Burning green wood popped embers onto the
hearth of Octun’s uncle’s cottage. His
uncle, Ryhad, one of his father's two surviving brothers, had practically forgotten
about the cottage. Ryhad’s age and physical condition made traveling hard. His children were not interested in the isolation
it offered, especially in these bizarre times.
Obenites felt comfort in groups of people. The rumor of the poor farmer along the Great River
spread like wildfire. Some thought both
the story and the farmer crazy, but Ryhad knew the magistrate who investigated
the matter. The magistrate’s report
stated that the entire incident was isolated to one farm. The magistrate wrote of personally witnessing
a lighning bolt turning the farmer’s red dog into a smoking carcass.
Octun appreciated Ryhad making the exception
and coaxing his creaky body into a wagon to see him. Uncle Ryhad brought one of his ten grandsons,
Nineo. Though Octun hid his movements
from friend and enemy alike, recently he felt free to move around. King Seth had much more serious matters to
worry about.
"I escaped Seth over sixteen month
ago. No one inquires of me anymore?” Octun shoved the iron rod that served as a
poker into the fire sending sparks around the black pot and up the
chimney.
Ryhad scratched the one black patch in his
silvery beard. "No strangers have been askin’ about you in the village and
nobody followed us. I think the King is
more worried about Mernus and those demons in the mountains than you. Everyone is scared. No one knows what to believe in or who to worship.
Some believe the world is comin’ to an
end.”
"What do you think?" Octun looked at
his Uncle and then at his cousin's soft features.
Ryhad leaned back thoughtfully. Nineo looked scared.
“They want somethin’. It is a guessin’ game as to what. I believe
the king knows. I believe that he knew soon after they escaped." Ryhad paused. He took out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He shook the pipe at Octun. "I knew King Seth would mess things
up. He was too spoiled, a sheltered
brat."
He finalized the subject by tapping the pipe
firmly on the table to clear it out. Ash
fell out on the table. Ryhad swept it
away with the back of his hand.
The years had mellowed his uncle. Even at Octun’s induction as Keeper of the
Primary Temple, the man’s mouth knew no tact. Saroth chastened Ryhad by making him leave.
"You didn't answer me," insisted
Octun.
"I don't really know what to think. All I can go on is what you tell me and how I
see those actin’ around me."
"How do they react?"
"It's enough to make you want to piss on
them all.”
Ryhad looked at his grandson. “If you say a word to your grandma, I'll tan
your hide into next week.”
This Ryhad he remembered. As a child, he had both feared and loved his
uncle. Ryhad had made him laugh despite
his mother’s disapproving glares.
After a long draw on his pipe that made Octun
cough in sympathy for his uncle's lungs, Ryhad exhaled the smoke in short puffs
that lingered about his face.
"Some people I know have started worshipin’
toward the mountains. Others say the
Hands of Obenin are a godsend from Obenin to bring justice to the land. Their name among Glynwith is no longer Barapk Alanom but Neve Usentes. Instead of the
Obenin’s Temple, many Obenites pilgrimage to the foothills of the Abringian
Mountains. They carry food, gifts, and
gold."
"From Children of the Wind to the New
Ones,” interpreted Octun. “Do you think
they are gods?"
"I think the Heno people have it right, Sky
Demons of Obenin. But, from what you
tell me... they don't seem to be gods or demons, but mortal. If they aren't demons from the spirit world, I
think their intent is demonic. Why bring
such calamity on the innocent?”
Octun told Ryhad about the ultimatum delivered
by the sole survivor of the nearly successful first attack on the Sky Demons. This contradicted against Ryhad’s belief that
Brock Stannick created the rumor to take pressure off Seth. Octun assured Ryhad that it was not a
rumor. The Sky Demons, that was fitting,
wanted to be worshipped. Every attempt
to kill them since was assumed a failure because no one ever returned.
"King Seth has known for almost two
years, now. They have rejected Obenin
and my teaching. They want the kingdom,
but they will not stop there."
“You knew them?”
“Yes, I taught them. I was their caretaker."
“What were they like? I was in Ethenia that
day they showed their power. I met you
on the temple grounds a few days before, but I never got a glimpse of them.”
“Three of them had skin and hair different
from ours. The other is one of us. It is confirmed that he is from a prominent
family in the Yan Free Territories. The
family has denied him."
"I don't blame them," shot Ryhad
coldly. "People will surely take
their anger out on them for this evil."
"Something has happened to them. I don’t know what. Seth and Cuere did not count on it. I spoke with them the day I forsook the
keepers. They looked to me for help but
I had nothing to give. I had failed them
long before that day. The oath I swore
to Saroth on the day I left for Oracle, then affirmed on King Saroth’s deathbed, not to oppose Seth..., made worse by crowning
Seth as King..., those were the moments I both failed and buried myself in that
failure.”
"It surprises me that King Saroth had
anythin’ to do with this business. That
Seth and Cuere must have put a hex on him or somethin’," remarked Ryhad.
Octun leaned back in his chair and stared into
his uncle’s eyes and then into the eyes of his cousin. From their expressions, he saw that their
belief in the tangible overrode the Obenite faith, the memory of Saroth, and
the tenets. Octun thought of Seth’s fit
of sorrow.
"He cried at his father's bedside. He was distraught." His defense of Seth did not set well within
himself.
"Humph," Rhyhad scoffed and went
back to smoking his pipe.
Ictheos, Jared, Ulthea and Parmos, the New
Ones, Sky Demons of Obenin, threatened all Obenin and the Benomian Alliance. The kingdom could not see the power of their
god, Obenin, but the Sky Demons’ power brought the known world to its knees. Seth proved himself as an ineffective and
incapable leader. There was no way the
kingdom would ever prosper again as long as he remained in power.
Octun knew Ryhad saw his doubt, yet said
nothing so far. After all, his nephew
was still officially the Keeper of Obenin's Temple as far as Glynwith figured. King Saroth appointed him spiritual leader of
all the kingdoms. King Seth did not
appoint anyone to take his place and had not even bothered with defrocking him. Seth simply sent men after him. The Primary Temple suffered from attacks from
the Sky Demon. It still stood. They
probably wanted to claim it for themselves. Several dedicated priests still cared
for it.
Ryhad's eyes grew sly. Octun felt he had something for him. Ryhad meant his stories to help the younger
generation; most often, they left the listener in a quandary as to what they were
supposed to mean.
When asked, Ryhad would simply reply,
“Meditate on it. You can’t become a man
by me telling you everythin’.”
"You know, Keeper. I am glad that you decided to come home. You don't come home enough. And I am glad this talk about religion came
up," he said, closing his slyest eye.
"Home is the best place to come when you’re
troubled or tryin’ to find somethin’, or when you just do somethin’ so foolish
that you got no place else to go."
"Where do I fall?” Octun's tone blustery,
he did not want to hear some concocted fact or story that his uncle tried to
make into a profound point. Octun
already pondered too much. So much raged
in his mind, he doubted he could figure it all out in ten life spans. He needed to find answers quickly. His deathbed oath to Saroth choked the life
out of him. The fallen spiritual status
made him sick with indecision.
“I don't know what they did to you, Keeper. But my few hairs went straight with anger when
I first heard the many rumors about you. I didn't believe a one. You have been up here for months, and it's not because you are afraid of bein’
captured by Charge Stannick's men. So,
maybe you are tryin’ to come to some decision, eh?"
Lifting his eyes to the ceiling, Octun apologized
to heaven for what he was about to say. He
let it pour out of his heart.
"Ever since I learned of King Saroth's
plans, I doubted. The whole matter didn't seem scriptural. But I said nothing and was able to dismiss the
doubt because, above all, we are taught of the divine right of the king to rule
and he is guided by Obenin's will.
“At first, I was able to accept it all, but
now I realize that I was always concerned that something would go wrong. I guess that was why I was so efficient. Maybe I could prevent the inevitable. I vowed to restore King Seth’s faith. At Oracle, when I saw the children lying in a
bloody pile, I knew this was evil. My
heart went from all that was happening around me. And after the death of King Saroth, I knew
that somehow he had been corrupted, too. Maybe he erred because he was sick, probably
because, as you said, Lord Cuere did something to him. “The
whole matter brought sourness to my mouth and I started to abhor the fact I had
been caught up in it. I prayed hard,
like I did before and after every battle, but there was no help. I have been in solitude here reading, praying,
waiting and wondering what the difference is between a lack of faith and judging
whether your beliefs are the truth. Is
all the good that has happened to me in life brought about by prayer, or was it
coincidence, luck, or something else?"
Octun's
eyes watered. He wanted to smash
something. If he did, he hoped Nineo and
Ryhad would get out of the way.
"You know, Octun, your mother was not
Obenite."
"What do you mean by that?" Octun
snapped.
"Well, she was Obenite by marriage and
conversion, but not by ancestry."
Octun's eyes narrowed. His temper seethed.
“I know I am a half-breed, part-Aspharian part-
Obenite. What has that got to do with
anything?”
Normally, Ryhad had nothing to fear. Now, he dealt with a troubled man whose world
crumbled around him, and Octun sensed his past was about to crumble, too. Ryhad knew he was too far into the story to
stop.
"Yes, you know your father worked for his
admiral after he got lame. He kept the
place runnin’ while the officer was out fightin’ wars. One day the admiral brought back men and women
as slaves and servants. Your mother was
one of them. Your father saw her, and loved her and after five years bought her
freedom from his lord."
"Where is this leading Uncle?"
"Your mother had a secret which she kept
from almost everyone, even your father for a while. She was a strong, quiet woman, yet submitted
to your father. But her mind would not
be changed about one thing, her personal beliefs. I know all these things because my wife was
the only person she would talk to openly. There were a lot of women and men who treated
your mother badly, mostly out of jealousy. Women sought after your father, even after he
married. But he always remained true,
and I ought to know."
"You are rambling."
"Give some space to an old man, will you?
I have lots of stories up here, and
sometimes they all try to come out at the same time. Well, anyway, she was not Obenite at
heart."
"What do you mean?" Octun shouted,
leaping up from his chair and smashing it against the wall.
Nineo scampered out of the cottage.
Reaching over, Octun lifted Ryhad from the
chair to his face.
"What has my mother done to deserve this
from you in her grave? She went on the
pilgrimages, she taught me how to pray, she read me the words of
Obenin..."
"Think about it, son! Think about it!"
his uncle shouted in one breath. "She
taught you the words of Obenin at the local shrine. It would have looked bad on your father if she
hadn’t. What did she read to you when the two of you were alone? Think about what she wore man. Her clothin’s were proper for an Obenite
woman, but wasn't there somethin’ that always adorned her dress? Why did she pray over you long after your
father had gone to bed, and over you in the mornin’?"
Suddenly, all of it came back to Octun. The memories stung like walking barefoot on
the rocks after a long winter. She would
take the book from her secret place. Not
a book really, but papers that she had kept bound together with yarn. He thought they were stories and sayings, but
his uncle implied they were much more.
Octun remembered the embroidery and patterns
that adorned her dress, almost like a sword with the hilt upward. Even the sweaters she knitted for him had
these patterns. He had thought nothing
of it. His mother did pray a lot more at
home than at the shrines. She always seemed to have an air of guilt that
saddened her beautiful face.
"Why are you telling me this now? What good will it do me?"
"I don't know," his uncle confessed,
"but it seems like the right thing to say."
He sat his uncle back into his seat. "I am sorry, very sorry, please forgive
me."
Ryhad breathed deeply. Maybe in his rambling he had said something
after all.
"My mother told Aunt Ruth all this?"
"Yes, and your Aunt Ruth told me, and
that was as far as it ever got."
"Tell me something about her
religion."
"At the time, I wasn't concerned much
about what or who she actually believed in. The manuscripts she read to you was mostly
things that she remembered from her own teachin’s, which she wrote down. From what I understand, even in her own land,
her religion had few believers. The
numbers increased when we invaded. Ruth
can tell you much more than I can. I'll
brin’ her with me next time and maybe, just maybe, we might be able to dig up
those papers. Oh, and she kept diaries,
too."
There is no need to bring her. I am leaving with you.”
Ryhad glowed with pride. Octun rode beside him
right through middle of town to the inn Ryhad owned. They dismounted at the front door. Already, a small crowd followed them through
the streets. The name Scourge of Namiberro hung over the door
of the inn.
“That is a long name for an inn, and a strange
one at that. When did you change it?” Octun
asked, knowing his uncle took advantage of his reputation to bring in
customers.
Ryhad deflected the question. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t
ask that question around your Aunt Ruth. She is already gonna beat you to death then
feed you to death.”
“If I tell her that you knew I was near but
didn’t tell her, you will be the one she beats,” Octun quipped.
As he walked into the inn, Octun’s mouth
dropped open. He looked at his uncle and
shook his head in disbelief.
Ryhad slapped him on the back jovially. “Can’t a man honor his family?” quipped
Rhyad.
Ryhad separated the war hero from the high
priest giving the inn a profane edge.
The war hero, he exalted. The
high priest, he mentioned only when it benefited him.
“How can a person get drunk celebrating the
war hero without defiling the high priest?” asked Octun.
Ryhad returned, “But you said you left the
keepers.”
Octun looked around the foyer. “Is that supposed to be me? Where did you get that
statue?”
“I know a man who knows a man who worked for
Saroth’s sculptor.”
Octun stood in front of his life-sized stone image.
Patrons knew who it was, though the face
was narrower and the neck was longer than his.
Ryhad smiled slyly.
"What else can I expect?" asked
Octun with a smirk.
Patrons turned to look at their noisy entrance.
Astounded, Octun put his hand on his
forehead.
“This is not an inn but a museum,” exclaimed
Octun.
The tavern area praised every campaign or
skirmish he ever fought. His uncle even
managed to acquire parts of the ship he stole during the Mernus rescue. He had attached the wheel right in the middle
of the bar. Loaso, Namiberro, Mpolu, the
sub-Aspharian wilderness, they were all there. Ryhad used everything Octun ever sent home, or
he finagled someone into finding what he wanted. No wonder he had guests when their kingdom
faltered. This placed served as a
reminder of the glorious days of triumph and riches.
Octun was admonished at his uncle's
selfishness in taking advantage of his fame.
“Times are hard and competition is stiff,”
Ryhad rebutted. “A proprietor needs as
many edges as he can get if he wants to be legitimate. "And Ruth insists on bein’
legitimate."
A shout erupted from the back. His Aunt Ruth hurried toward him shuffling her
feet as fast as she could. Her body
bounced in objection.
“Whew, whew,” she bellowed in long breaths,
her excitement getting the best of her.
She stopped and put her hand over her mouth in
disbelief and excitement. In a flash,
her eyes turned into little coals of trapped fire.
“Oh, you are in for it now! Draw sword and defend yourself or run the
other way,” jested Rhyad.
“Iberius Octun Ruben Marchus, get over here.” She pointed to the floor about a hair away
from the toe of her shoe. Her strong
contralto voice carried over the patron’s laughter.
“Don’t do it man or this place is goin’ to be
your tomb, too. Here lies the great
warrior high priest, Keeper of Obenin’s Primary Temple, beat to death by his
aunt,” Ryhad proclaimed.
The crowd roared with laughter.
Octun stepped helplessly in front of her.
“Bend down,” she ordered.
Octun bent his back.
“Lower.” She patted her foot impatiently.
He stooped a little lower.
Her eyes softened. She grabbed him and hugged him with the
strength of a mother bear. Squeezing and
releasing, she wrung his clothing. For a
second, he thought she was going to pick him up by the scruff of the neck and
carry him back to her den.
Then, the beating started. She squeezed him with her right arm and beat
his back with her left fist. She
switched, beating him with her right fist. Next, she wrapped him in her embrace. Alternating hands, she pounded his back even
more. His back resounded with the
booming thump, thump, thump of a large drum.
Then she wept. “You game rooster, you! It’s ‘bout time you come home. It’s ‘bout time you come home. I know you troubled, boy. Let Aunt Ruth get you back on the mend.”
She grabbed his ear and pulled him into the
inn's enormous kitchen.
“Sit!” She pointed to a chair at the head of
the table. One of the barmaids
complained when she took another guest’s plates right out of her hands and put
them in front of Octun.
“This will whet your appetite. She moved to the stove, bumping one of the cooks
out of the way with her hip.
“Stoke the other, I got this one.”
Octun leaned back in his chair, with his feet
stretched under the table. He unbuckled
his belt. Ruth smiled and plopped
another plate in front of him.
Octun’s family came in and out all night. Little children sat on his knee. He told them stories and they marveled. Some fell asleep on the floor in front of him.
Other children objected with cries and tantrums
as their mothers came for them. Everything
seemed distant and familiar at the same time. He missed this place.
People whom he had not seen for decades came to
visit. Children were no longer children. Most had families of their own. Some asked if he thought they should join the
war or which forces they should join. He
put the questions off. He talked that
night more than he did in the last four years.
