The Godseeker Duet

by David A Willson

  As he rounded the church building and headed to the mill to collect more wood, a little lady sprang into the empty wheelbarrow and sent it careening sideways. The muscles in his back and shoulders strained to keep it upright.

  "Hey," he blurted out.

  "Hey yourself," Nara responded, a rascally smirk on her face. "Give me a ride."

  Mykel grimaced, unable to rouse an angry word, his surprise vanishing in the wake of her playful attentions. Launching forward, he drove the wheelbarrow and its stowaway up the slight hill toward the mill.

  Nara turned forward, the breeze taking her hair. "Faster!" she cried to him, pushing herself to a standing position as he bounced and jostled her on the bumpy road, catching disapproving glances from people they passed. Slowing, they pulled up beside the mill.

  The exertion produced a sweat, and Mykel's shoulders and legs were spent from the effort. Nara hopped down from the wheelbarrow and came around to him with a grin, then squeezed his right upper arm. "So strong!"

  "Why did you stand up? You could have fallen."

  "I knew you wouldn't drop me," she responded. "But you didn't slow down either. Maybe you were hoping to teach me a lesson for stealing a ride, eh?"

  Working together, they filled the wheelbarrow, then pushed it to the field where they neatly stacked the logs next to the bonfire, then returned for another trip. Sometimes Nara would steal a ride back; other times she would walk alongside Mykel, talking about their hopes for the evening ceremony. Once she even pushed it back with him inside, albeit at a slow pace and with much complaining both during and afterward. The physical effort did much to quell the anxiety that ruled the day.

  Inside the church, Father Taylor washed, shaved, and dressed for the ceremony that was now just hours away. He glanced out the window to see more folks making their way to the church field. A light rain continued, wetting the grass and causing rivulets of runoff to wander the paths and sometimes puddle, but the residents didn't seem to notice. The smells of watery soups and freshly-baked bread came in through the open window, accompanied by conversations and laughter as they continued their happy work.

  Taylor turned back to the looking glass. Thinning hair and a bushy beard seemed to stand out more than they had in recent years. A solemn expression came upon his wrinkled face as he recognized the effects of time, proceeding mercilessly despite healthy living and faithful service to his deity. Mostly faithful, anyway.

  Despite the joy many felt during the morning's preparations, Taylor's mood remained solemn. The villagers were full of hope at the possibilities in today's announcement, creating a guilt over the deception he would continue to perpetrate on them.

  He wished he could choose another path, but the price of hiring a harvester to imbue the ceppit was insurmountable for churches of small means. The harvesters always claimed that filling a ceppit took far more energy than any normal effort, and the prices were set accordingly. Some of Taylor's peers blamed a lack of announcements for the problem. There were few harvesters available, especially in more remote regions. The lack of competition had created a commensurate spike in prices.

  Whatever the reasons, Taylor and other pastors often pressured the church to fund the imbuing of their ceppits—a recent inquiry had resulted in a quote of three gold crowns. Three crowns!

  Taylor couldn't bear to lay this burden at the feet of the townspeople. Almost daily he received news of village folk having trouble finding food, unable to afford care at the clinic or sometimes even firewood to keep warm. Dimmitt could never have raised three crowns. He couldn't imagine what such a burden would even look like.

  Many years ago, one of his predecessors dodged the issue entirely by simply not paying for the ceppit to be imbued, and Taylor had followed suit. The costly consequence, however, was that there hadn't been a successful announcement in Dimmitt for decades, and the village was empty of gifted folks.

  Every few years, Taylor would deceive those in his care by telling them that enough funds had been saved to imbue the ceppit. A great sermon would convey feelings of loyalty to the Great Land and seek the divine approval of gifts from Dei. Then, he would pack for a long trip. With much fanfare, he would leave Dimmitt and encamp on the other side of the island for a few weeks, empty ceppit in hand. When he returned, looking disheveled and weary from travel, the children would squeal delighted alarms at his arrival, and many would come out and greet him. Hope would rise at the thought of a gifted announcement, and Taylor's ruse would weigh even heavier on his heart—yet another sin stacked upon his history of good intentions gone wrong.

  He continued his preparations, eager to enjoy the food and song, running the sermon through his mind so he wouldn't forget anything. The scriptures he would speak tonight were not of glory or victory, as they often had been, but instead of hope and encouragement as if to assuage the villagers during a null announcement. Perhaps Dei would bless them somehow, if not in arcane gifts.

  A bell rang from above, undoubtedly Simon Tinny pulling the rope that announced midday. Simon had bell duty this week and had been dependable. Often, the duty was not taken seriously by those assigned, but Simon was a faithful lad. The bell sounded once, then twice, then three times. Taylor longed to feel as righteous and honorable about performing his own duties as Simon felt about ringing that bell.

  There were only a few more hours before supper and ceremony, with still much to do, and Taylor continued about his business with a renewed urgency.

  8

  Announcement

  Nara sat still in her assigned chair at the front of the throng, a prodigious headache pounding away at her. She was dressed in old breeches, worn shoes, and a green blouse that matched her eyes. The blouse remained bright despite its age—she only wore it on special occasions. Extra time to brush her hair and clean her dirty shoes had further polished her appearance.

  "How bad is it?"

  Mykel's words startled her as he appeared by her side. He was wearing mostly clean trousers and a dusty brown jacket that he had probably smuggled out of his father's closet. Nara smiled but winced as she did so, nevertheless comforted that he had noticed her struggle.

  "I'm okay," she said.

  "Liar," he said with a gentle smile, then put a hand on her shoulder. "Hang in there, Bitty. You can rest soon."

  "I know," she said, reaching up to place her hand on his. She held it there for a moment.

  The grassy field near the church looked very different with the many chairs set out, and the several hundred villagers wandering about. They shook hands in greeting near the tables where meager portions of food were waiting to be eaten after the ceremony. The aroma of the soup made Nara's belly gurgle, although it was hard to think about eating at a time like this. With so much at stake.

  Father Taylor wore his formal robes, slightly less stained than his normal garb, trimmed with blue satin and only torn in a few places, suitably decorative for the special event. His silver hair was pulled back into a plait, and his salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed. It was a wooden stage that he stood upon, with enough room for six or eight people to stand if they crammed together. Several boards on one side formed crude steps. Father Taylor took the stage and raised his arms. It took a few moments for folks to settle down, and another moment for conversations to stop, children to quiet, and seats to be taken.

  "Let us pray," he said, bowing his head, arms still raised in a gesture of blessing.

  "Holy Dei, bless us this day as we seek your favor upon our village, your comfort on our hearts, your grace in our lives. May gifts be upon our youth so that our town can find prosperity. Forgive us our failings and have mercy on us, sinners we are. In your name we pray, blessed Dei. Amen."

  Father Taylor reached into a long pocket in his flowing robe and retrieved a piece of parchment, then gently unrolled it with a seemingly deliberate slowness as if to add drama to the moment. "The words of Dei."

  "Blessed be Him," said the crowd.

  "And in the third month of the se
venteenth year, Jasep journeyed to the mont in search of the talisman spoken of by his fathers. He left his mother, who was called Meryim, his sister, who was called Nerum, and his wife, who was called Heidi."

  The passage from the Book of Journeys was familiar to Nara and one of Taylor's favorites. She had always wondered what the talisman was, but even Father Taylor had never given a decent explanation, instead talking about the mysteries of scripture or something.

  "Jasep arrived at the mont and searched for the talisman. Forty days and forty nights he searched, and the on the fortieth night he prayed.

  Lord, I have not found your great talisman, which you sent me to find,

  I have failed at what you sent me to do.

  I am hungry, I am lonely, and I am cold.

  I have left my wife and family and am on a mountain in the middle of winter.

  Have mercy on me and let me die."

  A young mother sitting in one of the back rows jostled a baby in her arms as it fussed. A little boy near the front row squirmed on his father's lap as the man tried to keep him still. Father Taylor cleared his voice and continued.

  "Then Jasep lay down under a tree, in the snow high on the slopes of the mont, and went into a deep sleep. In a dream, the Lord responded.

  My child, you are hungry, you are lonely, and you are cold.

  You have left your wife and family and are on a mountain in the middle of winter.

  I will have mercy on you, but I will not let you die,

  for your race is not yet run, your quest is not complete, and you have not found my talisman.

  After sleeping for seventeen hours, Jasep awoke, still hungry, still lonely, and still cold. He was still on the side of the mountain in the middle of winter and had not yet found the Lord's talisman. He left and journeyed home, and in the seventeenth month, he arrived. The words of our Lord."

  The crowd responded, "The words of our Lord."

  Father Taylor cleared his throat.

  "Life can be terrible and seem absent of purpose," he said. "Each person possesses life, a gift from Dei, and is running his race, seeking his fortune, doing what he can to follow Dei’s will. Someday, all die and receive the reward they have earned. Until then, we must climb our mountains, as Jasep did, to endure to the end, despite all hardship."

  He concluded with a heartfelt prayer for patience and health for the village. A long, drawn-out "amen" ended the brief homily, and the townsfolk echoed in response. It was a more somber sermon than Nara could ever remember hearing, and she noticed hope fading from the crowd as the priest concluded. Father Taylor expected no gifts today. Nara hoped he would be wrong.

  "Are you ready?" Mykel whispered, close to Nara's ear.

  "Not at all," she said, giving him a fearful, sideways look. Mykel didn't know about her magic. He didn't know how she was different, but he might know soon. "How about you?"

  "I'm fine. It will all be fine, you'll see."

  She smiled a shallow, awkward smile for him, knowing that it did little to hide her fear.

  Father Taylor waved a hand, inviting Elden Sack, Gilbert Bonny, Nara, Mykel, Heidi Trinck, and Finn Willy to climb the stage. They left their seats and approached the steps. Elden Sack walked in front but waited for the others to catch up before climbing the few stairs. They formed a line in order of their ages, with Finn at the back, then turned to face the priest and the crowd.

  Father Taylor called for a couple of volunteers to help with the ceremony, and both Amos Dak and Bran Fedgewick came forward. Elden moved to stand next to Father Taylor. Taylor arranged Amos and Bran on either side of Elden, and the men grabbed the boy under the arms to steady him.

  The priest lifted a hand and placed it on Elden's head. "This youth, whose destiny is now unknown, comes forth to answer the call of Dei. He submits himself for testing, to unveil his purpose. To reveal his soul."

  Father Taylor walked to the table near the back of the stage and opened the engraved wooden box, which Nara recognized from the sacristy in the church office. He retrieved the ceremonial knife from within, and she saw a strange look on his face as he moved it from hand to hand. Had he noticed that it was lighter?

  Her anxiety grew as she remembered how it felt when she had imbued the ceppit with her magic. How it had leeched her strength like it was hungry, as if alive. Would that happen again today?

  Father Taylor shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the front of the stage near Elden. The ceppit rested on the top of his open palms.

  "Behold the instrument of Dei, the ceppit that bears His power and through which He bestows gifts."

  Father Taylor lowered his arms and moved to grip the ceppit in his right hand, blade pointed down. It was now that Elden should have extended his palm in offering to the priest, but Elden remained still, hands at his sides. Nara could sense the fear that paralyzed him.

  In a quiet voice that only those on stage could hear, Father Taylor spoke. "Elden, you are fifteen years old. Your announcement is here. This will hurt, but you will recover. Be brave, lad."

  Elden slowly lifted his right hand, palm facing upward, then closed his eyes. Father Taylor positioned the tip of the blade on the soft flesh between Elden's thumb and first finger. Elden's arm twitched, and he released a quiet whimper. Amos and Bran tightened their grip on him, surely in support for the pain the boy was about to endure. Out of the corner of her eye, Nara noticed Elden's sister position herself near the side of the stage, ready with a handful of bandages.

  Anticipation in the crowd grew thick, and the townsfolk held their breath as if deep underwater, lungs bursting with discomfort until they could reach the surface and exhale the anxiety of the moment. Nobody stirred, no babies cried, and even dogs that wandered about sat and faced the stage in expectation.

  In a loud voice, Father Taylor continued, "Holy Dei, reveal your will in this boy, Elden Sack!" He thrust the ceppit downward, impaling Elden's hand, and Nara felt a sympathy pain in her own palm as she grieved for the boy's plight and his fear. Elden screamed and tried to pull his hand away in reflex but was held firm. Tears escaped his eyes as blood streamed down the blade, dripping onto the stage below.

  Please, Dei. Give Elden a gift.

  Father Taylor held the blade in place for a full minute, perhaps watching for the early manifestation of a gift, and Nara looked with her sight as well, eager to see a change, holding her breath in anticipation. She saw nothing. Elden was in pain, but didn't appear to be experiencing the onset of any new power or awareness. Father Taylor looked deep into his eyes and whispered something Nara couldn't hear, then Elden shook his head in the negative. Father Taylor hastily pulled the blade straight up and out, then ushered Elden off the stage to be cared for by his kin. The crowd exhaled.

  Nara was disappointed, almost having expected Elden to shoot fire out of his eyes, or for his image to shimmer and glow, or to throw big pot-bellied Amos twenty feet with newfound magical strength.

  Father Taylor spoke words of encouragement. "I should remind you that the lack of an immediate manifestation does not mean there is no gift. I will work with the youths in the next few days. They will be tested, and we will know for sure by the end of the week. Some gifts won't show right away."

  The words seemed like empty comfort, but folks in the crowd nodded in response, and one man put an arm around his wife's shoulder.

  Father Taylor then gestured for Gilbert to step forward, who almost tripped on a loose board that he pushed back down with his foot. Nara thought of this quiet boy, how he was always in the back of the class, hiding under the big mop of shoulder-length, blonde hair that grew from his head. There would be no hiding for Gilbert today, and she wondered what he was feeling right now. Once he was in position, with Amos and Bran at his sides, she noticed that his breaths were short and shallow. She saw him glance back and forth several times between the blood on the stage and the ceppit in Father Taylor's hand.

  "Holy Dei, reveal your will in this boy, Gilbert Bonny," said the priest, then i
mpaled Gilbert's hand. Gilbert's knees buckled under him, and for a moment his weight seemed entirely borne by Amos and Bran. When he gathered himself again and stood, Nara heard Amos make a comment of encouragement, something about promising him a beer later. Gilbert turned and gave Amos a big grin through the tears, and the man snorted in apparent satisfaction. A minute passed, Taylor removed the ceppit to the crowd's dismay and directed Gilbert off the stage.

  Nara rubbed at the discomfort in her palm, a lingering sympathy pain from Gilbert's injury. The time for her own test had now come, and she cringed at the thought of what might happen. Fear that she had made the wrong choice now chipped away at her confidence. When she sneaked into the church last night to imbue the ceppit, she had intended to bless others with her efforts. Those intentions had been focused on her neighbors and friends, and the gifts they might hold in their souls undiscovered. But now, she might pay the true price. Would her true nature now be revealed, no longer a secret shared with Bylo? Would she lose control of her magic, bring darkness like one of Kai's servants, casting a shroud over the stage, an evil spirit destined to deliver pain to all? Now that Father Taylor wielded a charged ceppit, her true nature might be revealed, and she would learn if she was the angel Bylo thought of her, or a monster that warranted destruction.

  She stepped forward, offering her hand to the priest so that he could perform his duty. As Bran and Amos gripped her arms, her mind calmed. This was a necessary part of her story and not to be avoided. Still, she yearned for comfort from Bylo, and her eyes scanned the crowd for his face but could not find him. How could he not be here at this moment?

  She turned to Mykel and gave a brave smile for him, then looked back to the crowd and closed her eyes, steeling her will against what was to come.

  "Holy Dei, reveal your will in this girl, Nara Dall," said Taylor as he pushed the blade through Nara's palm.