Authors: L. M. Roth
Slowly he
turned away, his head hung low, his body slumped in despair. How could this be?
What had happened, that such a tragedy could take place here?
It was only a
few days ago that Cort had arrived in Potentus, eager to see Marcus and Tullia
and spend some time with his old friends before deciding what he must do next.
The thought occurred to him that perhaps he could be of some use in assisting
them with the work in Valerium, where Marcus was the acknowledged leader of the
Alexandrians.
But this could
never be! The Alexandrians had been dispersed, forbidden to pledge allegiance
to the Kingdom of Heaven, banned from meeting in the land of Valerium. And
Marcus had once again lost his home; his estate had been seized by the Imperial
government once more, just as it had so long ago by the Empress Aurora.
Cort had
arrived at the villa, so impatient with eagerness to see his old friend that he
had not even booked a room at an inn but made straight for the Maximus home,
only to find its gates locked and anyone barred from entering. In his
bewilderment he went to the marketplace where all of the news of the day was
exchanged and made inquiries. His innocent questions were met with suspicious
glances and those whom he questioned dropped their voices for fear of being
overheard. In this fashion the history of recent events was relayed to him, and
the fate of his friends revealed.
Cort was so
outraged that he went to the Palace, and requested an audience with Emperor
Urbanus, whom he had last seen as a young lad. But either the message did not
reach him or he had forgotten Cort, for no word came to him. He sent again, to
be met with the same response. Heartsick, he realized he could do nothing to
help Marcus. He had been informed that the Maximus family had retreated to
Lycenium to take refuge there, but Cort was not certain that his future lay
there.
He had visited
Lycenium once on his journey with Marcus and had been captivated by the city,
but he could not really picture himself having a future there. Of what use
would he be in that civilization of refined culture and rich commerce, where
sages imparted the wisdom of the ages and scholars instructed in knowledge?
He did not
know what to do, so he prayed and asked Dominio to guide him. Zoe, he thought,
so many years ago it was Zoe that led them on their journey. Could he ask Zoe
to lead him now? And if so, where would she take him?
He was not to
take Zoe, but was to trust to the course that the Spirit of Dominio would chart
for him. He had been astonished when he prayed to hear so clearly that he was
not to take the River, but simply walk, permitting Dominio to lead him. The manner
in which He did this was to give Cort peace in his spirit when he took the
right path, and to disrupt that peace when he veered off it.
Although his
heart was heavy at times for the thought of his family in Eirinia, and his
friends in Lycenium, it was not long before his spirit rose at the adventure
Dominio had led him to. It did not suit him to remain in one place for long,
and he had been rooted in Eirinia for far too long. Now he was being taken on a
quest of his own, and who knew what lay ahead on the road his feet would take
him?
It was not
long before the snow began to fall. December had come, and the flakes drifted
slowly from gray skies as soft as the breast of a dove. In the quiet woods the
snow deepened the hush that reigned in this sylvan domain, where most of the
birdsong was silent in the winter months, and the woodland creatures slept in
their burrows awaiting the return of spring.
Cort paused
for a moment in his trek and permitted himself the luxury to simply appreciate
the vista before him. Tall trees of pine and fir lifted their evergreen limbs
to the sky for as far as his eye could see. Fluffy white down settled on their
branches as the snow continued to fall. Cort had not seen snow like this in
Eirinia, where the climate was more temperate and snow rarely skimmed the
ground.
In a moment of
sheer joy, he put out his tongue to catch a falling flake. It tasted good as it
melted in his mouth with a small burst; it was clean and crisp and as pure as
an innocent babe. He twirled around and raised his arms in delight and danced
an impromptu step. How good it was to see and feel snow again, after all these
years!
“Dominio is
good, oh He is good,” he sang softly. “He leads me on the path of life, and His
eye watches over me. All my life I will follow and give Him praise.”
Deeper into
the forest he trekked, guided by the peace he felt in his spirit. He was able
to feed himself easily, having hunted all of his life. He lived on deer and
small game that he felled with an arrow from the bow he carried. And even in
the winter berries could be found if one knew where to look for them. He knew
also that beneath the blanket of snow lay a carpet of green, and the grass
contained nourishment for those who were not too particular to partake of it.
Cort was not too particular, and ate the grass with fortitude if not with
relish.
His trek took
him deeper into the forest, until he began to wonder if he would ever see
civilization again. The solitude was soothing, yet the absence of any voice
except his own caused him to look inward for companionship, something he had
never done. And as he looked inward, he began to wonder how much of what had
happened between him and Brenus was his fault.
Had he shown
his mistrust of Melisande too openly, causing his brother to react with
hostility to the point that he was quick to believe her accusations against
him? And what of Melisande? Why had she kissed him and claimed that he loved
her, and confessed that she loved him? Had she been sincere, or had she known
that Brenus had followed her into the wood and wanted him to see her and Cort
so that she might accuse him? How much of what had transpired was real, how
much was orchestrated by Melisande?
He suddenly
became aware that he had come to a fork in the trees, with two paths stretching
before him; one pointed to the east, the other to the west. He roused himself
from his introspection to determine his course. To the east, he felt, his path
lay to the east. As he stepped on the path, he felt a confirming rush of
tranquility and knew he had chosen well.
And yet the
further he journeyed, the more familiar the terrain became. Was it the species
of the trees, the genus of the bushes that changed gradually and yet evoked
memories? What was this place?
One night he
woke from his sleep and heard a faint humming and became aware of a faint light
in the sky. Slowly he shook off his slumber and rose from his bed of furs in
the small tent he had constructed to shelter him from the bitter cold. He flung
aside the woolen blanket that served as a hanging that he draped over the
lowest limbs of two adjacent trees and ventured out to investigate. He looked
overhead at the inky black of the winter sky.
Red flashes
melted into orange, then glowed into yellow, shifted to green and shimmered into
blue which cascaded into purple and blazed into red again. Cort blinked. In
disbelief he rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.
The lights.
The Lights of Rainbow Hue. His chosen path had taken him far back into his
past. For Dominio had brought him back home, home to Trekur Lende.
Why Trekur
Lende, he wondered. Of all the places in the world, why did Dominio lead him
here? For there was nothing left for him in Trekur Lende, nothing at all.
Cort recalled
the last time he had been here: the angry encounter with his father, who gladly
surrendered him to the care of another man after being assured of payment for
doing so, as though Cort was nothing more than a bargain to be transacted
rather than his only son. And the violence of the villagers in Dag’s home, who
cast him out along with Cort and Fanchon for daring to call their worship of
Bjorrne idolatry given to a false god. They had left with heavy hearts,
thinking never to return, as death was threatened should they ever enter Trekur
Lende again.
They had made
their home in Eirinia, and had never gone any further to Trekur Lende than the
city of Potentus to visit Marcus. Although life in Eirinia was good and the
land incomparably lovely, Cort had never really felt that it was home. He
occasionally missed the snow of his homeland, the Lights of Rainbow Hue, and
the Long Day when the sun did not set.
And yet in
Trekur Lende he had no warm memories of a loving family to miss. There had been
his father, his mother, and his younger sister, but his parents were too worn
out with work to have much time for their children, and his sister had never
been a true companion. He had a few childhood friends but they were lost to him
when he was exiled with Dag. He realized now that the only place he had ever
felt he belonged was with Dag; home was where Dag was. And that was now lost to
him also.
In all of his
years in Eirinia he had never met a maiden that took his eye, much less his
heart. Why that was he could not say. They were fair enough to look upon, but
somehow they seemed foreign to him, although he had been a lad of eleven years
old when he settled in Eirinia and had grown up among them. He was now over
thirty years old, long past the age when most men took a wife. Still, he had no
desire to wed just yet, somehow sensing that there was something more, and what
that something was he had not found among the young ladies in Eirinia.
Despite the
sense of alienation he felt at times in Eirinia, he had never felt any real
desire to return to the land of his birth. And yet, Dominio had led him here.
Why?
He trudged on
in the deepening snow. He no longer took joy in it, his feet feeling like
blocks of ice that were an increasing effort to lift as he walked, and his
hands numb with cold. He kept his eyes on the path carefully. It soon became
clear to him that he was indeed being led miraculously by Dominio, as the path
remained clear although the forest floor on either side of it quickly became
covered with snow that piled deeper and deeper. So he had another conformation
that he was on the right path and not mistaken in his choice…
It had been
two days since he was awakened by the Lights of Rainbow Hue and realized where
he was. During those two days it had grown colder, and the snow heavier. His
small fire at night barely produced any warmth, and spread a pool of melted
water that soaked the ground beneath his pelts of fur. He wondered how much
longer he was to remain on this path before coming to the place of destination
that must surely lie ahead.
On the third
day he set out on the path again, and determined to keep going, ignoring the
increasing discomfort that threatened to discourage him. Once again the snow
began to fall, although it had stopped during the night. The wind also had
dropped in the night, allowing him a few hours of sleep as it no longer bit
through the meager shelter of his tent.
He gradually
became aware of a faint sound, one that was not natural to the forest. He
strained his ears to listen and discovered that the path led him closer to it.
He picked up his pace, until at last he could make out the sound clearly.
Boyhood
memories flooded his mind: it was wind chimes, the sound that every traveler
listened for in the wild of winter. For the ringing bells announced that a home
or village was nearby, and the wanderer welcome to come in from the cold.
With relief he
set out with all haste toward the sound of the chimes.
Cort followed
the sound of the ringing chimes, oblivious now to the biting wind and heavy snow.
The path remained clear of deep snow, with only a light dusting covering its
trail. The sound was not far away, less than a quarter of a mile and he soon
arrived at its source.
With a shock
he stopped in mid-stride. He was standing before the walls of a house he knew
quite well, for it was just outside the village in which he was raised. The
home belonged to a man named Stig, his wife Lis, and their daughter Siv, who
was Cort’s age and had played Staerkes with him and the other village children.
There were no other children, as they had already lost three in childbirth, and
Lis was a delicate creature who could bear no more.
He had not
spent much time in this house, but all knew of it for Stig was a man of fierce
independence who had no desire to live behind the walls of the village, not
even for safety. All Trekur Lenders knew of the need for the walls as
additional protection from the occasional bear that might visit their villages
from the wild. But Stig feared neither bear nor man, and chose to live his life
separately from the rest of the village, even if it be only a few hundred yards
outside the walls.
Cort hesitated
before proceeding. He had not expected the chimes to lead him to his home
village. Did his father and mother still live? And if they did, would they be
glad to see him, or was it a matter of small moment for them?
And his name:
should he call himself Cort Adalbart, his adopted name, or Cort Asbjorn, his
given name? If he called himself Adalbart, there might very well still be a
death sentence against him; for the Tribal Chief had declared that every
village in Trekur Lende would be told to watch for Dag, Cort, and Fanchon. Cort
knew this was no idle threat, for word spread rapidly among the Trekur Lenders
due to the speed of their hunters and trappers and their ability to roam vast
distances in a short time. But did that sentence of death still stand?
He thought
long and deeply, and in the end decided to use a false name. After all, he had
no intention of remaining in Trekur Lende, for how could he? Were he to stay,
at some point he must use his real name and if he were still an outlaw then he
would be in danger. He sighed deeply and wondered why it was that people could
not live in harmony together.
Well, he
thought wryly, I suppose I know the answer to that and should not be surprised.
For was it not man’s selfish pride that started wars and fighting as each man
coveted what another possessed?
Having
determined on a course of action he walked slowly to the small house. He had
forgotten the steeply slanting roofs, but noted now how they were clear of
snow, it having fallen to the ground on either side away from the house. And
yes, there were the wind chimes, there in the corner, ringing sweetly in the
blowing wind.
He paused for
one moment longer as though to weigh the possible consequences of his action;
then he strode forward and knocked on the door.
After a
moment, it was opened slightly and carefully by a tall man who peered out
between the door and the frame. He looked Cort up and down with a practiced
eye, checking to see what weapons he carried. Noting that Cort carried only the
usual bow and spear he opened the door wider.
“Stranger?” he
queried, raising an eyebrow and studying Cort.
“Yes, a
traveler who is passing through and in need of a warm fire as a respite from
the wind,” Cort replied.
“Your name?”
Stig asked, still holding the door partially closed.
“Of course,”
Cort nodded, “my name is Knud. Knud Aksel. I do not wish to trouble you…”
“Come in, come
in,” Stig motioned to him as he opened wide the door. “We are just about to eat
the midday meal. One more to feed is no trouble.”
He ushered
Cort into the house and called to his wife, who was in the kitchen area.
“Lis!” he
shouted. “Another place at the table; we have a visitor.”
Lis bustled in
from the kitchen and glanced with curiosity at Cort. In the north country they
were accustomed to the random stranger from the wild, and he did not sustain
her interest very long. She merely nodded her head and continued to set the
table.
Stig pointed
to the chair where Cort would sit. They seated themselves at the table and Stig
asked only a few random questions of his guest, and gave only casual attention
to the answers. Hospitality was a sacred trust to the natives of Trekur Lende,
where opening one’s home to a stranger frequently meant the difference between
life and death, and the only requirement asked of the stranger was that they
wipe the mud from their boots on the mat at the threshold of the door.
Lis brought a
steaming kettle of hot stew from the brazier and using a ladle, scooped hearty
servings into the wooden trenchers of Cort and Stig. There was another place
set at the table, but Lis did not wait for the person to claim it. She motioned
for the men to sit and eat.
As they ate,
conversation was idle and in Cort’s opinion, not particularly interesting.
Nothing much happened in Trekur Lende, where the inhabitants rarely left their
villages or heard news of the outside world. They spoke of the year’s harvest
and how many pelts the hunters could expect to take to the trading post to
barter with the peddlers.
A slight
commotion signaled the arrival of the person not yet seated at the table. Stig
and Lis did not even look up from their food, but Cort did and froze in astonishment
at the sight of the young woman who had just entered the room.
She was tall,
slim, and as graceful as a willow waving in the wind. Her golden-brown hair was
plaited into two braids that wound about her head, framing a triangular face as
delicate as a fawn’s. Her wide brown eyes widened further still at the sight of
Cort. She said nothing, but waited to be introduced to the stranger.
Cort nodded
his head to her, but could not greet her until her father gave him her name. It
was a custom in Trekur Lende that a strange man could not address a maiden
unless her father approved. They could sit at the table until sunset and he
would not be able to speak to her unless introduced.
At last Stig
spoke.
“My daughter,
Siv,” he told Cort. “Siv, this is a stranger taking shelter. Name is Knud
Aksel.”
Siv nodded at
Cort, yet a slight frown furrowed her creamy forehead. She looked questioningly
at him in a manner beyond the polite interest shown a stranger.
“And you are
traveling from where?” she asked, her voice a rich bell-like sound that
reverberated in Cort suddenly with the intensity of birdsong. It seemed to
speak to something in him, something he had not even been aware of before…
“I live alone
in the north. I am a trapper and rarely come south. I am presently on my way to
the trading post and found myself near your village. The chimes led me to your
home.”
As Cort spoke,
Siv’s eyes widened until they seemed all that was visible in her doe-like face.
She caught her breath and blinked her eyes rapidly, staring at him as if in
disbelief.
She knows me,
he thought, panic rising up within him. I must warn her somehow not to betray
me.
He caught her
eye and gave a slight shake of his head. She seemed to understand his signal
and dropped her eyes from his gaze in a gesture that could have passed for
maidenly modesty.
To her
parents, nothing seemed amiss and the meal proceeded in the same desultory
fashion. When they had finished eating, Siv and Lis cleared the table and began
washing the trenchers while Cort and Stig stood at the brazier and talked about
the storm.
“You will have
to stay with us tonight,” Stig told Cort. “On the morrow will be soon enough to
continue your trek.”
“I thank you,”
Cort said with a grateful smile. “It is bitter cold, and a night under a warm
roof will fortify me for the rest of my journey.”
He wondered
how soon he might speak to Siv, but it was some time before the opportunity
presented itself. In the heart of winter, all family activity seemed to be
confined to the house, and there was no occasion when Stig or Lis left the
house. He had to content himself with a stolen glance at her to enjoin her
silence for the present, and a jerk of his head toward the door to indicate a
future meeting out of doors.
It was not
until the family retired to bed that Cort could let himself out of the house.
Their sleeping quarters were at the back of the house; he had been allotted a
place before the brazier in the main room, where he made a bed from a pile of
pelts. He carefully opened the door and quietly closed it behind him and walked
a short distance away from the house, where he took care to blend into the
shadows of the trees.
He had not
long to wait. He had been outside scarcely five minutes when Siv joined him.
She could not see him in the dark of night, so he slipped out into view and
tapped her arm. She let him take her hand and lead her back into the woods.
Only when he had assured himself that they were out of earshot did he speak.
But Siv spoke before he could.
“Cort!” she
whispered. “I knew you as soon as you spoke. Why have you come back? For you
must know that there is a death sentence out on you, from one end of Trekur
Lende to another. Why is that?”
Cort sighed.
In his heart he had hoped that the incident of twenty years ago was long
forgotten. But time was nothing in Trekur Lende, where nothing ever happened
and no one forgot anything that did.
And so he told
her; told her of his adoption by Dag, and Dag’s rejection by his tribe with the
threat of death should either of them set foot in Trekur Lende again. As he
spoke, Siv hung on his words and her eyes grew soft when he told her how
Fanchon had broken her betrothal to Dag after his exile by the Tribal Chief,
and how greatly it had hurt his adopted father.
“And what of
your own father, Cort? Did you ever have any word from him, or your mother?”
“No, nor would
I expect to,” he said curtly, the ache of the memory of his last encounter with
his father still with him. “For he sold me to the highest bidder and cares not
how I am or even if I still live, I’ll be bound.”
He said this
last with a snort of impatience, and Siv put a soft hand on his shoulder,
coming close enough to him that he could smell the scent of her hair. It
smelled good, a clean and crisp scent like that of the wildflowers that dotted
the woods of Trekur Lende in the summer months. This then, would be the memory
of her that he would take with him, the comforting hand in the cold dark of a winter
night, the smell of summer flowers in her hair.
At least, that
was the memory he thought he would take. But as he looked into her brown eyes,
he suddenly knew why Dominio had brought him back to the land of his birth, and
in the instant of knowing, realized that she knew also. He held out his arms to
her, and she came into them. Their embrace was long and warm, as his head bent
over hers and their hands entwined together. Thus they stood in the shelter of
the trees, as they became one shadow under the light of the moon.