“The power within this place,” said the voice of the shadow. “The Goddess was wise to give it to you Pythia.”
Pythia examined the reaction. If mankind had designs to instigate conflict they would have only done so with the aid of someone within the Order. She needed to know who she could trust. Soon the world would know the rite of Conclave had been declared.
“Welcome Morrighan,” said Pythia.
“You’ve spoken with the Mother?” asked the Morrighan. “What does her word reveal?”
“She declares Conclave,” said Pythia.
Her eyes revealed surprise even through the form of shadow. “Time is not our ally.” said the Morrighan.
“That is not all, the beggar awakens from slumber,” said Pythia. “The Dagda’s work, is it complete?”
“We need more time Pythia.”
“We are out of time, war descends upon the living.” said Pythia.
“Only if we allow it,” said the Morrighan. “We must act first.”
Pythia knew what the Morrighan was alluding to. She felt the weight of the world upon her shoulders. Her options were limited, and she had no more time.
“Prepare the orders, but tell no one. If it comes to it, peace must reign.”
Regardless of her feelings she and the other members of the sacred grove had only one calling, to prevent war, at all costs. Favored or not the Fae had a sacred duty, and she would uphold it.
Chapter Two
Falbanach, the wandering beggar
For an age alone adrift,
Through mists of fog and dream,
Dark and light begin to shift.
A beggar stood before the oaken door to a quaint cottage. Nestled in the hills south of the Everlasting City, was the small farming village of Freehold. He was weary, parched, and stunk worse than the ass end of an ox. Centuries passed; millennia since he had been called into service. Thus, he had fallen into slumber in the arms of the wood. The wandering beggar had traversed the realm of Hyperborea since the first age. The Silver Age had little use for his unique abilities and talents thus he was forced to retreat from the affairs of the world. In the realm of the Dreaming he had drifted through space and time. In this state he had existed for over two thousand years. His slumber had persisted for so long that the world had most likely forgotten him. He had forgotten much of himself. The simple act of waking had become foreign to him as he was jarred from his respite deep within the Greatwood Forest.
Air crackled in his lungs akin to raging fire that gave spirit and purpose back to his aging and gnarled form. The gasping and choking of life reentering his body had alarmed every creature within a league of where he had lain beneath the branches of a tremendous ash tree. He'd become as much a part of that tree over the past two thousand years as the bark. Where there were once dedicants, apostles, and offerings to his sleeping form, now only a single chipmunk paid homage to the long-forgotten hero. The small rodent had made his home in the folds and void underneath the ancient beggar’s robes.
As he came to, a familiar voice lingered upon the wind, “Open your eyes... Wake, old friend, take air and come back to us. For now is a time of great need for the Grove. For all of her creation.”
His aged brown eyes looked around and saw nothing but the trees and the wood. His following and the members of his grove had passed from this realm and now only he remained, a legend, a grim visage of a time when great and terrible events created great and terrible men. He wondered had this world forgotten him or abandoned him as his grove had? Why was it he had woken? It was by the command of the Nemeton he entered the Dreaming, the unending sleep. He took a deep breath and held the air in his lungs. The message the air carried, was that peace and prosperity had reigned supreme throughout his two-thousand-year slumber. What could this world need from him? In time he would make his way to one of the Nemeta, but first he needed something to drink and eat. Eating would help him return to this plane. So he wandered out of the Greatwood and into the settled hills and valleys of Freehold. It was a quaint town with thatched roofs and cobbled roads. Without want or suffering, it was a picturesque representation of the peace that reigned. The Grove would know who he was, and why he had returned, but what of the commoners?
To the rest of the world, he would appear as a simple beggar; one of the faceless masses. To the common folk his existence was an enigma buried deep within the traditional bardic songs:
Beware the wandering beggar,
The one who bears no name.
He is ever present, and yet never seen,
When you meet him, what will you glean?
“How short the memories of mortals are,” he lamented as he knocked on the door. In this age, few remembered his deeds. “How could they forget the cunning deeds of the wise old beggar?”
His voice was dry and cracked as he complained. The children of this age had forgotten the legends and deeds of Falbanach. He wondered had his haggard visage left its mark on tradition? In his day when a beggar came calling it was customary to invite them in and grant them the hospitality shown to a King. The beggar noticed the wreath upon the door, made of oak leaves and acorns, a proper display for the time of year. He had knocked on several doors before this one and either no one was home or they refused to open the way for him. He was growing tired of waiting and he hoped that this wreath meant that there were still reverent folk left in the world.
The door to the cottage opened and behind it stood a young woman. She was one of the banal folk, the descendants of Atum who had lost their connection to the forces of magic. The woman appeared surprised, undoubtedly by his horrendous stench. She hesitated for a moment but then her true manners revealed themselves.
“Who... is it? Is that is you again Barto? I swear upon the Goddess!” her voice seemed perturbed by the annoyance until she laid her green eyes on him.
“Pardon me, sir! Please come in,” she pleaded as she took him by the hand leading him inside. “Has no one opened their doors? I swear this town used to have manners. ¨
“Perhaps they have not forgotten all,” he said to himself.
The young woman bade him sit while she fetched him water.
“May the blessings of the Goddess be upon you child.” He took a seat.
His bones creaked as he set his staff aside. The woman brought him a wooden bowl filled with clean water. He took the bowl and quenched his parched throat. He surveyed the room. It was well kept and smelled of fresh bread and roasted chicken. His nostrils flared at the scent. The forest offered water and food he could have partaken of, but he craved more than simple sustenance, he wanted to know what kind of people he was dealing with. Times changed people. A single century could change the attitudes and ideas of Mankind. If these people were worthy of his abilities and time, then he would find out here and now in this young woman’s home. Her actions would be the evidence he needed to decide if the divine spark still ran in the blood of Atum.
“Again blessings be upon you child. What shall I call you?”
“The name’s Colleen, please have another.” She rushed towards the quill to draw more water. “We had hoped for visitors since we saw the first of the pilgrims yesterday morn, I even put on an extra chicken, but none of them stopped to rest. They passed through like thieves in the night, not even sayin’ a word. Seemed strange travelers are always welcome here in the homes of Freehold. Well at least in ours.”
She fidgeted with her fingers. Something was different about this time, but it was subtle, lurking in the deep; a darkening had begun. Despite the feeling in the air he knew her heart to be of pure intention. If there was one there were more. Still the dark flavor on the air worried him. He wondered if the Nemeton had sensed the coming dorcha. He knew he woke for some dire reason, else he would have stayed adrift in dream. If they had already made their way through Freehold, then they were not heading for somewhere more sacred than Formene. They headed for Tara.
“Pilgrims, you say?” he asked. “Midsummer is months from now,
have they not left for Formene yet?”
“Aye, but this Litha shall be more special than any in a thousand years. T´is going to be at Tara. The ancient Conclave is being held, the bards say the trials will reveal a savior who will light the path in the coming darkness. It will be a grand celebration.”
She handed him the bowl. He gave her a gesture of thanks.
He noticed how far removed from reality the common folk had become. If Conclave had been declared as a celebration, the Nemeton had re-branded one of the most barbaric practices in history as a beacon of hope.
“How is the savior chosen?” he asked her.
“They say the champions from across the realms will undergo three trials, the victor is the one who passes the tests,” Colleen said. “I wonder what tests the champions face.”
It was clear now she did not understand what would transpire in the heat of the summer.
“Honestly I can’t for one minute believe all the doors here on the crossroad didn’t even bother to open for you. I know they are home. It is not proper to turn away travelers. You never know when Falbanach might grace your home.” She smiled. “Are you feeling peckish?”
His eyes widened. “Falbanach you say?” He remembered the name, it hung in the mists of his dreaming.
“Aye, I thought everyone knew of the wandering beggar of the Lost Grove. You must have come from the western reaches, or even further haven’t ya?”
He played along, “Aye, near Freeman’s Wharf in the Black Sea.”
“Well don’t the fishermen tell the old tales anymore?”
“I’m afraid they don’t quite hold them in the same regard as the Hyperboreans fair maiden.”
“Shameful if you ask me,” she sighed.
“Perchance a young maiden might entertain this old man with such a tale?”
Her grin stretched from ear to ear, “I’d be delighted.”
“The ancient tales of the bards speak of a wanderer, a spirit that takes the form of a beggar. This beggar travels far and wide. He uses his magic fingers to pluck the strings of fate. He comes to you in your dreams, and if you are lucky to your door. His fingers pluck a magic harp that bear music unto the ears of those who pay proper homage. They say the strings sing of a sacred child.”
“A sacred child? What child?”
“None know for certain, some say he looks for a child who bears the blood of both Atum and the Dagda. Others say he seeks the one who would unite the banal tribes and redeem us from the sins of our fathers.”
They still told tales of the mark, the omen that led to redemption. This simple fact produced a smile across his grim skin folded face.
“What do you think Colleen?”
“I don’t quite know what to believe. My father used to tell me that the beggar hasn't been seen in centuries. The beggar had long left the world and only exists in the songs of the bards,” she paused. “Still it is the known custom that if a beggar graces your home, prosperity follows. That’s why you must always treat the travelers with care. Especially those who journey to the Whispering Hills for Midsummer’s Eve. Are you making the pilgrimage?”
“I am, Are you?”
“I’m afraid not, this year my father and brothers must mind the fields, it has been a hard year for us who man the fields. The bards say a harsh winter be on its way. It saddens me. I always enjoy the merrymaking and the tales, oh the tales,” she stopped. “Tis a shame too. A bard that came through the marketplace yesterday told us that this year Litha will bear another soul unto the Nemeton. I’ve always wanted to hear the Goddess in person. Oh, forgive my manners, here I am babbling on and you must be dreadfully weary. Please will you honor our household and take rest here for the afternoon?”
Her heart was true, and he planned to honor her home, although he had just woken from two thousand years of sleep. He would meditate and see if he gained a clearer picture of his purpose here in this time.
“Your kindness is well received. I will rest for a spell and be on my way. The road is long and my old bones do not move as they used to.”
He lay back against the cool stone wall and closed his eyes. He opened his mind to the possibilities. She had given him a great deal of information, and now it was up to him to determine his next move. He thought to himself if there was a bard claiming a new soul would be given into the service of the Nemeton then it became clearer just why the Nemeton had woken him. Perhaps this soul was the child he had sought for so many centuries. His mind spun with possibilities behind closed eyes but his ancient body was weary from his travel out of the wild Greatwood Forest. He appeared to nod off, and Colleen went on about her daily business.
He didn’t know how long he had rested before saying farewell to the banal woman and her family. They had asked if he would stay for dinner. He did so and enjoyed a fine meal and conversing with the common people. From them he learned as much about a century as he needed. After dining with them he offered to play the harp, he saw standing in the corner of the small cottage. As his fingers stroked the strings, time ceased for them all. For what was a single song, their eyes opened to a fraction of what he saw when he considered the vast span of time. It passed differently for him, he was not bound by the chains of a linear existence. He had wandered throughout time for so long relating to this world was difficult. He had to find a way to care for these people in the present time. To remove a small part of himself from the grand scheme and become Falbanach once again. A champion of the people. After the song he gathered his travelers sack and stepped out the door. The family followed bidding tidings and farewell. They even sent him with ample supplies for the road.
He stopped before pressing on and took her hand before muttering in her ear, “Maiden, I thank thee for your hospitality once more. It is good to see not all have forgotten the old ways. Your hospitality is repaid.”
The Colleen’s eyes widened with amazement, for now she knew her inclinations were correct. He was no mere beggar, but Falbanach himself. He now knew how the people remembered him. He had been away for so long, and yet the people here in fair Freehold still endowed the tales of Falbanach to their youth. Though he once held another name, now the people referred to him as Falbanach, the beggar god.
In return for her kindness he had left her a gift. Unbeknownst to her he had plucked the strings of destiny and played the song of her family’s future. What little they had they had given to him, and he wished to return the favor. Using his mystic talents he made certain their fates, no matter how small would be bountiful. He smiled as he saw her future descendants. They would swim with ease in a world that would struggle against the currents of change.
Along the miles of road that followed his departure from their cottage in freehold he kept them in his mind. Fork after fork led to home after home where he was turned away as many times as he was welcomed. The pilgrim road was long and he mustn’t leave any stone unturned in his journey. He had walked through the night after what had seemed like a week’s journey since his stop in Freehold when he awoke from his inner thoughts as daybreak crashed into his eyes. The sunlight illuminated his hooded figure. There he stood with a hunched back; eyes piercing through the mysteries of the world. Although he stood in plain sight near the traveler’s pike, he went unnoticed by the many thousands of pilgrims. He watched as they passed him.
The world had grown foreign to the ancient sage. He had seen the centuries come and go through the dreaming, but those images were colored with symbolism. The world he knew was once a single beautiful voice that harmonized with the song of creation. Now it seemed the once glorious past had its course set to repeat the mistakes of the previous age. He had fought in the great war of the first age to cleanse the world of Atum’s corruption. Yet he saw the lessons of that tragic time had fallen into distant memory as he had.
Man had destroyed the beauty of the old world with helfire. All the delicate artistry of creation had been turned to ash because of their incessant need for power. In their untamed lust for more, the
race of men had committed a violent and heinous sin; the rape of their own mother.
It was morbidly amusing to him. These fools had forgotten their dark past, dimmed by the peaceful centuries that followed. What once produced abhorrent dread now served little more purpose than children’s tales. These mortal beings placed so much emphasis on material world they allowed their precious souls to wither and die. Did they believe they were forgiven? Had they been so blinded by peace?
Did they not realize the droplets of water called the mourning dew, were the evening tears of their Great Mother who wept for them every night? Falbanach felt an unholy grief, a longing for the old world as his eyes scanned the horizon. Even those who had been created to defend the world from Mankind had fallen short of their charge. The Fae were meant to keep this world pure of man’s corrupt nature, to teach man the way to realize their vital place in the grand scheme. Even the Nemeton seemed out of step. With every stop he made along the pilgrim’s road a new tale emerged. Examples of how man had overstepped their boundaries. How Dagda and the Hyperboreans sat back and watched. Falbanach had seen no evidence they had succeeded in their task. Hyperborea still reeked of man’s sin.
In the midst of the whispering hills of Eíre, beams of light were glistening as they struck the moistened land. Hundreds of thousands were traversing the trails to the sacred shrine. The majority were clueless to the pretense of this sacred celebration. He knew from their thoughts. Their minds spilled carelessly out of them like water from a broken dam. None knew the Goddess as they should and yet still they came from every corner of Hyperborea and beyond to this hallowed field.
The regal wings of the Tuatha Dé Fae beat against the morning breeze. The stoic looks of the Kentáros punctuated the joy of the morning as the centaur herds galloped at a brisk pace. Their massive hooves tore the grass and sod to shreds as they moved. The heels of the colossal Jótun pressed into the soft earth. Their stature unsurpassed by any of the races of Hyperborea, even the majestic dragons of the north. Many folk we’re making the pilgrimage from countless leagues in every direction.
Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1) Page 3
