by Justin Kauer
Chapter Fifteen - Misery’s Sorrow
“Alban!” was the next thing that Alban heard. It was Joan’s voice. “What am I ever going to do with you? Bleeding all over the place all of the time, and then passing out! You are going to earn yourself a reputation that way!”
Though Alban was awake, he could not quite tell if Joan was joking or if she was really angry with him (the last bit made him think that it was the former), but he kept his eyes shut, just to be safe. He did not want to get into any trouble that he could avoid. “Besides,” he thought to himself, “it had made her change her mind in the past. Maybe it would work again.”
Suddenly, Alban felt a strange sensation, and he opened his eyes, only to look down and see Joan working on the wound on his back. He noticed a bandage on her left hand, but his mind was caught up to other things at the moment. He felt free . . . pain-free . . . carefree . . . just free. Suddenly he saw a bright white light, and he was taken from Joan, which troubled him, but he knew it was something that must happen.
He found himself face to face with a man who was strangely familiar to him, but he could not quite guess as to why. The man called him by name and he recognized him. That’s as far as I can tell you about that experience, as that is all that I have been allowed to let you know.
I can tell you how Joan continued working on his wound. She undid the old bandage, which she studied to be able to repeat the work of art that Garrve had so proficiently created earlier. She washed the wound and stitched up the part of the gash that had come open. It was not until she had painstakingly dressed the wound completely that she noticed that Alban was not breathing. She shook him in horror.
“Alban! Alban! You cannot do this to me!” she screamed, but Alban could not hear her. He had gone into the next realm.
“NO!! NOOOO!!!!”Joan cried in desperate horror. “Why, Lord, WHY? Please, just give him back to me, and I shall serve thee all the days of my life! Ask me what thou wilt, and I will do it, just send him back to me! Please, please . . .”
Frantically, she opened the door. The whole landscape seemed to be changed. It had been hard to find the way from Decebal’s wagon to Ryan’s where Alban had been sleeping. She shouted for someone to help her. Only Garrve answered her.
“My dear lady, how may I help you?”
“It is Alban! He is . . . I think he is dead! Come and help him, please!”
“Well, if he is dead, there is no helping him now.” Garrve began, and then saw the look in Joan’s eyes. “My lady, I have started a fire would you like to have a bit of the leftover stew that I found?”
“Come and help him NOW!” roared Joan, such that the hair stood up on the back of Garrve’s neck.
“Yes, my lady! Let me see him. That is a good idea.” Garrve returned sheepishly.
He went into the cabin of the carriage. Joan followed closely behind him. They both looked him over for signs of life. Garrve put the shiny blade of a knife up to his nose to see if moisture would form on it from any imperceptible breath that might linger. No moisture formed. He felt for a pulse but found none.
“I am most sorry, my lady. I am afraid that you are right. He is . . .”
“Do not even say it! He will be alright, you will see.” she sobbed bitterly.
“My lady, we have lost a lot of men today. I can only imagine how we got here. It was probably he that helped us get clear of where we were and made these . . . tents out of tarps. I think . . . that he may have given his life in saving us, my lady. We need to be about, looking for other survivors, helping them out. We can just go eat, and when you have your strength up, we can get to the task at hand. Some of these men were buried in the storm. That saves us some work and time.”
They made their way to the fire that Garrve had made and sat down as they waited for the stew to heat. Joan felt numb. She sat there with a gaze that would have pulled the light from the very air, had she been able to receive it. She could not be comforted by all of Garrve’s best attempts, which were pitiful at best. She did feel, at length some alarm that she did not feel anything. She wondered what was wrong with her. She just could not wrap her mind around the fact that . . . well, she would not let that cold stone grow in her heart for the moment. She sat there waiting for tears that did not come. At length, part of her felt immense guilt that she was shedding no tears, part felt that she had been stupid to have ever loved a slave. They never had any control of their lives and . . . to an extent no one does. Thinking those thoughts, she sat quietly and waited for the sorrow and pain from the loss of Alban to hit her.
“My lady?” asked Garrve, interrupting her daze.
“Yes, sir?”
“How do you know me?” he asked.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Well, I cannot remember if we know each other. Did I know that man that was in the wagon?”
“Ah! It is the misery’s sorrow! It has taken your memory.” explained Joan.
“My lady?”
“There are rare and toxic flowers that grow in this desert that are called misery’s sorrow. Decebal had some great interest in them. I think that it was the Darvanians that sent him after them. He was going to take a shipment of them to the Darvanians so he had some in the supply wagon where Alban had been riding . . .”
“The man . . . in the carriage now?”
The tears finally came to Joan’s eyes. She wept until there was a good, tight lump in her throat before she finally gained any semblance of composure again.
“Was he your husband?” asked Garrve.
“No. He was not. There was no way that I can see that he could have been. I wanted to run to some far away realm where no one knew us, but somehow he found out that I am of royal blood, a fact that cannot be hidden now. How he got wind of that, I will never know. No one but Decebal knew in the entire caravan. In fact, no one else in all of the slaver company knew. The man loses all memory of who he is and from where he came, and he spills the secret that I am of royal blood . . . That is a fine mess of stew for you!”
“No, my lady, it is not at all. But it is edible and will be hot in a moment.” Garrve explained.
“Dear Sir, I was referring to the mess . . . Oh! Never mind!”
After a minute or two of silence, Garrve got up the courage to ask, “My lady, please, do not be angry with me, but may I know who I am?”
“Maybe someday. I cannot tell, for I do not know. I do suspect that you are not from Effulgia.”
“What makes you to say that?”
“Well, have you noticed your accent and how it differs from mine?”
“Yes. Why is that?”
“Well, as I was saying, we are speaking Effulgian, and it is not your native tongue. It is not mine, either, I guess.” Joan explained.
“Oh, right. Well . . . how did I get here in the middle of the desert? Do you know that much?”
“Well, I did hear Decebal (he is the owner of the slaver caravan) say that he was shocked to see that a slave (Alban . . . the man in the wagon)” Joan began, as she choked back tears. “Well, anyway, Decebal said that a mere slave could not have taken five of the Elite Sentinel from Cavenland. He said that he must have been an assassin of sorts before he fell into slavery. Nordholst, the man with whom he was speaking, asked him if Alban was a political prisoner. Decebal just told him to quit whining and get back to work. It was peculiar, I must say. He knows . . . or knew something. I guess that depends upon whether or not he survived last night. Are we all that are left?”
“Oh, no, my lady! We are merely the ones that have awakened. Some sleep deeply, though . . . others are gone, I fear.”
“That is the problem with misery’s sorrow. It has to be slept off, as there is no known remedy. The victims either wake up, or they do not. There is no other way. Rarely do any of them come away with their memories if they even live. The only ones that I know of that have retained their mem
ories were women.” Joan illuminated.
“What could the Darvanians want with such an evil . . . weed?”
“Alban . . . spoke of some of the southern clans that used the venom as a tranquilizer for some of the greater animals. They would use it to make them sleep and then facilitate capture of the beasts for domestication purposes. He could not remember how he knew that, of course. I expect that now you can understand that quite fully.”
“You speak of him in qualities of love . . . but there is a deep respect for the man, as well. You make him seem to be . . . or have been a great man.”
Joan knew that she was going to cry as she replied, but she took a deep breath and, among sobs and sighs, said, “Yes, I must say that he was the kind of man that made all around him feel at ease. There was no self-interest in his helping of others, and it was not even that he felt a sense of duty. He did things for others because he wanted them to feel special. The way he spoke to people made them better for having listened. When great problems arose, he seemed to know the solution right as the events began to unfold.”
“That is probably why we are alive right now!” offered Garrve. I looked at some of the tarps that he put over the wagons. It would have seemed overkill to stake them down with so many stakes, but were it not for the fact that he did so, many of the men now sleeping would have taken their last breath last night. He gave them a fighting chance, he did.”
“Then, you do see what I mean. Here’s a man acquainted with the dangers of misery’s sorrow, yet he does all of that . . . the whole while bleeding out his last few drops of blood. I overheard that he had become your leader by besting the old one in battle. He knew these men for a couple of days, and still he sticks his neck out . . .”
“My lady . . . what are you called?”
“They call me Joan.”
“Well, Lady Joan, I recall that I also speak a language that is called the Living Words. It is an ancient language that is hardly spoken on this continent. It is a tongue of great beauty and profound imagery. He shall have a fine verse recited over him at his funeral, I promise you. A man of such greatness deserves that, at the very least! Then we can get out of this infernal desert. And on our way to . . . Cavenland, you said?”
“I don’t know if I can go on,” Joan stated softly.
“What a cold, miserable thing to say about yourself! And you employ such frigid verbiage in the heat of this great green desert! God should and shall decide when it is your time to go. To do otherwise is to rob Him of His dominion! A lady of your caliber ought to know that much!”
“Indeed, I ought. In fact, I do. I just mean that it will be an awful burden to bear . . . to go on living while my heart lies dying inside me.”
“Then you must quit telling lies to your heart!”
“That is not funny! You know what I meant! I feel as though it is dying inside of me.”
“I do know what you meant; it is you who does not understand me. You must quit telling yourself that your heart is dying. Whether or not you honestly think that it is, you must give it to God. He will heal your heart and make this experience to your growth and profit. He is the Father of your spirit, and He will help you always!”
“What is it with you men? You lose your memory and all of the sudden, you start preaching to everyone and telling the truth all the time! And you are a thief! I think that I might just go back and grab a few of those plants to take with me. It would sure be helpful at times, I can tell you that.”
“Would you like that I should tell you lies, my lady? It is not in me to do so, at any rate. I see no reason to lie, either, as I should definitely like that you be perfectly honest with me; I am in no position to stain our relationship with lies. Do you not think that it is so?”
“It is,” said Joan. “I was merely trying to break the tension a bit.”
“I have caused you tension? I do apologize.” gasped Garrve.
“No. There is no need. I was saying that it seems that everyone that has their memories wiped by the misery’s sorrow has been completely honest with me. I should like you to know that I had not even thought to have implied that it was only a symptom of such a disorder; it could well be that you were a perfectly honest thief before you had such a memorable problem.”
“It could be that he remembers his past and is just trying to get information out of you.” said a voice from the direction of Ryan’s carriage, which Alban had set up away from the supply wagons and other transports.
Joan and Garrve both whipped about to look in the direction of the voice, and then froze with fear! It was more than the chilling shock of having been startled. There was a different feeling in the air about them that, had they even been able to converse about it at length, they would not have been able to explain. They looked at each other as if to glean from the other’s expression any shred of an idea as to what the current situation should hold for them. The sun had just peeked over the large dune to their east and was right in their eyes as they looked on. They were able to see a hand that emerged from within the cabin and was placed on the half-open door by the latch area. Then the door was swung open by the same hand. A figure emerged that looked strikingly similar to Alban’s.
Joan’s heart leaped within her, but she was still too shocked to move. As the figure moved closer to them, Joan’s heart could hold back no more. She ran to meet the love of her life! She felt that her legs could not carry her fast enough as she sprinted towards him, tripping twice on her long dress.
“Alban! Alban!” she cried, but he did not answer.
Suddenly, the silhouette began to take shape and appeared to Joan to be that of a stranger, as this man carried himself a bit differently. She stopped in her tracks and thought of fleeing.
“Lady Joan!” cried Garrve. “Just stay where you are, my lady; I will come to you!”
“You have no need to fear me, dear lady! I mean you no harm.” said the figure with a familiar smile in its voice.
“Alban?” Joan asked in strained tenors near to heartbreak.
The figure stopped where it stood and seemed to be deep in thought. When Garrve reached Joan, the figure reached out his hands to show that it bore no weapons.
“I am unarmed.” he reiterated. “I wish to only help the one . . . I only wish to help you.”
The figure stepped out from in front of the sun. Joan, still expecting that it would be Alban, was bitterly disappointed to see another man there. Well, she thought to herself that it was Alban, and it was not at the same time. She had to be sure. She ran past the man to the carriage and called for Alban. When there was no answer, she climbed in to find him, or at least his body. She emerged at length and slowly walked back to the two men who stood waiting without a word.
“What has happened here? Where is Alban’s body?” Joan asked in solemn, accusatory tones.
“He has gone from this world.” was the man’s reply. “I am sorry. It appears that you felt deeply for him. I know that this cannot be easy for you.”
Something familiar in the mannerisms of the man confused Joan even more.
“Why are you wearing those clothes? What . . . what . . . happened, Alban?”
“My dear Princess Joan, I tell you again that that man has gone from this world! I am most sorry, but that man died in that carriage. As for the clothes, Ryan had them in his carriage.”
“Then how do you know my name?” Joan smiled.
“I overheard you talking with Garrve!” he returned.
“Then how do you know that his name is Garrve?” she asked teasingly.
“Joan, you are a betrothed woman. I am a betrothed man, and my name is not Alban. That man truly died this morning in that carriage; he is no more. I will see that you get home to your people, and I will go to mine as soon as I am able.
“Garrve!” said the man.
Garrve just looked at him as though he were talking about someone else.
“
My dear sir, your name is Garrve. We are old friends, though I know that neither do you remember me nor do you recall our great friendship. That cannot be helped for now. I must ask a solemn promise from you!”
“Lead on, good sir!” said Garrve.
“No. That is precisely what I am asking you to do. I am not able to be your king any longer, at least until I finish with a few . . .”
“Wait! You said that you were their king?” Joan asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “King Badgerden’s (the late king of Cavenland) . . . anyway, his life was coming to a close, and as he had no heir . . . that could carry on after him, he had a tournament in which the victor would face him to the death. I rather disliked the idea, but I knew that if I did not enter that the crown could easily be won by lords that had ties with Darvania, or even some of the barbarian horde that had recently moved into the kingdom. I could not let all that he and my father had fought for simply die with Badgerden, so I won the tournament and gained the right to fight the King. The old man put up a great fight for a while, to tell you the truth, and I did not even have to act (much). After a while, I think that his heart gave out, for he keeled over and died right there. I was King of Cavenland. These men are not the Thieves of the Verdis GranSecas; they are of Cavenland!
“But, as I was saying,” he continued, “I am not able to be your king any longer, at least until I finish with a few . . . tasks that lie ahead of me. The crown that I once wore must be bestowed upon a man of sound mind and excellent character. I find you to be so.”
“No! I should not know where to start!” Garrve protested.
“You will, when your memory returns.” then to Joan, he added, “You must remember all of my instructions, for he will forget them. Tell him that which he has agreed to do and that he agreed to do it, and he will hold himself to its honor.”
Joan nodded tearfully.
“Then you know what to do?”
“Uhhmmm . . .” she began. “No.” came after.
“Well, listen for a while, and it shall all be made clear to you. Or should you like that I write it for you?” he joked.
“No, I will be able to get it all!” Joan blasted back, playfully.
“Please believe me that I should like things to be different! I feel the same dying in my heart, but there are men who are literally being slaughtered in a horrible war caused by your absence — though it was not of your choice! Families are losing their fathers and husbands, young loves losing their men and there are brothers that return no more to their siblings. Such is war.”
“All is fair in love and war!” Joan lied.
“Joan.” the man softly specified. “I know that you do not believe that. My father often said that kings die over and over again for their country. I never understood that until today. We must take the good advice of our amnesic friend and give our hearts to God. I can think of no other way to stop this burning death of my heart.”
“Just let go of your past, and come with me, where we shall live as free as the very air that we breathe!” pleaded Joan.
“Neither, do I live in the past, nor shall I have that you should breathe the breath that is borrowed from the dead and dying. To breathe such air would indeed mean the death of your heart; I’ll have no part in it! You know of the war brewing between our nations. That is nothing compared with that which is forming between each of the believing nations and Darvania!” he answered, as tears the size of junesberries rolled down Joan’s face. “Princess, you will be alright.” he continued. “I have dreamed that dream in which I saw you happily married to your rightful king! I remember feeling great peace even within my heart as I watched you kneel with him at the altar. There is no need to fear.”
“I know. Whenever you speak to me about it, I can feel a deep, solemn . . . peaceful happiness start to swell within my heart. Still . . .”
“That is how God speaks to us, you know. He gives us these feelings in our hearts to know when a thing is just or right or true.”
“There you go again, healing my heart with your kind words!” laughed Joan amid sobs. “If ever you should need anything from me, it shall be done!”
“I know, Princess! You will be a great, benevolent queen!” smiled the man. “Well, I must be gone; I fear that I have overstayed as it is. Anyway, this man is to be told that he is temporarily king over all of the land of Cavenland, should he lose his memory again. It may happen, as you must pass briefly through the field of misery’s sorrow in order to restore their memory. It is my belief that once through the field, that the men should regain their memories, though it could take a second exposure (or, actually, it would be the third) to regain their recollection. I now know that OoftHall merely knocked me unconscious from behind. It was later that I was exposed to the flowers and lost my memory . . . promise me that you will have him take you to your homeland!” he begged.
“Yes. I will. You have my word.”
“A mere yes would have done, as I trust you to be earnest with me; see that you do so with yourself, Princess. I thank you for everything that you have done for me. I should most likely be dead, were it not for you.”
“And I should have been dead inside, were it not for you! I thank you for all that cannot be repaid you. I remain ever in your debt.”
“No, it is I that shall ever be indebted to you!” he said with a look that seemed repentant of his decision to leave. Then he added, “I promise that I shall visit you in your kingdom when I am established where I go.”
With that, he turned and found a horse already saddled and recognized it to be his from before OoftHall’s first treacherous dealing. He approached the horse, and it seemed that he was happy to see the man. The horse was fed some hay and watered from a bucket. Then, the man un-hobbled his steed, put foot to stirrup, and swung up onto the animal’s back. He trotted a couple dozen paces back to Joan and Garrve.
“I just saw Decebal. He seems to have died in the night, from the look of him as I passed him. It may have been a combination of the Goade liquor along with the flowers. I guess that it is the same effect, in any case. I go to Ryan at the slavers’ camp ahead to inform them of his passing. In the event that Ryan should come back, and I think that he might, please do not tease him, my lady. He loves you . . . in his own way.”
“What?”
“Please! You know what I mean! You must have noticed. Let him down softly, if you are able; such obsession can drive a man mad. Perhaps if you explain to him that you are of royal blood, and of your duty to be homeward bound, he should possibly understand. He still has a role to play in all of this.”
“But, he always went around ordering me to do this and that, he was always getting in my way and acting like it was my fault, and he tried to make me feel like I could never do anything for myself . . .”
“So as to convince you that you needed him?”
“Oh! Wow! How did I not see it?”
“No one is blaming you here, but you cannot lead him on any longer. He must be set free, no matter how it hurt him.”
“Yes, I see that. Do you really think that he will come back for me?”
“Yes. I am going to send him back with the men that be left of the caravan after last night’s storm. I know that he still thinks of me to be somewhat of a recently freed slave, but he seems to see reason when it is shown him plainly. By the way, he may try to assert himself as the leader of this excursion. You have my permission to give him one of your unequaled tongue lashings — on that matter alone — as I will have explained things in painstaking detail to him!”
Joan laughed a great deal more than needed, possibly to hide her pain.
“Goodbye, Princess. Do take most excellent care of yourself!” the love of her life bid her.
“I will. You do the same,” she replied.
With that, he nodded, turned the horse, and rode away. A beam of sunlight shone off the shield that he had strapped to his back,
making Joan to close her eyes and turn her head at its brightness. When she looked back to see him, he had dropped over the horizon of a nearby dune.
Joan’s countenance darkened quite visibly, but she did not care one bit. She had kept up appearances for Alban . . . or whatever his name was. Realizing that she had no idea about what his real name might be made him seem even more gone — if that makes sense. She shuddered quite notably at the thought. All thoughts of covering her pain vanished with . . . what-is-his-name.
“My lady, let us wake everyone up that we may . . . or those able to be awoken, anyway. We must be quit of this infernal desert and get you back home!” Garrve distracted most horribly because his face showed a deep sympathy for Joan, which only made her miss her love more.
Suddenly Joan had a feeling wash over her that gave her to know that she would see him again and have more dealings with him, even if it were merely as friends. They would need each other’s friendship if they were to survive the upcoming hostilities.
