Friday, November 13, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
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.
“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.
Monday, October 26, 2009
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?”
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?”
Thursday, October 22, 2009
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.
“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.
Monday, October 19, 2009
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."
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."
Sunday, October 18, 2009
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.”
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.”
Saturday, October 17, 2009
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.
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