My apologies...

for the delay in getting something new posted. The holidays have been hectic. Keep the faith!

Thirty-seven

“No, I should help,” Selden told him, but the man simply repeated, “Check on the boy, Pater.”

“Yes, and there’s Geoffrey, too, with his head smashed. Thank you. I’ll leave you then.”

“Blessings, Pater.”

“Blessings.”

Selden entered the home where they had carried Rian, shouting his entrance and touching the lintel.

Rian was placed on the family’s table, a sturdy enough thing to hold the boy. He was naked and still being cleaned. Granny fussed about more hot water. She demanded more cloth. The matron of the house held the apron to Rian’s side. Wilfred sat in a corner on the one chair, looking alarmed and frightened and wanting to help, Selden knew.

Wilfred stood when the priest entered the room, but Selden motioned for him to sit. It was best that he stay out of the way. Even Selden himself might be a hindrance, but he wanted to see that the healall was sound in what she practiced. And Geoffrey could wait. He had the young woman to look after him.

Rian was man enough, but pale as death. His limbs still had the lanky look of a boy. Rian hadn’t grown into them yet. He hadn’t even the hint of a beard.

Selden felt Rian’s confusion. His eyes were open to the thatch above him and he heard the impossibly quiet movements of a family of mice who lived in the roof. He winced with any movement, and Granny wasn’t gentle as much as swift. The matron pushed tight against his side and murmured a charm, time after time. Rian heard her singsong, heard the sweep of a mouse’s tail.

Next excerpt...

will be tomorrow. God willing.

I apologize for the delay, but I've been baking Christmas cookies.

Thirty-six

Selden was grateful that one of the villagers came to him and told him, “Pater, I’ll see this.”

“What will you do?”

“Keep him away from flame. Can you smell the drink on him?”

“It was the end of him.”

“All the same.”

Perhaps Selden misunderstood, but he didn’t want to argue about the First Nation people.

“What should we do with the sword, do you think?” Selden asked.

“The lordling will want it. May have need of it, too.”

“Will you... Will you draw it out, please?”

The man pulled and, smiling, told the priest, “Just like Arthur.”

Selden didn’t know what to say. He wouldn’t admit that he had thought the same. Instead, he took the sword and thanked the man, who grabbed the dead man by the ankles and was set to drag him away.

“Here now, let me help lift him,” Selden told him, but the man would have nothing of it.

“Check on the boy, Pater. I’ll not go far." As he dragged the body, he assured the priest, "He won’t feel a thing.”

Thirty-five

“Good,” the old woman said. “Now stand back, Pater. I’ll have a look. You, Wilfred, pull that cloth away. Just enough for me to see.”

She tucked at the tunic as gently as she could. The blood was slick, but clotting, she saw.

Selden felt her attention sharpen, her bated breath.

Granny had bent down, despite her aching, and she saw the scalloped wound. The gash started just below Rian’s waist and seemed to slice safely enough upward, past the lowest rib. She breathed and Selden could breathe again too.

Wilfred held his tongue.

“Who would scar such an innocent?” the healall asked.

“Hatti saw it all, Granny,” one of the children told her and Granny looked up and found the circle of eyes towering over her and the blood.

Rian grimaced. He tried to speak.

“Little one,” Granny told him. “Little one, grown so tall. Quiet. Hush now. Don’t go counting stars. You’ll live.”

“Press that cloth, Wilfred. Tight, but don’t move it side to side. There’s a flap of flesh there we’ll sew.” She looked as gently as she could into the man’s eyes. “He’ll live, Wilfred.” All business again, she demanded, “Stop that shaking. This minute, you hear? You’ll scare the boy with that palsy. And, you, Pater, say a prayer. We’ll move the boy as fast as you can thank the Mother.”

“God, our Mother, bless you for your mercy. Watch over us now and forever.”

Selden stood. “Let’s get the boy warm. Where do we take him?”

A village woman offered that her family had their table still made in the back room of their shop. “But we’ll need wood. Husband’s hunting. He’s not at timber.”

Wilfred regained his strength and nerve and gave commands. He was a respected elder, though not really so old, but strong and reliable. The villagers did as he told.

Rian was lifted on a blanket and taken away, through a nearby doorway, and all the youngsters ran for firewood they’d find in the Smithy. Granny called for a leather satchel that she had just inside her door. A fifteen-year-old was sent for it with the command to “Run!” Selden turned to Geoffrey and found his head laying in the lap of a village girl, a girl whose eyes still streamed with tears.

“Are you Hatti, child?”

She nodded yes.

Geoffrey opened his eyes and struggled to focus them. He felt as though he were floating out at sea.

“Child, what happened? Why are they fallen?” He was gentle, soft-spoken.

“The lordling defended me ... from him.” She pointed, not looking at the dead man, the sword driven deep into the man. “Rian stepped between them when the man drew a knife.”

“I see.” He paused for the girl to explain about Geoffrey. She only whispered to the lordling.

“And my student? He fell from whose blow?”

Geoffrey spoke, “Another.”

“There was another, Pater,” Hatti agreed. “He ran, as I did. I brought Master Smith. He had a stick.”

“The other?” Selden asked.

“Yes, the stranger. Master Smith had his hammer.”

Geoffrey winced as he rose, or tried. He managed only to sit up.

“Where is Rian?” Geoffrey asked, remembering it all now. He reached his fingers into the new mud.

Selden told him, “We think he’ll live. You saved him.”

“He saved me, master. It was a blow meant for me, one I couldn't have parried.”

“We are all indebted. Warf and weft. You too, Miss, are in the weave. I thank you. Now wipe away your tears. Bring the lordling inside. And calm Rian’s mother. Tell them what you saw. I’ll see to this last one.”

Thirty-four

“Oh, God!

Rian vomited.

“Oh, God!” Wilfred repeated. “Lord have–!”

“Turn his head!” Selden told him. “Don’t let him choke.”

Selden cleaned the boy’s mouth with his fingers and wiped away as much of the vomit as he could. He looked up for the healall, feeling almost desperate. Wilfred’s tearful anxiety, as much as he tried to control himself, made Selden feel helpless and afraid.

Granny was still in the distance, struggling against her aching legs. Selden would have liked to have lifted her up in his arms and bring her to the boy.

A gourd of water arrived. Selden took it and splashed all its contents on Geoffrey, who sputtered and came nearly awake. He rolled his head and moaned.

“Where are the blankets?” Selden demanded.

“There are just two.”

“Then cover this one,” he pointed. “We’ll need the second to carry Rian. And find something to cover that one, will you? And send for the sheriff. He should know.”

“Sister, where shall we take him?” Selden called. If she heard, she gave no recognition.

“Gad! Is she deaf and lame?” he asked.

Wilfred wouldn’t hear him.

The old woman grew close and, muttering as if to herself, she said, “Such an innocent. Stabbed dead, they say. Maybe. Maybe not. No. Never. He will be healed. Oh, yes.”

“Sister, where shall we take him?” Selden again asked. The healall saw him then and asked, “And what have you done, Pater?”

“I’ve calmed him. There is a lot of blood, but I’ve not looked closely.”

She came close and looked at the boy’s pale skin.

“Have you called him?” she asked the priest.

“I’ve called. He hears.”

Thirty-three

Rian’s father arrived first, the village girl not far behind. Rian’s father saw his son, and the others. One stranger lay flat on his back, a sword pointing to the sky, plunged deep into the man’s chest. The priest’s companion lay face down across his son’s legs. And his son, he lay on one side, as still as death. When he arrived at Rian's side, he saw a hint of blood. He called the boy’s name and he saw a grimace. The boy was alive!

“Rian!” he called and the boy tried to turn toward the distant voice.

“Father,” he whispered.

And the man saw the blood that stained the boy’s tunic and all that pooled beneath him.

“My God,” the man cried, falling to his knees and praying that his son might live.

Selden arrived, breathing heavily and not quickly understanding what he saw before him. He knelt and placed a hand of Geoffrey, felt the life in him. He lifted the young man as best as he could, turning his face to the sky and calling for water and two blankets–no, three–and asking for the healall.

“Is she here, in the village?”

A small crowd had gathered and one of the children answered, “Granny’s coming. We called.”

“She’s old, and slow,” another said.

“Wilfred, step away, please, and let me see your son. Just a short way. Let me judge the wound.”

Selden saw that the tunic was torn low, almost at the boy’s hip.

“Where is the knife?”

“Here, Pater.” A man showed the blade. “It’s clean enough. And sharp.”

“Show it to the healall when she comes.”

“Can you do nothing?” Wilfred asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“There is no gout of blood.” He had placed his hand on the boy’s side and felt the greasy blood. It almost made him swoon. “I’m too old for this, too sheltered,” he thought.

“There is no gout of blood, but there’s a lot.” He told this to Rain’s father.

“Someone give me their apron. You, Matron, please.”

She untied the strings and handed the garment over. “It’s not clean, Pater,” she cautioned.

“We’ll use the best side.” And he told Wilfred to place the apron on his son’s side. “Hold it tight against him.”

“Yes. I know.” Tears fell.

“I can slow the heart, so it doesn’t push with such force.”

“Yes, I understand,” Wilfred told him.

And Selden moved close to the boy’s ear until his lips touched the flesh. He cupped one hand over his speaking and he called the boy by his True Name.

Eyes closed, Selden saw mountains, with snowfall, centuries of ice. Rian was in the distance, his clothing too light for the cold. Selden saw that he shivered. The priest did, too, so much so that he could keep his teeth from chattering only with the strongest willpower.

“Will you come?” Rian asked.

“Is it time?”

“That’s not for me to guess. I’m just a boy.”

“So Gereon tells me.”

“How is he? He’s very sick.”

“He knows you’ve been hurt, I think. He sent the bird to me, your familiar.”

“I have no familiar.”

“Yet the bird watches.”

“He has a name.”

“You seem to know everyone’s name.”

“There are so many.”

“As many as the stars.”

“Do you know their number?”

“Only God himself is infinite.”

“Yes,” and the boy fell silent.

Selden took his hand. He had arrived to the boy’s side in less than an instant.

“Come back. Slow your heart. Forget the pain.”

The boy stared.

“Will you?”

“I think I’m going to vomit. I’ve already soiled myself.”

“We’ll take care of everything. Come out of the cold.”

Next post will be over the weekend. My apologies!

Thirty-two

Gereon came to his senses, pulling himself with such difficulty from his dreams and their whispers. Death was the little sleep, not vice versa, but he’d be unable to help the boy from the other world in which he’d soon find himself. He pulled himself up with an effort and saw the rook, its wings flapping wildly, the black sheen of its head pulled from side to side.

“Nurse!” he cried, and matron came running. She had already heard the mad bird and came with a broom.

“Find Rian!” he commanded, as the bird took to wing and disappeared into the low sun.

“No, send the priest! Send Selden! Find the boy!” he corrected.

“Pater?”

“Go, I tell you!” and she saw the bishop’s fevered brow and the wild eyes that darted beneath it. She ran down the lane to the church shouting, “Help!”

The village girl had done the same, but toward the smithy's shop, running with her tears streaming and her wild shouts reaching Rian’s father’s ears. He heard his son’s name in the wailing and knew it couldn’t bode well. He reached his doorway, armed with the heavy hammer that he knew so well, so well balanced it was and how it would sing on the anvil as sparks flew off the hot iron. He ran towards the girl, her frantic pointing leading him to the bloodshed.

Selden was sunning himself, thinking of very little, wondering even less until the rook came swooping from behind him and with its frightful grace alighting on the muddy turf. It lifted its wings and cawed, its shining obsidian eye staring hard at the priest.

He was startled by the bird’s cries and stood, stepping back once from the rush of the fearful mania. He lifted his right hand to cast a spell, but as he reached out above his head he heard Matron’s cries.

She shouted, “Pater! Come! It’s Rian! It’s Rian!” and the priest understood.

The rook turned silent, its eye a dark heart that beat with a light as brilliant as a diamond.

Selden spoke to it, “Familiar,” and again it took to wing.

Selden went running after, with the Lord’s name on his lips.

Interlude

Long ago, the young man was absorbed in his work, selecting only the best of the lilac blossoms. They would be placed on the Ladies’ Altar and Pater insisted that all be in full flower. The scent would fill the small chapel, the boy knew. It was a sweet smell. When confined in so small a space, the overpowering perfume would trouble him.

He preferred the asphodels that grew in the bogs, but he was rarely given permission to travel that far. The boys in their first two years, before they were professed, they were hardly given permission for anything but prayer and farm work.

Anyway, Brother Herbal needed no help. He was young yet, with long legs that took him to fields and woods throughout the parish. He knew all the nooks and crannies that flowered into every color.

The brothers and priest talked about him, he could tell. He received the sense of things, even when he wasn’t trying to read the men who directed him, encouraged him, disciplined him, who asked that he flower, too.

They suggested him as apprentice to the herbalist. He’d have to be professed, though, before they would spend any real time on him. But he knew his flowers. The bog asphodel was called bonebreaker, he shared. Brother Herbal asked, “Is it the poison then?” “No, Brother, the flower grows on poor soil. Cattle that graze on it alone have weak bones.” “Yes,” Brother agreed. “Yes, yes, yes...” he repeated as he walked away, already lost in his own thoughts of shadowed pine cathedrals and sunny courtyards of blooms.

The boy’s attention wandered. In the open air, the lilacs' perfume hinted of Elise, the girl he left behind. He held the rusty sheers to one side and gave himself over to her memory. She lived not so far from where he stood, here at the farthest reach of the Paters’ Garden where, he was assured, the lilac grew best, a creamy white, not the lavender everyone expected.

Elise, he remembered, and her memory came alive for him. Her dirty blond hair and pale blue eyes. Her funny way of inclining her head when she thought hard. Like a puppy, he told her. She was secretly flattered. He noticed her!

She pretended to be offended. “So I remind you of a dog?” she huffed. But of course he saw through her bluster. “You’d prefer to be considered catty? Let me see your claws!” and he took her by the hands and would have kissed her if she'd just urged him the once.

“You,” she whispered. And he basked in the memory and felt the full force of her love, her gentleness tugging at him.

So I turned and found her there.

“Elise! You... I... How...”

“I climbed over the wall!” She was proud of her adventure. “Come, let’s hide in the bushes. I have something important to tell you.”

“Sit here, in the sunlight. Let me see you.”

“That’s just it! Won’t they see us? Won’t you be in trouble?”

I smiled. “There are no secrets here. Anyway, you’re the one who’ll be in trouble if your father finds out you’ve climbed a stone wall to visit me.”

“He thinks I’ve gone to the ladies’ chapel.”

“I’m going there! With these blossoms.”

“I told Father that I’d see you here.” Elise gave a curious look over me and my work. “Father said, ‘No, he’ll be at hard labor.’”

“I usually am, I swear it! Look at my hands!”

She felt his palms and fingertips. “Oh, you’re all callused. Is it awful?”

“No,” I replied. “I like it here.”

“Good. That’s good. Isn’t it?”

I stood to clip more of the blossoms. “Now,” my back turned to hide my face. “What is it you want to tell me?” I asked, though I already knew.

“Marcus has asked me to marry.”

Silence, for just a beat. “I like Marcus.”

“Come look at me.”

And I turned. “I’m happy for you.”

“I haven’t said yes.”

“No?”

“I’m yours. You know that.”

I ached with the choosing, though I had chosen already, I knew, in my heart and this was best–that Elise would have Marcus, a good man.

I told her, “It’s you who should choose, Elise.”

Did her countenance darken? “We don’t chose.” She shook her head. “We are chosen."

Gereon looked up from his sick bed. “My death bed,” he told the shadow. It loomed above him, its wings stretched as far as east and west, its call a trumpet.

“Cark!” it cried. “Cark!”

“Are you the Angel of Death?” Gereon asked. “Tell me, is it time?”

Thirty-one

“Pater is sending me back to our school today.”

“Our school?” Rian asked.

“You’ll come, won’t you?”

Rian was dismayed. “Now? With you?”

“No, no,” Geoffrey assured him, “Not until things are ... complete.”

“Complete,” the boy said, his voice dull, his eyes lost for a moment their luster.

“I’m sorry for you. You must know that.”

“Yes ... thank you.”

The boys were quiet for a time. Geoffrey looked up into the brightening sky.

“Bright enough for collecting firewood, I guess.”

“Yes,” Rian agreed. “Let’s get started. We’ve two priests to gather for.”

And then they heard the complaints of the village girl who couldn’t be far away at all.

“Take your hands off me!” she shouted.

The boys turned to each other, and then ran to the corner of a cottage where they saw the girl pushing away from a man in rags. He grasped her arm and held her tight. She fought back with her other fist.

The man grumbled, “Vixen, I’ll teach you to ignore me.” And he pulled her close, “Give a kiss, whore!”

Geoffrey yelled, “Unhand her!” and he closed in, too, Rian at his heels.

“Leave be, boy!” the man told him. “One kiss and I’ll be home.” His free hand rubbed across the girl in a sickening way.

For her part, the girl stayed calm. She aimed to strike the drunk–his sour breath and the dirt of him repelled her–but he had her fast in a wide grip now. Instead, she stamped hard on his foot and he let her go in surprise.

“Bitch!” and he made to grab her again, but Geoffrey pushed him away and the drunk nearly tumbled.

“Bitterfolk!” Geoffrey mouthed with disgust. Another man appeared, armed with a club.

“Turn away now, I tell you, or you’ll regret your filthy words and pawing.”

Rian raised his own voice, “Geoffrey, calm yourself. We want no fight with our brother.”

But the drunk would have none of the boy’s appeasement. “You’re not my brother.” The hatred boiled off of him.

“Friend then,” Rian offered, but the man only cursed them. And he stepped toward the girl.

Geoffrey moved to push him away again, but the man pulled a knife and aimed wildly for the young man’s side.

In a flash, Rian leapt in between them and took the blade. He was undone by it. No pain, but the warm blood began to fill his tunic with its stain. “Heaven,” he whispered as Geoffrey pulled his short sword.

The drunken man’s eyes widened and then he fell, too. Geoffrey had turned his blade so that he’d strike cleanly through the ribs and the man was dead in an instant.

The village girl screamed. She was terrified for Rian and ran for the boy’s father.

The other man nearly panicked when he saw the blood, but he managed a blow with his club. It landed squarely on Geoffrey skull. He ran away after.

From above, the rook saw Rian fall with his prayer. It took to wing, just as Geoffrey fell with all his dead weight.

Thirty

Who can tell what a bird might know?

How did this one on the rooftop get singled out when the rookery was abandoned? Was it told to remain? Or can a bird have a destiny? Did this rook, its claws gripping the sharp angle on top of a gabled window, know what would unfold after its clamor flew away?

Or does it just watch, feeding during the quiet hours, sometimes flying in slow circles above the village to exercise its wings?

This morning, the rook watched as Geoffrey approached. He met a young woman along the way, a girl who smiled and greeted the student, “I know you, isn’t that so, Lordling?”

“Well enough to know my heritage, I see, not that I share it so liberally.”

“Rian told me so.”

“I misremember telling him.”

“Oh, Rian knows things, he does,” she said. “And your signet ring tells its own tale.”

“I would fain to misremember you, but I still have the bruises.”

The girl laughed, flashed her bright teeth and filled Geoffrey with something like love. “You aren’t cross with me, are you, Lordling?”

“How can I be cross ... even as you continue to bowl me over?"

“He said you had a sweet tongue.”

“Who is that?”

“Rian, of course.”

“I misremember giving him even the hope.”

“Oh, that’s wicked of you. Really,” she frowned. “It drips of venom instead, I see.” And she huffed off, despite Geoffrey’s loud protestations.

She would not hear him.

His heart sank, but Rian came to his rescue.

“She flirts with you!” Rian whispered as he came close.

Geoffrey was startled, Rian approached so silently.

“She turns her back to me,” Geoffrey announced.

“And isn’t that a kind of flirting?”

Geoffrey watched the girl's backside and thought, "Yes, it may be."

Twenty-nine

Selden rose in the middle of the night to recite Vigils. He let Geoffrey sleep, a kindness he offered only so that the young man would be well rested come dawn. Perhaps with a little more sleep Geoffrey would argue less about his being sent back to the school. Selden had already made plans for the young man to accompany a merchant who was on his way to the Cities.

He lit a torch in the church. The candles, he was saving for the funeral rites. The beeswax burned slowly, but there was only the one full candle left. It would do for the altar–vigil and funeral, and some days of the octave.

“Funny how the details of living already confound the grieving,” Selden thought, for he had come to like the bishop quite a lot. “But we’ll live these days well, or try. The man’s not yet dead.”

Selden prayed until dawn. Geoffrey came into the church then and they took up Matins together, reciting the psalms of the day responsively, sharing the last when the verses were odd-numbered.

When they were finished, Geoffrey told the master, “The villagers are bringing food and wood to the bishop.”

“They’re generous people.”

“We’ll make do on our own, then?”

“They’re poor people, too.”

“Rian’s told me that his mother will cook for us,” Geoffrey shared.

“She’ll just cook for one,” Selden told him, which drew a hard look from the student.

“You can’t send me away.”

Selden chuckled, “I can command you if you like.”

“I’m needed here.” He was sincere, always puzzled that the master would not carry even a dagger.

“I would rather not argue, Geoffrey. I know you mean well, and I don’t discount the help you are to me, but someone needs to tell Primus that I’m to be here for more days.”

“Through the octave?”

“Yes. What’s a few more days?”

“That’s how I feel.”

“It can’t be helped.”

“You won’t even carry a blade. How could you ever defend yourself here?”

Selden’s ire was being stoked. “I won’t argue... And you will obey.”

These were direct words and Geoffrey was galled by them. He raised his voice, “Don’t you feel the tension here? The resentment the First People hold toward us?”

“Quiet! I told you–”

“I will not be quiet,” though he did lower his voice. “I’m entitled to my argument.”

“I’m entitled to your obedience.” Selden stared.

“I’ll cut us firewood with Rian. He’s offered. He’s the obedient one, I can tell. The good one who’ll– ”

“Geoffrey, listen, please.”

The young man was already standing, waiting for leave, breathing deeply, simmering, waiting for the boil.

“I’m sorry.” It wasn't so hard to be kind, Selden thought.

The young man's stance softened. “I can’t change your mind?”

“No... The firewood will be most appreciated. And then we can discuss our plans.”

“Yes, master.” And the young man received Selden’s blessing and headed to the village square to seek out Rian at his father’s smithy.

Selden thought, “A fierce lad. Loyal and good-hearted. As stubborn as I was, and maybe more.”

My schedule.

I've become a bit erratic in my posting, I'm afraid. I hope no one minds. As long as I post at least one good passage a week, I'm pleased, but I like this story and where it's heading and when I have a free moment I like to get further along.

Twenty-eight

Selden marveled, “Everything has come naturally to Rian.”

“Sit with him, and you’ll see there’s no guile or invention in the boy.”

“I have. I sense it.”

“Yes, of course... Maybe I’m growing tired.”

“Primus, I’ll return in the morning. Or call for me if you need anything.”

“Rian stays with me. And Nurse hovers close. As does the bird.”

“This bird, Primus...”

“You’ll see.”

Selden turned to face the night and he felt the faintest presence. That was true.

“Good night, Gereon.”

And the bishop slept.

Twenty-seven

“So the boy asked me to see the woman,” Gereon recounted, now speaking aloud. He paused. And the sky took on the colors of dusk in the early spring. The blue shadows had grown long and the bud break seemed encased still in ice.

Selden listened closely as the bishop told the tale, though he couldn’t help but feel slightly impatient hearing a story so dated and unimportant. Every boy comes of age.

But the bishop spoke up and said, “And I told him, 'no.'”

Selden hid his surprise.

“I was disgusted by what I had heard about the woman. Disgusted by what she had been reduced to, and disgusted that she reveled in the scandal of it. I made excuses to Rian. The healall will know what’s best... The trip would be a long way for me... He saw through it all, of course. He stood up and asked, ‘You won’t help her?’ and I said, ‘No.’"

“'I will,' he told me.”

“I warned him of the village talk, his parents’ disappointment.”

“And he told me–I still hear the rebuke. He said, ‘Every one has proved faithless; all alike are turned bad; there is none who does good; no, not one.’ And he turned and strode away, each footstep wounding me. Past the churchyard he went, and then I called him before he passed through the hedge. I called with the Gift.”

“Yes, I see. And he heard you,” Selden said.

But Gereon talked over Selden’s murmuring, “He turned and stared back at me. Not defiant, but unbending and, truthfully, ashamed for me.”

“I told him, ‘I’ll go,’ and the rustle of the beech trees shimmered and I seemed delivered to the boy. He wasn’t ashamed as much as grieved, and now he shone with certainty. ‘Wait for me,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ll lead you,’ he told me, and I followed up the creek where Ava was as sour as vinegar and Rian was the sweet balm."

Twenty-six

“Just help me up,” Ava said.

“You need more help than I can give,” Rian told her. “You’re badly hurt.”

“Goddamn him,” and she sighed so deeply. Rian felt her spirit nearly broken, but the anger burned.

“I would give thanks that you’re alive.”

“Would you?”

Rian ignored the sarcasm, but he was chastised, too. “I mean ... Will he come back?”

“No.”

It was true. He could have killed the woman. Instead ...

“Likely he’ll run,” Rian agreed.

“Run? From what? From justice?”

Rian leaned forward just a bit and told Ava, “From you.”

Ava couldn’t help but laugh, but the laughter made her ribs ache and sharpened her temper.

“I’ll cut his balls off,” she said. “I will!”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Don’t,” and she fumed.

“Let’s get you cleaned up ... and then I’ll look for help.”

“No, no! Get along. I’ll want another woman to help me.”

Rian was quiet, glancing nervously around the hut, not wanting to say what had to be said.

“Get along then,” she repeated.

So Rian told her, “The women won’t come.”

“No?” She closed her eyes. “No ... they won’t. You’re right.”

“My mother will come ... if I ask–”

“No, don’t be foolish.”

Rian was grateful, but his head began to spin again. He forced himself to breathe deeply. “What have I done coming here?” he asked himself. “I’ve embarrassed everyone.”

But we do what we must, Rian knew. He knew what would come next and said aloud, “The healall’s gone up the lake. I saw her go. She’ll be back tomorrow. Late, she said.”

“Yes.”

“So I’ll bring Pater.”

“A priest?!”

“He’s the one to mend you.”

“Bugger a priest.”

“Please, don't--"

“Please? That bastard will be the last to come!”

“He’ll come. He’ll come. He’s a good man–”

“A good man! A eunuch more like, full of words and empty of sense ... or pity.”

“He’ll come.”

Twenty-five

Rian approached the door to the hut with apprehension. He stood some feet away and felt like a fool when he clapped his hands together. It was how one called on a neighbor, but it was ridiculous to wait outdoors for a welcome while someone moaned inside. He steeled himself and walked in, forthright as if the hut were his own home. He called out to the dark corner and the woman called Ava demanded, “Step out of the doorway. Let me see who you are.”

“I’m Rian.” And he stepped forward and smelled blood and sweat and worse. What little the hut held was broken or tumbled.

“You’re late to join in the fun, young one.”

Rian felt the bitterness and rage the woman contained.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“And what is it to you? You’re here to help? Or is that disappointment on your face?”

“I ... would like to help, if I can.”

“You can, if you will.” And the woman’s rage softened ever so slightly. “Come look at me, child. Come look what he’s done to me.”

“I don’t know if I shall withstand it.”

“God,” she moaned. “If I can stand it, then so can you.” She demanded again, “Come close.”

Rian pushed aside some broken glass with his shoe and came to the side of the bed where Ava lay in a bloody cloth. She was beaten, he saw. Her eye was blackened and swollen. Rian could hardly breathe. He whispered, “He burned you, too.”

“How would you know?” She became enraged again, nearly spitting, “Did he send you? Did that fucker send you to stare at what he’s done? Goddamn right, he burned me! He...”

“Please!” and Rian knelt beside her and he took her hand. “Please, calm yourself.”

“Who are you that you leer at me? Goddamn you, too!” And she turned her body away from him. Rian felt the wincing pain.

“What do they call you?”

“They call me whore. What else would bring you here?”

“I came with a copper, that’s true. It shames me now.”

Twenty-four

Three years before Rian was named, just as he felt the first stirring of manhood, the older boys in the village goaded him to visit a woman who might teach him how things would be with him and his wife. “Sometimes a man needs lessons away from books,” they told him. They even gave him the copper that the woman would demand.

“Up this stream,” they pointed. “She’s easy enough to look at, but don’t expect a princess and fairy tales.”

“How far does she live?” Rian asked.

“It’s a hike. The village woman folk won’t have her too near.”

“But some men like a good walk,” one of the boys chimed and they laughed and guffawed and slapped Rian and each other on the back.

So Rian hiked upstream.

One boy asked, after Rian had disappeared into the brush and up into the wood, “Will he even kiss her, you suppose?”

“I never did,” one admitted.

Another looked up the ridge and declared, “He never will.”

“He’ll not have her, you mean? And what of our copper then?”

“Charity, that’s where our copper will go,” another said, and shook his head.

“Give him some months, he’ll find his own copper. The itch devils a man ... or is he to be professed?

“I could never give it up.”

“Nor I.”

“I gave it up for two days,” the oldest said and then he laughed and told them, “God but I had to leave off. I had rubbed mine raw!”

Along side the creek bed, Rian whistled as he hiked. He loved the woods and assessed the trees he passed. Some would make nice timber, others were hollowed by time and misfortune, but these last were the trees that made homes for owls and squirrels.

The dappled light of the woods cheered the boy, almost enough to settle the upset he felt in his stomach and the ragged excitement he felt even deeper.

“What will Pater think?” he asked himself, but he pushed the nagging thought away.

It was the tail end of summer and the creek had nearly run dry. There might be a pitiful spring at its head. Is that how the woman drank? How can she live alone this way?

Rian had hiked long enough so that his neck was sweaty and his shirt clung to his back. And he stood still, not to rest, but because he heard a moaning. Not heard, he realized, but he felt it somehow. And a scalding feeling along side his hip that felt like it would spread to fever.

“What now?” he asked the sun, the trees above him seemingly spinning. He reached for a trunk and eased himself against it. He looked down into the leaf litter and breathed.

“She’s hurt.” He looked up just another forty yards or so and saw that the trees thinned there, above a clearing where a ramshackle hut stood and, inside, a woman in tears, with a tangle of blond hair going gray. Her sobbing was broken only by nearly inaudible cries for help.

Twenty-three

The bishop was sitting up when Selden visited that evening. Propped up, really, but he was awake and peaceful, though anxious to hear what the master saw in Rian.

“Good evening, Primus.”

“Come sit down,” the bishop told him. “Come sit close. I don’t think my voice will stay strong for very long.”

“We need not speak aloud. Why strain yourself, Excellency?”

“But I like talking.”

“Yes.”

“And call me Gereon, if you will, Pater.”

“You honor me, Gereon. My name is Selden.”

“I remember. You teach numbers. And now you are Rian’s defender.”

“Defender?”

“His gift is a danger... To himself, to others. He will need friends. And you have come.”

“I was sent.”

“And you arrived to greet the boy. And did you not invite him to know you?”

Selden nodded. “He and I are bound. But bound against my will.”

The bishop sighed. “Against your will.” It was almost a question.

“And bound with what, I can’t tell you. Truly. I almost struck him.”

“He’s a boy, Selden.”

“A boy such as this comes but once in a generation. Once in a lifetime.” Selden paused, but then spoke his mind, changing to Latin and speaking even more quietly at the side of this dying man. “If he is a boy.”

Gereon spoke slowly, weary with the strain, “He’s no demon... He has a pure heart... Test him... for he’ll test you... I assure you... Angelic, perhaps... but with no wings.” The bishop smiled. “He is just a boy.”

“You’re tiring.”

“Perhaps.”

“What can I do for you, Gereon?”

“Have you decided to bury me?”

“I have.” Selden took the bishop’s hand. “There is no rush. I can stay until I’m no longer needed.”

“But Rian will have need of you.”

“Then tell me more about the boy. Tell me without speech or you’ll exhaust yourself.”

“Our powers fail, Selden, though I’ve only lived up to my name in this last year.”

“God grant that we all grow as wise.”

“Not wise. Just old, though its weight is a good lesson. Gereon is a name for an old man, a name I will have forever.”

Selden was never slow, “So it shall be.” And he whispered, “I am Kinderring. Tell me about the boy.”

Twenty-two.

Selden tried to make sense of his meeting with the boy. He spent the afternoon fitfully, first having difficulty sitting through the veritable feast Rian’s mother had prepared. Geoffrey relished the meal as only the young might a forbidden pleasure. It was just as well, Selden thought. He’ll be hurt when I tell him he’ll have to return to the school without me. Or could someone else be trusted to bring the archmage a message?

It was instructive, at least, to see Rian with his family. His mother basked in the opportunity to be hostess. She had a giving nature, the kind of woman who would invite beggars and tinkers through her front door. Rian’s father was a more practical sort, with a more careful measure of loss and gain. He was ambitious for his son, Selden sensed. Certainly more than the boy himself. As for Rian, Selden was a bit fearful of what he had discovered. Well, he had discovered nothing; it was the two bishops who found this boy.

So, why was I sent?, Selden wondered. He watched as Rian ate. The boy used his fingers when the fork wasn’t quite up to the job of shoveling. He licked his fingers, too, oblivious to manners, but wasn’t that how Selden had been raised? Didn’t he scratch himself where he itched when he was young?

Selden contributed as he could to the discussion at table, distracted as he was. Before sitting down, he instructed Geoffrey not to let the conversation fail. “Tell them about our school. It’s what they will want to hear. The boy, too, should have an idea.”

“So he’ll join us?”

“If he can be persuaded.”

“Persuaded? Has he a choice?”

“You had a choice.” He paused. “You still do.”

Geoffrey laughed. “My father wants a bishop.”

Which struck Selden as funny also. “Well, perhaps he’ll have another son...”

“He has bastards enough for an army, but my mother’s only sired him daughters since me, first born and only son.”

“You’re a good son.”

“Who’d like nothing better than use his sword.” The boy’s grin made it quite obvious he was pleased with the double entendre.

“Best you keep your sword sheathed, don’t you think, Geoffrey?” Selden asked, but he needn’t wait for an answer. He had advised the boy time and time again.

“So keep up the conversation, will you? I’m troubled as to what to do in regards to the village priest.” It was true. Selden could hardly leave the bishop to a burial without rites. Back at the school, others could take his classes, he knew, and Geoffrey could be tutored here while they waited for the bishop’s death, but this boy, Rian, he hardly knew what to think of him.

After the meal, and their good day, Selden sat alone in the church and recalled: When he pronounced my truename, I thought he was a demon. My heart leapt–it beat furiously–and I nearly harmed the boy with a spell, ready with my bare hands if it came to that. But I saw him then, shining as brightly and as wildly as a bonfire on St. John’s Eve.

Hiatus.

Next post will be on October 1.

Thank you to all who are following this story. I hope you'll look forward to Chapter Two!

Twenty-one. (The close of Chapter One.)

Rian ran the short distance back to his home. The master and the student who accompanied him had already arrived, which was an embarrassment for Rian's father but, for his mother, a chance to entertain and search for gossip from the cities to the south. Even his father asked after the King’s interests. Rian’s older brother was away to the coast, somewhere too far away for much news. He served as a scout of sorts, a horse always waiting to help him spread word if the barbarians invaded his stretch of shore.

The boy charged through the door and came to a quick halt in front of Selden.

“Rian,” his father announced, with some amount of censure.

“I’m sorry, Father. And I apologize to you, Pater.”

He made no excuses for himself. It was clear where he had been, and why. The heavy emotion ringed him still.

“You’ve tracked mud in the room, Rian,” Selden told him. Geoffrey turned to the priest, surprised that he corrected the boy when it was really the parents’ place. Reading the master was always difficult, impossible now while he addressed the boy.

“Yes, Pater.” Rian was humble enough. “May I step out and clean them?”

“We’ll both step out,” and he stood. “Will you show me where you harvest the asparagus?”

Rian smiled, getting an understanding of the man.

Selden added, “Your mother’s promised a feast for us after we’ve talked.”

God, but he’s testing me, Rian thought. It was rude to ask where people collected food. At least it wasn’t mushrooms he hunted; asking after mushrooms would be the height of ill-mannered requests. It was bad enough asking after asparagus.

“Will the Pater share its truename? That should lead us to stalks and stalks. There’ll be no fasting when we’re flush with them.”

Well played, Selden thought. The boy’s lively.

Rian’s father was standing now and told his son, “Along with the pater, son. Show him the ways you take.”

Out of doors, the boy told Selden, “I am sorry for being late. Our village priest is ill.”

“He’s dying." Selden announced. "But you know that, don’t you?”

Rian sighed. The words were gentle really. Well, that’s not true, Rian thought. The words were plain-faced, but Rian felt the respect the priest held for the bishop.

The boy steeled himself. “He feels he’s failed me. He has been my only teacher, when it comes to words and arguments.”

“He’s a wise man, not unlettered, as you know.” He looked at the boy, as they headed across the fields. “Shall we see if you’ve failed him?”

“Pater, you seem harsh with me.” Rian thought it best to get it in the open.

Selden wouldn’t apologize. At least not now. He was testing the boy, pushing him to feel uncomfortable and tense. But he remembered what the Archmage had asked: Just concentrate on the surface, will you?

In a kind of answer, Selden said, “I’m told that I am sometimes blunt. I only meant to ask if you learned what you’ve been taught.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I see, Pater. And yes, I’ve learned a small portion of it.”

Was this false modesty? Selden asked himself. No, the boy is sincere in everything he says. Could there be even a grain of deceit in the boy?

“Perhaps you should refer to me as hlaford.”

“Are you to be my master? You’ve decided so quickly?”

“So you do know the old speech?”

“I learned it more from my mother than anyone else. My bishop taught me Latin. And he recited Greek, though it’s just a gabble of noise to me.”

"Gabbelen.”

“Like a duck!” Rian laughed.

“It’s good to hear you laugh, Rian.”

“I laughed even when my brother went to scout for the King. I told him I would follow in his footsteps. It was ridiculous, you see, I’m accident prone and I couldn’t kill a bug.” Rian’s eyes shined, remembering. “My mother and father nearly cried with their sadness. My brother did. He bawled and bawled. And then came my tears.”

“Tears ought not be thwarted,” Selden said, though he hadn’t cried in years. Instead, he felt the welling of them and ... then? Then came the emptiness that sometimes overcame him. He was past tears, he realized, swallowed up in the hopelessness that tried to crush him.

“I cried all this morning,” Rian admitted.

There wasn’t any shame found in the boy either. Nature’s son, Selden thought.

“Your eyes are red with it.”

Rian nodded. He was beginning to feel comfortable with this man.

So Selden began his quizzing, the fencing with the boy put aside.

“How few points define a plane?”

“Three.”

“Verdigris?”

“Vert-de-Gris.”

“Choleric?”

“One of the four humours.”

“Yes?”

“It was Galen who wrote about the humours, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And the gift?”

“Yes, though it’s something...”

“Beyond words, isn’t it?” Rian was enthused, though he moderated his excitement, “From what I can understand, I mean.”

“What can you tell me about the gift?”

“Very little,” the boy told him, truthfully enough. For Rian, it was something beyond words.

“Do you think it might be like poetry?”

“Naming must be like poetry,” the boy answered.

“What can I know about naming?” Selden said. “But poetry, let’s try.”

“The heart in the breast of Hlorrithi laughed
When the hard-souled one his hammer beheld;
First Thrym, the king of the giants, he killed,
Then all the folk of the giants he felled.

“The giant's sister old he slew,
She who had begged the bridal fee;
A stroke she got in the shilling's stead,
And for many rings the might of the hammer.”

And Rian finished the verse, “And so his hammer got Odin's son.”

“Not Othin?”

“If you will, Pater.”

The quizzing seemed to last forever, though the boy never faltered. Selden was impressed. The boy was remarkably prepared for the school, even if he was a child of the near pagan reaches. The other boys will make fun of his accent. But he’s likely to win them over, Selden thought.

Selden was quiet.

“So is it asparagus now, Pater?”

“Your mother means to feed us.”

“Is it not an ember day?”

“It’s love’s bread she’ll serve.”

“Love’s bread,” Rian laughed. “Your student will be pleased. Didn’t his stomach rumble?!”

Selden joined in the laughing and, then, when the laughter came to chuckling, then silence, he couldn’t help himself. The boy’s charm was too much, his own curiosity too great.

So he opened his mind to him, in a guarded fashion.

He felt immediately foolish. What does a sixteen-year-old boy know? How could he understand how I feel after all that I’ve seen, after all I’ve done, things that have no real meaning, even to me.

The boy stared into Selden’s eyes ... and came to know him. For the master, it was uncanny. So many of his private thoughts were laid out like one’s morning clothes. Taken by surprise, Selden closed his mind with a ferociousness that must have alarmed the boy, but he remained seemingly undisturbed, now watching the master instead of reading him. Selden was taken aback. So complete was the boy’s knowing, it was frightening. Even the Archmage stumbled a bit when making sense of others. Primus had admitted as much. This boy seemed to absorb thoughts and feelings like a sponge. And with a curiosity that was unnerving.

“I’m sorry,” Rian told him. “I was...”

“No, no,” the master told him.

“I was indiscreet.”

“Quite all right.” And Selden changed the subject. He told the boy, “Come, let’s have our meal. You’re a good candidate for us. You’re bright. A little undisciplined, I would venture, but you’ll learn, if you join us.”

“My parents would like that.”

“And not you? You would waste my time?”

“I have doubts, too.”

So the boy had seen. Selden turned red with embarrassment, though the boy hadn’t judged him, had he? Instead, the master could feel that Rian was gentle, understanding, patient. He was a remarkably large-hearted boy.

“We always pray for a stronger faith,” Selden said. He might as well admit it out loud. He would make no excuses for himself.

He lifted himself from the boulder where they were seated, as did Rian. The master headed a short way up the path that had brought them to the river's edge.

And then he turned, “Just how completely do you see?” Selden could have just as well asked, “Who are you?”

The boy smiled, pleased with himself for his knowing, confused by his knowing so much, and ashamed for being so different than others.

A silence filled the air between the two.

“Your truename is Kinderring,” Rian told the master.

And Selden could not have been more shocked.

Twenty.

Rian stayed the night with his catechist. The widow who cared for the bishop, her name was Nuala, made a shake-down for the boy on the porch off the cottage. The boy lay under a bison skin, his eyes staring heavenward, the stars distant and moving so slowly across the sky. His emotions were unlike the heavens’ predictable course. He cursed the end to his bishop’s life and lamented him, mourned him, though he lay not far away, dreaming, Rian knew, and piecing together memories from a lifetime.

Where there is life, there is hope. So we're told.

There is life, and will, and acceptance. The bishop had already decided, had surrendered almost joyfully to what the Lord had planned for him. And me? Rian wondered. Can I do the same?

When I was named, I saw the same star-filled sky and then the daystar and the climbing dawn, Rose-fingered, the Poet wrote, and I was spun. Past mountains and dales, ice flows and a green horizon of turf, the waving symphony of prairie, the parched expanse of a red-rock desert that sang with hope. And came the rains. And flowers. They cascaded out from bough and hollow, seemingly blossomed from air. And I took it in, so solitary my breathing was another life pressing against me and my shouts came crowding back in echoes.

But where were the ones I loved?

Was I here alone? Here in the center of a garden–I could smell the roses. I heard fountains. And then the light failed. Crushed rosemary, geraniums, mint...

And I was named.

“Rian,” the bishop called. His mind had cleared, had returned to the proper day and hour. “You’ll be late. Take leave of me now. I feel fine.”

“I know the truth,” Rian answered. “You would not have sent me.”

“I’m a fool, Rian. You have to go. See the wide world, while you can and while your life shines before you.”

“And the rooks?”

“I don’t know. Wives' tales.” The bishop stirred, his eyes now opened and he looked at the boy who now hovered above, his head crowned by the midday sun. “One remains. He’s met the master from your new school.”

“A bird?”

“A mystery.”

The bishop reached for Rian’s hand and told him, “You should know my truename,” and the tears welled up in Rian’s eyes and poured like rain.

“No one remains who knows me so well, failings and all.”

Still Rian cried.

“Search me, Rian; I have no fear of dying. Face your doubts and you’ll erase them.”

Nineteen.

A cock crowed and the farm slowly took to life. And Geoffrey finally climbed down out of the loft, entering into the daylight with heavy-lidded eyes. Selden thought, “The young sleep deep,” and he called to the boy, “You’ll see to the horse and mule, won’t you? I won’t be a minute.”

Geoffrey nodded yes.

“Good lad.”

The farmer’s oldest son came to milk the cows, a cat or two at his heels. And the farmer’s wife came out too, presumably to remind the priest that he could have had a bed inside.

“Wasn’t it cold a might, Pater? Not hardly spring, is it?”

“Not too cold, Matron. It’s how I slept as a boy. Always nice to visit the past.”

The woman looked at the priest with a serious expression. “It’s the future I look to. And will it bring promise?” She spat. Granted, away from the priest, but crude manners nevertheless.

Selden had seen pessimism before. Even in the brightest times, some people held on to their dark thoughts. And it came with age, along with aches and pains, a distaste for the naive young, a fear of falling or disease. There was no lack for things to dread, but still...

“Have you heard about the rooks then, Pater?”

Selden just stared.

“That they’ve all flyed away? You haven’t heard?”

“Matron, it’s no reason to fret a soul.”

“A soul’s one thing, but what about meat on the table? What about broke bones, those that won’t heal?”

Wives’ tales, Selden knew. “We’ll pray, Matron.”

“There’s that.” She looked unconvinced.

“Matron, here, please,” and he reached out his hand to hers and dropped a copper into it.

“Thank you, Pater.” She was quiet a moment, but then asked, “Are you sure?”

“Sure you’ll make good use of it.”

“Yes, Pater. Times what they are.”

He lifted an arm to bless her, and recited, “Every day I will praise You, for You open Your hand and satisfy the desires of all things. May you and all your family be so blessed, Matron.”

“God bless you, Pater.” She placed one hand on his arm. “Are you sure you won’t break the fast with us?”

“No. Thank you, but no. The boy and I are fasting till sundown.”

“So we best stay busy,” he added. “God bless.”

Geoffrey had the master’s mule and his own horse prepared and the two walked them back to the village church. Inside, the candle on the altar had burned down and gone out. Selden decided to save the other candles until the wake and funeral, if it came to that. When it comes to it, he realized.

Eighteen.

The night passed. Selden felt the restlessness that burned off the boy, who was wrapped up in his cloak in a far corner. It was Selden who suggested the boy sleep away from the draft of the shuttered door. Instead, the older man took the space by the square-shaped door where the hay and straw might be easily loaded into the loft. The barn was built into a low hillside and the door, just large enough, looked out away from the barnyard and the farm’s cottage, a building smaller in fact than the barn. The boy would have a small measure of privacy.

The master was soon asleep. The small shifting of the milk cows below seemed to lull him like a mother’s lullaby might. The plop of manure and faint rustling of mice bothered him not the least. “This is how I always slept as a boy,” he told Geoffrey when they turned in, after their prayers. Except on the coldest nights, he remembered, when my brother would consent to my sharing the bed, head to toe and shivering as the wind blew through any chinking we could manage between the logs of the cottage. My father would sleep next to the fire in our one chair. He’d feed the fire through the night–we never lacked for wood–while my mother slept with her latest swaddled child.

We were a large family, he almost said aloud. Branches! He nearly exclaimed. And who am I talking to? Selden chided himself. As he got older, he noticed, he conversed with nearly anything. At the school, he would complain to a small portrait he hung on one wall, an image of a church father whose writing Selden especially enjoyed. He wrote almost as one might really speak and in these written sermons confessed to nearly every sin. He was a sainted man.

That dawn came without interruption was something that pleased the master. He rose out of the tangle of his cloak and scarf and the blanket the farm family insisted he take. He scratched and shook his head. Squeezed a louse. (Damn things.) And half considered unshuttering the hay door so he might relieve himself with ease. Instead, he headed down the ladder from the loft and found the edge of the mews in the half-light.

The village priest must be no worse. Someone would have come for me otherwise, he thought. Uninterrupted sleep, that’s a blessing, too. Maybe today will be manageable, though an ember day. “No disappointments, Father; it will be a long enough day.”

Interlude.

“Hayfoot! Strawfoot!” the brother cried. “And are you a fool, too?” he asked, his voice like thunder, deep and rumbling.

Just last night the lightning cracked upon us, the booming steps of the storm like a giant’s pace. “Gad, but it’s loud,” and me at the edge of the bed, ready to run for a mother's shelter. “Is it war?” I might have shouted. “Abed with thee, child” the prefect told me. “It’s just a storm, is it not? And you shoutin’ war. What overcomes you so? Hush. It’s abed, to be sure.”

To be sure, Brother, a fool I am. And, Brother, fool enough to know, I’m not made for marching, though I might grow in fondness for murder. I sent to him as much, but he could not read me. He just heard my wheezing and was disgusted. And me, I heard his complaints, his blasted tooth aching so and they’d tear it out. They will, God help me, he thought. Like something for shoein’ a horse, the clamp they wave about. God. And the crunch of it. That’s the worse. Poor lamentable me, I ache so. Worse than a kick to me sack. But what good is me stand anyway?

“Left and right, you whelp! Do you not know them by now?”

“Brother, if you would just ask? I know the Latin, too.”

“Vile cur, I say. Dogs have no Latin, I won’t hear it!”

“Pater.” Rian said, and he took the priest’s hand. “I heard you were poorly. Well ... I thought of you, and it was clear.”

The priest didn’t stir, but his breathing was easy. Rian felt the fever leave.

“I was out grubbin’ for asparagus.” And he thought, What might be its truename?

“Oh, stand to, you sorry pup. Left, right and bother. You’ll never march. Your head’s too big for it. You’re heart’s too big for it, too. So who will you fool next? Go back to your books and your candle wax.

“Brother, I’ll try harder...”

“Laddie, don’t go bother a brother,” the man told him. “Bugger a brother,” he muttered. “Oh, the whole lot of you." He cast eyes eyes over us. "I’d best go shovel coal.”

And the winter came hard. I remember the troughs gone froze over and the cows’ staring. Like licking for salt with less chance. Chaney-eyed, the beasts, the breath of them a vapor. Was it their prayers, like the incense we burned on the Lord’s day, our plea for the Christ, the Son of God? When would he come ... and would we know him? Pater asked just so, “Will you know him?” and the lot of us shook our heads. Would it be poetry he spoke? Like the psalms? Or will he just speak with his sword and have at us sinners?

We’d know then.

Seventeen.

Selden waited for Geoffrey at the front of the cottage, tempted to sit down and light a pipe, but he thought better of it. His enjoying a diverting smoke wouldn’t seem quite right, not with the bishop so ill. Instead, he looked down the darkened path toward the village and dished into his memories.

He remembered his naming day, him just turned sixteen and the vital force of him just beamed. He would see the world and conquer its four corners, clearly. And would there be love? Yes. And sorrow? Don’t you know it, he told himself. They came packaged together. One didn’t need the gift to know as much. Didn’t women cry so, and even the men would let loose in tears when they were deep in their cups.

I’ll have my name and then make my place in the world, he thought. His father would have him help keep the farm, but there was a brother just a year older and strong as an ox and another son of the soil just two years behind him. The family might do without him. It’d be one less mouth to feed at least and Selden admitted, I can’t stand the filth of it ... and all the slaughter. Even the piggy faces had a beauty to them. There was kinship among the living and the squealing before the bloodletting would tug hard at his heart. They know ... and he felt their desperate fear and he’d turn desperate, too, his father shouting his commands, his eldest brother with the bloody knife, and him nearly in the mud with the pigs, holding one fast and telling it, “Shush now, shush now. You’ll see it’s soon over.”

So he was named. The village priest stood down current from him, holding him by the belt and muttering prayers. The man had lost nearly all his teeth and the psalms and all he spoke came out in a slush of rhythms and long vowels. The bishop waited in the center of the fast-moving stream–it was spring and the snow melt came racing down to them–and he grabbed the boy’s hand and asked, more gently than Selden had expected, “Who are you?” And then he felt like the weather. Storm and thunder, gentle breeze, parching summer, the sweet nostalgia of the gold and falling leaves, the tender dew, and the odd singularity of a snow flake, the prism of it and the commonsense of all its angles.

He was named. The bishop whispered it to him, though he had to shout it to the village pater so that he’d hear too and remember. No matter, the stream rushed so hard, no one else might hear.

“Master,” Geoffrey called. The boy was within ten feet of him and he never knew, so deep the reverie.

Selden turned to him. “All right, then?”

“Yes, well enough, if a hayloft will do. They wanted you in a bed, but I told them you wouldn’t have it.”

“And the boy and his family?”

“Noon, just as you asked.”

Selden was quiet then, but spoke up before the boy grew uncomfortable being read. “You’re afire.”

“I was knocked clean down, by an oaf shouting about his bowlegs and followed by his niece banging a spoon on a pan. They made it all fun, and me in the mud!”

“Go on, Geoffrey. They were achase, after their bees.”

Geoffrey just looked on.

“It was a swarm they were after,” Selden said.

The boy looked dull still.

“You know nothing about the country, Geoffrey. Do you?”

Geoffrey smiled, shaking his head, the rhythm reminding him of the girl’s running off, the laughing as loud as the spoon against pot.

“A beekeeper maintains his claim on the swarm so long as he chases it," the master explained.

“And the pot? And banging spoon?”

“Sure she was tanging the bees. It drives them to cover, they say, like thunder.”

“Rubbish,” Geoffrey claimed.

Selden was silently amused. Sure the boy was stung.

Sixteen.

“No, thank you, Matron,” Geoffrey told her. “Pater will be waiting for me.”

“And have you made arrangements for the night, Geoff? We’ll happily find a place for you two. We haven’t much room, but it’s a roof, init?

“Pater’s taken care of all that, Matron. But thank you. Thank you all the same.”

Geoffrey nodded his head to take his leave. He asked, “With your license?”

“What’s that, Geoff?” Rian’s mother smiled, clearly perplexed by the expression but patient enough with the student’s high manners.

“With your leave, Matron?”

“Yes, yes. Don’t let grass grow through your toes.”

Geoffrey turned outdoors and soon enough he heard the banging of pots coming closer. What in the world? he wondered. He just reached the corner of the cottage and was mowed down by a beast of a man, not tall at all, but with a chest the breadth of a barrel. And squat legs that kept to their awkward running.

“Blast!” the man shouted. “And me so bowlegged!”

Could that have been an apology?

And now came a young women banging a metal spoon against a metal pot, laughing at the collision and the tumble of a boy.

Geoffrey looked up and saw her and thought, She's beautiful. Her light brown hair done up in braids and her figure so appealing to the boy’s imagination. Blue eyes that seemed to spark and white teeth that gleamed as the girl laughed.

“He is my uncle, young sir,” she expressed between her laughing and the banging of the pot. “He is quite bowlegged.” And off she raced. The sight of her joyful to Geoffrey’s eyes, and him not a bit mindful of his toppled pride.

Well, he thought, as he pulled himself up. I’ll be the bowlegged one.

Fifteen.

In the village–not far away, just over two gently rolling hills and down two or three field lengths, lying just beside a rushing stream–Geoffrey stood at the cottage doorway and puzzled over what he might say. The boy’s mother–Rian’s mother–insisted that the master and he join the family for a meal the next day.

“After Pater has spoken to the boy, when that’s all done and put aside, we’ll have a meal. Rian’s just now gone to collect the sperage and we’ll have a hen or two. We’ll make a small feast of it, won’t we?”

“Tomorrow’s an ember day, Matron...”

“No meat then. Is that it? That is a shame.” She thought of what might be in the larder and was puzzled, too. “We’ll make do, young man. Still a feast. A small one maybe, but bread at least, and greens. And we’ll find something frothy for our cups.” She took to sweeping again. The floor couldn’t have been more clean, a mud floor dried hard and shiny. “You’ll see, young man. Geoff, was it?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“A feast, a feast,” the woman said, though she shook her head at the puzzle of it. Why visit on an ember day when all within her said they must eat?

For Geoffrey’s part, he bit his tongue. No one ever called him Geoff, not unless they wanted to provoke a fight. Country manners, he thought. When he first introduced himself, the matron hugged him and insisted, “I’m Beatrice, but they all call me Bea.” He recoiled at the familiarity.

Ember days, of course, were days of complete fasting. Geoffrey hated them, but it was better to choose hunger than be forced by want. Nothing but water. Broth perhaps, if you were sick, or old. He didn’t have the heart to say as much to the woman in front of him, who nearly danced with her broom.

“Come sit down, Geoff. I can’t see how you won’t have a nibble at least now. No ember day today, is it? That wouldn’t be fair. Not at all. A growing boy like you?”

A bit more for Part Fourteen.

Again Selden whispered, “Matron, did Primus share his truename with you?”

“Heavens no,” she answered. And she thought, “You are a queer sort... No one gives their truename.”

Which was true enough, though a daughter might tell her mother–a man might tell his bride–but it was the village priest who would remember and would give a dead man a proper burial and stone, a stone with one’s truename etched for all to see and remember. It was no secret then. The dead were past caution, past any fear they might have that their truename be used against them. One’s true name bound one irrevocably to those who knew it, perhaps more completely even than marriage.

One never asked for another’s truename. That was understood. When given, it was nearly always an unexpected gift ... and always a burden. Sometimes the vagrant, the lonely traveler, the exile ... they might give their truename to a priest when they thought they had no more days to live. More often, they died nameless and unclaimed. If there were a stone, it might read “Berwin, as he was known,” or “Aline, as we called her,” but such a monument seems to break the heart.

“He might share it,” Selden supposed, “but I don’t think we should count on it.”

“You can’t divine it?” Matron asked, which brought a smile to Selden.

“Fairy tales, Matron. Not even the Black Arts can force a man’s truename.”

Matron shivered and mouthed, “Avert,” the spoken charm that even toddlers learned. “Avert” meant to turn evil. Many gestured, too, passing a flattened hand, palm down, across the air in front of them, as though they were at table and meant to say “No more.”

Fourteen.

“Thank you, Pater,” the old woman said.

“It’s a gift from the Archmage himself.”

Bread of life, bread of heaven.

Selden remembered the story the Archmage told when he handed the bread over to him: The Archmage began his religious life as a monk, one who traveled his city’s streets begging for food. One day a housewife was so irritated with him she threw a very hard loaf and struck him in the head. “It hurt very much,” the Archmage recounted. “I think that perhaps she did not give it with a glad heart.”

Part Thirteen.

Selden signed himself and then turned to where the bishop lay. He spoke quietly a spell that would bring back the bishop’s appetite, making the small gestures called for, questioning himself still if this was what the dying man would want. He took away the fever, too, knowing that he was just masking the symptoms of the man’s dying.

He called for Matron then, not out loud, but by placing the gentlest of suggestions into her mind. Matron would sense it as curiosity or concern. And, sure enough, she appeared in just a moment, her eyes searching those of the middle-aged priest for some sign of hope.

She came close and Selden whispered, “How well do you know this man?”

Matron’s mind scurried between anger and suspicion and fear. What a question to ask, she thought. This is no man lying here; he’s a priest. And do you mean, am I intimate with him? No, I love my husband still–God rest his soul–and I wouldn’t sin with a priest. How dare you, her mind demanded. And of course I know him well, Pater; he’s my parish priest. I confess to him. Less likely would I turn to you for penance and forgiveness. So, what do you mean: Do I know him? Is he not what he seems?

Matron finally spoke, “I am as close to him as if he were my brother.”

“Then you’ll care for him until the end? For you should know, Matron, he is not long with us. He’s been shriven. He calls for the end, so that he might begin his new life.”

Matron’s eyes filled with tears. She struggled to speak, “Is there nothing you can do? I would ask– ”

“Nothing more can be done... Or, at least, ought to be done.” He looked at her closely, calling her attention to his eyes, and perhaps his heart. Might she hear him as he felt? “One reaches a place of quiet–even when everyone else is wailing and in tears, even when one’s self makes a terrible groaning... A vast place of quiet and towering clouds, that race toward the setting sun. And then comes certainty. Death comes as naturally as a heartbeat, as unplanned as our breathing. We make the steps as though we are young again. The best of us go skipping, making songs like those children might sing.”

The old woman smiled, a bit. Perhaps she understood.

Selden told her, “I’ve done some small things. For comfort. I’ve taken the fever away and given back an appetite. Don’t be fooled by it, Matron. Your priest hasn’t long to live.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Let me tell you something. Not a secret, but tell no one until he’s passed. Will you be bound?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Your priest is a bishop.”

Matron showed her surprise, but looked at the dying man as if she had known all along. Selden heard her thoughts: We’ve known that he is a holy man.

“He gave up his crosier when his health began to fail. And was called here to Cald Mere. Tiny Cald Mere.” To himself, Selden reasoned, He came to Cald Mere to teach this boy. One would receive no better catechism.

“So he is Primus to us, Matron. When he wakes, Primus will be hungry. Give him broth and ... I have a loaf of bread with me, from the Archmage. It is the eulogia, but some days old. Perhaps it will be a sop for you two, for you should eat of it also. It is blessed bread and you share in its blessing as you tend to Primus.” Selden placed a hand on the woman’s head. “God reward you, Matron.”

He knew her well enough from what he had seen in her. She was a kind woman, devoted more to her priest than to her God, perhaps, but that was her path.

And Selden knew, “All paths lead to God.”

Part Twelve.

There were others who might do more for the bishop, Selden knew. There were charms that kept fevers down, spells that would bind wounds, all manner of things a healall might do ... but the bishop was an old man and worn thin. Worn out, really. He was ready for death. And, thankfully, not afraid. He needed no strengthening of his faith, no consolation, no reminders of God’s grace. What more could Selden do?

Would the village grieve him? Selden didn’t know. Matron would, of course.

And when could he ever be replaced? Cald Mere was so far north, so distant from any real throne. The people here had a taste of freedom, there was no doubt of it, but its cost came heavily: the hardest of lives and bone-grinding poverty (Selden’s father would have exclaimed, “God love ‘em! They have not even a pot to piss in!) Restless sons would leave for the wars and most would never come back, intoxicated as they were with the spilled blood and free-flowing wine, free women too, and song.

It was sad to consider, so Selden pushed it from his mind.

“I have a job to do, Primus,” Selden whispered. “Even if it means taking a talented boy from his village.”

The bishop slept.

“And what about this boy’s having a destiny? It can’t be to plough dirt, can it? Not if he has the gift. That would be the sin you would have welcomed, Primus.”

Selden pushed his thoughts away again.

“We’ve put that behind us anyway.”

Large-Hearted Boy. Part Twelve.

Early last week, late this week. Please check tomorrow!

Large-Hearted Boy. Part Eleven.

Selden remained quiet, waiting for the bishop to finish.

The bishop asked, “You see my stubbornness, don’t you, Selden?”

Selden nodded ever so slightly. Perhaps the bishop saw. He would sense it, nonetheless.

“And you understand that I would have named the boy if his parents had consented? I wouldn’t have told anyone about this boy’s gift. I wouldn’t now if I had the choice. How can I be forgiven for something for which I won’t repent?”

Selden answered him, “Primus, surely it’s not a sin to follow one’s heart. And the decision wasn’t yours to make. You’ve done the right thing. After all, the parents decided. You didn’t thwart them. You haven’t sinned.”

“Yes...”

“I absolve you, in the name of God.”

And the bishop’s burden fell away. He saw himself as if from a distance, and the world took full bloom. He wouldn’t see another frost, he knew. It was clear to him now, and he became oddly dispassionate, accepting that he had seen the seasons turn, first so wildly, forcibly, and now so steady and certain. It was as though his life had been a child’s top, ready to tumble still.

Selden stood. “Where is the oil of the sick, Primus? Is it here?’ He looked just past the bishop’s cot and saw the small vial. “Of course it is.” Selden moved to the other side of the cot and poured a small amount of the oil into his left palm.

At a man’s deathbed, all distinctions of rank disappear. “Brother, I anoint you,” he told the bishop, and after dipping his thumb in the oil traced a small circle on the bishop’s forehead and then touched his lips and then his chest, just above where the heart beats. He traced circles on the bishop’s hands, too, tracing the palms as was the tradition with priests. Ordinary men, even kings, offered the backs of their hands.

There were prayers to be said, but the bishop had fallen back into his slumber. Selden sat again and prayed for them both.

So he prayed, from memory–his memory was good–and he arrived at the final Amen and opened his eyes. In the distance, looking down at them from the height of a tall tree, was a single rook, black as priests are dressed, and waiting for ...

“What?” Selden asked the bird.

And it cawed.

Large-Hearted Boy. Part Ten.

The widow led Selden to her own home, a ramshackle cabin with its covered cooking area just out the back door. It was here that the village priest lay.

The matron explained, “Fresh air’s good for Pater. And here I can keep an eye on the poor man.” She shook her head. “He’s nearly bent over with aches on a good day. He’s old, you know, Pater. I’m afraid for him.”

Selden understood why. As he approached the priest he could feel the man’s resignation. The fever and chills had exhausted him.

“I give him a portion of what I mash from willow bark every two or three hours,” Matron said. “And all he’ll have is a little honey for strength. He’s been asking for you ever since we heard you and the young one was close.”

News traveled fast, Selden thought. “Leave me with him,” Selden told Matron. “And send word to the young one that I’ll be here for some time, won’t you?” He had told Geoffrey to introduce himself to the student-candidate’s family and then find rooms for the night.

He took a seat next to the sick man and sat quietly. He prayed for a time and then simply cleared his mind and watched the twilight give way to night.

The village priest opened his eyes and struggled to take Selden’s hand. Selden made it easier for the old priest. He scooted his chair closer and took the old man’s hand into his own. He smiled and recited, “He is a priest forever. Let not this glory dim, Lord, this fervour fade. Always remember him whom Thou has made Thine own Anointed. Keep his heart from all the dust of earth apart, and in Thy teeming comfort ever be strength to his frailty.”

The elder priest tried to speak, but managed just a few words. “The boy,” he said. “We would have him for ourselves.”

“Don’t speak,” Selden told him. “I can hear just the same.”

“Of course, you can. Anoint me, won’t you? I have the oil here. It’s here somewhere.”

“Of course...”

“I have only one sin I’ve not confessed.” And without any formality, without the ritual, the old priest opened his heart to Selden.

And Selden felt the hurt. And he came to know that the priest was actually a bishop, one who left his office when his health began to fail, who had come to Cald Mere because he felt he had been called to it.

“And it’s been peaceful here, brother.”

“I am called Selden, Primus.”

“You teach numbers.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve come to see the boy.”

“Yes.”

“My sin is that I would have kept him here for us. I was selfish, but the boy’s parents had more sense. I would have named him myself, here, in tiny Cald Mere, hardly a spot on a map, but the parents had more sense.” The bishop still struggled with his selfishness. He admitted, “I’ve become as superstitious as the natives. The day the boy was named, our rookery emptied. All gone, but one bird, who waits for you.”

Selden struggled to understand. The bishop’s mind was a blur to him when it came to the bird. Did it speak to him? Did the bishop answer back? Was there really any bird at all?

“The boy has the gift,” the bishop told Selden.

“I understand.”

“And the boy has a fate.”

“Primus, don’t we all?”

“This boy has a destiny.”

Large-Hearted Boy. Part Nine.

Selden was surprised by his singing. What’s come over me?, he wondered. And why so morbid today?

And wasn’t that Geoffrey’s silhouette in the doorway? Has he heard me? Blast! The nerve of the boy to spy in on him, he thought. But his anger left as fast as it came. The boy’s thirsty. So am I. If he stands in the doorway, it’s only to suggest that a public house must be nearby.

Despite the master’s forgiveness, Geoffrey’s horse nudged the boy roughly, moved to the act at Selden’s suggestion. Selden smiled at his own joking and called to the boy. “Your horse is as impatient as you are.” The boy smiled, the master knew.

Selden stood, but before he left the choir, he lifted a number of the miserichords, to see the carvings that decorated the wood beneath the small perch. Whenever he traveled, he made a point of admiring the work of the anonymous craftsman who spent hours on these panels, panels that would rarely be seen. What delighted him most was that the scenes and figures portrayed under the seats were always profane. Never rude or unbecoming–well, sometimes the cravings were suggestive–the men and women depicted in the panels all went about their daily pursuits without knowing their God stared over their shoulders. They threshed, or ploughed, or even kissed under his mercy and, humorously, to Selden at least, under the hindquarters of a priest or brother. The miserichord where he had sat was his favorite. A cow turned her gaze toward the viewer. Behind her was a tumbled man and his milk pail. The cow looked almost as though she could smile.

“Pater,” Geoffrey called out loud. “You have a visitor.”

Selden looked toward the doorway and now saw two silhouettes. A short, squat figure struggled with her bonnet.

“Come in,” he bid her. “Blessings.”

“Blessings, Pater!” she shouted from the distance.

He saw her curtsy and felt her impatience and worry and watched as she came only a few feet closer, into the balanced light of the nave.

“Matron,” he said. The ample figure in his view heard it as a question.

“Aye, that I am. Though my espoused has been dead some ten years, Pater.” And she stated her business. Her alarm was growing. “Our priest, our village priest, he has a fever and I cannot keep it down, Pater. He sent me to you. He knew you were to come, so he told me, and sure enough, Pater, here you are and it’s a blessing, it is. Won’t you come to him?”

“Of course, Matron,” and he strode down the stone aisle. “Take me to him.”

Large-Hearted Boy. Part Eight.

Selden's voice was surprisingly strong, Geoffrey thought. The master hardly ever sang out at Chapter, or even Mass for that matter. And why so mournful a song? It was one the boy remembered his mother singing, the tune so bittersweet and lovely.

Man mei longe him lives wene,
ac ofte him liyet the wreinch;
fair weder ofte him went to rene,
an ferliche maket is blench
thar-vore, man, thu the bithench,
al sel valui the grene,
wela-wey Nis King ne Quene
that ne sel drinke of dethis drench.
Man, er thu falle of thi bench,
thu sinne aquench.

Large-Hearted Boy. Part Seven.

Selden entered the church and was reminded of his childhood. He grew up in a village something like Cald Mere. Their church had been even simpler, with a hard mud floor instead of the large stones that were pieced together here. They, too, had a vast fireplace that would struggle to keep everyone warm in the winter. Folks wore their coats inside in the dead of winter. There was no need for the hooks that lined one wall. In fact, the coat hooks were rarely used. Perhaps in spring or autumn–but only when it was raining would people wear coats. Otherwise, they basked in whatever sun might shine. They knew too well that the winters were long, and deep, and unforgiving.

The priest approached the altar and knelt down, though his bones complained. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and recited a prayer that all knew, even children:

O Lord, turne not away thy face from him that lieth prostrate
Lamenting sore his sinneful life before thy mercies gate
Which gate thou openest wide to those that doe lament their sinne
Shut not that gate against me, Lord, but let me enter in.

Selden rose and took a place in the choir and, seated there, began to feel the tension leave his shoulders. He knew if he remained there for a time, even his headache would go away. It was the hope for Communion. His faith was not so weak that he stopped hoping. Still, it was easier when he was young.

Everything was easier. Understanding was easy because he never really considered anything deeper than common doctrine and teaching. Yes, he’d had all sorts of theology, but his real interest had always been with numbers. And numbers had their mysteries, too. His duties were easier, too, because so little was asked of him. Now, the Archmage seemed to rely on him more and more. Selden couldn’t understand why.

And of all the people to select to come to Cald Mere. His magic was so weak in comparison to the others, he could hardly defend himself. Even wolves might be hard to influence if they arrived in a pack. He and Geoffrey might never have survived an attack from the men who had followed them earlier. Geoffrey had only the sword and dagger ... and he had his weak spells. A village witch might do as well!

Outside, Geoffrey grew restless. He was thirsty and aching and anxious to meet some of the people in the village. Selden was not a man given to much talking and Geoffrey loved to talk. He rambled on about anything and loved hearing others’ stories. He’d especially like to hear more about the Bitterfolk and he reminded himself to call them by one of their proper names. He knew that they called themselves the First People. It was true, he knew. All this land was once theirs alone. His people, Selden’s people, came from far way.

Geoffrey approached the church doorway and peered inside. His eyes hadn’t adjusted yet to the darkened nave, but his ears could hear just fine and ... what a surprise. Selden was singing!

I think I'll begin posting on Thursdays.

Large-Hearted Boy. Part Six.

The rest of the journey to Cald Mere was uneventful, though Selden worried that night would fall before they reached the village. He would much prefer being indoors that night ... and among people of his own kind.

It disturbed him that he could only make sense of the strangers’ simplest emotions. The gift seemed to work that way. Relations between the two peoples was tense, based on a history of misdeeds, mistrust, and open warfare. Only commerce brought them together now. Some of the more adventurous priests reached out to the strangers, even lived among them. They brought back curious stories and argued that the strangers shared beliefs that one might call religion. Selden didn’t doubt it.

Just at twilight, Selden and his companion spotted the first signs of Cald Mere. Selden blessed the children and their mothers who stared at them over fences or from the dark shadows of doorways. The menfolk would be coming soon from the fields or, more likely, the public house. They’d shared their old gossip and tired jokes.

When they reached the church, Selden dismounted with a groan. He was terribly tired and would enjoy having his day’s portion of ale. The day was far from hot, but a man–any man–built up a thirst from travel.

The village priest wasn’t anywhere to be found, though a candle was burning in the church. In the cities, candles always burned. They represented a kind of welcome and the certainty that God was present there. In the country, priests couldn’t afford to burn up all their beeswax. They had little for themselves and most wouldn’t burden the faithful more than need be.

“I’ll pray, Geoffrey. Will that be all right?”

The priest’s companion nearly smiled. “And why this unexpected courtesy?” he wanted to ask, but Geoffrey knew well enough not question anything the master said or did. Selden’s question meant: Watch the horse and donkey, boy. I’ll be a moment. Don’t wander.

I'll be a day late again.

I'm researching rooks!

Large-Hearted Boy. Part Five.

Geoffrey turned to the master. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“I’m not known for my humor,” Selden answered, his impatience clear.

“And you’re somehow ... angry with me?” The young man stood in his stirrups and drew back his cloak so that he could better reach his sword.

“Don’t be foolish,” Selden told him. “And take your seat!”

The boy sat, though he couldn’t help himself from staring right and left into the trees that lined their way.

“Calm down, boy,” the master told him, “and stop staring about in so blasted obvious a way.”

“Are we in danger?" He would draw his sword.

“If they want us dead, they’ll use arrows. Your sword’s no use here.”

“And your magic?”

Selden laughed. “I’m a mathematician.”

“Surely you can–”

“I can’t cloak us, no.” He thought. “I can blur our actions, not that it would help much, or I can perhaps confuse them.”

The trail was so quiet. No bird calls, no wind.

Selden asked, “You can’t feel them?” His expression seemed to ask for some confirmation from the boy.

“No. Truthfully, I can’t.”

Selden nodded. “It’s because they’re foreign to you.”

“Bitterfolk?”

“Whoever calls them that?”

“Young people ... I suppose. It’s how we know them.”

“It’s rude, Geoffrey. I won’t have it.”

“Yes, of course.” He wouldn’t argue about language now. “They’re following us, is that it?” He was getting anxious, even a bit desperate to know if they were being stalked.

“Granted, they are an aggrieved people. They would be justified in being bitter toward us.” He felt the stares of the three men in the shadows of the trees.

Selden continued, “They are understandably wary of us. Not you and me, mind you. They could make an end of us like that.” He snapped the fingers of his right hand. “Like that,” he repeated. His left hand massaged the neck of his old mule. Selden seemed never to reach for the reins. The animal knew the direction Selden would have him go.

Geoffrey could hardly stand listening to the master ramble, but he wouldn’t interrupt. The master would tell him if there would be trouble.

Selden spoke aloud, but his mind was distracted and his words came slowly to his lips. “They’re ... resentful.” He was reading at least one of the men. “Angry ... about some new agreement their tribe was forced to swallow. That’s the bitter part. And ... they know. That I’m a priest. And that I would be missed ... that they would be blamed ... that the fighting would break out again.”

Selden called out to the boy, who looked and understood. The men are leaving. We’ll be safe at least to Cald Mere.

I'm sorry that I'll be a day late this week.

Large-Hearted Boy, Part Four

Selden turned to his companion, a student in his last year at the school who had only to pass his exams. After this, the Nine would likely encourage the young man toward the priesthood. He was modest and unselfish, bright and hardworking. And he was devout, much like Selden had been when he was young. The religious life filled one’s heart, just as it filled the hours. One’s prayers throughout the day seemed to be like song.

Selden’s prayers were more habit now. They were comfortable, reliable. They were the fruit of his years of discipline and self-sacrifice, though he found the fruit insipid at times. Well, nothing is as enrapturing as it is when one is young, Selden reminded himself.

“Can you feel the nip in the air, Geoffrey?” Selden asked.

“I can.” And he made as to shiver. "I’ve never been so far north before, you know.”

Selden smiled. He knew.

The young man continued, “It has its own kind of beauty, doesn’t it? So much pine and open sky.”

“It’s a hard living in the north,” Selden said.

“I think the loneliness would be the hard part. What is Cald Mere? A village of six huts? Or is there more?”

“More, I’m told. I’ve never been. It’s on a lake, of course, and there is trapping. The boy we’re visiting... His father is a smith. And a cooper, too. People do all that they have to.”

“I would die of boredom.”

“You, Geoffrey, would die of cold and starvation,” Selden teased. “You know nothing about woodcraft, do you? Could you lit a fire without a spell?”

“Without magic?” The boy seemed to ponder the question, but his silence was more for effect than hard thinking. He knew what he was. “It’s true. I’m helpless when it comes to the hard things. Without my spells I would be luggage, instead of your companion.”

“You were picked to be my companion because of your swordplay. Didn’t you know?”

“Well, that I can do.” The young man was even allowed to fence while at school, with one of the brothers who had been a man-at-arms before he took his vows.

“But whatever for?” Geoffrey asked. “Polar bears?”

“We’re not that far north.”

Selden was agitated. This stripling wasn’t really paying attention at all. “Boy, can’t you tell we’re being watched?”

About this story

This story is indebted to Ursula K. Le Guin, for reasons that I'm sure are obvious to her readers, especially those who have enjoyed her Earthsea stories.

Large-Hearted Boy, Part Three

Selden, of course, did as the Archmage asked. He made the journey to Cald Mere in just four days, not having to stop at each village along the way to inquire if he was needed. As a master, he was rarely called on to hear confessions or, for that matter, perform any of the sacraments.

It was just as well. There seemed always an element of jealousy toward masters among the village clerics, though three days out, as Selden and his companion made their way north into the desolate countryside, they were greeted by everyone with good cheer and were encouraged to stay overnight.

"What can your hurry be, Pater? Come grace our table, bless the first bread," they all cajoled. "Tell us what you know of the lively world to our south." Were they humoring him? Did they really care what went on in the cities?

"I wish I could, good people," Selden told them. "But we have some distance ahead of us and too little time. Let me bless you here." And he held one hand out over them; the other placed flat against his chest, over the heart, and he appealed to the incarnation of God they might best understand. God the Father, God the Mother, God the Hunter, God the Farmer... There were so many, all personalities of the One God, who had no name, except perhaps to the dead. But the master tried not to fathom what the dead might know.

Selden knew death, but none of its secrets. He was with his father when the old man died. And side-by-side with the doubts he had about his religious beliefs–him, a master!–Selden prayed that his father was headed for somewhere meaningful. The old man had been forgiven his sins months earlier and took to his deathbed as though it were a cradle of peace and the Mother’s comfort. He was past all his regrets, Selden saw, and past all ambition and worldly longing.

What his father really thought, Selden couldn’t say. He was unable to use the Gift, of course. It was impossible to read and hear the minds of immediate family, but his father’s manner was untroubled and patient. He murmured quite a lot in his sleep, but Selden heard no alarm in the whispering. It was a good death, Selden thought. Something we all pray for, isn’t it? A happy death.

Ch. One (Large-Hearted Boy), Part Two

It didn’t take long for the boys to take their seats. Rian sat first and then the others. Most followed Rian in their actions, if not their interests. It was another kind of mimicry, more subtle than Rian’s humor and done with the same gentle intentions. They gravitated to the boy, and encircled him like the seven planets. There were some–only a few of the boys at the school–who were jealous of Rian and they made fun of the lapping servitude the other boys showed him.

One boy in particular filled with anger when he saw Rian earn yet another honor or favor, or even a smile. His name was Brodrick, changed to Brodank in the boy’s first days at school after he wet his bed the second time. And he grimaced under his classmates’ further taunting: Even in the village below the school the boys called him Dank, an insult even in Common Speech. All could hear it and understand.

Brodrick seethed, like the shattering of an ice dam. And Rian could feel the distemper. It was wondrously cold, like what a fenny monster might breathe in its hate and grieving. Rian grieved, too, and Brodrick despised the pity even more.

Once the boys found their places, each pulled out from underneath the desktop a few sheets of paper on which they were expected to write in the smallest of hands. Paper was a prized commodity at the school and, outside of it, a rarity. Papermaking was a task that took two brothers nearly all their time of work–and when the Archmage had writing to do–nearly all their time of leisure. Only prayer came first. When the need was especially great, the brothers would even take meals in their workroom. The Archmage himself would deliver the tray, with his apologies for this burden on them, their having to work ‘round the clock to make and remake the paper that challenged the boys’ minds and played a role in their cramping fingers. (It was the boys’ burden to fill the scraps with translations from the High Tongue and, of course, every day they would transcribe remarkably long lists of True Names.)

The master cleared his throat. The boys fell silent.

"Today, I should like for you to consider Alhazen’s Problem. First formulated by Ptolemy in the second century of our age, we are asked, "Given a light source and a spherical mirror, find the point on the mirror where the light will reflect into the eye of a specific observer."

"Have you got that?" the master asked. The boys nodded yes, when in fact the words were already flowing past them as harmlessly as rain off a duck. This would be a long lecture, involving equations of the fourth degree and conic sections, and geometry, and no telling what else.

"There is no algebraic solution," the master told them. "At least not yet. It is, in fact, the subject of my own work when I have free moments."

Incredible, the boys thought, to a man. But what else would interest a mathematics master?

"What, indeed?" Rian asked himself. It was a question he asked frequently of himself, one that troubled him like a stone in his shoe. A calculus is a stone, Rian remembered. And stones were used for counting...

Rian tried harder to focus his attention.

"Of course, one uses this solution each time one visits the public house."

The master waited for smiles, but the boys only stared. It was the master’s rather sad attempt at humor and Rian felt sorry for the man. Of course he referred to the game of carom. Rian knew, but the others were still trying to fish it out, or were too far off in their own dreaming to care.

"Do you mean, hlaford, aiming the ale to one’s lips?" one boy asked; he thought it might be on a quiz!

"No, boy! Carom! Carom, of course! Can’t you see it?"

"Oh, yes, I do. I do now."

And all the boys nodded their agreement.

"Enlightenment comes to you all so uniformly," the master mused, his understated irony made Rian grin.

He’s not a bad sort, Rian thought. He always understood that somehow the mathematics master was his protector. Or his champion? Or the eyes of the Archmage? Rian didn’t know.

He couldn’t have known, because the mathematics master knew so little himself about the Archmage’s intentions.

He was asked by the Archmage to go to Cald Mere and test the boy, just a few days after Rian turned sixteen and received his True Name.

"Please see what are his intellectual aptitudes," Primus asked. And he added, "He has the gift. You’ll see that when you meet him. It’s remarkably developed him in, and he’s had no training to speak of. But just concentrate on the surface, will you? If the boy is bright enough, we’ll invite him to the school. His parents are already hopeful, but I made no promises. The boy himself seems happy enough in his village. He hunts and paints, and plays the recorder, I believe. He’s cheerful and made up well enough. The girls are already mooning over him. Beyond that, I know very little." Primus paused. "Except for this empathy he promises. One can feel it just by meeting his eye, Selden. You’ll see."