The Fortress of Suffering

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  My restlessness returns. The longer the revels go on, the more it grows. I say the names of the dead in my head. They should be here too. Their families sit quietly, but they know it too. Their eyes accuse me, as they have my whole life. The more I dwell on it, the angrier I get. My drink’s empty again. I stumble out of my chair for another.

  When he sees me stagger, Ben breaks from another round of dancing and approaches through the throng. “Perhaps you should slow down, lad. I thought you’d be off to see your wee one by now.” His expression brightens. “Why don’t I send someone to fetch her and the others?”

  I shrug him off and shoot him a withering look to tell him he’s overstepped his bounds. “Watch it,” I mutter as I bump into someone in my way. All I want is to march back to my quiet corner with a fresh ale in hand.

  “Esben Berengar,” Kent is saying, and all the crowd cheers me again. “Another round for the hero of Fool’s Pass!”

  “He’s no hero.” The voice belongs to a sour-faced man at the table across from mine. It’s Galen—Tate’s father. “He’s a killer, just like his father.” The cheering, along with the music, comes to an abrupt halt, and silence fills the hall.

  I stiffen instantly. “You have something you want to say to me?”

  Galen stares at me with obvious contempt. “You promised me you’d keep my boy safe. Swore it by the gods. Where is he, Esben? Where are the others, for that matter?” He makes a show of looking around. “Fat lot of good your promises are worth.”

  I try and fail to swallow my anger. I did my best to help his boy, just like I promised. Galen doesn’t know what we went through. He doesn’t know that gentle Ben wakes up screaming. He doesn’t know that I went back and buried our dead—including his son—before joining the others on the road to Easthaven.

  “That’s enough, Galen,” Ben says. “You’ve had too much whiskey.”

  Galen is the village miller. Few present have much love for him. He’s a greedy fellow with an unpleasant personality and a reputation for shortchanging villagers on flour. His love for his son was the only decent thing about him, and it’s the only reason I let his remark pass now.

  Some in the crowd attempt to deter him, but he persists. “Maybe one day you’ll know what it’s like to lose a child.”

  My vision goes red. My hand tightens around the tankard’s handle. Ben sees what’s about to happen. He attempts to stop me, but it’s too late.

  The tankard crashes against Galen’s face, breaking teeth. Blood drips from the wooden tankard, which rolls across the ground. Galen lands on the floor. He doesn’t stay there long. I grab him and throw him like a ragdoll. “Don’t you talk about her!” He spits out blood and tries to rise. I break a chair over him, and he falls flat.

  “Esben, stop!” Ben does his best to restrain me, and Kent joins in.

  It’s not enough. I’m stronger than both combined. Galen folds like parchment under my fists. I wrap my hand around his throat and press him against the wall. “Had enough yet?”

  Galen rasps an incomprehensible jumble and pleads with me through eyes already blackened and swollen.

  “Esben, enough!” Grawnya stands at the hall’s entrance.

  Her voice brings me back to my senses. My fist falters just short of Galen’s face. He slumps over when I drop him. The room watches with stunned silence. The girl who tucked the shamrock into my belt looks at me with horror, and with good reason. I could have killed him, all because I couldn’t control my anger. Galen’s blood stains my hands—the hands of a killer.

  “Come with me.” Grawnya takes my hand and ushers me outside. She walks with a slight hunch. She is small but fierce, even by northern standards.

  Her hut is cramped. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling. Powders and ointments line rows of shelves. Grawnya, illiterate like the rest of us, has no book of recipes to rely on. She makes them from memory. Experience was her teacher.

  “Sit.” She shoos me to a chair and turns her back to me only to return with a cup filled with a steaming dark liquid. “Drink this.”

  I sigh and do as she says. I know better than to argue with her. Grawnya’s the only person in Kells more stubborn than me—and that’s saying something. “I should have known I’d screw it up,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m a soldier. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

  “Hush now.” Grawnya lifts my hand with the cup to my mouth and repeats her earlier command. “Drink.”

  My mind clears with each sip, and the alcohol-induced fog slowly lifts. Grawnya says nothing. The bond between us needs no words. She didn’t just save my live—she helped heal my spirit. If it wasn’t for her, I never would have dared to love Rhona. She’s always had a soft spot for me, from the moment her daughter found me passed out in the snow after the bear nearly killed me. Perhaps it’s because she was an orphan too, like me.

  Time passes. My breathing slows, and I grow calm again. I’m not one to share what’s going on inside my head. Even Rhona had a hard time getting me to talk. I tell Grawnya everything. “There’s too much of my father in me. Too much rage. Too much hate.”

  “It is not your father. It is the spirit of the bear.” Grawnya adheres to the old ways. Sometimes I think she’s more than just an ordinary healer. She leans forward in her chair and touches my face. “You are a good man, Esben.”

  Am I? I want to be a good man. I want to be a good father. Deep down, I fear I’ll never be worthy. Maybe that fear contributed to my anger at Galen.

  Grawnya nods to the fireplace that roars even at summer’s end. “You are like the flames. You have a wild, hot-blooded spirit. It is your nature. You cannot change who you are. You can change what you do.” She holds her hand over my heart and smiles. “Your heart is true. There is so much love in you. Do not fear it. Embrace it, for it will keep you from hate. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  She chuckles softly to herself. “Then what are you still doing here? Go and see your little one.”

  I hug her to me and leave. The dirt path that leads through the Oakwood beckons me outside Grawnya’s hut. I start down the trail and leave Kells behind. Thrushes sing from their perches as I pass underneath. Sunlight pokes through treetops to set the woods aglow. The sky is a serene blue, clear for miles. A gentle breeze, carrying with it a promise of autumn, brushes against my face and rustles the mighty oaks. The effect is magical; the forest itself seems alive.

  I stop at a stream to wash the blood off my hands and return to the trail. It’s a half-hour journey to the clearing where my farm waits. I could find the way blindfolded. This forest is a part of me. It was my home after my parents’ deaths until my fateful encounter with the bear, when a boy—wild, feral, and lost—became a man.

  I catch sight of the farm through the trees. Even after eight years, I have to remind myself my wife isn’t waiting for me. I miss her more than ever. We thought we’d grow old together. We were fools in love. Little more than children, really. Her grave looks over the cottage from a hill shaded by trees. I dug it myself. I wanted her to watch her little girl grow up.

  The cottage sits quietly in a sea of flowers and wild grasses. My grandfather built the sandstone walls and slate roof himself. A well—currently surrounded by wandering hens—separates the cottage from the barn. Twin goats bleat while grazing a patch of clover near the pond. The sensation of restlessness yields to an overwhelming feeling of relief. I’m finally home.

  I linger at the forest’s edge, as if expecting the scene to vanish like a dream. My gaze moves to the cottage door, which sits ajar. Voices sound nearby.

  Uncle Duncan swears and shakes his hand before using a hammer to anchor a beam to the split-rail fence. He’s a stout man with a mostly bald head and a ruddy face. He’s actually my wife’s second cousin, though we call him uncle anyway. Duncan’s a peaceful sort, if lazier than I would prefer.

  Next, I spot Hilda, a woman a few years younger than me. I don’t know her real name. She never speaks. Danes took most
of her tongue. I killed them before they took anything else. I made it clear she had no debt to me, but that didn’t stop her from following me back to Kells and living with us as a servant. When she first came to us, she was a lost soul. Now life stirs behind her eyes once more. Duncan’s in love with her. The oaf’s too dense to realize she feels the same way about him.

  Hilda smiles warmly at a young girl feeding the hens, and my heart skips a beat. Aileen delves into a basket and tosses feed at her feet. Faolán, the wolfhound mix I gave my daughter the first time I went away, wags her tail at the sound of her master’s voice.

  I swallow hard and hold out the doll I brought for her. I killed my father when I was just a lad. I killed the bear that took my eye a few years later, and not long after that I fought in my first goblin war. If Ulster is a hard place, I’m a hard man. My daughter is not—thank the gods for that. There’s nothing but kindness in her. I want to call out to her, but she looks so peaceful—so happy. Instead the words stick in my mouth, and no sound comes out. I just stand there watching her, unnoticed by the others. Gods, she’s grown. How much time have we lost already?

  The wind shifts. Faolán sniffs the air, and her eyes settle on me. Aileen goes quiet when she follows Faolán’s gaze and sees me standing there, doll in hand.

  “Papa?” She has my red hair and her mother’s gentle face. “Papa!” The basket falls from her hands and spills chicken feed across the ground.

  Faolán, completely taken aback, barks and regards us with bafflement. Duncan and Hilda remain at a distance. They know how long I’ve waited for this moment.

  Aileen breaks into a sprint. I’m running too, though I didn’t realize it until now. I catch her and spin her around. She weighs nothing in my arms.

  I can’t tell which of us is laughing and which of us is crying. “It’s all right, lass. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Promise?” Small as she is, she grips me fiercely, as if she’s afraid I might slip away.

  I nod solemnly. “I promise.”

  The next day I return to Kells with Duncan to purchase a horse and supplies for the farm. Aileen insists on going with us, and to her delight I let her sit on my shoulders. An attempt to make amends with Galen goes nowhere. He still blames me for his son’s death. It’s easier than blaming himself. Hate is the only thing keeping him from despair. I leave him to it.

  Life soon settles into a familiar pattern. Duncan and I finish planting. Even if I do most of the work, it’s still nice to have a helping hand. The manual labor is good for my soul. It takes my mind off the war. My muscles ache each night, but it’s a good ache. Hilda and Aileen tend to the chores while Duncan and I work the land. Aileen takes the doll with her everywhere she goes. The only time she lets it go is when I teach her to ride the horse. She takes to it so quickly I quip she must be from Munster.

  When the work is done, we share a meal of stew and soda bread prepared by Hilda. Gods, that woman can cook, especially for someone missing most of her tongue. It’s no wonder my mood improves. Excepting the victory feast, I’ve been eating stale rations for months. Occasionally I catch Hilda and Duncan holding hands. Things really have changed while I’ve been gone. Each night I tell Aileen a story before bed. The ones about her mother are her favorite. Aileen takes after Rhona so much it hurts. Sometimes she falls asleep on my chest, but only after forcing me to repeat my promise not to leave again. I lie awake watching her sleep. I don’t have it in me to wake her. How did anything so good come from me?

  Most of the villagers have forgiven my outburst in the town hall. It doesn’t hurt that they don’t care much for Galen, who continues to shun me, but I think they understand what Ben and I went through in the war. The old man lights up whenever Aileen comes with me into Kells. He even presents her with a pair of shoes he made just for her and threatens to throttle me when I insist on paying him. Aileen sits enthralled by his tales while I tend to my business, though even then she never lets me out of her sight. I joke she prefers his stories to mine. On the way home Aileen tugs at my sleeve and asks if she can be a princess like the ones in Ben’s stories. I tell her she can be anything she wants.

  Autumn sets in, and the Oakwood acquires a golden hue. It isn’t long before harvest season arrives. Orange leaves fall to the path as we journey to the village for the harvest festival. I steal a glance back at Aileen, who rides in the wagon with Duncan and Hilda. Faolán’s head rests peacefully on her lap. The wolfhound was only a wee pup when I gave her to Aileen. Now she’s as tall as Duncan when she stands on her hind legs. My gaze lingers on Aileen. This is all I want from life. I smile and prod the horse along. For the first time in a long time, I am truly happy.

  Music carries ahead, where Kells is visible at the path’s end. Banners hang from the town hall, and streamers sway in the breeze. Moths flit about candles and lanterns that glow in anticipation of dusk’s approach. Men and women hold hands and dance in a circle around the willow tree. Some sit and watch from benches in the shade. Children, given a reprieve from their responsibilities, laugh and run through the crowd.

  I hitch the mare, and we go to join in the festivities. Duncan and Hilda join in the dancing, and Aileen runs off to take part in the games. I guess I’ve been home long enough she no longer fears I might disappear at any moment. I eat my fill from the abundance of food spread across a long table and observe the festivities from the crowd’s edge. The harvest has been good this year, as evidenced by wagons overflowing with crops. It should be more than enough to weather even a long winter. I share a drink with Old Ben and Kent around a fire burning in a stone cairn and talk about our fallen brothers. The festival is quieter this year without them.

  A traveling priest shares word of the Lord of Hosts with whoever will listen to him. I frighten him away when he tries talking to my daughter. Aileen’s presence is the only thing stopping me from threatening violence. I don’t want him filling her ears with talk of the Good Teacher and his message of repentance and forgiveness. Something about the religion fills me with contempt. Maybe it’s because it portrays the Lord of Hosts as a loving father, when my own father was anything but. The elder gods’ cruelty at least I can understand. Unlike the rest of Fál, where worship of the Lord of Hosts has become the dominant religion, here in Ulster we hold to the old ways.

  Galen drinks heavily nearby. His gaze lingers on Aileen, and he mutters under his breath. Faolán growls protectively to warn him away. Centuries ago, our ancestors used wolfhounds in war. They were monsters then—big enough they could be ridden into battle. The breed has been domesticated since then. Despite their immense size, most wolfhounds are easygoing and friendly companions. Faolán is no exception. She eagerly greets the villagers and licks the faces of children who try to pet her. Still, she’s fiercely protective of Aileen. That and her size make me suspect she’s descended from one of the old bloodlines.

  Duncan informs me he and Hilda are to be married. I haven’t seen the woman grin so widely since I rescued her from the Danes. I clasp him on the shoulder and hand him a flagon full of ale. Rhona would approve. Hilda has been good for him. He no longer drinks as much as he used to, and for all the grief I give him, he does his share of the work. Aileen returns, breathless, and implores me to join in the games. I put on a show of reluctance and take her hand in mine. Loner that I am, I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.

  Laird McGrath’s representative, here as the guest of honor in McGrath’s place, observes the festival from a table outside the town hall. The crowd makes it hard to get a good look at him. Someone mutters it’s one of McGrath’s second cousins. Villagers pay their respects and load a portion of their yield onto wagons for the journey to Dunservick. When the crowd thins, I catch a glimpse of the man beside Laird McGrath’s representative, and the smile dies on my face.

  It’s Ahearn, Prince Eberdon’s lieutenant. My brow furrows, and I let go of Aileen’s hand. What the devil is he doing here? This can’t be a coincidence.

  Aileen takes
note of my discomfort. “Papa? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, lass.” I force a smile for her benefit, pat her on the head, and ask her uncle to look after her while I pay our taxes.

  Guards flank Ahearn and McGrath’s representative on either side. They wear McGrath’s colors. That’s a relief. At least McGrath is familiar. Ahearn is an unknown. That makes him dangerous as far as I’m concerned.

  “There he is.” When he sees me approach, Ahearn flashes that unsettling smile I remember. “The man who saved my life. Well met, Esben Berengar.” He raises a flagon in my honor. “Still as quiet as ever, I see.” The soldiers exchange telling glances when he speaks. It’s clear they’re unnerved by him. What kind of man frightens castle guards?

  I incline my head in deference to Laird McGrath’s representative, a bored-looking individual of considerable girth, though my eye remains fixed on Ahearn. Two men linger in the shadows behind him. One picks his nails with a knife. Swords hang from sheaths at their sides, but neither wears armor or the colors or insignia of a noble house. These aren’t guards or soldiers. Cutthroats.

  Ahearn’s gaze wanders to the festivities and lingers an uncomfortably long time on Aileen, who has joined Duncan and Hilda in another dance. “Lovely village. A bit small for my liking. You’re wasted in a place like this, Berengar.”

  “Kells is my home.” I keep my voice firm.

  Ahearn snorts derisively. He pulls me aside before I can go. “A word, if you will. I didn’t come all this way to watch what passes for a harvest festival in a no-name village.” His men trail behind us like dogs.