Marley's Flower

Marley’s Flower

Summer had resurrected the woods, fabulously so; as a result the house that Marley had dreamed of was nearly obscured by a riot of wild chartreuse foliage. Despite careful attention to direction, it had taken her longer than she had expected to find it. The house’s grey stone exterior blended with its ultra-natural environment. It had stood the test of time, two stories of fine craftsmanship built on the side of the mountain, accessible only by a winding dirt road. In contrast to the freely growing trees and ferns, the house’s flower beds were bastions of painstakingly organized gardening. Rosebushes climbed neat wooden trellises while daylilies, carnations and star gazer flowers were among those Marley was able to identify under the windows, where they erupted in rainbows of color that contrasted nicely with the surrounding greens, browns and greys of the forest and house. The soft crunch of tires on the seldom-traveled road signaled that Sarah was arriving as Marley knelt in front of one of the flowerbeds. Carefully, Marley reached for a particular blossom that had caught her eye and brought it closer for examination. She bit her lip in confusion, wondering if something was wrong with her eyesight. The flower was beautiful, but she couldn’t have said what color it was if her life depended on it. It was as if she was seeing a fantastic new color, something impossible.

She rose to her feet the moment Sarah’s light presence drew near, but she continued to stare at the flower, enamored and perplexed by its blatant contrast to those flowers that she was familiar with.  Not one of the blossoms that had lined the broad path she had taken to the house was of this craft or color; she had been able to, with great confidence, name the make and tone of each flower.  The flowerbed that Sarah had planted did not pose trouble to her, either, until this arrogant creature had craned its neck toward her searching eyes.  She blinked and then rubbed her eyes with one fist, hoping that this would somehow form the blossom into something more comfortable for her to behold; but she had no luck.  It stood proudly in her hand, an unwilting figure whose nature wholly escaped her.

“I’m glad you found your way,” Sarah said abruptly, appearing at the small gate that surrounded the flowerbed.  Marley, although she had expected her friend, was quite startled.  “Did you have any trouble?”

Marley shrugged and stole the flower from sight.  “Well, I beat you to the house, so I must’ve done something right!” She chuckled.  “I don’t know why you insist on using that road all the time.  It’s so narrow in most places.  And the paths that we take both converge into the same road.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I like the challenge, or something like that,” her friend replied with a divine smile.  “Anyway, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it home sooner.  Traffic was pretty outrageous back there, mainly because of a couple accidents.  I swear, no one pays attention on city streets.”

“Oh, no worries,” Marley said.  “You don’t have to apologize; we’ve been friends forever.  I was entertaining myself with the beautiful flowers that you’ve planted here.  I can’t get enough of them.”

“Yeah, aren’t they great?  It took me quite a while to gather the seeds that became the flowers that are here today.  I have a little bit of every part of the world in this fenced area.”

“I can see that!” Marley laughed, squatted down, and observed a yellow carnation.  “But these yellow carnations are still my favorite.”

A warm wind swept suddenly toward the two friends from an unknown direction, tickling the jade leaves of the trees and causing them to dance and whisper like the leaping currents of a river.  As the breeze, invisible but felt, breached her skin like a flaming dagger, she moved her eyes to the spot where she had picked the mysterious flower.  To her astonishment, another flower stood in the place of that which she had taken from the bed; unlike that in her hand, however, this new creature was smaller than those around it, though it bore the same unidentifiable color as the flower that was hidden in her hand.  Her eyes remained on it for some time, frozen in a glare of wonder and frustration.

“It’s pretty hot out here,” Sarah remarked, gazing toward the sky.  She turned her attention back to Marley.  “Would you like to come inside? It should be nice and cool.”

Marley looked at her suddenly.  “Um…no thanks.  I like it out here, in the flowerbed.” She stood again, thought written on her face.

“Is something wrong, Marley?”

She sighed.  “Sarah, there’s a reason I came here, though I didn’t tell you.  I mean, I love hanging out with you, but there was another reason.”

Sarah grinned.  “I had a feeling.  When we talked on the phone, you sounded a bit off.”

Her friend nodded.  “I just had the weirdest dream last night, and it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever had before.  Usually I wake up from dreams without remembering them, or without feeling like they were important.  Last night’s was different.  And the thing is, I just don’t know why.  It seemed like it was about everyday life.”

“Yeah?” Sarah leaned against the fence, clearly interested.  “So what was it about?”

“Well, it’s not anything exciting.  In the dream, I drove to your house, and I must have spent most of the dream standing out here, just looking at it.  I wanted to go inside, but it’s like something or someone had locked me out.  Then I started looking through your flowerbeds, as if there was a key lying somewhere; but I couldn’t find anything.  Apparently it was hidden or didn’t exist, because no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find it.  I just left and drove home.”

“How weird,” Sarah replied.  “And you actually felt motivated to come here? Most people would just say, ‘Whatever’ and forget about it.”

“Yeah, and normally I would.  But it’s like….Well, you know how it is.  It’s like the feeling you get when you have one earring and you’re searching forever to find the matching earring.  Nothing can take the lost earring’s place, because they’re the perfect set for the colors of the clothes you’re wearing.  You dig through all of the earrings, and you need to find the matching one quickly if you plan to look your best.  That’s what I felt in that dream.  But instead of finding what I was looking for, I just left.  It’s so aggravating!”

Sarah chuckled.  “It sure sounds like it.  And you think that the answer might be here?”

Marley shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Maybe I’m going crazy.”

“No, I’m glad you looked into this! You might be surprised, but you’re not the first friend of mine who has had a dream like that about my house.”

Marley raised an eyebrow, feeling as if she had stepped into a realm wholly unfamiliar, as unfamiliar as the flower in her hand.  “Other people have talked to you about stuff like this?”

“Yeah,” said Sarah; “this house is really popular!”

Marley turned to the house and captured all of it that she could between the foliage and lofty flowers.  Its walls, feet thick, reminded her of the fortifications of castles she had heard of in old stories.  Well-armored and sitting on the summit of the region’s highest mountain, this fortress could likely elude the strongest soldiers; common tools of the world, no matter their prestige and reputation, could not dent the invulnerable walls that loomed before her.  She was not so much frightened of the edifice as awestruck; for years it had been battered by storms and heavy, pestilent rains, but for as long as she could remember, it had remained unchanged.  Sarah’s father had constructed the fine walls with his own hands, she had said.  With the flawless knowledge of a learned carpenter he had drawn up the blueprint, laid the foundations, erected the walls, sized the numerous rooms, and topped the building with a thick roof.  He had required no aid in its construction, but it appeared as if a group of ancients, versed in the lore of wood and stone, had joined together in crafting an impenetrable stronghold, the epitome of their talent.  Marley noted the multiple windows across the surface of the walls, and identified their intricate design as exquisite, almost fantastic.  Bright light shone against and through them, overcoming the nearest dimness created by the laden boughs of the trees of the forest.

“It is incredibly beautiful,” Marley admitted.  “I don’t know if I’d want to live in it, but it seems like I was desperate to in my dream.  I wonder why?  Maybe the beauty of it just really sticks out to me and your other friends.”

Sarah shrugged.  “It’s possible, I guess.”  She gestured at Marley’s hand.  “What do you have back there?”

Marley’s heart sank; she was instantly embarrassed that she would have to present something she did not comprehend.  She revealed the flower to Sarah.  “I hope you’re not mad, but I picked this flower.  I was looking at it for a little while, and I just couldn’t pin down what kind it was, or what color it was, for that matter.  So I picked it to get a better look.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Sarah said with a smile.  “Can I take a closer look?”

Marley brought it closer to her friend’s face.  “Weird, isn’t it?”

“Oh, so you’ve found that one,” Sarah replied.  “I guess it is odd, if you compare it to all of the other flowers.  Maybe they’re the weird ones, and this one is normal.” She laughed.

“What color is it?” Marley inquired, her voice already weighed with near exasperation.  “Since I got here, I’ve thought of every color I’ve seen and learned.  I can’t even link it to a nearby color, like I can with others.”

“Maybe it’s just a new color,” her friend answered simply.

“A new color?” asked Marley, her eyes betraying her astonishment.  “We’ve discovered all of the colors already.  Haven’t you seen that color wheel thingy with every possible color?”

“Yes, I have, but I wouldn’t say that it has every possible color, just every color that we know of.”

Marley sighed.  “Maybe, but after years of the world being exposed to color, you’d think that a color like this would be on the color wheel.  Sarah, this flower…it just doesn’t fit.  It’s annoying me.”

“Why can’t you accept it as a new color?”

“Because that just isn’t logical, Sarah,” she pressed, twirling the flower.  “Look at all of these other flowers you have here.  I can name all of them, and I know every color, even if the color is a bit off.  But this one…stood out.  I don’t know what color it is.  I don’t even know what type of flower it is!” She took the blossom from Sarah’s face and looked closely at it again.  “You planted all of the flowers here.  Where did you get this one from?”

Sarah shook her head.  “No, I planted all of the flowers around you, but the one that you’re holding, I didn’t plant that one.  It was already here when I began to grow flowers, though I didn’t even notice it until all of the others were grown already.”

Marley looked at Sarah momentarily, clearly confused.  “Are you sure you didn’t plant it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, someone had to plant it.  Flowers don’t grow from nothing.”

Sarah’s eyes wandered over the assorted flowers within the fenced area.  “Yeah, that one is unique.  There is something extremely beautiful about it.  I mean, all of the flowers here have their own beauty, but that one seems superior.”

“That was my first thought,” Marley replied, bitterness carried on the notes of her voice.  “But it’s getting so frustrating, I’m starting to think it less beautiful with every passing minute.”

“Something has to make sense to be beautiful, then?” asked Sarah.

Marley did not avert her gaze from the enigmatic specimen in her hands.  “It was a joke.”  She was silent for a few moments.  “I’m sorry I’m making such a big deal about this, but this is really bothering me.  I mean, Sarah, look at where we live.  Nothing new or exciting ever comes from this place.  We know everything there is to know; every animal, plant, mountain range, insect, and flower has been catalogued.  But this flower comes along, and it’s completely evading all logic that I have.”  She took the figure from her view and pointed to the house.  “That’s a grey house.  We both know it’s a grey house, because for thousands of years everyday people have seen the color, named it, and become familiar with it.”  She pointed to a tree.  “The leaves on that tree are green.  A preschooler would know that; it’s in our consciousness.  Any adequately schooled person, no matter his background, will name the color of those leaves in his own language.  But this thing is different.  It’s not colorless, because it would be invisible.  But it’s not any of the colors that you see around us, either.  Not even a slight shade of a color we know.”

Sarah nodded.  “As I said, it’s a new color, Marley.”

“I disagree, because someone else would have noticed it and catalogued it by now.”

“Maybe it has been catalogued, and not many people paid attention,” Sarah proffered.

Marley’s face contorted with doubt.  “If it had been catalogued, the color would be common knowledge, and we would both be able to identify it.  That’s not the case.” She stared blankly down the road that disappeared into the forest.  “This is just insulting.  I probably shouldn’t even bother trying to figure it out.”

“Marley, I love you, but maybe this is just something that can’t easily be understood.  Maybe you should just take it for what it is: something new, something different from what you’re used to.  If you start looking at it through the scope of what you already know, you’re probably going to stop noticing its beauty and see it as something ugly, something contrary to nature.”

“I can’t do that, Sarah,” her friend replied.  When Sarah’s shoulders fell back in resignation she asked, “What, you want me to treat such blind acceptance as gospel? Now I love you, too, but I could never agree that it’s a new color.  And I’ve told you why.  Walk from land to land, and you’ll see the blues, reds, blacks, whites, purples, and greens that you’re familiar with.  Now where will this color show up?” She lifted the flower back into view.  “It won’t show up anywhere.  And the flower itself? It doesn’t look like anything you’ll ever find growing in any land.  I don’t know what this is, Sarah, but I don’t think it’s a flower.”

She approached her vehicle, which was parked some ways down the road, beside Sarah’s. With more force than was necessary, she cast the mysterious blossom down the road the moment she reached the edge of the flowerbed.  Sarah looked at her, her eyes filled with pity; then she looked at the flower, a strange but infinitely gorgeous creature, abandoned but not shed of its glory, power, and diversity.  She did not pick it up, for it was not hers to give or take; she had picked one of her own in the same flowerbed, with the same features, years ago.  This one in particular was Marley’s flower, and would remain, on that seldom-traveled road, Marley’s flower for as long as Marley would return.  Storms and pestilent rains had often drowned the bed of flowers in which that mysterious blossom had nestled, but when the clouds had parted and Sarah noted the deaths of the latest batch of flowers, Marley’s flower had remained unchanged.  Sarah left the fence and walked toward her friend, her eyes clothed with imploration.

“Won’t you come inside for a little while, before you go?” she asked innocently.

“No,” said Marley, “I’m sorry, but I really need to get back to my house.  I wish we could hang out longer, but I just have some things to do.  It was nice hanging out with you, though.”

“Yeah, same here, Marley.  But what about your dream? Don’t you think it’s important?”

As Marley opened the door to her car, she looked at her friend and shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Nothing really worth thinking about, I guess.  It was immature of me, to be bothered by something so ridiculous.  The mind can do strange things to a person.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Sarah agreed.  “And if it keeps bothering you?”

“I’ll just have to ignore it,” she answered, taking one last look at the abandoned flower on the ground.  “Have a good day, Sarah.”

“I will, Marley.”

Sarah sighed, turned away, and ascended some stone steps that escalated to the smooth door of the house her father had built.  She entered silently, and Marley watched with a strange sense of remorse as the door closed securely behind her.  Surprised by the abrupt emotion that welled from her heart, she calmed herself by saying, “It was just a dream, Marley, and nothing more.” And with those words, she got into her car and charged over the blossom.  She then hastened down the road lined with flowers, down onto the broad road that twisted down the mountain, down into the city.

Renaissance--Part IV

Sigeas's mother prepares to give birth, but the heroes of our story find themselves in a dreadful situation.  As the journey nears its end, Sigeas is faced with an important decision.  Emotion and a fateful battle await you in the final part of my short epic, "Renaissance."

They attacked in the night.  Fulfilling the roles of midwife and lookout was not an easy task for Sigeas, but even as he monitored his mother’s labor, he observed their surroundings from the corners of his eyes.  There was neither sound nor shadow for the first hour of her intermittent contractions, save for her occasional cries and groans.  He imagined packs of hunting wolves fleeing upon hearing the agonized screams of, as far as they could tell, some crazed shaman or demon wandering the land.  Small military caravans might hear her and make for the nearest civilization, believing that a wailing specter haunted the dunes.  But as these protective fantasies circled Sigeas’s mind, he felt a sharp wind slice by his ear; then he heard two stony surfaces grind together.  He averted his attention from his mother and watched an arrow glance off the boulder that served as a wall for their shelter.  Someone was firing upon them.  His eyes burned as the memory of Faseton’s fall assaulted his mind.  The bloodied earth, the severed limbs, the rain of arrows, the flaming homes, the shrieks of the murdered.  Not now.  Not again.  He would not allow that dreadful event to repeat itself.  He did not know who came for them now, but if they sought to dissolve a family, they were no better than the imperialists who had devastated his hometown.  He stood, brandished his sword, and turned around.  On top of a hill to the east, beneath the dawning sky, were three men dressed in the red leather armor of Thalnon.

“Sigeas, what’s happening?” asked his mother.

“A Thalnon caravan.”

“No.” Her voice trembled as she began to weep.  “No, not now.  Sigeas, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to slaughter every one of them,” he replied, his voice unwavering.  “I love you, Mother.” He marched across the grass, surveying the difficult battlefield his enemies had prepared for him.  A steady uphill charge led to his three opponents, and there were perhaps more members of the caravan concealed behind the fold of the hill.  He roared, “For Faseton!” and tore across the earth with such unexpected speed, the men above took a step back to provide extra space to ground themselves.  The desire to protect his mother and exact vengeance on these harbingers of death drove him across the slope as if it were level earth.  Two arrows whistled through the air from bowmen hidden behind bushes on either side of the group of swordsmen ahead.  One arrow plunged into the grass beside him, while the other darted past his shoulder.  He increased his pace and made directly for the marauder on the left; when he reached the man, blade met blade with such momentum, he knocked the marauder flat onto his back.  In the same swing, the tip of his sword cleaved the side of his center opponent’s leg.  He raised his weapon immediately, catching the steel from the same man’s weapon.  Then he launched his foot upon the area he had carved, causing the man to shriek and his leg to buckle.  Sigeas dodged a blow from his third opponent and finished his second with a deep swipe across the torso.

One of the bowmen surfaced from the left with a saber drawn, and the other a moment later wielding an elegant broadsword.  After dodging the blow from his third opponent, Sigeas propelled his blade toward the sky and smashed against his sword with tremendous force.  The bludgeon staggered the man, presenting Sigeas with an opportunity to parry a frenzied strike from the first enemy he had floored.  He spun to his right as the man’s blade was deflected, and swept his weapon through his legs with the energy from his spin.  Now painted in blood, his sword rose up just in time to halt the downward slash of his third enemy’s blade toward his head; at this moment, the saber from one of the bowmen lanced down his back, cutting from his shoulder to his hip.  Fortunately, the attack had been inaccurate due to the fact that he was nearing the end of his spin when it was made.  He kicked his third enemy in the stomach, launching him against the shoulder of the bowman with a broadsword.  Then he whipped around, smashed the first bowman’s blade aside, and removed his hands from his arms.

The third swordsman and second bowman charged toward him, declaring the name of Pavius.  They only succeeded in enraging Sigeas, who returned the charge with an unintelligible, bloodthirsty cry.  He forced his blade against that of his third enemy when the bowman’s broadsword pounded into it and hurled him to the grass.  Before they could strike at him, he hurried to his feet and shook off a pain that had risen from his left wrist.  The broadsword tumbled toward him, and he managed to block it, though the strike shook his bones.  The third swordsman’s weapon sliced horizontally toward Sigeas’s neck; he ducked beneath it, disengaged his sword from the bowman’s, and drove his left fist into the swordsman’s jaw.  His knee then rose into the left side of the man’s abdomen, and his blade glided through the right.  A swift hop to the side separated him from the severance of his arm by the bowman’s broadsword.  He raised his sword to block the subsequent flurry of attacks, but one of them tore his weapon from his hands.

The bowman roared and struck toward his left shoulder.  Sigeas, not expecting such speed, moved aside but was grazed by the wide blade.  He sent one foot into the man’s hands and grinned when he saw that the power of the kick released his hold on his weapon.  He then lunged forward, the full weight of his body slamming his adversary to the moist turf.  The man had not expected such a move; in the moment it took him to recover, Sigeas’s fist crashed into his cheek, into his teeth, and into the bridge of his nose.  Knuckles and facial features were draped with blood before the Thalnion marauder found the strength to fling the young man from his body and stand.  This was no mere toss; Sigeas soared onto his heels, then collapsed to his bottom, and finally slid across the hilltop and toppled over.  A pointed stone pierced the wound on his back and brought his sliding to an end.  The bowman disregarded the numerous blades sprinkling the battlefield and clamped his hands around Sigeas’s neck, wrenching his life away with every obstructed breath.  Unable to break free of the firm grip, the young man thrashed his arms in desperation and managed to land a solid punch in the center of his enemy’s throat.  The man’s hands hesitated.  Sigeas grabbed the stone beneath him.  Before the marauder could reinforce his hold, his young enemy pummeled him with the pointed end of the rock and wrecked him to the side.  Sigeas turned over and reached into the grass.  His opponent stood, swayed, and lurched toward him.  Sigeas spun with his sword in hand and finished the Thalnion with a lacerating slash across the stomach.

They were gone.  Five men, elite soldiers who had served beneath the famed King Pavius, had fallen beneath Sigeas’s blade.  He surveyed the site with a sense of pride, but the pride was soon replaced by nausea, the nausea by repulsion, and the repulsion by numbness as the gore-drenched battlefield became a blur in his vision.  He looked at his blade, which seemed to be crafted of blood rather than steel.  He looked at his clothes, sponges for the blood the earth and his sword had failed to find.  Then he turned away.  His feat bestowed on him no joy, but he had to kill them.  There had been no other choice but death.  He could not have surrendered and allowed them to add to the number of innocent lives they had already taken.  He had to do it.  With a sigh, he began to walk down the hill and gazed toward the camp.  And there rested an image that stayed with him for the remainder of his days.  His mother, his sole family, still ripe with child, lay against the boulder behind their camp, an arrow lodged in her chest.

He hurried to her side and watched in awe as she wept, one hand seizing the area of her new wound, and the other beneath her round belly.  Her eyes found him, but never remained there for long; she seemed to see something beyond his ability to see, something that granted her one last scrap of strength before her life fled from her.  He shook his head, threw his sword onto the grass, and embraced her.  Tears burst from his eyes as he said, “Mother, I’m sorry! I’m sorry I couldn’t stop that arrow! I tried to save you! I tried to protect you from them.  I’m so sorry.” He released her and dropped into a kneeling position, examining the arrow.  “There has to be something….Mother, I have to save you! There must be a way.”

“Sigeas.” Her voice was weak, but firm.  “I’m dying.  You—you did what you could.  But I’m dying.  I will give birth to this—child with my last breath.”

“No, Mother, you can’t,” Sigeas insisted.  “You can’t leave.”

“Sigeas, the—” She winced, and her fingernails made indentations in her surcoat as her hand closed tighter around the arrow.  “The blood of your enemies covers you.  You—you got your revenge.  You can become a new man.  Begin a new life.  But—the choice is yours.”

Her son bowed his head, and his tears dotted the blanket.  He said nothing.

“And the choice—Sigeas, the choice is yours to take or leave the baby.  If you take the baby, remember what I taught you last night.  Remember—” Her teeth ground together as they had earlier, and a short whine left her throat.  “There’s no time.  Be—prepared.  Now, Sigeas.”

His chest heaved, and his eyes skipped across the camp.  “What? Mother, you can’t—I can’t—You don’t have the strength to do this.”

She released her hands from her wound and stomach, and placed them on either side of his head.  “I love you, my son.  You are a great man, and will become greater.” Then she closed her eyes, returned her hands to their position, and said, “Now help me one last time.  Will you do that for me?”

He nodded and moved to his designated spot, hardly able to see beyond the wall of his tears.  His mother pushed, and pushed, while he prepared to accept the new child from her.  With each surge of energy that she brought forth, he knew that she was one moment nearer to death.  She pushed, and pushed.  Although she had specified his duty well the previous night, he could only focus on her face, for he realized that there would soon be no animation in it.  The thought of losing her pained him far more than his thoughts of his lost home, and of Pavius’s abuse of his mother, and of the many lives lost during Faseton’s fall.  She pushed, and pushed.  If only his father had urged him less in the practice with a sword, and educated him in the mending of wounds.  Then he could give medical attention to her chest while she focused on her labor.  She pushed, and pushed.  He turned his attention to his duty and saw a head surface.  Then, with a final, victorious cry and push, she released a new life into Sigeas’s hands.  Her head rolled back against the boulder, and there was no more tension in her hands.  A warm smile spread over her face, and she breathed no longer.

Sigeas observed her passing in horror.  How she managed to seem so at peace as she departed, he did not understand; indeed, she appeared to be more welcoming toward her end than he was.  He continued to look at her for some time, now weeping, now stunned.  He believed he might awaken and find himself in his bed at Faseton, refreshed by a long sleep, and recalling the events of the past nine months only as one recalls a dream.  His mother would be awake, also, and lively as ever, busying herself with the household chores of the day.  But she was still dead, and he still mourned, and this new baby wriggled in his arms, groaning and crying.  He took his clean dagger and cut the cord that connected the child to its deceased mother; he forced a pained laugh as he remembered thinking his mom was joking the previous night when she mentioned a fleshy cord reaching from her to the baby.  Sitting down, he looked carefully at the child and noticed that it was a girl.  The blood of birth marked her skin.  He looked at his bloodied clothing and hands and then back at the baby, and grinned.  “We’re not so different, really,” he said to her.

After spending more time mourning, thanking his mother for all that she had taught him, and praying for her safe passage into the heavens, he used one of the shelter’s stakes to dig a grave for her beside the boulders.  It was still early morning when he finished.  He kissed her forehead, placed her in the soft earth, and turned his attention to the baby, whom he had wrapped in a clean cloth and placed on a corner of the camp blanket.  He stared down into the grave and muttered between tears, “I will protect her, mother.  I swear to you, I will look after her.  You said I’m a great man.  She will be a great woman, just as you were.  I love you.” He shoveled the earth into the pit, lifted additional prayers to the Gods, and disassembled the camp.  After leaving behind what could not be borne on the way ahead, he scooped the baby into one arm, shouldered his pack, took his sword from the grass, and made for the stream he had used to sanitize his dagger.  The watercourse ran from the southeast to the hazy western land, and in this region it curved around the base of a hill that dwarfed the knolls around it.  He rounded the hill and found that the stream pooled at its southern slope, so he set the baby down and submerged himself in the pond to wash the blood from his body.  Then he cleansed the baby by moistening her cloth and rubbing the blood off her skin.

Sigeas climbed to the crown of the hill and turned toward the northwest, his heart heavy.  The boulders where he and his mother had camped rose from the earth ahead, marking her grave.  A tear rolled down his cheek as his mind lapsed into the replaying of her death, but something on the horizon shattered his daze.  The Eternal Flame of Harvidol leapt up again, small but visible, growing to eventually become the blazing fire that had burned the night before.  A warm smile spread over his face, and his eyes fell to the baby in his arms.  “The day is young, my sister,” he said to her.  “Let’s go.”  Then he turned and began his journey toward Ai-Tizuj as the sun climbed the eastern sky.

Renaissance--Part III

So begins the third section of Sigeas's tale.  The story nears its climax in this portion, after various significant discussions between mother and son take place.  Also, the mythology and geography of the world of Emlenor are emphasized.  I suggest that all readers take the time to see the appropriate map in the post below to avoid losing a sense of direction, as a few important cities and countries are named.  This is likely the most controversial part of "Renaissance," so I hope to see a few (more would be better) comments on the subject matter.  Enjoy!

The shelter was complete.  Pinioned to the four stakes was a blanket that acted as a roof; a larger blanket was laid across the grass beneath; and a third blanket was rolled up against a boulder, sandwiched between the stony surface and Sigeas’s mother’s back.  She seemed exhausted and years beyond her age.  As Sigeas observed her, he decided that he would postpone their eastern migration for a day, no matter how fervently she debated with him.  With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he trudged to the opposite side of the tall rocks and gazed out at the western grassland, toward Harvidol.  After a while he leaned against a boulder and watched, mesmerized, as the distant flames of the city’s fire licked the cooling air.  Then the thoughts returned to him.  The images of the burning city and dying citizens returned to him.  And though he had not seen it, he imagined the red-bearded, black-caped man forcing his mother onto the ground.  He attempted to press it out of his mind, but it fired back at him with greater intensity.  He should have stopped him.  He should have stopped all of them.  He should have altered his footwork and slain his second opponent, and struck the king down an instant later.  There was no punishment too gruesome for what they did.  They deserved to die.

He tore his sword from his sheath and plunged it into the earth, then collapsed onto the grass and began to weep.  He wept until the faint sea breeze turned his tears into frosty darts, and at this time he raised his eyes and noticed that that last sliver of the sun’s light was disappearing behind the mountains.

“Thought-evoking, isn’t it?” his mother asked from across the boulders.

He wiped the tears from his cheeks and made an effort to compose himself. “What—what is thought-evoking?”

“The Eternal Flame of Harvidol,” she replied, the drowsiness of her voice carried on the wind.  “In the year one hundred twenty, Crel the Wizard, the protector of Emlenor, cast a powerful spell outside of Harvidol over wood transported from the magical Laindren Forest.  The spell took him a month to conjure.  A fire arose from the wood, small at first; but as time passed, it became larger and larger.  Five hundred years after its creation, it died.  But not long after, it rose up from the ashes of the wood.  Thus, it is believed that every five hundred years, the flame reignites.  Crel cast this spell to honor the five hundred people of the Koritsu tribe who died while traveling through Glaciath in the winter.” The drowsiness of her voice departed, and she began to speak as one reminiscing.  “The Koritsu were a pure, righteous people who started out as a small band of like-minded, moral men and women; but as time passed, their group grew larger and larger.  They traveled through Glaciath while seeking a homeland, though they never found it.  All but a few Koritsu perished, but the good that they displayed lives on with the Eternal Flame of Harvidol.”

Sigeas set his back against the boulder nearest him.  “The Koritsu died while traveling through Glaciath in the winter? Why do you want to live here if it gets that cold?”

A low sigh escaped his mother’s lips.  “Even though it’s near the coast, Ai-Tizuj has some of the finest weather in Emlenor.  And you missed the point of the story.”

“No, Mother,” Sigeas replied, hugging himself and staring at the fire.  “I didn’t.”

During one of their biweekly lodgings at a roadside inn, early in their journey, Sigeas overheard a small caravan of armor-clad men talking amongst each other in the dining room.  They spoke of the fall of Faseton, exchanged fables of Pavius’s latest campaign against the country of Sorj, stated their caravan’s objective (to observe the leaders of Dolcinth and discern whether they were favorably, unfavorably, or neutrally disposed toward Thalnon), and discussed the possibility for improvisation in their mission.  They were not to harm the citizens of the villages they inspected, even if they were caught; but in Pavius’s document of orders, there was no prohibition of violence in the empty regions apart from the cities.  It was at this point in the conversation that the men lowered their voices, and Sigeas alerted his mother of their purpose.  She heeded the news and directed their route toward Dolcinth’s coast the following morning, informing her son that the country did not hold a prominent coastal city.

Three months later, the family drew near to the border between Dolcinth and Glaciath.  It was midday, a time ripe for traveling; but Sigeas’s mother was beginning to find that her body wearied quickly and often.  They rested beside a stream that slithered toward the blurred eastern coast.  The young man helped his mother sit on a puff of grass atop a balding dune, and he plopped beside her.  While they sat in silence and took sips from a rigid waterskin, Sigeas scanned the territory around them.  He always feared and anticipated the appearance of a Thalnion caravan on the horizon; he feared for his potential failure to defeat his enemies, and anticipated the brawl so that his thirst for vengeance might be sated.  Not a soul drew his gaze, but to the northwest, he espied a fortified city with granite buildings.

“Mother, do you see that? What city is that?”

She glanced over her right shoulder, though it was obvious that she did not need to look.  “That would be Eclam, my son.”

“Eclam?” His eyes widened, and he turned his attention to the city again, as if to assure its existence.  “Wait, you mean, the Eclam?”

“Yes, the Eclam,” she replied, her voice hesitant.  “You know, I think I could go on another—”

“Why are we sitting here when Eclam is a league’s walk away?” Sigeas’s entire body adopted an animated quality, and his normally droning voice became lively.  “Eclam is the city of the Birthender Mages.  We can go there, Mother, and you can rid yourself of that wicked thing in your stomach!”

“Wicked thing?” Her eyebrows furrowed, and she set a hand on her stomach.  “Wicked? How can you judge this baby so quickly, Sigeas?”

He turned to her, astonished.  “How can you not? Mother, a wicked man destroyed our town.  His people wrecked our home and knocked me unconscious.  And he took advantage of you.  There is no good in him; there is only a lust for control.  He got everything he wanted, Mother, including you.  And now you are carrying his baby.  If you go to Eclam, you can get rid of this reminder of him, once and for all.  I’ve heard that the spell they cast does no harm to the mother.”

“So you would destroy this child’s life, simply to spite a man?”

“Of course not!” Sigeas stood and began to pace.  “This baby, he can become like the man who did this to you.  He can murder, and steal beautiful memories, and dominate as many women as pleases him.  If Pavius fails to accomplish his purposes in his campaign, then this baby of yours, Mother, can continue in his stead.  He can become more evil than his father ever was.”

“Or,” his mother said, rising to her feet with some difficulty, “or, the child can save the nations.  The child can reverse everything that Pavius has done.  The baby can grow to be a hero, and can bring hope to the hopeless.  My child can refuse to walk the path of the wicked king, and can become a model of compassion and love.  These are possibilities as well.”

“Why would you take a chance, Mother?” Sigeas’s eyes were now frantic, and his gesticulations emphasized.  “With such an evil father, how could he be anything but evil? Even though you’re a great mother, malice runs in Pavius’s blood.  I’m not sure this baby, your son, can resist something like that.”

The woman shook her head, and a grin came to her lips.  “You refer to the baby as ‘he,’ though you do not know the gender yet.”

“That’s of no matter.”

She looked at him closely, as if seeing into the deep canals of his thoughts.  “Is it of no matter? You’re certain?” She waited for a response, but her son continued to pace, avoiding her eyes.  “Sigeas, would you leave me?”

He halted at these words and turned to her again.  “What?”

“A simple question, really.  Would you leave me, if trouble beset us?”

“Mother, I would never leave you.  Why would you ask that?”

She approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder.  Her eyes, fixed with seriousness, met his.  “That is how I know that this baby does not have to be like Pavius.” Tears squirmed to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, creating a trail in the sand plastered against her skin.  “At a difficult time in our lives, your father left me.  He had many commendable attributes, and I loved him; but he was also selfish.  And he left when he found the trials of our lives too taxing.  You have your selfish moments, Sigeas, but you are naturally a selfless person.  You protect others, and you help when you can.  And you do not flee when misfortune comes, but rather, you defend those assaulted by it.”

Sigeas blinked, awed by the revelation of his father.  “Father left you?”

His mother wiped her eyes.  “Come.  The day is young, my son.  We will speak of this another time.” She stepped down the side of the dune and continued south, toward Glaciath.  Her son, now in a stupor, took one last look at Eclam before following her path.

All light from the sun had disappeared, and Sigeas shivered.  He stood and dislodged his blade from the earth, then sheathed it and looked again at the Eternal Flame.  It continued to mesmerize him and draw him toward thought and memory; but then, in an instant, there was a flash and it disappeared.  He was taken aback by the abrupt blackness, and so he rounded the stones and found his mother drifting into sleep in the shelter, sitting before a small fire she had made while he was away.  He sat beside her and said, “Mother, the Eternal Flame just vanished.”

She nodded, her eyes overlaid with a web of sleepiness.  “Crel cast his spell in the year one hundred and twenty.” She roused herself by shaking her head and propping herself higher against the blanket.  “The fire disappeared and returned in the year six hundred and twenty.  This is the year one thousand, one hundred and twenty.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Sigeas admitted, baffled.  “Either it’s coincidental that we’re here, or someone above wanted this to happen.”

His mother chuckled.  “Indeed.”  She stared into the dark of the night, and then looked at her son.  “I’m going to give birth soon, you must know.”

“I do, Mother.”

“I know you don’t want this baby to live, but I’m giving birth soon, according to nature’s course.  And I hate to ask this of you, but you’re the only one who can help me when the time comes.”

“I’ve wondered when you would tell me this,” Sigeas responded, his voice uneasy.  “You’re right: I don’t want the son of Pavius to live.  But I know birth is complicated, so I’ll help to make sure you survive the process.  Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Very well.  I pray that your memory aids you when it is time.” She then proceeded to explain his duty as a midwife, listing some details he had hoped never to hear, and others that filled him with a sense of relief that he was not a woman.  They spoke late into the night, laughing at times, shuddering at others, and enjoying the company as the heavens became specked with stars of many hues and intensities.  The moon, matron of the night, radiated icy silver as it clambered through the sky.  As it neared its zenith, its round figure seemed to grow brighter and more prominent.  Soon it would cascade through the navy sheet and fall behind the mountains, giving rise to the warm colors of dawn.  The grasslands were layered with dew, and the land became so cold that Sigeas increased the size of the fire, and his mother put her support blanket to its primary use as warmth for herself and her son.  Their conversation on midwifery ended, and so they folded some spare shirts and placed them beneath their heads in preparation for sleep.  As they began to doze, Sigeas’s mother said, “Thank you for agreeing to help me, despite the way you feel about the baby.”

“You’re welcome, Mother,” he replied, drawing the blanket over his shoulders.  “You try and sleep now; you need your rest.  I love you.”

“And I love you, Sigeas.  Sleep well.” She managed to find a comfortable position and fell immediately into slumber, followed closely by her son.

It seemed that his eyelids had just closed when his mother released a cry that startled him. He leapt from the blanket with his sword drawn.  All was darkness beyond the fire, and there was no one to be seen.  He remained in a defensive stance for a moment, peering into the darkness; when nothing caught his eye or ear, he turned to his mother, who had thrown the blanket aside and had her hands clenched against the bottom of her stomach.  She breathed methodically, and her entire face was moist with sweat.  Her hair was more tousled than usual, and her eyes had grown large in reaction to blatant pain.  She stared at her son and nodded at him.  “It’s time.  The baby is coming soon.” She ground her teeth together so fiercely that Sigeas feared they might split to their roots.  “Listen to me.  Remember what I told you about your dagger?” He nodded.  “Go!”

He grabbed their traveling bag, raced around the edge of the boulders, and tore a gnarled branch from one of the young trees nearby.  He laid its tip in the fire for a moment, his feet fidgeting as his mother screamed again.  When the branch had accrued a small flame, he left the camp behind and dashed to the southeast.  She had told him of a stream wending between the hills somewhere in this direction, but he could scarcely see anything over a yard beyond his torch.  He had gone some distance when his mother screamed a third time; the fact that she could be heard from this distance worried him.  Any predator, man or beast, within a mile would not find it a difficult task to follow the trail of cries to the helpless woman.  Sigeas’s heart drummed as he pictured some fiend coming upon her in the night, an image that sent him back to that evening nine months ago.  He charged on, faster, until he heard a gurgling sound to his right.  He whirled toward the din and nearly tripped over a cord of stones that lined one side of the stream.  Then he sheathed his sword, knelt down, wielded his dagger, and dipped it into the frigid water.  The current carried away the muck that had bonded to the blade; once it was clean, Sigeas took one of the few unused rags from his bag and further sanitized it with several meticulous strokes of the cloth.  He rose, turned from the stream, and sprinted back toward camp.

Following the sporadic cries of his mother, and the route he had made in the previously untrodden grass, he found his way to the shelter.  The woman had not been disturbed as he had feared; in fact, amidst her pain, she had managed to ready the surroundings, and herself, for the deliverance of her child.  He fell to his knees on the blanket and cast the torch into the dew-covered grass; then he set his dagger well away from them, but within reach.  He turned his attention to his mother, took a breath, and asked, “How long have you been like this?”

“About two hours before you awoke,” she muttered between her teeth.  “It didn’t get very painful—until the moment I yelled.  Short contractions here and there.  But—they became longer.”

Sigeas sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded.  “Yes, then it sounds like you’re ready.  I hope you told me everything I need to know.” He looked at her face, red with strain, and his heart throbbed in sympathy.  “You can do this, Mother.  You’re strong.  It’s time to have your baby.”