"Chapter II-Whispers in the Dark" by James P-W

Chapter 2

Whispers in the Dark

Mist rose like pale ghosts in the still, nippy morning air as Tristan trudged back towards Annwyn. A dull pressure grinded away slowly by steadily behind his eyes from lack of sleep, and his left shoulder was stiff as anything from having lain on it all night. He was more tired in the morning, it seemed, than when he had gone to bed the night before.

All around there were signs of the night’s storm. Muddy puddles stood quietly along the rocky path, littered with the pale thin bodies of dead or dying worms, ripples racing across the surface and silt exploding underwater in clouds when Tristan trod in them. Like quivering glass beads drops of rain clung precariously to the bushes of heather and gorse, which were hardy enough that even the furious downpour had barely flattened them.   

The thick fog deadened sound and limited sight, limiting Tristan’s world to the space immediately surrounding him. He felt like he was walking through a cloud as he trod the familiar path towards Master Aysmere’s workshop. By the time he got there his clothes, skin, and hair were all damp. It was hard to stay dry or warm for long in Bregon.

He let himself in to workshop, where Gaerith stood among the clutter of tables, clamps, and chisels, rubbing sleep from his eyes and yawning. A small fire was started in the small fire-pit in the center of the shop, and Tristan squatted down by it, warming his hands.

“Did three strangers come into town last night, during the storm?” inquired Tristan. “I met them on the road.”

Gaerith scratched the fledgling stubble on his chin thoughtfully. He was quite proud of it, thought it had only been a few years since he’d needed to shave, and only a handful of months since he’d needed to more than twice a week. Before he could answer, though, his father spoke from behind him. Tristan hadn’t heard him enter. “Who did you see?”

“Men from far south, members of the Kindred of the Flame,” said Tristan in a hushed voice. He could have sworn Master Aysmere’s clouded angrily at this for a moment, but then, as suddenly it came, it disappeared.

“I see,” was all he said. “I didn’t see anybody.” He picked up a heavy yew stave that was propped up against a stony wall and clamped it down to a table. “Get to work, boys. Willym Torr’s finally outgrown his bow and his father says we’re to make him a true man’s boy-though I don’t see how he’s going to be able to bend it-, and Alen Calwed needs-” 

Suddenly, the door squeaked open and admitted a great deal of chilly, damp air, as well as Brother Almaric and Kinsmen Gregor and Stefan. Master Aysmere looked up from the stave he was shaving and immediately greeted them. “Welcome to my humble shop, errant travelers,” he said hospitably. “May I fetch some food or drink for any of you?”

 “Spreading the light is all the nourishment we need,” pronounced Brother Almaric piously.

“Aye, for the soul I’ll warrant it is,” said Master Aysmere with a smile, “But I’ve found that some bread and ale does one good all the same.”

The jest fell flat on the Servants. “I am Brother Almaric, and these are Kinsmen Stefan and Gregor. We are messengers of light.”

“Can’t they talk?”

 “The most devout Kinsmen have their tongues cut out to avoid speaking a blasphemous word, and their manhoods removed as well to avoid unholy deeds.”  Kinsmen Stefan opened his mouth and happily waggled about the stump of his tongue.

“I see. I daresay they both make for dull traveling companions,” said Eryc. “An’ I believe what he said; there’s no need to lift up your robes as well.” He laughed, though none of the three looked amused. Stefan shut his mouth with a moist clack. “Pardon the crude jest of a humble yokel, my good sirs. I know did not come all this way to bandy lewd words.”

“Quite true. My message is this: salvation may be found in the light. Live an honest life and you will be rewarded.”

“Humble and ignorant though I am, Brother, I live a pious life. So does my family, and everybody in this village. You’ll find no evil here.” Master Aysmere’s friendly tone had faded somewhat, giving way to a hint of hardness around the edges.

Almaric said nothing, but loosened the strings on his purse, fished out a silver piece, and tossed it to Master Aysmere. “Keep this as a token of the mercy and kindness of the Kindred. May you walk in the light.”

“The same to you, my good sirs. While you’re here, may I interest you in a fine Bregonian longbow? Usurpers are no match for a three-foot oak shaft. A few Bregonian bows in the hands of your famed Kinsmen and this war’ll be over soon enough, I say.”

Brother Almaric looked appalled. “Base worldly affairs matter not to the Holy Kindred. Unenlightened men quarrel over crowns and a few acres of land, not those who have found the light,” he said coldly. 

“Forgive the mistake of an uneducated boor,” said Master Aysmere humbly. Almaric caught his meaningful glance at the swords slung over the backs of Stefan and Gregor.

“An unarmed Hospitaller needs protection from the unenlightened souls of the world,” he said.     

“Aye, and longbows can take care of trouble a long way off, before it ever reaches your unsullied person. There’s nothing compare with a yew longbow. A good twoscore winters past I ventured down to the kingdoms of Gueltron and Saerid. Some fanciful yarns I have of those travels…anyway….Practically bristling down there, they were. They held halberds, greatswords, horsebows, ‘n all a manner of arms.” He grinned indulgently as he waggled a finger at the Servants, apparently under the impression that they wanted to hear his story. They seemed disinterested, at best.

“I made a wager with a fool, saying that he would be better served with a longbow as his sword and shield. An’ I won that wager, for the only thing more powerful than a Bregonion longbow is a steel-armed crossbow, but a novice can loose more’n thrice as many arrows as a well-trained crossbowman.”  He took a deep breath, apparently savoring sharing an old story with a new audience.

“Later on I came to a rundown castle in the heartlands of Gueltron. Miserable and crumbling, it was, but all the common folk were hiding inside it. Brigands and raiders roamed the land after the Rift Wars, and their fields had been trampled or put to torch.

“I came across this thick man, tough as an old oak root, a farmer with arms as big as tree trunks and shoulders like an ox. When I told him I was a bowyer from Bregon, he lit up. ‘Might be I have you to thank for my life,’ he told me. I asked why and he told me this tale.

“Marret-that was his name, Marret-, was lucky enough in his younger days to have come across a very old Bregonian yew bow. Taller’n me, it was, and like as heavy, with a pull weight that matched, but Marret was of a size that he could bend fletching to cheek without a second thought. A peddler had it in the back of his ox-cart, unaware of the treasure he carried. But Marret was a shrewd fellow, an’ recognized a good bow. Got it for a skin of wine, he did. Marret refused to leave retreat to the castle, and protected his family from the scum that preyed on the weak with that longbow. One day a lone brigand was riding towards his house. All dressed in black, he was, with a matching midnight destrier.” Master Aysmere’s voice dropped to a dramatic hush. “Marret nocked an arrow and stood square in the center of the road. ‘Halt if you come in peace!’ he cried. But the rider kept on coming. ‘Halt!’ The rider was bearing down on him, his horse in a full gallop. Marret bent the bow when the brigand was but fifty paces away and loosed the shaft. Took the man high up in the thigh, he told me, then pierced the saddle clean through and killed the warhorse ‘neath him.”

Tristan and Gaerith, having heard this tale a thousand times, rolled their eyes. When Master Aysmere was in the cups, sometimes the brigand was at one hundred paces, and the arrow had pierced through both sides of the chain-mail skirt of a hauberk, as well. “As I said, there’s nothing I’d rather have in me hands in battle,” said Eryc lovingly. “We use the strongest yew trees, with the heartwood and sapwood in the stave like slices of black and white, aged and dried for four years, and shaved down to a fearsome weapon by honest hands. The strings are of hemp and beeswax, and the arrows are half the height of the archer. Some say the feathers of a hunter make for the most successful hunter, but we don’t use raptor vanes. Goose or wild turkey is the best. Accurate as-”

“That light-forsaken man was hung for that, but the man he so wisely shot lives, albeit with a limp,” Almaric said, snapping Master Aysmere out of his reverie.  “The name of that Brother was Hospitaller Mircae,” he continued frostily. “And mayhap you have the finer details of the story wrong. He was unarmed and rode merely an ill-tempered mule, traveling peacefully offering his arts of meditation and healing to the people whose lands had been torn and ravaged by the war.”

Eryc’s smile wilted. “I believe we heard different stories, my good sirs,” he said. His face was a grey stone mask.

“Did this wise archer of yours have two daughters of an age with your apprentices, a beard of black bristles, and a pox-scarred face?” asked the Brother silkily. Eryc’s face remained impassive, but he didn’t deny it. “So I thought.”   

The three men turned to leave the workshop, and were halfway out the door when Eryc spoke again. His eyes had taken a dangerous glint. “Perchance you might have heard the finer details wrong; daughters and pox-marks are far from uncommon, and beards can be grown or shaved at will. Or perhaps you got another detail wrong. Not all Brothers rode in peace, my good sirs. Good day to you all.”

Brother Almaric stood immobile in the doorway. Kinsmen Gregor fingered his sword hilt, almost lovingly. Finally Almaric spoke. “These are dark time, Master Aysmere,” he said softly. “Walk in the light, or answer to the Holy Kindred.” With that, he swept out of the workshop, door clacking shut behind him.

Tristan and Gaerith said nothing, shocked. Master Aysmere usually was an easy-going, amiable fellow; always one to share a drink, a story, or both. “I have no love of the Kindred,” he said, glowering. His eyes were still fixed on the door, though the Servants were long gone. “If you had seen the horrors they wrought on the land in the name of justice and light…”

Gaerith finally spoke up. “Father, those men could be dangerous. Why did you-”

“Don’t talk about things what don’t concern you, lad,” said Eryc heatedly. “Men of contradictions, that’s what the Servants are. Two-faced dogs who pass out money to people in the name of mercy then put whole villages to the torch when the deem them not pious enough. The lot of them can burn in eternity, I say. Ptaw! That’s what I have to say about the Kindred,” he spat, and threw the silver coin across the room.

He hefted the bow he’d been carved, ran his hand smoothly over the contours and curves, and then tossed it the Gaerith. His tone softened. “String it and test it outside.”

Tristan knew it didn’t take two to test a bow, but sensed Master Aysmere needed some time to brood privately on his thoughts, so he followed Gaerith outside.

The people in the streets were normal enough, unruffled and unhurried. Tristan supposed the Servants hadn’t had time to visit many on the eve.

 Walking past the thatched, slate-walled houses, Tristan saw many familiar faces. The blacksmith’s apprentice, Murrigam, waved friendlily to them as he passed them. A simple fellow, he was built along the same lines as had been Bran, and was oft used to carry anvils or carry loads usually reserved for the strongest of pack animals. Tristan had always felt a sense of kinship with the simpleton, for Murrigam’s parents had both died in the fierce blizzard a few winters past, but also had an odd feeling of jealousy when he thought that Murrigam, at least, had had fourteen happy years with his parents…

They reached the town square, where a huge oak tree was planted. It served as a center for ceremony, celebrations, and also as a gallows, though there hadn’t been a hanging in living memory. Off to the left was the Wobbly Wheel Inn, owned by Gleirio Aryanrhod, the wealthiest person in the village, and her skinny henpecked husband, whose hands were as stingy with coin as his dark hair was greasy. They continued to walk through the village, until the houses thinned out and gave way to dewy hills. The fog was thinning, though the sky was still gray.

 Soon they came upon an empty field where Gaerith had rolled a bale of hay about eighty paces out. Gaerith strung the bow, tested it with a quick flex, then nocked an arrow.

He pulled the shaft back slowly, the motion smooth and flawless. Not for nothing was Gaerith was generally considered the best archer within twenty leagues. His breathing slowed and he closed his eyes, as he ‘felt the target’ as he liked to say.   

All at once he loosed the arrow. Like chain lightning it left Gaerith’s bow, leaving the bowstring thrumming. The shaft sang through the air in a shallow arc before burying itself deep into the bale of hay. Tristan and Gaerith both gave nods of satisfaction.

“It’s a good bow,” declared Gaerith. “Though it might be lacking somewhat in power.” Tristan, who knew he could only with difficulty bend the bow, said nothing. Instead, he picked up one of the makeshift quarterstaffs they always left out in the field to use. It was cold and wet with rain. “Have at you!” he joked.

Gaerith carefully leaned the new bow against the stone fence before picking up the quarterstaff. He placed his hands exactly before giving it an experimental twirl, then raised it in a defensive form. “Hit me if you can.”

They met, staffs twirling and spinning like live things in their hands, wood clacking on wood. A longbow and a quarterstaff are commoner’s weapons, Eryc always said, and a crossbow a craven’s weapon, but that makes them no less deadly.

Up and down the scree-filled slopes they sparred, until both were aching and covered with bruises. They ended on the top of one of the hills, by an ash that had been split by lightning. Gaerith was the first to throw his stick down, laughing, “I yield!” Tristan threw his down too, just as the clouds split and sunbeams poured from the sky, burning away the little mist that remained. A single ray bathed the crest of the hill in light, giving the blackened tree an otherworldly glow.

Both tumbled to the ground, laughing like little boys again, to fall onto the wet heath. The sun was warm upon their faces, though the ground was still chilly and dewy. Their laughter faded and they grew quite. Tristan found himself studying the dead leafless ash, examining the rift where lightning, like a silent sword stroke of judgment from the heavens, had split it down the middle like it was butter. He wondered if the same could happen to men, and the words of Brother Almaric came back to him.

It was Gaerith who broke the silence first. “Have you ever wanted to leave?”

A thousand thoughts and images filled Tristan’s mind: Bran’s funeral pyre, his empty house, sitting under the name-tree, the blood-stained cloth, the stag pendant and the sword that had been his father’s, growing up without his parents, the cold hearth…“Of course I have, especially since Bran…” He swallowed. “But where would we go?”

Gaerith shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. I just want to see the world, and live up to my name.”

Tristan laughed. “That might be difficult.” They had a good talk, like they used to when they were children, fancying themselves as Tristan the Bold and Gaerith the Stout who voyaged to the ends of the world, to the magic Sweetspring Fountain in the Shining Isles that spouted holy water. “Father could never run the workshop without us…”

The daydream faded, just as the last light of the afternoon fled. The clouds had long ago filled in the hole through which the sun had shone briefly. “We’d better hurry, it looks like-”

“Rain, again,” finished Gaerith. They both laughed, then raced to the stone fence. Gaerith won but for once didn’t make Tristan sing the loser’s song. They picked up the bow as they left.

Tristan gave the hilltop one last glance before they departed. With the sun gone, the hill seemed once again dead, inanimate. The blackened ash tree stood out dully against the slate-grey clouds in the background, no longer wreathed in its short-lived glory. Tristan felt sadness fill him again as they trudged back to the village. It had been good for a while, to pretend that he was a child again. To imagine the wide world, open for discovery… 

The sky had taken on a much darker hue in the few minutes it took to reach to bowyer shop. The hanging wooden sign above the front door began creaking in a rising wind. They let themselves inside. 

Master Aysmere’s mood had remained as dark as the sky outside. From the looks of it, he hadn’t made any progress on the bow he’d started when Tristan and Gaerith had left. He didn’t look up when Gaerith closed the heavy doors behind them.

“Father?” he asked tentatively.

Eryc’s head jerked up. “Yes?” he asked vaguely. His eyes were unfocused and not fixed on his son, as though they were looking at something else far away. 

Gaerith’s mouth worked silently for a few moments, as though he hadn’t e expected an answer. “Ah…the bow is ready.”

“So is supper. I’ll join you in a few moments.”

Tristan followed Gaerith from the workshop into the Aysmere’s house. It was larger than Tristan’s, and much lighter. Gaerith’s many siblings ran amok, dodging Mistress Aysmere as she unperturbedly carried a plate of mutton and boiled potatoes to the table.

“Hello, boys,” she said briskly, wiping her hands on her spotless apron. “Aderyn, don’t you dare,” she said warningly. The young boy, who had been trying to purloin a piece of meat, froze. She raised her voice so all the children could hear. “Sit down, quietly, or off to bed with the lot of you with no supper.” The many children immediately dropped dolls, wooden makeshift quarterstaffs, and in Walterr’s case, a noose he’d been trying to strangle Emrys with, and scurried to the table. The eldest, Aerona, was only fourteen winters old, far younger than Gaerith. Tristan seated himself in a comfortable wicker chair next to his friend-and a comfortable distance away from Aerona, who gave him timid smiles whenever their eyes met-and waited for Mistress Aysmere to return so they could begin supping. He was famished.

“Where’s father?” piped up Kendall.

“He’s coming,” replied Gaerith. “Now hush up, before mother sends you to bed.”

“I was only asking,” pouted Kendall, but she remained silent.

Mistress Aysmere returned to the table with goat cheese and freshly-baked bread just as Eryc entered from the workshop, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “It smells like mutton, children!”

“What are mutton children?” Kendall inquired to nobody in particular, wrinkling up her little face.

“It’s a secret, silly,” replied Emrys solemnly. “You’ll find out when you’re older.” Eryc walked around the table, kissing each child on the forehead. Gaerith always looked painfully uncomfortable whenever Eryc kissed him in Tristan’s sight. Lastly he came to his wife, who gave him a quick peck.

“You call that a kiss, woman?” he laughed. “Come here, you!” He raised her out of her chair as easily as though she were a rag doll and tickled her until she giggled. Gaerith raised his eyebrows at Tristan.

At last Eryc seated his large frame on the chair at the head of the table, which creaked alarmingly under his significant weight. In his younger days he had been as strong as an ox, but age and ale had endowed him with some sprinkling of snow in his dark hair and soft flesh where hard muscle had once been.

Adela Aysmere served Tristan first-she always did, no matter how much he protested-and gave him a warm smile. Tiny her frame might be, but her heart was big. Feeding a family of nine was no small feat, and the addition of a man’s appetite to two of every three meals must be a burden to her, but she never once voiced the slightest complaint.

The chatter at the table soon died down as everybody began eating, except for Eryc, who began telling his favorite story. The half-drained horn of ale at the table had replaced the twinkle in his eyes and the flush in his cheeks; the day’s worries seemed forgotten. Outside another storm raged, the rain lashing wildly against the sturdy roof and walls.

As the evening dragged on many of the children trailed off to the loft to sleep, until only Adela, Eryc, Gaerith, Tristan, and Aerona remained. She had taken the opportunity to move into the vacated seat on Tristan’s right. Eryc was telling the story about how he’d outsmarted a dishonest street vender. “…and so I said to him, ‘That’s not a turnip, that’s a pumpkin!’ ”. Eryc roared with laughter, banging the table with his fist, apparently untroubled by the fact that his audience was chuckling feebly, at best.  With the children in bed, Mistress Aysmere had poured mugs of strong cider for everybody. Tristan didn’t particularly like it-it burned his throat like fire-but he was grateful for her generosity, and he was besides a man grown now. 

“Right,” Master Aysmere said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “Off to bed with you, Aerona, my little sweet.” Aerona made a childish petulant face but kissed her parents and went up the stairs to the loft anyway. She stopped at the landing and hid in the shadows, looking at Tristan. He pretended not to notice. “Ah, Aerona, she’s a real character,” sighed Eryc. “Perchance someday I’ll marry her off to you, lad, after she’s had a chance to ripen a little.”

Gaerith began choking in his mug, spraying cider everywhere, and Tristan tried not to let similar emotions show on his face. “What an honor...I hardly know what...” he started weakly. 

Eryc dissolved into helpless laughter, and Adela gave him a reproachful glance. “It was a bad jest,” she said. “Take no notice of this drunken oaf. Right, off to bed with the lot of you.”

“Drunken?” said Eryc in a protesting tone. “I like me ale, is all. There’s nothing wrong with a healthy sense of humor, nothing at all.”  

 “I’ve heard it all before, husband of mine, one, twice, thrice, and a thousand time,” she said, clearing up the table, “And I’m no more convinced now than I was the very first time.” Tristan had gathered up his boots and his coat. “Oh no, Tristan,” she said, scandalized. “You cannot think that I would let you venture home in this weather, surely?” She pressed thick blankets into his hands, which she had seemingly conjured out of thin air.

This was how Tristan found himself sleeping in the warm loft, underneath several thick blankets, with Walterr sprawled on top of him, snoring softly. Sleep was quick in coming that night, until….

Three loud knocks on the door rang out loudly in the dark. Tristan’s eyes sprang open. Around him, a few of the Aysmere children stirred in their sleep, but none of them woke. Downstairs he could hear Master Aysmere cursing softly. Tristan craned his neck to look down the stairs at the front door, trying hard not the disturb Walterr, who seemed as comfortable as a sunbathing cat.

Moments later Eryc emerged in a loose-fitting shift, clutching a candle. He opened the door quietly, and the sound of the pouring rain came in from outside. “What is it, Alen?” he asked quietly, yet plainly annoyed. “I just got asleep, and the children will be grumpy on the morrow if you woke them.”

“Are you going to let me inside, or chastise me all night?”

“Not so loud!” said Eryc. “I told you, the children are asleep. As to letting you inside, that would depend on the nature of your business. I would hope it was important, considering you find it impossible to get out in your field and work during the day due to your mystery illness.”

“Never mind that now,” said Alen Culhwch agitatedly. “This is of the utmost importance.”

“All right then, come in if you must, but if you have come here with the latest washerwoman’s gossip, I promise you on my mother’s grave I will throw you outside into the mud.”

  “I see my honest work this night will be repaid with naught but mistrust,” sniffed Alen. “But I suppose that’s a burden-”

“Get on with it, Alen,” growled Eryc.

The swine-herder gave him one last accusing glance before starting. “This concerns the fellows who came in last night, those men from the Kindred of the Flame.” Alen was not disappointed-he suddenly had Eryc’s rapt attention.

“What about those scoundrels?” he demanded loudly.

“Not so loud!” said Alen reproachfully. He resumed his story, lowering his voice to a dramatic hush. “They’ve disappeared.”

Master Aysmere straightened up, silent. His face was blank. “That’s it?” he asked. “You woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that three strangers have decided to sleep in a bush for the night?”

“No, you see, they’ve left!” repeated Alen. “Gone and clean disappeared. They visited all the houses in Annwyn, right, save for a few. Then all the sudden, they’re nowhere to be seen! And as to sleeping in bushes, Eryc, I have it on good authority that last night they stayed in the finest rooms the Wobbly Wheel has to offer. Dafed swears he saw the Brother conjure up a black serpent stinking of burning brimstone in our sacred Charn Woods, and that the three of them rode it away.”

“Dafed Celyn?” scoffed Eryc. “The same one who told the whole village last spring that he had found a way to cure warts with a sprig of holly and incantations in the Old Tongue?”

The swine-herder looked impatient. “Yes, but he swears the tale on his life this time, you see,” insisted Alen. “And Aeron swears he saw one of the silent swordsmen chaps drink chicken blood last night.” 

There was a long silence as Eryc fixed him with a stare. “There’s a reason your name means ‘breeding place of swine’ in the Old Tongue, Master Culhwch,” he said scathingly. “Your rumors are as filthy as the beasts you care for. Go back to bed and trouble honest folks no more.” 

“No need to get prickly, Eryc…I was just repeating what I’ve heard…”

Master Aysmere snorted. “Go back to sleep. And since you’re feeling so spry I expect to see you working with your swine tomorrow. Good night.”

He pushed the still-protesting Alen back out in the rain before closing the door. By then Adela had come. “What was that, Eryc?” she asked sleepily.

“Nothing, my sweet,” he said. “Nothing at all. Just whispers in the dark. Let’s go back to bed.”

They both left, and the candle went with them, plunging the loft back into warm, dark silence. Tristan soon fell asleep again.

He was wakened by frantic pounding. It was still pitch-black inside. Instead of stopping, the knocking grew louder. Eryc came lumbering to the door once again. “If it’s Alen out there again I will-”

“It’s not!” cried an urgent voice from outside. “It’s Dryfan, open quickly!”

The door swung open, and the Cunning One stumbled inside, dripping mud and water. “Tristan’s house,” he coughed. “It’s on fire.”