Part 1, Chapter I

Part 1: Summer

Chapter I: Youth’s Fruit Withers

They used to say the seasons were the only thing mankind could rely on. Summer would follow spring, and fall would take up summer’s course, and the tawdry leaves of fall would melt into winter’s cruel snows, and winter’s snows would give way to spring -- and so on and so forth. They used to say a good many things that proved exceptionally negligent. The bird will get his worm, no matter how late in the day he wakes. I should think the slumberous birds of yesteryear were often poorly (and unjustly) regarded as dull and witless.

            Hardly anyone is skittle-brained enough to sit and wait for the birds to wake, but when seasons fail in their philandering tour… that’s something few people could neglect. I say ‘few’, because there’s always someone content to live in endless summer, thinking but vaguely, ‘Soon the cold will come; I best enjoy the season of gladness while it’s ripe.’

            That’s exactly what the little folk of South Augustine inherited -- an endless summer, rich in all the mirth and fatness and mazy stupor such a season affords. Mind you, it would be unfair to compare even one of these jolly civilians to the fool who waits for winter. Every last one was brought into existence long after the other seasons had ceased to be. Few know of any existence other than the pleasures of fruit, wine, salt-laden breezes, and sun-stripped beaches. Even their bodies -- plump like sacks of liquid from so much gorging -- seem to hold no hints of frost or depravity: their skin is bronze, dappled with sunlight, and their hair is the brassiest of gold.

           

Pictured: sketches of various South Augustinians.

       It was here to the garden of Eden-suckled babes I came to interrogate Sol, the radiant lady of the sun. I found her on the shore, blazing sword buried in the boiling sea. Her burnished armor cut the pale blue sky in two -- I’d been told that her breastplate and gauntlets appeared perpetually dipped in blood, and indeed her whole get-up possessed an ominous red tint.

            When she’d had her fill telling me all she knew of the boy in question, and it came time for me to pay up my end of the bargain, I hesitated and invoked the muses to wipe the cobwebs from the old ticker. I am not the bard with the strong, clear voice that I was back when the first babes were birthed in Augustine -- my memory of the songs has been swept behind me by the currents of time. Only the newest of these remained, clinging to the rock of my memory, and this was the song I sang to Sol, plucking broken notes on the lute with mangled hands:

            “I am the Bard; I dwell in the shadow of winter, in the damp mountain valleys east of the Northerners’ dome. I live in my smoky, stone hut, where I eat roasted meats and root vegetables, and where I dress in the skins of sheep. The days are gray and lonely; the nights cold and lonelier still. When the wind favours south, I’ll sometimes sleep among the suckling ewes to keep watch, snuggled at the dam’s tit like one of her litter. I’m sure you’ve heard of all the devilish things that go on near the Wastes; it’s poor land to be raising sheep.”

            “Then you had best change professions, Bard,’ the lady muttered. She was not the least moved by my ramblings. ‘Become a swineherd and fill your belly with pig, if you like. I did not charge you with the task of talking sheep to me, remember?”

            Mindful of her blazing sword, to which her impatient eyes continuously strayed, I carried on, “The boy, yes! I was getting to that now. I was with my flock one night when I saw Luna’s face pass over the mountains, the howling hounds of a wicked gale on his heels. A white sheet swept across the valley’s mouth and pounded against Mount Spire’s back as I made for the barn, alarmed by this sudden change of winds. As the last of my scrawny lambs was nudged into the fold, I glanced behind me at the encroaching fury and saw from a distance the shape of a man staggering through Frosteater’s treacherous pass.

            You can image how I must have run, leaving my cane behind me. God, I thought, the man has just about lost his mind! There isn’t a breath of life beyond the mountain range, no pit or cavern to cover a weary man from Luna’s teeth.

            I met him halfway; he was doubled over against the outskirts of my sheep pens, his garment a tatter of rugged black rags thrashing in the wind. When he raised his head, I saw beneath his hood a flash of amber eyes, so vivid and alive I was for a time frozen with wonder, but these dull senses of mine were swiftly roused and I grasped the man by his shoulders.

'Come with me!' I hollered, my voice barely rising above the gale. 'You’ll find your death out here!'

            So I led him back to my hut, supporting him all the way. He grasped my arm to steady himself, and his strength astounded me. It wasn’t until we’d crossed the threshold that he let his grip slacken. Like a panting dog he sprawled out by the fire, shoulders heaving with each unsteady breath.

            'Let me take that cloak from you, stranger,' I said. 'It’s hardly worth being called a rag. We’ll dress you in something dry.'

            Before I could finish, he tore off his cloak and lay prostrate before me, his body pale and soggy like sheep’s fat. I was alarmed to see his back striped with scars, of a number greater than a man can count. My wonderment grew when I realized he had the most peculiar ears -- they were pointed, much like a nymph’s, but narrower. Part of his left ear was missing; yours and Luna’s work, I should guess.”

            “Yes, that’s right,” said Sol. “This man of yours must be our ill-fortuned child. Come! Hold your tongue steady if you’re able: cease this stammering and tell me more.”

            “You will hear more, I can make that promise. He proved to be quite a treasure of tales, but not right away. He slept for some time, as oblivious to the world as a dead man. I roused him after the second hour and made him drink some meal I’d stewed. Though he ought to have been as weak as a newborn kitten, barely able to take in any milk, my guest bolted down his supper like a healthy wolf before lying down once more to sleep off his chills.

            When I was certain his health would hold, I rose to check on my sheep. Though you, my sun, had already begun to make your path across the sky, passing over the dwellings of the Deepsung in the east, I spied Luna stalking about at the valley’s mouth with that giant, three-headed brute, Cerberus, trotting at his heels as though it were just a pup. I’d never seen him so close to the border before -- he appeared driven by a great sense of urgency, and so he did not notice me, the shepherd-bard, from a distance.

            After I’d taken count of my flocks I hurried inside, worried and in awe at the sign of Luna and his monstrosity. There, perched before the fire, was my guest. He’d garbed himself in the hide of a black ram, and sat examining the excellent carvings of my lute. He was dried out now and some color had returned to him. A faint blush of gold crept around his forearms and cheeks, as such a color tends to do on Northerners who’ve spent a few summers in Augustine. Around his shoulders flowed long, chestnut locks, tangled with twigs and dead leaves.

            'Fancy you the lute, stranger?' I asked.

            He gazed at me with broad, puzzled eyes, as though he were astounded by my sudden speech. 'Not I, but another.'

            'Never mind that, let’s have a name! I can’t be having strangers in my house. We’re as good as friends now, the way I see it. Near-death does that to folks.'

            'I’ve no name.'

When he spoke, he could have been a king of old addressing me -- there was a tone of authority in his voice, bound up with the same melancholy I remember from the world before, when rulers watched the life of their countries strangled before their eyes and made bitter speeches in contempt of the gods. Yes, my Lady, I yet remember those men, and this stranger spoke exactly as they once did.

            'Maybe not; there’ve been crueler parents in this world, but when men call after you, there must be some name you go by.'

            'There was a girl once, who called my name Dark.' He laughed bitterly. 'She’s proved a prophet. What poor luck, poor fellow!'

            'Dark’s a fine a name as any. Now, here’s one thing that eludes me -- unless my judgment’s playing a good trick on me, I seem to recall you stumbling this way from beyond Winter’s borders.'

            'Correct.'

            'Not a hospitable place for any man! What did you think you’d find out there?'

            Dark was silent. He gazed into my hearth, seeming content to listen to the fire pop and crackle. For a moment, I thought he’d fallen into a trance, and went to gently shake him, only to have him grab my hand with sudden violence and wretch it away.

I was nursing my fingers and wondering what sort of brute I’d let into my hut, when suddenly he spoke, 'Would you like me to tell you everything, old man? I have seen many things; things that would turn your blood to ice and drive you far into Winter’s Wastes. Such was my lot.'

            'There isn’t a tale on earth I won’t hear. Lend me my lute and I’ll even make an ode of it -- I was quite the bard once, you know. Come Dark, day’s new-a-waning, we’ve time to hear it all. If you’ve brought some curse to my doorstep, I’d rather know of it.'

            'You’ll hear it from the beginning, then. There are some evils that cleave too deep -- we the roots unsnarl.'

            While I brewed up some cider over the open flame, he waded into his tale, as a swimmer does when he first enter the water following a long winter.

            ‘I was raised by the nuns of Sol’s cult. I knew nothing of any parents mine, whether living or dead. My child’s memory erased all knowledge of any lineage.

            We were bunked in the temple, the other children and I. Most had been brought in by the nuns after their parents suffered some unfortunate death. Others, like I, had been abandoned on the temple’s steps.

            The other children took to games and fruit, streaking through deep, grassy meadows with their naked bodies glistening in the sun, hands sticky with berry juice and honey. I, on the other hand, could scarcely tolerate being outdoors for more than a few minutes before the gut inside me churned. The nuns blamed my fairer constitution -- all the other children were of Augustine stock, already warm-blooded and bronze upon being shot from the womb.

            Every aspect of my appearance was alien from my Augustian counterparts. I was lean and pale with dark hair. My greatest flaw, however, proved to be my ears. See these ears, old man, how they point at the tips -- there’s no other man alive with ears like these. I’ve made certain of this.

The other children took notice of my defect, and from this one physical inadequacy, my whole person took on a flawed, vile shape in their minds. “Imp” was the name they gave me, and from this wicked creature and I became inseparable. I was different from them, but they could not grasp why beyond mere physical appearance. This was all the workings of the troubled minds of children, but I did not understand this. Instead, I was driven to flashes of violence, raising my fists against any who addressed me by that word -- Imp!

Three times I laid a fellow orphan out, earning a flogging from the nuns each time, which only served to heighten my sensibilities for violence. Already my soul was bruised and bloody, drunk with a hatred that would haunt me all my days, even when the mockery ceased.

            In the mornings, we would spread ourselves out in the shade of the temple orchard, the air hazy and sweet, already warmed by Sol’s rays, and we would listen as the nuns taught us literature, the art of foraging for choice fruits, and our numbers. With poetry my spirit took up wings, and numbers intrigued me, though I was only able to attempt the most basic of algebra under the instruction of the nuns. As for those taught skills which might be called practical -- I hated these without stipulation.

When the temple’s orphans came of age, they were sent out into Augustine’s lush glades to make their beds from moss and clover, and to forage their meal from whatever sprouted from the soil. When they weren’t filling their bellies, the new citizens of Augustine would search out a mate for that evening, with whom they might copulate without shame beneath the starry sky. So their lot would be for all theirs days. If they’d luck, they might make it to their sixtieth birthday, but most met their deaths in the wilderness long before then. This way of living meal-to-meal with nothing more to look forward to than wine, feasting, and sex, appalled me.

When I was eight, a traveler -- an older Augustinian man -- passed through, taking refuge in the temple from a group of frenzied Augustine women who sought to hunt him for game. Under the cover of night, the other children and I huddled at the stranger’s feet, in awe of the colorful, cotton clothes he wore, and of the gold, ticking instrument in his pocket at which he habitually glanced, and we begged him to tell us where he got such treasures and to what parts of the world he’d journeyed.

            He told us he’d quit Augustine for a time and had traveled to the lands of the Northerners. Quit Augustine! Those words we’d never heard uttered, nor had we ever heard the Northerners’ name mentioned. We wanted to know more. He told us of the Northerners’ dwellings, made of glittering glass and steel. They all lived under one dome, cut off from the outside world. Each would return to his proper dwelling at the end of the day -- no sleeping in the forest for the Northern people. The traveler told us of storehouses where Northerners would pile provisions and all kinds of wealth, so they never had need for foraging. In these strange lands, he told us, the people had mother earth beneath their thumb -- they made her wield to their will, forced her to bear them food wheresoever they pleased, and laid their foundations deep inside her bosom. Around the bases of their buildings, the thick black blood of the earth would seep.

            I heard all these things and could not rest while they dwelt in my mind. Laid before me was an alien and curious world. An intangible sense of something beyond the immediate crept inside me. I wondered what these Northern peoples did, with their worry for food and bed put aside. Did they take mates and give in to the body’s pleasures like the Augustinians, or did they lift their sights to higher passions, to the paintings and poems that caused me to marvel?

            As a child, I took no sport in game, but kept company in the few books of poetry the nuns owned. Through these, I acquired an appetite for creating. When I found myself alone in the orchard, I’d search for twigs and stones and broad palm leaves, anything that could be used to construct miniature dwellings. These I would gloat over in quietude before felling my creations with one clumsy swing, for fear of being caught in the act, and then I would stand over the ruins of what I had just come to destroy, my child’s heart squeezed with mixed awe and delight by such violent acts.

            One creation only I did not destroy, and this was my garden, carefully placed in a deep and cool glen by the bank of a shallow and speedy stream.

            When our bodies first began to change and adulthood approached, the other children and I were required to gather our own mid-day meal. I hated being out in the sun, where the heat would scald my cheeks and bare shoulders. While I was certainly strong for one my age, the Augustinian method of procuring sustenance seemed wildly inefficient to me.

            Fed-up with this practice, I packed some seeds into a pouch (for we learned from our hymns that all green things spring from Sol’s seed) and slunk off while the other children were occupied with scrambling up fruit trees or chasing pheasants with their slingshots. When I found that spot by the stream, where the air was refreshed and clear, I dug up the soil with my bare hands until my fingernails were packed with blood and dirt. I had little knowledge of gardening; I merely did as an old hymn had spoken: “Sol turns up the earth, making it ready to bear the seed, as a woman bears; She tills the soil with a mother’s hands, and sprinkles Her dews upon fresh-planted seeds, raising Her crop in abundance, raising Her bounty for Augustine.” So I tilled the earth and gave my garden drink, and within a fortnight or two I had a rich crop, plump with berries and bulging tomatoes and all kinds of root vegetables.

            For several months, while all the others ran amuck in search of good things to lay hands upon, I would retreat to my hidden patch of paradise and eat my fill. Of all my memories of the orphanage, this one is dearest: after lunch, I’d sit with a stick in my hand and draw images of birds and flowers in the thick bed of silt that shored up the stream on either side. I’d write poems sometimes, too, with a hunk of charcoal I’d found near the altar after morning sacrifices had been offered up. Stolen papyrus would be my paper.

            One day, as I approached my sanctuary, I smelt a foul, earthy smoke in the air. Immediately I knew something ill had befallen.

            There was my garden, now a bed of glowing embers. Black smoke, gorged with the sacrifice of the work of my hands, waft across the swift stream, which seemed to have grown still. It might well have been a body that lay torched before me, such was my cry of horror -- what work, what nothing!

I could scarcely wonder what ruthless sort of fiend would burn the fruit of my labor, when from the jungle emerged Sister Eleanor, one of the younger nuns. The sleeves of her tunic were still rolled up to her elbows from her wicked work.

            “Fae,” she addressed me, motioning to the remains of my garden, “what is this?”

            Unlike the children, the nuns did not call me “Imp” -- quite the opposite. They revered me as a Fae -- one of the blessed -- for my ears, which they regarded as a sign of Sol’s blessing.

            “What have you done?!” I cried. “That wasn’t yours! You didn’t have the right -- !”

            “ -- Silence, or I’ll have thee handed to Sister Austerus!” She knelt on one knee and cupped my face in her hands, talking down to me despite being only a few years my senior. “I’m on thy side, my little Fae. Austerus shan’t hear a word from my lips. I’ve done thee a great favour.”

            “Why?”

            “Thou planted and raised a garden, trusting thine own hands to feed thee instead of relying on our Mother Sol. It’s no small sin, Fae, to place thyself above divine providence -- how dare we hoard up the fruits of the earth, as if to forget from whom we receive all good things! The law calls for punishment upon those who know not their Mother.”

            Her plump brown fingers -- I remember this so well, even years later -- ever so lightly stroked my cheeks. “No one shall know. It’s all gone. This shall be our secret, just between the two of us. There’s nothing wrong with keeping secrets between children of Sol.”

It wouldn’t have been so unnerving, were it not for the unholy twinkle in her eyes, and the way she gazed upon me with a fondness that was beyond mere sweetness. Had I obeyed my impulses, I might have shoved Sister Eleanor aside and fled into the heat of the jungle, far from those telling fingers.

            But I did nothing of the kind, and looking back it appalls me. I might have continued to dwell in Augustine, living out the rest of my life in ease. In my childish immaturity, however, it was in my nature to bury my anger between muttered words and secret glares until I was at the point of bursting. There’s no point in dwelling on the folly of my childhood, though. My actions are like the dead. I may mourn them, but it will not serve to reverse what has already come to pass.