Authors: L. M. Roth
They stowed
their bundles in Dag’s humble dwelling and stored their boat under a tree just
outside of his little house. Because he had been away on the journey so many
months, there was no food in the house fit to eat. His few goats had been well
looked after by his good friend Lunt; it would not take long to milk them. He
set Cort to the task, as well as churning some milk for butter. Flour for bread
could be bought from a neighbor. Kyrene offered to get some, and to bake a loaf
of bread over the fire that Dag started in the kiln. The honey supply was
intact in his little cellar, and would be excellent with the bread.
Dag asked if
they preferred fish or meat for the evening meal. Their long hike had left them
feeling famished, so they clamored for meat.
“Where do you
buy meat, Dag?” Fanchon inquired. “Is there a meat stall here? I did not see
one. I did not see any stalls with peddlers at all. Do they only sell their
wares in the morning?”
Dag laughed.
“No, my love.
No one sells wares here! I hunt meat and catch fish. No stalls; we have none!”
Fanchon’s face
fell.
“No stalls? No
peddlers? Where then do you buy any goods? Is there a nearby village where you
shop? It is strange to have no stalls, no? Vendor stalls, that is, there are
animal stalls of all kinds, no? They are all over the village!”
And she
wrinkled her pert little nose with distaste.
Dag laughed
again, although not as merrily as before.
“There are no
villages near.”
“Then how do
you buy goods?” Fanchon inquired.
Dag’s face
appeared slightly tense, and in a strained voiced he answered his intended.
“We go to the
trading post for what we don’t grow, make, or hunt.”
Fanchon’s blue
eyes widened.
“The trading
post? But that is
miles
from here! It is a journey of many days! How
often do you make the trip?”
Now Dag’s dark
eyes were riveted on Fanchon’s countenance, and he answered her with carefully measured
words.
“I go twice a
year. Once in the spring to buy the seeds I need to plant for food, once in the
fall to sell the pelts from what I kill to those who wear them in the cold months.
Yah.”
“I see.”
Fanchon
abruptly sat down on the nearest wooden chair. Her fair face looked as brittle
as an autumn leaf coated by the first frost. One careless touch and she might
crumble, Marcus thought to himself.
There was a
deep silence which no one seemed able to break. Fanchon stared unseeingly
ahead, her customary vivacity stilled. Dag shuffled his feet, his usual calm
rattled.
“I go to
hunt,” he ventured at last.
“I go with
you,” Felix eagerly volunteered.
“I go with you
also,” Marcus added.
The three
young men darted from the house with all the speed they could muster, as they
left Fanchon to reflect on the reality of her situation.
The first
night passed quietly as they settled in. Dag gave the bedroom to the girls, and
he and Cort with the other young men camped in the main room on the floor.
Although lacking in the comfort of the bedrooms at the trading post inn where
they stayed five nights ago, Marcus was wearied by the long walk of the day’s
hike and was soon fast asleep.
The next day was
spent in resting from their journey in the morning hours, then helping Dag with
the household chores in the afternoon. Cort fell to with a willing spirit, only
too eager to repay Dag for all he had done on his behalf. Kyrene did whatever
duties were asked of her, but Fanchon wandered about listlessly, showing little
interest in what was to be her new home. The frown on Dag’s brow warned of
storms ahead if Marcus was any judge of marital weather, but he told himself it
was none of his concern.
They spent
another evening around the fire listening to Dag’s tales of his people, his
people’s and Cort’s, he added smiling at his adopted son. Cort returned the
smile with the quiet tranquility of one aboard a ship that has been brought
safely in to harbor after enduring the battering of a ferocious storm. Marcus
felt a warm glow of affection as he watched them. How good Dominio was to bring
these two together!
Dag spoke of
the Tribal Chief, who decided all matters of importance in the village, and
throughout each tribe. He it was who settled all matters of dispute, whether it
was an argument between villagers, or sentences to be passed on those who did
wrong. His word was law, and all must obey him. To defy him was to face
banishment from the village, even from an entire tribe.
But now Dag
was talking, relaying the tale of the Great Bear, to whom the people of Trekur
Lende gave their homage. Tomorrow was his great feast day, and they must be
told why the villagers held this festival.
Once long ago,
Dag began, there lived a man named Garth. He was tall and strong, brave and
fierce, and he loved to hunt. His great joy was to spend long days in the
woods, to hunt the boar and the bear. Garth had no fear of the great beasts,
and he killed them and brought back from the hunt much meat and furs for his
people.
One day he
went to hunt as was his way, but had no luck. The fear of him was on the
beasts, and they hid at the sound of his step. He searched high and low, but
not a boar or a bear was to be seen.
Then, just as
the sun set in the sky, he heard a cry. Garth searched for its source, and
found a young bear cub, its foot caught in a noose that had been laid for a
fox. Its cries of fear touched the heart of Garth. Its eyes begged, he said, as
he drew near to it. He felt it would not be sport to kill one so young. He cut
the noose and freed the cub. But its foot was hurt from the bite of the rope.
He bathed the wound with some balm and let the cub go.
The cub tried
to run, but it limped. Just as it reached a great rock at the foot of a hill it
turned and looked back at where Garth still stood. It stared at him, and gave a
cry. Still it stood and stared at Garth, and cried once more. Then with a shake
of its head, it limped up the hill and out of sight.
Garth watched
it leave, and a strange sense came over him. He said that it seemed the cub
tried to thank him. He stood for a while as night came on, and then went home.
One year
passed. Garth went once more to hunt at the time of the Long Day when night
does not come. A great rain storm blew up and the trees fell in the woods.
Garth tried to run and flee from the wrath of the storm, but a large tree fell
right in front of him. A huge limb knocked him to the ground and pinned him
there. He was hurt and could not get free. The rain fell and the wind blew and
Garth lay there, and could not move.
Then he heard
a sound that froze his heart. He looked up and saw a great bear just a few feet
from where he lay. The bear looked at him and he looked back at the bear. Then
it walked to him.
Garth felt his
death had come. He could not kill the bear, nor run from it. His doom was on
him.
But the bear
did a strange thing. It did not charge him as was the way of bears when they
hunt to kill. It stared at Garth, and as it came to him, Garth saw that it
limped. Then he knew the bear was the cub he had set free from the noose. And
it seemed to know Garth. It gave a cry, then it pushed at the limb that pinned
Garth to the ground. It pushed and it pulled, and at last the limb came free.
The bear rolled it to the side, but Garth could not rise. His leg was hurt, he
could not stand. He fell back to the ground and lay there, to wait for death to
come, for he could not live long in such a fierce storm.
But the bear
stayed with him. It lay next to him and gave him warmth. It lay on top of him
to shield him from the rain. And Garth felt peace through the night, which was
not dark.
When the storm
stopped, the bear left him. Once more it looked at him and gave a cry. Garth
raised a hand to it, and it was gone. When the men of his village came to find
him, he told them the strange tale.
Garth went on
to lead his people and was one of their great Tribal Chiefs. And he set the
feast of Bjorrne the Bear to be held on the Long Day when night does not come.
For the Bear saved him, he said, and due must be paid.
So each year
his feast is held and the tale of Garth and the Bear is told once more. As the
years passed it was said that the bear that saved Garth was a god come in the
form of a bear, to save one who would one day lead his people. So the tale grew
and lived on. It is said that when the storms come and the sky lights up, and
the sound of booms is heard in the air, it is the foot steps of the Great Bear
in the dance.
“And that is
why we hold his feast day, to give thanks to Bjorrne the Bear god who saved a
great Chief. All our tribe swear and live by him,” Dag finished.
Then he sat
quietly for a moment as the others waited.
“But, I now
serve Dominio, and I must tell my tribe they are wrong to serve the false god,”
he sighed. “And no man likes to be told he is wrong. It will be hard. Yah, it
will be hard.”
The morning
came. At least, the time proclaimed it was morning, but in truth there had been
no night at all. Twilight never came, the darkness did not fall. All night the
land was bathed in an eerie glow. While not true daylight with a blue sky, it
was an unsettling glare as on days when the sunlight is filtered through a haze
of clouds and humidity, though there was not a cloud in the sky. Yellow-white
was its color, a golden glow. Marcus was not sure if he liked it or not.
For the
villagers it was a cause for rejoicing. The sound of singing and dancing came
to the ears of the little band as they huddled inside Dag’s house, attempting
to snatch a few hours of sleep. They forsook the sleeping arrangements of the
night before as Fanchon said the strange story of Bjorrne and his celebration
had unnerved her, and she did not want to be far from the protection of her
betrothed. So it was decided that they would all camp on the main room floor,
where they were within easy reach of one another should something happen to
alarm them in the night.
But sound
slumber eluded them. There was something in the air that unsettled them. Marcus
found the peace of his spirit disturbed, and a strange uneasiness plagued him,
making even a short nap impossible. Cort listened with widened eyes to the
sounds of celebration that came to their ears, as his small body tensed in
absolute stillness like some tiny woodland creature trying to evade the
detection of the hunter. Dag sat upright in a chair with one hand on his spear,
his ears attuned with the skill of the hunter for any sign of approaching
steps.
Felix tossed
and turned in a fitful doze, occasionally waking to inquire where the noise was
coming from, and what time it was. Fanchon nodded off but cried out in sleep
that was beset by nightmares.
Kyrene paced
back and forth in agitation, her lips moving in prayer, her gaze fixed on some
vision seen only by her own eyes. Then she stopped abruptly and strained to
listen. The sudden cessation of her pacing caught the attention of the others
as her apprehension spread to them all.
“What, what is
it?” Marcus managed to whisper hoarsely through a mouth gone suddenly dry.
“The Astra,”
Kyrene answered as her breath came in hard gasps for air. “They are here.”
A chill
descended on the room as a sudden fear gripped them all. The Astra. Those
creatures fallen from glory who preyed on the sons and daughters of Dominio.
“Here? But,
where, how?” Felix asked her. “This is just a celebration of Bjorrne the Bear,
a feast held by ignorant people who do not know the truth. It is not a worship
of demons,” he remonstrated with her.
“No, Felix,”
Kyrene insisted, “It is the Astra. Ever they have worn a mask to disguise from
men who they really are. Of course these people think they are worshiping a
god; yet that adoration is really given to idols. And it is the Astra, the very
beings who rebelled against Dominio and were cast from their former place. It
is they who have shown up to accept the veneration given to Bjorrne. For they
will snatch at any bit of glory they can take, always,
always
jealous of
the One true God,” Kyrene spewed out in a fit of vehemence.
“We must guard
ourselves,” she said simply.
Marcus and
Felix looked at one another, then at Dag. He nodded.
“Kyrene is
right,” he said with a shrug of his massive shoulders. “I have felt it all
night. They will come for us. We must meet them, and fight them with the
truth.”
A strange
dread came over Marcus. Something in his spirit told him that they were not yet
ready for an encounter with the Astra whom Xenon had warned them of. Marcus was
prepared, nay eager, to fight any physical foe. But how did one war against an
enemy they could not see or touch? How did one overcome that which had once
dwelt in the presence of Dominio, and who still had an incalculable power?
Logos, he
realized. I must ask of Logos.
“Bring me the
Sword,” he instructed Felix.
Felix brought
Logos from its resting place in Marcus’ bundles. With reverence he took the
scabbard from its linen wrappings and pulled the Sword free. He held it aloft
for one brief moment as he gazed on the silver hilt as it gleamed by the light
of the fire. Then with measured steps he presented the Sword to Marcus with all
the solemnity of a priest officiating rites at the altar.
Marcus
accepted the Sword from Felix with an equal solemnity. Already Logos had guided
them through the puzzles of their journey. But this was their first battle with
the enemy. What would it advise?
Marcus took a
deep breath. He steeled himself for whatever council they would receive. At
last he addressed the Sword.
“Logos, show
us what we must do. Give us aid in our hour of need,” he asked with a curiously
beating heart, and a voice that trembled slightly, in spite of his efforts to
steady it.
The blade
seemed to take on a brighter glow, until it seemed in the hands of Marcus a
star that had fallen from the northern sky. Then the glow faded, and words
appeared in a dazzle of silver light.
“Do not fear
those who kill the body but are unable to kill the soul; but rather fear Him
who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell,” he read in dismay.
Marcus
blinked, then a chuckle of wry humor escaped his lips and he turned to the
others.
“This does not
sound encouraging,” he commented dryly with a shake of his head.
There was a
change in the sound of the celebration. The singing stopped suddenly, replaced
by a disquieting silence. They strained to listen, but no sound came.
Fanchon
stirred from her fitful doze and rose from the pile of furs on the floor,
finally abandoning the quest for sleep. She stretched lazily and opened her
pretty mouth in a childish yawn. She smiled dazedly at the others as she
attempted to orient herself. She had heard none of the conversation and was
startled by the serious countenances of her companions.
“Why so
solemn?” she laughed in surprise. “One would think that someone has died, no?
Why has the singing stopped? Not that I appreciated it as I tried to sleep! Did
you sleep, any of you? I despaired of it until my head grew so heavy it ached
and ached! But still, I did not rest well. And that is the truth! For dreams
haunted me, and not the kind that I want to see in my waking hours! Now there
are some I should like to see…”
Felix could
bear it no longer.
“Stop,
Fanchon! For mercy’s sake, stop!” he implored.
“Why,” she
sputtered indignantly.
But Dag
intercepted and gently took Fanchon by the arm.
“There is no
time to be lost. Come, my love. We must go forth,” he said as he opened the
door.
“But, what
is…”
“We will
explain later, Fanchon,” Marcus assured her. “But Dag is right. We must not
waste time in explanations at the moment.”
Fanchon pouted
at them and shook her curls in frustration. Sullenly she permitted Dag to steer
her from the house. Sparks of blue fire shot from her narrowed eyes, and a
frown spoiled the loveliness of her face, but she kept her silence as they
walked to the center of the village.
It was quiet.
The singers and dancers had left, but there was a sense of more to come. Dag
confirmed their strange foreboding.
“Wait,” he
muttered. “They will come back.”
In the eerie
stillness they waited. Marcus realized that the birds did not sing their
morning songs. Were they confused by the lack of a sunrise? Or were they also
unsettled by this strange celebration?
At last, from
a long way off, they heard them return. Faintly, then with growing clarity,
they heard shouting. In a tongue far older than the one the Trekur Lenders used
in their everyday speech, the villagers declared their adoration of Bjorrne the
Bear. To the ears of Marcus and Felix it was rough and guttural in its primal
grunts and moans. If a bear had indeed attempted to communicate with its human
hunters, it might have sounded like the villagers who now lifted their voices
as one in veneration of their god.
“Va ek mu
gaat! Va ek mu gatt!”
The voices
were faint at first; then grew louder as the villagers drew nearer. Marcus did
not know which disturbed him more, the language in an unknown tongue or the
disembodied voices that rang through the trees. He glanced uneasily at Felix,
who looked about him uncomfortably.
Kyrene prayed
silently and surveyed the scene with half closed eyes as though she was in two
worlds at once. Cort stood by Dag’s side and watched the woods for signs of
approach. Fanchon shrank close to Dag and held his arm. And Dag held himself
erect and riveted his gaze on the forest.
They had not
long to wait. Through the pines they streamed in joyous celebration. Small
children led the procession, tossing wildflowers behind them in the narrow
path. The fresh scent of the flowers mingled with the aroma of the ancient
pines in a pungent bouquet.
They were
followed by the women, young and old, who danced by dipping, twirling, and
turning to bow at the men who brought up the rear. From every throat came the
cry of “Va ek mut gaat! Va ek mu gaat!”
Suddenly, from
behind them came a roar. At first, Marcus thought as his heart jumped into his
throat, it was a bear with jaws opened ready to rend the gathering apart. Then
he spied the human feet below the bear skin, and remembered what Dag had told
him and Felix of how two men would carry the bear’s skin in the procession. His
heart slowly ceased its pounding and returned to its normal beat.
The men came
on, moving the skin so that the “bear” appeared to rise up on its hind legs.
They lifted their voices in a resounding roar. The villagers all turned to them
and as one body dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.
“Stop!” Dag
shouted as he rushed into their midst. “Do not do this! You do not know what
you do!”