Alicia Roque Ruggieri (9 page)

“Which is a concession,
not a command, if they can’t exercise self-control,” his wife pointed out,
pulling away with a smile.

“Are you against
Christians marrying, then, my Lydia?” Bricius spouted as they reached the
doorway of the workshop.  Lydia was as well-learned in Scripture as himself, if
not more so, and her prayerful, obedient life strengthened her wisdom, making
her a fierce warrior indeed.  However, he could not agree with her if she advocated
celibacy exclusively; after all, they were married!  And he didn’t think that
state had diminished their closeness to God.

“No,” Lydia replied. 
“It’s not that marriage is sin.  God made woman as a help for man and said that
‘twas good.  Besides, marriage triumphs as an example to the dying world of the
relationship between Christ and His church.  But,” she said slowly, “God
created individuals for Himself first and foremost, and He may have other plans
for each of His creations, plans that they can best accomplish in single
devotion to God alone.  Others have need of another companion so that they
aren’t distracted by latent passion.  And perhaps for some, even, though they
themselves don’t require marriage, ‘tis a sacrifice of love they can make for
another brother or sister.  Yet we must never lose sight what matters most.”

“And what is that?”

“That God made us not
for procreation or for achievement or for personal happiness, but for Himself. 
I don’t want to see Calum trying to find peace in the arms of his wife.  Such
is for those who have no hope, Bricius,” Lydia said gently, laying her
work-worn hand on her husband’s arm.

He sighed.  “It just
saddens me to see him sorrow over all that has happened.  I think if…”

“Sometimes sorrow heals
the heart, dear one,” she murmured, catching his face in her hands.  “I know
‘tis hard.  You love him so.  But the Man of Sorrows loves him yet more.”

“What do you think that
I ought to do then, Lydia?  You should have seen him so eager to get away from
the Samhain celebration.”

“Pray, dear one.  Pray. 
There is nothing the evil one fears more than a child crying out to his Father,
nothing that so enfeebles his work, you ken.”

“Aye.”  Bricius smiled
deeply into his wife’s eyes before bestowing a tender kiss on her forehead.  “An
excellent wife, who can find?” he asked quietly.  “One who is willing to fight
on behalf of the truth against her husband’s ignorance.”

“Out of love alone, dear
one.  And ‘tis only an echo of the same love that will one day turn swords into
plowshares.”

“Aye,” said Bricius,
settling down at his pottery wheel again.  “Amen.”

13

As he moved up the wide
stone slabs, his heart pounding in his chest, Deoradhan felt as if he had
traveled back half a decade.  His boyhood called out to him from every familiar
corner, every worn step.  Was it really so long ago that as a youth on the cusp
of manhood, he had strode down these same steps, determined to never cross them
again, thoughts of undiscriminating and reckless hatred and revenge rushing
through every path his mind took?  Now, no longer a child in anyone’s eyes, he
mounted the way into the king’s court again, resolving to remain in this
stronghold until he received a final answer to his complaint.

Slowly, he mounted the
last few steps, his eyes renewing their memories of this great fortress. 
Arthur had added more polish to his capitol in everything from the brilliant
banners whipping in the breeze to the foreign voices he had heard around him
from the moment his foot stepped inside the walls.  Camelot had become a
modern-day Alexandria for Europe, he thought, a gathering-place for the finest
minds of their day.  Even while he resided in Gaul, he had heard scholars speak
in wistful tones of traveling to Camelot.  There, they could confer and debate,
share ideas and obtain funding from a king who strove to create a golden age
for his people, a tangible hope rising from the ashes of Rome.

He reached the guards
standing at the Great Hall’s threshold.  He didn’t recognize them from his days
here as a boy; their barely-bristled faces testified that they were new
warriors in Arthur’s service.  “My name is Deoradhan,” he said.  “I wish to
speak with the High King.”

One of the two guards
squinted in near-sightedness at him.  “Do you come on your liege-lord’s
behalf?”

“No.”  Deoradhan knew
that they saw that he had no escort or attendant and so surmised that he held
the position of an underling rather than being a nobleman himself.

“Then whose business…?”

“I come on my own business,”
Deoradhan cut him off.  “Tell the king my name; he will see me.”  He stared
into the eyes of the guards, his face set like a stone carving.

The two guards exchanged
puzzled, uncertain glances.  Deoradhan could tell that the young pair had no
idea what to do with him.  He stood his ground, silently, waiting for them to
do his bidding.  Finally, the near-sighted one shrugged.  “It can’t hurt to
tell the king your name.”  He looked to his partner for agreement.

The other one raised his
eyebrows.  “Alright, but you do it.  I don’t want to be responsible if…”  He
trailed off.

The squint-eyed young
man huffed.  “Thanks a lot.”  He squared his shoulders and heaved a breath. 
“Stay here.  Keep an eye on this fellow.”  He shot Deoradhan a warning glance before
thrusting open the heavy carved doors and disappearing into the dark.

The guard left outside
took the other’s orders seriously, fixing his small black eyes on Deoradhan
with the stare of a wolf, as if sure that his prey would escape if given half a
chance.  Deoradhan found the guard’s vigilance humorous, seeing that he had no
intention of departing before he saw the king.  He turned away from his keeper
and observed the activity within the fortress’ walls, trying to occupy his mind

The time dragged on, and
Deoradhan gritted his teeth against the delay.  How long did it take to tell
Arthur a simple name?  A smile rose on his lips when he thought about what the
king’s expression would say at the moment the guard spoke Deoradhan’s name
quietly aloud.  Would he be surprised that his foster-child had returned after
so long?  Would any kindness linger toward the one who had so completely
rejected his covering?  Would those familiar blue eyes warm with reserved
affection when the younger man entered the room?  Or would his features harden
with bitterness, the same bitterness that Deoradhan felt toward him?

Will the king see me
at all?  Or is this route closed to me as well?

The opening doors sent
Deoradhan’s thoughts away.  He focused his eyes on the returning guard, who had
assumed a perplexed but respectful demeanor toward him.  “The king requests
that you wait for an audience with him until tomorrow, as he has pressing
matters to attend to this afternoon.”  Tensely, the guard waited for
Deoradhan’s response.

He wanted to brush past
this young man, self-important in his chainmail, swing open the doors, and
demand justice publicly. 
Such a show will do no good, Deoradhan.  This you
know.
  He clenched his callused hands into fists by his sides and then relaxed
them.  “I will abide by the king’s wishes,” he said evenly.

The guard’s face relaxed. 
“I’ll show you to your quarters, my lord.”

~ ~ ~

Later, Deoradhan woke
beneath the light silk sheets, his muscles feeling thoroughly rested but his
mind ever taut.  He took his time in rising, half-opened eyes traveling over
the furnishings, feeling lazy in the dim light.  Strange, he felt as if an eon
had passed since he had last entered these rooms, and yet so little time had
gone by their contents remained the same.  Even the bedclothes, yellow as an
autumn sunset, had not altered.

Shrugging past days from
his thoughts, Deoradhan rose.  His stomach told him ‘twas time for the evening
meal, as the twilight filtering in his window testified.  The guard had intimated
that he would be welcome to take his supper in the Hall with the rest of the
residents if he wished.

Do I wish?

Half of him shrank away
from interacting, mingling with such shallow people.  How could he go along
with their insipid conversations about ancient philosophers and current
politics when the real grit of life had struck him full in the face? 

What is crooked
cannot be made straight, and what is lacking cannot be counted…

Yet the social whirl
would divert him from the endless bitter tang that his heart tasted
continually.  And Arthur might be there as well.

Arthur…
Something
within him, the part that yearned for Aine and tried to recall his mother’s
face, that regretted that God had turned out to be a cowardly, tyrannical fake,
also drew him toward the high king.  Deoradhan tamped down the feeling,
ignoring it, smothering it by remembering why he had come back.  Why he had
been sent away.  And why he had been brought here in the first place.

Every time he suppressed
that tender yet strong part of his spirit, it grew fainter upon its return. 
But it never entirely died, just as a shoot continues to live underneath a
rock, though the rock crushes and tries to smother it.  The living thing in
every man that mirrors his Creator always survives, though the creature may
attempt to deform and distort it.  It cannot die and so provides hell’s agony
with its bite.

Slipping a clean tunic
over his head, Deoradhan ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair,
neatening it.  He had forgotten to bring his comb.  He tugged his soft-soled
shoes back onto his feet, clasped his cape around his shoulders, and stood
before the polished metal mirror a moment or two.

Who am I?  Who am I
supposed to be? 
He looked into his reflected face and silently demanded an
answer.  His eyes gazed back at him blankly, painfully.  No answer came.

~ ~ ~

He woke shortly after
dark, glad to come out of the familiar, distasteful vision.  Breathing deeply
to calm his thundering heartbeat, Calum pulled himself up on his elbows and
glanced over at Bethan.  Good.  She slept still, the firelight flickering on
her eyelids, her lips parted, her brow unclouded with worry.  They had camped
at dusk, near the same stream at which Deoradhan and Bethan had stopped on
their way to Oxfield two months ago.

Looking over at Bethan
sound asleep, Calum sighed.  That he were so childlike, so like a blank sheet
of parchment.  During the day, he knew his sins were forgiven; he saw his
Savior clearly then.  But night brought out the thoughts that had slept in
daylight.  Thoughts of what once had been.  Thoughts of Cairine.

Each time he dreamed it,
his part in the story changed.  Sometimes, he merely stood by, passive eyes
taking in the spectacle, hands limp at his sides, feet immobile in the damp, cool
morning grass.  The sky flushed a radiant blue, the leaves above his head shone
like living emeralds, the berries glowing stars against the nearly black oak
trunks.  His mother’s hands rested trembling on his twelve-year-old shoulders,
bringing a sense of comfort, of security to his confused mind.  But as the
dream progressed, her hands would tighten, gripping him, holding him in place
when the sight before his eyes became so painful that he struggled to run away,
to flee anywhere but here.  His heart filled with anguish like new wine in old
wineskins, threatening to burst; his limbs turned rigid with cold despite the
warming autumn sunlight; his eyes refused to close, could not even blink for
some respite.  Yet still he stood and did nothing to avert the tragedy before
him.  As he had in life.

Other times, his
dream-self would actually participate in the ritual.  He almost preferred this,
for then he could flagellate himself emotionally upon waking: 
See, you did
aid them.  You betrayed her … a Judas.
 He would smile grimly in the dark,
the cold sweat of a nightmare-come-true soaking his hair and shirt.  There was
a certain unhealthy pleasure in polishing the manacles that he could not
remove.

Yet, despite how he
might alter, she remained always the same.  She gazed out from the wicker cage,
its crisscrossed weaving shadowing her face.  They had bound her hands, small
and tough, behind her back and had crowned her earth-colored hair with a wreath
of fresh oak leaves.  Underneath the greenery, her lovely eyes shimmered with
tears.

Blessed are those who
mourn, for they shall be comforted…

And, always, she turned
those sea-gray orbs toward him.  They held no reproach, no anger, no bitterness
toward him or Mama or toward those who sacrificed her.  Only a soft expression
of love.  At that moment in the dream, he would always move, tearing away from
his mother’s terrified grasp and, sobbing, screaming … awaken. 

Sitting up under a tent
of branches and stars, he was no longer an adolescent boy unable to cope with
the death of his sister.  No longer known as the brother of her whose death
brought back life to the tribe’s fields.  Yet he knew that in a sense that boy
still lived in him, frightened, guilty, filled with grief.  Knew that his past
followed him wherever he traveled.

How do you go on
living in the present when the past haunts you so?

His heart a lump of rock
in his chest, Calum rolled over on his side, closing his eyes to forget the
dream again.  As he lay there, he thought of Cairine.  ‘Twas easy to remember
her in the days before the harvests failed, before the sheep miscarried, before
the old priest had set his eyes on her.  ‘Twas harder to recall the events and
decisions that had led up to the moment when she was not.  He would not endure
it tonight.  He would sleep and forget.