He is green and pressing, a cacophony by day and a liveliness to the night. Trees outside and summertime green surrounds. In a clearing, alone, there is a man. It is an ancient place. Ground bone and flesh, earth and wood and fire, a bowl full of idle frustration, and nothing. The Teacher is reverent, as reverent as can, his posture as perfect, his bearing as controlled, as he can imagine to make himself. This is a ceremony of the greatest perfection. Yet, he studies alone. The bowl is why. He sighs "My father said this was how it was for his grandfather, but not now." A pestle is a mess, a mixture of ingredients. The spirits are silent. Why? Perhaps a dance to appease them. Perhaps the wearing of the bones. Perhaps. He pauses and thinks, there must be something. He must keep his people moving, keep them aware of the links that bind man to the world.
Once, the Teachers were the power and the Kings mere warriors tasked by them. It was the Teacher that brought the secrets of the fire, but the Kings brought the hunt, and the protection. That is what his father said, and said that there may be yet again a time when the Teacher returns to the throne. But Teacher looks at the bowl, empty, nothing, abandoned by spirits, he cannot rule. He can only mystify to survive. The spirits have vanished.
The first root, the rock, the grind, the chant, all for a weather change. His fathers are said to have done it. He cannot. Is the order correct? Was it root rock? Or was it rock and root? Perhaps the chant is off, his posture, something off. He wish he knew. He wished there was a sign to show him the way. Instead there is a pestle with a mess in it, and no magic. The Teacher smashes his pestle to the ground, curses. I have failed.
She is gray, and white, and frozen silver. When there is noise, she echos it - the air can be laden with much sound. Streams and rivers are her life, but as she grows stronger they too become still. She is winter, immortal in her ice. A weakened branch surrenders to the weight of snow and wind falls. It is a scream of sleet and snow out there.
An ancient village gathers inside a hall, hiding from this winter weather.
The King glances at his Queen, and she looks away suddenly from a warrior at the other end of the hall. Too started, she smiles at the King. "So this is how we gather to escape the storm." he muses. Noting the slight strain about her face he notes, "Her smile is not so genuine this time.", but what of it. She made the effort, and were he not able to see her act, he would trust her less. People do not love each other all the time, and it is good to be able to know when.
He drinks.
Prized animals stand in a makeshift pen at the end of the hall. Straw on the floor! They too must be sheltered from the storm for his people to survive. The King glances at the soulful eyes of a cow. We share a jumbling of the world he thinks. He wonders about plague. He glances at the bar holding the door shut, and examines the building. Seems solid. Always he watches the fire and those who tend it. At the tables people speak and drink. He listens to each, straining to filter out the noise. Some question the gathering in the hall during the storm, but none question the King. His sword has put an end to that.
Last summer one man questioned his majesty's bravery as he had campaigned with the Romans. Perhaps too much drink was involved, but enraged, the King immediately struck him down with his broadsword. The man was mortally wounded. The soon to be widow was unable to contain her rage and her grief and her tiers, but composed herself enough to ask, "my lord, is this blow punishment enough, such that I may tend to may husband's wounds?"
The King consented.
The politics were not difficult. The King feared that there might be a disruption at this rapid execution, but none emerged. Most saw it as either just, or if unjust, at least deserved for the foolishness of the man. But it was a distration to the people and unfortunately for the King, there was no quick end to the man. He was so pathetic he couldn't even die right. He bled and moaned and rallied and sank and again for weeks. The King did not shrink from view. Mindful that public view might be seen as guilt or weakness coldly like a dark but happy tyrant, he instead appeared pleased with himself.
The King would visit the man often, and rebuke any others nearby, "You cannot defy me, I am King. This is my land which I alone rule. If you do not like me you may challenge me and I will strike you down or you may leave in peace to lands of your own."
No more challengers arose, and no one left.
For all this, the King notices, whispers the Teacher. Teacher is one man he could not strike down, for the villagers would be so enraged they would strike him down. The Teacher protects them from the enemies of the spirits as much as the King protects them from the enemies of the earth. The Teacher would have his throne, he knows this. The stories are old. The Teacher has had it before. But perhaps he would have the Teacher's charge first. A roman told him that there were no more spirits. A man god named Christ had banished them.
And so the King remembers and so the King drinks. He slides his hand ever so slightly to his sword. Heads turn, ever so slightly. He smiles. As his father had taught him before, that was the time of the sword, and now is the time of wisdom.
One of his warriors talks of days past and to him the King says not to fear growing old for he has lived justly. One of children glances nervously at the door, and to him the King says not to fear the storm. To a widower at the table glancing listfully at a couple, he says, your husband's trial against the wolf will long be in our tales. And to the widower he made, he says, "all wolves."
To those who look at the roof above and listen to the creaks he says, "the hall is of strong new wood that bends to handle the weight but will not break." To those who fear the winter may never end, he promises the sun will rise stronger in the days ahead.
The King makes gifts.
First to those who are old and infirm, or women, he makes gifts of food from his own stores.
To the son of the man who fought the wolves, he hands a simple medal so that he might remember the bravery of his father.
And, has been customary for ages, he makes a gift to the Teacher of a small tree, an evergreen, taken from the wilderness, so that the Teacher may ask the spirits for the storm to pass, and for spring to come again.
Some wear bones and clasp carved men and beasts of wood and stone. They mutter to themselves - praying to their carvings. Those carvings will not help you, the King would mean to say, but that is another problem to which he will attend. Whispers of the Teacher, bring these bones.
And where is the Teacher now, but with the King's own son? This too is from the chains of custom. There he is mixing his talk of spirits with talk of how to tie knots. Does one need spirits to tie knots? The King thinks no, but he wonders if the Teacher knows the difference. Perhaps not. He glances back at his people. They all wear bones around here, praying to the ropes when they tie their knots.
"Teacher, make the storm stop", asks the King's son.
"Oh how I wish I could. But Storm is a Spirit, not a thing.", sighs the Teacher. "You can only appease him, ask him, and sometimes sacrifice to him. We hope that, if we do not offend him, Storm, he will take mercy upon us." Teacher glances beyond...whispers as if in private conversation "(forgive him Storm for he is only a child)" Adding, quickly, And the rocks too, they are Gods, and the Trees, the Lake. We give thanks to them all, to this world that we may live in it."
"I wonder if I played too much", the Teacher thinks to himself.
"For your ancestors maybe, Teacher, the wind was alive." King says, as he stands, shakily. Everyone in the hall stands.
There is a bit of shaken laughter. A mug shakes and liquid spills. A hand moves to wipe a wet tunic. The Teacher glances at the others with bones, and to the King.
"They believe him more that he can't prove it", thinks the King.
"My husband" says a woman seated next to the boy. She looks at the King nervously, who looks back. (Not now). He pauses, and adds for her, "Let us talk later my love". The Queen sits, a bit indignantly, but then submits. A taste of rebellion, the King notes, makes placing the yoke much more rewarding. He reaches behind his head and touches his neck, a shared joke, of who wears the yoke at times and who does not. She allows herself the slightest private grimace. He smiles and she smiles back. She looks away slightly. He knows she means he is on his own.
Meanwhile, beyond the workings of the animals, there is silence. At time, the Teacher arises. "So now, does my liege have words of the spirits?"
The King says flatly: "Teacher I do not parlay with rocks and breezes any more. A rock is a rock and a breeze is a breeze."
There is some halting laughter in the room. Others glance furtively at their bones and carvings of wood and stone. Other conversation stops. A cow snorts.
"Perhaps my King and our Teacher shall have have more ale for their sport of wits", the Queen says, pouring.
The King accepts loudly and gratefully. A slight glance to him, from her, he turns his hand slightly and glances back. Thus in sign they exchange you owe me she says and thank you says he.
The Teacher accepts his drink as well.
"You have learned ways from your travels with the Romans then", the Teacher says.
"I have killed many Romans.", says the King.
"And for them too.", says the Teacher.
"It brought us much silver.", says the King, who pauses and adds "And you?"
"I accept your gift of the life tree and pray for spring to come for our people."
The cow snorts again, and relieves itself.
"Pray, King, tell us about the Romans.", asks the Teacher.
The Queen pours.
The King drinks, and speaks. "I have seen the Romans build. They take their legions, cut the forests, dig the stone, all to build their roads. They have ways of using written words to reckon the stone and wood and men that must be used and how long. They can make levers the size of our halls, make their own stone from water and dust. They have bent the rivers to feed their baths and raze mountain tops for copper and gold. They have butchered the land so much that the spirits should howl and yet the spirits are silent.
"And it is not for virtue that the spirits are so. For all of their skill, we know the Romans are the wickedest and greediest men of all. ..the ways of others mean nothing too them... they feed people to animals ... they murder for no cause but their lust for blood and they have men with men and women with women...and they have asked us to come and made us to leave and burned our fields and paid us to fight with them and then attacked us. There is nothing sacred to these Romans.
"Why then do the spirits allow us? Is it that the Roman Gods are stronger than ours? But that cannot be so as the Roman Gods were certainly not strong for Varas so long ago and so many Romans since then!"
Warriors stand and cheer the King.
"Be seated", the King says, and he drinks.
"I met a man who was skilled with the bow and the sword but who had sworn against the killing of other men..."
A pause
"Most of the time!" the King smiled.
Laughter
"He told me the tale of his people and how they fought the Romans who had burned their city for these people would pay no tribute to the Roman Gods. He said that many of their best warriors had fought with them beseiged for a year, and then, as the Romans were to storm their fortress with their engines, they all killed themselves rather than yield to the Roman, all 1000 of them.
"He said that their God fought and triumphed over all other Gods but not so that He could rule over us, but so that we may rule ourselves. He said that their God gave his son in trade to the spirits and he could do great deeds, heal the sick and wounded and walk upon the water, but he was given over to be tortured and murdered by the Romans so that spirits would be satisfied and leave the earth to Man. It is said that after this son of their God was murdered by the Romans, he raised himself from the dead, and he returned to his place in the heavens with the God, promising that the world belonged to man now, although there will be a day of reckoning when all the Dead and Spirits shall return to judge man.
And with that, the King drew silent, and drank further
"That is a tale for sure", said the Teacher.
"Yes it is.", said the King.
"And you believe it?"
"He was a warrior of his word with whom I fought in many battles." said the King, adding, "Yes, I do."
At this the Teacher drew silent, first ashamed that he had not fought in any battles at all, ashamed though it is forbidden, and then, more so because the Teacher wondered to himself. What if there are no Spirits at all? The Teacher was surprised at himself, then cursed himself, for a flash of joy at that. Yes there are Spirits, the Teacher says, apologizing to them for doubting.
The balance of the feast was conducted without no incident more than the eating.
While some would say the Teacher whispered that the people were cursed, when questioned he always said the Fever blew in on an ill wind, a decay in the air brought perhaps by the rottedness of a distant war, steered perhaps towards the people by the wrath of the Spirits, or perhaps simply randomly. He wrote it the same in the Chronicles. Chance ruled. There was no way to know.
Samric was struck first. He broke into a mild sweat midwinter, was a bit more tired than normal, but to his credit, as it was later determined, worked hard while in the midst of what would be his death rows. He grew hotter, and delirious, and was striken to his bed. The Teacher stood by his side, wiping him with cool water from melted snow, cursing and weaping at the spirits. Anything it could be thought of, it was said, the Teacher tried. The Teacher even cut himself and bled some small part of himself into a cup, and burned it up to the Spirits, as if to take him in his place.
Samric was nineteen years old. So young to die from the fever, his wife lamented. So young. The King stood stonely as his body was laid out of the tent, and there was much lamenting when the King gave his word. Burn him. But to burn a man was to mock the Spirits. Burn him. And so the body of Samric was burned.
The fever then took Andara. Andara was already a weak child, prone to coughing, but he was sweet and he was clever and he was dearly loved by both his mother and his father. Again the Teacher tried everything, and new things after that, and things his mother thought of, and his father. Cadman, Andara's father, filled his house with smoke and when the smoke seemed to make him cough more, he covered Andara in blanket and bore him outside for fresh air, and bade his wife Triesic make warm water, to cleanse him with. This she did, and the smoke cleared from the house, after bathing him, again they laid Andara down and wept hard they may slain him. Teacher made something of mint that seemed to help Andara's breathing, but it was not enough, the fever grew worse, Andara grew wild, then quieted, then stilled, and then died.
Again the King was frozen as the winter around him. Burn the body of the child. The King's resolve established, there was not nearly the argument. Instead those who felt it wrong threw the wood more harshly at the pile. Just putting the wood down sire. Be respectful as you lay it, said the King. Realizing that some might think that the burning was an overwhelming show of disrespect, the King said, "The Romans did this one time when our Cohort was beset with fever. It worked." Cadman, the father, placed a small toy in the child's hands and folded them, and then lit the fire himself.
Teacher said a prayer and rattled his bones.
"What of the dragon..", said the King's son.
"The dragon?", said the King.
"The dragon...", said the Teacher... "there is a dragon come to the west, not more than a week's ride."
"Yes sire, I have heard of the dragon too."
"The spirits are said to have made the dragon come.", said the Teacher, "it is said to be a magical thing."
"Shall we be required to dance in costumes to ..." the King started, but as he started, he stopped. It would be no use. The King paused, for if he said that there was no dragon, the people might also not think that there is no other new God. The King mutters to himself, scans the faces of his people, and animals, and thinks to himself, and to his new God, "so this is why I am the King." Yes it is.
"I will slay the dragon.", says the King.
A hush falls over the house, and whispers ignite throughout out the hall and then camp. "Our king will fight the dragon."
The wife bows her head. "My husband, it is winter, you should await for the first of spring."
"Yes, the first of spring", says the Teacher.
The King glances up dismissively, moves to the door and peers outside, drunkenly scans. There are no dragons, he thinks, but there is snow. Better to wait when it is warm. A nice trip away from the camp would be good.
"Spring", he says.
"Wake up, wake up.", says the wife.
"Too much drink", says the husband.
"Do you remember..."
"I was talking to the Teacher."
"You promised to kill the dragon, or bring back a sign. You will keep your word."
"I did? I did." He looks at his wife, she is unsteady.
"You believe in the dragon?" he says.
"You do not need to magic to be slain." she says.
"There is no such thing as magic, my love. This is our world now, not the spirits. I would worry more about the bear."
"You have slain a bear before."
"Yes, but it is never easy.", the King might have said, but that was her point. Instead: "I will be careful and I will have my best men."
Each day, The King walks around the village, examining each house with the other men, the state of the animals, the health of the people. He buries an man's father and even then, as the Teacher invokes the spirits of old, the King silently clasps his cross and says a different prayer, and the people whisper among themselves.
"There is our christian king and he is going to kill the dragon."
"There is our king who says a rock is but a rock and a tree is but a tree."
"There goes our king who says we must not parlay with the wind or the river."
"And", someone whispers, "what manner of god is the christ that he has power over the rivers and the wind."
"We will learn", says the king, "to have power over the wind with our hands, just as our grandfathers grandfathers were powerless before the Romans, now the Romans parlay with us. And some day too we will make the wind do as we will. And in the meantime we will ask the true God for his blessings."
"May we ask the true God that he bless our king that he may slay the dragon?"
There was a break in the winter weather. It was cold yes, but not so cold as some of the stormiest days had been. The ground was still firm and the air was drive. A man could move. The King readied himself for battle. He spoke with his wife.
"So my Lord prepares for war today"
"I must choose the men for my dragon hunt."
"The people murmer that the Teacher's dragon brought the fever in anger."
"I'm going to bring back the dragon's head in mine."
"And the Teacher's my lord?"
"We have had Teacher for centuries."
"Let him go my Lord. You know what the Roman said. The Teacher's magic does not even work any more. This Christ came along and banished the spirits."
"The people are not so easily swayed."