#51: Acceptance

As we stand on the ridge with the village of Tovt in the distance, I mumble, “Things are going to change.”  Without even sharing a language, there’s a sense of mutual understanding and recognition of that fact.  After a long moment of silence, Aros points down a distant hill and issues a command, “Lavek,” and it becomes clear that Aros wants me to leave the group.  I’m a little surprised—I can’t understand any conversation they might have anyway.  Vargmenni is also ordered away, and once we are a few steps from the group she turns to explain.

“Aros wants you to wash the blood from you,” she says quietly.  Up ahead, we hear the trickle of a stream.  “Aros is going to tell the tribe that the heucuva killed Frode, and that I slew the heucuva.”  This is a surprise to me—Aros has always been straightforward, and I expected a more honest approach.  I’m also more than a little annoyed that he would ask me to wash the blood from my face, beard and chest, having felt that it was earned in the slaying of Frode.

“Aros seeks to protect you,” she explains, and I am for a moment humbled.  Without having an acceptable defense for my desire to remain covered in Frode’s blood, I abide her wishes and those of Aros.  I do the best that I can to wash myself, feeling cleansed in both body and soul.

Finally alone with Vargmenni after days of scrutiny from Frode and the associated tension, I watch her in my peripheral vision.  She’s obviously not native to Tovt, based on her hair color and skin tone, but I know very little else about her.  As I start to ask her questions, she shrugs them off with a smirk and responds only, “Trust.”  The meaning remains unclear.  We head back to meet the others, who are waiting for us.  Seemingly satisfied with my best attempts to remove evidence of Frode’s slaying from my skin and clothes, Aros nods and gestures for all to head into Tovt.

Aros’ story spreads like wildfire.  I search faces for signs of anger or suspicion, any hostility that might be potentially dangerous, but for the most part everyone seems more shocked and concerned.  There is, however, an identifiable sense of command surrounding Aros.  Harka and Baln are loyal to him, and I have little fear that they will betray his secret.  I seek out Gola—there is an immediate instinct to slit her throat that I have to suppress, as she is a definite threat to Aros, and by extension to me.  I recognize it as a remnant of my time with Malar and push the instinct aside, trusting in Aros’ judgment of the woman.

Not wanting to draw attention to myself as the town copes with the news and transition, I withdraw to my small fire and ring of rocks that has been my home within Tovt.  Vargmenni disappears into the populace, leaving me alone, and I can’t help but feel disappointed that she would desert me now that we finally had a chance to communicate openly.  That disappointment is unwarranted, however, as she approaches my fire just before nightfall.  It’s hard to conceal my pleasure at her arrival.

She sits on the rock next to me, close enough to speak privately.  “Gola will not speak of what happened.” 

I am more than a little shocked that she picked up on my earlier instincts and feel ashamed.  “Was I that obvious?” I ask.

“It was important that you know.”  She explains no further, and we sit next to one another in silence.  Finally free to speak, I’m overwhelmed by the possibility of conversations and questions I want to ask.  Frode’s history with the tribe and the strange teeth, Vargmenni’s history and use of magic, the heucuva and Aros and Tovt—so much so that I can’t decide how to proceed. 

“What next?” I ask sheepishly, unable to form a more coherent thought.

“Tribe will convene at nightfall,” she responds.

“Are you part of the tribe?” I ask, hoping to learn at least a little more of her role in what is to come. 

“Yes, and no,” is her answer, one that does little to inform but is not surprising in the least.  She turns to look me in the eyes, something she has never done for more than a fleeting moment before.  “On the night of Frode’s ritual,” she explains, struggling to find the words, “Frode slew Gola’s husband and took her for his own.  He was... not good... to many people.”  Her voice breaks as she speaks, revealing that she was perhaps a victim as well, and my blood begins to boil at the thought of Frode touching Vargmenni.

I turn to stir the fire with a stick, masking the awkwardness as we both look away from one another.  “I know nothing of this town or its rituals,” I tell her, “but Frode deserved to die.”

Under her breath, in a whisper, she replies, “Yes.”

Several long moments of silence pass before she continues.  “The stones harbor bad magic, but they were not the only reason for Frode’s malevolence.”  That Frode may have already been wicked in some sense before the stones had not occurred to me. 

I pat the pouch where the stones are hidden and say to her solemnly, “No one will use them ever again.”

“They should be destroyed,” she says, and I nod.

“Magic.  You can use magic.  How?” I ask her.  “Who taught you?”

“Somebody far, far away,” is her mysterious response.  “I... lost... all magic when the tribe found me.  With study, I was able to relearn one spell.  Vargmenni... fire hands,” she says proudly while gesturing as if casting the spell.  “Afterward, Frode feared me.”

Desperate to share what has been burning in my mind since we met, I gesture for Vargmenni to wait a moment.  Grabbing a stick from the fire and pushing one of the flatter rocks between us, I use the stick to sketch a crude lion with a flowing mane.  “I am a priest, and this is my god, Nobabion.  I was also once a strong magician, and I have also lost my magic.”

She hold her hands apart, gesturing to one and says, “Gods.”  To her other hand, she says, “Magic.”  She holds them apart, illustrating her understanding of the difference between the two philosophies, divine and arcane.

I shake my head slowly and grasp both of her hands lightly, bringing them together with my own.  “I am both.”

She pushes my hands into my chest gently, her touch lingering.  “Frode was a bad leader.  Zeb is a good person.”  Her meaning becomes clear—the quality of a person is not defined by priesthood or magic use, but rather by who they are inside.

Commotion from the town as the folk begin to congregate interrupts our moment, and she abruptly leaves the ring of stones to join the villagers.  I sit alone, observing and not wanting to impose myself, but I also can’t hide the fact that I want nothing more than to be included.  Harka wanders into my view as if looking for me, and motions to me to join the throng. 

The press of people as well as the presence of several cookfires provides warmth against the chill night air.   Food is passed back and forth between townsfolk, and my neighbors gesture for me to indulge as items are passed about.  It is a welcome moment of comfort in an otherwise miserable couple of days.  Before long, however, the town turns to business and the apparent leaders of the tribe start speaking rapidly about Aros’ story and the plan forward.

My worries about the town believing the story or supporting Aros are quickly dispelled, however, as a chant of the name “Aros!” burgeons, gaining strength as more of the townspeople join.  Aros bows his head humbly, addressing the crowd authoritatively.  After a short time, he calls for me and Vargmenni to come forward.  I obey, and when I glance at Vargmenni she avoids my gaze.

He continues speaking to the tribe, and then, similar to my first encounter with Frode, he asks me for my knife.  I withdraw it slowly and hand it to him freely, pommel first.  He holds the blade to Vargmenni’s forehead, her a mask of composure.  He draws the knife across, creating a thin line from which dark blood trickles, uttering a few quiet words.  He turns to me and does the same, spilling hot blood from my forehead onto my face.  He points to me, calls me by name again.  I can only discern a few words, among them Tovt, the name of the town, and a new word, “jama.”

He points to Vargmenni and says something similar, including another new word “galdraka.”  Whatever Aros is saying, looking at the crowd I can see that they are pleased.  I have a moment of panic, fearful that we may have just been married against our will.

Vargmenni turns to me to explain.  “Vargmenni, galdraka.  Village sorceress.  Zeb, jama.  Tribe shaman.”  An immediate sense of pride, accomplishment, and acceptance washes over me.  This is an honor that I could not have anticipated.

A few villagers approach to clasp arms and welcome me to the tribe.  Tensions had been building under Frode, and the village seems to have a newfound sense of stability and relief now that they have a new leader, sorceress, and shaman.  The tribespeople begin pulling out gourds and clay jugs filled with liquid that are then passed around.  One is given to me, and despite my hesitations about my new position and path forward, I decide to relax a little and join the celebration.  I take a long pull, the liquid revealed to be a potent firewine that burns my throat—nearby, drums begin to play and townsfolk begin to dance.

His speech finished, Aros approaches with a smile on his face, laying a heavy arm across my shoulders.  He points to Vargmenni, then points across the crowd to Gola.  He gives me an odd look, seemingly offering my choice of the two women.  I can’t tell how serious he is.  Fortunately, a jug of firewine is pressed between us and I take a long pull, passing it to Aros to avoid answering his question.  My celebration is momentarily fractured by a fleeting thought of Bonie, what was lost, what was left behind.  Aros does not notice and staggers away.

The townsfolk are quick to return me to the celebration, and I’m distracted by the prospect of more drink and dancing.  Pushing memories of Bonie deep within, I relent to the wishes of the townsfolk and dance until I can barely stand.  I retreat to the periphery and find a stool, content to watch as the town celebrates.  In a private moment later, Vargmenni finds me sitting alone.  Her demeanor is serious.

“The dwarves are a threat to the tribe, and Aros means to deal with them.”  The statement is matter of fact, not taking sides, simply conveying the information.  All other thoughts are pushed aside.

“I have been to a great underground dwarven city.  I have had dwarven friends, they have fought by my side, and I have watched them die.  Why are the dwarves a threat to Aros, to Tovt?”

“Many peoples vie for this land.  For the land that brings food and nourishment to the tribe.  Both Frode and Aros agree, the tribe’s lands must be protected.”

“Is there not enough to share?”  I ask.

She shakes her head.  “Winter here is harsh.  Food is scarce.  Not all can survive.  Frode chose to attack recklessly.  Aros will not.”

“It is our job to guide Aros and to protect the tribe,” I say solemnly.

“Yes,” she responds.

Long moments pass and we sit together in silence.  I break it with a question.  “Does the tribe have have a name?”

“Reghedmen,” she says, and I shake my head, not comprehending.  “The Winter Wolf,” she explains, and a chill runs down my spine.

It’s clear that I’m uncomfortable, and I can see that she is confused.  Using a bit of broken stone, I carve the symbol of Malar in the ground.  “Do you recognize this symbol?” I ask.

She shrugs, asking, “Beast?” but shows no real recognition, and for that I am thankful.

“Bad magic,” I say coldly.  “If you see men with this symbol, run.”  In an instant, all thoughts of continuing the celebration are extinguished.

“Zeb and Vargmenni part of tribe... yes, and no.”  I understand the context of the statement—these are not our people, and we are not theirs.  We are outsiders.  There is another awkward silence, perhaps an invitation, but the chaos of my mind can make little sense of it.

“I need sleep,” I say quietly, leaving Vargmenni to return to my small fire and ring of stones alone.  As I walk away, my heart pounds with unspoken words.  I don’t want to be alone tonight.  Stay with me.

* * *

When morning comes, I busy myself about the task of gathering supplies to build a tent.  The townsfolk are willing to help, and I use the few words that I have gathered and begin to put names to faces, building relationships.  The physical toil of construction helps clear my mind from the depth of emotions the previous night.

Early in the afternoon, after the tent has been completed, Vargmenni comes to visit my new abode.  Ignoring our conversation from the previous night, I ask her about magic, curious where she came about the materials for the roll of vellum on which is written her prized spell.  She comprehends my description of a spellbook, explaining that she also lost her “writings.”  When she came to the tribe, she knew only one spell, but she never deployed it, instead keeping the magic etched in her mind.  “Even through suffering great pain,” she says, struggling to find the words. 

She had observed Frode’s methods over time—bones and other non-conventional means of recording magic, for it seems that he too was an arcane wielder.  She secured the roll of vellum, crafted from the skin of a rothé.  One of the townspeople helped her treat the hide, making it suitable for writing.  Over the course of many weeks, she was able to leverage the magic she still possessed in her mind to transcribe the spell again, that she might use it freely.

One night, Frode came to her tent with malicious intent and she brought her “fire hands” to bear, burning him.  “He never touched me again.”  This time the words come more easily, and my anger at Frode is superseded by pride for Vargmenni.

“To recreate what’s in my mind,” I say pointing to my head, “I will need many, many scrolls.  Is it possible to make them?”

“It would take time.  In winter, resources are scarce.”

Reminded by Aros’ plans to confront the dwarves, my mind begins to race, searching for options.  With the coming of winter, time is my new enemy.