by Peter David
I never actually knew my mother’s name.
That’s not to say she wasn’t there. It’s just that she never told me. Oh, she told me an assortment of monikers that she collected in the way that the underside of a bed collects dust. She would choose a different name from month to month, sometimes from week to week, depending upon her mood. I’m not entirely certain why she adopted this odd practice. Perhaps she was anxious to distance herself from whoever or whatever she once was. Perhaps she sought out a fanciful existence and thought that varied names would bring her a bit closer to that aspiration. Perhaps she was just crazy.
I will, for convenience’s sake and the sanity of the reader, refer to her by the name she bore at the time that she also bore me, and that name was Madelyne.
Madelyne was a rather ordinary-looking woman. Once she was a pretty enough thing, but that had been many years before I made her acquaintance. She did not speak all that much of her early life. But based on things that she occasionally let slip, plus rather coarse comments that were made by others, I suspect that she got herself pregnant at a young age, possibly by some knight errant. Knights fascinated Madelyne, even at a tender age. She was prone to worshipping them, and indulged in that tendency by worshipping them while prone. An assignation with a knight was a dream come true for her. For him, I would assume, it was merely a lark, a tumble in the high grass with a willing young thing from the town. He went on his way, and about a month later, she went on her knees one morning and vomited rather convulsively, seized in the unloving arms of morning sickness.
She could have tried to abort the child, but no one valued life more devotedly, or more foolishly, than Madelyne. I say foolish because people who attribute any sort of miracle to life can only be considered fools. We humans pat ourselves on the back, strutting and preening when we manage to pop out a single child, and I’ve seen dragons lay nests of a half dozen eggs or more. Even the most common creature can generate the biological process that is reproduction. Life, miraculous? Nonsense. Putting infants on this planet, there’s nothing miraculous about that. What’s miraculous is when we let them live to grow out of infancy.
Upon informing her loving and understanding parents of her pregnancy, she was summarily shown the door by her father and informed that her presence would no longer be required, because they resided in a decent house, by God. A house of respect, a house of peace, where such things simply didn’t happen.
In case you’re thinking that my mother was sent out into the snow with poor, helpless little Apropos couched within her womb, you can set that aside right now. Would that my own conception had been that … tidy.
With nowhere to go and none to take care of her, Madelyne resolved to care for herself. But a mere two weeks later, as she lay within the makeshift shelter she had created deep in the Elderwoods, Madelyne curled up in pain, her guts twisting and on fire. Thunder cracked overhead, adding a sense of morbid drama to the entire business. Melodrama aside, the outcome was that there was a puddle of bloody mess pooled around her by the following morning. Poor Madelyne. If she had only managed to keep her mouth shut, nature would have disposed of her indiscretion in its own good time.
But despite the loss of her child, she was still out of luck. Her father had made abundantly clear to her that she was no longer welcome in his home, having violated the strict rules of propriety set down. Pregnant she might no longer have been, but strumpet and tramp she quite permanently was. Since there was no going back, Madelyne opted to go forward.
She wandered, sticking primarily to the back roads and less-traveled areas, wanting to avoid the more common paths frequented by highwaymen. It was a brutal and grueling time for her, but when she recounted it for me, she tried to turn it into a grand adventure. She spoke to me of creatures that she had encountered … unicorns, dragons, and the occasional werecreature. If she was to be believed, the Elderwoods were simply crawling with such wondrous beasts.
Her most fanciful tale was her description of stumbling upon the birth of a phoenix. Such things happen with great rarity, particularly considering that there is only one phoenix at a time, reborn from the ashes of its predecessor.
Madelyne claimed that it was a particularly cold and bitter night when she witnessed “the event,” as she was wont to call it. She was huddled within a makeshift shelter of well-placed branches, shivering against the elements because she had no money to stay at an inn, and she had been unable to secure any sort of gainful employment, times being what they were (as they so often are). She felt her toes and fingers going numb as she lay curled up, and flexed them as much as she could to try and restore circulation to them.
And then she felt something very curious. It was warm air, wafting in her direction. On such a cold night, it was hard for her to guess from whence such warmth might be originating. But if there was a heat source anywhere to be had, then she was quite determined that it should serve her as well as anyone else. The possibility did not escape her that it might be a fire lit by the exact type of criminal, robber, or highway bandit that caused her such concern, but at that moment she was not especially inclined to be concerned about anything other than avoiding freezing to death.
She made her way through the Elderwoods, following the heat source, blowing into her palms to try and get some bit of warmth into her hands, since her threadbare gloves were affording her almost no protection at all. There was a clearing just ahead of her, and what she saw astounded her.
A massive, birdlike creature was enveloped in flames.
She had never seen anything like it, although at first she fancied she was witnessing the pitiless slaying of a roc or some other creature. She looked around to try and spot whatever vicious hunters might have brought the poor animal to such straits. But slowly she came to realize that she was, in fact, the only human being in the area. She also realized that the creature was being immolated, not from without, but from within. The creature itself generated the flames consuming it, from deep within its own fiery heart. Nor was the creature crying out in any way, indicating that there was no pain involved. Indeed, it appeared to accept its fate with quiet, dignified resignation.
Within moments, the creature had been reduced to a huge pile of ashes. Even at that point, she didn’t fully comprehend what it was that she was seeing. The fact was, she was concerned only about her own chill, and the growling of her belly reminded her that she had not eaten in some time. She took a step toward the pile of ashes in a vague sort of hope that there might be bits or parts of the bird—freshly cooked, of course—upon which she could dine.
Before she got anywhere near the ashes, however, they began to stir. It was a subtle movement, but enough to fully capture her attention and startle her out of her wits. She bolted back to relatively safe cover behind the trees and watched with goggle-eyed amazement as the ashes suddenly scattered to the wind, thus revealing a bird that was clearly in the image of the one which had just died. At first she thought that somehow the creature had survived, but quickly she realized that it was impossible. This new animal was utterly unscarred by any flame. Not a feather was so much as lightly scorched.
That was when she realized, finally, what she was seeing.
The phoenix stretched its wings to their full span, which my mother claimed was as wide as ten men. Its head pitched back and it let rip to the sky a screech so earsplitting, Madelyne maintained that forever after she had a slight ringing in her ears. Then the phoenix flapped its mighty wings, beating the ashes into a great cloud of soot, before leaping skyward with a final resounding caw and disappearing into the night sky.
My mother took this as a sign. An omen if you will. For a person does not witness one of the rarest occurrences in all of nature and un-nature and not be changed by such a moment. There are those who believe, for instance, that to view a shooting star is to be forewarned of some coming great birth or death. How much greater significance, then, was it to be spectator at an event of such rarity that it was mythic? By seeing the death and
rebirth of the phoenix, by being guided there via destiny’s mischievous hand, my mother became convinced that she was meant for a great destiny as well. Since death and birth were involved, she was quite certain that it had something to do with one, or both, of those processes.
I can’t blame her, I suppose. She was alone, and scared, and really rather young. It was a foolish attitude for her to have, but it helped get her through the night.
The next morning, reinvigorated and convinced that she would have a great destiny if only she was willing to go out and find it, Madelyne set out to make something of herself. She took the main roads, no longer fearing highwaymen. Her reasoning was that whatever greatness she was intended for, it was certainly not to be accosted by robbers and then killed when she was unable to provide them with any money. Part of me shudders at the thought of such misplaced confidence. On the other hand, she traveled in that manner for a week without being molested or harassed in any way by anyone, so perhaps Madelyne did indeed know what she was about.
After a lengthy journey, she entered the outlying borders of the state of Isteria. King Rufus DeVane, who found himself beset by several neighboring chieftains who were would-be monarchs, governed Isteria at that time. DeVane was generally considered to be a weak ruler at best, although he tried as hard as he could to rule the land with an iron hand. Of those who challenged his rule, his major competitor was one Runcible the Crafty (a name that he himself had fostered and seemed rather pleased to maintain). Runcible was known as a man of few words, preferring to let his actions talk for him. When he did speak, it was of an idealized realm in which his followers—his knights, as he would make them—would fight on behalf of justice and tolerance, introducing a new golden age to the land.
All this talk was well and good, and of little interest to the peasants who watched the warfare go on year after year, and cared not a whit for politics. The odds were that whatever happened in the great castles of the land, and whoever it was who might be in charge, the average citizen would continue his life unchanged once all the shouting was done.
Finally, in her wanderings, Madelyne came upon a place of business known as Stroker’s Inn, which was—unsurprisingly—owned and operated by a gentleman named Stroker.
Perhaps “gentleman” is not exactly the right word. “Brute” might be more on target, as would “thug,” “bastard,” and “bloody bastard.” Stroker was massively built, with thighs the size of ham hocks and a mind as sharp as … well … ham hocks. Deucedly two-faced, Stroker was generally attentive and caring to his customers, and a total cretin when it came to his staff. However, much to Madelyne’s “luck” (if such a word can be applied to the circumstance), Stroker was in need of help since another serving wench of his had been inconsiderate enough to die of food poisoning … generated, naturally, by Stroker’s kitchen, although he denied it utterly.
So when Madelyne came to him, looking for a place to stay and for gainful employment, Stroker was happy to accommodate her. She knew from his loutish jaw, his unshaven face, his squinting left eye, his multiple chins, and the raspy cough which he had had for years (which I could only hope signaled the presence of some lethal illness)—she knew from all this that he was going to be a problem.
Which, of course, he was.
Before you get the wrong idea, no: Stroker didn’t endeavor to have his way with her. You’d have thought he was exactly the type who would engage in such practices, but the opposite was true. He had no desire for or interest in assailing the questionable virtue of any of the women in his employ. He liked to claim that he was not interested in taking any risks of either contracting diseases or putting more brats into the world. A few suggested under their breaths, and far from his hearing, that perhaps he preferred his meat from the other side of the cow. In retrospect, knowing what I know of him and recalling his overall brutality and nastiness, my suspicion is that he simply wasn’t capable. Couldn’t quite get his sword out of the sheath, as they say. It would certainly explain his overall frustration with women in general. To have something so near and yet so far, the distance measured by … inches …
I think I’ve made my point.
But Stroker was hard on my mother in other ways. Harder than he was on the other girls, because they simply worked there, but had somewhere else to go when their workday was done. Husbands or parents, or even a simple hovel of their own. But not Madelyne, not my mother. She had none to care for her and nowhere to go. So Stroker gave her a small room that no one ever used because it was so far from the hearth that it was beyond freezing much of the time, even in the summer. My mother, though, was a veteran of nights in the forest, and so such extremes of temperature didn’t daunt her. At least she could curl up upon a mattress, thin and pathetic as it might be, and she didn’t have to worry about rain or snow upon her head. It was still a consideration since the roof leaked, but she was able to position herself so that none of it fell upon her.
Stroker endeavored to “push” my mother in other directions as well during her stay there. Particularly he urged her to provide …“company” … for the men who came by, for my mother was a comely wench and men asked after her. But she declined, politely but firmly. Stroker was the sort of brute who was perfectly capable of forcing her to bend to his will, but first and foremost he was concerned about his customers, and he was worried that an unwilling woman could claw up a patron’s face, or worse, slip a knife between his ribs. So he did nothing to press the matter. She thought he’d forgotten about it. Actually, he was simply biding his time.
So Madelyne remained there, having found her niche, and becoming something of a fixture at the bar and inn. One day was pretty much like the next.
That is not to say that nothing changed in Isteria. King DeVane, as many suspected would happen, was forced out. Runcible came into power and, displaying mercy, exiled the fallen DeVane. Runcible’s mercy was greeted with anger from DeVane, who—as he passed into banishment—swore a terrible oath that he would avenge himself upon Runcible one day. From what I heard, he swore even greater oaths a week later when someone, or perhaps a band of someones, went to his place of exile, and threw him bodily into a mile-deep canyon. Thus died DeVane, who might be alive today and perhaps even back in power somehow, if he’d only kept his big mouth shut at what could only be considered an inopportune time.
King Runcible sent royal proclamations far and wide, speaking of the new era that was to exist under his reign. The proclamations meant little to much of the populace, which was understandable considering most of them couldn’t read the damned things. Those who could shrugged a bit and said that they would have to see it to believe it.
One has to credit Runcible’s knights. They made a superb show of it. Jousts and open functions were held to which all inhabitants of the realm were invited, and they marveled at the knights’ strength and power. But such warfare was for display only. Actual disputes had to be settled by ways other than trial by combat, which had been the method of choice. Instead, Runcible himself became a prime adjudicator, listening thoughtfully to disputes that were brought before him, saying little other than asking a few prodding questions, and then returning with a reasoned and fair decision. Runcible and his knights were quite well thought of in our little piece of the world.
And Madelyne was no less adoring of knights than she had ever been. She would speak of them constantly, in wide-eyed and impressed tones. Stroker kept saying that he found her incessant speculations tiresome, but she gave it no mind. Then, all unexpectedly, matters came to a head.
It was a dark and stormy night.
There had been a good deal of talk around the realm, far more than usual, about the activities of Runcible and his knights. There had been talk of a convocation of dragons which had been razing some of the eastern territories, although it had been unclear as to whether they were acting independently, or were in the employ of some individual—royalty or sorcerous, it was open to much dispute. But what everyone knew for certain was that Runcible’
s men had ridden out in force, and although some heavy casualties had been sustained, they had managed to beat back the threat.
Indeed, that evening at Stroker’s, the storminess of the night was being attributed by some to the wrath of the Dragon God. Various customers, huddled in against the weather’s ferocity, suggested that the hard rain falling was actually the Dragon God’s tears, and the lightning cracking through the sky was the flashing of his eyes. Others ventured a related theory, that the battle between good and evil had been raised from the physical to the spiritual plane, and what was being seen on earth was nothing less than a full-scale war between order and chaos. There was also one poor bastard who attributed lightning and thunder to superheated particles too small for the eye to detect. He was driven out into the storm for his blasphemy and was promptly struck and killed by lightning, which caused a good laugh amongst the customers at Stroker’s that evening.
Abruptly the door burst open, and in clanked about half a dozen knights in armor. It was, I am told, an impressive sight. They were huge, weathered men, but surprisingly seemed none the worse for wear. That was something of an accomplishment considering how foul the conditions were outside. There was a seventh man as well, although he was not armored but rather heavily cloaked … perhaps a druid, my mother would later speculate, or a retainer, or a priest or a squire, or even a magic user … a weaver, as they were called. Weavers didn’t happen to wander into the area of Stroker’s all that often. They tended to stick to the routes where the heavier thread lines were, and Stroker’s was off the main thread paths. That was by design rather than happenstance. Stroker didn’t particularly like weavers, and he’d carefully had the area sounded to make certain it was a weak junction for threads (or “ley lines,” as some others called them). Weavers tended to show up, eat your food, drink your mead, then tap into the threads and convince you that they had paid you for everything. This was not grief that Stroker needed.
