The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (3 page)

Chapter Two

L
ife
inside the crumbling Kingdom of Haven continued to diminish at both the dying of the tree and the absence of her beloved King. A cold chill had attached itself to the wind and the words of its people as an ill distrust began to color the dimming vision of the disillusioned citizens. Illium’s quest to seek the light had once inspired and fueled the fires in the hearts of his people with hopeful encouragement. But as the years continued to be counted with no word from the great King, the people had begun to resign themselves to the reality that perhaps a new light was not coming for them after all.

The shadows brought with them a fear that seemed to give the once ignored and forgotten Priests a renewed sense of vigor and a growing, albeit woeful, following. The once lush green of the sprawling forest of Haven was methodically reduced to a lifeless brown as the oaks, redwoods, and armies of soldier pines were decimated by the need for light. Woodcutters found themselves to be the new holy soldiers of the emboldened Priests, and they fought with an almost maddened fervor, laying waste to coveted green with the bite of steel, animated by fear.

There was little room for the beauty of the Poets after Illium disappeared from Haven, for light was power, and timber became the real currency. What use for words and song could the woodcutters have when the rhythm of the axe was all the melody they could stomach? Those few who did heed the words of the Poets became shunned and bullied by the rising power of the determined Priests and the followers of their flintish ways.

For over twenty years, the rival brotherhoods had existed and competed, albeit lopsidedly, for the hearts of the people of Haven. It wasn’t until the protests turned violent and bloody that their coexistence ceased to be a possibility. Not many know the true story of the great atrocity that happened that day in the square of Westriver, but its result was certainly known and felt throughout all of Haven. One of the young Priests, whose duty it was to oversee the rations of timber, was brutally bloodied at the hands of a young Poet.

The ruling of the Citadel was swift and severe, and was clearly influenced by the rising power of the Priesthood. The young Poet was executed there in the very square of his alleged offense, and all who called themselves Poets were summarily exiled for his transgressions.

It is said that few have ever seen such a sad exodus as the citizens of Haven witnessed at these champions of beauty being removed from their once-shining city with a dreadful curse of merciless finality. Many of the Poets who were unjustly exiled by the Citadel were already far along in years, and their unwavering convictions were so deeply ingrained into their hearts that they felt the exile a worthy sacrifice. With heads held high and proud, they departed the city with little remorse or sorrow, save for the loss of the loved ones who would not depart with them.

There were still a rare few who held to the teaching and the ways of the Poets, though they could not bear to depart altogether from the safety and comfort of their once great city. Their Poetic life in Haven was lived in secret as they outwardly participated in the daily rhythm of the greying, pious citizens.

Laughter was rarely heard in Haven, not because its people had forgotten how, or even because its citizens were too sad; rather it was because there were too few children to rescue them from their seriousness. It was as if the virility of Haven waned in harmony to the fading light of the burning tree, and the drive of its men mirrored the ever-diminishing forests. The people preferred practicality in the midst of fear, clinging to order like the floating timber of a storm-wrecked ship. The few brave ones that did bring children into this world continued to live under the biting yet envious criticism of those who chose not to.

“How can one think of love when light is almost gone?” would often be heard whispered behind the backs of those who gave in to the indulgence of romance.

“Why would we waste what few resources we have left on children who should never have to be subjected to such a poor way of living?”

“Such procreation is a frivolous way to spend one’s energy.”

Gaereld and Nancwen, Cal’s parents, had spent many years as children raised in the company of the Poets. Even after the exile, though in secret, they found ways to dream along with the remnant of a few who still clung to the forgotten Poets’ ways.

The two of them fell dangerously in love, and their romance gave them a welcome diversion from the injustices of evil and the fear of failing trees. They were surrounded by thoughts and hopes of brighter days, and spent many a silver night pondering the way of the Poet. As they honed and perfected their giftings, they became fatefully linked to the fortunes and survival of the exiled Poets. Gaereld was a bright and talented smithy and Nancwen, having been raised amidst the sprawling farms of Abondale, was aide to the master groomsman.

Though contact with the exiles was strictly forbidden, and the outlying lands surrounding the walled city had grown dangerously inhospitable, Gaereld and Nancwen still would venture beyond the boundaries of safety to deliver goods and supplies to their Poet mentors.

Each time the young couple would ride into the encampment of the exiles, their hearts would wrestle with the beckoning of their Poet fathers. These sages urged them to leave the comforts of Haven and embark on the truest of all callings: to seek and find the new light of the THREE who is SEVEN.

But as fortune and fate would have it, Nancwen became heavy with child. The compelling gravity of a greater calling, as it often does in the wake of unanticipated responsibility, lost its pull on the hearts of the soon-to-be parents.

As their young child grew, the couple took great care to instill the Poetic sense of hope in his blonde-haired head and his tender heart. They taught him to trust not in the strength of his own hands, or in flames birthed from timber alone, but rather to put the whole of his hope in the coming light of the THREE who is SEVEN.

The pressure from the citizens of Haven to follow the Priestly way of the flint had taken its toll on their ability to abide well in the walled city, but regardless of the persecution from peers or strong-arming from the Citadel, Nancwen and Gaereld did not sacrifice their hope, nor their commitment to the Poets.

Cal spent many amber days in the company of his mother as she tended to the royal horses of the Citadel. His ease and effortlessness around the four-legged beasts was uncanny for such a young boy. Even more amazing in the royal stables of Haven was not the familiarity of Cal to the horses, but rather
their
attraction to him.

Nancwen would often scold her fearless little son. “Keep your mind sharp around these beautiful creatures, my boy, for you must remember that they are, in fact, still beasts at heart; remember that often and perhaps without warning they might just choose to act … rather
beastly
.”

Cal would just smile at his mother and agree to take extra precautions, though both of them knew full well that he never would.

Not only did it seem that Cal had little, if any, fear for the stables full of horses, but it also became obvious to all who saw him that he had a gift for calming whatever fears assailed their equine thoughts. Nancwen was not the only one who took great pride in the young boy. Many a groomsman of the Citadel would watch Cal and his ways with the horses, hoping that they too might learn more about the animals that they spent their greying lives in service to.

Once, when Cal was just seven years of age, he and his mother walked into the stable yard by the silver light of early morning to find one of the mares in the violent throws of labor. Her eyes were wild with fear, for the obvious distress of the pain and complications had taken over her motherly senses. She was thrashing and kicking, snorting and whinnying so loudly that all of her other stable mates had been worked into a nervous lather alongside the maddened mare.

“Help!” Nancwen shouted. “I need help restraining her, or she is going to kill herself and lose the foal!” But no one was near enough to hear and quickly respond to her cries for help.

Nancwen tried to calm the fear-stricken beast, but nothing that she could say seemed to pierce through to the frightened mind of the mare. Blood leaked down her hindquarters and her mouth began to froth as she worked herself into a dangerous and desperate four-legged storm.

As she fought to control the raging horse, Nancwen heard a lilting tune from outside the stall. She looked up and watched as her son sang to the beast, not words at first, but calm and whispered melodies. Nancwen had never heard these songs before, and yet with each haunting lift of his voice, the frightened mare began to calm in time to his music.

The boy walked up to the stall that confined the once-raging horse, and as he climbed the wooden gate, Nancwen could not help but stare in awe at the brave command that her little boy held over a beast ten times his size.

Cal began to stroke the mare’s neck, and soon she was held in a calm, albeit lathered trance. The help that Nancwen had called for finally arrived, and the groomsmen helped to deliver a healthy, young foal from the teeth of death.

Nancwen knew her boy was special; that old Poet had told her as much long ago. But here, seeing him like this, she felt a pride that she never knew was possible.

“Oh my boy, my brave, brave boy,” she cooed to him as she tucked young Cal into his bed later that silver evening. “The THREE who is SEVEN has given you a gift, that is plain enough to see. What now you must learn, son, is how to use it well.”

“Well, Momma?” the boy asked her. “Did I not do a good thing today?”

“Oh child, of course you did a good thing.” She smiled with proud and loving eyes at her son. “But it’s not just today … He will be expecting, you know … for you to always use that gift of yours to point the way to beauty.”

She tussled his blonde hair as she leaned over to kiss his forehead. “Who knows, my little Cal, you might one day use your gift to sing to the horse of a King!”

Cal continued to grow in the confidence of his gift, and subsequently he caught the eyes of the master groomsman. Soon he was given responsibility of his own there in the royal stable yard, and his parents could not have been more proud.

One day a message reached Gaereld and Nancwen in secret. Their dear exiled Poet friends begged and pleaded for them to come swiftly to their aid. Sensing the urgency of the matter, and knowing that Cal would be safe in Westriver completing his duties with the horses of the Citadel, Gaereld and Nancwen decided to ride beyond the safety of the wall to bring whatever help they might.

They kissed their boy goodbye, leaving him in the care of his uncle and aunt and in the company of his closest friend and cousin, Michael. They promised to return in three days’ time.

“Look for the light while we are gone, huh?” Gaereld told his son. “Maybe you and Michael will find it for us and end this whole grey sadness that has come over everyone.”

“Papa, don’t be silly,” Cal chuckled in response.

“I am not silly, boy!” he replied with a large, mischievous grin on his face. “We were never told when and where it would come to us! And there was never any words written that said it couldn’t be found by some boys from Westriver, neither.”

“Ok, Papa,” Cal said. “We’ll find it.”

“That’s my boy,” Nancwen cooed as she beamed with pride at the hopeful belief there in her young son’s heart. “And don’t you go letting anyone tell you otherwise … huh?”

“I won’t, Momma,” he said with a sweet kiss on her cheek.

Gaereld and Nancwen mounted their mule cart, setting off for the Western Gate with supplies in tow, in search of their friends beyond the wall.

“Sing to the horses for me, Cal!” his mother called as she looked back and waved to her yellow-haired boy.

“I will, Momma! I will!” Cal shouted as they faded off into the distance.

“We are surely blessed, my love,” Gaereld said to his tear-stained wife as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I think the THREE who is SEVEN has already shown us His new light.”

“Oh, has He now?” Nancwen asked playfully as she wiped her eyes.

“Indeed He has!” Gaereld replied, a proud smile lighting up his face. “My world has never been so bright as it is when I look at that boy. I swear to you, he shines brighter than any fire I’ve ever seen.”

Nancwen just nodded and smiled, her heart overflowing with a love that can only come from a source of deep gratitude.

The simple goodbyes made that day were the last words ever spoken between Cal and his parents. He never again saw their faces or heard their hopeful voices, for not a half-day’s ride beyond the Western Gate, Gaereld and Nancwen met their deaths at the hands of some unknown assailants.

It was nearly eight days before word reached Cal’s family of his parents’ deaths. They tried to break the news gently to the boy, offering somber words of mourning and pious liturgies of parting. Though Cal was young, he could sense that his aunt and uncle held Gaereld and Nancwen partially responsible for their own demise; though they cared deeply for them, they had never approved of their work with the Poets.