Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

  Chapter XVIII

  Cwen fell into silence after that day. Though she directed none of her quiet against Beorn, it little mattered; where once singing reigned, now ruled a sorrowful hush, and he applied the blame to his own head, a further penalty for his foolishness. Now Cwen neither complained nor cared about their table, for the orchards’ waning foods had lost their savor: She barely ate even for survival, and her hands surrendered their industry. Few times did I see her, and fewer still her eyes caught me; she walked about as though headed nowhere but afraid she might arrive – her mind blank, her expression anxious. Every hour her thoughts turned only upon Hatan, and Begietan, and Astigan, upon the precious past and the barren future. Her heart felt like wax within her, and love drained from the Feohtan hovel.

  Beorn himself took to weary idleness. He abandoned his seat in the gate to the pigeons, as he would no longer be witness to the village’s descent into hell. Domen ordered him to turn out his cellars, his storehouses, the orchards’ produce so miserly guarded at last released; the fruits and vegetables, reduced to putrid mush, made more suitable for Domen now. What food remained to glean from his lands, Beorn so did, though most of the trees had gone to ruin. These children of the soil too fell victim to his spade; once beloved, now sacrificed, their roots boiled into paltry soup. The Feohtans’ appetites had fully squandered the plants and trees of the garden, yet the shame he felt over this wreckage still could not stop his scavenging. Indeed, he had little choice: Domen’s largesse took prisoner of the islanders, and scant marketing survived among the dwindling number of shopkeepers who resisted the brand of the lion.

  As for me, I tried to reclaim invisible life upon Feallengod. My ability to fade into the woodwork, with Begietan out of the way, served me well as I blended into nothingness. I had tried joining a movement, which proved distasteful. My anger had been beaten down — brutal headmaster – and as well my pretense of living for myself. True to his word, Gastgedal would not let me be, forever imposing his will upon my action. My proud self-absorption fell away to reveal only confusion, and nothing more than a void, like a tomb, rushed into its place. Love for years had been a talent lost to me, with no regard for anyone but myself; now I saw even myself an empty prospect. I no longer found resource nor satisfaction within; the awful mutilation of my face left me as hideous to see as to know. I cared about nothing but my next breath, and took and left whatever work presented itself, if any. Idle puttering about the fields or Four Rivers filled the days as I kept my head low. My eyes sought no others, but always went first to a man’s forearm. Sleeves worn long especially roused suspicion, and yet my own went always to my wrists. Gastgedal had been one of the first to take the lion, and his incessant pressure to follow gave me no end of grief. The bottle he used to wear at my resistance, and the persuasions of women, but drink’s fascination had already turned dry for me; the warmth of a shared bed abhorrent.

  “You’re blowing any chance for dominion over these men. Every one who has taken the brand is ahead of you – every one better than you,” he rode me more than once. “You’re lucky our Draca friends have not already pulled the string on you.”

  Having lost dominion over myself, I had no designs to gain such over anyone else, but Gastgedal had no concept of this. “Not today. I have things to do,” I made excuse.

  “What? Warm the earth as you lie flat on your back? You sleep away your ambition. You grow fat and lazy.”

  My hands pretended to do something. “I’m not ready to swear to Domen. I don’t want – ”

  “What you want matters nothing. I’m with Domen, and what he wants is all you need care about. Admit it, deep down you take our side anyway, every time.”

  “I don’t want to make any decision now,” I insisted.

  “Wanting isn’t good enough. You’d best be prepared to defend yourself, give reasons before Domen’s accusing. I’ll tell you once more – submit to us now.” As his voice grew more threatening, so also did his shoulders and fists.

  “Oh, leave me alone,” I capitulated. “Just not now. I don’t feel well.”

  “Certainly you don’t – you shake with fear. You are not fit to take the brand of Domen,” he growled. “Weak and stupid you are, too weak to make of yourself any use. Domen has no need for such trash anyway! You who are afraid to take a brand, to suffer for your master!” He brandished his forearm before my face. “He will show you suffering! You have much to fear indeed. I have to tell you everything, and I tell you now you’re not fit for his service!”

  I only wished it were so.

  “Come on,” I said, “Is there nothing else we can talk about?”

  “All words lead to Domen,” Gastgedal cupped both hands behind his head and leaned back into philosophy. “All acts fulfill his will upon Feallengod. Then why not some fun, my lovely? It will draw you ever closer to the lion.”

  “What then?” I feigned enthusiasm.

  “I know of a house. It stands empty except for tools – someone has stuffed in implements to the rafters. They are storing up treasures for some secret purpose. These playthings beg for fire.”

  “Do you suggest arson? I don’t know – ”

  “No, you never know; it’s a good thing I do. You would like to see it burn, the destruction of someone’s desires. Your heart would dance with the flames. How many times have you gone frustrated? Enough to pass around? Then let some other fool share in your pain. Let it burn, feel the burn upon your face and flying sparks singe your hair! In flames there is life! Sweet destruction!” He pushed his stinking mug into mine like a giddy lover to seduce me into his overheated impulse.

  I wanted to, and did not want to; knowing he would not relent, I found giving in the easiest road, while still staving off yet worse ruin. But up to my ankles or up to my neck, my feet were still stuck in a sucking mire. Still, I so succeeded in keeping Gastgedal’s mood pacified, if not jovial; as for myself I found no more humor in him, nor in Ecealdor, nor certainly in Domen. My greatest desire came to be in stillness among others without the brand, unnoticed and unwanted, but not alone. And hunger burned at my gut.

  Feallengod sought closure as it committed the dead to the ground, its mourning mixed with the forced revelry of Domen’s victory jubilee. Every night great diversions of pronounced debauchery swarmed upon the square, bestial veneration of the lion, as the people sold themselves to celebrate license. I had seen such before, and had no heart for it. The pulp that came from Beorn’s hoard passed through the alchemy shop and emerged a kind of paste, delivered to the people as they took the brand. The paste came gladly, for thugs continued to clear out wares and shut down shops; Domen heartily provided, as well — the more the better, moderation sternly discouraged. The growing festivity condemned in its emptiness, and as the weeks passed, the hopelessness that hung over the island drew tight its coils. More and more the populace consumed the paste, and their eyes showed less and less life. The village had been shattered, divided into the missing, the dead, the living and those somewhere in-between.

  A new wall arose around the village, a palisade of tall spikes, each topped by a body, stripped of clothing and life, mouths agape and eyes sunken. Some fresh with gore, others dried in the brutal heat of vengeance, held up as example after the cruel fate of Fulwiht, my own victim. Under their gaze I languished, for trimmed in gauzy flax, with her familiar shrewd mien, I recognized my wife. Oh, the curses I pour upon myself! Am I not to blame, not impaled in her place, giving my life to preserve my bride? What devotion I gave to saving my own skin, worthless, while those in my care perished. Forgive me, my darling, my king; share with me the mercy I denied others. The empty sockets weep, they see deep into the blackness of my heart. Today I can only call her better than I, for taking the pike.

  Slowly the lion’s roster claimed new numbers of men and women, fearful, hungry acquiescence to Domen’s requirements. The followers of the brand and the paste increased in number and devotion. Gastgedal would sit before me with his bowl, thoughtfully,
mechanically stuffing mush into his mouth with his fingers, staring deep into my eyes and into my stomach. I had no taste for it, and yet it called to me, and I turned my face toward it and away; the hunger dug in its heels. Those who indulged quickly grew dependant, and they sought it like hubris. Men and women fell into its grip, force-feeding their children of this wicked inheritance, giving their bodies over to dull emotion and hollow satisfaction. The more they partook, the more they desired, and they came to worship the obscene stupor it offered.

  As for others who remained stubborn and still somehow alive, they secreted away what little gold they had, hidden from Domen’s hoodlums, but soon found it worthless in this time of want, illegal to own, not enough to secure them even a day’s crust of bread, should they find one. So they resigned to abandon it, and Domen’s riches increased. His most fanatical followers had lined up immediately for the brand; the latter ones made a show of coming just as gladly. Some considered acquiring the brand a rite of passage, a show of sacrifice. Domen demanded nothing less.

  The platform that had elevated Domen to royalty remained in the square, set behind the golden lion, an absurd parade ground for affixing the brand. A stout brick hearth sat like a corpulent judge, and fires burned day and night. Some half-dozen menacing brands stuck out of the furnace, glowing red with heat. Long lines of muddled mankind climbed the stairs, each one a cog in a human machine, every man and woman taking turn in the chair at the branding place, right arm strapped like death to a stout wooden brace. A heavy man applied the brand as the recipient writhed, pulled desperately, vainly battled the bound arm. The air hung heavy with the sound of searing flesh, screams, groans and an undercurrent of indifferent laughter; some observers worried sorely for the branding man, wilting under the heat of the furnace. Water splashed upon the faces of those now swooning in the chair, then unstrapped, dragged from the seat and shoved teetering toward the stairs at platform’s edge. There each received a bowl of the rotting slop, glad reward for the grand show of allegiance, so sealing another minion. A clerk kept precise count of those who passed through the ordeal, as the man switched out another brand from the fire.

  Even as the suffering surged, the people came. They gambled away their last, most precious possession on hopes of finding mercy amid the coals of cruelty. They threw their destiny at the foot of the lion, a brazen image of impotent treasure, and bowed to the pleasures of Domen.

  Now unable to reclaim my life from its drifting between Ecealdor and Domen, still sleeping famished within and filthy without, for a time I let my hunger wrestle into stalemate with desire; Beorn held out with greater concern. He counted himself responsible for Cwen’s suffering, and worry over her plagued him — he rested sure that hunger would not drive her to the brand, but she might starve to death without knowing. The wound of the longboats sailing off the edge of his world, leaving Feallengod to its worst inclinations, remained festering. His thoughts of futures past haunted him every minute. All about him he saw heartless faces of the village, eyes staring a hole through him. He saw the scorched stems and leaves of the orchards, the soil turned rock-hard, the deadwood. He observed the growing thuggery of the streets, and from all these things, he sought seclusion.

  Slipping into the Boar’s Brew, he chose a booth in a corner.

  “You’re in here early,” the tavern-keeper set down half a mug of bitters. His shirt sleeves, rolled high to his biceps, carefully exposed forearms decorated by hair and none else. “Sorry, this is all I can serve.”

  “No matter. I have nowhere else to go. How goes business?” Beorn asked, showing courtesy but nothing more.

  “Never better. Later on enough drinking and decadence will flow in here to make you sick. Makes me sick.” The man looked about his inn as though he didn’t recognize it. “These people now, they come in already drunk on something, and when I tell them I cannot serve more than this half-stein, they declare bold as brass they’ll kill me. I don’t doubt it. They turn this place into a brothel every night, a temple for their whoring, and I can’t stop them.”

  Beorn wondered for a moment why the man was still talking, before realizing he had invited it. “Can’t you call upon the elders?”

  The tavern-keeper’s look into Beorn’s eyes ill-disguised his disdain. “An elder like you, I suppose? What will you do about it? Slink out of here before hell converges? All the elders with any power remaining carry the lion. Cursed brand. My wife says just take it, she says, but I won’t. I won’t do it. They demand it upon my sign. This tavern has carried the Boar’s Brew crest since my great-grandfather, and I’m not changing it. Stinking brand!” The tavern-keeper pulled a chair up to Beorn’s table.

  “I seek no argument nor company.” Beorn didn’t take kindly to the criticism, though neither could he deny it. The man’s words forced Beorn into the very thoughts he fled. Besides, he had entered into this place for solace of solitude.

  “Sure, suit yourself,” the tavern-keeper got up but left the chair well in place.

  Beorn slammed down the remainder of his drink. Numbly he sat, mind inert, a tangle of misery and confusion. Grief and despair dared him try to think or not think. Soon empty yearning filled his head, as though some benevolent spirit might change the world for him. He wished for his youth back, he wished for the last several months back. Finally he settled on wishing for death; no other refuge persuaded him. Nothing else he might aspire to made any difference now, his neck bowed assent. His fingers plowed his hair, his forehead resting upon his palms, his elbows dug into the table.

  The barkeep watched from a distance. The chair squawked across the floor again as he returned to the table. “Look, friend, you have no place here.”

  “You throw me out?” asked Beorn, not looking up. A fitting final blow for him, kicked out of a dusty two-bit tavern.

  “No, but perhaps I should. You don’t belong in the village anymore. I can tell who belongs to the lion and who remains free, brand or no brand. Soon those who resist will find life impossible. Agents come into this damn place every night, practically hand out a calling card: They don’t drink. They’ll strike up a conversation every time, leaning on my bar – taking the brand, what might happen if I don’t. Nothing specific, just veiled threats, you know?”

  “What kind of threats?”

  “What a pole might do to my innards, mostly. To my family as well. To my business — all the different ways fires can start, that’s been explained to me at length. And demanding to know if we have any children – never could, thank goodness! Already they tell me I can’t restock my barrels, not unless I carry the lion. Without drink, I’m without customers, so I’ll be out of here and on the street. But no point remains to it — selling is banned, so I give drink away like the paste to anyone, paid or not. Soon no one will want more than that awful stuff, anyway; Domen has got his hold on these people, caught in their bellies like a hook. Business may be good, but it won’t be long; then they’ll take over this dump and have their way with it. But I gladly choose poverty over the brand.”

  The two sat, silently considering time’s maddening patience. Beorn still demurred against conversation, but then a new wave of depression hit him. “Why does he have to use a brand? Can he not dominate without making us into cattle?”

  “I don’t know — I think he just likes the screaming.”

  “What has happened to Feallengod? Where did we turn so far wrong? At every opportunity to set things right, we chose exactly the wrong path.”

  “Yes. I remember hearing Bregdan, laughing at him behind his back. So more easily did I laugh in Coren’s face. I listened to Cirice’s talk, too, like just so much foolishness; he used to come here often. A day passed long ago that he laid me flat on my back; what a weak fool I thought he had made of himself in those last days. Now I don’t know. Seems like everything Bregdan said has come about. Seems like what they claimed about Coren now returns true.”

  “Hatan is my son.”

  The tavern-keeper scratched his head. “Wh
o’s that?”

  “Witness.”

  “Oh, him I’ve heard of.”

  “Begietan was my son, too.”

  “Surely hell welcomes him, that bastard!” and the tavern-keeper jumped in his chair violently in his sudden anger.

  “He grew into less a man than I desired, but reflects nothing upon his mother. His mother remains an honorable woman, a great and wonderful woman who has suffered much at my hands, so I will thank you to watch your tongue,” said Beorn with equal anger, but his body hung limp in his seat. Moral outrage seemed almost a mockery to him, and his forehead returned to his open hand.

  “Damn! I didn’t mean — I wish no insult to the lady. I just meant he sold out his fellow islanders like a — well — a bastard.”

  “Yes, I can’t deny it, and yet when choices came to bear, I followed his way.”

  “Seems like you went after the wrong son.”

  “Many bad decisions have I made, but none worse. His path seemed the easiest way. But I shouldn’t have followed any of my sons — I should have led. I can see I’m no leader; my name should never have entered among the elders. I fell into Domen’s madness, which has led to nothing but destruction.”

  “Look,” said the tavern-keeper. “I sat here by no accident. People come through here day and night, and I talk to everyone like you, everyone without the lion. Like I say, I can tell who belongs. Pressure to take the brand weighs heavily — you know so. Anyone who hasn’t got it yet likely won’t. I listen to everyone, I see into their eyes, and I figure some seven hundred still don’t have the brand.”

  “Perhaps so. What do you mean to say?”

  “Just put your mind to this — do you want to live under the brand?”

  “No, but I’m not quite sure I want to stick my head into the lion’s mouth, either.”

  “You will come to that or letting the ass end squat on you. Your choice.”

  “You have a way with words.”

  “Got it from my wife.”

  Beorn paused a moment. “I choose the teeth. Idle wishing can’t deliver me, and I’d rather die than trail after Domen any longer.”

  “Well said, for soon events will leave no other alternative. So should we not make a stand? Perhaps fortify some isolated place, together with whatever others we find? Then if we can live peaceably, fine, we can hunt and gather our food again and live. If not, and we die a bloody death for what’s right, all the better.”

  “You seek a place to defend?”

  The tavern-keeper grunted with his nod.

  “One place — the plateaus of the lower mountains, by the quarries. You think it possible? A group might hold out for months there, lasting as long as their supplies.”

  “Indeed. Surely you belong with us, for in fact many already have started moving food to the plateaus. But I’ve also considered this: I remember you going through town recording names.”

  Beorn’s heart fell heavily. Why had this man offered such comfort, only to accuse him now? “Do you wish to shame me? Yes, then, I confess. I sent many to their deaths, yet more burden to carry. I just couldn’t make myself say no.” His thoughts and words trailed off, suddenly choked upon his own excuses.

  “Look, perhaps you can redeem that loss. Maybe your work turns to save lives now. Your lists give witness — what few still wait, willing to reject the brand.”

  Beorn brightened again — too quickly had he judged himself. Now he could see the point: the lists might help them identify other dissenters, men and women who avoided fighting the great battle for Domen. “I came in here by no accident, you know,” he said, indicating the tavern-keeper’s forearm with a glance.

  “Right — I get it. We want you with us. All of us have failed in the past, every one, all tortured by regrets, so you’ll fit right in. Go gather your wife and enlist any others you can. You’ll probably run into many already with us. Always seek the offer of supplies, as each is able — dried fruit, dried meat if they so possess. Meet at the quarries. But keep low upon the street — time quickly will betray us to Domen’s agents.”

  “So your planning began some time ago,” said Beorn.

  “As soon as we saw those sniveling cutthroats on the platform. Though deceived once by Domen’s heart, that lying Draca pair put our senses right. What Domen hid upon the mountain, Mann and Cynn made plain for years. They make an unholy trio.”

  “I wonder — the sign of three Bregdan promised? Could he have spoken of these three? What could it mean?”

  “If so, they could claim another lie. Coren gave the sign of the seamrog – the shamrock. Three leaves of the shamrock, Beorn. Don’t you recall your son’s words? Remember the length of time Coren lay upon the ash heap?”

  “Three days.” Beorn’s face froze like stone. “Well, that seals it. How could I spend my life blind? Does stupidity really claim me so boldly as that?”

  “Well,” the barkeep didn’t want to answer. “We’ve all asked the same, if that’s any consolation.”

  “Your failings don’t make mine any less,” said Beorn. “But if Coren made himself a sign in the past, then so also now. No life passes as symbol only, without a purpose behind it. You have designed a good plan, sir. I had fairly given myself over to doom, or at least despair, but you restore in me some hope.”

  “You don’t seem very happy even yet.”

  “I’m not. I may never call myself happy again. But at least I don’t feel evil anymore.” Beorn took his leave after paying the tavern-keeper two copper coins. “I want to pay,” he pointed out. “Besides, they’re worthless.”

  Beorn’s pace tripped somewhat spry now on the short journey to the hovel. As the people passed along the way, none attracted his notice, though surely they cast suspect eye upon him. Beorn’s thoughts dedicated themselves only to Cwen.

  “Cwen, love!” he called as he entered. “Quick, we must take leave!”

  Cwen stared out a window, her face masked in a hollow look, with absent mind wiping her hands with a towel. She didn’t answer.

  “Cwen, dear, listen,” Beorn wrapped an arm around to hold her shoulders close to him. “We must leave the village. Put together some things and run with me to the plateaus on the mount.” Beorn found a tote sack and rudely stuffed it with whatever household items lay at hand.

  “What foolishness do you say, husband?” Cwen replied.

  “We must flee. We can have no more of Domen. His ways lead only to death, a slow rotting death that kills from the inside. I will have no more of it. All the townsfolk who refuse the lion must escape to the plateaus.” He talked haltingly, sorting through items, throwing some aside, some into his bag.

  “Who? Who goes?”

  Beorn stopped. He hadn’t expected enthusiasm, but he had hoped Cwen wouldn’t argue. “I don’t know. The tavern-keeper for certain, but I know of no others. He knows of seven hundred.” He busied himself with packing to cover his exaggerated confidence.

  “A tavern-keeper says seven hundred.”

  “I know what you think, Cwen. For one thing, the sun shows barely noon and I had one drink. Half a drink. And I believe it — I wrote down the cursed lists and I believe it.”

  Cwen emerged sharply from her despondent silence.

  “Oh, that’s fine, that’s just fine. You mope around here for months, and then suddenly declare I am to move. On the word of an innkeeper you tell me to leave the home where I birthed my sons, to move me to a mountain.”

  Beorn directed his attention to Cwen. “If nothing else, at least this notion returns the spirit to your eye. Rage at me, Cwen, rage furious. Then follow me.” And he resumed his mission. His wetted fingers fumbled through a large stack of stiff papers before pulling out a select few, a shout of accomplishment raised. He’d found copies of his lists.

  “Beorn, I wanted to follow you. I wanted you. But what you say now makes no sense to me.”

  “The final day has not passed for us, Cwen. All the warnings of Bregdan, of Fulwiht, of Coren, we rejected them be
fore, but now we can — we must — claim them for ourselves. Do you recall Hatan’s last night here?”

  “Do I recall? All I have left to me in this hovel are my memories.”

  “Yes, surely you remember. Did you not hear what he told me? I remember well: ‘If you refuse to stand against us, Ecealdor will show mercy to you.’ Hatan believed right to the end. But still the end is not. Cwen, Cwen — he remains our only son still alive. I will not believe the lies, I believe he is not dead, and we are not dead to him.”

  Tears caught in Cwen’s eyes as the memory of that night washed over her.

  “Now will I believe,” Beorn continued. “If we resist Domen, Ecealdor must have mercy, for no other will. If we die, we die, but we give our lives to the side of Ecealdor, and not that demon spawn Domen. Now I see myself a fool. His patience calls to me – do you hear, Cwen, or only me? Cirice took this stand, Hatan took this stand, and finally, at last, at long last, I take this stand! I will not despise my last chance!” Beorn talked bravely, but his voice joined in with his body to still betray the fatigue of his soul.

  “Beorn, Ecealdor left Feallengod. Coren died. Blawan sailed into the wind. Cirice, the flower of Feallengod manhood; even he deserts. Our own Hatan abandons us. All those you speak of, they leave only the prints of their feet. Only the people remain, and who of them will fight? A handful? Domen steals the will of almost all, leaving only the weak in body and spirit. But you and I, Beorn, we are different. He fooled us once, but no demand lies upon us to follow him anymore. We don’t need him, we don’t need Ecealdor. Our home, this home of our wedding night, still stands upon our island. This tiny hovel alone is left to me, the only thing enduring of our entire lives together. Don’t require it of me as well! No one will notice if we stay here. We can survive, even with Domen upon our throne.”

  The words tore at Beorn’s heart, and it bled and wept, and he stood slowly erect and still. At another time he might have seen Cwen’s fear deep in her eyes and put aside truth in favor of comfort. Now he knew her words just fell false. No demand? No more would he hear of living apart from Ecealdor — at best, as Cwen said, survival and no more, and certainly not life. Compromise claimed too high a price for the mere privilege of breathing air turned foul. But perhaps Cwen couldn’t smell the truth, and Beorn braced to find his way without her. “I prefer death, any death, to living under Domen,” he said as if dead already. Bag upon his shoulder, he turned to walk away one last time along his narrow path, under the trees bright with autumn color.

  Cwen watched his departure, steadfast, unrelenting. Her long, dark lashes caught droplets of moisture as tears spilled out upon her cheeks. Billowing clouds painted a gray and white watercolor upon the sky. For long moments her eyes followed him, memories racing, flashes of life through her mind. Begietan her first-born, a helpless babe once, long ago, the wonder of life itself latched to her nipple; he had cried easily at skinned knees while testing his first steps. Astigan, the comely man, gentle of heart and touch, quick with wit and generosity, slipping away into mystery that seemed in retrospect almost as beautiful as his shining smile — surely all of Feallengod was intended to follow after Astigan. Hatan beat like the heart of the family, strong in faith and belief in right, caring not for himself but only for truth, truth he had followed into Gægnian. Truly only Ecealdor’s courts knew where he took his steps now. And Beorn, Beorn whom she could see now vanishing into the horizon, the tall young man who had slipped a ring upon her finger under boughs of October leaves, red and gold just as now, dangling like baubles upon heaven. The tall, straight young man she had surrendered to, a gift to her from the king — how she had loved him. Now he marched into hope and death.

  A cat jumped onto the window sill and offered comfort with its head, crying for Cwen’s notice. “Then I will die too,” she said quietly. She let her dishtowel drop and ran after Beorn, pausing only to retrieve the one cherished treasure left to her: a broken leather string. The door to the hovel swung easily in the breeze, hanging open wide, as if welcoming anyone, expecting no one, forever leaving the future to its fate.

  And so did I find it, instead of a chance handout. Seven hundred, at least; seven hundred souls who would not sign on to Domen’s reign of terror, and I one. But my life upon Feallengod had made me no man, less than human; and now did the hunger burn fierce. The weakness of flesh does tear at the very sinews of the spirit, and I had long ago surrendered the days of my strength. Years of decadence and waste had put me out of mind to most islanders, violent rampage earning their hatred, and I can hardly assign them any blame. As I look back upon my ways, I prefer to forget them as well. Nor do I blame them even today, for each man must answer for himself. So the desperate people gathered every item that might sustain them, took hold of every hand that might join with them, and made a frantic run for the plateaus of the low mountains. And not one spoke a single word to me.