The Telling

The Telling:

            The hushed, rhythmic beating of drums and faint scent of burning oak were all that remained of the merriment left behind as four boats slipped silently from their moorings into the night. Nine men per boat, nine men per clan. Four benches on each boat sat eight paddlers, for once glad to not face their heading, with a space in front for each Clanhead to direct. The outriggers, too small for any decent voyage, carried only intricate carvings and paintings of homeland tradition as bearing of their great purpose away from the Dimwinter’s Festival.

            As the company made its way steadily towards the center of the great lake, the bubble of warmth from a hundred campfires behind caved to Dimwinter’s cold fingers, and the soft rush of water parting to bow and oar replaced the faded drumbeats. The middle outrigger, middle as a lead goose is middle to an unbalanced V of its kin, bore the tale of a Temper raging towards any and all in his path. The dark knotted hair of his kind flowed down the length of the boat, his face carved roaring into the bow. To it’s left a dragon of dark red covered the boat, the bow a biting maw and the outriggers a pair of outstretched wings. The canoe directly right of the lead portrayed a galloping herd of stallions, and the one furthest back and right held a wizened old man’s face gazing peacefully from it’s wooden station, along with a collection of ancient runes carved carefully into the sides.

            Every man in the company had memorized a vast majority of Songs of Mar (a complete history of their people summed up in lyrics, many of which were made for taking the mind off the metronomic paddling), but they glided on in silence. Even the Clanhead’s didn’t orate the passage with the usual catcalls for more backbone.

 

 

 

            Mack gazed longingly from the backbench of the canoe directly right of the lead. The past hour his harried train of thought hadn’t settled long. From the original fear at the shimmering wall of fog risen from the center of the lake, to the shock (and, again, fear) at Anden’s (his Clanhead) choosing him as part of the company, to the two young ladies he’d left at the fire who’d seemed somehow both equally interested in him, to the painful rubbing and sliding of hands, more used to hammer and anvil than an oar, and now attended the most pressing matter of whether a few more pints of liquid courage would have been worth the possibility of an untimely bathroom break. An hour had passed, though, and something told Mack asking for a short break would have been most unwelcome by the solemn men surrounding him.

            Mack looked right, past the middle boat, to his brother Benj. One look told why Benj had been chosen to join. His brother was only seventeen dimwinters old, two younger than Mack, but looked to be at least twenty. Even amongst his fellow Highwoods, he was a juggernaut of a man. He’d passed his rite of passage into Highwood two dimwinters prior, meaning he had survived an encounter with a Lesser dragon at fifteen. Survived for lack of a better word. In reality, he’d lost his sword in the scuffle, but managed to break its neck with his bare hands. Suppose that’s what happens when you lay a woman at twelve, grow a beard at thirteen, and reach the height of a full-grown horse by fifteen.

            Laying a woman before growing a full beard. Mack considered it. If it was consensual I’ll shave my chest, Mack thought.

He almost smiled.

            Mack scanned the rest of his brother’s crowd. They were a rugged group, known for brutality. They had no want for material pleasures, and preferred the harsh lifestyle of the north. He’d heard even their womenfolk had to complete their rites. He tried to imagine the type of women who would willingly go head to head with a Lesser, and quickly decided that wasn’t a compelling thought.

 

 

            A second hour passed before the boats finally neared the dense wall of fog. It rose out of the darkness like a sparkling stage curtain, obscuring all but the peaks of the mountain range that lay across the great lake. It was good too, because the frigid air away from the Festival whipped at the men, trying to find a way through their many layers to chill their resolve. The wind seemed to have settled for bluing the lips and swiping at exposed ears.

            It’s been thirty two dimwinter’s since the Seer has summoned. Though I remember it perfectly, thought Durn. Forgotten feelings welled up unbidden in his conscience as if etched in hot iron like the writing on his sword’s hilt and scabbard. “Seer’s bidding be done,” it read.

              It was the last night of another long dimwinter. Every year it came, and for ten days the sun would surrender the clans to darkness. Every year the clans gathered at the lake’s edge to celebrate the return of the sun.

 

            “C’mere boy,” his father would say. “Ya know why the sun exiles us for ten long, dark, stinkin’ days? Cuz if it didn’t we’d grow weak! The sun is warm and tells the forests to yield their fruit, and tells the plains to yield their crop, and tells the livestock to grow fat ‘n juicy. But the sun knows those things make a man sedent’ry. Makes ‘em weak! What goods’  a man who does naught but sit a’ home and eat and grow old? He’s no better’n the crop he eats... No better’n the f****n’ crop! No. Men were made fer more, lad. Made ta keep the eye aimed not down at the ground, but off ta the horizon.”

 

            Durn pulled at the high-collar of his long wolfskin coat, and shifted his weight off his good leg onto his peg leg. He glanced back at his men aboard the wizened face outrigger, almost thankful for the frigid cold that forced them into several thick layers, hiding their slight frames. They were athletic, certainly, and fully capable of rowing their thin boat, but they weren’t as big as the rest of the company. A life of study, meditation, and fasting didn’t build the same physical specimens as the ranching and manual labor of the Eoch, and certainly not the Highwood’s brutal survival life in the north. Our strength lies in magic, he mused.

            He looked back ahead and over at the other three boats. They were all one proud people, Northerners. Separated into clans by the Seer’s command ages ago, each clan given rites of passage to determine a man’s worth and station. It seemed a good system. Their people had certainly flourished in recent years. The Matros clan that led the company had enjoyed the most success. They had sailed to many new lands; setting up trade and commerce with new people they found who were strong, and demanding tribute from those unable to resist. Those weak of body but strong of mind who resisted the Matros’ demands were quickly dealt with. The Highwoods were always game for pillage and plunder. Durn scowled. Vile methods, he bristled.

           

 

            “Steady lads!” Trandor’s, head of Matros, voice rang sharply over the water just before entering the fog. A thick wet enveloped the men, soaking first the thick fur coats, then the outer garments, and then creeping through undershirts all in quick succession. The paddling unconsciously picked up speed as survival instinct recognized the peril of wet clothes during dimwinter’s reign. Eyes strained, unable to make out even their fellow paddlers sitting next, and lungs pulled at air too laden to inhale. The sound of cracking ice filled the air as fur coats drenched with water froze and cracked with the bending of backs.

            The fog relinquished its hold as quickly as it had come, stealing back its moisture. The quick halt of movement, not the crunching of loose rock under wooden craft, brought the men back to their senses as they struggled to comprehend their dry garments.

            The Clanhead’s stepped carefully from their boats and began to make their way to the center of the island, followed swiftly by the others. The island, merely a perfectly round circle of loose pebble covered by a paper-thin, invisible layer of water, couldn’t be more than a hundred strides across.  The fog, once a seeming solid pillar, proved to be but a thin wall around the island. Each step splashed and crunched as the company made for the center.

            Reaching the center, a gaping hole swallowed the shallow water. The Clanheads followed memory, and dutifully led the way to the opposite side, stepping down onto individual stone steps sticking from the walls like toothpicks, steeply descending the hole. The thin veil of water raining from the top blurred the mossy walls behind, pattering onto the steps and lighting the way like the fog lit the island. Thirty feet down at the bottom the company huddled. The drape of shimmering water was broken into a few streams of light by the steps jutting from the walls above. Not enough light remained to see their own feet, much less the walls any longer.

            As if on cue a torch appeared flickering on the wall, and Trandor eyed the other Clanheads, who nodded in consent, and grabbed it. A dark split opened where it had hung.

            There in the crevice stood what looked to be a frail man wearing only a thin robe that barely reached his ankles. He stood there proudly, without shivering, gazing out at his company. A sense of superiority emanated, and an overwhelming urge to kneel powered the men down to a knee.

            The Seer waited a long while moment before speaking. Finally he spoke, bit by bit, mincing the words:

 

            “Dimwinter’s clench has loosened, with the rise of the clans to peace and prosperity. But good times only last so long.

            The winds of change are coming, perhaps sooner than I foresaw.

            A new enemy rises in the West. One that travels quicker even than your sails. No lookout will see them come, for they need not land nor sea nor air.

            There is some hope, alas, in a brother of two among you. His life is seen through sound and touch and he will survive this matter, or the clans will go to dust.

            In the past your strength has prevailed against all. Those days are past. But you are a sailing people.

In the same way you unfurl your sails to find new land, open your mind to new ways, and perhaps the winds of change will be kind.”

 

            The frail man stopped a moment, surveying the company. Without a word, he clapped his hands above his head, the dark split slammed shut around him, the torch vanished from Trandor’s hand, and they were plunged into darkness. Stunned, the men murmured to each other as the Clanheads led the company out.

 

“What was that he said about travel?”

“Sees with sound and touch?”

“Who’s brother is it?”

 

The shimmering fog had disappeared outside the hole, and the men splashed to the outriggers by a quiet slice of moonlight.