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.