The Winds of Crowns and Wolves (2 page)

From a few hundred yards away, one specific
tree stood out to Neach. It was a tall yew, which towered above all
of the rest. He made it his goal and attempted to motivate himself
before their ascent was completed.

He wanted this day to be unforgettable, a
memory which would leave a lasting imprint on his mind as he began
to care for his family and eventually, his wife. By taking down
such a large yew, he would be showing a sign of intent. The sign
would represent the ambition he harbored and the determination with
which he would do all things in the name of his family.

Similar thoughts ran through Asgall’s head
as they reached the summit of the hill. He had been planning for
years to use this ceremony as an opportunity to shed light on the
situation which led him to discovering his son on the eastern hill
so many years ago. But for now, all that he could consider was the
celebration, which would ensue following the tree’s demise.

After the long journey from their hut, the
two men stood atop the hill, gazing over their village below them.
The scene was beautiful, almost as if it were not seen, but painted
on a canvas for all to look upon in awe. A myriad of purples,
oranges, and blues lit up the sky as the sun set behind them. It
was tradition to wait until the sun was fully vanished before you
first set the axe into the trunk of the tree.

The sun reached its final destination below
the horizon, and disappeared with its trademark flash of green,
right before it sunk away.

Neach and his father sat beneath the
beautiful, old, yew.

“
Son, when I was your age,
I had to take on the same responsibility,” explained
Asgall.

“
And for every tree you cut
down, every crop you harvest, know that is in the best interest of
your family; nothing else shall come before this.” Asgall had
endured this process only a few months earlier, but there was
something interesting about the way Neach handled himself. Ealar,
his first born son, had chosen a small oak, located at the top of
the western hill as his target.

With a swift three swings of Asgall’s axe,
Ealar had dislodged the tree from its roots and the ritual had
ended. The tree Neach had chosen intrigued Asgall. Its long
branches and thick trunk would surely provide a challenge.

His breath was visible in the chill of the
post dusk time. With each breath, a burst of smoke emanated from
his mouth and curled about as if it were a dancing fairy, floating
toward the cosmos. He and his son sat in silence for an eternity,
gazing at the village they called home and the vast meadow located
directly next to it.

It was in this moment that Asgall felt at
peace.

Fourteen years ago, when he had collected
Neach’s infant body from behind that rock, he was unsure of the
future, but his faith helped him make an abrupt decision and raise
him like his own son.

Now, as they sat atop the hill, Asgall
wondered what was next. He had longed, since Neach was a young boy,
to tell him of his parents. Though he did not know them, he felt it
was necessary to disclose said information.

“
His son” was a phrase that
perplexed Asgall. Though this boy shared no blood connection with
him, it felt in his heart as if they were bound at the soul; a
connection that met at the very fibers of their being and was an
impenetrable barrier, defending their relationship against external
forces.

It would need to be done, he thought. For
the sake of his son’s accomplishment, he reserved himself to the
fact that it would need to be done the following day, at the
earliest.

Time had gotten away from them. All of the
stars were now visible over the valley and he saw Neach to his left
connecting them with his finger.

“The sky is beautiful at night, it’s a shame
that we couldn’t make a pattern with these stars and bring them
back to town with us for all the people to see,” Neach claimed in
amazement.

He had always been fond of the stars and the
moon, and everything that could be found in nature. He felt at home
amongst the natural order of things. Some nights, Asgall wondered
if his son slept in the grass outside of the hut. This affinity,
which could not be shaken, was the very reason the two men remained
at the top of the hill, gazing deep into the abyss.

“The people will be waiting for us,” Asgall
proclaimed. In the town after every new found man’s ceremony, a
feast and dance took place around a massive fire in the center.

From their vantage point, hundreds of feet
above, a crowd could be seen gathering. The faint sound of a lute
being played traveled up to the two men, and caressed their ears
with memories of the summer, which had passed so quickly. Summer in
the valley was a lovely time filled with bountiful harvests, music
and the love of the townspeople on a nightly basis.

As the music continued in the valley, Neach
stood up beside his father and grasped the axe in both hands. With
a silent nod of approval, Asgall watched as his son made his way
toward the large yew they had been sitting under.

With a defiant thud, the first strike of the
axe bore itself into the tree and the ritual began. It was
customary for the father to begin a period of prayer and not
conclude it until the tree had been completely dislodged from the
ground.

Swing after swing, thud after thud, the
brilliant old yew swayed in the light winter breeze. Its branches
looked feeble and it bore no fruit, but its trunk was thick. This
tree had likely stood in this spot for thousands of years and
today, Neach would claim it as his own.

Nearly half an hour had passed before the
poignant sound of cracking wood filled the air like an angry
collection of bees. In an instant, the tree went from a tall
standing bastion of significance, to a destitute heap of logs. It
crashed to the ground with relentless fervor, and it could be heard
around the valley. A dull roar emanated from the town below.

He had done it. As he walked over to the
tree, he used his father’s axe to claim a branch off of it for
remembrance. The years that had come before had seen this tree used
as a form of shade by weary travelers and the townspeople.

Branch and axe in hand, with sweat building
up around his brow, Neach looked up at his father who had tears in
his eyes.

“
It took you that long to
cut down that little old tree?” he choked through tears with a sort
of comical cynicism.

His good natured spirit was refreshing to
Neach. Not only had he gained the respect of the community, but he
had gained the respect of his father. Asgall embraced his son in
elation, and they walked toward the town.

The valley created a basin near the edge of
the hill where a small river had cut through and left its mark in
the landscape. As the two men reached the bridge that would connect
them with Spleuchan Sonse, a crowd of people gathered at the end of
the walkway. Looks of joy spread across their faces, as Neach
raised the branch he had removed from the tree in his right hand,
and the axe in his left.

Like a calm, serendipitous, weathered, old
man, Neach took the praise in stride. He strolled across the bridge
with an air of confidence so thick, that it nearly suffocated those
who awaited him on the other side. Yet this was exactly what they
wanted, a man to show his superiority in the face of adversity and
come out as the victor.

A new found glory resonated within the very
foundation of his body, and a feeling he had never experienced
before permeated his bones. Could it be that he had already been
jaded at such a young age? He wished, in a strange series of
events, that the effect of this event were more lasting and
profound. The feeling, which he had never felt before, was emptier
than anything previously felt.

But the façade was erected, if not for the
benefit of the townspeople, for his father’s own sanity. He could
not have him see that this moment, which he had looked forward to
his entire life, had culminated with an unsatisfying crescendo.
Neach had a mind which was far older than it let on.

Upon their arrival, a collection of men
carrying torches knelt down in front of the gates, allowing Neach
the ability to pass through the aisle they had created.

He treated it as if he was supremely
impressed by the extravagance of the events which were unfolding
before him, but in his mind he knew that he was not content.

He entered the town hall, which, the night
previously, had housed the gentlemen of the town in a festivity of
mead and food. Neach walked into the hall accompanied by his
father, and inside he saw the rest of his town congregated.

The hall was made of the finest oak trees
that could be found in the valley. Generations earlier, the men of
the community had banded together to craft perfectly shaped and cut
logs to use as the frame of the building. Inside, the smell of
burning wood and a fresh roast infiltrated Neach’s nostrils, as he
headed for the table where his mother and brother sat.

“Welcome home, man of the village,” his
mother offered sweetly, “we are all very proud of you.”

His demeanor was always softer and kinder
when he spoke to his mother. He responded to her statement with a
faint smile, as to not show weakness. As he looked around the hall,
the jubilation was running rampant around every orifice of the
building. Some of the men, who had been drinking since the middle
of the day, were singing songs of battles past, and the women they
had been with. Others sat quietly with a bemused smile upon their
face, as they watched the festivities commence.

The hall was decorated in a lavish, at least
for their community, display of precious metals, which danced as
the flame of the fire licked at their precipices. An extravagant
occurrence, fit for the new gentlemen, as they began a new life
filled with hard work.

Neach rose from his table, after indulging
himself, and headed to get fresh air outside of the hall.

The air was crisp and cold, as the winter
chill seeped deep into his bones. He walked out, toward the bridge
he came in over, and sat down at the bank of the river.

It was times such as these that Neach longed
for. A silent time where he could ponder life’s greatest mysteries,
by himself, next to the solace of the flowing stream below him: he
embraced it. It was as if time stopped, and all that existed was
himself and the beauty surrounding.

The cold river cut through the base of the
hill, like a wrinkle etched into the face of a weary old man. It
bent and stretched, narrowed and expanded, and the rustic lack of
homogeneity made him feel at home. He had always felt as if he were
different from the rest of his family. A different wiring of his
brain, he presumed. But with a limited knowledge of anything to
prove that, he muddled through his day to day life, in search of an
answer of some sort.

As he sat on the river bank, he heard a
rustling in the brush next to him. It was not uncommon for an
animal to hide in the brush before scurrying away, but tonight’s
temperature was cold, and most animals had gone into a form of
hibernation.

He ignored the sound and fell back into the
deep thoughts he had only recently concluded. Before he could drown
in his own mental riptide, he heard the rustling again, this time
much closer to where he sat. With a quizzical look upon his face,
Neach stood up and ventured toward the brush.

Curious, yet anxious, he approached the
brush and picked up a stick he found nearby.

When the nature of the beast that lurked
inside of that brush showed its true face, he realized the futility
that the stick he held in his hand offered.

Nestled in the edge of the brush, asleep,
was a full grown grey wolf. With a gasp and a stutter step
backward, the realization of the situation struck Neach like a full
grown man running head on.

What was he to do? He couldn’t let this
majestic, yet carnivorous, creature maintain a home so close to his
community. It was his duty as a man to rid the town of the beast.
After recovering his senses and mental clarity, he crept toward the
sleeping wolf. As he got within arm’s length of it, it opened its
eyes. Large orange orbs stared back into Neach as if they were two
microcosms of the very sun which gave the Earth life.

With a disgruntled growl and a calm
ascendance to its feet, the wolf slowly exited the brush. Armed
with only a stick, Neach was unsure what it was that he should do
next. Out of instinct, he dropped the stick.

The wolf turned slowly toward him, and
instead of a menacing growl, let go an ear piercing howl that
seemed to reverberate within Neach’s soul, if only for a moment. As
quickly as it had come, the wolf had disappeared into the darkness
beyond the brush and vanished.

From out of the hall, Asgall and the other
men of the village came running as quickly as they possibly could.
To their surprise, they found Neach standing by himself, staring
off into the distance.

“
What happened son; we
heard a wolf!” exclaimed Asgall.

“
It just-it just ran away,
it looked at me and ran away,” Neach stated in
bewilderment.

He wondered why it hadn’t simply killed him.
His life was within the animal’s grasp. With nothing to protect
himself except a stick, which he had promptly dropped, he was at
the wolf’s mercy.

Asgall lead Neach back toward the hall with
the rest of the men so the festivities could resume. After a slight
pause in the music, it came back to life with the passion of a
collective of bards.

The merry gentlemen maintained their drunken
stupor throughout the ordeal, and never batted an eyelash. Their
voices carried through the nooks of the hall and echoed for what
seemed like an eternity. Neach spent the rest of the night
contemplating his near-death experience, and wondering why it was
that the wolf had simply let him go.