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thbookaneer · 2 years

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The Quest: Wretched Destiny

Chapter 0

“So thou wants to hear about the wizard Laef Evandür, do you? Oh, don’t worry about the pronunciation. ‘Leef,’ or ‘Layf.’ He stopped caring, and so should ye. Wasn’t always so tempered that one. He had a dark side. His journey is one that the songs don’t do justice.

Aye, yet to understand that thou must understand the ancient tale of the legendary blacksmith, Colm Mac Conmidhe. To understand the prophet’s story is to understand truth in the world as Laef saw it. You’ll forgive me if it sounds—unkind. Pull up a chair and a draught and I’ll tell thee.

“One moment, let me put a pinch more in my pipe. There we go.

“Twenty millennia ago, in the First Era, the godsmiths had finished their works and died. In the following ages, their divine children had discovered their powers and created worlds, filled with peoples and beasts and fowl and fish. They commanded the seas, the mountains, the sun, and even the fruit of the earth. By their joy or their displeasure, the inhabitants of the earth reeled or flourished. The quick witted alligned themselves to gods that they needed, and curried their favor with gifts and deeds. Others sought to frustrate the gods of their foes, and made foul sacrifices in mockery. And henceforth there was enmity upon the earth.

“Sixteen millennia ago, great fires engulfed the land and their smoke blotted out the sun. Terror wrenches the hearts of mankind and beast. Famine sapped the bellies of all. The people of the earth laid down their arms and made amends with each other and the multitude of divinities. And for the space of many years, there was peace.

“Yet two millennia later, the world had become rife with sin. The gods were at war amongst themselves then, and had ignorantly let the fields of the earth become overgrown with spiritual tares. Carelessly, they’d let their tools fall to earth and fall in the hands of its people. They discovered their magic and began to wrought changes upon the fabric of reality. With these tools they discovered mana in the rocks and in the mountains. Mana awakened the power inside of beast and men, and they themselves began to change.

“Horses sired horned foals, serpents sired fire-breathing hatchlings, even the trees began to speak. The race of men possessed the strength and will of the gods in their hands. They even began to take changes upon themselves, growing long ears or cloven hooves. Some even grew scales, fins, or feathers.

“This drew the attention of the gods, and for a time they laid low their arms against each other to address the recklessness of their creations. Many found great displeasure for men. Magic and creatures of its kind mingled together with men, and men mingled with they. Ignorant what godly wrath they were calling upon themselves, mankind fraternized with beasts of all kind. Mankind used the unholy magic upon each other and themselves.

“A few of the cosmic lords favored the new creatures and bestowed boons upon them, quickly gaining their loyalty. The other gods were wroth with them for condoning the abominations, and resumed their battling. Yet their enemies were empowered the more because of their new followers, and fought ferociously. Their acolytes took fierce forms, becoming beastly and savage. They were permitted to plunder and murder at will. There was much darkness.

“For hundreds of years the gods of light were waining and strength and the gods of darkness were waxing. One by one, the good deities were killed in battle or captured from their heavenly homes and executed. Fleeing the heavens, the last of them counseled together and agreed to ordain a hero on the terrestrial plane. He would teach the truth and call repentance and amass the faithful. Only by reducing the dark gods’ presence there could they diminish their power in the celestial plane. A knight would they call to restore order. But there was a traitor among them, and she stowed away and told the evil lords their plan.

“The detestable ones conspired together and conjured a fell colossus from the bowels of the earth. He was birthed in brimstone and bound together with hate and greed. With his gargantuan hooves he trampled the land. With his curling horns he crushed souls. With his slitted eyes he coveted destruction.

[Blah blah blah more to follow on the Creation.]

“In the winter of the Eighth Era,

“And that’s when our stripling blacksmith apprentice, Mac Conmidhe, heard of it. Only a young lad of fourteen harvests, or summers as the old calendar went, he had the courage of a bear but the wisdom of a cub. He was too young to be afraid of death or true pain. Yet, he had a heart as pure and humble as a mountain spring. He abstained from wily drinks, never once in his life coveted the use of magic, nor even the companionship with fae creatures. He kept his soul pure by socializing with mankind and mankind only. He loved his gods, and paid homage with his mother and father at least once between every full moon. And the impending evil worried him.

“The colossus was bearing closer and had ravaged all the realm far and wide, striking fear and flight in all but a few. Even Colm’s master blacksmith fled, a man of stature and strength. Colm’s own parents made to flee and saddled their mule with their belongings. The fear all around Colm, he could not abide. He resolved that this evil must be stopped at all costs. While others, including those more powerful in strength and royal might than he, shirked and cowered, Colm bore upon himself the responsibility of ending the blight against righteousness. He committed to die if needed be to help protect the last surviving kingdom. So, he took himself to the temple to inquire for guidance on who he could assist in conquering the grand evil. But before entering, he washed his face and his hands in a cistern. And many gods smiled down upon him for it. His deference for them was excelled by no other.

“Thusly, within a heartbeat of beginning his prayer to them, a brazier before him swelled its flame to a great height. He fell back afrighted, thinking it was a sign of their displeasure. He cried for forgiveness and begged for their mercy. But the crackling and thunderous voices of many came to him through the flames and bid him to arise. In one accord, they said he was no more than a stripling, but he was what the world needed and what the gods hoped would arise. The conditions in his heart were right for the time at hand. He asked what they required of him and offered himself as their loyal servant. The fire bloomed and licked his skin, but he was not harmed. The voices spoke peace to him that this was a sign he would be protected in their quest. He bowed his head and two flaming and great hands emerged from the fire, and rested on the crown of his head. And he was not burned. With words that should not be uttered by mortal lips, the pantheon anointed him to be their champion against the fell gods.

“When he returned himself home, his parents where no where to be found. With his master gone, he gathered all the remaining iron within his master’s walls. He implored the gentry that had not yet taken flight to trade with him for their silver, and by the will of his gods the gentry bequeathed it to him freely. He ventured to the fabled mountains where his guild rumored mithril could be mined, and found himself much there. Once he procured them all, he prayed, and with revelation from on high he divided the minerals into two piles: that which was sullied by the touch of fae creatures and spellcasters, and that which was pure. And with the clean materials he then began smelting and forging.

With the iron he shaped a rod, one long and hefty enough for balance, and with the ore known for smiting evil. With the mithril he smithed linked rings that bore hardly any weight, but shone with luster of even starlight. With the silver he rolled a ball and welded spikes on the end of it, imbued with the attributes for countering hexes and unnatural things. Together, they made the most worthy chain flail to grace the hands of men or beast. [It creates an area in a 10-foot radius around him. All friendly creatures have advantage. He starts with a shield so he doesn’t risk injuring himself, but decides to go without a shield so he can swing with more force. He makes strong gauntlets with wide flairs to act as a two small shields. During the battle, Colm accidentally hits himself in the head because of the unpredictability of the chain. But he miraculously recovers and slays the demon goat thing]D&D DM’s Guide, p. 174] After quenching it, he returned to the temple and presented it to the godhead. A gentle breeze swept through the hall, yet the spiked ball swayed as if it had been a torrent. Colm knew in his heart this was a sign of their approval.

He returned to the forge and held the mace and chain in his hands, not releasing it during the day nor night. He began a fast from food and drink, attuning himself to its secrets. He denied anyone to interrupt him, for should his concentration be broken he resolved to begin again. He trained with the flail, swinging and striking stones and blocks of ice. And on the ninth day, the weapon began to glow. Its aura was blue and pure, like the heavens where the gods dwelt.

[Eventually he’s separated from it by more than 100 feet and it loses its power and attunement]

Colm then bought a young ram which had never sired any kids, nor lain with a she-ram. He slew it, sacrificed the meat to his gods, and crafted horn from its head. [Horn of Blasting, speak horn’s command word then blowing emits thunderous blast in a 30-foot cone audible 600 feat away. Each creature within the blast must make a CON save, with a fail deafened for 1 min. And takes 5d6 thunder damage. Each use has a 20% chance of explosion causing 10d6 damage to the blower and destroys the horn. p. 174]

[Blah blah blah wrapping up some lore.]

But after saying all that, perhaps it’s best to give thee a context for how bad things are going to be for our lad. I’ll tell thee how he told me it happened.

Chapter 1

Laef was probably going to die and he knew it was his own fault. For too long he’d expected the gods to endow him with knowledge from on high to survive in these foreign woods, but now he was coming to terms with the idea that they helped those who help themselves. And he had not helped himself.

Rather, he’d put in less than half the effort he should have into scrapping together a shelter and especially into procuring food or anything that resembled it. He’d never hunted for a moment in his life and only knew a few edible plants back on his island, so he certainly didn’t know any on this gods-forsaken continent—even if some looked familiar.

He’d lost track of how long he’d in these woods, although it felt like it’d been longer than a whole harvest-span. A harvest and a day, mayhap. It couldn’t have been more than a nine-day since he’d left the raft. But however long, today he was not only starving and poorly rested, but he was numb. The night before, he had shivered so hard his head and jaw ached from his teeth chattering. He didn’t feel that now. He felt ill, and his mind was clouded.

He hoped it wasn’t a devil taking over him.

This was one of the many times he’d woken up and not realized he’d been asleep. It started happening more often the past couple days. Sometimes he’d be in a different place than he last remembered, and often in uncomfortable positions with his limbs askew. And this was no exception. Not only were his legs numb from resting on them awkwardly, his ragged clothes were soaked, and rain somehow seemed to be dripping through his leaky roof faster than it was falling outside.

His lean-to hardly resembled shelter, and the only thing gracing it as such was the log he used as a structural support. And that wasn’t any of his doing. He’d chosen a felled tree that was still attached to the stump, and with some logs he leaned against it, formed an angle underneath that was big enough for him to crouch under. But he had hardly any kind of real roofing: the branches he chose were light, thin, and easy to gather, while more substantial materials were a little further up the hill; he neither weaved nor lashed any of them together, so even a scurrying squirrel or a blowing breeze made huge holes. But probably his worst mistake was that he’d chosen to build in a divot at the bottom of a slope, inviting the coldest part of the air to roll down and pool around him in the rut, just like the puddles were doing in this moment. His rear and his pants were soaked, regardless of how much foliage he used to try to raise himself out of the puddle. And he’d given up anyhow.

The only good thing was that with the rain he had something to drink. He’d sipped clean water from a leaf on the forest floor, and repeated that with other leaves as much as he could without straying too far. It relieved his headache a little. But his stomach grumbled angrily. It wasn’t the first time, and it sounded more hollow now.

Berries were the only thing he’d been able to forage but only the kind birds eat, which were tart and hardly pleasant. Nothing juicy like strawberries, gooseberries, and especially not the rumbleberries that grew near his favorite outcrop back home. He tried hunting squirrels and rabbits but they were too quick for him and he was rubbish at hitting anything with a spear. Even if he’d had a proper one from the Loftbaern armoury, he’d never practiced at throwing at targets at any distanced. He’d squandered training in many other things too. Things that would’ve helped him now. He could’ve spent more time with the fishers or hunters. They would’ve at least taught him how to make traps. The only animal Laef was able to kill was a field mouse he happened to see and just happened to hit with a stone. It was a wild shot, and the meat probably saved him for a day or two more of miserablness than he would’ve otherwise experienced. It didn’t restore much vitality. It may have, had he cooked it. But he couldn’t figure that out either. He’d seen fires lit hundreds of times in hearths and outdoors and at festivals, but he hadn’t paid attention enough to see how those tending the flame made adjustments for wind or damp air. Laef didn’t have a flint or iron, and he didn’t know where it came from, or even have the sense to try breaking rocks for a spark. Rubbing sticks together only produced a wimpy smoke, but no more.

As thou seest, Laef thought the world would come to him on a silver platter. And why shouldn’t it, being the Chosen One and all?

But now he was afraid. He was afraid of dying. What scared him more was that it was his own fault. He worried it would be self-murder, the gravely unpardonable sin. When he was a wee lad he’d seen what happened to those poor souls. The ones that tried and survived were treated just as badly. Not only did they become pariahs, they were severed from the faith and civilization. When they actually died they weren’t permitted proper burial rites from the elders, nor were permitted to be buried wearing their ceremonial cloths, nor even buried with their families by the temple. And even worse, if their bodies were found they were drawn through the streets by horses, face down, and then thrown into a cave. What Laef would give for the shelter of a cave now.

None of that mattered, since he was hundreds of furlongs from the Loftbaern anyhow. Although he’d see them again. When he righted things. When he’d conquered the heathens and returned the Horn of Colm Mac Conmidhe. They’d welcome him then. He wouldn’t tell them this part of the adventure, when he almost died. If he survived. His mind couldn’t decide which one he actually believed, waffling between being vindicated and the very likely probability that this was the end. The mind is funny like that.

What made him the most uneasy is that he felt alone—knew he was alone—but had seen others in the forest. When he saw them he couldn’t tell if they were very far or very small.

Despite the thought, a strange comfort came over him right then, as he squatted in his hovel, shivering to death. He began to feel warm and more comfortable than he had a right to for this grand of a predicament. It was so inviting that he couldn’t help but begin to nod off, and thankfully he noticed it this time.

Laef’s stomach cramped one more time, and it hurt bad enough that it woke him up even more. He shifted from leaning against the stump, to lay on the earth to try to ease the pain.

But before he could shut his eyes again, a glow appeared before him, right in front of his face. He shielded his face with his hands, and tried to ascertain what he beheld. It faded and re-appeared a little farther away, outside his shelter. It’s azure pulse distinguished itself from the verdant forest, and the illumination it cast made it undeniable it was truly there. This was no imagination of his. He verily saw it. And it beckoned to him. Its mannerism of being near then far, then near again, and then a little farther seemed to say, “Lo!” and “Listen!”

He forgot all his numbness and odd warmth, and sat up into a crouch to follow it. And as he did, she went a little further. “She,” he decided but couldn’t say why. He just knew. And as he crawled out from under the log and into the rain, she went a little distance farther.

Laef’s curiosity beckoned him to follow and he did. He strayed a distance longer from his new home than he’d been since he arrived. He looked back at it, and saw that it was at least twenty paces away. He also noticed something that he’d not seen before: a group of mushrooms growing in a circle around his camp. He laughed to himself—as much as a person so close to real starvation could—that he’d picked a spot right in the middle of it, and turned back to follow the ball of light.

What he didn’t see what the path he’d been following was taking him directly off a cliff.”

Chapter 2

“Now, having that all that, let’s start a little further back. Not necessarily at the beginning, but far enough back that we get the where things really started to go downhill. Let’s keep it simple. Let’s even start with a theme, aye? Maybe a few.

Purpose. Potential. Fulfillment.

These were the words in the mind of the young man, but were without form or practical attainment. It wasn’t until later—much later—that he would understand they were indeed what he yearned for. Thou wilt probably see it much earlier than he hath. Poor lad.

Yet, Laef Evandür reclined on a verdant grassy hill, and stared out at the great Possible that was the ocean, and reflected on how it reflected his future. It was a cloudy day, and the briny breeze demanded he pull his mantle’s hood, and to avoid the chill he did. But it was all beautiful to him.

It was a very typical day in terms of weather, but atypical in any other sense. He was exhausted. But not from anything he had just done. It was residual exhaustion from the last six lunations. Every day before the sun rose he would clean, then study, then eat, then serve, then study, then eat, then pray, entrance, then retire to bed. It was rigorous. But it was righteous. And it felt good. Of all of it, the most laborious part was probably learning his letters and runes. But that was the rite of passage that came with the asceticism. And now he was enjoying the rest that he deserved. Soon he would resume the ceaseless chores that were always to be done in his people’s lifestyle. On the island.

Gulls squawked and chased each other furlongs above his head, and the waves crashed on the gravely beach below the hills and cliffs. The two sounds were chaotic and rhythmic, and they and the salty air soothed him. He’d always wondered what was beyond the smells, sounds, and boundaries of this island. But he didn’t expect to ever know. Not if the gods willed him to stay, and foster a righteous seed here, with their people.

But he wanted to be more than that. If it pleased the gods.

Laef had grown up on the isle. For all, yet few, harvests of his youth and adolescence he’d been a part of its people, sharing and providing for each other. And for the same as many years had he been a part of the faith. Yes, they say that thou can’t actually be a disciple until the age of twelve; but really, what options doth one have when thine family and thine friends’ families and everyone thou hast ever met is and has been a Loftbaern? It was a beautiful religion anyways, and he couldn’t imagine himself believing anything else—if there even were options. He could never be as happy as he was in anything else anyhow, since no other religion was true, including whatever the heathens in the Hinterlands worshipped. Theirs was the only faith with fidelity.

He was fortunate to have been born into it. So many walked the earth without ever having known the good word, and thusly they wouldn’t ever experience true joy. Most Loftbaern parents had been born into it as well, and their parents. But his great grandparents on his mother’s side had been part of the early days, when the godhead provided the exodus. It was because of their righteous choices to accept the Warrior Prophet’s teachings that Laef could enjoy the blessings in his own day. And he was grateful for that.

He was also grateful that he knew who he was, and the gods’ divine plan for him. All he had to do was wait a little longer for their calling. The calling that no one else besides he and the Warrior Prophet had received—at least that he knew he would receive. It was inevitable. But he felt it would be soon. It had to be. Although it felt late.

However, there was part of him—that he kept secret even from himself—that wanted to wander. And in this moment that he tightened the collar around his neck and ran his fingers through the grass blades, the pull was almost as equal as his desire to be chosen. It was a whisper in his mind that was quieter than thoughts, but still just as extant. He was ready, and ever more qualified now that he had a mind single to the glory of the gods.

Laef was a mildly handsome young man. He wasn’t very tall or very large. He had slightly shorter height and size for his age—about three cubits and a palm-width tall and thirteen stone. He wasn’t strong, but he was fast for his age and build. His copper skin was rich in hue, and his silvery gray eyes complimented his dandelion hair, which draped a little passed his perceptive ears. His eyebrows were auburn. He had a youthful impish nose and a sharp chin. His face spoke geniality and playfulness, but also a bit of dignity. This reflected his personality, which waffled between taking himself too seriously and not taking anything serious at all. His long eyelashes softened that a bit. He looked mischievous but ready to take on the world.

I would tell thee more about him and character but that would ruin the fun, wouldn’t it? His countenance should suffice for now.

In the present moment, Laef watched as two gulls played above him. One dove and the other swooped to catch it. They repeated this feat a few times until they were close to the cliff in front of him.

And then Laef took notice of something. In the distance among the waves, he thought he saw what looked life a raft. It was too far away to see, barely closer than the horizon. He sat up to get a better view. But between a blink it disappeared. Mayhap the waves took it under? Laef thought. Or maybe it was nay there to begin. As much as he tried he couldn’t see anything besides the tide and foam. A mirage among the sea vapors.

He stood that he could see better, and waited to see if it would reappear. That bothered him, and he decided it was likely time to leave anyhow. He tried not to worry himself, especially because it was a night of celebration.

Laef made his way back to the village. There was to be a ceilidh celebration there tonight for the final Night of Nine Candles. He thought about the feast and what he anticipated in it. There would be minstrels, plays, ax throwing, log throwing, and archery contests. It was a shame there wasn’t any crossbow competition. He would’ve loved to see that. The mechanics of the weapon fascinated him.

This was probably Laef’s second favorite holiday. He couldn’t decide if the first was the new year’s, called Darker Half, or Midsommar. The bonfire on Darker Half was definitely not to be outdone, and the mumming and guising was almost riotous, but the food at Midsommar was so sweet! His mother always made the best gooseberry pie for it too. But tonight’s celebration was about generosity and the hand of the godhead extending towards them. The Loftbaern people island wide commemorated by giving gifts and telling stories about miracles they’d seen. And the grandest part of the night was when the High Priest would tell the miracle of the Ninth Candle. His grace Earcán Ó hAimheirgin was so very excellent at it. His cadence of speech and the manner in which he’d pause to emphasize an event made it captivating, even a tale that Laef had heard every harvest of his life. The way the a-thiarna spoke, even when he wasn’t storytelling, was so affectionate. Like the way a father speaks to his children. It was hard not to love him.

Deep in thought, Laef was shocked when a small stone hit his chest. He so was caught so off guard that he stuttered in his step and awkwardly fell over onto his rump. He heard a raucous cackle a dozen paces or so to his left. He looked and saw his older sister, Aisling, peaking over a bramble of rumbleberries, covering her mouth in astonishment but still laughing with glee. He knew that expression. It was obvious she’d tried to hit him but not so squarely.

He jumped up in a frenzy and dashed to her position, but she was too spry for him. By the time he got there she was already over the next hill, hooing and hollering away. He gave way to her and let her escape. He squawked like a chicken at her fleeing shape and she faintly squawked back as she ran. It told him she meant no hard feelings. Laef chuckled to himself. He’d still get her later.

Laef resumed his path and said a prayer of gratitude for being given the day off from any labor. It was well deserved after so long away from home. The first thing he saw—and what anyone saw when they came into the prospering hamlet—was the temple. Even from a furlong off it was visible, grand and majestic. Too much so for a people as humble as they and for a population much smaller than what such a monolith implied. It was the only three-level structure they had, and it was obvious that it was hundreds of harvests older than the rest. Maybe even a century. It had many additions and modifications in its time, evident by its patchwork appearance. There were many other buildings that shared its age and precedence to his people’s arrival, but it was the most ornate. Its timekeeping device that its builders left was still a mystery to them, but it was reliable, if not divine. Or otherworldly.

Regardless of what institution or gods the temple stood for before their coming, his clan took ownership now. It was the center of their city, both in location and spirit. It was everything to the Loftbaern. The people prayed there, offered sacrifices to the pantheon there, were instructed there, chastised there, were spiritually nourished there. It was the center of this people’s life, and the center of the eight septs. Dungarderry wasn’t the largest of them, but the temple certainly made it chief of them. And Laef had very fond memories of it. From the rich and earthy incense, to the singing, to the feasts, and even to his keranation. Everything happened in and around the temple.

The only thing second to it was the mead hall. The Council knew a people needed not just a place to worship, but a gathering place, and accordingly put resources into building one right next to the temple, and expanded upon it when needed. It also helped that their high priest lived there.

Laef could see the excitement his neighbors’ faces over the coming ceilidh as he passed through the archway and into the streets. Many more people than usual stood in the cobblestone alleys and roads, gleefully chatting. There was the general cheer and activity that feasts had: people smiling to themselves, their abundant cheerfulness and overt courteousness, the bustling in the marketplace. The butchers and fishmongers called out their flesh they’d acquired just for the special day. The farmers announced the freshness of their beets and carrots and barley. The clothiers raved how the fine quality of their raiment would be excellent attire to celebrate the miracle, and how long they’d toiled to provide it. The chandler hollered out his abundant supply he made specifically for feast. And even one of the priests, who had nothing tangible to bestow, was out well-wishing upon people and inviting them to attend the banquet. He saw Loftbaern take, and thank, but exchange no coin. Had Laef been anywhere else in the world or time it would have struck him odd. But this people had no coin. They had no property to trade in kind. They consecrated all they had to each other, and thereby the gods. And they were blessed for it.

Thou wouldn’t suspect that the day prior the whole town had watch a heretic be executed.

As Laef passed the community gardens, the rectory bells peeled through the air and told Laef that it was the end of the day’s labors. At this signal he saw several sisters and brethren brush the dirt off their aprons and begin to retire from their work. Master Molua Feargus, one of his mentors from the rectory, was dusting off his hands. He saw Laef, and gave an affectionate smile. Laef smiled back and continued on his path home.

He made his way through the gate of his family’s dwelling, took off his shoes, and went inside the tiny courtyard. The sun was still about a cistern’s fill from setting, so the candles weren’t lit despite it beginning to be dim in the thatched cluster of cottages. There was an orange glow from the kitchen hut, and he heard, rather than saw, several women busying about inside. They must have been too hard at work to have illuminated their workstation, and they probably would keep about their pace until it was too dark to work at all. They were making an excellent tumult, filled with laughter and teasing. He heard the trill of his mother, Aoibhe, distinguish herself among the others. Although he couldn’t see her in the crowd of industrious women, his heart swelled knowing she was there.

He spotted her when she passed in front of the hearth glow and she stirred the cauldron. His eyes adjusted and he saw she and the others had prepared more food than he’d ever seen her make. She had flour all over her hands and torso, and her dress was tucked into her belt.

She turned and smiled when she saw him. “O Laef, I’m so glad you’re home, lad,” she shouted over the others. Her smile flexed high and winked the crows feet by her eyes. The other women turned themselves to what caught her attention, and upon recognizing their community’s newly made young man, several clapped their hands and swarmed him. They congratulated him on his homecoming and hugged him. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen him, but it always so joyous to this people when one of their boys had completed his rite of passage to manhood and spiritual attunement. After their welcoming, they returned to work. Some of the younger maidens admiringly kept one eye on him and one on their food preparations.

“Thine da and I will need help carrying our portion over to the banquet,” his mother said.

He took few steps forward and whispered, “What about Aisling?”

“What about ‘er?” she whispered back, permitting her son to save face in front of the ladies.

“Isn’t she going to help?”

“I ne’er said she wouldn’t. She be loading kindling in th’ wheel barrow out back.”

She stepped over to the far side of the kitchen and handed him a wicker pack filled with fresh bread, each swaddled—care one only takes on special occasions. “Here, take these,” she said and made her way back to the cabbage stew.

“Abbot Shelby is expecting these, and although he be patient I want them delivered before they get cold,” she said.

He grunted, childishly. But the sound of it was too much for Aoibhe.

She dropped her ladle and whipped around. But instead of chastising him there, she asked for help outside. He followed her to a spot around the corner and out of earshot.

“O! I thought all that time in the rectory was meant to make thee a man! What good hath it done if thou still be whining when thou come out six lunations later just as childish?” She whispered sternly.

He steeled himself in protest, and retorted, “Ma! I am a man!” louder than he should have, but not as much as to be disrespectful. “And I was nay whining. I mean to say that the day be Dé Domhnaigh after all.”

She took in a sharp breath through her nose and grimaced.

“That nay means there is to be no labor dun, end thou knoweth that, especially since thou wert supposed to memorize the Aimsir Chaite scrolls.”

“I hath memorize them, and that be why I remind thee. Methinks the Gobha’s words are clear.”

She put her hands on her hips and began, “My boy.” Laef knew it was over for him.

“My sweet boy. Thou art right about the holy prophet’s words. But how dost thou expect our feast to go underway in honor of him if the victuals can’t be even carried to the hall that bears his name?”

She had him, and his sense of sheepishness and feeling cornered forced him to look at the ground. He should have studied the tomes on logic more rather than practicing his illumination on the sides of the pages. He took a risk and looked at her from the corner of his eye and saw her struggling to hold back a smile.

She threw a handful of flour from her apron pocket and they laughed. He skittered away and she prodded, “Go on now!” with a lilt in her voice. He took hold of the ruck and made his way off to the sound of her beautiful chuckle.

He felt his bosom swell with the happiness shared only between a mother and son. His mother had no equal, in his eyes. Of course she had her follies but they were vastly outweighed by her encouragement, her tenderness, and her loyalty to him. No matter how old he got, no matter how much he pushed against the idea, he would always be her little boy. There was nothing safer than being held by her, and even as grown as he was and how long it had been since she last had, it was the first thing he thought of when he considered the idea of “peace.”

He couldn’t remember having a closer friend, not when he was a toddler, not when he was in his mid-boyhood, and not now. She was always playful and knew how to make him laugh, even when he thought he wanted to be sullen. When she couldn’t help him feel better with empathy and kind words, she would distract him from his sadness by pointing at the sky and picking out a cloud, and say something like “Oh! Looka there. This one looks like a serpent,” or “Thatta one looks like a fat sow!” She was so creative, and could see joy in even the littlest of things. She was great at rhyming and coming up with songs, always singing when she sewed or cooked. She didn’t have the most musical of voices, but she sang and hummed without a care for what others thought, and there was confidence behind it, which made it soothing. Laef loved to listen when she sang hymns at worship. She sang with such conviction.

Aoibhe was as devout as any Loftbaern could be. She was as solid as stone in her faith. There was nothing that could get her to doubt in the gods—her gods, as she put it. She had a personal relationship with them, and regarded them more as divine aunts and uncles more than cosmic judges that could be a boon or a bane in a life. And despite his desire to be crafted by them, Laef struggled to have that kind of trust in them. He knew that they were sometimes petty, and that they decided to create stumbling blocks in our ways for their own entertainment. That was the general consensus among Loftbaern, but the people knew their role. Mortals existed at their pleasure, yet it was mankind’s job to curry their favor, and seek them out when fortune may need encouragement. But his mother—she believed they were always on her side. And if she had a trial that they’d put in her path, she knew it was for her benefit and shaping of her character and soul. She took it with the best of outlooks.

“We shan’t be able to taste the honey without knowing the vinegar, aye?” she often told her boy and girl.

Her optimism frequently gave him pause. Such resolution. Such resilience. How can a woman so strong be crafted when so many become calloused in the face of lesser tribulations?

Her first two had been stillborn, and the second bled Aoibhe out so much it almost took her. The third, Cillian, had fallen into boiling water and died of his burns when he was two. When Aisling was born her birth-father was lost at sea. But as Laef and Aisling were told by their neighbors who were there with Aoibhe at the time, the passing of each of her kin seemed to temper her. The joy of new life glowed in her countenance with each birth, and just as quickly as a smith casts his iron into the bath her grief was quenched. And likewise it would be transformed. Aoibhe’s conviction of the afterlife was wrought stronger and stronger with each tragedy. She knew she would see her family again. Death had no grasp compared to the hold of her love.

The Loftbaern weren’t new to tragedy, and had a custom in place to take care of widows and, gods forbid, even orphans when it came to it. Aoibhe’s many friends were her safety net, and upheld her without wavering. The first two deaths devastated her. But by her husband’s passing she had become an expert in mourning, and by two dawns she was back in the fields and looking for others to serve. She undoubtedly missed him and longed for her companion and closest friend, but she would not let the unpredictability of life govern her.

As fortune would have it Aoibhe would meet a farmer named Friðin. He would do the manly thing and take her and the child under his wing and eventually sire a new child between them, that being Laef.

And through all this, their mother never lost faith.

His father, ten years younger than his mother, was a good man, and a convert from the volcanic winter lands. He never spoke of his life before he took his oaths—only that the years before were in ignorance and that he tried the best he could according to his knowledge at the time.

His first home, before he met his future wife, was on the other side of the isle in Turncroen,. He came to Dungarderry to trade an overabundance of cabbage he’d grown and they’d not been able to use in his own sept. When he’d heard about the widow and child, he asked where he could find her, and gave her some of his crop. She charmed him, unintentionally, with her genial nature. She wasn’t a woman of maiden beauty anymore, as her trials had aged her, but quaint talk turned into long talk and winding conversation that lasted well beyond mid-day meal, through supper, and into the evening. He finally pulled himself away and bedded in a nearby field, but returned early the next morning with eggs he’d been able to exchange cabbages for. She welcomed his kindness and they shared breakfast together. He held baby Aisling, while Aoibhe cooked. The girl was only a few lunations old, but was old enough to share some of her rare and precious smiles with him. And it was that which arrested Aoibhe to him. His fascinating accent, his earnestness in his speech, his sincere interest in her, his stories about catching caribou, puffins, and other animals she hadn’t heard of, nor his near perfect smile and amber eyes wouldn’t have added up to enough before seeing that. She asked how long he’d be in their town—and in turn, and in that very moment he likewise decided his life would change forever.

Laef was born one harvest later. And eight after that, all of their lives would again change forever. One would think such an immense impact would be from tragedy striking abruptly. But it was closer to a sailor absentmindedly leaning on the tiller, not knowing he’d changed his course. Laef remembered quite well how how it started, even if he wasn’t there personally. He was playing by their home when he’d heard his mother crying. He ran into the cottage to find her, but stopped when he heard one of his mother’s friends, Lady Aafje, comforting her.

Instead of coming into the room, Laef stayed in a shadow and watched. Through Aoibhe’s sob’s he heard her say her husband wouldn’t go back to temple. Laef didn’t fully understand what that meant, but he knew it was bad. Aafje looked at the ground in a loss for words. I can tell thee that she wanted to support her, but was stuck between saying the good thing and the “right” thing.

“Well—,” she started. Aafje should’ve said something encouraging, that he would eventually come back. She wanted to say that if Aoibhe kept reading her sacred scrolls and paying sacrifices, then Friðin would come around. Sometimes belief takes patience, she felt saying. But it would have been doublespeak against when, lunations ago, she had quoted that familiar scroll segment to Aoibhe,

“For the wayward husband is purified by the wife, and the wayward wife is purified by the husband: else were thine children unclean; but now art they sanctified.”

And now things were even more under question. Aoibhe knew.

‘Forsooth, Friðin provides for us!” Aoibhe replied to Aafje’s unsaid thing, the thing they both knew an upstanding Loftbaern should say. “He be a good husband. He’s a good da! He plays with the children. He makes sure they work hard with him in the field. He doesn’t drink himself to too much merriment. But—.’ she reasoned. And then she sighed heavily.

The two sat for a long moment, pensive. Laef held his breath in suspense.

Aafje winced, “Maybe if he isn’t fulfilling his divine duty, thou needst to ponder what be best for thee and Laef and Aisling.”

Aoibhe inhaled a quivering breath and began to sob. Aafje reached across the table and gripped her best friend’s hands tightly.

‘I know, I know,’ Aoibhe cried. ‘It’s what I’ve been thinking for a long time. But we’ve been married for ten harvests!’

“If he shan’t be the man that Colm calls him to be, then he nay deserves you,” Aafje countered. “Loftbaern women should have strong, capable husbands: in the home and spiritually. If he refuseth do both, he isn’t a real Loftbaern.”

Aoibhe wiped her tears. “But he converted me! Aye, I know I was borne here just like everyone else, but he truly converted me. He showed me the way when I was lost. Thou nay can wit the darkness I felt after Brandubh died! I was greatly alone! And he led back to the light. He showed me how kind the gods could be again. It was him that sanctified me!”

Aafje had no response. Even little Laef was shocked. He’d never heard his ma talk about her first husband before.

“He used to be so good.” Aoibhe choked out. “He was the epitome of a righteous man!’ She grimaced and stared through the floor longingly. The hem of her robe was knotted tight in her hand, taught like a rope. ‘How canst such a good man lose everything that he stood for?”

In reality, Friðin had not. He simply wasn’t going to temple. Lunations back, he missed an occasion because of duties out of town one day. When he realized he would miss the entire sermon by the time he got back, he sat down on a rock and to rest a moment. The moment turned into several, and he took the time to simply watch the clouds and think. It had been a while since he’d had a moment to himself, and even longer one where he could be alone with his thoughts. He was always busying about serving the other Loftbaern or offering sacrifices. It was exhausting, once he thought about it.

He found those few moments alone more refreshing than any time he’d gone to worship. And the next nineday when all were to worship together again, he stayed home. And it happened the same on the next ninety. It wasn’t a permanent resolve. But just a thing he was doing for “now.” He planned to go back, but just—later.

“He used to be such a shining example, and always ready to be called upon to bless us.” She looked up at Aafje with pleading eyes. ‘I don’t want to, Aafje. I still love him! He hath nay done anything sinful! Not exactly sinful."

Aafje’s watery eyes began to fully tear up now. “I know, love. Our families hath been friends for such a long time that I nay desireth to hurt him or thee at all. But would thou rather thy children have a weak da in their lives or would thou rather be able to find a new one that does fulfill his godly duties and his example?”

Right then, it didn’t make sense to Aoibhe how this soured the entire works of a man’s life, but yet she understood because that’s how things were in the Loftbaern. ‘I nay want an unbinding,’ she shook her head. “He can repent. He can be contrite.”

“I understand,” Aafje replied, although she disagreed. “But then we have to oust him.”

“Nooo!’ Aoibhe cried in horror. "That be worse! An ousting can last a whole harvest! And some don’t come back from it."

“We have to.”

“I wont do it."

“Aoibhe—.”

"Dost thou know how painful it doth be to be outsided? Dost thou know how the elders announce it from the altar in front of all?”

Aafje’s lip pouted sympathetically.

"And then when they do thou must arise from thy seat with thine family and move to the back and sit without them? Immediately?!" she said pleadingly, as if asking if there were anything more unjust.

“Aoibhe,” Aafje pleaded.

“No one will buy from his cart anymore. Not even other oustlings. We’ll have to lower our prices."

“I imagine.”

"The crops will build up, and we’ll have to either throw them out or give them away for swine feed."

Aafje nodded.

"We’ll be hated more than goblins!"

“Not goblins, Aoibhe,” Aafje laughed affectionately, and feeling bad she stopped.

"What’ll the children wit? I shan’t have them thinking that their da is a sinner, and isn’t as good as the other lads’ and lass’ da!"

“Thou’st rather have them wonder and not be sure?”

“Aye! Of course! In the least, he would still be here for them.”

She had a point.

"Their da is everything to them, especially Laef! They spend so much time together. Laef spent all planting season trying to graft a potato and a yam together, just so Friðin could take it to the market and sell something the other carts don’t have. Just so his da would be proud of him!"

Aafje couldn’t deny the boy and him had a relationship better than most fathers and sons. Truthfully, she hoped that her own Luuk would love her Sem that way.

"I shan’t do that to him. I shant!” Laef saw her say once more. Then he went outside and cried himself.

Before then their lives had begun to be a little different. Other villagers had given them more space than usual. But after that day, it seemed another conversation took place. One that Laef didn’t witness. He could tell that his parents had an argument though. And it seemed so could everyone else. Even before the public ousting, word spread fast that Aoibhe planned to have it done. Laef’s and Aisling’s friends seemed to have more chores than usual, and when the ousting did happen—and it happened exactly like Aoibhe worried—they didn’t come out to play at all. The only friend of Laef’s that stuck through it had moved to a different sept before the next harvest. Soon it was just Laef and Aisling.

Aisling was less lucky from the start. None of her friends were as loyal. She and Laef played with each other more often, and it drew them closer. Yet against her odds, she—being a shrewd young girl—saw her situation for more clarity than a nine-harvest old had a right to. She refused to let her story be told for her, and seized it as a chance to prove people wrong. Sometimes even with her fists.

It would be simple to say that Aisling had fight in her from birth, but she that would be a lie. And while I won’t commit to being completely truthful to thee, dear patron, I won’t bear false witness to thee on things that don’t matter. Some truths take time to understand, and shouldn’t be administered all at once. But this truth is plain: Aisling became a fighter because she had to. Not only physically, but with her mind too. Indeed, at first she fought the shunning her family endure—quite literally. But she was observant to see that only worsened things. So she decided to be someone else. And she would become a minstrel.

She was a rare one of her kind on the island. Women that could read and write were already few, and a few of them chose to apply it to verse and tune existed, but even fewer began as young as she. She had a beautiful voice for a child, and [more narrative about her blah blah blah]

Laef’s sister took such devoted care of him, acting as his protector. She secretly dared the godhead to try to take her baby brother away and hurt their mother again. Aisling would not suffer them to inure their Aoibhe any further.

And while his sister was hardly any older, she always guarded and teased him as if she had a hundred lunations over him. She was tough, like her mother. On more than one occasion, when Laef had come home with a black eye, she would disappear and reappear a cistern or two later. When asked where she went, she’d mutter something about being the only one allowed to kick his arse. It always made him laugh. But it motivated him to be able to handle himself too. He didn’t always want to be boy whose sister fought his fights.

[Come back to that later, about how he either learned to not get black eyes when he fought or he learned to be a better fighter. Maybe even that he learned to be sharp enough at his words that he didn’t need to fight.]

Aisling was obviously not afraid of using her physicality. She was one of a kind. He’d heard a few boys once joke that she was fragile, but less like a flower and more like saltpetre. She was ruthless. She spoke her mind more than other Loftbaern girls did, and vastly more than ladies in the Hinterlands had been able to. There they had been nothing more than poppets for perverted pleasure. The Loftbaern way of life not only allowed the softer gender to be more abled, but needed it to be. In the beginning days so long ago, labor had to be divided equally as there were so few of them. There was no one off-land to ask for help. No one could slough their duties, then and even now. There was obviously women’s work and men’s work that shouldn’t be confused, but Aisling knew her place she dothmore than her fair part.

Aisling knew her best part to play in society, and could curtsy and dance with the rest of the young girls. She didn’t completely reject the typical idea of “the softer gender.” To her being a girl was like being a cog in an windmill. There were many sizes to cogs, and some had different sized teeth. Each achieved different goals. But there was one that struck a right balance that put in the right work and got the right result, at least for her.

She understood that men of all ages want a woman who can flit her eyes and be coy. She decided that obviating that power would be stupid. She’d seen other Loftbaern girls throw all their girlishness away and try to be just like the boys, championing egalitarianism at every turn. People knew not to trifle with them, but also not to take them seriously since everything was a challenge to their sovereignty. She’d even heard one boy say that there were already enough lads in the sept, and that anyone could be tough, but not everyone could be a lady.

Aoibhe made a point to draw Aisling’s attention to those girls’ mistakes, and how boys of any age responded: their peers either jabed or ignored them, older boys and men would shake their heads in disappointment, and younger boys would be afraid of them or join their elder brothers in jeering. Aoibhe was a master of persuasion, and tried her best to train her daughter in her respective ways, especially when Aisling insisted on picking fights with Laef’s bullies. So despite her brawn, Aisling had a strength of wit too. And she was ever so hungry for more.

She was often about her own sort of mischief. Friðin pleaded with her to get a hold of her “chaotic good,” as if it were a pet with too long of a leash. Laef often found her with a scroll or codex she’d “borrowed” from the archives. Copying was laborious and the high priests couldn’t afford to lose any texts, so there was a rule they were to stay inside the archive halls. A girl reading at all was humorous to the scribes, so they let her get away with more than they should. She’d often study the rarest of topics that few spoke about, looking for connections and broader insights. She was fascinated by Loftbaern history and it’s origins amidst a world of sin.

Likewise, Laef was drawn to the history. But his interest was more in the founder of their faith, Colm Mac Conmidhe. Laef felt a kinship, even. He was inspired by the fact that such a young soul, with simply the right question in heart could make such an eternal impact on the world. Laef was eager to likewise be such a great tool in the hands of the gods.

While they had their strifes and shouting matches, he would go to the ends of the earth for his family. Such probably wasn’t necessary, since nothing existed beyond the isle anymore. Nothing of virtue anyhow.

These thoughts occupied Laef’s mind as he drew closer to the temple abbey. He noticed the ocean sun was beginning to set, and the clouds and sun were redder than usual. He took note of it but didn’t tarry.

He delivered the loaves to the abbot, who thanked him and praised Aoibhe that they were still warm. They bid each other well until the feast where they would see each other that night.

On his way home, Laef gave himself a sniff check and decided that before the ceilidh he’d bathe in the river.

* * *

After washing, Laef returned to his home and began to dress. He hoisted a pair of breeches up and synched their drawstrings. These had the leather sewn on the soles. Most of the time everyone walked and worked barefoot but for special occasions these could be worn. The Loftbaern believed in being barefoot to keep them humble and “grounded.”

But the weather was starting to cool, and he still had a chill from the river. Soon it would be too cold for it and he would have to go to the bath pools with all the other men and boys. It was a shame because he liked the solitude. It gave him time to reflect. As much as he enjoyed the company of other people, he decided he needed time to ponder. Some said he was too much inside his own head, but Laef didn’t think self-reflection was a bad thing.

For the weather’s reason he picked the long-sleeve shift rather than his short-sleeve, but rubbed hyssop into his underarms to prolong the smell of cleanliness.

He donned the woolen tunic most recently washed. He’d had another that was newer, but he wasn’t concerned because everyone would be wearing nearly the same thing, as Loftbaern practiced modesty in their garments. They strongly believed that what one wore was a reflection of the soul, but that it could also dictate their actions. Gaudy bells and wimples would pull out the ostentatious characteristics of a person, while a simple robe or tunic would temper the more avaricial parts. For the feast, anything less-worn or cleaner than what else one had was sufficient. The purpose of ceilidhs wasn’t to show off but to celebrate and rejoice with others. Naturally, some thought the opposite, but that goes for any group in mankind.

After he finished dressing, he stepped out from the cloth divider and waited for his sister and mother to finish their readying. His father saw him through the window, and called for help with the wheel barrow and firewood. Laef went outside as asked. His father was dressed similarly in a brown tunic and off-white breaches and undershirt. Without speaking, he handed Laef a pair of leather straps. Laef laid them down and began laying branches and kindling from a pile across them.

“Tis good to have thee back, lad,” his father said to him in his rough accent and lended a hand. Despite his many harvests on the island, Friðin often swapped certain sounds in words for others from his younger years, before he converted. Sometimes his distinct voice made Laef to wonder about what his former people were like, but since he hadn’t heard his fathers voice for so long it made him feel at home in the moment.

“Aye,” he replied with a smile. He was glad to have his father’s approval.

“Dost thou feel rested? Thou wit to desire helping with the crop again soon?”

Laef winced and kept working. He’d been waiting to break this bad news. But it was his own right to decide, as it was every young man’s: to decide to serve the gods, and then decide how to serve mankind. It was a painful answer for him on two folds. First, he didn’t want to ruin his father’s long-held hope they’d work together in the fields. His father looked forward to it for decades. Second, while most boys decided harvests before asceting in the rectory, Laef had delayed because he’d expected to—to receive his divine appointment by then. His father wouldn’t understand. No one would. He’d kept it a secret. To tell anyone else before he was anointed would make him look mad. No one knew. Not Aisling, not even his mother. And, to add a third problem, telling his father then would ruin his happy mood.

“I was thinkin’ of apprenticing coopering, da.”

There was a silent moment, and then his father asked, “Oh?” toughing out his pain. “What draws thee to such?”

Laef kneeled on the bundle of wood, which was now sufficiently large, and synched the straps. He took a deep breath, and said “I read sommat on it. I like the idea of making something that’ll be used for a long time, maybe e’en passed from one person to another. Barrels stand the test of time, Da.”

His father nodded, trying to be open minded. “Cabbages sustain life. I’d suppose the life that owns those barrels be more important.”

Laef agreed with a nod, politely.

His father helped him shoulder the pack, and loop the tumpline over Laef’s forehead. “I’m sure thou’st thought on this for a span. I won’t pressure thee. Thou be welcome to stay here a fortnight longer and decide. If thou choosest coopering, then you’ll be off to [Irish name]’s house. If you choosest farming, you may stay permanently. But thou knowest which guild I’d favor,” he said with a wink and a laugh.

At about that time, his sister and mother came out, each lovely as grass is green. They looked so alike that one would swear they were the same soul from two different times. Each with a lovely crown of woad flowers in their red hair, which was plaited. The younger had three braids wrapped around her head, with a fourth hanging down her back to her ankles; the elder woman’s hair draped over her shoulders and to her own ankles, except the hair by her temples was tied in a resplendent knot at the back of her head. Their garments were as plain as Laef’s and Friðin’s, except blue, and were mid-calf dresses fastened with brooches. Instead of breeches or hose they wore under-dresses, and their belts each had two ribbons that hung down in front. They each hung a pouch from their belts on their right sides. But everyone in the family had their sept’s checker dyed into what they wore.

Friðin and Aoibhe smiled at each other, and the husband remarked on their radiance. The women blushed and prodded at each other in humble adoration and praise. Aoibhe fussed with Aisling’s sleeves for a moment and looked up, beaming.

“Shan’t we be off?” she lilted.

Friðin lifted the handles of the wheel barrow of wood as to indeed do that, but Aisling volunteered. Her father obliged, and Laef looked at her quizzically since she hardly ever volunteered like that. She darted her eyes downward, and he saw the couple clasp hands as they began to walk in front. Laef frowned and nodded in approval, and she giggled with a quiet squawk. He squawked back.

Aisling leaned toward him and whispered with contained excitement, “I have something to show thee!”

Laef narrowed his eyes and raised his eyebrows in an investigating expression.

“After,” she said.

He nodded.

The family stepped onto the road and joined the packs of other families heading to the mead hall, just as all families on the entire island were doing, each in their respective regions. It was a big day for the whole land.

As they walked, Laef’s mind went back to not only the vast Possible that his future was, but the emptiness that it hadn’t begun yet.

Chapter 3

The high priest, Earcán Ó hAimheirgin, sat on his throne and laughed heartily. His wife, Bhean Mairin Ó hAimheirgin, clapped her hands with the tune and seemed to be having a gay time. His other wife, Óg Róis Ó hAimheirgin, reclined on the arm of their couch on the opposite side. She smiled lazily and listened. All three were at the center of the chief banquet table, and—along with everyone else—were entertained by the minstrel’s song. She blew her flute pipe to a punchy piece, and when she finished her new verse, everyone joined in the refrain:

When gods and men doth mingle

It brings a merry jingle

For when the faith of man springs

Th’ gods lead us to blessings

Lead the goats

Slay the pigeons

Burn the lofty branches

For death is nigh

But nay belie

Colm’s truth hast saved us

Then everyone immediately quieted to hear her next verse. He’d taken a common hymn and turned it into a rousing drinking song. She was on her third new verse about a convert that couldn’t stop sinning but tried to trick the gods into forgiveness. Aisling was the best of the poets in Dungarderry, and was sure to be the next holy psalmist for the entire Council. She had such a beautiful voice and played her pipes beautifully. Both talents counterbalanced any displeasure the villagers or even the high priest could have with her. Even though Laef had seen her perform a thousand times, it always made him proud that he was her little brother.

Laef arose from his bench and made his way over to cauldron and asked for another bowl of hot squash puree. He scooped a spoonful into his mouth and savored the holiday flavors: cloves, pepper, and thyme. The lunations in the rectory now resonated the symbolism of the earth’s bounties even more than it had in his youth. Every holy feast necessitated a grand meal with all sorts of dishes, but this was the first he understood how integral it was in reminding acolytes to keep their oaths in order to bear fruitful faith. As he ate he looked at the night sky and remembered how odd the sunset was.

There were almost a six hundred people there. The feasts had outgrown the feast hall decades ago, and its doors and windows were open to accommodate the crowd. Pavilions had been erected outside to allow all the Loftbaern to attend. And surprisingly Laef knew most of them. It sounds like too many for one person to know, but when thou spend thine entire life on an island with nowhere else to go, the faces start to be familiar. And this was just on his side. There were at least three thousand souls from shore to shore, and he knew a fair amount of them in the other septdoms. That was mostly to his parent’s credit, especially his mother. It seemed no matter where she went she had a friend. She was known well for her inventive jewelry, which Loftbaerninon tenets demanded be modest and simple, but she was better known for being a friend to all. And her family inherited that fame by proxy.

Laef navigated his way to the back of the crowd, and took a seat on the ground against a pillar. He noticed far off toward the east a glow against the night sky. He supposed it was the last of the sun setting, but that didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be the fire from the watch tower. It had never been lit in his whole life. And if it was lit, why weren’t the other towers lit? He brushed the thought aside. It wasn’t important now. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts again. At least for a moment. He felt neglected.

Six lunations in servitude to his gods and his moment never came. There had been chance after chance to call him to leadership positions among the other young men, even smaller positions. He could be a chamber steward, and just be responsible for the other’s maintaining their bunks and belongings. That’s how most leaders started. And then they became a wing steward, then scriptivist, and finally a deacon. He’d seen the spiritual growth that those young men had, and he wanted to be like them. They matured temporally as well as spiritually. Their voices seemed deeper, and their presences seemed more commanding and masterful. And he wanted that. He knew he needed that. But he’d been overlooked.

He’d told the brethren that he was eager to grow as a person and a soul, and he wanted challenges like leading that would foster it. Anything! But no. There were times, like when a boy was promoted and his old position was vacant, he thought, “May hap now,” but they turned out not to be. He’d put his very being into his work too, his essence. Even if it were just to study the Word and tend to the beehives. He’d never prayed harder, he’d never worked more fervently or so late, he’d never studied with more commitment—he feasted on the words of the Prophet and the Counselors. He’d recited their words so many times that they were “carved into the fleshy tablets of the heart,” as Colm exhorted. He lived those words. He was them, embodied. No other ascetic was as dedicated as he. He was convinced of that. And yet somehow other young men were chosen.

What incensed him was the several times when a boy had come into the service after him, but had been advanced ahead of him. The audacity! How was that just? Boys who hadn’t memorized their verses yet, or who’s voices were still soft like those of girls and hadn’t cracked into manhood yet. And then he was expected to take commands from them? How could he? The little snots! Laef was older then they, to say the least. By virtue of simply that he should be their leader.

There were many who were chosen over Laef. Some were as old or older than he, but he knew were less faithful, and even not as repentant. Most of them had grown up together with him, so he knew what they were about. Only a few were from other septs, but he was suspicious of them too. The boy he knew best—some indiscretions they’d partaken in together. And while he had enjoyed them at the time, Laef had paid his penitence since then. And they were only minor things: bearing false witness, loud laughter on Dé Domhnaigh, not paying a full tithe, lifting fruit from a stand, and the like. Some of them, on the other hand, hadn’t. They’d lied to the brethren and priests in their confessions, before and while they were in the rectory. They’d said they were ashamed of their missteps and wouldn’t make them again. But at their farewell feast the night prior to swearing in, he’d seen several kissing with too much passion for those who sore their minds to be single to the gods. He’d heard passion through doors that was reserved only for men and women who were pósadh. Clearly they’d entered the rectory with sullied hands and heart. And Laef resented that they were chosen above he.

He had to remind himself that it was the gods who’d chosen, not the brethren. “gods qualify who they doth call,” the maxim went. “They nay call the qualified.” Maybe it were true that they’d been chosen so they could have their rougher edges ground off, and become greater tools in divine hands. But when would it be his time? After all, he knew that the masters had “an miraculous labor and a marvel” for him to do, as they had The Prophet. And oh, it would be glorious.

His self pity was interrupted when he felt a splash of something cold hit his face. He clenched his eyes shut and wiped it with his sleeve.

“Ye plot to mope there all the night long, thou fusty-nut with nay kernel?” a jovial voice said.

He looked up and saw his painfully ugly friend, Tiarnan Ó Conghaile, with his fingers dipped in a tankard and ready to splash him again. His features exaggerated his playful expression. His nose was broad, as were his ears. They were unnaturally stubby. His brown hair was thin and wispy, and it even grew on his chin. His teeth grew at such crooked angles you’d think he’d had a jackass in his pedigree. His reckless smile leaned that way too. But he was strong as a bear and almost as huge, three and half cubits tall and twenty stone. He was broad in the chest and ponch, indeed like a bear about to winter himself away. He could toss a log further than any man or boy on the island. But he didn’t scare Laef.

Laef jumped and whipped his spoon at Tiarnan’s face and shot himself at his legs. Tiarnan let himself be toppled, and the tankard splashed on both of them and they laughed as they tussled.

Tiarnan had come to Dungarderry from ____ a few harvests ago, and he quickly took an interest in Laef. He didn’t understand why so many ostracized the Evandür family. Laef likewise took an interest in Tiarnan, who’s uncouthness was striking against all the other boys their age. Since meeting they’d become inseparable.

The longest they’d been apart was when Tiarnan went to the rectory for his asceticism. They were the same age, and according to tradition, the age when one should go. But Laef delayed because he had expected to be called by the gods any day, and that would negate his need for rectory service. He would already be serving them in a grander capacity.

Rather, he found himself stagnating. And worse, he could feel the judgement of the adults. They’d greet him and talk with him, and before parting they usually would throw in the question on when he planned to go. “I’m nay ready yet,” he’d reply. Most would dismiss it and agree that he should only go when he was, but a few would lecture him on his acolyte duty. And he knew! Their audacity made him bitter, but only momentarily because he knew they were technically right.

Laef was eager to hear from Tiarnan though, and whenever he saw the rectory courier he would stop him and ask how his friend was doing. The courier would tell him everything he could remember, and it usually made Laef laugh. It reminded him how eagerly he’d awaited his own rectorship since he was small. Sometimes Tiarnan would even send the courier to tell Laef a message personally. And in those messages he never lectured Laef about delaying. He was ever encouraging. Never shamed him for delaying or even encouraged him to go. He only gave assumptive support: “I can nay wait for thou to feel the fire in thy spirit when thou dost arrive,” and “Thou wilt soon see how reading the scrolls doth inspire and fulfill in a way that can only be witnessed and not told.” And Laef admired him for that support.

And in that moment during the feast, Tiarnan swung a leg over and flipped his smaller, albeit spry, friend onto his stomach. He pinned Laef’s shoulders to the ground and mounted him like a horse. His immense weight was enough to immobilize and win, but he couldn’t let Laef off so easily. He scooted up the poor boy’s back, and up his shoulders, and began to giggle.

“Oi, nay!” Laef shouted in horrified laughter and realization.

“Yay, lad!” Tiarnan could barely articulate through his own chortles.

“Nay! Nayyy!” Laef cried out and began one long monotone wail.

He scooted up onto Laef’s head, and let out a battle yell that was just as long, and flatulated with a brassy rending sound.

Both boys erupted in laughter and Tiarnan rolled off. A few partiers looked over at the ruckus but seeing who was about it they quickly disengaged. Laef laid vanquished and out of breath, but still laughing as hard as he could, deep from his stomach. He snatched a bread roll that had been discarded near where his head currently rested, and nailed Tiarnan with it. Their laughter drifted off. And then sparked back up. Then faltered. Then rekindled.

“Still feeling sorry for yourself, thou proud jacknape?” Tiarnan jibed.

“Thou should feel sorry for thyself, thou canker-blossom” Laef quipped.

“And why mayhaps be that, thou poisonous bunch-back’d toad?”

“Because I made water in thy drink!”

And at that, they boys were wrestling and laughing again.

It was interrupted only because they heard someone shouting. It was indiscernible at first and second times. But they heard it on the third.

“Hark! We be found!”

They turned to the sound, and saw a disruption ripple among the party guests. While they couldn’t see the owner of the voice, they could see people step out of the way and heard them grow quiet. The shouter was moving in the direction of the banquet tables. The hands of musicians from all around the courtyard fell off their instruments in ones and twos. Finally, the two boys saw him as he entered the opening where Aisling was performing. It was Ágastas Ó Gríofa. He was a friend of Laef’s da, being a little older than both of they.

“Oi, was not master Ágastas on watch tonight?” Tiarnan asked with a hushed voice. Laef nodded.

“Hark! Invaders!” Ágastas shouted with flailing hands as he stumbled toward the high priest, out of breath. Aisling, in any other situation that she’d seen someone apparently wanting to move through her, would’ve had the mind to step out of the way. But in this moment, she only stood aghast as if her eyes were deceived, her feet as immobile as a post. Everyone at the tables was just as shocked. The high priest’s closest guards readied themselves and took several steps forward. A lieutenant addressed Ágastas and asked why he’d abandoned his post, which he ignored.

Finally, Ágastas, now within arm’s reach of Aisling, rested for a moment with his hands on the minstrel’s shoulder, composed himself, took two steps forward, and fell to his knees before the priest and his wives. All three ladies visibly gasped and the holy man stood and called for water, wine, or anything for Ágastas to drink. One of the guards grabbed a tankard and handed it to the exhausted man. The other grabbed a stool and propped him onto it. While Ágastas nursed himself with the mead, the crowd endured a very long and tense moment. Aisling appropriately dismissed herself and blended into the crowd.

High Priest Earcán raised himself from his seat and walked around the table to the man. The two guards reflexively tried to posture themselves to protect their liege, but he gently waved them off. Earcán kneeled in front of Ágastas to meet his eyes, and softly called his name. The crowd leaned in to this seemingly private moment.

The watchman gained his bearings and took the tankard from his mouth, much refreshed. “My a-thiarna Erenn,” he pleaded. “Forgive me. I dishonor myself and the court by—.”

Priest Earcán hushed him and patted his knee. “Tis well, tis well. I nor either of my wives nor my court be vexed,” he gestured at his family and adherents, and they responded with shaking heads and expressions of openness.

Ágastas took a deep breath of relief and looked away in shame. He knew everyone here.

“Ágastas,” Priest Earcán said as he laid his hand on the man’s, “What vexes thee?”

Everyone leaned in a little closer. None spoke. Not even a child. Only the crackling of torches was heard.

“M-m-my lord,” Ágastas stammered. And with his eyes welled up with tears, he choked out, “They’ve discovered us.”

Several shrieks pealed out. Many men cursed. Some blanched. A maiden fainted. One man called Ágastas a liar. But with the softness of his voice, only those closest heard the watchman. The most part of the crowd asked another what he said. And much like his arrival, his news bubbled throughout, yet had the opposite affect. Soon everyone was whispering to each other, and whispering with intensity.

The high priest pressed a finger to his lips and hushed the crowd like a patient father quieting one of his children while he comforted an injured one. His many children obeyed. “Whence?” he asked, still in the hushed tone.

“From the tower at Eastgough Crag,” said Ágastas. “About a furlong from the shore.”

Someone asked how he saw them in the dark. Another said he was seeing things. And yet another said he was probably mad from hunger or not enough sleep.

“Verily, I didst see yon heathens!” he retorted with volume. “How darest ye call me a liar! Ye know me, my ladies and masters! I was born the same lunation as you, Murchú. I was betrothed to thine daughter, Aona, until she drowned. I was almost thine son. She died the same year Angus was born to you, Fitheal and Cranait. I saw these—these men—these heathens. I sawest them with mine own eyes!”

The crowd looked somewhat repentantly at each other.

“I lit the fire,” he said. “I—,” he stammered. “I lit the—fire,” he said, and began to cry.

The high priest looked over Ágastas’ shoulder and saw that indeed Eastgough’s signal fire was lit. Faintly, but still lit. But none of the others were. Not Lover’s Crag. Not Fernmarch. Not Thorp Perrow Bridge. Just then, the fire at Crooked Belt lit. The crowd saw it at the same time and their shock was audible. One by one the others went aglow, and with each the crowd grew more somber. Tiarnan and Laef watched with jaws agape.

A voice called out aggressively. “What art thou doing here?”

Everyone’s attention focused on the sound. Fothad Mac Cumhaighe stood his arm outstretched with an accusatory finger pointed at two sheepish looking men who tried—and failed at—blending in.

Fothad asked another question. “Shouldn’t both of ye be on watch at Crooked Belt?”

Leanan Ó Flaitile turned his face away in shame and Riocard Mac Cumhaige mumbled something.

Fothad squared his stance and asked again, “Wherefore aren’t ye on duty, fair masters?”

“We came to see that verily there be a reason to sound the alarm,” Riocard repeated a little louder.

“Gods forbid, how doth that make any sense?” murmured Laef to Tiarnan, and they both laughed. A few people scowled at them and they stopped abruptly.

Ágastas cried, “Why didn’t thou believest me?” The crowd’s distrust of him swung to sympathy, and then disdain to the derelict watchmen.

The high priest shot a glance at his highest ranking officer, general Brian Ó Broin, who acknowledged and grabbed for his horn that a duty like his demanded that he always wore. He made the three blasts that called for the most capable third of men to arms. They knew who they were. Fathers took a small moment to soak up their families. Young men consoled their mothers. Parents out of sight of theirs began calling for them. Our two boys looked down at the ground in front of them, awestruck at what was unfolding around them and that their duty had just been demanded over it.

Tiarnan directed his head at Laef but averted his eyes. “I—.” There was a long moment. He apparently didn’t know what else to say.

“Aye,” Laef responded. “I’ll see thee at the armoury.”

“Aye,” his friend said. And they both arose and made their way to their families.

But before they were too far apart, Laef whispered Tiarnan’s name. He turned quizzically.

Laef smiled. “Rinse the piss smell out thine mouth first,” he jibbed in a hush.

Tiarnan chucked and waved him off.

Ágastas still sobbed loud enough for everyone to hear. He sobbed like a man who knew the world was about to end.

#fanfic fantasy medieval fiction wizard writing manuscript betaread magic epicfantasy highfantasy heroicjourney

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