Legends of Luternia (15 page)

“I had never known love before. My parents were a vague memory of some nomadic tribe of thieves. As far back as I can remember, I’ve had to fight and steal for everything. And here was love, undeserved and generous. They wanted nothing from me other than to provide God’s healing touch. When I groaned in pain, they read the Psalms and sang hymns over me, easing the burning of my tender wound.

“The old man, in a wisdom that could only have come from above, saw a deeper wound, the wound of my soul. I had lived with its pain all my life and believed it was a natural part of me. This wise old man and his loving, caring daughter showed me a life free from that entrenched, soul-wearying pain. They showed mercy and patience while I cursed them, their food, their prayers, and even their love.” He paused as memory’s ache drove his breath deeper.

“They showed me Christ and Christ’s love. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but the longer I was with them, the more I hoped. I had never hoped before.” He stopped and stared off, sadness clouding his scar.

After a while, Ulrik broke in, asking, “What happened to them?”

Prester John’s voice became distant again. “Dragomere and the others returned to fetch me and saw how much I’d changed. Dragomere’s hatred for the old man and the girl blazed. He had them killed before my eyes.”

A groan rose from deep within Prester John, and gave way to moans of anguish as he continued, “They tortured the man and the girl in the way I had once taught them, killed them, and threw their bodies into the hut and burned it. When they knew it was too hot for me to go near, they left as I stood by and watched the flames. Later, when I searched through the rubble and ash, all I found was this.” Prester John pulled from his pack the charred remains of a book. “Their Bible, or what is left of it. I took it with me and went off into the desert. There I wandered, read, and did my best to pray. The Lord somehow led me to the abbey where I was welcomed. I wanted to hide from the world, but Abbot Peter saw something else in me, which is why I was training for the pastorate.”

“And to be my teacher,” Ulrik added.

“Yes, and to be your teacher. I haven’t been a very good teacher for you, Ulrik. I’m sorry for that. Maybe I can make it up.”

They went no further but made camp where they were. After they had finished their supper and their prayers, Prester John looked at his student and said, “It’s time to continue your lessons, the other lessons that the abbot wants me to teach you.”

“What other lessons?” Ulrik asked.

“How to use a sword. You will be king someday and you may need to lead in battle.”

Ulrik took the sword and held it out at arm’s length as instructed, but its weight quickly pulled his arm down. “I thought it was lighter than this,” he said.

“Everyone does his first time.” For the rest of the day and later days, Ulrik went through what his teacher called “toughness exercises.” When morning came, the prince’s arms and shoulders ached. For the next several days this was the routine he dreaded.

On the fifth day Prester John held out a sturdy branch about the length of the sword; he carried a similar branch in his own hand. “Did you ever play swords as a little boy?”

“A few times with Barty, but he always beat me and . . .”

“And what?”

“. . . sent me crying to the kitchen,”

Prester John laughed at him, pointing a taunting finger. Angered at the laughter, Ulrik attacked his teacher with the branch only to find his weapon flipped out of his hand with a dexterous twist of the branch in Prester John’s hand.

“Here’s a lesson useful for both soldiers and princes—think before you attack. Try it again. Think about your target. What attack will kill me the quickest?” Prester John let his branch hang by his side, exposing himself fully before Ulrik.

“I don’t want to kill you.” Ulrik failed to move toward him.

“Maybe not. But your enemy wants you dead.” With lightning speed Prester John immediately attacked Ulrik with his branch and grasping it with both hands was about to bring it crashing down on the prince’s head until Ulrik felt the hair on his head being brushed by the branch. “I could have cut your right side from your left side, leaving the kingdom to search for a new king.” said his teacher, relaxing and letting the branch come to rest at his side.

Ulrik began to realize more was at stake than his life. He hadn’t given the idea that he was the crown prince much thought before now. He was hoping he would return with the ioni flower and restore his father to health and life would be the way it had always been. “I’m not ready for this,” he grumbled. “I’m not ready to be king.” He shed a tear for himself. “I’m not ready for any of this. I want my mother, I miss Helga and Edgar and even Barty. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.” Ulrik dropped his branch, turned away and sobbed, wrapping his own arms tightly around his shoulders pulling in what comfort he could. “Oh God, why does it have to be this way? Why, God?” His spirit drained from him as he crumpled into a heap upon the ground.

By the time he awoke, the night had come and gone. He had been wrapped in a blanket and set close to the fire. His pack lay under his head as a pillow with his mother’s Enchiridion sticking out. He pulled it from the pack and clutched it.

“Ulrik, are you better? I’ve been praying for you all night. I was afraid for you,” said Prester John, who sat on the other side of the fire.

“Afraid? You?

“Yes, an ex-mercenary turned pastor who was afraid,” he gave his crooked smile. “You found your mother’s book. I had hoped you would.”

“Prester John, what happened?” Ulrik asked. His teacher went on to explain that everything that had occurred finally caught up with the prince in one furious moment and it was too great for him to comprehend. Ulrik realized his teacher had put him to bed. Ulrik smiled at this ex-mercenary turned pastor acting as his nanny.

Ulrik worked harder to learn all that his teacher had to offer. Not only did he learn to fight with the sword but also, and more importantly in Prester John’s mind, how not to fight. He explained, “Any fool can learn to swing a sword around. Destruction is easy, justice and righteousness are hard and need to be learned from God. You’ll learn more about being a king from your Enchiridion than from swordplay.”

The wind blew stronger and colder as they neared their destination, the place that Nagel’s map labeled, “Where the Wind is Born.”

“An accurate name,” said Ulrik as he gave up, for the fifth time, his attempts to kindle a fire. No matter which way they went, the wind blew directly into their faces, its groaning and howling a constant sound in their ears. Conversation stopped for no words could be heard against the wind. With heads low they plodded upward, urging on the reluctant pony.

For three days they trudged against the wind, their bodies cold for lack of warm clothing, stomachs angry for lack of warm food, and spirits exhausted for lack of sleep as they made vain attempts at setting up camp behind whatever rock or shrub would break the wind and provide relief from the noise. Then, on the third day into the cirque carved into the mountain’s top by the wind, they saw a light. At first they imagined it to be the reflection of the sun off the ice but soon realized it marked the way through the pass. The closer they approached the light, the greater the wind raged on, filling their ears and minds. Ulrik’s ears ached from the cold and the constant battering of noise. He cried out against the tremendous pain but he could not hear the sound of his voice within his head. As he felt it beat him down, the wind began to drown out his spirit. He pleaded aloud to find a quiet place, a respite from the maddening sound.

He gave up and lay down to die in the hopes of escaping the wind when Prester John abruptly pulled him to his feet, tied his hands together and tethered him to the pony. Ulrik let himself be dragged through the cirque toward the light. Step by step Prester John pulled them along, heedless of the complaints of both pony and prince—the cries of protest unheard because of the wind’s continual groan.

The pass out of the cirque came none too soon. Ulrik was on the edge of madness. They passed the light, which was much larger and brighter when seen up close, and crossed over the crest of the cirque. Ulrik shook his head; and, after his teacher had cut loose his hands, he rubbed his ears as if to pull the remaining ringing out. “It’s quiet,” Ulrik said aloud. Prester John looked at him, unhearing, and then pulled some batting out of from his ears. Ulrik repeated his comment. Prester John nodded. Exhausted from their ordeal, they sat next to each other and shared the stillness.

The quiet on the other side of the pass contrasted sharply with the howling they had experienced. Before long, the gentle reverie was broken by a loud voice, “You best not lie too long. Get off your rumps and get a leg on,” said a girl approaching from behind a large rock and leading their pony. “This animal’s got more sense than you do. I found him walking down the path you should be taking. If you want a decent place to stay, follow me. If you’d rather sleep in the cold, stay on your rumps. It makes no difference to me,” she said, and then she returned down the path from where she had come. They got up and followed her.

They reached her goal quickly: a hostel nestled against the mountainside. Much of the place had been overrun by wild vines and brambles. Young trees grew through the roofs of the ramshackle buildings. Only two of the buildings were in moderately good repair. One of these was the barn into which she led the pony. From the door of the other a slightly stooped man called out in a tired voice, “Clarissa? Did you find them?”

The girl came out of the barn and called out, “Yes, Pa. I found them.” She motioned to Ulrik and Prester John to follow her into the hostel through a door in anguished need of paint.

“I’m glad my daughter found you. I was told you’d be coming through about this time. She’ll show you to your rooms.” He waved a tired hand directing Clarissa toward the stairs.

“I know what to do, Pa. You don’t need to harp on me.” She led them down a seedy hall and opened the first door she came to. “I hope this will do. Bedding’s in the trunk over there.” She pointed to a battered trunk, most of its former graceful moldings had been broken or torn off. Prester John warily swept his hand over the top of the bare mattress. “Don’t worry, it’s clean enough,” she said. “I made sure of that. Food’ll be on the table in an hour. If you’re hungry you can join us.” Clarissa left, closing the door on her way out.

The eyes of the teacher and the prince met, in silent agreement about their reception. Despite the appearance, the room had been recently cleaned. They set their packs down and proceeded to make up the beds, surprised at the quality of the bedding, which was worn but of fine silk woven in beautiful patterns. “This must have been a very special place in its prime,” said Prester John.

“I’m getting hungry,” said Ulrik. “I wonder what the food is like.” He reached into his pack and pulled out the heavy load still unwrapped. “If all else fails, we can eat this.”

Prester John smiled and then exploded into a laugh. “I pray it doesn’t come to that. I’ve had that kind of bread before; there’s a reason why they call it ‘the bread of last resort.’ Even if they serve baked rat, it would be better than that bread.”

They didn’t dine on baked rat. Clarissa met them and led them through a large unused dining room where all the chairs were upended upon the tables. It hadn’t been used for years. They passed into the kitchen. Clarissa’s mother, a tall, austere woman, carefully measured out each portion from the single pot on the stove—one and one-half ladles per bowl. Ulrik considered pointing out to his teacher that the bowls were chipped until he saw that those of their hosts were chipped more than theirs. “It’s plain food, the way we like it,” she said, stone-faced. The innkeeper, Clarissa’s father, joined them and was about to sit down when his wife said, “Did you wash up, Gabe?” Without answering, he left the table to obey. “I don’t know how he’d get on without me to tell him what to do,” she said. Gabe returned to find all seated and waited at the table. No sooner had he sat down when she addressed him again, “Gabe, time to pray.”

“Lord God, heavenly Father, bless us and these your gifts which we receive from your bountiful goodness, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen,” he dutifully recited.

The meal proved as plain as promised, leaving Ulrik wondering if salt or seasoning ever made it this far up the mountain. The bread filled him up, but left him hungering for the abbey and the castle kitchen.

When the meal was over, Ulrik offered to clear the table. The woman stopped him, “Don’t do that. Clarissa can take care of it—part of her chores.” The girl did as she was told.

Gabriel led them into a large public room. Most of the room lay in half-darkness, with a solitary lantern casting its light over one small corner into where the more serviceable and comfortable chairs had been placed. He motioned them to sit down and took up his duties as host. “When I was a boy, guests filled this room with exciting stories of their travels. Oftentimes musicians would pass through and play in exchange for their rooms. But few travelers come by now. In fact, you’re the first ones we’ve had all month. What day is it, the twelfth?”

“The twenty-third,” corrected Prester John.

“We keep the place going more out of habit than anything else.” Gabriel fell into a tired silence and began to doze. Ulrik looked to Prester John, hoping to take a cue on what to do next. Yelling from the kitchen cut Prester John’s answer short.

“What is wrong with you, girl? Why did you put the kettle over there? Why don’t you think about what you’re doing?”

Clarissa ran crying past them and Ulrik began to rise to go to her, but Prester John stopped him. Gabriel awoke with a start when his wife burst out of the kitchen. “You come back here and finish your chores. What do you think you can do, leave all the work to me?”

Gabriel noticed the concern in his guests’ eyes and said, “It’ll be all right. I’ll take care of it,” and he hustled off toward the kitchen. Ulrik and Prester John could hear the murmurings of their discussion as they passed the kitchen heading to their room. Clarissa and her parents were mentioned with great fervor in their prayers.