The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (5 page)

Chapter Four

S
ince
before Cal could remember, or rather since before he cared enough to notice, he and his family would make their way to the small chapel in the borough of Westriver every third silver evening and every seventh amber morning of every week. Westriver was named, not so creatively, after its location within the great walled city. The Kingdom of Haven was divided into three boroughs. Westriver was located to the west, Abondale was made up of the rich soil and the vast farmlands to the south, and Piney Creek was situated in the cold forestlands to the north.

The boroughs surrounded the political and religious center of Haven, which was the grouping of buildings separated by the cold waters of the river Abonris. This Capital served as the royal homestead and housed the royal libraries, halls, and cathedrals. Within its high, jeweled walls, built to the east atop the highest elevation in all the Kingdom of Haven, sat the great Citadel. This glittering structure towered dominant above the rest of the Capital, breathtakingly illuminated by the flames of the great tree.

The river Abonris flowed northwards out from the clear waters of its mother lake, ending in lesser deltas and finger-like streams that watered the dying forests and the Hilgari Mountains to the north. The beautiful blue waters of the mighty river made a natural boundary for the white Capital, all the while guaranteeing its royal residents clean drinking water and plentiful irrigation for their lush gardens.

Outside the Capital walls, the kingdom still shone with a generous measure of beauty, only this beauty was more of the practical kind. Guard towers replaced statuaries, and the elaborate fountains shed their frills. Instead of the artistically planted flower gardens and masterfully sculpted hedges, there stood herb gardens and fruited trees aplenty. These humble pops of green and savory scents brought a welcoming illumination to the cobbled streets and stone hearths of Haven.

The deep waters of the Dark Sea were only a few hundred leagues from the Western Gate of Haven, and the wandering tribes and outlying villages were mostly concentrated in the dusky lands between shore and city. Since the great tree started shedding its branches, the threat of unrest and uprisings had left the people of Westriver with no time for much more than the practicalities of defense. This borough housed the heart of Haven’s military strength, so the humble yet industrious community was made up mainly of smithies, stables, barracks, and a few well-frequented taverns.

Cal walked into the doorway of the modest chapel in Westriver like he had for the last twenty-one years of his life. Taking his seat with the rest of the bowing parishioners, he listened to the familiar whispers of those who lived in the loveless realm of fear and tradition.

As was their custom, the Priest would make his prayers from atop the small platform, petitioning the THREE who is SEVEN in practiced piety. “Oh great and holy One, my brothers and I beg you to assuage Your anger for the evil and lazy ways of our great city’s citizens. We ask You to grant us forests enough to light our way to your right and bright kingdom.”

The people would then, in unison but without much enthusiasm, say the practiced words, “May it be.” They prayed in agreement with the Priest and hoped their collective accord might sway the mind of the THREE who is SEVEN to come to their aid and light the darkening world once again.

For the better part of the silver evening, the way of the flint would be dogmatically recited to the gathered body. The Priest would convey his instructions with a fiery passion. “If our lives are lived with true resolve, we can strike the stone-like cold of this dying world and spark a new fire for all of Haven to live by.”

The sermonizing, though practical in concept, was ruthless in its expectations. Those that followed the way of the flint lived out the better part of their fading existence in joyless obedience. However, the message of the Priests of Haven was indeed compelling, and many took up the call to light this world with the strength of axe and the brute force of resolve.

Teams of woodcutters filled the northern territories, and they laid waste to the once green forestland with their flint-like hymns and unrelenting fervor. Most of those who joined the ranks of the woodcutters were gone from friends and family for a seemingly endless number of days; this holy sacrifice and unrelenting calling forged new brotherhoods amongst the men of the axe.

Though the work was backbreaking and the conditions were cold and grey and highly unpredictable, the woodcutters did not complain, nor did their families petition for their swift return home. Their absence was seen as a sacrifice of praise to please the ears of the THREE who is SEVEN, for all who followed the way of the flint wished to gain the favor of this God that they feared. In fact, many a citizen of Haven took great pride in such stringent humility, believing that their commitment to the Priestly doctrines would one day appease their God enough that He would light the world again and bring an end to this unease.

As the rituals there in the small, humble chapel came to an end, the sacrifices of time and timber would be expected and then reluctantly offered. The Priest would then leave the platform to say his farewell blessings to his gathered congregants.

The platform would still remain open, true to tradition, for the Poets to come to speak their words and pray their prayers. Such words and prayers would have stood in stark contrast to the rigid cold of the doctrine of the flint and the unwavering fundamentalism of the Priests.

In the brighter days of old, wise Poets would often postulate with earnest warmth. “A gift of light such as the tree is not given to demand joyless obedience from us! Never! Rather it is bestowed upon all of creation to illuminate the heart of the THREE who is SEVEN towards us.”

Although rivalry and tension blossomed often between the two opposing brotherhoods, their rituals were once performed with an unspoken peace between them … until that sad and bloody day in the square of Westriver.

Since the rise of the Priests and the exodus of the Poets, most third and seventh days were now spent gathered in a very one-sided fashion. But there were still a few old Poet friends left within the city walls. When the fires in their hearts burned hot enough to warm their stiff, cold joints, they would make their way to the chapels to speak their words from the aged platforms.

Most of the congregation had made a practice of filing out after their offerings were given, but not Cal. He was one of the rare few that still hoped to hear the Poetry that was so seldom spoken in this greying town.

Cal had never known a day in his twenty-one years that was not shadowed by fear of the darkening or the rigid way of the flint, yet the pressing uncertainties of his mind were held at bay by the hope in his heart. Hope that maybe the Poets were not just the crazy, old birds that the Priests accused them of being. Hope that the great THREE who is SEVEN is as good and as loving as the old Poets proclaimed. And hope that light did not make its beginning, nor would it find its ending, in the dying tree of Haven.

Cal sat on the wooden bench with his hat in his lap as he watched the others leave the humble place of worship. When the last of the muted conversations had faded out of earshot and the slow, shuffling rhythm of footsteps subsided into private silence, Cal raised his head and lifted his eyes to the carved tree.

“I know there is light beyond that tree, I know there is. I saw it, or … well, at least I saw something that looked a lot like what I would imagine Your light would look like … deep, and purple, and beautiful.”

As Cal spoke to the image of the dying tree, an old, grey-haired man seated in the back of the chapel silently watched the monologue play out before him. He observed both innocence and defiance in the voice of the young man.

“The rest of them are afraid. They have stopped caring, let alone looking for true light. It’s as if they have resigned themselves to manmade flames and darkening days … but I know that we were not made to dwell in these dim shadows.”

Cal ran his hand over his clean-shaven face, trying to find the right words that could convey what exactly it was that he felt in his heart. “I don’t know … I feel as if we should be seeking something bigger or
brighter
than mere timber and its fleeting light. Something tells me that we should have never stopped looking for it in the first place.” Cal prayed honestly, without pretense or formality, as he stared towards the carved tree.

“Never stopped looking for what?” came an aged voice from the back of the sanctuary.

“Oh, horse dung,” Cal whispered under his breath. He stared straight ahead, afraid to make eye contact, sure that he was about to get an earful from a flint-wielding Priest.

The old man scraped and shuffled his way past the rows of empty benches towards the young man in the second row.

“I know you heard my question, son. My bones might not be what they used to be, but my ears are as sharp as the axes in the northern forests. What is it that you are so stubborn about finding? Huh?” grumbled the old man.

Cal steeled himself for a tongue lashing, clenching and releasing his fists to the rhythm of the old man’s footsteps behind him.

“I …” Cal exhaled a long frustrated breath. “The light.”

“The
light
?” the old man exclaimed in mock surprise. “As in … His light? The very same light that stronger and braver men have never found? The light that has faded into myth and legend? The light that only old, drunk Poets dare to talk about anymore?” His voice rose in flabbergasted volume with each question fired at the young man who, not daring to turn and look at him, still faced the front of the platform.

Cal hung his head in tired defeat, like someone who has had and lost this very same argument many times before.

“Yes … that light,” Cal admitted.

“Good.” The old voice spoke matter-of-factly, allowing a long pause to capture Cal’s full attention. Then he whispered, “It is about time someone had the nerve and naivety to do so.”

Cal wasn’t sure if the old man was just mocking his convictions, nor if the whispered approval was meant to be a compliment or a taunt. He raised his head and turned to look and see just what kind of Priest had grown a sense of humor all of a sudden.

All he saw was an empty chapel.

There was no Priest, nor anyone for that matter, in the entire place. Cal rubbed his eyes and smacked his face a little desperately, like a man waking from an all too realistic dream.

“I … what?”

He shook his head and stood to his feet, clearly unnerved and ready to leave this place, not completely sure what to make of the mysteriously odd moment.

Visions and voices,
he thought.
Cal, you are going to get yourself thrown to the forests with the rest of the woodcutters if you start falling apart like this.

He walked past the rows of rustic benches, turning to look back over his shoulder to see if there indeed was someone else in the small chapel. At the end of the aisle, past the timber boxes and small stacks of dust-covered songbooks, Cal stopped and shook his head in an effort to clear away the fog that had settled in his mind. Unsure of what kind of trouble was going to find him next, Cal walked out through the wood-plank door of the weathered place of worship, still talking to himself.

Well … at least it wasn’t a ….

Cal froze.

The sight he beheld was by far the strangest and most chilling vision that had ever accosted his senses. His breathing slowed as the hairs stood on the back of his neck and his mind struggled to make sense of what it was that he was seeing.

There, on the wall of the chapel’s courtyard, stood a large Owele. The bird stood nearly twelve hands tall, and its dark-brown outer feathers looked as if they had been dipped in the whiteness of winter. Its eyes were the most terrifying violet-colored eyes that Cal had ever seen.

The mysterious bird of prey was tearing greedily and violently into what was clearly his supper for the evening. The Owele’s talons grasped a still-writhing black serpent while its beak ripped at the scaly flesh, devouring the tail first and making its deliberate way towards the snake’s head.

The most bizarre and unexplainable part of seeing the large Owele atop the ordinary stone walls of the small chapel was the simple fact that most of Haven believed that, if indeed the fabled birds of magic had even existed, they had departed the world of Aiénor many ages ago.

All Cal could do was gape and stare, his mind overwhelmed with fear and wonder. He tried to look away, but his eyes could not—or maybe would not—move from the sight of the Owele. Something beyond his control seemed to be forcing him to take in the full scope of this gruesome picture.

The Owele ate slowly, as if he was not actually hungry, but rather was eating out of sheer principle. Cal had grown up around animals his whole life, both hunting and caring for them, and he had seen sickening and violent things involving animals more times than he could count. But for some reason the sight of this mythical bird of prey taking his time to rip the life out of the serpent turned his stomach. The whole scene carried with it an ominous weight that caused Cal’s simple supper of buttered parsnips and smoked river trout to twist and churn angrily inside him.