voice began to betray rage. His words spewed upward like foam from a geyser, and his face gradually went from ruddy to bright red. “Oh Mog, you fake and cheat! You tremble to reach down to Medialia and claim me! You are afraid, I declare, afraid of Geoffrey! If this be not so, prove it! If I am a liar, show yourself and have your vengeance!”
As his rant gained fury, a flickering appeared from around the collar of Geoffrey’s breastplate. “Mog, you have mocked me these many years! Do battle now, if you think yourself able! Take the breath from my nostrils if you are strong enough! Plunge the sword into my neck, if I am any less than a dragon!” The glow turned bright orange, then grew to a tiny flame. Then suddenly a burst of fire flew around Geoffrey’s head, and he screamed to the heavens. “Mog, you traitor! You fraud!” Now a tremendous blaze engulfed his body, and his bronze breastplate roared like a chimney, as shocked clansmen from all over the land gasped and stared — so aghast, so enraptured at the sight, none even thought to move. “Mog, you overripe villain of legend! Swallower of stones! You believe unending life to be so wonderful, then take this one!” The reptilian tongues of flame licked the pyre and snapped high into the air, sparks dancing on the heat. Geoffrey’s yelling faded within the veil of fire, and then so did the flames die, until only a small smear of ash lay on the ground where the aged man had stood, the charred metal of his armor lying about like discarded trash.
Picta sobbed quietly for a father twice lost.
Artur approached the scorched remnants, bits of ash still dancing upwards, and poked them with his toe.
“Crazy old fool.”