Chapter XIII
The fire crackled with desire for the dusk; its flickering light fought a dancing battle against the shadows on the faces gathered about. In low voices a few intoned ancient words of Gægnian:
“Lift high your shoulders, take the red seal,
“Establish the mighty king’s strength.
“The distant shadow of deep despair’s hope
“Knows not height, neither breadth, neither length.
“Bend hard under blows, lift high ev’ry head,
“One day Gægnian’s door ‘ere life’s losing.
“Thorns pierce the flesh on the road’s compelled walk,
“But for one, and that of his choosing.”
“Though beauty abounds upon Feallengod, it compares not to Gægnian,” Coren said with a smile, leaning toward Hatan and the small following with him. “All the stories you’ve heard from long ago bear witness to truth. The waters rush and leap as though alive themselves; the sky reaches higher than your imagination; even the dirt fills with wonder, like a rich cake — mud frosting. Even that sounds good to my hunger. Always will I long to return. Imagine my homeland as Feallengod buffed to a high polish. And to enter into the presence of the king lifts the valiant heart beyond anything the eyes can see or mind perceive.”
“Magister, your exhaustion must weigh upon you,” said Hatan to his leader. “You’ve walked all the day, and have only sprouting grass to lay upon. We don’t even have scraps enough for a decent supper. Won’t you come to my home, to eat tonight with my family?”
“Will your brother sup as well?” asked Coren.
“I do not keep track of my brother.”
“His anger swallows him up — he has rejected the king, and the king knows. Do not become like him. Does your father reside at home tonight?”
“Likely, Magister, though I know not for certain.”
“Then let’s be off, Son of Feohtan, the table awaits set already,” said Coren, dusting off his trousers as he arose. The weather had turned brighter as winter waned, but still a sharp chill hung in the air. The green of the annuals yet still hid away, and the smell of dust and smoke mingled with the pungent hubris of early spring’s boasting all across creation.
“You will know our house,” said Hatan happily as they walked, “by the scarlet frame about our door.”
Beorn and Cwen sat together before the Feohtan hearth, and Hatan’s heart fell to see Begietan as well had chosen to spend a rare evening with his family. Apologetic eyes found reassurance in Coren’s smile; he set his sack outside the door. Beorn received both graciously, but Begietan’s sardonic smile revealed what he wished to cloak. Knowing Hatan’s attachment to Coren, Domen had set Begietan about to watch for opportunity.
“Of course, I make you welcome, for the sake of my son, if nothing else,” said Beorn.
“Truly a father honors his son, and the son honors the father,” Coren replied, draping his arm upon Hatan’s shoulders.
Cwen set the meal to table as Hatan assisted. Soon all sat before modest portions of venison, steaming vegetables and bread piping hot. Coren tore from the loaf, passing it on as he reached to dip in the dish of spiced oil. Across the table, Begietan did likewise, knuckles rudely raking Coren’s hand.
“Was that me?” he said with mock regret.
“After you. Crossroads invite perilous turning,” said Coren, withdrawing his hand. Begietan sneered, pushing his bread deep into the oil, and the opposing forces tipped the dish. The spilled oil dripped off the edge of the table, dropping spots of newness upon haggard leather of Coren’s shoes.
“Look, now you’ve wasted it,” groused Begietan.
Beorn struggled to say something. His voice surprised him by asking, “What does your father want?”
“The king wants a people to believe his promises, not results; a people obedient even unto their own loss,” Coren replied.
“But who could make himself do such a thing?”
“I cannot set a table like those you know in Gægnian,” Cwen interrupted, looking hesitantly, tinged with shame, toward Beorn, who fell silent. “My husband makes it difficult for me to serve. I pray this fare arises to your liking, sir.”
“Sitting under a roof, milady, offers its own blessing, and a fire, and friendly faces,” said Coren. “Your food may appear humble, yet still it fuels fellowship more even so than the body. Surely we will all hunger again soon; but the memory of our communion here will remain forever. Bread feeds the belly, the family and community — yet see how it crumbles in the hand? Still, a great blessing of abundance emerges from the soil of Feallengod, a gift to you from Ecealdor.”
“Yes, from Ecealdor,” said Beorn quietly, and he thought again of his grandfather, and his father, and sat wondering. His fingers idly studied the tines of his fork, whether they be straight or bent.
“Everything on this table belongs to us,” Begietan broke in brusquely. “We raised it in our orchards, by our own sweat. You people like to talk about Ecealdor, but he had no part in it.” His eyes rested with a smirk upon Hatan, who felt his ears burning.
“Begietan …” Beorn began, but cut himself off weakly. He turned his head to look toward the window.
“Your blessing issues from Ecealdor, a blessing not to be despised,” Coren answered. “One among you has turned it into a curse, for you can neither eat all of the orchards’ abundance, nor will you give even a portion to those who perish without. You shut the orchards off to the rest of your community and to yourself also; you groan under the burden of wealth. The king bequeaths authority over the orchards to you, but while you jealously guard the fruits, the authority has fallen to thieves.”
“You insult my father!” Begietan grandly rose to his feet. So suddenly did he stand, his chair clattered to the floor beneath him. “You lay a curse upon us, a curse upon Feallengod. I say curse you!”
“Begietan …” Beorn repeated, looking back toward him, and as well repeating his cowed silence.
“Begietan, I bring him as a guest!” protested Hatan. “You speak against the prince! This is my house too!”
“I know my prince upon Feallengod. You people should know by now, too,” growled Begietan.
“Did not Liesan suffer unjustly?” asked Coren.
“What?!” sputtered Begietan.
“For this reason I come, not for a curse.”
“Oh!” said Cwen, nervous and flustered. “Did you not want supper?”
“The house belongs not to you, nor you,” Coren continued, giving no attention to the confusion. “Your possessions upon Feallengod pass through a tissue reality. When you sink into death, will a spade or shirt follow you? Neither can you claim the orchards’ possession. They come to you a blessing from Ecealdor, and they abide. But you turn them into a curse, for you set aside precious fruits and spices for yourselves, but ignore the more important duties of the steward: justice and mercy for your brothers and sisters. With these things should you concern yourselves, not the altar of selfish interests. Did you buy your life at your birth? It slips away even as you grasp after it. Living under the power of Ecealdor is like a full cup, but you have poured it out. Like bread, it fuels life, life given freely to all, life lived one to another,” he said, contemplating the morsel he had torn from the loaf.
“That’s all I will stand! We’ve had enough of your palaver,” Begietan stepped heavily toward Coren. Hatan tried to intercede, then sent sprawling to the floor by a vicious fist. Begietan grabbed Coren by the neck to throw him from his chair. The table jarred violently, cups spilling and lit candles dangerously splattering wax and fire upon the cloth. A cut opened upon Coren’s lip, a trickle of blood encroaching his chin.
Beorn remained, sullen, in his chair. Cwen went to Hatan’s aid as he lay bleary upon the ground, and she cried out in her anguish at the conflict of her home. Begietan upended furniture, and shelves emptied their contents to the floor as he dragged Coren from the house and down the steps. The blood flowed in earnest as Be
gietan kicked him into the street. Coren did not struggle, but neither did he keep silent.
“You have turned the gift into a curse, for you covet it to yourselves. The land is but a shadow! You strive to withhold life from those who would live. I say to you, drink of the cup! The draught of fullness flows upon the waters of Heofon. You desire more than food and drink to fill your bellies, yet you realize not! You may hoard the fruits of Ecealdor’s blessing, but you cannot hide away his draught of fullness.”
Down the streets and alleys Begietan profaned Coren, jerking him roughly off his feet, dragging him upon the paving stones, batting at his head with his free hand. Along the way he called men out from their homes. I loitered at one of the community’s irregular corners, Gastgedal with me, he gripping a flagon cast aside too soon by a careless carouser, happily drinking in the fumes. I believe my nose could almost remember my days spent in whirling confusion, by that bottle’s odor. It sickened me, but like the other unthinking onlookers, as though invited to feast, I girded my strength and fell in behind the foul procession. The argument again seemed to turn in Domen’s favor.
Now I can see the miscarriage of vain wisdom: The more idly fascinated, the more indifferent spectators, the more dispassionately prudent men added to the crowd, all the more powerful Domen appeared to all others. At the time these events seemed only a show, not much more than melodrama acted upon a stage, the people an innocuous addition. I know it now, oh how I believe within my soul, that behind the façade crept a reality vivid in its obscurity, so densely real that I tremble now to think of it, though then it remained ephemeral, like the zephyr itself. More and more and more we oblivious people blithely surrendered our lives over to the one who most wanted to steal them away. I thought of Domen as like me, but not as my leader; I thought of him as compatriot — I didn’t see my enemy. He lusted after power; though not sharing that ambition, I could accept it at face; I didn’t know the means to his end would be by ruining me. Vengeance is a slithering menace.
This crowd of sordid curiosity fell in behind Begietan as the commotion grew, inciting vile acts, a number helping him manhandle Coren. Many pelted the prince with rotting garbage and curses; stones and staffs appeared out of the dust and spittle to land heavy blows upon him. Hatan followed, struggling to reach Coren but unable to muscle through the violence of the mob.
“You turn your damnations upon yourselves, for even as you killed all my father’s watchmen, you now complete the measure of your rebellion. Feallengod! Lower not your eyes, but seek a higher thing! Seek out mercy, to show mercy, to turn away from self! Soon you will long for the soft brooding of the hen, but will find only the eagle’s talons.” Coren continued his pleas for the people’s hearts as often as he could catch his breath.
Shoving and kicking, the growing crowd forced Coren outside the community gate. Bruised and marred, his clothing torn and smeared with blood and filth, and still the staffs reached out their jabbing; his face so battered and wrung in anguish as to offend the eyes, Coren was cast out and carried along by a wave of hatred unleashed. Against the horizon, standing alone, awaited Domen, vile silhouette, observing the action with arms crossed.
Coren’s eyes lit upon him, then somehow Hatan; there he walked just behind me, and Coren peered through my body, made of me a ghost, to call to him: “He will cast you to the wind like grain if he can,” as they dragged him away. I turned and saw in Hatan’s face the horrified knowledge that this atrocity had begun with his simple offer of hospitality; what a perverted thrill rushed with my pulse. Angrily I clutched his coat and demanded, “Throw your lot with him?” I would have spit in his eye, but, suddenly gripped with fear as well as my ragged fingers, Hatan stopped in his tracks and said nothing, not even blinking at me, his self-appointed inquisitor.
“S’matter, boy?!” railed Gastgedal. “Not so quick to judge sitting on the docket yourself! You’ve been with him!”
Hotly I glared, bluffing for an answer for a delicious moment, luxuriating in the tumult of Hatan’s thoughts. Knowing I could do nothing with him, I pushed him off, dismissing him with a sarcastic “smart boy,” and left him sulking in the wash of the multitude.
The crowd paused once it approached the feet of Domen, as I yelled slanders, and Coren dropped to the ground. Begietan struck a pose, a gladiator in conquest before his Caesar.
“You could have called legions of men to Feallengod,” Domen glared at Coren.
“Then how many would perish? But as I depart, so too will all peace abandon Feallengod, and only strife and slaughter remain,” he replied, a mouthful of blood trailing designs in the dust.
“What foolishness!”
“Perhaps this foolishness will open your eyes to wisdom one day, Domen.”
Domen leaned in close to whisper. “I know what you seek here. Do not think your father will reclaim this people, not after they destroy his beloved. One man cannot redeem when I have destroyed all men. I take not your life, but rather you choose to cast it away.”
“Well you speak, Domen, but little do you believe.”
Domen arose and turned toward the west, raised his fist and screamed, “Do you hear? This blood lies not upon my head!” He took a step from Coren as if to leave, and drew away Begietan by the arm.
“One thing remains for you,” and he handed Begietan a long parcel wrapped in rough, brown cloth. Though Begietan’s right hand was that of strength, Domen placed the bundle in his left. “Get close to him, close enough for a kiss, for in so doing you will stab not only him in the heart but your brother as well. Yes, you will do my bidding; you will do this thing, for you are just as I am.”
The madding crowd had picked Coren up again, and Domen led us to a low hill, the very little mount upon which Beorn and Hatan first heard him speak. There we stood him up, reeling from the beatings, and shook our voices like angry squirrels, railing at him.
“People of Feallengod! Please, quiet! Calm – calm, my people,” called out Domen, with gestures only limply trying to control the frenzy. “You have grown angry, and rightly so, but, please, let us reason, and be wise.” Hands outstretched, he drew closer to Coren, his presence and words applying the effect of a heavy storm hanging over us. We fell into uneasy silence, and I tried to look like I would pay no particular attention.
Domen’s chin jutted, his mouth twisting into a revolting frown. “You see before you a criminal, a sick, deluded man who brings nothing but trouble upon you. He and his toadies provoke your thoughts against yourselves, prick your hearts with false conviction, goad you into guilt you cannot bear. Good people, my good, good people, you know you do not deserve his persecution.
“What shall we do with this man? Do we not have a law here upon Feallengod? Did not Ecealdor himself establish this law forever: ‘Wait upon yourself, and bless yourself richly.’ What has this man done that has shown blessing? Badger us until we weep? Make our hearts heavy over what our nature simply desires? How then can we love ourselves? No, he has broken the law. He has dipped us in fear to draw us away from the law of Ecealdor!”
His words stirred the crowd like coals of fire again, and all the people pressed in on Coren. I swept along with the furor, willingly compelled to join the turmoil; I placed a few fists in guts that presented themselves. Voices arose demanding a defense from Coren. “You! You call yourself seed of the king! You threaten to take power in Feallengod! We have a word for you to hear! We will rule ourselves!” This tirade suited me well; let each man follow his own way, it mattered not.
“You do not realize what you say. My father’s decrees will arrive upon Feallengod, even as they abide in Gægnian,” Coren panted.
“Your father discards you to the ashes,” Domen said to him. Back to the crowd, Domen picked up his refrain, “Yes, he claims to bring message from Gægnian. He claims to represent Ecealdor, but does he follow the king’s law? No! Indeed, he openly mocks it! That, my friends, cuts my heart most, as he takes the name of the dear king in vain. If Ecealdor had sent him, woul
d you see this battered condition upon him? No, surely the king would save him; he would wrap his son in might. Hypocrite! Liar! Criminal! We say you deserve to die for your crimes!” he screamed into Coren’s face.
Begietan worked his way through the crowd, to the front, his eyes shooting side to side. “He must die for his crimes! He must die for his crimes!” Domen’s ghoulish chant gradually caught up the crowd, “He must die! He must die!” My empty soul lifted my empty voice to join. Begietan sidled up to the prince, whose exhausted body drooped but somehow stayed erect. I elbowed through the crowd, better to see.
With what seemed tremendous effort, Coren cast his gaze upon Domen beside him — steel eyes. “Domen, I will fight you to the death.”
To my mind all else halted as he slowly lifted his right arm, a single finger extended. How many seconds passed, or days, I know not; my eyes saw only the prince’s touch. He reached across his body and lightly placed his finger upon Domen’s forehead.
Suddenly the crowd sprang again to life, and Begietan lunged forward, leapt to the defense of his master, to cup the back of Coren’s neck. His right hand grasping the prince, drawing him close, Begietan swept back his left, flicking it violently. The brown cloth flew into the air and fluttered to the ground behind him, a flash of light glaring from a short sword. Coren’s arms swung out, stretched to each side, palms toward the sky, sleeves flaring like the wings of a dove taking flight. Begietan pressed his cheek close as he plunged the sword into Coren’s right side, impaled beneath his ribs. Coren gasped and took two stumbling steps away, the red blade pulling quickly out of his flesh. Blood kicked from his wound and splattered upon me; I stood staring and woozy. Someone jostled my attention and I smiled sickly, as though my stomach was hanging out of my mouth, to show myself unmoved. My eye caught Gastgedal, and struck by his pale surprise. Coren hung upon his feet for a moment, a face filled with wonder and concern, then tipped backwards onto the young grass. His head hit the ground hard, but without word or cry, eyes empty. A cloud of frosty breath escaped like phantasm as his mouth gaped, and he moved no more.
That moment — horrific to my core — I dread the sight ever coming my way again. Fleeting like a rampaging bull, its terror escaped me not even then; I think not a single breath drew in that moment. Like the flash of foreboding that grips a man at an unexpected noise in the dark, or the delirious waking from a nightmare, a sense of terrific anguish and outrage ran through my imagination. A single life lost, that was all – yet still something greater had shrouded the island. In that second I imagined the stone of the law, and the rope slipping a notch; slowly that stone turned, and the rope groaned. I returned my stare; something more than a single man had fallen. Perhaps because we had witnessed the end of the royal line, or the precious blood that soaked Feallengod soil, but that flash of moment testified to more than just what my eyes had seen. My heart did leap like a startled cat, but just as quickly resumed its stultifying beat: It occurs to me now that mine lay more dead that day than Coren’s.
The sun dipped out of sight, and an unusually bleak dusk fell over the land Feallengod. Lightning flashed from a distant thunderstorm rolling in over the ocean. Far away from the crowd’s back, Hatan’s chest emptied purely hollow in his agony, his heart a leaden weight. Behind him stood Beorn, finally roused from his chair, following along slowly, at last catching up to the melee. He silently grieved for the young man, grieved for the violence of Begietan’s hand, even grieved for Feallengod. Tragedy multiplied upon the island, and now returned upon the king. Then again, he thought, Coren’s time upon Feallengod could have had no other end. Perhaps Domen’s ranting now revealed its truth. He turned to walk away, no comfort found nor given.
Domen eyed the scene, gazed at the body, suddenly not sure what had just come to pass. Certainly he had won. But why would Coren go into death so readily? Had Domen been duped by a dead man? He tried to shake off an odd sense of doubt.
The crowd fell silent for a moment, but slowly a glad undercurrent arose. Begietan, standing witlessly with his murder weapon, smeared with Coren’s gore, now raised the bloody pike high overhead, his triumph complete, the most worthy son of Feallengod. The mob lifted up a tremendous cheer and surged forward.
Domen cleared his cobwebs to seize the moment. “People of Feallengod, you have thrown off tyranny! No heir is left to the king! The bloodlines of Ecealdor run dry! Celebrate, people of Feallengod! The inheritance falls to you! Feel your island beneath your feet, for the land belongs to you now and no other!”
Again a gruesome cheer, and I joining in, curse my voice and the breath behind it. But I gladly shook off that instant of terror — anything to respirit my safe, smug confines of self-importance. Use the crowd, fade into its folds, separate unto inscrutable self-interest. The good people of Feallengod dragged Coren’s body to the ash heap – a final throwing off of royal authority, just as Domen said – far from the community, where garbage burned and smoldered, flames constantly flaring and dying in turn. Rudely dumped upon the waste, empty eyes open to the acid air, his crumpled remains lay like a heartbroken child, and drops from a coming storm pocked away all traces of human activity. Nothing exists more useless than a dead man.
Quickly most all of the community prepared for grand celebration. Precious little toward the festivity came from me, apathy born of nothing more honorable than laziness. Once the hedonism commenced, my appetites found the thick of it.
As the hours and days ground past, Domen’s men pushed into the peoples’ homes. Under force men and women relinquished their gold and silver, the earrings and bracelets and chains they had hidden away. This too suited me well, for with Mægen-El’s chalice cast aside, and Liesan’s sapphire long ago bartered, I had no precious possession to hide or steal.
A heavy pounding landed upon the Feohtans’ door.
“Give over!” demanded one of Domen’s lieutenants.
“What? What do you mean?” Cwen wavered, unable to mask the fright in her voice.
“This! We know you have it! Give over!” The man grabbed the leather string holding the gold medallion, the image of the fawn, and tore it away from Cwen’s neck. The single, violent jerk ripped open her blouse and yanked her to the ground, blood oozing from the strafing wound, and there she sobbed in the doorway of her home.
A great heap of such items, large and small, accumulated in the square before the stone law, blank in its worn oversight. The smithy melted down the precious metal, and artisans shaped it to form a mighty lion, complete with crowned head. Great were its teeth, long and fully bared, and its claws extended and sharp. Eyes filled with anger and purpose stared out ahead of the terrible creature. The polished metal shone as bright as the sun, the sun even as Domen cursed it, blinding the crowd to its wonderful glory. A magnificent flowing mane perched upon its neck and shoulders, trailing along its back all the way to the serpentine tail, and muscles fairly rippled within its powerful legs and flanks. Never had a more glorious, foreboding work of art been fashioned upon Feallengod.
“This statue enshrines your great victory over tyranny from afar!” Domen shrieked. “This figure rises a monument to liberty! Receive your symbol of my glorious majesty!”
Great stores of succulent foods emerged wondrously from the houses of Feallengod, at last, at least for this moment – generosity inspired no doubt by threat and toadeating. Tables upon tables, lined end to end, and still the banquet spilled over onto the cobbles. Wine flowed from flagon to cup first, then directly into gullets as jubilants slaked themselves in its power. For days the riotous festivities escalated, through the day, into the night, beyond the rising sun.
Music played endlessly, raucous and to the end of no melody, and we danced until exhaustion felled us. We gave ourselves to every conceivable debauchery, sacrificing the disciplines our culture had taught for generations. Most all of us wallowed in each other’s embrace, and those who didn’t made good use of opportunity, relieving otherwise occupied revelers of their purses. Rejoicing slid into
angry outbursts and violent quarrels, then back again into carousing. Somewhere, at some time within the dark nights, gangs of vandals took sledge hammers to the ancient stone of the law, and reduced it to gravel.
Never had my stomach strained more full. I had fairly forgotten the feeling, a belly solid like rock. My cravings claimed their rights during those days: I made full use of the grand tables, at them, on them, under them. Yet in their midst was I starving to death. The delicate wiles of maidens became a feast of pretty thighs, and the grease of gluttony streamed down my cheeks and chin. Only did I refuse my old rival the bottle, even as Gastgedal did nothing to restrain kissing its tender sweetness at this most glorious occasion. With a head clear of shadows, and free of his continual prattling, I made all the better at every other vice I could dream of.
Over the braying attended Domen, an unholy priest, contentedly smiling and frowning as one. “Eat and drink, my people, for the flesh is your being, and Feallengod is your trough.”
Hatan as well observed from afar. “A noise like war lifts its head, dancing upon death and beating on the bones of martyrs,” and he retreated deep into the orchards.
He sat grieving, neither working nor sleeping, thinking nor knowing. His body bowed under the weight of his guilt. Beorn’s words echoed in his ears: Just like Begietan. Just like Begietan — but no, yet worse. He had loved Coren. But so? Didn’t he stand silent at the bloody moment when Coren needed him most? Could he claim to love Coren now? He betrayed the prince out of cowardice alone, and had proven only his love for his own skin. The voice of his thoughts tortured him, leaning upon the strength of his beloved grove of trees, weeping bitterly.
I still feel the rough texture of his coat, digging in my wretched fingers, still smell the earthy scent of the fabric as I bullied him into destruction. That was my only goal, as though his doom served me in some way. I peer at these hands; they seem not to me now capable of such wickedness. These hands, the very tools of my writing, my calling, covered in ink, covered in blood.
Now, in death, Hatan thought, Coren at least deserved burial, not exposure to circling birds. Fully three days had passed since his murder; surely by now decay had settled into the body, in spite of the cool weather. Hatan determined to collect the corpse and secure a grave. Desolate in his sorrow and loneliness, he trudged toward the ash heap – careful to give wide distance to the community – dreading this duty but determined to see it through. His breath hung mistily in the early morning hours. Suddenly he stopped short, frozen in confusion.
The ash heap spread before him bare. An impression, a shape in form like a human, sharply defined, reclined in the cinders, but Coren’s body had vanished. In its midst a tiny seed, perhaps falling from the folds of his clothing, had taken root, sprouting from the desolate mound, reaching infant branches to the sky. A sudden wind blasted down from the peaks of the high mountains, off in the distance, roaring with great force across the barren spot of dirt. The gale hit with shocking strength, like the blast of a trumpet, hammering Hatan to the ground; as well all signs left of where Coren’s body had lain blew into history, dust that blows across the wide world, filling cracks and crevasses, invading eyes and teeth but keeping secret its story. Then, just as abruptly as the air had stirred its passions, it fell still, and the little tree held fast.