Entry #264903, added on 12-07-06 @ 2:38 pm EST
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| Day of celebration | Entry #264903 |
The small stones of the rugged path crunched under Rugo’s feet as he walked. The quiet chattering of animals and the rustling of the trees were broken only by the sound of his entrance into the forest. Spring proudly showed off her brilliant green garb and flowery ornaments of white, yellow and blue in the brightness of the day’s sun through the treetops.
A wide smile spanned the youth’s face as the gentle breeze caressed him and rustled his short russet-colored hair. He was oblivious to his surroundings, evident from the dreamy look in his bright green eyes. Rugo found himself starting to whistle as he walked, with his long strides providing a rhythm to his happy tune.
Today was his eighteenth birthday, and he knew the village would be holding a celebration for him when he returned home from his coming of age meditation in the forest. He was already dressed for the occasion, having selected the customary white woolen tunic, which symbolized a new beginning. Around his neck he wore a bronze torque, fashioned in a knot-work design with fists at both ends, representing both strength and power. The torque was quite heavy, and he could feel its weight on his shoulders. Then again, it may have been that it was symbolic of the burdens he would face in adulthood.
This morning, however, he didn’t care for meditation. It was nice out, and while he loved nature, he didn’t want to spend it just sitting in the forest thinking. After all, the other boys were playing troll-hunters at the old bridge outside of town. What had started out as a role-playing game growing up had transformed into a form of training, requiring him to use his wits and agility to outsmart the troll. It was no longer just a form of recreation; he knew someday he would need those traits to survive in the world.
His parents had told him for the past several weeks not to play foolish childhood games, as they had called them, and to concentrate on his training and his meditation. So he did as he had been instructed. He had spent the whole morning immersed in thought, calling to mind his desires, his ambitions, and the legacy he was about to select for himself. What he truly wanted was to be a competent warrior, like his ancestors. He had a lot to live up to with the family heritage, and he felt the desire to follow in his father’s footsteps.
Now, on his way back, he thought about the upcoming ceremony, and how wonderful it would be for him. He would be, for one day, the center of the village’s attention, and he would receive more praise and acclaim in this one day than he had ever received in his life.
A shout echoed through the woods, shaking Rugo from his thoughts. “Rugo!” A tall, red-haired man stood on the roadside near the forest’s edge, grinning as he called out and waved to him.
Rugo’s father, Marton, was a seasoned veteran of the village militia, and had trained him during the past few years in the use of the long-sword. Though Rugo found the large weapon a bit awkward at first, he was now getting accustomed to wielding the blade. Each session of training, it became more natural to him, and he even felt at times that the sword was a part of him when he held it.
Of late, the Homelands had been facing raids from the east, and though they were able to fend off the barbarians for the present, the local warlords were getting older, and they would soon be relieved of duty. Marton was getting near the time when he, too, would be relieved. Until then, the militia relied on his prowess and tactics in their defense against the barbarians.
Rugo looked on his father proudly, admiring the burly man still dressed in his studded leather mantle and black cloak. Today had been his watch at the signal tower on the edge of the Borderlands. There had been no attack for the past few days, but there were rumors of skirmishes outside the borders of the Homelands. From the increased defense the militia was sending out, it was apparent that the barbarians were planning their next raid. “How fares the watch?” Rugo asked eagerly.
Marton sighed. “It has been quiet on the eastern borders, though our scouts have noticed some signs of movement from the barbarians.” He wiped some beads of sweat from his brow. “I trained some of the new recruits in the art of hand to hand combat.”
“I look forward to the day when I join you in the ranks.” His eyes closed as he waited for a sign of affirmation. A few moments of silence followed as Marton thought. Rugo waited silently, remembering one of his father’s old speeches about the virtue of patience.
“You will, Rugo,” was the response, and Rugo felt a calloused hand on his shoulder. “Some time after your edaro quest. The elders will assign that task to you soon.”
Rugo thought better than to ask more about his quest. He had asked enough questions already, and he did not want to bother his father any longer.
“Keep your chin up, son. Today is supposed to be a day of joy for you,” Marton said in a reassuring voice. However, he noticed Rugo’s frown of disappointment.
Rugo thought of the big feast coming, and he couldn’t help but smile. He could almost taste the sweetness of the bread already. His mouth watered at the thought.
The clearing where his meditation had taken place was located deep in the forest, a good distance away from the village to keep outside distractions to a minimum. They had been walking for the entire afternoon, and now the darkening sky was flecked with patches of deep but brilliant color, ranging from maroon and crimson to orange and violet, blending and fading together seamlessly. There was still enough light to permit them to see the path as the pair made their way into the village.
Even at sundown in the village there were people about, and today was no different, even though it was a day of celebration. Gossiping ladies wandered from house to house, sharing their juicy tales. Children played in the streets. Shopkeepers closed their shops early tonight in order to prepare for the celebration.
He and his father passed by the marketplace, its thatched roof and rows of empty stalls overhead. Every week, merchants from nearby towns sold their wares in the village. Sometimes there would be exotic items that were usually offered for more money than most of the common villagers could afford, but always widened the eyes of those who were browsing. If one was lucky enough, the merchants were sometimes willing to haggle or make a special offer.
On the other side of the main road stood the communal crop garden, where the local farmers grew all the food that was rationed among the villagers. While some families had their own gardens, everyone shared the common resources. Originally the village wasn’t built centered around the crop, but over the years as it expanded, the piece of land became the heart of the village.
As Rugo had expected, the square was prepared for his arrival. The villagers had gathered beneath a display of deep indigo banners embossed with silver threads, and strings of lanterns hung across the roads. They cheered Rugo’s name and applauded him as his father led him into the center of the square. The entire community shared in the sense of achievement when a boy reached his coming of age, his edaro.
“Go, son. Enjoy yourself. This is your night.” Marton patted his son on the back and pushed him further into the crowd.
Seated at the table, his mother beamed as she watched her son run to join his friends in the festivities. “You are going to give it to him, right, Marton?” she asked, grinning as she turned to face her husband.
“Yes, of course, Kylia. He’s not ready for it yet, though. I think I’ll wait until his first battle.” Marton fingered the thick silver and black opal ring on his hand and remembered when the ring had been given to him.
More than a decade before Rugo’s birth, the village had just started facing raids from the barbarians. At that time, Marton had still been a low-ranking soldier, only having reached his edaro a few years before. He had fought in a battle at the border of the Homelands, and delivered the final blow to the leader of the band of barbarians, winning a victory for the village. His captain and mentor had awarded him the ring as a reward for his bravery. As he eyed the shiny gem embedded in the ring, he looked forward to the day when he would pass it on to Rugo after the boy proved himself.
Rugo mingled with several of his friends, none of whom had reached their edaro yet. The boys all loitered around the square until some of the village girls passed by. Rugo wasn’t popular with the girls, even though he was by no means unattractive, and possessed strength beyond most of the boys his age. His mother had told him that he was much like his father at his age, strong and handsome, yet shy. The way the girls smiled or giggled as they passed him made him uncomfortable, and he choked up whenever they talked to him.
However, there was one girl with whom Rugo was able to talk. Cerine lived in the house next to his, and was nearly his age. When they were children together, Rugo had played with Cerine like she was one of the boys. As they grew older, he found himself confiding things to her that he could share with no one else. He didn’t know what it was about her, but she didn’t make him uncomfortable like the others did, and he was glad that she was a part of his special day. It would have been different not being able to share his joy and accomplishments with her as he had always done in the past.
Rugo watched the group of girls, immediately recognizing Cerine’s honey blonde hair amongst the others. They were headed over to the gardens to gather flowers to shower over Rugo. He wasn’t looking forward to being covered in flower petals, but it was part of the celebration. It was customary for the girls of the village to show tribute to the edaron by showering him in flowers, but Rugo always thought it to be silly. Making his way through the crowd, he saw the throne carved out of a tree stump that had been decorated for the occasion. Runes scrawled on the back of the throne depicted his name and chosen path. “Rugo, in his eighteenth year, shall venture forth on the Path of the Sword.”
Reaching one’s edaro was considered the most important stage in a youth’s life. It was the time one passed into adulthood, and the beginning of his two-year search for his role in the village. Rugo had already begun his training in swordsmanship. He would receive his sword at tonight’s ceremony, and would then be assigned a quest in order to prove his ability as a warrior.
Marton stood in the square, which still bustled with gossip and activity. The crowds were hushed as he raised his hands to speak. “Friends and neighbors, today is an important day for the entire village, but especially for my family and me. Rugo has reached his eighteenth year, his edaro.” A loud cheer rose from the crowd. “He has chosen the Path of the Sword, in my footsteps. I could not be any happier.” Marton extended his hand toward Rugo, gesturing his son to join him.
“Good luck in your future ventures, Rugo. I’m proud of you.” Marton smiled, a tear in his eye as he hugged his son.
Breaking away from the fierce embrace, Rugo took a seat on the throne. It was a bit uncomfortable, hard and stiff against his back and behind, but sitting there was more than a matter of comfort. He felt like a king in his own right. He shifted to sit more upright, in a more regal appearance.
The village girls cast flowers over him. Cerine smiled as she threw her flowers, causing Rugo to blush almost as red as his hair. He said nothing, choosing to look at the cheering crowd instead.
The whimsical melodies from the flute and lyre players wafted through the air. They were the best musicians of the Path of the Harp, selected specifically for their abilities. They played the ‘Ballad of the Edaron,’ which was the official song played in honor of the edaro one. The words of the song, which were long forgotten, told of the boy’s journey into a new world of being a man. The slow and rich sound of the melody sparked the same emotions of pride and confidence as it had many times in the past.
Once the ballad had ended, the mood of music switched to one that was faster and livelier. Several of the villagers had gotten up from their seats and started to dance about the square. Their bodies whirled and gyrated and flipped to the music, in a flamboyant display of excitement.
Rugo wanted to dance with Cerine, and even considered asking her. Instead, he watched the others and cheered them on. He looked over at Cerine, who casually smiled back at him before her attention was whisked off by one of her friends.
The captain of the guard slowly rose and picked up a long package wrapped in cloth. Rugo knew that the time for the most anticipated event of the night just started. He would be given his sword. His fingers tingled as they rested on the arms of the throne. He couldn’t wait to finally see the sword and hold it in his hand.
The captain approached him, looking directly in his eyes, and keeping a straight face under the thick white mustache. He made no speech, as Marton had done; he merely placed the wrapped sword in Rugo’s lap. Rugo beamed, his face glowing like that of a child on his birthday.
He slowly unwound the large piece of cloth that surrounded the sword, and took a moment to look over his new weapon. It was an exact replica of Marton’s sword customized for Rugo’s size. Rugo had specifically requested this design, not only because he had admired it, but out of respect for his father. The bronze guard was crafted to look like dragon’s wings, and the pommel like a crescent moon. Rugo took the hilt in hand and slid the sword out of its sheath. The blade gleamed in the light of the lanterns. He stood and held the sword high into the air, bringing more cheers from the crowd.
The celebration feast consisted of goose and mutton, vegetables from the communal gardens, and freshly baked bread for which the village earned its reputation. Roddy, the cook at the local tavern, made sure everything was perfect down to the last detail, using only the finest ingredients, as he had done at each edaro celebration.
The succulent dinner melted in Rugo’s mouth. As he spotted the numerous satisfied smiles on everyone’s faces, he could tell they enjoyed the meal as well. The sound of clanging dishes filled the air while people stuffed their faces and the conversation of the men reliving their past edaro experiences.
One voice broke out, raised above the others. “I wonder if Rugo will have to slay a dragon, just like I did,” boasted a sturdy but grubby-looking man seated at the far end of the table. Rugo recognized him from when he was in Marton’s company during a watch.
Someone burst into laughter, sounding more like a jackal than anything else. “Yer just a braggart and ye know it!” A bug-eyed, toothless man stood, knees wobbling, and wagged a bony finger at the boaster. “Ye claim to have been kissed by the fair Aeolie, but we all know that it was really Joven.” Bits of laughter could be heard scattered about the table.
“Aeolie did kiss me! And I have the mark to prove it!” The grubby man started to pull down the collar of his shirt, but was stopped by someone seated next to him. He sat back in his seat, defeated, and flashed the other a look that seemed to be an explanation for the missing teeth.
But the bug-eyed man was right. He was a known braggart. Rugo nodded in unison with the others around him, though in the back of his mind he did want to slay a dragon, as the grubby man had claimed to do.
“Now that that’s settled, I’ll tell y’all about a real feat!” The laughter died as the bug-eyed man spoke again. “Ye know that tree in the forest, the real big one?” He pointed toward the forest like an impatient child. While some looked, others just nodded. “Lockley climbed that very tree, to the top, mind you.”
The laughter started again, this time even Rugo joined in.
Marton coughed. “The man speaks the truth. Lockley did climb the tallest tree, and he tied a bright red ribbon at the top for all to see, to prove he did it.” The crowd was hushed for a moment, but quickly resumed their eating and conversation.
Rugo wondered if Marton said that to stop the laughter. He tugged on his father’s cloak. “Is that story really true about Lockley?”
Marton nodded as he lowered his cup from his lips, froth dripping from the corners of his mouth. “Yes, it is. I will take you there to show you.”
Rugo smiled with glee as he anticipated that day. “What happened to Lockley anyway? I don’t remember you telling me this story before.”
”He took the Path of the Chariot, and is now a part of the King’s games.” Marton sank his teeth into the leg of lamb while Rugo hungrily reached for another hunk of Roddy’s dark, sweet bread.
“I want to see your sword again, Rugo,” the scrawny boy sitting next to him said. Rugo turned to his friend Landon, with a smile, receiving one in return. There was an innocent twinkle in Landon’s aquamarine eyes as he awaited Rugo’s answer.
Landon, who was too young to take up arms, also aspired to be a warrior. It would still be eight years before he would reach his edaro. However, he didn’t let that stop his attempts to join Rugo whenever the boys role-played being heroes.
“One more time, Landon,” Rugo laughed, “and then I’ll have to keep it sheathed. I don’t want to scuff the blade before my quest.” Rugo couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he took the long-sword out of its sheath and showed it to Landon.
Landon looked at the sword with wide, eager eyes. Rugo could see the flicker of hope on the younger boy’s face. Landon looked up at Rugo, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “I want to be a fighter too!”
“But who will your father give care of the communal garden to?”
Landon scrunched up his face in disgust. He looked up at Rugo again. “I want to be someone important. I want to be a hero.”
Rugo smiled. “Maybe you will someday.”
Suddenly the evening breeze grew stronger, flapping the blue banners overhead. A chill filled the air, and everyone wrapped their cloaks and shawls tighter around their bodies and hugged themselves against the cold. It was uncommon to be this cold at this time of year. Winter had already passed, and the green had returned to the plants.
Many looked around in curiosity at the odd change but continued their meals. Rugo’s father, though, paid attention, looking around cautiously, as though expecting the forest to close in on them.
A murmur ran through the gathered, festive crowd as smiles dampened and brows furrowed. Rugo turned to Marton, an inquisitive look on his face. “Father, what is causing the sudden change in the weather?” The youth’s hands still grasped his new sword firmly. An unsettling feeling crept through him, and his muscles tensed slightly. As Rugo looked around with a narrowed gaze, his gut instinct told him that it was not by chance the weather had changed.
“Don’t let it spoil this occasion, Rugo.”
Rugo sighed in disappointment, but nodded to his father and resumed his meal. He clenched his fist underneath the table, ready to grab his sword at the moment of need and rush off on an adventure. All his life Rugo had waited for this moment, but still it eluded him. He wondered if he would ever get his chance.
Several times throughout the dinner, Rugo glanced over at Cerine, who seemed to keep her eyes on her plate, trying to remain immersed in her eating despite the decreasing temperature. Occasionally she would shift in her seat and shiver, adjusting the frilly collar of her dress tighter around her neck. He wished he could move to her end of the table and comfort her, put his arm around her and keep her warm, but it was considered inappropriate for the guest of honor to move from the head of the table until the end of the feast. Every time he’d look over at her, he’d notice that she was looking at him, but would quickly roll her eyes the other way.
Another gust of the icy wind rustled through town, blowing dishes from the table and sending them crashing to the ground. Some of the vacant chairs snapped to pieces as they were tossed across the square. The music stopped, and an eerie hush fell over the crowd. Faces lost their cheery glow, turning pallid white as they looked around frantically into the cold, empty night. Some of the townsfolk, particularly the elders, had drifted from the table, yet some still remained in a frozen state of shock. Meanwhile, Marton and the other warriors at the table stood and drew their swords, as hushed whispers raised questions and shared worries.
The rustle of the wind changed, deepening, and now resembling a sinister laugh that sent more chills through everyone than the winds had. It was a man’s laugh, and Rugo noticed a flicker of recognition on his father’s face, as if he knew whose it was. “So, you’ve decided to come back to haunt me again, Lamnos,” Marton spoke, slowly drifting toward the sound of the laugh, which echoed in his head.
“Surely you know why I’m here,” was the reply. A figure cloaked in mustard-colored robes stepped out of the darkness into the glow of a nearby lantern. The crowd at the tables gaped in silence at the arrival of the stranger. His face remained hidden under the hood. “Don’t be a fool, Marton. I didn’t come for the festivities.”
Most of the villagers gathered their children and ran off for their homes, but some remained, while the guard stood to face him. Eventually, the square became dead silent, save for a few shouts from some of the men. One man picked up a rock and flung it at the stranger, but it sailed over the stranger’s head. The robed man waved his hands in the air. A nearby chair suddenly tumbled against the villager’s legs, knocking him over. Rugo watched the man kick and scream in panic before scrambling away from the square.
Marton fumed, clenching his teeth as his face turned a shade of red close to the color of his hair. His fingers wrapped tighter around the handle of his broadsword as he stomped toward Lamnos. “I forbid you to call me by that name, Lamnos. You have forgotten who I am.”
This seemed to Rugo like the perfect moment to prove himself to his father. Pulling his own sword out of its sheath in the way he had been taught, Rugo jumped out of his seat and walked up to stand close behind him.
“No, Rugo, this is not your fight,” Marton said in a sturdy voice, without turning away from Lamnos. “Go stay with your mother and protect her.”
He had rarely disobeyed his father, but this time he felt that he shouldn’t listen. Keeping his eyes on Lamnos as well, he stepped back and kept his distance, but waited for his moment to help.
“I have not forgotten,” Lamnos said, his voice softly threatening. “I wouldn’t be here if I had.” He extended his arms toward Marton, and then quickly closed his fists. There was an instant of surprise on Marton’s face before the tall warrior let out a pained shout and collapsed to the ground.
Time seemed to stop as Rugo watched, helpless, as his father fell. The man who had wielded so much power, able to overcome any obstacle, had been instantly with one blow. Rugo swiftly reached for his sword, but he couldn’t bring himself to go after the wizard. He stood there in horror, motionless and oblivious to the commotion of the shouting villagers.
The shrill scream of his mother brought him back to his senses. The remaining men ran from their seats, some headed for the safety of their homes, while others rushed over to aid Marton. Rugo rushed over to the fallen body of his father, now lying in a broken heap on the ground.
“Father!” Tears appeared in Rugo’s eyes as he knelt over Marton’s lifeless form. He stared at the body in stunned disbelief. His father’s hair was bone-white, as were his pupils, which stared blankly at him. Blackened veins rose from his pale skin, which felt icy cold as Rugo held him up. His hand still firmly gripped his sword.
Rugo tore his gaze from his father to the spot where Lamnos had stood, but he had disappeared. Another cold blast of wind followed the wizard’s departure, yet this one penetrated deeper, freezing the soul of the man who moments ago had been a youth. |
© Copyright 2006 Mark C Bradley (UN: auric at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Mark C Bradley has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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