The Frightful Dance (The King of Three Bloods Book 2)

by Russ L. Howard

  The bulging headed small man retorted, “Who can find fault with the Word of the Martyrs? For, there is nothing new under the sun. We have the complete and final word of God in our scriptures. We do not acknowledge any other beliefs for they are all an abomination to our God.” Fromer’s face was beet purple and he was sweating profusely. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose like the honking of a goose, wiped his forehead with it, and then replaced his hat and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket before continuing his tirade.

  Ilkchild leaned into Sur Sceaf and whispered, “Paper Gods. Easy to control.” To which Sur Sceaf shot back a look to let him know this was not the time or place for such whispers.

  Sur Sceaf listened for a time without censuring. It was apparent Fromer had previously gone unchecked by most of the dycons and priests, for him to assert his opinion so vehemently. He used the Quailor scriptures as authority to control rather than to liberate. Ilkchild was correct. Sur Sceaf’s insides curdled under the spiritual tyranny that poured out of Fromer’s mouth with nary so much as a pause for breath.

  During this diatribe about how sinful all other peoples were Fromer often used the phrase, ‘I know beyond the shadow of a doubt’ which was then followed by declarations that had no tangible or provable substance in either the material or spiritual world. His contrived interpretations of holy writ were like a thumb smashing out the flame of a candle. As the little man carried on for some time in self-adulation, he introduced each new concept with,’I testify in the name of God,’ but to Sur Sceaf, it was a testimony with no root in reality.

  “And no man needs to tell me how dangerous the Pitters are. I was captured by them.” He took off his hat to once again cool himself off, but it revealed his matted stringy hair glued to his bald head and only served to make him less presentable than he already was. “We were being led to Eugene, bound and beaten, but my God would not suffer them to take me. No sir, by God, he sent a mad man to free me. Killed every damned hell-rat he did. A hairy wild man he was, went by the name of Wose.”

  “Wose is by no means a mad man, Brother Fromer, he is merely undergoing a cleansing. As I said before there is much we need to learn from each other.” Sur Sceaf’s attempt to squelch the monologue was in vain. A number of the priests and a couple of the dycons seemed disappointed as Fromer launched into yet another speech.

  “Learn much from each other! Why, that’s the trouble with you Herewardi, ye are ever learning, but never capable of grasping the precious truth we hold.” Fromer got a sly look in his eyes, “I must warn you, and I would be remiss of my duties if I didn’t. Your practice of having many wives is evil, down right evil in the sight of God. Your philandering is an abomination of the heathenry you come out of, as witnessed by that summer of thy flaunting thy nakedness before every maid in this community, introducing Brother Hartmut to strong drink, and turning Schmo Hollar into a heathen and apostate.”

  Elijah’s countenance told Sur Sceaf that he was offended at Fromer’s insolent attack on the Herewardi culture, but to Sur Sceaf’s disappointment, he refrained from comment. Though it pained him, he couldn’t help compare the two brothers. If Ludwig was still the chief high priest, he would never have allowed this sort of ranting and preaching to go on uncontested.

  Fromer pointed a bony finger at Sur Sceaf. “You would all do well to get rid of those concubines and whores this instant and repent that you might be righteous, as we are. Would that all peoples could come unto our light, and be blessed and favored as you see we are. One wife is more than enough for any man. One wife, one God, one sun, and one Holy Book, that’s what I say.”

  Ilkchild stiffened with anger.

  “Then there is that Jywd you sent to us. That Amschel. Doth he know he is every bit as much under damnation as you and your heathen folk are? Not to mention those lost Sharaka souls savagely living their wild lives like animals in the forest, foraging for wild foods and living in skins.”

  Mendaka placed a hand on Redelfis’ shoulder to quiet him.

  “I am sure you let the Rabbi know how your aversion to his way of believing offended you,” Sur Sceaf said coldly, standing to claim the floor. “Brother Fromer, I believe all here know exactly how you feel about the joining of the three tribes. Up until this point, Mendaka and I have not responded to your inflammatory words, because every man has the right to speak his mind.” He pinned the little man with a compelling look. “But I find myself needing to respond to your derogatory comments about Rabbi Amschel and my wives. I can say with absolute sureness that no better man than Rabbi Amshel can be found in the Quailor Community or any other. I can forgive your expressing those thoughts to me here, it’s obvious you are a confirmed monogamist, but should you express those comments to another member of any tribe under my stewardship, the consequences will be most grave. I have no stomach for intolerance in any direction. As I said before, respect our uniqueness and we will respect yours. Disrespect my culture, my wives, my friends, or me again, and I may see to it that you lose your tongue. You and anyone else expressing intolerance of another tribe shall not travel under the aegis and protection of the Herewardi fyrds, but will be left to fare on your own against the Pitters. I will not travel in such company nor do I twist the arm of anyone to seek our safety, but I will not extend my protection over any man who demonstrates the blatant bigotry you showed us this day. As my Quailor grandfather would say, ‘If you don’t have anything good to say then shut up’.”

  The meeting house erupted with both ‘Amens’ and ‘Here, here!’ on one side and shouted protests on the other. Most of the high priests expressed their approval, while only three out of the seven dycons seemed receptive to Sur Sceaf’s blunt words of warning.

  Gnawing his lip Fromer wiped his mottled purple face once again with his handkerchief. Raw hatred flashed from his eyes.

  Once Fromer composed himself, he said in an obsequious tone, “Oh, thou must have misunderstood me. I didn’t mean any harm. I chust wanted thy assurance we are not going to be overrun and lose our autonomy. I would never say these things to thy people or the people of any other tribe openly.”

  Those present knew he was doing the back stroke.

  Sur Sceaf reclaimed the floor. “My dear Quailor gentlemen, and I wish I could say ladies as well, but apparently they have been excluded from your form of government, the new word is tolerance. Tolerance must be the supreme law and is the first step of our becoming one against the Pitter Empire.” Sur Sceaf then made it a point to declare the virtues of tolerance and the absolute necessity of being respectful to the beliefs of other folks, and ended the meeting by telling them how the trek to Witan Jewell would likely go.

  On their way back to their camp after the meeting, the young bloods were angery. The interactions with Fromer’s rantings had them upset. Sur Sceaf knew all too well their desire for retaliation. When the four of them reached the large tulip tree where Elijah was to meet with them after further discussion with the Quailor priests and dycons, he drew a deep breath and said, “Perhaps you young bloods can calm yourselves while we wait for Brother Elijah.”

  Ilkchild twisted his head like a buck ready to attack. “Why did you restrain me from defending our people, Fa?” He struck his fist into the palm of his hand for emphasis. “Did we not swear in our Young Blood Oath that we should defend our people and their beliefs in all situations, and at all times, and in all places?”

  Sur Sceaf sighed. It would be difficult to explain diplomacy to an untried youth. “You quote the oath correctly, my son, but as you gain experience, you will learn that one must rather be true to the spirit of the oath and not just the letter. Had we defended too passionately, we would have lost the footing we have already gained with the Quailor. I could have come out of that meeting with bloody knuckles and ripped the algae for hair out of that bald little toad, Fromer, but where would that have left us? The object is to cement allies and draw on one another’s strengths, not make new enemies.”

  “It is even so,
” Mendaka said. “Water overcomes obstacles better than ice.”

  “But he was beating us over the head with his Holy Book,” Ilkchild protested. He drew another fist and growled. “It made me furious.”

  Sur Sceaf gave an understanding nod. “That fool does not know that all his Holy Books were written by men with many wives. Nope, no need to slay that buffoon. He will fall on his own sword in time.”

  Redelfis still appeared ready to fight. “I was totally offended at his words. They were fighting words if you ask me.”

  Once again Mendaka placed a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “I am glad you did not attack the man, son, for I had a friend once, whom I had to stop from doing a great right so that he would not do a greater wrong.” He stole a quick glance at Sur Sceaf.

  Sur Sceaf declared, “Be assured, young bloods, if this fool Fromer stirs up trouble during the trek, he will be smacked down hard. But for now, diplomacy calls for forbearance. Sometimes you just have to wait for the proper moment to stand for what’s right. Too soon and you lose the greater good.”

  Redelfis looked somewhat reassured, but remained upset. “It is hard for me to believe Flying Wolf came from such a disgusting people as these Quailor.”

  “Now you have stepped into wrong thinking, son,” Mendaka said. “Redelfis, you must never judge a whole people by the actions of these few. You will see, the Quailor are a good people. Flying Wolf once told me, ‘Those who champion good can be as dangerous to life as those who champion evil. Good should never be the end. It is only the balance of evil.’ Do you read in this man, Fromer, that he champions the good, but in effect works evil?”

  “My gut gave me such a reading on him. He shows no wiggle room for new thought or ideas at all.”

  “But Fa,” Ilkchild said, “I thought those scriptures he spoke of were given by the Elves to raise the intelligence of mankind. So why is he suppressing that part of the message?”

  “True, but they have been grossly altered by the interpretations of men over time. They are now almost unrecognizable. Fromer cannot possibly know that all holy scriptures were written by the Elves, imparted by the Elves, and only capable of proper interpretation by the Elves or those who have been duly and truly introduced into their wisdom in a just and regularly constituted Elf moot of skaldic masters. Nor do I expect him to ever mature to such knowledge.”

  “How do you think the Quailor managed to twist the scriptures so bad?”

  “Through no fault of their own, the Quailor got their religion by hijacking a previous religion, which had hijacked an even older religion, but you must realize such knowledge could never be revealed to the uninitiated. Otherwise it’s like letting children play with fire. You witnessed today why it is necessary to keep everything holy out of the hands of the uninitiated. You two young bloods have advanced to the first step of enlightenment and therefore are lawfully permitted to know such, but you are charged therewith to never repeat it to anyone else in the world except those who have been duly and truly initiated in a regularly constituted moot hall or by one invested with that same authority.”

  * * *

  At Namen Jewell the mid-morning sun beat down on the sweet smelling white sheets Paloma was hanging on the clothesline. Sur Sceaf’s children laughed and ran in and out of the hanging clothing, laughing and shouting at one another. At the south end of the clothesline, Swan Hilde sat at a picnic table cutting up leeks and herbs, especially leafy waybread to make soup. Nearby, Shining Moon lay in a hammock stretched between two cottonwoods, nursing her infant daughter, Moon Fire, born just two weeks ago. Plump and alert, the child had shining black hair and striking black eyes just like her Sharaka mother. The baby’s four brothers and two sisters doted on the infant. The rest of the children were still in school on the flach, a deck built up in the branches of trees which served for class room on fair weather days.

  The child’s four year old sister, Star Shine, kept running from the playhouse to check on her and present her with an ever new wildflower she had just plucked out of the lawn.

  Paloma was glad to see Moonee’s milk had finally come in, as Faechild who had given birth to Ilkrundel three weeks earlier, had been serving as a wet nurse up until now. Since Ilkrundel had already been fed and was placed in a carrying basket, Faechild was busy carding wool in the nearby shade of a linden tree where Brekka sat at a spinning wheel and spun its fibers into skeins for dyeing.

  During all these activities, Milkchild, who was the designated reader for the day, sat cross legged in the grass with her back against one of the bass woods reading Herewardi love sonnets aloud, eliciting either laughs or sighs from her bride-sisters. Once she finished with a particularly romantic sonnet, Brekka asked, “Milkchild, are men really that romantic, like these sonnets say?”

  Her nigh-mother smiled as she turned the page in the worn book. “Well dearling, some men are, but unfortunately some are as dead as that tree stump over there. With experience, you will learn how to tell them apart.”

  “Which one is Fa?”

  Paloma took a clothespin out of her mouth to pin the last sheet, before turning with a laugh. “He’s a special kind of romantic type, all thunder, lightning, and wind, with the fervor and ardor of swarming bees.”

  Faechild echoed, “Like a storm on a summer’s day lifting swans high into the clouds.”

  Swan Hilde tossed the chopped leeks into a bowl. “Once he locks his gaze on a maiden, she immediately surrenders her resistance to him. I was helpless.”

  Paloma propped the empty wicker basket on the steps before joining Swan Hilde at the picnic table. She picked up a paring knife, before pulling a batch of waybread leaves toward her from the pile in the center of the table and began chopping. “Sometimes people do not find true love in this life, Copper Locks. We want you to know, it is rare and precious when it does happen.”

  Brekka squinted, “What about Long Swan? It’s so sad when you think you found it and it isn’t real.”

  Swan Hilde lifted her knife. “Long Swan never pines openly. How would you know of his sadness?”

  “I had a lesson from him in Fa-Fa’s library at Witan Jewell, when Fa-Bro lent me a book of Herewardi lore, it was about the Drowned Book of Os. In the book, I found a poem he had written about his loss of Faehunig’s affections. It made my heart bleed just to feel the pain in those words.”

  Paloma had almost forgotten how she and Sur Sceaf had worried over Long Swan’s rejection by his childhood sweetheart. He was betrothed to Faehunig. Faehunig had even behanded Long Swan before all his friends at the Harrow Stone. Then two days before they were scheduled to marry, without a single word to anyone, she eloped with Long Swan’s good friend, Saxwulf. She remembered how Sur Sceaf struggled to restore Long Swan’s downcast spirit and considered how the altar of Heaven must surely have flasks of Long Swan’s tears stored under it in remembrance of that sad day when his heart was offered up to the gods for answers that did not seem to come. He pretends the wound has healed, but in fact it still seeps and bleeds.

  Paloma stared into Brekka’s expectant eyes. “Brekka, my dear, it is probably best not to mention this matter to Long Swan or anyone else for that matter. Faehunig must make her life in this community without any gossip about the choices she made as a young girl. It was her own choice to make, and it seems to have worked out well enough for her and Saxwulf.”

  Milkchild stripped the cards of clinging wool into the basket next to Brekka. “Long Swan has yet to let go of the pain. The lore master is a man of the law, and has become too rigid to know love will not stay in tight and tidy boxes. If you manage to get it in a box, it leaps out when it finds its own. The pain comes from not letting it go and not realizing that it really did not belong to him. He simply was not the one for Faehunig and must one day come to grips with it all.”

  Shining Moon finished nursing the baby, sat up on the side of the hammock and said, “Amongst the Sharaka, one is entitled to follow one’s heart, even when it changes in mid-stream. I
once thought I was in love with Dancing Crow until I ran into your father.”

  “So Long Swan won’t give up on Faehunig and that is why he is late to the marriage bed.”

  “Yes,” Paloma said, “but it’s not something we talk about.”

  Brekka said, “But--.”

  “Lady Paloma! Lady Paloma!”

  Paloma turned to see one of the young stewards coming along the cobbled path and leading a dark haired woman in a salmon colored dress. As they approached, Paloma recognized it was Elka, King Sur Spear’s thirteenth wife.

  “Yes, Elka! What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

  Elka was flush and red of face, huffing and puffing. Absently, she removed her hair claw and used it to tuck her wildly curled auburn hair even tighter before bursting out, “I just can’t believe it, sisters, please gather, you must hear! That’s why I came in person to tell you--” She stopped, took another deep breath, and shook her head as though reluctant to continue.

  “What? Tell us what?” Paloma urged.

  “A hussy named Gal Fawkes, has accused Sur Sceaf of impregnating her and then not having the decency to take her to wife or even cife. She has come with Lady Clotilde and her son, Melyngoch, and they have the nerve to come to petition Sur Spear for a hearing for permission to sue for her rights.” Her eyes blazed as she sucked for more breath. “That bitch Clotilde has always connived to make Melyngoch the heir to the Gift Throne, but as you know, he was born on the wrong side of the royal blankets. The young prince is nothing but a puppet dancing on his mother’s apron strings. But her little darling isn’t fit to rule a pig sty.”