Theodore's story ( incomplete )

That leader's name was Theodore, from the Brord area; he was a landowner. He won most of that land in a dispute with Addrick, who was a famous beer-brewer and curmudgeon. That was a long case, not easily resolved. Oft, arguments came to fist-blows, all-out brawls in the law-house; it almost became a blood-case once, when laborers on Addrick’s land reported that they found runes drawn in dirt, unknown symbols that they couldn’t read; one was sketched onto the timbers of the bunkhouse with charcoal. One young chap among them took to pulling pranks like that, giggled in secret. He really riled those fellows up when one ugly man speculated that they were curse-runes, misfortune-causers drawn there by Theodore’s men; verily, those men stoked up their feelings with eldritch night-time tales, such as those of the Hag-queen and her human wizard-consorts, or those towering lurkers made out of broken bits and pieces of bones that sometimes spring up from grave mound soil and rattle along the loneliest outland roads, lurching about. Indeed, those laborers became fearful in the bunkhouse, slept fitfully while the night-watcher peered through the door-slats, kept an eye open for mischief bringers, wandering witches or spell-writers, listened carefully for the tell tale sound of rattling bone-limbs. At last, those ignoble chaps became bold; they resolved to head off that spell, find the miscreant author. One night, some of those folk rushed off to the border, that place where they were digging post-holes, strengthening the fence, delineating that property line with stout poles, thick cross-slats, stone heaps. They hoped to find Theodore’s land marchers, horse patrolmen out on duty; their intentions were to seize one of those chaps, beat a confession out of him, really let him have it; fortunately, at that time, those patrolmen were far off, and those irate laborers soon went home, as the hour was late and the night was cold; after that, those rune-sketchings disappeared, were not seen again in those parts. After a few days, those workers settled down, forgot about that whole thing—they were quick to forget such things, as quotidian affairs oft overwhelmed them with concerns. Soon thereafter, the local lawmen managed to arrange an agreement, settle that whole affair; both feuders were unhappy with the deal, had to swallow pride, accept terms; yet, they agreed to the deal, shook hands in the house of the Brordland thane; they drank beer together, and after that, they were cordial with each other. Indeed, that was a happy resolution, rare in those days; there was some celebration after that, and those two eventually became friends. Indeed, Theodore mourned when Addrick perished some years later, eaten up by the life-sucker, bone-disease; that sickness that eats men up, shrivels muscles, makes bones hollow, turns them brittle. Theodore came into Hiturwolf’s favor a few years after that when he vocally defended that new lord’s policy, impugned market place murmurs, contested bitter rumors that suggested dishonor, filthy actions on the new lord’s part. He really let those mockers have it in the plain market bustle; he lost his temper, shouted and sputtered words about honor and patriotism; indeed, when those market folk began to guffaw, he turned over a market stall, kicked spilled goods aside, stamped them into the dust—he showed great strength in his anger, instilled some measure of fear in those watchers. After that, those folk were more careful with words, though some were wont to mock him in private, recite doggerel around the popping hearth when there was no one to speak on his behalf, defend him against that slander. At length, those rhymes came to Theodore’s attention, hurt his feelings; some were vulgar, insulting to his stock; others were mere jest, mirth-causers. A short time after that, when Theodore brooded in his house, perturbed by continuing insults, stung by sharp words, a horseman came. That swift-rider bore documents, delivered them to Theodore’s door; they were thin scrolls wrapped up around old bones, tied up in skins. The message-bringer handed them over, recited words crafted by youthful Hiturwolf for the occasion. Theodore was emboldened at that; he accepted that gratitude, gift of the slightest title, a minor share of rank and prestige; indeed, he took to waving those papers about in the market square during the high hours, posted on the village board, declared his new rank publicly; in that way, he implored the people to cease the mockery, put an end to improper behavior. For some time, however, those ditties continued; indeed, the singers became more daring, oft recited those words in public, even during the Saturday market time, when farmers and husbandmen gathered, brought wares to the Brordan township square. For some time, Theodore took refuge in his home, became a hermit for more than 2 years; in fact, that guy was scarcely seen during a full season-cycle, oft sent his oldest son Durg to attend government meetings, mead-gatherings held oft at the thane’s house. At first, that lad was met with derision, was mocked for his age, thin limbs, gangly body; at long length, however, those folk grew to accept him, allowed him a lowly place near the toilet chambers. Those door-timbers were ill set, not sealed properly with pitch; that was an unpleasant seat, an ignoble place to be sure. Even so, Durg held his tongue, quietly accepted those circumstances, listened intently to the table-talk, thane’s declarations, rattling crocks, boisterous haggling about husbandry and other laws. One day, Durg met his fate near the end of one such meeting, when derogatory words piqued his ire, set fire to his limbs, caused him to leap to his feet, kick his stool aside, send it skittering along the dirty floor planks. Indeed, one conniving neighbor brought formal charges, filed a formal complaint against Theodore in that meeting, accused him of improperly expanding fence lines, land-encroachment in the northern-corner, where their land met in a thicket of old pine trees and cedar trees and jagged stones. At that accusation, Durg let his tongue slip, called that chap a liar, beneath contempt; those hall-folk burst out laughing, found mirth in his cheek; it’s true that the bad neighbor flushed, felt anger at that outburst, but the others praised him, applauded his balls, raised beer cups. Then, Durg demanded the floor, sued for the right to speak in his father’s behalf; his voice was too soft, squeaky; it could not be heard above the din. He approached the table, flushing; then he slipped on vomit and fell, skull-cracked his head on the hearth corner, suffered a grievous wound. At that, the Thane himself grieved, helped bind that wound, wrap that wounded boy up in blankets. After that, those men loaded him onto a wagon in the yard and that creaking vehicle bore the boy off, made that delivery a few hours thence, when his house was quiet, and the hearth-fire burned low. Although that boy lived some months thereafter, he was not the same; indeed, that blow caused deep damage, stole life-strength from his limbs, drained away the spirit; it left him drooling and gibbering, especially in the dim hours, when the world was not so clear. He was a half-person who could not care for himself the way that men should. Verily, those house-maidens who cared for him reported that he spoke strange words, made twisted faces; they said that he channeled spooky sources, let wandering ghosts speak into this world, lent those vaporous things his tongue. For those reasons, they soon became afraid of him, loath to attend to their duties; even the most kind-hearted of those ladies breathed out relief when Durg seized up and died during the early morning while deer sprang to and fro outside his window and early morning birds shook off sleep in tangled boughs. Theodore learned of those unjust charges at the time when the Thane’s errand-runners delivered that stricken boy, and soon thereafter, that furious father broke his solitude, came out of his house at last; sorrow and rage were apt medicine for his malady. He was a different person, thenceforth. At the next mead-meeting, he was assertive; indeed, he pressed that bad neighbor, demanded proof of those accusations; his voice was strong, certain. His jaw clenched tight; blood-paths showed on his forehead and neck. Those table-sitters were startled when Theodore took up speech out of turn, cut off another, overrode that man easily; indeed, that bad neighbor faltered at first, but quickly recovered. He sneered at that, responded with hollow words, useless things—even the Thane frowned at that. Because of Theodore’s boy, the Thane took up special interest in that case, resolved to see it through. Now, many years since his son’s mound-raising, Theodore was a minor war-leader; he wore good gear; a tightly linked mail shirt, an iron helm embossed with fierce defenders; his shield was linden wood, leather wrapped; that shield had been in battle once or twice before, was scarred and pitted in some places; that protector had been carried by _________, before it was sent to Theodore, a gift from the mead-house lord on some occasion

Problems on the Mount

Tumultuous days followed Aidlith's funeral: conflict sprouted like choke-weed on Steorogot's crown. Bickering belittled the mead-feasts held in the hill-top hall. Often, heavy fists hammered the table, crocks shattered; oaths and curses tumbled down the road. The ruckus disquieted livestock at all hours of the day. Every now and again, brawlers tumbled from the front door, grappled in the dust, pummeled each other; jeering rings oft looped around the feud-grapplers, egged them on. Sometimes, a death-blow was dealt: the brain-house was crushed, or the neck snapped; on those occasions, blood-money was paid, the score settled in the traditional way. Verily, it was a time of discontent, when old agreements unraveled, and bond-links slipped and broke—even renowned war-companions, stout fellows like Gorm heavy-hand and Edrid, fell out, came to fist-blows on an occasion. Enen feuded with his brother-sons, championed his claim to the high-seat before the counsel of thanes; he refused to back down. Mediation was difficult; the thanes were evenly split—the thanes of the West sward stood against Enen, he was not thought highly of in the out-lands; his tax policies were heavy-handed, unfair to the horse-herders out there. The others—thanes of the hills and forests--even the soft-spoken scop could not broker peace. Weeks passed; the neighboring clans surveyed the unrest, grew antsy in their battle-halls; land-lusters began to plot in the mountain halls to the north. One day, Enen drank too much at a mead-meeting of thanes. He sprawled upon the empty seat—an arrogant gesture! Aerk, Aidlith's son became red-faced; he gripped Enen's tunic, threw him to the grimy floor-boards, gave him a kick in the trousers. He insulted him, mocked him with laughter. Enen sprang up with a dagger, plunged it in just below the breast-bone. When Aerk choked on blood and died soon thereafter, Enen was named kin-slayer, beyond blood-price. He was strung up in the afternoon; his wealth was split among Aerk's kin; his family was expelled from their plot just below the western flank of Steorogot's hill. They were tramps, after that.

First Kill

Etheomere continued working; he plucked stones from the earth, tossed them into the gutter. Fat rain drops started falling: they blackened gray stone, made boulders shine, sparkle like gems in certain places. They burst upon Etheomere, dampened his hair, splashed in his beard; he brushed water from his brow, shook his head; the rain started in ernest, a real downpour. Nearby, away to Etheomere's right, the Wending road suddenly curved northward, snaked toward the last ford, where guardsmen kept vigil from a timber watch house overlooking the last stretch of road. Through sheets of rain, Etheomere percieved the guardhouse, and beyond, the silvery river-thread rushing through the soppy water-woods. Thunder rumbled, shook the land; lightning flashed, rain drops fell like sparkling gems. Etheomere lifted another stone, held it for a moment, then tossed it into the shifting pile. Etheomere kept working. He tossed rain-slicked stones, heaved rocks onto the heap; there was a shifting sound, a dirty grinding as stones slipped down the pile, tumbled to rest at the base. Then, the sound of thudding feet, sloshing puddles, sucking mud; three figures came running down the Wending road. They wore dark clothes; dark cloaks trailed behind them. Their countenances were shadow-wrapped, impossible to perceive. Etheomere paused, a stone in his hand. He watched them approach the road's bend. They were running, really flying along the sloppy road; they spotted him, changed directions just slightly; they pulled knives from their sheathes, shining little blades that caught the lightning, flickered, while water slopped up around their muddy boots and rain fell in sheets from the sky. Etheomere's heart thundered, his life-rhythm pounded in his ears. He stepped backwards, death-fear compelled him to turn and flee. Then, behind those runners, river-guardsmen appeared, shouting; one tossed a jug aside. It spun; a thread of red wine spilled into the downfall. He pulled an arrow from a battered old quiver, fit it to his long bow. His companions nocked arrows too; they drew bow strings taut, let loose; the strings hummed, the arrows hissed, some flew wide, whistled past Etheomere. One struck a runner, pierced his back below the shoulder blade; the man twisted, spun, fell to the ground. Another arrow ended him, The others ran on, blades drawn; Etheomere heaved the stone; it bludgeoned rain drops in mid air, knocked them all about. It struck one man in the forehead, caved in that life-holder; he pitched backwards, fell to the earth. The other slipped, skidded, turned and grasped at his companion's arm; arrows pierced him then; twice, thudding sounds resounded from his chest; his breath whistled, his body shuddered suddenly; the death-shakes announced the end of him. The river-guardsmen cheered, clapped hands; they approached Etheomere. 'Ha, ha' shouted one, ' that's how you do it!' The other ' well done, good throw! What a toss! Hell! ' They shook Etheomere's hand, pumped it up and down, clapped his back. Nearby, Etheomere's foe lay; small bubbles, blood red, fragile, expanded from his nose and burst; narrow crimson rills, life-streams trickled from his death-wound. Rain washed the blood-puddle away; a fecal reek wafted up from the body, befouled the air there. Suddenly, an illness touched Etheomere, the war-thrill left him suddenly; the ugly death-stench filled his nostrils, trickled into his lungs; his stomach heaved, his jaw worked; he vomited onto the stones beside the road. His knees slackened, he knelt in the mud, drooling bile. He spat. The guardsmen guffawed. One spoke up, 'is this your first, buddy?' Another responded, chuckling, 'He's drawing breath yet, see there?' 'You should finish the job, it's the correct thing to do in this case,' said another, gravely. The tallest guardsman, a fierce-looking chap with a tangled mustache and a fine leather boar helm, drew a dagger; he proffered it to Etheomere, handle-first, spoke sternly. ''You would want the same mercy, pup!' Etheomere stood, wiped his mouth, spat again; he looked about; the guardsmen all looked at him; their eyes were intense; the dying man's life-breath bubbled and sputtered softly; thunder rumbled, lightning flashed, rain fell. In the distance, a deer sprung away, bounded through the grass; a field-mouse scurried across the road; an owl hooted along the riverside. Etheomere took the antler-handle blade—it was a fine knife. The blade was clean, not nicked or dinted at all; raindrops slid from the well-forged metal. He examined the blade awhile. One guardsman knelt beside the dying man, turned his head, touched his neck, slid a finger along a thick blood-road that protruded from the tightened skin. He looked up, spoke to Etheomere. 'The brain needs oxygen; oxygen is carried by the blood. The heart pumps blood through this artery to the head, neck and brain—it's high pressure! Have you ever cut a carotid? Death in an instant! A nick here, friend, and mercy is done. Just stand aside when you do the cutting' The guardsman stood, another squatted near the body. He moved the head, pointed to the spider web skull-fracture, the weak-point in that brain-house. 'the brain is very delicate; it's soft stuff! it is the real life-house, the focal point of everything the body does. A solid blow causes swelling, extra pressure; in fact, a solid blow in one place can cause vibrations that damage the various life centers deeper inside the skull-case. Look how your stone-blow has nearly ended this fellow, right in the frontal lobe, where he really resides! Finish it with a knife! One stroke or two should end it quick enough' The guardsman stood, stepped away. The tallest man, knife-lender, stepped in; he crouched beside the fellow, touched his left breast. 'look, this man has no battle-rings, no mail girt around him; put the knife-blade in his heart! The heart is the blood-pump, the life-sustainer. It sends oxygen to the brain, limbs, and other places; it takes old blood in and sends it back to the lungs to reap oxygen. Nothing can live without oxygen. A knife in the heart will end the cycle, stop the beat; the blood will stop flowing, oxygen will stop circulating; one by one, cells will asphyxiate and perish; the brain will die, life will end; it's the easiest way, really, as long as you miss the ribs.' The tall man stepped aside, lifted his helmet; underneath, thin brown hair clung to his pale flesh. The guardsmen looked at Etheomere. Etheomere clutched the knife, squatted beside the man, turned his head, exposed the thick neck artery. He stared, his eyes fixed on the man's neck; for some moments he did not act, the knife trembled in his hand; his face drained, blanched. Finally, he looked up. 'He's dead, completely gone; the head-wound ended him, after all.' Etheomere stood; the guardsmen knelt, checked the man; they touched his neck, listened to his chest, pulled the lids, peered into his eyes. The tall man stood and took his knife back; he smiled, laughed ' ha ha, there it is, pup!' The others chuckled, clapped Etheomere on the back. 'That's a good one, a fair kill indeed! With a stone, no less!'

The story of Airlin and her family

Airlin was a reknowned woman; she was famous for her quiet cunning, slow wisdom at Hiturwolf's disposal. Indeed, her family had many fame-earners; her geat-great-grandsire was Earl, the wealth-winner, who had raided enemy halls, shattered vault-doors, took away their heirlooms. He oft raided lands to the south, was wont to ride for foreign fields first; there, he recruited the slaves, shattered chains, split wrist-cuffs; they were only too happy to join him, help despoil those bond-holders, take payment for their toil. That way, Earl lost few men in fighting, kept in the rear-guard, while anger-surgers overcame the resistance, did the dirty battle-work. He was a clever man! At one raid, he captured Ruth, stole her from her sleeping chamber, slew all her kinsmen in that place; she was a handsome prize, soon became Earl's wife; she promptly bore him a son, though he died soon thereafter; in later years, she bore him others, strong crawlers that grew up, became tall like Earl, broad-shouldered in their youth. They lived in Okrund, a township in the thinned forest near the ________ gate, where a deep well pierced the earth-skin, dipped far into the watery, rushing gloom: it was said that many treasures lay in those depths. Some folk said it was some creatures hoard; oft, the scop told tales of a river-worm's mound of old jewels, twisted gold things, ancient heirlooms heaped up on the water's bottom. The scop spoke of the pillagering worm, of old-time scourges visted upon the ocean-faring folk, sea-testers; those ship-riders who taunted the wave-lashers, rode across the whale-road, tempted fate like that. It was their stolen loot that was sunk in those deeps. Near that mossy well, Earl had land, a large plot, some animals; he was rewarded for his deeds, the tithes he paid, dutifully. He begot sons, brave lads; his first born, Don blonde-locks, was a scop-clinger; a tale-lover; he drowned in the well, thrashed there in the dark, was doom-greeted when he was seven years old. After that, the old well was sealed up, closed for good; some say that Earl himself dropped a boulder there, sealed up that tomb; even now, those well-stones are scattered about, heaped up around that rock. His last child was a daughter, fair-skinned Brecca, who had a fierce temper, oft brawled with her brothers, bested them at grappling from time to time. It was Brecca who lived the longest, kept her life-air in her chest; she fought off illnesses, resisted that pest, deadly land-sweeper that reaped her kin, laid waste to her family, among myriad others. In turn, Brecca was hand-locked, ring-bound to a minor land-holder, an ignoble chap called Berccon, who lived nearby, inherited some holdings there. Soon, they produced twins, Brecca gave forth; it was an easy birth, the mid-wife was skilled in that art, knew how to welcome children into the world. She named those twins Morgon and Marik; they were strong, lifted up their heads, made fists soon after birth. When they grew up, twisted their first beard-braid, they earned a thane's friendship, lasting favor, when they saved his son, rescued that life from death's hand, those mildewed breath-clutchers, bone-freezers. That wight went hapless back to the river-side fen on that occasion, slunk away, lurked for other prey. Later, when Erik, their thane-friend took up bird-hunting, they oft joined him at that, slung arrows, shot down quarry. Verily, they were hunting brush-thumpers when Morgon first saw Hanna, caught sight of her in a hamlet; at that sight, he designed to marry her, petitioned Erik to undue her troth-plight, shiver that bond. Erik wielded influence, doled out coins, favors; finally, he shook the blade. Soon after that, Morgon and Hanna were marriage-bound, took up residence on Erik's land. Promptly, they had children, a healthy lot. Airlin was the third-born, a destined queen.

At the Marshaling Camp

Soon after those documents were delivered, marshaling camps were set up along the major roads: thanes opened up prison cells, uncoupled wrist-clamps, sent miscreants off to the war—whips drove them down the byways, spurred them on toward the marshaling camps. They sent spare martial supplies, contributed rusty mail, dull sword-blades, nicked spears to those war-marchers. On Ud's stead-lands, various troublemakers, reluctant workers, real grumblers, marched to the nearest camp. Etheomere was among them; he marched quietly, paid no heed to the shouting horsemen, whip-holders, that escorted them to the camps. After some time, that disdainful group arrived there; they registered with the battle-veterans, took severe oaths before their stern eyes—those were death-oaths, impossible to break. They were promised freedom, complete pardons, some money in exchange for martial service—it was not an option. After that, each man was assigned gear. Etheomere himself was girt in old mail, a torn-up jerkin, a leather helm; a sword was strapped about him, it was an old thing, red-tinted; it was a rusty blade, a betrayer for sure. Those soldiers stayed at that camp for two days—that place swelled with troops, filled to the brim with hooligans and leering soliders. During that time, they engaged in training; they clashed swords, bashed shield against shield; then, Etheomere's strength began to show, he did well in arms training, knocked a few opponents off their feet. At night, outland wenches prepared meals; they served meat—venison and beef-- and low-quality beer, moved about the feeding tent, did their job quietly. Among those kitchen-servants was Meredeth hawk-beak; at that time, she was still ignoble, not well-known at all. Still, even at that time, she was wont to whisper in the evening bunk, when the day's labor had ended; her bunkmates felt vigour, their tempers stirred upon hearing her words. She was a speaker, a propaganda-maker; although then it was unknown, she would one day become a whisperer against Etheomere; her bitterness became famous, her rankling pride-wound the subject of scop songs for many years—that was an abstruse feud, who knew the true cause? After the evening meal, men were wont to boast, speak lofty words, really play-up their battle abilities. Even the soldiers, real guardsmen, freely boasted of their deeds, bragged about honor they would win in the upcoming squirmeshes, clashes with Abrecan and his foreign mercenaries, coin-bought thugs. Through all that, Etheomere listened, felt the battle-words stir anger, heat-up that common room with flaring temper-fires; ever and anon, word-grapplers pushed back from the table, challenged each other with fists, stung each other with insults, voice-blades. In those occasions, Etheomere watched, responded when one of his table-companions turned, spoke these words to him: 'Ya know, this reminds me of the fuckin' rutting season out on the ranch. These guys butt heads just like horny goats—what's the point?' Etheomere laughed, derisive. He responded like this: 'yeah, I dunno. Why don't they save it up for the real fight, whenever the hell that is.' The other spoke up over the boasting-din, rattling crocks: 'By the way, I'm Rudrik, from Thrugs homestead, how about you?' 'I'm Etheomere. I work in Ud's fields, now.' The other laughed, really started chuckling: 'Etheomere? I've heard of you! You're known far and wide as a lay-about—a real lazy ass. I guess I shouldn't be surpised to see you in with this rabble.' Etheomere frowned, gripped his crock-handle; he responded, at length. 'What do ya mean by that?' Rudrick chuckled, 'and not so sharp, either, right? Did you sign up for this? Did you volunteer for the job? Neither did I, and what does your sword look like? Mine's cracked across the blade—it was a gift from some generous land-holder. I'm sure it'll break across the first shield it meets—we're dead men, Etheomere. We don't stand a fuckin' chance.' That ruddy guy took a swig, drank from his crock; he choked and laughed: 'It could be worse, I guess. At least we'll bite it in battle, and not die in the fields, worked to death during harvest season or something.' Then that fellow stood up, clapped Etheomere on the back; he belched and walked away from that place at the table, laughing. After that, Etheomere fumed, his face grew ruddy: he twisted his beard-braides, tugged at them a bit. Next to him, a heafty man burst out laughing, fell from his chair, mead-tipsy: his companions jeered at him, kicked at him with their boot-tips; at that time, a serving wench approached, bearing good beer for the battle-captains sitting round a nearby table. That fat fellow extended a hand, gripped her leg about the ankle. He pulled her down on top of him; beer pitchers toppled, thumped onto the soil floor. He hugged her tight, gripped her like that—he laughed as that wench contested his arm clasp. Beer puddled on the dirty ground, soaked that man's worn-out cloak: Etheomere pushed his chair aside, stood up; he seperated himself from that unseemly scene. Nearby, at the captain's table, wrothful men stood, approached the tumbling pair. Their gloved hands clutched weapon-hilts, prepared to draw swords from the scabbards. At that, the fat fellow unlocked fingers, losed his grip; he finally let that serving girl go. She stood and fled, hurried back to the kitchen tent; some men guffawed, threw food, pegged her with sloppy meal-scraps as she hurried away. Then, those battle-capitans pulled that miscreant to his feet, gripped his arms; one dour chap made a fist, struck him in the face, knocked him back; he reeled, stumbled backwards into Etheomere, really piqued his anger like that. Etheomere pushed him forward, lost his composure completely. At that, that fat man turned, struck Ethomere a solid blow, split his lip, drew life-water from his mouth and nose; Etheomere fell down, it was an unexpected blow! His eyes blurred, filled up with water; he ran off, left that tent behind. For a while, he stood outside in a shadowy place; the night was sable, pitch-black; the vault was splattered from end to end with sky-blazers, twinkling night-gems. Wind rustled the grass, blew through the fields out beyond the farthest tents; it was a big camp; it extended off into the grassy distance. Here and there, leaves spun on the air-currents, dust twisted up and down the Wending road. Etheomere wandered off, walked past the make-shift stables, horse-houses; those beasts were quiet, caught up in night-rest. In other places, near the sleeping-tents, campfires blazed; bright tongues drove off the shade, lit up faces. At length, Etheomere reached the camp's edge. At that point, a voice adressed him, spoke up from somewhere nearby: 'not thinkin' of wandering off, are you, boy? That'd be a big mistake.' Etheomere spotted a camp-guard, war-girt, standing beside the last sleeping-tent; behind him, a campfire blazed; light glinted on polished rings, mail-bearing soldiers; they looked his way. The soldier: 'I think I know you. Come here, will ya?' Etheomere walked toward the soldier, took three steps that way. That guard laughed, slapped his knee: 'Yeah, yeah, I thought so! I saw ya kill your first man, and with a rock! Remember that? That was, oh, let me see, out near the Giant's flank, nearly a year ago. You're beard's a tad longer and a bit thicker, but hell! I knew it was you.' Etheomere thought for a bit, spoke up then: 'You're one of the river guards, right?' The other grinned, split his beard; he showed teeth 'That's right. I'm Alfric, by the way. What's your name?' The other responded, said, 'Etheomere.' The other chuckled, stepped forward; he shook Etheomere's hand, pumped it up and down. 'Come on, let's have a seat by the fire. We've got some beer to share, and it isn't that swill they're serving in the food-tent, either!' Then those two went to the fireside, sat down on the ground; the fire was warm, it really drove off the chill. One guard passed Etheomere a flagon, he took a long swig, passed it on—it was good beer. Alfric, to the others: 'boys, this is Etheomere. He's got a good story to tell, don't ya, Etheomere?' Etheomere didn't speak right away, he locked up his words, sealed his mouth; at length, Alfric spoke up: 'you're not much of a braggart, are ya Etheomere? Shit, anyway, Etheomere here killed a bandit with a rock, from um about 20 yards away. Dropped him, just like that. Caved his head in. ' The others nodded, seemed impressed; one said 'Is that so, boy? That's a hell of a throw, if it's true.' Etheomere nodded. 'Yeah, it's true,' he chuckled a little, took a deep swig of beer, 'that was the first time I killed somebody.' An older chap, a gray-beard, nodded his head, took the beer-flagon. He spoke up, saying 'I guess that's not a bad start. You just wait 'till you do it up close. It's a whole different thing, ain't it, boys?' Alfric laughed, 'yeah, wait 'till you feel the blood splatter on ya—it's pretty nasty.' Etheomere: 'I guess I'll get the chance soon enough, eh?' 'Yeah, that's right,' said a dour member of the group, 'hope you can handle things in a fair fight.' Etheomere glowered, didn't issue any response to that. Another fellow, a real crooked-nose, said 'Did ya do it on purpose? I mean, did ya mean to kill him, or did ya just get lucky?' That chap snorted, ended that statement derisively. Etheomere accepted the beer-flagon, drank from it, passed it on; he flushed, his word-former turned down, tightened into a bloodless beard-line. Then, he laughed, ' I was lucky. Course, I meant to stop him. He was coming at me with a knife and all I had was a fuckin' pile of rocks. What was I supposed to do, eh?' Alfric spoke up, addressed his crew: 'you're all veterans, aren't ya? hell, everybody knows luck's got a hand in any victory--big deal if it helped that rock crack that poor bastards noggin. It doesn't denigrate the deed, that's for damn sure.' The others jostled about, grunted. The dour fellow spoke up, issued gruff words: 'well, we'll see how things go up there in the hills—sure as hell hope that luck sticks around for ya.' Etheomere nodded, said: 'what the hell are we doin', anyway? I haven't heard much about this whole thing—I guess we're fightin' Abrecan, that's about all I know.' The crooked-nose answerd that question, responded like this: 'Abrecan's got himself in a hell of a mess—apparently, he raided fuckin' Steogorot's Crown and killed a whole bunch of Hiturwolf's men, includin' Grom—Hiterwolf's dear old pal.' The dour fellow shook his head, disagreed. 'Nah, that ain't it at all. The problem's that Abrecan was behind all of them killin's up there in the hills—includin' what happened at Autumn fort. Didn't you hear about that?' Etheomere shook his head; Alfric stirred the fire, sent little sparks riding upward on the air-column. One of the others—a fellow with a mustache —set a log on the ember-pile; flame-tongues licked it. The dour chap laughed. 'I guess you poor slobs don't get much news, eh? Well, let me tell ya—it was a slaughter up there. Maybe, uh, fifty or sixty merchant men and women were killed and left to rot. The way I hear it, Abrecan killed kids, even.' The others assented, muttered, ' yeah, that's right.' Alfric said, ' nothin' better than putting some thug in his place. When we're through, Abrecan won't have a copper coin to his name.' The old fellow, the gray-beard, spoke up: 'hell, he'll be lucky if he escapes with his neck. I reckon there're lots of hot-bloods 'round here lookin' for braggin' rights.' The crooked nose passed the beer flagon, handed it off to Etheomere. Then, he bushed a hand through his hair, 'I wouldn't mind getting a hold of him, myself. Can't tell ya what I'd do to him.' The dour fellow grunted: 'I'd cut his head off.' The other guardsmen chuckled, seemed to agree; Etheomere shifted, stretched his legs out. He belched. Alfrik opened his jaw, formed words; he adressed Etheomere: 'What do ya know about Abrecan, Etheomere?' The other shook his head, returned words: 'Not much.' The crooked-nose laughed, but didn't speak. Etheomere divined his thoughts, guessed his unformed words. 'they don't tell us much about the affiars of thanes. I guess no one thinks that debt workers need to know about that stuff.' 'Yeah,' said the crooked nose, 'they're probably right.' The dour fellow spit into the fire; that mouth-water sizzled on the embers, disappeared; he spoke up. 'He's an asshole.' Alfric laughted at that; the others followed suit. Then, he stirred the embers, roused some flames; 'He's got a pretty bad reputation 'round here, actually ' Etheomere asked,' yeah? Why's that?' It was the gray-beared that answered. First, he drank from the flagon, drained it, wiped beer from his lip-hair; he said: ' you know Therick horse-breeder, right? His property is near Ud's, er, a bit to the south, I think.' Etheomere nodded at that, Therick was a famous name, well known about the West Sward. Verily, his horses were well-bred, strong beasts; in fact, oft Steogorot's Crown purchased stallions from him; they were real ground-pounders! The gray-beared, again: 'well, Abrecan crossed him big-time. He tried to buy some horses from Therick, but he had none to sell at that time. See, they were all set aside for another buyer. Abrecan offered to pay extra for the steeds, but Therick refused. A deal's a deal, right?' At that, the crooked-nose started speaking: 'somehow, Abrecan found out who was gonna buy the horses. The fucker sent some of his thugs to threaten him—they beat the piss out of him. Broke his ankle, even; as I understand. ' Alfric said, 'uh-huh, that's right. Finally, the buyer cancelled his order—under duress, of course. A few days later, some people showed up at Thericks place. They offered about half the price for the same horses. What a rip-off, huh? Yeah, anyway, somehow they convinced him to take the offer. Abrecan got his horses, and that was that.' For a minute, no one made words; the fire crackled, popped now and again; hands passed beer flagons around. Etheomer drank deeply, especially. From far away, wildland-lopers howled, shouted abstruse words to their companions; then they were silent, hushed in the dark out there. The wind rustled the grass a bit; cloud-shreds passed over blazing stars. The sky was tattered like that. Etheomere, finally: 'but, weren't there complaints? I mean, why the hell didn't Thedrick make claims with Hiturwolf? Abrecan fuckin' broke the law, didn't he?' The other fire-sitters laughed. Then, Alfric spoke up, answered that quiery: 'Ya know, it's just politics, that's all. Look, what do ya know about Hiturwolf's table, exactly?' Etheomer shrugged, drank some more brew-water; he passed that beer-holder along. He said; 'Hiturowolf's battle-friends sit at his table. The give him advice, help him make the really tough decisions.' The others roared, really split their sides; Etheomere's face blazed, reddened. 'Nah,' said Alfric, 'nah, that's not it at all. They're not all his friends.' Etheomere made a question, inquired: ' who're they, then?' 'The government!' said the gray-beard, laughing. Alfric spoke, again: 'Look, all of the big thanes have some kinda representation up there at that table. It's a way to make sure that their interests are protected, at all times. When Hiturwolf tries to instigate a new policy that's contrary to their interests, they raise a ruckus—I mean, they really stir up some trouble. Half the time, they've got somethin' to hold over Hiturwolf's head-some old debt or feud or whatever.' The gray-beard, with a grunt: 'that Hiturwolf's tied up hand and foot by those thanes. Pathetic.' Crooked-nose: 'It'll be damn good to do away with Abrecan. That'll be one less problem fer everybody.' Before more words were made, tossed about, the lopers howled again; they barked fiercely, made some real wild battle-sounds. The sound came from the near distance; those fire-sitters turned their gaze, pointed head-windows off toward the loper's speech. 'Coyotes,' said the Crooked-Nose. 'They're loud tonight.' 'Yeah, out hunting,' said the dour fellow. 'they're plenty of connies 'round here.' That beer-crock went around again; Etheomere finished it off, belched; then he set it aside. Alfric hand-gripped the beer-holder, stood up; close by, there was a wagon with beer barrels on it; he went there and filled the crock up to the brim. While he was away, doing beer-duties, that fire side was quiet: the fire popped and snappled, flames licked along dried limbs, split tree-chunks; the Crooked-Nose added more wood, dropped the last few bits onto the campfire. Etheomere spoke suddenly, addressed the others: 'so, are you river-guards, too?' Some grunted; others remained silent. The dour fellow stirred the embers, poked the fire a bit. 'How'd you end up mixed up in this?' The gray-beared: 'Ya mean, besides for the pleasure of doin' away with Abrecan?' 'All of us owe some money,' said Alfric, returning: he passed the crock on. 'Yeah, course, we get treated well enough, money-wise, I mean. Still, this is a good opportunity to erase those old debts, so, why the hell not? Same goes for you too, right?' 'Yeah,' said Etheomere to that. 'I think so, anyway.' The Crooked-Nose stated: 'You'll be in the front lines, ya know. Have ya ever marched in the van? You getta have the first go at Abrecan's defenses. They say his mead-hall is easily defended—better watch out for the archers!' Etheomere: 'Is that so?' 'This is how thanes get rid of the riff-raff,' said the dour fellow, he added a shoulder shrug. Alfric laughed. 'You'll be all right. Look, either way, you'll end up debt free, right?' Etheomere didn't respond to that; he drank from the crock, wiped beer-froth from his lips; he stood up, weaved about just a little bit. He said, 'I've really gotta piss. I'll be right back.' The others shrugged, carried on. At that, he walked away, went past some boisterous beer-drinkers, passed between moribund fire-patches. At that point, the hour had grown late—some mead-drinkers had fallen asleep, were beer-sleeping beside the fire; others had stumbled off to the bed-tent, fell asleep there. At length, Etheomere stepped into the shadows, promptly put all of that camp-sound behind him; he opened his trousers, relieved himself into a tussock, a dry grass-patch. Away ahead of him, vague shapes strolled through the grass, loped about, panting. Etheomere strained his eyes, scarcely percieved a pack of lopers gathered together; those shapes worried at some fallen thing, produced a disquiting rumor of savage meal-taking—the sounds of rending and cracking came from that rural congress; little columns of life-heat drifted upward into the air. Etheomere creeped forward, approached that banquet; many eyes glinted among the grass-stalks, threw light now and again; animal flanks wagged to and fro, teeth snapped, tails thrashed the dry grass. That group of eaters issued strange words, animal sounds; yelps and growls and murmurs filled the air up. Then, one feaster sniffed the air, perked its ears; that grass-loper looked at Etheomere, saw him standing there; at that, the beast issued a warning sound, yelped to the others. Etheomere stepped back, receded just a bit; then that spotter squated, hunched down, excreted some old meal. Just that way, a grass eater returned to the grass, nourished the earth's field again; the coyote trotted off, returned to the frenzy, while Etheomere remained, watching those field-beasts fulfill their part in life's cyclical nature, spurred onward by the law of cause and effect. Soon after, another animal sniffed about, emptied itself near that spot; it was a natural thing, a universal life-urge to give back to the earth like that. An animal growled; a voice called out, shouted Etheomere's name. His mind recalled faery words, redrew old encounters; his thoughts flickered upon those time-bleached memories as he walked toward the flickering firelight in the camp before him.

A Heroic Encounter with Faeries

The Nithmeren Deep-Creek was a tributary stream, a mere strand of the spooky Nithrangoth, that river-road that conducted spirits to the sloshing sea. Etheomere followed that road to those banks, where supple trees sprouted from the ground, and the earth was softened by thin carpets of old, festering leaves. Etheomere followed the creek thither; when he arrived, little dark green shapes flitted about; shyly detached themselves from the undersides of branches; up-sprung from clumps of river-rushes. Moss was skin to them; the film of their wings was veined with roots. They were the earth-sperm, the life-seeders, true ambassadors from the buried earth-halls; they were the errand-runners of Agd. Verily, they were strange things! Upon perceiving them, flickering here and there, Etheomere reached under his tunic, pulled a knife from it's sheath; the blade was dirty, nicked in many places. He thought to engage those bobbing things, fight those evil-doers, dole out justice to those that merited it. But they mocked him, countered his fighting urge. Indeed, his blade whistled, slashed across the wind. The faeries tittered. They buzzed about, whispered strange, fundamental words: they spoke so that Etheomere understood. They assailed him with crafted words, drew his ire out, and then whizzed away between the trees. Etheomere plunged ahead, he pursued them. The land fell down a slight hill; the Nithrangoth's voice-mutter became a roar, white water dashed against protruding rocks and broken planks, sloshed up high into the air. Along the banks, the humus thickened, became slick. Slender trees sprang up in thickening groups from the sloping terrain. Still, in many places sunlight filtered through the outspread boughs, pierced the umbrage. The sun cast rays upon the land, making gems of water droplets and drawing rainbows out of the splashing water. The faeries slowed, buzzed, chirped—there were fewer than ten in that mischievous tribe. Then real rage slipped it's wonted fetters, bestowed it's dubious gifts. Etheomere tore through the underbrush, heedless of pain; he ran onward, now leaping over stumps and stones, now ducking low-hanging branches and half-toppled trees. The faeries lured him on toward a rotting thing, a bloated deer-corpse sleeping on the riverside. Etheomere's foot caught the yielding bulk; the hide split, spewed death-ichor onto the leaves. He sprawled upon the ground; his hands clutched for the dagger-haft; he gripped it and twisted onto his back. Just then, the fluttering things swooped down and pulled back softened hide, pulled clumps of hair, revealed bones and muscles and tendons and guts; gas escaped from the opened spaces. Faery-bodies entered the broken entrails, exited the slackened anus, exposed the gentiles. They spoke “this is you, every bit and piece. This is your fate, you thing of the earth, you slave to cause and effect! Are you afraid?” Etheomere breathed in the reek: he wretched and vomited; the verdant shapes laughed, buzzing and cackling; they gripped his hair, tugged at his ears, lifted his eye-shades; opened his nostrils. They spoke up in thrumming-whispers “such are you, in our eyes, fellow!” The faeries tittered. Etheomere shook them off: he fled from the riverbanks, and the stink of dead, festering things.

How to Make the Universe Explode

The very first time I made the entire universe explode, I tried to count all the galaxies that wheeled around the clutter of the bunk-house, shedding stars and solar systems and little lunar white droplets that splashed across the loose hay-stuffing of my bed-spread like errant little satellites knocked out of orbit by some sudden, ecstatic force. I counted about fourteen spiral galaxies and two distant ellipticals that expanded and contracted with an ebbing series of sensual pulsations before sudden, squeaking door-hinges precipitated a sudden surge of heat, a flush of blood, and the rapid, panicked consolidation of all the bits and pieces of the fragmented universe. The door swung open; the newly discovered source of vast, celestial wonders was hastily obscured beneath a scratchy fold of rough wool blanket. I guess every single piece of the universe withdrew inside me like the big bang rewound just before it burst into its infinite entirety. I was a crucible, I was the sun itself; I could torch the fields, set the hay bedding ablaze; I could drive off storm clouds, dictate the seasons! My older brother laughed like hell and then he laughed some more. He said just wait until you do it with a girl. Then he told me that I had to get my ass out to the fields. It was my turn to watch the grazing sheep. He went to his bunk and I put on my shirt and trousers and went out into the bright sunlight and its spearing light-beams felt a little bit different, like I was tougher after that.

The Day after Doom

Remember the day after doom! Remember the broken war-gear scattered through the forest and all along the cobbled ways. Remember how split mail-rings sparkled among the fallen needles and treacherous head-guards filled with rain in the evening. That was bad armor. The rings were poorly linked; the chin-straps too weak, not meet for that purpose. Remember the dead men strewn on the scuffed battleground. Empty life-houses rested against sticky pines and lay upon the brown field-grass; they bled into the tumbling creeks and bobbed in the swirling pools. The Nithrangoth swept many bodies away. It took many days to take stock of the dead. Some friendly tribes gathered, hauled bodies to the burning-place. They felled trees with iron axes and stripped the bark from birch. They built log-piles, solemnly tossed the dead upon the pitch-slicked lumber. The funeral pyres were immense; the greasy columns of flesh-smoke tied the earth to the sky; those were grim umbilicals! Remember how the beer-hall was gutted on its mount. Its uprooted mead-benches were discarded and its vast ring-store pilfered. Its ornate doors were splintered, its wrought-iron hinges warped, rent from the timbers. The floor-boards were torn up; all the boar-locks burst. Even the silver-wrought gables and high oak-beam bands were pried from their places; what valuable thing was left? It was a ruin on the hillock, an old husk, a slaughtered lord inside the palisade. Remember how the high-seat was rent from the dais; horses drug it through the mud and the filth on the execution-morning. It was a sad sight to see disgrace befall that stately mead-house. Remember how Wisterholt, the brigand-lord gloated from atop the hill, his troop of knaves carting off treasures, torching the outbuildings. That honor-less rabble forced women and girls alike, defiled them like that. They broke pig-pens and drove livestock away. Their thongs lashed reluctant cattle, spurred grazing sheep from quiet pastures. Many husbandmen felt the cold sword-bite, spilled life-water onto their land when they tried to defend their lord's property. The land was sacked, utterly despoiled. Thanes were made chattels, and battle-captives were driven like oxen down the byways. That yolk even bent the necks of children. Remember how King Hiturolf swung from the gibbet in the gray morning, while black crows skittered along the make-shift beam, and the wood creaked and groaned under his weight. Remember when charcoal smoldered on Steorogot's crown and puddles of lye ate away at the tangled ruins. Mud spattered the scorched standards, the gold threads were torn from the warp before they were fed to the fires. In the forests and fields, hamlets smoked, black threads twisted upward from the crumbled piles of scorched wood and fire-cracked stone. No sheep bleated; no cow lowed; no baby cried. Remember the silence. Remember when the wind was black. Remember when the air choked the lungs, put a fire in the heart-cage, made life difficult. Remember when Etheomere clambered up from the eastern bluffs, his hand-grip strong enough to crush lime stone, his eyes shocked by the panorama of destruction.

One of a countless number of little raids

I think I saw the bad guys before they burned down my house and killed all my brothers and took my sisters away. I was supposed to be minding the geese, but actually, I was playing in the field. I was chopping down dry thistles and mullein plants. I like chopping thistles because they break easily. I like chopping mulleins because the top flies a long way if you hit it right. I was playing Adlerod Foe-clobberer. That's my favorite game. I got a good sword from the tree that Dad had pulled off the wagon trail last summer. It was hard, but it finally snapped. A piece of bark almost hit my eye and I said some pretty bad words. Then, I named my sword Grod. The scop Wendlehof told us that was the name of Adlerod's sword, the one he beheaded the giants with ten thousand years ago. Yeah, anyway, in the field, I saw a foot print in a cow pie. It was gross because that cow pie was fresh. I saw that someone had cleaned their boot on an old stump nearby. They had kinda scraped it against the edge of the stump. After that, it looked like they had kicked some dirt around and stomped on some grass. I don't know who could have been out there, so I looked around and in the trees at the end of the field, I saw a guy. I think he was peeing on a tree. When I saw him, I turned around and ran away because I thought he might be a farm hand. Those guys always tell on me. I ended up going to the little fort that I built in the woods near the little creek that goes to the river. It was a pretty dangerous trip. On the way, I killed lots of bad guys. I went through a thistle patch and chopped down every one of them. I even got the King Mullein! First, I cut down all of his guards, then I spun around and chopped his head clean off. Finally, I chopped apart all of the leaves. There was nothing left of him when I was done! I left all the little ones, though. After all, heroes don't kill kids. When I went down the little hill that led down to the creek, I ran into the big monster. I called that monster Urdlug from that story about the creature with the tentacles that wanders around in the swamps and eats the people up who are dumb enough to try to find treasure there. That thing wanted to eat me up! I fought it for awhile. It was a good fight. I took out a lot of its little tentacles, but it wasn't easy. I had to jump to get some of them, and the pine needles were pretty slick. I fell on my butt once or twice and slid a little ways down the hill because the pine needles were like the slime on wet river rocks or something. Finally, I tried to finish that monster off by taking off one of the main tentacles that came out from the trunk. I thought it was dry enough to break but it wasn't. Grod cracked. A few needles fell from the branch but that was it. That monster still had some strength, after all. I decided to give up. I slid down the hill and when I got to the bottom, I broke the cracked blade on my knee and I turned it into a short sword. Before I got to my fort, I got a drink from the creek. Mom told me to never drink from the creek because the cows and other animals sometimes go to the bathroom in the water, but I usually do anyway. I knelt in the grass and my knees got pretty wet because they sunk into some mud or something. I was about to get a drink when a piece of wood floated past. It was a flat piece of wood. It didn't look like a branch or twig or anything. Then, some more pieces floated by. Some of them had nails in them. I picked one up and I looked at it for a bit then I threw it away. I put my face in the water and took a big drink. It was good. I waited for more wood to go by, then I took another drink. The brook water always tastes good but sometimes it hurts my teeth. It's pretty cold. After that, I ran off to my fort. When I got there, I realized that bad guys could easily climb up the walls. I started dragging some branches and stuff to the fort to make them higher. I found some good pieces of wood at that old fallen down tree. It was kind of rotten, so it was easy to get some nice big branches and some wet chunks of wood to fill in the spaces. I also got some big, straight sticks for a fence like the one that goes around the Thane's house on the hilltop. I was having so much fun fixing up my base that I completely forgot about the time. I stopped working when my tummy started rumbling. That's when I realized it was almost noon! I knew I was probably in big trouble. I started thinking of a story to tell Thad. Thad is my oldest brother. He's in charge of the farm when Mom and Dad are away. He's nice, but he gets really mad when I don't do my job. Once, he even beat me up! Mom got mad at him when she saw my shiners, but Dad said I deserved it for slacking off. After that, Mom agreed with Dad. Anyway, I started walking back home. I walked pretty slowly because I was pretty nervous and I was thinking really hard. I had to think of something to tell Thad. When I walked around the little hill with the big rock on top, I noticed there was some smoke ahead of me. It was coming up from behind that bunch of old cotton wood trees that grow in front of our house. I imagined that it was the smoke from some great battle where the good guys were fighting against the bad guys for the fate of the kingdom! I swung my sword and it made swooshing sounds. Even though it was just a short sword, it could do some real damage. Then, I started running toward the fight. I chopped down thistles and hacked down mulleins and killed other evil, lurking plants as I went. I was ready to join the fight at the thane's house.

In an outland shack

The pulsating shadow humped its way across the bright mote beam that leaked through an unsealed crack in the carefully thatched roof and illuminated the mossy and mushroom-laden filth that carpeted the floor of the derelict outland shack where I usually cook up and drink the hazy unnamed broth I make from old forest fungus and dried gut-worms and other things that I find here and there in graveyards and killing grounds and filthy kitchens and forgotten store rooms and other places where nature is allowed to run amok and propagate itself as its own laws see fit. I had never seen that particular shadow before, and that's why it caught my attention as I lay on the straw-stuffed mattress with the world spinning around me and zooming in and out and my sense of time thickening and thinning according to the whims of my chest-ticker, blood-pumper, life-time dictator--hart it's called heart. I named that little thing URG, after the vague mythology of my people or the epic songs of the most en vogue troubadours that never cease to kiss my brother's ass with harp string strums and drum bebop beats and crafted words and crooning and tapping feet and clapping palms and snapping fingers and ringing bells and hooting and hollering and other purely aural pleasures and I can't remember which one inspired that guttural name but that's what I named it! That thing that oozed through the light shooting off little pseudopodia that snatched up little splinters of wood and bits of moss and pieces of other organic growth scooted along the soft-wood wall and poised right above me on the ledge there that skirts the boarded-up window just above the fire pit and cooking pot and then it jumped or fell and it spread out like a blanket caught on the wind with ripples and everything rolling through it's sheet-like form and it grew bigger and bigger until all the light-stains in that place were blotted out and I couldn't see my feet or my knees or my breasts or the tip of my nose then everything was gone. Pitch black. I rolled back and forth a bit and with some difficulty I managed to open my eyes.

Wintertime death

The river usually doesn't freeze in the winter. See, the water splashes about too much: it swirls in deep trout pools, tumbles between green-slicked stones; it hammers toppled trees, mists the air with droplets that sparkle in the sunshine; it sloshes against crumbling banks, paints the eddies with soil, nibbles at the earth. It's a tumultuous fish road. The water is especially riled up near the farthest corner of our land holdings, where the westward land declivity starts in ernest. In that place, the oldest fence posts spear upward from the frosted ground and criss-crossing slats bend and creak under the yearly snow-load. There's a looming cedar there that's redolent in the summertime but somehow frightful in the death-season. Maybe it's the sable lines it paints across the rolling snow. There's a big rock with a crack in it that's never buried by the snow. There's a rotten stump that splits the clay bank with an old dead root. That thing always sprouts new brush but the brush never makes it. There's a perennial clump of thistles that's purple and green and painful to touch. And there's a fallen grave mound. At first it was lush, verdant; my son's life was returned to the soil, roots, stalks, grass, dandy lions, brush sprouts, unfurling fern sprouts, struggling saplings; they took that gift, naturally. It's a cycle, you see? Now, I do; I've seen the process twice since then and the same thing happened again and again. The year my youngest child died, the winter was foreboding; it promised doom; the new year had arrived with the most ominous cloud sign. That winter, in deep February, the river froze solid; the relentless winter-blasts seized the currents, locked everything up in a bubbled sheet of filthy blue; cracks and bent-down water weeds veined that wintry skin; frost dusted the ice; it was quite a sight to see giggling children skittering along that icy road, parents rushing along the skeletal banks, shaggy dogs thrashing tails, dangling tongues, panting little clouds into the sparkling air. One day, the traveling old scop stopped by our home, accepted dried meat, heated-up broth, beer, a warm meal; in return, he tuned the harp, plucked strings, sang a gruff tune about Hella, withered winter-thing, and how she surged down from the mountains, swept her pallid locks across the landscape; she was vindictive, indeed. The youngest boy laughed; his eyes were bright, swimming brown; his voice was piping, cheerful; he said that winter always ends. That grizzled old man, thunder-voice, furrowed gray-brow, said be ready for death. My boy was cowed, at that.

Litch and the Bone-Bringers

In the south, grassy fingers slip along the rolling land; those shreds of West Sward claw deepening valleys among the hummocks, fill up those spaces with verdure, sweep along the tumbling creeks, swallow up land-stones, wash over old deadfalls. On one hillock, an old beer-hall decays; it's a fallen place, in disrepair. Those timbers have long since softened, given in; the whole thing is on a slant, half-way removed from it's stony mount; the roof is mildewed, all the thatching gone; the gables are broken, bare: they used to be carved with woodland scenes, boar-protectors, hart-chargers stamping in the grass and in the woods. Nearby that place, there's a graveyard, a place for mounds; verily, it was an old clan's death-yard, full of humps and tumbled-down cairns: the names of most of those land-fillers have been long forgotten, they could not win fame in their lives. One day, in the summer time, when sky-slashers burned out across that vault and tiny light-points pricked the evening fabric, some horse-ridders happened past that place, galloped on a disused trail that snaked along a grassy ravine. That subtle hoof-road wound through a gully where a small brook bubbled along it's wonted path, spilled between stones and roots. On that one occasion, that lofty mound-field was not empty; verily, there was a figure up there, a boney thing lurking above one overgrown hump; it was standing utterly still, wrapped about in peon-rags, old tattered things that flagged about in the wind, rustled like wheat-stalks. When those riders caught sight of that thing, they pulled back reins, slowed to an easy gait; they spilled their word-hords, bellowed greetings, out-shouted the pulsing cicadas; that thing didn't respond, indeed, it didn't move; the wind blew through it's tattered tunic and made a soft rustling sound; a cavernous whistling came from somewhere, blew spooky notes into the air. That pair dismounted, left their horses there to drink from a deep swirling brook-pool; they were livid, stung by insults, angry at that indignation; they would not be ignored, indeed! Their riding-boots pricked the hillside, broke earth-skin; dark soil spilled out of those wounds. Presently, those investigators breasted that hill, reached the flat hilltop, out-stretching table-face where the land was distorted, spotted with graves here and there. Nearby, that figure stood, vigil-maker; it was immensely tall, eldritch; those word-spouters were shaken by that sight, suddenly less cock-sure; still, one egged the other on, as men are wont to do. They approached that thing and felt fear, like the essence of old death; a wind stirred; it was a barrow-breeze, a musty blow whispering from out of a deep old place. Then, those two saw movement at their feet; the ground was crawling, the grass rustling as bits and pieces of filthy bone were dragged up from the earth, pulled toward that thing, woven into that towering shape. At that, those two fled, tumbled down the hill; they galloped from that place, heedlessly. After that, that old trail has been shunned, avoided by the wise.

Regarding the Hag-queen

The hag-queen is real and she is scary if you don't know what you're looking at. She is always naked. She has white skin and black nails and legs that don't work on the land. When she comes onto the shore in the height of the damp winter, her tits drag on the ground. She's an ugly mother. Her eyes are droopy. Her hair is long and black. Leaves and water-weeds are often caught up in those immense tangles. Sometimes, precious gold things and gems and charred planks and bones are twisted up in those locks, including the skulls of kings. She's considered a devil to those who cast their dead to the rushing waters--as if that were a good way to dispose of a stiff. She hasn't been seen since that hero finally killed all the gods with swords tempered with the logic that she imparts with each fleshy lick of her serpentine tongue. Her poison is reason. She's no niggard with that gift. Still, she's there, sporting in those great swirling churning pools where the Nithrangoth exits the steep, slick boulder shoots of the Giant's Flank and splashes into the immense fens that fester on the foot of the sea. Follow the mossy faery shapes that skitter down along that river's banks, and you might spot her, thrashing in the deep water, thrashing in the fog.

A Miscreant's Tale

And all I wanted to do was take a piss. The foremen were already glowering down from glistening horse flanks when I sued for a quick break, relief for distended water-holders. I guess my balls impressed them; everyone else had sealed their word-makers, locked those jaw-hinges up tight. They'd killed one of us already; the crooked-nosed chap with the pock-marks and war-slashes had speared that sass-mouth right through, shattered his spine, split his sternum with that iron shaft-head; that kid was still pinned to that tree trunk way back there near the byway, the place where those dusty out-roads split. He's still dangling from that birch. It was a heroic strike, the strength of worm-wrestlers, or so the others said. That whipper snapper would bleach in the sun. That one with a twisted mustache, the boar-helm bearer, huge fellow with the linden shield strapped across his back, unfurled his whip, let that split-tail drag along the ground. At length, he assented, gave me permission to go off a ways. I set my scythe down and then I hustled away from the work crew. Of course, I was mindful of the taut bow strings, the nocked war-shafts behind me. I heard animal-gut go tight in the sun, ash-wood bend, creaking; they were just waiting for it. I went just as far as those stern guys would allow. They were killers through and through. For want of a war, they'd gladly serve in the harvest-crews, supervise the miscreant workers; they'd spill ignoble blood in the easiest ways and then boast about it over beer and venison, when the mead-hall fires blazed bright and the scop sang songs of whooped-up bullshit. I ended up stubbing my toe on a stone jutting up from the ground, ere I reached that upward land-heave that marked our northward boundary, the highest point betwixt the southern tree-lines, and the glistening silver thread winding away in the distance; that was the spooky Nithrangoth, haunt of frightful things; it was the dead land highway. That was a haunted water-road, feared by all, even the war-girt! That goddamned weathered stone point was obscured in the dry, rustling grass-blades, neatly interred in the loam of the surrounding leaf-droppers, those stunted brush-tangles, cloth-clutchers newly denuded by the autumnal wind-stream. There was a deep, earthy-smell set loose when I dug up the wet organics festering around that pointed tip, tried to tear up that cursed bit of chiseled stone. It was the smell of death, of old-time decay. I whiffed the same smell when cold war-shafts pinned me to ground, and guffaws somehow softened the thunder of horse hooves.