So, I wrote a short story.
Jun. 19th, 2014 01:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gridloreDo the Rite Thing
"Brother Wibert! Brother Wibert!"
Usually, hearing a child's voice calling his name as he approached a village meant an onslaught of children begging for treats, sweet honey buns or sugar globes. But here, outside Vieil Puits, there was one child, running like the wind towards him.
"You're Leger, son of Pipen, yes?" Wibert asked the panting boy.
"Yes, Brother; but come quickly, there's trouble in the village! I was sent to watch for you!" The boy beamed with pride at the latter statement. He then took off running back up the tree-shaded track. He looked back impatiently.
"Faster, sir, please!" Leger implored.
"Child, I am riding a mule, not a knight's charger. Very good for getting there eventually, not good at getting there fast. But come here." Wibert dismounted and grabbed his saddle bags. "If speed is of the essence, I'll go on ahead. You lead my faithful steed in yourself."
"What's the mule's name?" asked Leger as he twisted the bridle into a lead.
"He hasn't told me yet."
---
The boy hadn't been lying, Wibert thought grimly as he entered the small square. Vieil Puits got its name from the ancient Roman well in the center of a circle of thick flagstones, and right now it seemed that every adult resident, plus their children, were gathered around the well, yelling as only Franks could yell. The village dogs were happily adding to the conversation by prancing about and barking madly. The focus of the anger was a tall, lanky blond man with a stern expression on his face. He stood impassively, letting the villagers vent without reacting.
Wibert raised his voice. "Good people! Good people! I said good. . . WILL YOU ALL SHUT YOUR MOUTHS?" A sudden silence fell on the little square. Even the dogs were quieted. Not very priestly, Wibert thought, but it worked.
"Now, that we have a little order, I ask you: What in the name of the Three Gods is happening here?"
The floodgates opened again, only this time Wibert was their target. Frustrated, he gave the sign for silence during a service. Peace came again.
"Just one, please." Wibert spied one of the village elders "Master Jocelin, if you could please tell me - briefly - what has caused this disturbance?"
The old man stroked his dirty grey beard, glanced at the tall man still standing like a rock, and then looked Wibert straight in the eyes.
"Master Torgärd's wife has died, and he refuses to give the body over for burning."
Somehow Wibert kept his clerical face on. He turned to the big man.
"Master, is this true?" Torgärd nodded once. "You do know that it is Church law that the dead be properly prepared and burned, yes? The law is there because--"
One of the village boys interrupted him. "Because evil wizards can come and raise up bodies that ain't been burned right and make them walk and fight!" As the words poured out, the child engaged an army of imaginary undead with his wooden sword.
"Dalfin, son of Bernard!" Wibert thundered. They boy stopped cold and looked up fearfully at the priest. "You do not use a sword to fight the undead! You use a mace or a hammer! Everyone knows that!"
The teasing had the intended effect. With almost all the villagers laughing at poor Dalfin, the tension dissolved. Almost all. Torgärd shook his head and walked off, saying that he would honor his kin's wishes.
---
"As usual my friend, you press my order's rules on gluttony." Wibert leaned back on his bench, having sopped up the last juices of the venison stew with the remains of his trencher bowl. Jocelin executed a seated bow, getting even more sauce in his beard in the process.
"You flatter me, Brother. We had a fine harvest, with plenty for storage after paying our rent. We even had enough to sell as surplus. Torgärd was working his mill well into the night to keep up with the demand."
"Dare I ask where the venison comes from?"
The elder laughed. "We are not poachers, my good Wibert. Lord Allowin's demesne ends at the hills to our east. Beyond that the land is untamed. In fact, most of our meat comes from Torgärd, as the mill is right on the edge of the hills."
"The mill is far?" asked Wibert.
Jocelin broke the seal on a cask of beer, sniffed it, and began to pour. "A half mile. It was built under a waterfall coming out of the hills before my grandfather's time. But it's a fine mill and Torgärd is as honest as the sun is bright. Rare thing for a miller not to squeeze out a denier when he thinks he can get away with it."
"Tell me about the wife."
Jocelin looked to his wife Begga, who grunted with disdain. "Not much to tell, because we rarely saw her. When she did come into the village, she wore a wimple and hooded cloak. Rarely spoke to anyone. Funny name, Eelet or something like it. Some folks thought she was a witch, seeing as how she kept covered all the time and avoided regular folk."
Jocelin rolled his eyes. "By my beard, woman, the last mage we saw here was . . .12 winters ago? Poor soul stumbled into town, one half frozen and the other half starving. Best he could do was make pretty colors and lights."
Begga threw a crumb of trencher at her husband. "And who knew what powers he was hiding? When you're being nursed back to health, summoning demons wouldn't be very nice, would it? You can't see past the end of your foolish beard, Jocelin! He could have laid a glamour on us all!"
Wibert stared into his cup as he swirled his beer. "That name," he asked slowly, "it wouldn't have been ‘Elit', would it?"
Bragga thought for a moment, finally nodding. "Now that you say it that way, it does sound closer to the bell. ‘Elit' sounds like a foreign name. Do you recognize it?"
Brother Wibert silently cursed the day his father had turned him over to the Church. He cursed the Gods for their sense of humor. And he cursed himself for tomorrow.
"Yes, I know the name. It is indeed foreign."
---
The mill was a thing of beauty. The waterfall had been diverted so the mill's wheel could be repaired. The stone building was nestled into the hillside and covered with moss and ivy, the millpond thick with reeds. Wibert steeled himself. This needed doing. He had told the villagers at the morning service that he would resolve things this very day. But if he was right. . .
"Hoy the mill!" he called as he approached. Torgärd appeared at the mill door, his face darkening as Wibert approached.
"I'll not change my decision, priest! She was my kin, and I will honor her wishes!" The big, wiry man stood with arms crossed. Millers ran second only to blacksmiths when it came to muscles, Wibert had found. He had some small magics to hold a man, or sway emotions, but that was a last resort.
"Master Torgärd, in the name of the Church I must see her." He held up the silver trinity knot that was the symbol of the church's authority. "If not me, then the Thanatossi will come. They are not as agreeable as I."
Wibert hated seeing Torgärd's anguish. Finally the big man's shoulders slumped. Wordlessly he set out for the cottage beside the mill. Torgärd went around the back, and for a moment Wibert was worried that he might be planning a violence, but duty was duty. He followed the miller around the building.
Torgärd was standing beside a two-wheel cart. The handles were propped on a sawhorse so the cart was level. Lying on the cart was a body, draped in a fine white sheet. Much finer than even a prosperous village like Vieil Puits should be able to afford.
Torgärd stood by helplessly as Wibert stepped forward and drew down the shroud. Even in death, Elit was beautiful. Her golden hair showed strands of silver, but her fine skin, delicate bone structure, and what had been wide eyes all spoke to beauty. But all Brother Wibert really saw were her ears. . . her long, pointed ears. He replaced the shroud and stepped back.
"An elf. Your wife was an elf." Wibert has suspected when he heard the name, but had hoped that there would be a different answer waiting. But no, he had found heresy in a small village. "The church forbids marriage between elves and men on pain of death! By the Unnamable God, what were you thinking?"
"No, priest. Not my wife, Elit was my mother."
Forgetting proper composure, Wibert's jaw dropped. Suddenly it made sense: Torgärd's build, the secrecy, everything. Wibert realized that he had never heard Torgärd refer to Elit as his wife, just as his ‘kin.' "So your father was. . ."
Torgärd cut him off angrily. "My father was some murderous Norman dog who thought elves made good sport in every way. Elit's band was caught in a raid. The Normans took everything, but left her with a child."
"Forgive me Master Torgärd, but I was taught that elves live for centuries. Was she really that old?"
Now Torgärd looked sick. "You learned correctly, but incompletely. Elves do live many years, but only in the company of other elves. Her band's seers ordered her to leave me to die when I was born. She refused, and was exiled. She still aged very slowly, but her days were numbered. It's why we masqueraded as man and wife. I've seen 42 springs; she saw over a hundred, and yet I look older than her. Had she lived longer, I would have played her father."
"You said you would honor her wishes. May I ask what those are?"
"See the great oak on the ridge? She asked that I bury her there when the leaves turn to gold. It's her way, and elves can't be raised."
"I understand, and she is outside the laws of the faith. But we need a way to convince your neighbors that the right thing has been done, and my vows mean I cannot lie in this matter."
Wibert bit his lip as he looked around the yard for inspiration. His eyes fell on two beautiful bows leaning against the cottage wall. "Jocelin tells me that you provide the village with meat. There is truth in this?"
"Have you ever known an elf who couldn't hunt?"
"I've known precious few elves in total." Wibert smiled. "But I think I have a plan."
---
Jocelin was drawing water at the well when he noticed the thick column of smoke coming from the direction of the mill. He doffed his cap and said the prayer for the dead, never noticing that his beard was now soaking in the bucket.
Shortly thereafter, Brother Wibert returned. The smoke from the mill had been visible for miles, and many of the villagers had gathered at the village square to learn what had happened. Wibert clambered up on to the broad lip of the well and held up a large silk bag.
"Good people, all the prescribed rituals for the disposal of a body have been performed. Master Torgärd asks for privacy for the next few weeks, as he mourns in the style of his homeland. He has also asked that I scatter these remains in the river. This matter is closed. Although I do see that young Sir Dalfin, Lord Defender of Vieil Puits, now has a proper mace!" The boy blushed under the hail of laughter and tried to hide his stick with a rock tied to it. "If there is nothing else, I must continue my rounds. The Gods bless and keep you, my friends!"
---
"You can stop complaining anytime, useless animal," Wibert admonished his mule. "You are hardly overburdened!" The people of Vieil Puits had been generous, and he now had more than enough food to finish his rounds before returning to the monastery for the winter, as well as a cask of fine beer for the trip. Just one more duty, he thought, as he reached the ford.
Walking out onto the muddy bank, Wibert upended the silk bag, shaking out ashes and pieces of broken bones into the slow-moving waters. "I wonder, Master Deer, what they will say in the Hall of Final Judgement when a fine stag such as yourself arrives, having enjoyed the full final rites of the church." He watched the ashes drift downstream for a time, then remounted his mule and rode on.
"Brother Wibert! Brother Wibert!"
Usually, hearing a child's voice calling his name as he approached a village meant an onslaught of children begging for treats, sweet honey buns or sugar globes. But here, outside Vieil Puits, there was one child, running like the wind towards him.
"You're Leger, son of Pipen, yes?" Wibert asked the panting boy.
"Yes, Brother; but come quickly, there's trouble in the village! I was sent to watch for you!" The boy beamed with pride at the latter statement. He then took off running back up the tree-shaded track. He looked back impatiently.
"Faster, sir, please!" Leger implored.
"Child, I am riding a mule, not a knight's charger. Very good for getting there eventually, not good at getting there fast. But come here." Wibert dismounted and grabbed his saddle bags. "If speed is of the essence, I'll go on ahead. You lead my faithful steed in yourself."
"What's the mule's name?" asked Leger as he twisted the bridle into a lead.
"He hasn't told me yet."
The boy hadn't been lying, Wibert thought grimly as he entered the small square. Vieil Puits got its name from the ancient Roman well in the center of a circle of thick flagstones, and right now it seemed that every adult resident, plus their children, were gathered around the well, yelling as only Franks could yell. The village dogs were happily adding to the conversation by prancing about and barking madly. The focus of the anger was a tall, lanky blond man with a stern expression on his face. He stood impassively, letting the villagers vent without reacting.
Wibert raised his voice. "Good people! Good people! I said good. . . WILL YOU ALL SHUT YOUR MOUTHS?" A sudden silence fell on the little square. Even the dogs were quieted. Not very priestly, Wibert thought, but it worked.
"Now, that we have a little order, I ask you: What in the name of the Three Gods is happening here?"
The floodgates opened again, only this time Wibert was their target. Frustrated, he gave the sign for silence during a service. Peace came again.
"Just one, please." Wibert spied one of the village elders "Master Jocelin, if you could please tell me - briefly - what has caused this disturbance?"
The old man stroked his dirty grey beard, glanced at the tall man still standing like a rock, and then looked Wibert straight in the eyes.
"Master Torgärd's wife has died, and he refuses to give the body over for burning."
Somehow Wibert kept his clerical face on. He turned to the big man.
"Master, is this true?" Torgärd nodded once. "You do know that it is Church law that the dead be properly prepared and burned, yes? The law is there because--"
One of the village boys interrupted him. "Because evil wizards can come and raise up bodies that ain't been burned right and make them walk and fight!" As the words poured out, the child engaged an army of imaginary undead with his wooden sword.
"Dalfin, son of Bernard!" Wibert thundered. They boy stopped cold and looked up fearfully at the priest. "You do not use a sword to fight the undead! You use a mace or a hammer! Everyone knows that!"
The teasing had the intended effect. With almost all the villagers laughing at poor Dalfin, the tension dissolved. Almost all. Torgärd shook his head and walked off, saying that he would honor his kin's wishes.
"As usual my friend, you press my order's rules on gluttony." Wibert leaned back on his bench, having sopped up the last juices of the venison stew with the remains of his trencher bowl. Jocelin executed a seated bow, getting even more sauce in his beard in the process.
"You flatter me, Brother. We had a fine harvest, with plenty for storage after paying our rent. We even had enough to sell as surplus. Torgärd was working his mill well into the night to keep up with the demand."
"Dare I ask where the venison comes from?"
The elder laughed. "We are not poachers, my good Wibert. Lord Allowin's demesne ends at the hills to our east. Beyond that the land is untamed. In fact, most of our meat comes from Torgärd, as the mill is right on the edge of the hills."
"The mill is far?" asked Wibert.
Jocelin broke the seal on a cask of beer, sniffed it, and began to pour. "A half mile. It was built under a waterfall coming out of the hills before my grandfather's time. But it's a fine mill and Torgärd is as honest as the sun is bright. Rare thing for a miller not to squeeze out a denier when he thinks he can get away with it."
"Tell me about the wife."
Jocelin looked to his wife Begga, who grunted with disdain. "Not much to tell, because we rarely saw her. When she did come into the village, she wore a wimple and hooded cloak. Rarely spoke to anyone. Funny name, Eelet or something like it. Some folks thought she was a witch, seeing as how she kept covered all the time and avoided regular folk."
Jocelin rolled his eyes. "By my beard, woman, the last mage we saw here was . . .12 winters ago? Poor soul stumbled into town, one half frozen and the other half starving. Best he could do was make pretty colors and lights."
Begga threw a crumb of trencher at her husband. "And who knew what powers he was hiding? When you're being nursed back to health, summoning demons wouldn't be very nice, would it? You can't see past the end of your foolish beard, Jocelin! He could have laid a glamour on us all!"
Wibert stared into his cup as he swirled his beer. "That name," he asked slowly, "it wouldn't have been ‘Elit', would it?"
Bragga thought for a moment, finally nodding. "Now that you say it that way, it does sound closer to the bell. ‘Elit' sounds like a foreign name. Do you recognize it?"
Brother Wibert silently cursed the day his father had turned him over to the Church. He cursed the Gods for their sense of humor. And he cursed himself for tomorrow.
"Yes, I know the name. It is indeed foreign."
The mill was a thing of beauty. The waterfall had been diverted so the mill's wheel could be repaired. The stone building was nestled into the hillside and covered with moss and ivy, the millpond thick with reeds. Wibert steeled himself. This needed doing. He had told the villagers at the morning service that he would resolve things this very day. But if he was right. . .
"Hoy the mill!" he called as he approached. Torgärd appeared at the mill door, his face darkening as Wibert approached.
"I'll not change my decision, priest! She was my kin, and I will honor her wishes!" The big, wiry man stood with arms crossed. Millers ran second only to blacksmiths when it came to muscles, Wibert had found. He had some small magics to hold a man, or sway emotions, but that was a last resort.
"Master Torgärd, in the name of the Church I must see her." He held up the silver trinity knot that was the symbol of the church's authority. "If not me, then the Thanatossi will come. They are not as agreeable as I."
Wibert hated seeing Torgärd's anguish. Finally the big man's shoulders slumped. Wordlessly he set out for the cottage beside the mill. Torgärd went around the back, and for a moment Wibert was worried that he might be planning a violence, but duty was duty. He followed the miller around the building.
Torgärd was standing beside a two-wheel cart. The handles were propped on a sawhorse so the cart was level. Lying on the cart was a body, draped in a fine white sheet. Much finer than even a prosperous village like Vieil Puits should be able to afford.
Torgärd stood by helplessly as Wibert stepped forward and drew down the shroud. Even in death, Elit was beautiful. Her golden hair showed strands of silver, but her fine skin, delicate bone structure, and what had been wide eyes all spoke to beauty. But all Brother Wibert really saw were her ears. . . her long, pointed ears. He replaced the shroud and stepped back.
"An elf. Your wife was an elf." Wibert has suspected when he heard the name, but had hoped that there would be a different answer waiting. But no, he had found heresy in a small village. "The church forbids marriage between elves and men on pain of death! By the Unnamable God, what were you thinking?"
"No, priest. Not my wife, Elit was my mother."
Forgetting proper composure, Wibert's jaw dropped. Suddenly it made sense: Torgärd's build, the secrecy, everything. Wibert realized that he had never heard Torgärd refer to Elit as his wife, just as his ‘kin.' "So your father was. . ."
Torgärd cut him off angrily. "My father was some murderous Norman dog who thought elves made good sport in every way. Elit's band was caught in a raid. The Normans took everything, but left her with a child."
"Forgive me Master Torgärd, but I was taught that elves live for centuries. Was she really that old?"
Now Torgärd looked sick. "You learned correctly, but incompletely. Elves do live many years, but only in the company of other elves. Her band's seers ordered her to leave me to die when I was born. She refused, and was exiled. She still aged very slowly, but her days were numbered. It's why we masqueraded as man and wife. I've seen 42 springs; she saw over a hundred, and yet I look older than her. Had she lived longer, I would have played her father."
"You said you would honor her wishes. May I ask what those are?"
"See the great oak on the ridge? She asked that I bury her there when the leaves turn to gold. It's her way, and elves can't be raised."
"I understand, and she is outside the laws of the faith. But we need a way to convince your neighbors that the right thing has been done, and my vows mean I cannot lie in this matter."
Wibert bit his lip as he looked around the yard for inspiration. His eyes fell on two beautiful bows leaning against the cottage wall. "Jocelin tells me that you provide the village with meat. There is truth in this?"
"Have you ever known an elf who couldn't hunt?"
"I've known precious few elves in total." Wibert smiled. "But I think I have a plan."
Jocelin was drawing water at the well when he noticed the thick column of smoke coming from the direction of the mill. He doffed his cap and said the prayer for the dead, never noticing that his beard was now soaking in the bucket.
Shortly thereafter, Brother Wibert returned. The smoke from the mill had been visible for miles, and many of the villagers had gathered at the village square to learn what had happened. Wibert clambered up on to the broad lip of the well and held up a large silk bag.
"Good people, all the prescribed rituals for the disposal of a body have been performed. Master Torgärd asks for privacy for the next few weeks, as he mourns in the style of his homeland. He has also asked that I scatter these remains in the river. This matter is closed. Although I do see that young Sir Dalfin, Lord Defender of Vieil Puits, now has a proper mace!" The boy blushed under the hail of laughter and tried to hide his stick with a rock tied to it. "If there is nothing else, I must continue my rounds. The Gods bless and keep you, my friends!"
"You can stop complaining anytime, useless animal," Wibert admonished his mule. "You are hardly overburdened!" The people of Vieil Puits had been generous, and he now had more than enough food to finish his rounds before returning to the monastery for the winter, as well as a cask of fine beer for the trip. Just one more duty, he thought, as he reached the ford.
Walking out onto the muddy bank, Wibert upended the silk bag, shaking out ashes and pieces of broken bones into the slow-moving waters. "I wonder, Master Deer, what they will say in the Hall of Final Judgement when a fine stag such as yourself arrives, having enjoyed the full final rites of the church." He watched the ashes drift downstream for a time, then remounted his mule and rode on.
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Date: 19 Jun 2014 20:50 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 19 Jun 2014 23:13 (UTC)