Chapter X
Time passed, and time again, after the death of Bregdan. The island of Feallengod sat unchanging, bounded about by the Ocean Heofon, the deep blue sky watching from above, not knowing, not caring, not believing as events revealed their gathering tragedy. The king sent more watchmen, each in the steps of the last, and more and more the people disdained them. Some came as priests, some scholars, some reapers or artisans. All delivered the same message: Return to the ancient law, “Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out your blessing upon his people as richly as you receive.”
With shamefully little delay the mystery of Gægnian, the sense of awe the people had long held for men of the king’s courts, vanished to nothing. The magical elan islanders had ascribed to these men, based on myth and falsehood, was breached; once done, truth much more easily fell as well. Many of the emissaries endured beatings, then to be cast out; many more gave their last breath. One was thrown into a cistern to rot; another rent in two. Each man in turn withstood abuse and scorn. The reasoning of the people, blowing about like feathers on the wind, robbed them of verity, leaving only vain ideas of vacillating fairness. The power of the lie grew as each day more of the families of Feallengod believed in self-reliance, self-gratification and self-absorption. Though the people spoke much of love with their mouths, covetousness beset their hearts. As the community fractured and the people fell further and further apart, there grew a desire for something, anything, to make them seem as one again. Domen’s willing leadership offered a simple resolution, putrid though it seemed to all, and a steady stream of islanders sought him out, first by the score, then by the thousands.
A dwindling few still stubbornly held their patience with Ecealdor. I numbered myself not among them, but neither did I declare allegiance to Domen. I trusted only in myself, or so I thought; Gastgedal truly did me no favors. I had accepted him as just a part of life upon Feallengod, and so he was. With him I began a private struggle as a broad struggle blossomed all across the island, as Domen hoped to pull all of mankind up by the roots.
In the end blindness snared me, and to look at me bore witness to the futility of my confidence. No longer welcome at the Boar’s Brew to beg or booze, I found scattered work tending the roads and fields. To my great dismay and benefit, the pay fell short of the ale I desired, so I embarked upon a long duration of drying out between binges. I wailed for the wine cut off from my mouth, and from my hopelessness and frustration I sought release in the streets, accosting my fellows with violence for coin, and – when pockets turned empty – then simply for the brawling to lift my numbness. If not for pain, I wasn’t sure I lived at all. Many a night I passed unconsciously bleeding, and many an unjust injury did I inflict upon innocent men. Much I have to answer for, a poor powerless soul such as I, yet still the culprit in so many crimes brewed within a squalid heart. Still, by some jest of fate, mayhem turned my head clearer for what was to come. Always there stood Gastgedal, complaining too for drink, egging me into conflict. And rampaging better suited me then than lying in the sewage to think. I believe most others concurred: Indeed, the times spread raucous argument and festivity throughout the population of Feallengod, and great grieving throughout Gægnian.
Despondent, Beorn leaned upon his table. His thick fingers idly caressed the soft tablecloth. The breezes blew pleasantly through an open window, belying the desperate nothingness that weighed upon him. Long ago he had conceded to hoard the orchard’s produce. For a time the Feohtan wealth abounded, but soon the spoilage of the stored crops matched the rotten void in the pit of Beorn’s belly. Too, the orchards each morning showed forth less crop to harvest: The overabundance of Beorn’s pantry led to sloth, the plants and trees fell to waste, the work required to husband fruits grew more onerous and begat more sloth. As well, hunger felt throughout the community had given rise to raiding and theft, in which I took chief place, I have no doubt. And so both abundance and lack destroyed the character of men. Begietan had taken to spending nights in the orchards, but he’d had no apparent effect on the amount pilfered. I found his casual watches no more difficult to violate than a passing strumpet.
“Hopeless, simply hopeless,” Beorn, his head down, said to Cwen, sitting opposite him. “The community has burst asunder under the pressure of each man. When we sought the law we lived as one body; now, every man just does what appears right in his own eyes. I fear for our future.”
“We have always prospered upon Feallengod,” said Cwen. “Do you not believe it also will remain so in days to come?”
Beorn lifted his eyes from the table and to his wife. “What do you call prosperity? Riches? Gluttony? At one time, a lifetime ago, we measured prosperity in peace. Peace with our neighbors, and within ourselves. At one time I would gladly have wagered everything we had on my belief in our future. Now I stand guard over the present like a mad dog, afraid someone might desire it, or even merely see. The abundance of what we hoard shames me in the face of the starving, and I wish to hide it even further away. I once boasted in the future, I rested in Ecealdor’s promises. I believed certainly he would return.”
“You always said that,” came Cwen’s reassurance.
“Look at what’s happened, Cwen. All these messengers, all claiming to speak for the king, each one insisting that Ecealdor will come again, all shamefully treated. And then yesterday, this man Fulwiht beheaded. Tell me, what should I believe now?”
This man Fulwiht. Ecealdor indeed had sent many an odd fellow to the island, but this man Fulwiht was a pip. Rejecting the clothing and staff of Feallengod, he simply draped an animal skin about him, secured by a scrap of rope. He went about carrying an axe, sometimes used as a cane and other times shaken like a horrifying weapon. His hair hung with a life of its own from his ragged head, never cut nor combed. He came not to the community, but instead roamed the banks of Four Rivers, beckoning the community come to him. And some did, a few clinging to the distant king, but most out of idle curiosity. Oof, did he rail at us all; his type is easy to ridicule but hard to cast off for sleep’s sake.
In time Domen grew weary of his charges, and so sent Begietan to secure his arrest. The shabby crew who stood no chance against Gelic-El easily brought this eccentric castaway under control, and threw him into a makeshift prison at the abandoned quarries, rough timbers lashed together as a simple but strong gate. He wasted away there for a time as Domen tried to devise a way to use him, but Fulwiht’s raving began to grate on Begietan, appointed to guard him through the day.
Thus it was at night when my ears captured his desires as he approached the Boar’s Brew with a gaggle of miscreants.
“I hate that crazy man. All day long he rides my back. You people have no idea what I have to put up with.”
No, I never had any use for Begietan; I tried to never speak a word to him until the moment I had to. With my thirst long having gone unslaked, and the tavern looming near, this seemed like the moment.
“You never worked the quarries, did you?” I mentioned casually as he passed by.
“Indeed not,” his lip curled as he took measure of my general disarray. “Common labor does not come from the keeper of Feallengod’s orchards.”
“Yet you work them now.”
“Are you making light of me, drunken fool?” Begietan took a threatening step toward me, and I felt Gastgedal slip around behind.
“Of course not. Drunk I may be, soon if not now, but I be no fool. I know Domen’s henchman.”
“And best you remember it,” he rejoined, making sure to spray spittle upon my face.
I took a moment to wipe my nose thoughtfully. “Know I well the power of Domen‘s henchman,” I pressed my insult. “But know I too the restraint Domen requires of him.”
“What do you mean?”
Gastgedal chuckled, and I sensed his fear subsiding.
“You hate the man, yet you guard his safety. As Domen sorts his thoughts, you cannot do away with your tormentor. Domen’s seal upon the door cannot be broken,
or you forfeit your life. There’s no other way for you to get at Fulwiht.”
“Yes, and so what? What’s it to you?”
“You can do nothing, but someone else might.”
“Nobody can get through when I’m guarding him!” He drew himself up to me again in a threatening manner. “Same with the night guard. I chose the man myself.”
“But an accident might befall Fulwiht,” said I.
“Yes, an accident,” Gastgedal echoed, rising in excitement.
“An unfortunate accident.”
“Unfortunate!”
“What are you saying?” Begietan blustered, not understanding at all. “Of course an accident might happen. What of it?”
“Those of us who have worked the quarries know their secrets,” I pushed my chips into the pot. “The inner chambers, the passageways cut to reach veins of crystal. They twist and turn, breach ceilings and floors, and lead out to places one might not expect.” I stared knowingly at him.
“One might not expect,” Gastgedal echoed.
“What are you saying?” Begietan demanded, not brash now but in the manner of demanding a confidence.
I glanced at the crew following Begietan about. “They have no part in this.”
Begietan sneered at one of them and barked, “Get away.” The men looked only too happy to obey.
“I could make my way to Fulwiht’s cell, not through the front where the guard stands, but from the rear,” I continued.
“And then what?” Begietan refused to explore his head.
“An accident might befall him. And you’d escape blame.”
“I get it. You people have a bit of brain after all. Do it tonight! I’ll not have another day of his braying at me!” And he made as if to leave.
“Not so fast, not so fast!” I protested, knowing full well I completely controlled him now. “I’m no murderer,” and indeed at that moment I thought not, “but I will lead your men to Fulwiht. Give me your two most vicious bastards.”
“I can’t get them now,” he complained, glancing at the Boar’s Brew.
“There’s no rush. We’ll need your indifference at the cell door anyway, to say nothing of the daylight. Torches would suffocate us in the tunnels. Just have the men here in the morning.”
“Will you be here?” he asked.
“I’ll be right there,” I cashed my ticket and pointed to the street.
“What do you mean?”
“What is it worth to you to be rid of Fulwiht? To escape your onerous guarding of him, to quiet his railing?”
“I see. What is your price?” he replied, businesslike. “Gold? Fruits of the garden? What?”
“I require a bottle. Now.”
“A bottle,” Gastgedal agreed.
“And one for my friend here,” I continued.
Begietan roared with laughter, and indeed was I a joke. “Very well,” he cackled, “A bargain well struck. Bottles you will have, my good gentlemen, and I’ll deliver the men to you in the morning.”
“I’ll be right here,” I said, indicating again the gutter, and so I was.
Begietan arrived early with his two ruffians, made more welcome by my fuzzy perception. They were men I’d never met before but knew by reputation, as surly and low as I could imagine. Begietan ran ahead to take up his post at the jail’s gate, while the rest of us followed leisurely. Gastgedal kept close behind me, talking all the way to the quarries.
“You are a man after my own heart,” he beamed. “Never did I truly believe you would turn to such things. Always did I have to cajole you, but now you lead me! What a triumph, to see you taking up your own cause, taking such great lengths for even the most simple fleshly pleasure! Casting the highest price upon a fleeting sensation! You surprise me, I must say, in the most pleasant way.”
“Stay with me, and you may see more,” I said grimly.
“A man’s man! Take nothing from anyone, take everything from everyone! Begietan can’t tell you what to do, my son, nor either Domen! You follow your own ways. I have taught you well, I see – all the more praise for myself. When this business is done, we must wrangle a wench and bottle to celebrate. For only more hedonism can satisfy the hunger of past indulgence. The emptiness must be filled again!”
And so it went all the way to my old workplace. I know of a number of little tunnels that joined one chamber of dug rock to another at the quarries. All I needed was to see what section Begietan guarded to know which secret passage would lead to Fulwiht’s cell.
Being of slight frame, I had no trouble squeezing through the tight and twisting shafts, nor either Gastgedal, but the more burly thugs of Begietan’s choosing had quite a more difficult time, and let me know so. The cool rock, made clammy by seeping water, scraped at our chins and elbows as we crept along. Before long we could hear the watchman’s railing voice resonate in our tunnel.
“Shut up!” Begietan bellowed at him.
Slowly I emerged from the tunnel’s opening, like being birthed from the stone ceiling. Though well back in the shadows, the scuffling noise we made drew Fulwiht’s attention, quieting his diatribe. He said nothing to us; Begietan stood with his back to the door as if he were fascinated by something on the horizon.
I kept back, shrouded by darkness, glaring under a bowed brow; Gastgedal stayed with me, giddy. The two assassins picked up loose rocks, hefty and sharp, and menacingly approached Fulwiht. In his eyes I saw understanding, but no fear. He cast his gaze upon me.
“Give in now. You cannot prevail,” he said, the words sounding like footsteps upon a gravel road.
Considering a man’s violent end, even planning it, takes no candle to seeing it done before one’s own face. The next noise I heard was the dull thud, and sharp crack, of a heavy object caving in a skull. Sounds of blows struck and human groaning hung in the air, the smell of fresh meat filling my nostrils. For one second I flinched as if to intervene for the man, but stopped – thus I would only share in his fate. My designs turned back upon me. My stomach knotted upon itself as blood oozed upon the stone. The stone, the stone. Lord, the king’s watchman! The king’s watchman! Why did I? Gastgedal lurked against the back wall with me as life drained out upon the floor.
Our deed complete, we retreated without a word the same way we’d come. Exiting the tunnels, each went his own way, except my shadow, the leech sucking at my veins. “The greatest power a man has over another is to take his life,” Gastgedal counseled me. “The greatest over his own to save it. This one doesn’t matter – his king is dead. Take the new ways of the island to yourself. Cling to them, for there lies happiness. You are a man of the new Feallengod now. You are a man of the new regime.”
Begietan told Domen that a fault in the ceiling gave way and had fallen in upon Fulwiht, crushing him under the bloody stones, and pointed to Domen’s unbroken seal upon the gate. I don’t know if Domen so believed, but he seemed pleased either way. The battered head was removed from Fulwiht’s body and mounted upon a pole at Domen’s lair, a sign of things to come.
“Tell me, what should I believe now?” Beorn asked. “Would Ecealdor send these men just for butchering? Would he not defend them, or avenge them? If his designs lead to his return, wouldn’t he best come now? Perhaps he has given up notice of Feallengod now. Perhaps he doesn’t sit in Gægnian.”
“Beorn, you have never uttered such things. You have always believed.”
“My belief stinks of vanity, and now it lies dead, Cwen. I have seen too much of human nature, the failure of basic decency. Worse still, I see it in myself. How could a good king allow what has happened? How could he disregard me, after I sought him so? By stone, my faith has just died.”
“Husband,” Cwen grasped his hand, her eyes moist and troubled. The comforts of her heart had wavered many times before, but she always instead could fall upon Beorn’s hope. This sudden doubt shook her badly. All this time she truly had thought the family had done the best thing; her surprise came from finally hearing Beorn. Now she could
see her family’s division over the orchards had opened a gulf between husband and wife, son among son. Without thinking, she reached for the gold medallion that hung about her neck. “If you cannot believe, how can I?”
“I don’t ask you to, Cwen. Not anymore. But I do know this: Feallengod needs a law. The law of Ecealdor has left us forever, lost to olden history. If Ecealdor will not lead us, we’d better find someone who will. We need a king upon the land.” And he pulled himself up from his chair.
“What will you do?” asked Cwen.
“I will go to Domen.”
Outside the hovel, under the open window, the man-child Hatan sat and silently wept. The breeze played lightly with his hair and dried his tears.
Beorn left for the forests where the islanders thought Domen dwelt. He had often spied Begietan, the first-born he had raised from a babe but had never truly known, hiking with his bow and long staff toward that part of the island. He wondered now if he shared not more with his spawn than ever before, and that thought did not cheer him. Beorn let his suspicions guide him.
As he tramped along the paths and the bracken, he marveled at how the island stayed constant even as human events changed so drastically. The lay of the land, inspiring in its beauty, still matched the years of his boyhood, streams gurgling around mossy rocks, gently rolling hillocks playing hide-and-seek with the ocean waves in the distance. The plants and animals remained as they had for generations of memory; some died each year, but others came forth and grew to be just like those that went before. Even the people, these people now busily tearing at each other’s hearts, even they appeared the same as when they had been given Feallengod. Beorn longed for a time, past or future, when he could enjoy the good things of the land without the constant conflict of right and wrong, leading him only to the conclusion to consider nothing good. And yet one day slipped by the same as the next to the midday sun. Its burning face, harsh in its disclosures, never failing in its same track from morning to night, from horizon to high in the heavens and descending again, seeing all but saying nothing.
Golden fruit hung among silver leaves.
The sun’s beams filtered through the skylight and into the inner chamber.
King Ecealdor took up one of the great scrolls: “Upon this day do your eyes rejoice in the fullness of truth.”
The door echoed a quiet tapping, and then silence.
Ecealdor arose from his studies and exited the inner chamber. At the door he opened to Secanbearn.
“He arrives,” she said, shielding her eyes.
“Yes, as well the time. He needs not hesitate to enter.”
Together they walked the deep hallways and into an antechamber off a huge library, walls lined with ornate carvings, shelves upon shelves of musty, ancient books, rows of deep pillows upon the floor. In the midst stood a young man, magnificent in bearing, dressed softly, his hair shining as if radiating light.
“Coren, joy can not flow so great, to embrace you again.” Ecealdor wrapped the young man in long, robed arms.
“Honor and glory to you, King Ecealdor,” he replied. “And may you rise most blessed among all women,” he added with a nod to Secanbearn. She smiled warmly and touched her chest, but said nothing.
“Coren, the people of Feallengod rebel against Gægnian. Iron grows into their sinews, and they no longer follow the law. They claim the island as their own, to fight over and possess unto themselves. Many watchmen have I sent to Feallengod, to warn them from their fallen ways, but to no avail. They will not join us. Domen withstood Bregdan, he withstood all the others, and my people gladly cause them abuse and slaughter. Add now Fulwiht. The people have become altogether corrupt and defiant, and I have shown them their error. I have demonstrated their rebellion; they have not revered my servants. The time arrives to pour it out completely.”
“I go at your bidding, Father.”
“Come, Coren, come and sit at my right hand.”
The king and his son reclined into matching chairs, richly polished and lushly upholstered. A huge, dark figure, perhaps no more than a shadow tinged red, loomed silently behind. Secanbearn knelt before them upon a pillow. Coren draped his cloak over her legs for her warmth and comfort, as a servant stirred angry, glowing coals in the massive fireplace, sparks flying upward within the library.
“This appointed day you depart for Feallengod, Coren,” began Ecealdor. “The time comes to defeat Domen, but sweet sacrifice must claim its price. You are my son, the royal seed of Gægnian. You endure my beloved son, the apple of my eye. All of Feallengod knows, for so we spoke to establish them, and yet many will not listen.”
“Yes, when I arrive, I know they will receive me as a stranger, even these people I love as one loves his brothers,” said Coren.
“I could send you with legions of soldiers, with a fleet of ships, and in great royal splendor, but not so. Force and majesty may turn their cheeks, but not their hearts; they must return through love.”
“Yes, we must remain patient with them. They wander like a flock ranging in a field, with no tender guidance.”
“You cannot go in your royal office. You must appear as one of them, so they will know you by the truth of your words rather than the glory of your raiment. You must go as one of them, so you can represent them to me, to plead their favor. They must know that you have come to uplift them, not beat them down.”
“Yes, I will lay humility upon my head for a time for their sakes. I will be servant to them, proving to them the heart of their king.”
“Many of them follow Domen, some willingly, many blindly. They will take counsel to set themselves against you and me. Many will hate you for the same reason that some will love you. Even those whom I have blessed greatly, those who sit in the gate, will speak against you. You must draw them back to me by their love, but love to come from you. It will arise from no other source.”
“Yes, I know many will lift their fists against me, but with the king’s hand upon me, what man of Feallengod can do me harm? I will declare your message to my brothers and sisters in the land. Let the people judge whether they hear,” said Coren.
“Danger will bear down upon you from the moment you arrive,” said Ecealdor.
“Yes, I have known these many days that trouble draws near upon Feallengod, with none to help. All your watchmen you have sent, and not one escaped unscathed. I expect nothing less.”
“Some would require your life of you.”
“Yes. We will see if they succeed. I will lay down my life before them, but perhaps they can take it up, and perhaps they can’t. Regardless, I must undertake this mission to Feallengod. It bears the promise of the king’s purposes, wonderful in their wisdom.”
“I must inflict this upon you.”
“At your pleasure, my lord.”
Secanbearn’s tears welled upon the desperation of the matter. Ecealdor and his son spoke words lightly dancing at the likelihood of death, as though arranging details of an obligation long settled, but in Secanbearn’s heart a tempest of fear and anguish raged. Cruelty had shot roots deep into the hearts of Feallengod, and she knew the fate of the king’s watchmen only winked at the malice that might await his son. The license declared in rebellion would crystallize with the end of the sovereign’s seed. As she sat at their feet, her mind fell upon days long past, spent watching Coren’s ways as a small boy. At last she buried her face in his cloak and sobbed.
“Secanbearn, take comfort. My enemies can not triumph over me,” said Coren.
“I trust in your word, my lord. But I can not see the future. I am afraid, still I am afraid,” Secanbearn replied, clasping her fingers together, one hand behind the other, palms facing her chest. “I fear for the people of Feallengod; how they have gone astray! I fear for you, and the suffering that surely awaits should you fall into Domen’s hands.” Her breasts heaved with each convulsing breath.
“Future is past is present. Domen will do his best. He may wound me, but his blows will amount to nothing. When he th
inks he has won, I will deliver a dreadful gash upon the dominion he so desires,” said Coren.
“Child, submit your heart to peace,” Ecealdor comforted Secanbearn, and he knelt beside her, laying his hands upon her shoulders. “Come, lift up your head. Kiss Coren, my son — so he will know the assurance of your love.”
Ecealdor pulled her to her feet, and she embraced Coren, wetting his neck with her tears and kisses. She rested her head upon his shoulder as the three left the library. Down the long hall, lit with flickering candlelight, they walked together, speaking softly of what lay ahead and behind, until they strolled through the doors, out of the palace and into the brilliant, streaming sunlight of Gægnian.
In the darkness drawn over Feallengod, Beorn strained to see into the dense forest. I strained to not see, to forget what I had witnessed. The heavy cover of the leaves overhead allowed entry to almost no light, and there I hid, only Gastgedal and my drunkenness knowing. I stubbornly maintained I had not asked to take part in these events; some being thrust them upon my nightmares. The woods stood deathly quiet, no sound of animals, nor birds, nor insects, nor even babbling water. Only Beorn’s approaching footsteps on the dried leaves and branches could I hear as he stumbled near. Soon his mind and eyes, disoriented and lost, swirled in confusion.
Branches battered at Beorn’s head and shoulders from above, as he vainly struck back against their taunting. He stumbled over limbs, fallen long ago, lunging at him like striking snakes. Every knoll and hollow lay in wait, concealed by the carpet of leaves and undergrowth, a trap for his faltering steps. Eyes peering at his frightened countenance and into his mind — more than once he turned about in a panic, seeking the presence he surely felt at his back. The trees’ pointing fingers overhead accused him. He tried to recall the passing events that had brought him to this place, but he no longer could sort out his churning judgments and the reasons behind them. “Feallengod has died,” Beorn thought, “No longer do I live in the homeland I loved. Feallengod becomes some nightmarish land of exile for me.”
At length he staggered near to me, half buried under debris, and tripped over my inert feet, without knowing, and so there I was to become guardian of his secret. Upon the ground he heard the muted gurgle of a small stream, and his hands felt for the wetness, resigned that mere survival was all the land left to him, the best he could hope for. He pushed aside some rotting leaves, knees sinking in muck, and scooped a little of the water with his hand to drink. As he genuflected by the flow, Beorn remembered a Feallengod of long ago, and a tear gave itself to the stream.
There in the gloom stood Domen.
“Do you tire of sitting in the gate, Beorn Feohtan? Do you prefer the mud now, man of Feallengod, or do you seek me out?” His face glowed with derision, his voice crowing, proving well enough that Domen no longer pursued Beorn, but rather took final hold of him.
“I do,” replied Beorn forlornly.
“Will you follow me then?”
“I will.”
“Do you swear?”
“I do.”
“Now sing your adoration to Ecealdor, fool of Feallengod!”