Raven's Warrior (7 page)
I was quiet for a while, grateful for the warmth and dryness of the house, unsure about questioning her arcane powers, but curiosity overruled and I asked her how she knew. “The hens, the ants, the hedgerow, and the high flying birds all told me the same story of the rainstorm coming,” she said, smiling at the look on my face. “Don't worry; talking to the world around us is not witchcraft. It is the wisdom of the old ways, passed from mother to daughter since time was young.”
I heard her words without really understanding, but knew clearly that those words, if uttered in my world, were more than enough to have her bound, burned, and scattered by the winds. As if reading my thoughts, she placed a comforting hand on my good shoulder and spoke in a tone that was both calm and reassuring.
“Vincent, when you see that the hens will not stray far from where they sleep, you know that a storm is coming.” She continued evenly, “The dirt piled in beads around the opening of the ant's nest is spread wide and funnel shaped on a fine day. When they build the opening high and narrow, it is because they feel the changing weather. Not even the tiny creatures want their home flooded and their family drowned.”
She handed me a cup of warm milk and tea.
“The leaves on the briers turn toward the coming storm and curl up like cups to catch the water. The birds that fly so high are riding and rising on huge pockets of air displaced upward by the next one moving in and under from the direction of the distant ocean. It is not witchcraft; it is just listening to the world of nature as it speaks to us.”
I could hear Merlin returning from his day, and as his daughter rushed to meet him, I heard the raven's distant call carried upon the winds. The life that I had lived had evaporated like the desert dew. It had risen from me somewhere over the blistering sands. I weighed the memory of my former grim existence, and knew in heart that it was not worth fighting for. I had fallen helpless and frail into this strange world, like a child lost in an unknown wilderness. There was no escape. I closed my eyes to bring the darkness and drew deep breath to drink it in.
Exhaling long and slow, I took my first step on a road that I had never walked. Within my soul, the words gathered and then, “I surrender,” tumbled out through my parched cracked lips.
Merlin's return was marked by a kiss from his daughter. If they had heard my submission they made no response. His sharp eyes smiled to me warmly. His hands were blackened and his clothes held the odor of a clean fire's smoke. As he prepared to wash, the Sea Lass threw in the finishing spices to the evening meal and bid me set the bowls on the large round table.
While we ate, the Sea Lass talked to her father happily about her day. She pantomimed as she spoke, so that I could guess her meaning. I was entertained by her gestures as she spoke about the state of the animals, the eggs collected, and the sudden downpour. The food that we ate was fresh and hearty, flavored artfully with spices the likes of which I had never before tasted. Sharing a family meal was also something I had never tasted, and I was grateful to be part of it.
Eventually the animated conversation came my way as Merlin knowingly caught my eye and asked, “Vincent, what did you dream last night?” I felt like one struck by lightning as the memory of my night visions flooded back into my consciousness.
I gathered the details in my mind and prepared to speak my dreams. “Merlin,” I began, “I dreamt of a mountain of fire. The three of us were strangely walking toward it instead of running away. We could see the smoke rise up and darken the sun, and we could hear the mountain roar and cry out with the pains of birth, and in our legs we could feel the earth beneath us tremble and shudder. The wounds in its peak and sides oozed thick molten blood that ran down beyond its base like a slow moving river. We could feel its oven's heat on our faces, and white ash was landing on our clothes like a new winter's snowfall.”
There was a deep silence at the table as Merlin and Sea Lass collected their thoughts. It was clear that my dream meant more to them than it had to me. The Sea Lass poured steaming tea into three small cups. Merlin sipped quietly before he spoke, and then he said only, “Your dreams are strong.” With a wave of his arm they rose and proceeded down a large hallway. I followed them out and into a sparse lamp lit room.
The sword in its sheath lay alone upon a great oak table. The hollow shelves hewn in the stone walls were filled with parchment, leather, silk, and scroll documents of an age as great as the stones themselves. I had no words to speak and felt like a man cleaved in two. My hands and body reached to touch the star sculpted on the sword hilt, while my eyes and mind reached out to the shelves to touch the ancient words and symbols that I could not read or understand. It was the sound of Merlin's voice and the sight of his daughter's gentle face that brought me back to myself, whole once more. Nodding towards the weapon, “It knows you,” he said.
I watched for permission in Merlin's eyes, as I lifted sword from table and drew it half way to study its blade. The steel was layered in a pattern of strength and beauty. Its flowing design spoke to me of chaos folded into unity. Its polished surface suggested the texture of boundless ocean waves and endless desert dunes. It was amazingly light of weight yet substantial, and as I held it, it became an extension of both my arm and mind. I could almost feel its birth and pulse, the clang of cold hammer on white hot metal that gave it life so long ago. I slid it back into its sheath reverently and set it down.
We all retired to the main room and sat by the earthen hearth, but the feeling of the monk's sword did not leave my hands. I watched the fire play and roll along the soot covered bottom of the large kettle, and listened to the steady clanging of its lid as the water within it boiled and bubbled. I scanned the hearth from bottom to top. I saw the hearth's earthen floor, its burning wood, the nimble flames, its silver kettle, and its bubbling water, and I wondered to myself what would happen if the lid could not rise up to release the pressure.
The Sea Lass broke my thoughts with, “Father made the kettle.”
“I know,” I said dryly, “your father is a master.”
It had been a long time since I had heard the sound of my own laughter, and as Merlin and Sea Lass added theirs, I felt warmed and comforted by much more than just the glowing hearth.
I awoke once more to the bubbling sounds of their easy banter and the comforting smell of the delicious evening meal already beginning to simmer. I was sorry to have missed Merlin's departure, but grateful to share the simple chores of his daughter's day. The way of keeping a home was new to me, and I had always thought it woman's work, but now it held my interest. I realized that as my world had changed so too had I.
I watched her carefully from a distance, moving around the ancient homestead like a queen travels through her kingdom. Her domain was uncluttered and simple, elegant in both design and adornment. The space was functional in its layout. A small room filled with harvest bounty was attached to the simple kitchen, and it was here that Sea Lass spent the early part of her day. She sang as she worked and gestured for me to enter as she continued with her daily routine.
Sacks of the pale grain they called rice sat patiently on the floor, waiting to be cooked and presented for our sustenance and satisfaction. Her attention was focused on the many plants and herbs that hung root to tip from the substantial wooden beams that lined the ceiling. She had plucked a mixed handful and laid them sequentially on the table before us. Without surprise I recognized none, for botany held little importance in my past existence. Most were dry and brittle and seemed well ready to be thrown out.
Once again, she must have caught those thoughts, for, smiling, she rolled some desiccated foliage vigorously between her palms and held them up to my face. I inhaled deeply with closed eyes and drank in the infused power of the rugged landscape. The pungent aroma released by the heat of her hands spoke of the season of their past growth, the sun, the rain, the soil, and the gentle balance of their place within it.
Whether to season our food or to heal affliction, her purposeful actions freed the dormant vitality from the withered leaves of a plant that seemed long dead.
I held a stem gently between my calloused fingers, as I teased its clump of roots I saw the dirt land on the crude wooden countertop like the white soot from the chimneys of my homeland. She drew me from this idle action with a question, “Where do you come from?” was all she asked. From the roots and the soil I looked up into the wide brown eyes of a curious child, and realized I had all but forgotten my past.
I closed my eyes to banish time and distance, as memory began to conjure the dark phantoms of my own history. They opened slowly and fixed upon the delicate root and soil that lay before me, and speech gave my past both voice and life.
“Sea Lass,” I began, “The place from where I come is a mother blessed with beauty and fertility. She wears robes of living green, and all its shades cover her hills and valleys in a complete and seamless embrace. In her western reaches she is adorned with rock and mountains. It is in place both harsh and generous, and she wears this landscape like precious jewelry. She has always given openly, so that man and beast may live and prosper from one generation to the next.” My eyes closed once more to search with my thoughts the visions I had left behind, and she waited quietly and patiently for more.
“On all sides she is held by the sea, sometimes gently caressed, and sometimes savagely pounded by the fury of her wild lover. From ocean and sky she draws the weather, and it falls as rain. This rain is what keeps her and makes her whole, and it is the rain that speaks her very moods. Sometimes it falls light and gentle like a mist that delights the senses, but sometimes it drives heavy cold and hard and carries the taste of ocean salt, like tears. From these heavenly tears of sorrow and joy, all life does come.” My memories now welled up within me and spilt out in truth unstoppable.
I spoke slowly so that she could more easily understand, “I knew no parents, my father died at the hands of the Norse raiders and my mother was taken never to return, but that was longer ago than I remember. When God takes with one hand he gives with the other, and for a child with nothing I had something beyond measure. I had the land of my ancestors written upon my heart. Its people, my people, were written upon my soul. With the passage of time, my body grew strong and I acquired the skills of war.”
My voice bounced within the confines of the small room, “In this great land, my land, where farmers till and toil, a man with a sword has his place and purpose, for farmers are bound by land and family, and I was without either. The short sharp iron gave me a way to carve my niche and fill my belly, I did not prosper, but I did survive. Battles were my bread and their spoils my butter, for morality does not feed the body. The scarred furrow of war was the trough at which I drank, and at this trough I did drink deeply.”
Silence settled in the room around us, my thoughts returned from my world to theirs. Her head was bowed, and her hands rested on the rough-hewn countertop. I had spoken for the first time of my parents and my homeland. I looked down upon the delicate plant that lay before me, and my thoughts journeyed home once more. Vividly my mind's eye beheld the savage Norsemen, and once again my mind's ear heard the screams from the darkness, but to these thoughts and memories, I could never give a voice.
As the lass looked down at the plant that I had been holding, a solitary tear fell upon its coiled roots, and the grey soil that still tenaciously clung to it turned mud black.
“Do not cry for me,” I said softly, “For I have shed enough tears for both my homeland and my clan.” I spoke no more, for although my words did purge my soul, they came with a price of awakened pain and sorrow. There would be no more speech, but memory tumbled and rose within my mind like a gollum made from the clay of what was once my birth land, and this effigy conjured from events long past emerged and walked with a life and power both terrifying and unstoppable.
At a young age I had my fill of blood and killing, and had in pocket enough coin to buy some land and make a family. The nature of thirst and hunger is a craving for what is missing, and family and land were the things of my childhood that I did not have, now I felt them for the first time within my grasp and attainable. I traveled back over hill and sea to the place from which I was born. The time of two moon cycles brought me home to the town called Kilkenny. From where I had come, I had at last returned.
I mixed openly for a fortnight with the local farmers and the people of this region. They knew me not, but my warrior past was marked upon my body and did at times bring glances of fear and suspicion. I enjoyed watching as they passed their days and lived their lives of commerce and trade. I knew I was no farmer, but I had some skill around a simple forge. I pictured myself settled as the local smith, creating shoes for the large plow horses and repairing iron tools. By night's quiet comfort, I took meals within the local inn and drank the grains that grew in fields of wonderful peace.
I made conversation and soon made friends, as fear gave way to acceptance and suspicion fell to trust. I felt at the right place at the right time. I had for the first time a people and a clan. I felt sure that the short sword at my waist would soon find rest, and I would be free of this thing called war.
But that was not to be.
I was slow with drink and well relaxed within the tavern walls when the cry went up and the alarm was sounded. A boy much younger than I ran in and screamed that the raiders from the north had landed upon our soil once more, and would soon set upon us. It had been two decades since their last foray; a raid that had robbed me of both my parents, and a time still remembered with dread and terror.