Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

by Craig Davis

  Chapter II

  My mind dwells much too often on the former days, and I wonder, why did I escape notice? I fancy myself a truer target, puffed up now with grand illusions of insight and self-sacrifice, if not for the craven heart that would have in truth suggested me. I doubt not that I would have fallen just as fast if not more willingly, given the same opportunity, but a man already bereft of loyalties can not be a turncoat. Even now, I admit I have no confidence. “Save my own skin:” I’m sure my creed has not changed; surely too my old enemy would have had me. So why wasn’t I singled out? For evil to destroy a nation, it must first destroy a man. So I have to find peace believing my degraded past saved my future from becoming a true target. But the baleful eye of Domen instead fell upon a man much my better, a man for whom the consequences stabbed more deeply, Beorn Feohtan.

  Every day the sun dutifully ran its course over Feallengod, revealing its morning light over the eastern horizon of the great body of water, the Ocean Heofon. And just as predictably, every day Beorn Feohtan appeared over the hillocks of the island as he walked the path from his hovel to the terraced orchards he tended. His steps always proud and joyful, often he went his way unshod, allowing that it was good for his soles to enjoy the smooth stones with which he had paved his path, and his toes the cool grass that grew in between.

  Ecealdor himself had given the orchards to Beorn’s family in generations past. The soil, like cake in its rich moistness, gave rise to every pleasant tree and plant known to the island, and the harvest returned bountifully from year to year, each tree in its own season. As a boy, I received much more than food from those lush trees, for their branches gave sanctuary to hours of play and adventure, a theater to my fantasies. From these acres alone Beorn could feed the entire population of the community in the foothills, so the esteem of the people blossomed about his feet as well. Throughout Feallengod in those days, the blessings of Ecealdor seemed to double themselves back upon the ones who shared the abundance.

  To Beorn’s ancestors also had been laid a charge, however, a responsibility to work the orchards. Though the good land’s bounty seemed to have no end, Beorn followed well his father’s instruction to see to his work faithfully, as his grandfather’s instruction had been before him. So every morning he made his way westward down his path.

  Each day he passed the rock of the law, and out of habit he ran his fingers gently over the worn letters. He didn’t stop to try to read; instead, he imagined the law as best he could within his mind, juggling it with the muddle of his daily cares.

  Back in the Feohtan hovel, Beorn’s bride Cwen stood at her window and watched him disappear into the tangle of neighboring houses. Every morning she toiled in the kitchen, quietly put her family in order and kept the house, for so she made Beorn to prosper. Ecealdor had given her to Beorn just as he had given the orchards, though Beorn claimed but six years of age at the time and she not even one, in the tradition of the day. Not that theirs was not a match of love; even more so, as Beorn and Cwen considered themselves each a royal gift to the other. So she made her responsibility to care for him, and he her. Ecealdor didn’t arrange such things himself very often, so Cwen took special care to see to her duties.

  She carried on in a solid, stout frame, having invested her girlish figure in bearing three sons. Her brown hair often falling across her forehead in the course of her work, Cwen’s arms and shoulders had grown strong under her burdens, yet her hands remained soft and gentle to the touch. Rich green eyes peered from under her delicate brow, a lamp into her firm but sympathetic heart. She made a habit of wearing a single medallion, hung about her neck by a leather string, the form of a fawn upon a small gold disk.

  “Here, Cwen, love,” Beorn had said, the shining trinket dangling from his hand. “I have smelted and worked it as best I can. I fear I am no artist.”

  Cwen cradled the little medallion. “It is most beautiful, Beorn, and still not beautiful enough. Nothing can replace what I’ve lost, but it will help me remember. A thing to hold on to.”

  “Yes, we must always remember. Whatever comes our way, no matter the joys or griefs, nothing can fully heal this tragedy, nor loose our grasp on the memories. We must take hold of the joys of his life, and let go the mourning of his end, like a dove flying into the sky. Like a fawn leaping into the meadow.”

  Tenderly he took her into her arms as she quietly sobbed, half to comfort her and half to hide his own tears. Her shoulder was soft to his brow, but stronger than any stone brace. The days that followed were quiet and long, but indeed they followed, as they always do.

  Cwen filled those days with industry and her nights with generosity. The townsfolk well knew her spinning and the wonderful fabrics she produced by her loom. Berries and roots from her husband’s orchards she worked into colorful dyes, until only the rainbows themselves might challenge her flax and woolens. She distributed her wares, and the bounty of the orchards, throughout the community, and those who could pay in kind did, and those who couldn’t, didn’t, and never a word was spoken. These greedy hands before me exploited that very charity, me and my old friend, more often than once. More than ink stains these fingers.

  In this way honor became Beorn, by his work and by his wife. And so he sat in the high place of honor at the gate of the community.

  And so there Domen found him.

  “Good day, man of Feallengod,” said Domen. His body twisted into contradiction as he withdrew his shoulders but extended a gnarled hand. The gate of the community faced away from the mountain peak of Domen’s lair, and he had appeared unnoticed from the shadows of the city walls.

  “Good day, sir,” Beorn replied and returned his greeting. Domen’s leathery skin, stretched over boney fingers, left Beorn with the impression of grasping a handful of twigs. Domen withdrew his hand and, unthinking, rubbed his palm against his cloak.

  “Fine day on Feallengod, wouldn’t you say, man?”

  “Indeed.” Beorn looked about him at the chill overcast. Autumn fast would turn to winter, but Beorn had no mind to argue.

  “You are Beorn Feohtan, isn’t that so?”

  “That would be me, sir.”

  “You tend the orchards? You have done well here on Feallengod, have you not?”

  “Yes.” Beorn felt uneasy at the fawning of this unfamiliar figure who seemed to know him. “The gift of the soil sustains us fully. And of Ecealdor.”

  “Ecealdor, you say?” Domen’s countenance darkened drastically at the name. “What has Ecealdor done? Have you seen him? Where is he? Ecealdor – pish!”

  Beorn was not given to fly into anger, but still his back grew stiff at this sudden indignity. He frowned and drew deep breath before making measured reply.

  “The king does not answer to me, nor does he report his moving about to me.”

  “Pardon, sir,” Domen drew a hand roughly over his eyes and forehead, looking about at nothing in the sky overhead. With a deferential gesture, he again put on his humble demeanor. “No offense intended. I only meant that surely you do well by the works of your hands. No doubt you have made your livelihood prosperous, sir? And for your wife and sons ... you have three sons, I think?”

  “Two. One died.”

  “My condolences. For all your family, too, you work hard to provide well for them. How pride must swell in you, man.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Beorn, more and more suspicious yet preferring to show no rudeness. Certainly this conversation would end soon. “By the grace of Ecealdor.”

  Domen gritted his stained teeth, grinding his jaws to fend off another rant, his hatred boiling. Clearly his pleasantries made him no progress. Again his demeanor turned dark.

  “You have great faith in Ecealdor, man of Feallengod.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You depend on the grace of Ecealdor?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you consider your life the way of a man? Do you not trust in your own strength?”

  “A man is nothing more than a
servant to many, stranger.” Beorn again felt the indignation at his back. His fingers searched about in his vest pockets for a bit of dried venison. “Should he not also serve his king?”

  “You may wish to serve yourself,” Domen believed in his vanity to have opened an advantage, and so he pursued. “Will you forever lean upon this crutch, this trust in an absentee lord? Should you not take what rightfully belongs to you, and give up this myth that your king will return? Does he even remember this tiny speck in the greater kingdom?”

  “A crutch makes for quite a clever device, when one is crippled. Your own words betray a belief that Ecealdor lives still in the greater kingdom. I imagine he will be good as his word.”

  “This land needs its own king. The people are forced to give up the good things of the world in exchange for some misty hope of a perfect future. Now is now! What counts is now. This land needs to throw off Ecealdor and choose a king for the present.”

  “What words do I hear? You talk treason! Who are you to suggest such things?”

  “I am called Domen.”

  “Domen?” Beorn gasped, and his hand hung limp from the pocket it had been exploring. “Domen – from the mountain peak? We counted you dead ... or gone. That Domen is no more than a legend, surely.”

  “Oh, I am real enough, man of Feallengod. More real than you could ever realize.”

  “You have been invisible so long ... yet you are governor of the island?”

  “Not governor — prince, by edict of Ecealdor. The king fails to come back. I have determined to take over rule of Feallengod. So has he said. If you think yourself a man, you will join me. You will do what your heart dictates and follow me.”

  “He has called you prince,” Beorn conceded, trying to think but feeling confused, and his confidence wavered. “But he has also said he will return.”

  “No, idiot!” Domen seethed at Beorn’s insistence on this point. “Your life is a breath. Do you not measure it in days? What lies in wait for your old age, when all your future has become the past, and Ecealdor still hasn’t returned? Can you reclaim your life then? Look into your heart – your heart would have you serve yourself. I see it! You say the orchards come to you by royal gift. Then take hold of them! Claim them for your own use! Desert your foolish love for Ecealdor! Follow me! Follow me, and claim for yourself now what this forsaken rock owes you!”

  Anger boiled over into steaming words, and Beorn’s head cleared. “No. He made his only claim upon us, to love him. I will not disobey that one request.”

  “Curse him!” roared Domen, letting loose the thought that had plagued him all morning, and he began to pace about restlessly where he stood. “And curse you, you pitiful, ignorant fool! Your mocking will come back upon you! My will is not so easily turned aside!” Domen stormed through the gate and took his railing into the community.

  Beorn sat stunned, silent at the gate, sorting through the vile words and aftermath of emotion. Domen’s claims left him sick, yet with a taste for fruits he had never desired before. Years passed in hard labor, yet not once did he ever cease to consider the orchards a gift. Now he felt a change, a desire to claim for himself what was always his. Still, he felt sure he had guarded the letter of the law, and stood on the strength of his convictions. But in all his proud musing, he had not a single thought about Cwen.

  Domen raged in the streets as he made his way through the community. “Cursed puny cockroach! He’ll soon turn, he’ll soon turn! I know the way!” His agitated hands rubbed together tensely and clinched into fists.

  Did I cross paths with Domen that day? Likely not; my fate more probably placed me in the grip of a bottle or some faceless lassie, the old man and me. Strange how some graces erupt from festering boils. Regardless, no memory of such a meeting remains with me, and mercifully what I dread has not been revealed to me. The confluence of events that conspires to bring about what we know as history hides cleverly from human probing. But for one runaway cart, or haplessly timed swing of a staff, much that followed that day might never have been. What invisible hand drives events, what countenance smiles upon the desires of men? Or does that hand indeed direct man’s will? It vexes me even now.

  The winding streets of the community follow no pattern; they simply go where they are going. Twisting around the tightly packed houses, one might lead directly into a tree, and others might loop back upon themselves. They make for great games for the island children, and sport at the expense of strangers asking directions. But Domen, though new to town, walked his route, head down, muttering angrily, without looking. Years of glowering at the community from his overhead perch had deeply etched even the smallest alleys into his memory.

  He took no notice of the smooth paving stones under his feet.

  Out of the jumble of buildings Domen soon found himself at the mud-brick hovel of Beorn Feohtan. He stopped just a moment to quench his fury, then set his face and approached an open window.

  Inside he spied Cwen, her back to him and prettily framed by the blowing curtains. She stood at her kitchen table, double-checking a recipe scribbled upon a scrap of parchment, vigorously stirring a confection in a large bowl at rest in the crook of her arm. Her work sealed her mind and her hand.

  “Woman, can you spare a drink of cool water?” he simpered.

  “Oh! Goodness, sir, you’ve taken me by surprise!” squeaked Cwen with a jump.

  “Goodness would cause surprise indeed,” he replied, but not so she could hear. “The dust of the path has dried my throat.”

  “Yes, a drink for you, of course,” Cwen continued, and she fetched a cup from the cabinet. Going to the rain barrel at the back of the house, she ladled out a long drink and offered her tender care to Domen.

  “Many thanks,” he muttered as he sniffed the contents. He sipped it daintily, the clearness not quite to his taste, and threw the better part of it to the ground. “You acquit your home well, Cwen Feohtan.”

  “You know me, sir?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Feallengod knows you well, woman. Often the people speak of you and your generosity, your selfless giving and service.”

  “Do they?” Cwen smiled slightly. Sometimes our pride shows in feigning humility.

  “Yes, I hear their voices now, as they speak of you sacrificing your family’s well being. How they can rely upon taking the fruit of your labors right out of your hand. Yes, but do not concern yourself with their scorn.”

  “Scorn, sir?” The brightness fell from her face.

  “As I stand here, madam. The ingrates! They can’t appreciate your self-denial, the clods. They only care to take, take as you give, then jest and nudge each other over the trick they’ve played.”

  “Trick, sir?”

  “Why, certainly. You have every right to the profit of your work. The townsfolk say they lift it from your purse like pickpockets at a fair. Shameful! Indeed, I say, they treat you so badly. Why do you continue to play into their hands? Why should you make a gift of any of your belongings? What charity ever profited you?”

  “My own charity profits me.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. And tell them that when you are starving,” said Domen with a crude jerking gesture over his shoulder in the direction of the neighboring houses. “They see you only as a basket of plenty, soon to empty. For what possible reason do you insist on feeding their fat bellies and — at the same time, mind you — and their disdain for you?”

  Oh, my friend, how these words stare blankly back at me from this page! They accuse in their numbing silence. My confession takes up a dagger to skewer my heart. Domen wrenched Cwen’s blessing to me into a curse upon her, wringing out the sweet and leaving only the bitter; I renounce the day I ever took from her gentle hand upon her stoop, or looked into her gracious eyes. What despicable coil in human minds takes innocent kindness and twists it into vile avarice, a sauce to baste the burning martyr? Yet the accusation stands; so charged, and so I plead. Benevolence too often begets hedonism, and even the poorest of all can grow
to despise the life that charity sustains. To live is to give opportunity to deceit, and like all the most innocent, Cwen fell victim most easily. I disavow my putrid stomach; better that it should have starved those many days ago.

  “My reason is love,” said Cwen. “The law of Ecealdor tells us to bless him and bless my fellows upon Feallengod.”

  Again Domen felt the rage inside him rise, roiling his entrails as he braced himself; only with the greatest effort did he prevent his expression to even flinch at the name. “Ah, but remember the whole law: ‘Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, as you richly take.’ You must love yourself, for nobody else will. As you serve the king, you must serve yourself. Nobody cares about your charity, Matron Feohtan, only about their full stomachs and jolly satire.” A snake slid over his foot, but Domen took no notice.

  “They don’t?”

  “And what a fool they make of your husband.”

  “My husband?”

  “Certainly. What did you think? Consider the greatness of his labors, wasted for filling the bloated bowels of lazy slugs. I hardly blame them, though, that you don’t protect his best interests. Didn’t Ecealdor say the fruit of the orchards belongs to you?”

  “He said we have possession of the fruits.”

  “And didn’t Ecealdor say to be just as he is?” a sickly smile spread.

  “Yes.”

  “Then follow his command and claim your rights to the orchards. Do you think anybody takes from Ecealdor’s hand what is his? Didn’t he promise you prosperity? Don’t let some pitiful parasites keep you from the riches that belong to you. You can’t wait forever for your reward; take it now!”

  “They make a fool of Beorn?”

  “As I stand here, woman. But do forgive yourself – you didn’t mean to betray your family. Well, good day ... pardon, I believe this cup belongs to you, no? I would not think of taking what is rightfully yours, madam.” The old fox slipped away, leaving Cwen standing, worrying her thoughts, there on the porch. His back turned to her as he retreated to the path; a cruel grin bared his yellow teeth.

  Slowly Cwen returned to her recipe, distracted as she stirred and baked, rolling over in her mind what the strange messenger had said. She hadn’t even asked his name, but the more she thought upon these things, the more she took his arguments to heart. So, the community ridiculed Beorn? And the fault did fall to her, the fault of giving away from their abundance. Ecealdor had said to be just as he is. What did that mean, if not to rule over her possessions? Surely not to give her family over to fraud. We must love ourselves, she thought. Tears dropped into her batter, for the sake of shaming her husband’s name.

  A wise man would have scoffed at the whole argument. A scoundrel such as I — I would have sought excuses. But the upright always add unto their own account.

  Again her hands, which had worked so often to bless so many, slowed into idleness as she stood and mulled her exchange with Domen. A noise came at the door, and Beorn entered his home.

  “Cwen, love!”

  “Beorn.”

  “And how have you fared this day, my dear?”

  Her voice trembled with emotion. “Beorn, we must protect ourselves against the community. You, me, our sons — we must think of ourselves first.”

  A chill filled the air as the autumn sun set. A genial fire soon would warm the Feohtans’ hovel, and just so also the embers lit in their hearts flame into roaring tongues of rebellion.