Questions, like ceaseless volleys of sure-fired arrows, rained upon the Citadel, demanding answers from its King. After what seemed like an eternity of relegation to the periphery of society, the small chapels and great cathedrals hummed and creaked under the weight of frightened souls. The span of the tree’s light had retreated, coloring the outer walls of the city in an ominous shadow they had never known before. For the first time in the great city of Haven, the center of the world, torches were lit.
Illium, King of Haven, Lord of the Citadel and Protector of the Flame, assembled his council, and for eight days they sought wisdom. Both the Poets and the Priests debated with fierce conviction as to what must be done. For every suggestion, there was a counter; for every idea, there came a rebuttal. The tired and weary Illium wavered underneath the relentless debate.
Finally the Arborists, Ispen and Aspen, broke the council’s stalemate with a most unlooked for revelation. These aged caretakers bore an eerie resemblance to the very tree they tended, with leathery, gnarled skin and green, flowing hair. They produced for the council an archaic wooden book, bound with still-green vines, on whose pages were written the ancient magic. The words were not merely inscribed; rather, they seemed burnt into the parchments with such artistry that their beauty alone brought all, King and council, to a reverent still.
Aspen read aloud in a palsied voice. “I am the THREE who is SEVEN, the light in Haven before there was a tree, and the light of Aiénor long after I will be. Behold, the wounds of this world I am mending; the evil and its darkness will soon be put to sleep. My light will break forth to conquer the dark. No tree could hold such brilliance, and no stone could keep it, for it will consume with ferocious intent the weariness of this world and light a way to My kingdom come. Though the tree may fail you, and though fear may assail you, I will place My light in the hearts of those who hope. For in this world you will face darkness, but My light is alive and its coming is near. Seek the light, all you who hope, and find My kingdom, and call it home.”
“How did we not know this?” yelled the old and outspoken Poet named Bell. “There is light and beauty beyond the tree!” The excitement at the very possibility of such unexplored mysteries set the Poets’ hearts ablaze with wonder.
“You fools! Idiots, all of us!” shouted a Priest brother. We should have been gathering timber for generations now, stockpiling our sustenance in preparation for a life without the unending flames. We could have heeded the warning sooner!” he cursed. “Now look at us. We don’t know how long the great tree will last, and our forests may run empty before newly planted ones will yield us any timber!”
While a tumult of curses and accusations swirled in the great court of the Citadel, Ispen stared at the King and mouthed the ancient words, “Go, seek the light.”
Knowing what he must do, Illium nodded in stunned agreement. Barkas, dressed in the green and silver of the city guard, bent down at the beckoning of King Illium. Words, dangerous and deep, were whispered into Barkas’ ear. “Find me ten men, strong and brave and still of hope. Make ready the ship Wilderness with horses, provisions and arms. We sail at the first flames of amber. We sail west. We seek the light.”
“May it be,” responded Barkas in the obedient and determined resolve of one who has spent his life in service to king and kingdom.
In one fluid motion Barkas spun round, his green cloak emblazoned with a silver flame billowing out behind him. The movement held the eyes of the King, fanning to flame a burning resolve within his heart. Seek the light, he told himself. In the name of the THREE who is SEVEN, I will find it, or die trying.
Chapter One
Pride beamed on the faces of the parents standing in front of their small congregation as they waited with eager anticipation to begin the festivities of this momentous day. Today was the day its newborn citizens would be dressed in white and held in the arms of their loving mothers. Today was the day when words of ancient magic and meaning were spoken over their new little lives. Today was a bright day of hope.
The gathered flock formed its way into the small chapel on the edge of town, which just so happened to occupy the parcel of land next to this small community’s shared stable yard. The chapel was modest, not at all like the grand cathedrals being constructed brick by backbreaking brick on the other side of the river. This chapel was small, not too small, but certainly not big. On most days, even this very special day, the modesty of the church reflected the humble personality of this village.
Children were a scarce commodity in Westriver. When dedication time came, no matter the number of children present, the day was significant. This observance spoke of brighter moments, and this time carried with it a greenness that weatherworn trees dreamed of in their sweetest of sleeps. This was both a holy ritual and, for some with hope still beating in their chests, this was also an awakening of sorts.
Gaereld and Nancwen stood both nervous and proud before the small congregation of Westriver. Their young son was totally unaware of the seriousness and the weight of the moment; staying still, let alone reverent, was the furthest thing from his mind. While the heads of this small community were bowed and the words of ancient magic were spoken, the young boy freed himself from the desperate clutches of his mother. He made his way, swift and silent as a mouse, to the platform of the Priest and the Poet. Prayers of consecration and words of deep and dangerous meaning filled the humble chapel, beckoning all who might hear them to dare to believe in their spoken worth.
The Priest spoke. “In the name of the THREE who is SEVEN, we ask by your Spirit to wake our grey and shadowed world with a new light. May these, our few children, carry within them a reverence for your ways, and a passion to follow them even in the darkest times.”
The congregation answered in a half-whispered, “may it be.” They raised their heads to see all of the newly charged families holding their newly blessed children. All, except one.
Gaereld and Nancwen turned their heads in an effort to hide the bright red of embarrassment that had colored their faces. For while all of the other children remained at their parents’ sides, their son had ventured atop the platform of the Priest and the Poet, irreverently holding the torch of illumination in his small, chubby hands.
Some spoke in disgust, whispering shame upon the boy.
“Does he have no respect for what it is we speak of and act out?” said the angry voice of the Priest.
“How dare he play with the sacred fire!” whispered a member of the congregation.
“These traditions are meant to be upheld by proper and holy hands,” agreed another.
A few laughed at the playful innocence that brightened what could otherwise, in their opinion, be a dullish and overly serious ritual. Gaereld and Nancwen were not sure what to think or what it was that they were supposed to do now. Embarrassment, defensiveness and a touch of amusement swirled through their thoughts as they calculated how to get their son down without causing a further scene.
Amidst the pious, the entertained, the embarrassed, and the offended, there were a few who felt the current of something holy humming in their midst. Perhaps this time the magic words found their mark; perhaps this wasn’t just the rambunctiousness of the boy or the poor parenting of the young couple. Maybe this was something more. This awareness brightened in their eyes, deeper and with greater conviction, as they saw the toddler holding the sacred torch. A knowing hung over these enlightened few, for they had just witnessed a movement of light that they could not possibly understand, and yet could never wholly forget.
As the small congregation of Westriver filed out into the humble yet well-kept green, they greeted the families of the newly dedicated few. Some grasped little hands longingly while others tickled tiny feet playfully. They spoke blessings and offered parental wisdom, all while doing their best to drink in the clean, fresh scent of new life.
One man, whose name was Tolk, insisted that he meet this young boy who played with torches on the platform of the Priest and the Poet.
With laughter in his eyes, he asked the half-blushing parents what his name was.
The young mother spoke. “His name is Calarmindon. We call him Cal though, because Calarmindon is a bit of a mouthful to say … and, well, it seems a bit too formal for Westriver.”
“Pay no mind to its formality,” the man said. “Perhaps he was not meant to dwell in a place where such a name cannot be worn proudly. Do you know its meaning?”
“To be honest, I do not,” said Gaereld. “It was the name of an old friend who once did a great favor for me. This name for my firstborn is my humble attempt to honor his generosity.”
“It is a good name, and a very fitting one at that,” said Tolk. “It seems to me that the spirit of the THREE who is SEVEN has been at work, weaving a tapestry we might never fully see, or at least might never fully understand, here in the life of your son. But make no mistake, Calarmindon is a good name … a name ripe with meaning.” Tolk spoke with reverent scrutiny as he considered the child.
After embracing Gaereld and Nancwen and doing his best to laugh away the gravity of the moment, Tolk bent down and kissed the head of Calarmindon, whispering, “Farewell, young man. Grow strong, Bright Fame.”
The townsfolk slowly dispersed from the grounds of the chapel, and the young families followed close behind, eager to get back to the routines of their greying lives. After all had left the darkened building, one man, who had remained hidden in the shadows until the Priest took his leave, came forth with eyes still wide in wonder.
As Tolk approached the wooden platform of the Priest and the Poet, he reached a shaky hand out to touch the famed torch of illumination. Though its flames had been extinguished when the Priest left the chapel, the relic still emanated warmth from the dwindling embers of the sacred fire.
He let his fingers play with the ashes for a moment, reveling in the recent memory of what he had witnessed while the hot cinders disintegrated in his hand. A smile crept across his features and brightened his whole face with a hopeful joy that could not be held back.
Inhaling a deep breath, he took hold of the torch and placed it gently in his cloak. With that, he took his leave of the empty chapel, moving unseen and unnoticed past the town of Westriver, through the Western Gate, and out of the walled Kingdom of Haven.
Chapter Two
Life inside the crumbling Kingdom of Haven continued to diminish at both the dying of the tree and the absence of her beloved King. A cold chill had attached itself to the wind and the words of its people as an ill distrust began to color the dimming vision of the disillusioned citizens. Illium’s quest to seek the light had once inspired and fueled the fires in the hearts of his people with hopeful encouragement. But as the years continued to be counted with no word from the great King, the people had begun to resign themselves to the reality that perhaps a new light was not coming for them after all.
The shadows brought with them a fear that seemed to give the once ignored and forgotten Priests a renewed sense of vigor and a growing, albeit woeful, following. The once lush green of the sprawling forest of Haven was methodically reduced to a lifeless brown as the oaks, redwoods, and armies of soldier pines were decimated by the need for light. Woodcutters found themselves to be the new holy soldiers of the emboldened Priests, and they fought with an almost maddened fervor, laying waste to coveted green with the bite of steel, animated by fear.
There was little room for the beauty of the Poets after Illium disappeared from Haven, for light was power, and timber became the real currency. What use for words and song could the woodcutters have when the rhythm of the axe was all the melody they could stomach? Those few who did heed the words of the Poets became shunned and bullied by the rising power of the determined Priests and the followers of their flintish ways.
For over twenty years, the rival brotherhoods had existed and competed, albeit lopsidedly, for the hearts of the people of Haven. It wasn’t until the protests turned violent and bloody that their coexistence ceased to be a possibility. Not many know the true story of the great atrocity that happened that day in the square of Westriver, but its result was certainly known and felt throughout all of Haven. One of the young Priests, whose duty it was to oversee the rations of timber, was brutally bloodied at the hands of a young Poet.
The ruling of the Citadel was swift and severe, and was clearly influenced by the rising power of the Priesthood. The young Poet was executed there in the very square of his alleged offense, and all who called themselves Poets were summarily exiled for his transgressions.
It is said that few have ever seen such a sad exodus as the citizens of Haven witnessed at these champions of beauty being removed from their once-shining city with a dreadful curse of merciless finality. Many of the Poets who were unjustly exiled by the Citadel were already far along in years, and their unwavering convictions were so deeply ingrained into their hearts that they felt the exile a worthy sacrifice. With heads held high and proud, they departed the city with little remorse or sorrow, save for the loss of the loved ones who would not depart with them.
There were still a rare few who held to the teaching and the ways of the Poets, though they could not bear to depart altogether from the safety and comfort of their once great city. Their Poetic life in Haven was lived in secret as they outwardly participated in the daily rhythm of the greying, pious citizens.
Laughter was rarely heard in Haven, not because its people had forgotten how, or even because its citizens were too sad; rather it was because there were too few children to rescue them from their seriousness. It was as if the virility of Haven waned in harmony to the fading light of the burning tree, and the drive of its men mirrored the ever-diminishing forests. The people preferred practicality in the midst of fear, clinging to order like the floating timber of a storm-wrecked ship. The few brave ones that did bring children into this world continued to live under the biting yet envious criticism of those who chose not to.
“How can one think of love when light is almost gone?” would often be heard whispered behind the backs of those who gave in to the indulgence of romance.
“Why would we waste what few resources we have left on children who should never have to be subjected to such a poor way of living?”
“Such procreation is a frivolous way to spend one’s energy.”
Gaereld and Nancwen, Cal’s parents, had spent many years as children raised in the company of the Poets. Even after the exile, though in secret, they found ways to dream along with the remnant of a few who still clung to the forgotten Poets’ ways.
The two of them fell dangerously in love, and their romance gave them a welcome diversion from the injustices of evil and the fear of failing trees. They were surrounded by thoughts and hopes of brighter days, and spent many a silver night pondering the way of the Poet. As they honed and perfected their giftings, they became fatefully linked to the fortunes and survival of the exiled Poets. Gaereld was a bright and talented smithy and Nancwen, having been raised amidst the sprawling farms of Abondale, was aide to the master groomsman.
Though contact with the exiles was strictly forbidden, and the outlying lands surrounding the walled city had grown dangerously inhospitable, Gaereld and Nancwen still would venture beyond the boundaries of safety to deliver goods and supplies to their Poet mentors.
Each time the young couple would ride into the encampment of the exiles, their hearts would wrestle with the beckoning of their Poet fathers. These sages urged them to leave the comforts of Haven and embark on the truest of all callings: to seek and find the new light of the THREE who is SEVEN.
But as fortune and fate would have it, Nancwen became heavy with child. The compelling gravity of a greater calling, as it often does in the wake of unanticipated responsibility, lost its pull on the hearts of the soon-to-be parents.
As their young child grew, the couple took great care to instill the Poetic sense of hope in his blonde-haired head and his tender heart. They taught him to trust not in the strength of his own hands, or in flames
birthed from timber alone, but rather to put the whole of his hope in the coming light of the THREE who is SEVEN.
The pressure from the citizens of Haven to follow the Priestly way of the flint had taken its toll on their ability to abide well in the walled city, but regardless of the persecution from peers or strong-arming from the Citadel, Nancwen and Gaereld did not sacrifice their hope, nor their commitment to the Poets.
Cal spent many amber days in the company of his mother as she tended to the royal horses of the Citadel. His ease and effortlessness around the four-legged beasts was uncanny for such a young boy. Even more amazing in the royal stables of Haven was not the familiarity of Cal to the horses, but rather their attraction to him.
Nancwen would often scold her fearless little son. “Keep your mind sharp around these beautiful creatures, my boy, for you must remember that they are, in fact, still beasts at heart; remember that often and perhaps without warning they might just choose to act … rather beastly.”
Cal would just smile at his mother and agree to take extra precautions, though both of them knew full well that he never would.
Not only did it seem that Cal had little, if any, fear for the stables full of horses, but it also became obvious to all who saw him that he had a gift for calming whatever fears assailed their equine thoughts. Nancwen was not the only one who took great pride in the young boy. Many a groomsman of the Citadel would watch Cal and his ways with the horses, hoping that they too might learn more about the animals that they spent their greying lives in service to.
Once, when Cal was just seven years of age, he and his mother walked into the stable yard by the silver light of early morning to find one of the mares in the violent throws of labor. Her eyes were wild with fear, for the obvious distress of the pain and complications had taken over her motherly senses. She was thrashing and kicking, snorting and whinnying so loudly that all of her other stable mates had been worked into a nervous lather alongside the maddened mare.
The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) Page 2
