by Craig Davis
Chapter XVII
The darkness folded over Beorn’s aimless wandering, and his heart as well, as it swelled into one emotion then sank to the next. Surviving the battle had been his dearest wish; but instead of breathing glad relief, his soul gnawed at guilt. And why had he lived through the battle? Because he had crawled under the safe branches of cowardice, an ample bush. Again loathing within accused him of failure, of weakness. To what purpose had he survived? If Domen discovered his desertion, likely no better fate than death awaited. And Begietan — as usual, he knew not what to feel about Begietan. Should he grieve? His son’s heart long had died to him; seeing his body only forced Beorn to believe what he had known for years. So fear loosed its grip upon his heart, only to give way to hatred, swirling into grief, then guilt, and back again to fear.
The rising sun, finding slim exposure between the horizon and an incoming tempest, called him to the home that had offered shelter from so many past storms. The path, the same winding, narrow way so common to Feallengod — he remembered the many days he had set out upon his own path with the dawn for company, Cwen singing benediction from the window. Now the smooth stones, feeling like glass beneath his feet, made him ashamed to return again to the hovel, knowing he had betrayed those many faithful generations of ancestors before him. His mind froze, paralyzed at the thought of telling Cwen she had lost yet another son. The storm clouds barreled in off Ocean Heofon, their purplish-black rolling in and out of Beorn’s mood. Through the murky wilderness of Feallengod he drifted until he found himself at the place he most detested, Domen’s deep woods.
A limp songbird hung from Domen’s jagged fingers, downy feathers clinging lightly to his bristling whiskers, tinged red, framing his startled face. Denied his mountain, and the relative sleep of his matted pallet, he made do with a crude nest of fallen leaves, dry and wet, dusty and rotting.
“You slug, you would make me wait?” he growled. “Your son has proved his worthlessness, and leaves me to reorganize by myself. Well that I’m rid of him! One less fool of Feallengod for me to gnash against.”
“I don’t want …” Beorn began to protest.
“Shut up! My problems abound enough with Blawan — I will hear nothing from you, man of Feallengod. Killing off the rebels makes for hellish work now with Blawan here. The day comes when your bumbling will no longer thwart my desires, you vile squatter! Force won’t suffice at all now. Attack now must issue from a cancer within, yet more division, more accusation, more corruption. I will fill the camp with agents, all the hundreds I can, sneaking vermin and bile, starting with you. Elder in the village! You joke — but so you are known, so take your place within the camp, use your authority to take charge. Raise enough men to overthrow Cirice, then bend the rest to me. Contort their love of themselves, or Feallengod, or of pleasure. Stoke arguments about thin differences, feed their proud minds, choke out forgiving ways with complaint. Wrap them up in trifles, whatever divides. Use all the lies you can contrive.”
“I don’t want …” Beorn’s voice bleated.
“A plague upon you! Damned, putrid rodent! Get out of my sight! Out of my sight!” Domen’s words and arms whipped into frenzy, firing at Beorn with rocks and logs much too great for him to have reasonably lifted. Beorn ran from the wood, as Domen’s diatribe rang through his head, again retreating and lost. He resumed his wandering, a sojourner in his own land, thoughts colliding within his mind. Unable to think, unwilling to concentrate, Beorn tried to arrive nowhere. At last, out of duty or perhaps desperation, he turned back for the moors. Perhaps he should obey his orders; perhaps Hatan would tell him what to do. This time, he promised himself, he would listen to Hatan.
The threatening clouds gave up their rain as he made for the camp — heavy, full drops pelted his face. The downpour’s pattering upon the ground, a million times multiplied, sounded like the growling purr of a ravening lion.
Head down, Beorn trudged as the mud grasped sucking hold of his feet. Slimy rocks and slick, leaf-covered trails left him slipping and sliding along his way. Many times he went down, struggling mightily back to his feet, bruised and scraped, covered with the muck of his world, rain still pouring. Arriving at the outskirts of the camp at last, he lifted his head to see nothing but the destruction of the night before. Bodies still lay upon the ground, but only those of Domen’s followers.
Beorn halted, puzzled at the spreading scene of ruin: Arrows lying about harmlessly, bloody spears sticking into the soil. Only then did he realize the silence of the camp; he heard nothing but the drone of the rain. His face aghast, he broke into a run deep into the moors, water flaring into the air at each footfall. No braying of donkeys greeted him, no barking of dogs, no clattering of cooking pots, and no sentries appeared from the cover to call him to account. In camp, the fires’ last dying embers smoldered against the rain, supplies and weapons littered the ground, and spies struggled mutely against their trusses. Among them sat I, rain washing away the dried blood of my beating; my wild expressions and pitiful grunting pleaded with Beorn, but his eyes seemed to have grown darkened, veiled in a milky, muddy glaze, not as though he were going blind, but as if all the light had drained out of him. His gaze appeared both directionless and ranging far beyond me, straining to glimpse Hatan, or any of his fellows, staring deep into the expanse of the horizon.
Cirice was gone. Hatan was missing, too, as well all the men, the living and wounded, the dead and dying. Gone too were the wives, the sons and the daughters who had chosen to tend to the men of the camp.
A peal of thunder, and a terrifying thought flashed like the lightning. As the storm beat upon him, Beorn sprinted through the marshes toward the eastern bays. He quickly ran far into the distance, until finally his feet pounded upon the wooden docks, the only answer a hollow echo. His eyes froze upon the sight he had dreaded, his feet skidding to a halt, barely clinging to the edge of the pier.
Proud on the ocean’s surface rose the masts and sails of Blawan’s longboats, distant on the waters of Heofon. Upon the masts’ highest pinnacle waved the flag of Gægnian. Blawan had journeyed the vast distance to Feallengod not just to defend Cirice and all his number, but also to seal their passage to the courts of the king.
These cursed eyes had lain witness to it all. After the battle Blawan cut short the muted celebration and directed every man, woman and child to the boats. First the dead, treated with royal respect and deference, washed and wrapped in white linen. Then the wounded, their injuries tended, helped down to the docks. Last the healthy, followed by Cirice, Witness, and finally Blawan. The mighty warrior offered tender care to even the least, even the most frail, stabbing at my cold heart, and I called out. But the gag prevented me — I called, how I begged! Was I not too wounded? My efforts even yet fell well short, and once again I believed myself abandoned. Yet another brush with royal grace, my refusal bittersweet with longing as well. I had bound myself to the curse, and the curse held me in its grip.
Beorn’s despair washed over him like the deluge: In that moment he realized in stunned epiphany that all he wanted then, or had ever wanted, was aboard those ships set out for Gægnian. A scream arose in his chest, and he tore at his waistcoat; Beorn collapsed to his knees and wept, but tears in their weakness only mocked the depth of his hopelessness. The uncaring rain washed away the witness of his sorrow, and I could only listen to his distant anguish.
