Spirit of Orn: A Novel

By Stuart Warren and Phil Kiner

Centuries after the events that led to global ruin and the decimation of human civilization, almost everything about the former world has been forgotten. Until a depressed blacksmith named Conn searches a distorted Scandinavia to find a runaway boy with a party of deeply scarred strangers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483533285

Book preview

Village

Conn stood aloof. Beyond the walled city, beside the knoll and the stream, he observed the township at a distance. He held out his hand, clutching within a clump of dirty grass, the blades moist from dew. He looked at them thoughtfully and gripped them tightly, crushing them. A vengeful fire burned in his chest. Releasing his grasp, he saw blood pour forth from his muddy palm. Conn’s body trembled as he turned and saw something, a silhouette, approaching him. It was death; he could smell it on the figure. Suddenly before him, he met the piercing gaze of a wild woman, with eyes blackened, skin bloodied. He tried to scream but the sound decayed in his throat, and his breath was stolen from him. Dissolving into a cloud of ashes, the woman vanished. She descended upon him, subduing his weakened body, lifting him from the ground, his legs floundering, kicking wildly. Her furious eyes bore down on him.

 You left me to die! You left him to die! she shrieked. You failure!

 Conn awoke, blinded by the morning glare, feeling cold. Panting, he grabbed the skins from his bed and stood up. A great weight lay upon him. He took a deep breath, calmly, and closed his eyes.

 Still dead, old boy, he whispered. She can’t hurt you. There was nothing, nothing you could have done.

 He looked around the room. His blacksmith tunic lay crumpled over the straw mat, rigid with petrified edges. Conn rose to retrieve it and nudged his boots from the bed to the pile of refuse in the corner of his room, feeling the deer skin against his bare foot. Clasping the leather straps together, he tightened their hold to his body, and then hoisted the shell upon his chest. It was his way. Conn treated his routine with effort and precision, focusing deliberately on the task at hand. He scratched his head, wincing at the itch, and felt the wet blood on his fingertips. Vile creatures, he thought. Conn walked to the center of his sleeping chamber and opened the thatch door beside his mat, revealing the icy stream bubbling beneath. With great reluctance he dunked his head into the chasm, grimacing all the while, and after a few moments pulled it out. Slowly, with a fine tooth comb fashioned from bone, he picked the small bugs from his scalp. He hung the comb on the wall and turned to the corner of the room, stricken with pangs of longing. In devotion, he left his mat to approach the altar and pay his respects. Her face he approached with clemency and respect; her image was unmarred, pure, and delicate.

 Sweetheart, he managed, the word sticking in his throat. What am I doing? What does this all mean? His eyes were red,swelling with tears. I miss our walks! Things made sense then. Not like now. I don’t care what he thinks! You were the strongest woman I knew. He dropped his head into his hands and collapsed on the floor. I need you so much! Why did you have to go?

 When he collected himself, Conn wiped his tears, kissing the wood bust of her image, and rose. He grabbed a sprig of dried meat that lay stretched over a notch on the wall and chewed it with some difficulty. There was a time when the home was in order, when she would ask him to take care of things around the house. Conn was never one to do them. It was woman’s work. It did not matter either way. No one in the village cared to visit him. They stayed away; that is, unless they wanted something. In the villagers’ eyes, his image was tarnished. A woman dying in labor! Weak! Wretched! There were nights when he expected them to come to his home, masked and anonymous, to hang him or drive him out of town. The people of Skara Brae were not above such things.

 Fully dressed, Conn pulled back the mat that concealed his room, and entered the living area. A metal pot boiled on the hearth, some grains and roots stewing with leftover scraps from the previous evening. Mòr was standing next to the fire, warming her hands vigorously. She acknowledged him with a raised brow, scrutinizing Conn’s movements intently as he groggily waddled across the room. He respectfully met her gaze and took a seat directly in front of the fire on his straw mat.

 Well then, sister, how are you? Conn murmured, pausing to clear his throat of mucus. She said nothing, absently preparing the meal, the process communicating her brand of dignity. Conn knew she took pride is such things. To her it was methodical, and she could not be bothered. After stirring the contents of the pot, she set down her ladle and looked at him with a wry expression.

 Ah, I am as I’ve always been. Go, kiss your daughter. I can manage on my own.

 Conn smiled and looked at the bundle of cloth she took into her arms, watching closely as a plump arm lifted itself into the air, grasping feebly. He got up and kissed his daughter on the forehead.

 Ardara... How are you? Still unable to talk. Right, right. No matter. Someday...

 Conn turned back to the fire, eying the pot hungrily, and ladled some broth into his wooden bowl. He observed the crushed oats and roots churn in his bowl. Since the death of his wife, Conn had grappled with Mòr’s tenacity for meddling. To him it was her subtle means of caring for his health. Lately he had grown unable to pass his bowels, so Mòr took to it and bought a bag of oats from the market in Strom. Among the many things she did for him, it was further proof that without her he would have been worse for wear. He glanced at Mòr as she set Ardara in a straw bed and grimaced as he scooped the first mouthful of her morning concoction.

 "Lovely. Trying to fool me with your barley again I see," he muttered absently, stirring up the mixture. It had the consistency of dirt. He warily scooped a spoonful and sprinkled chunks back into the bowl. Mòr lifted her head from the baby as she took a seat upon the cold stone adjacent to Conn.

 Oh? I’m sorry you don’t like it.

 It’s terrible, moaned Conn. The whole bloody thing tastes like sweet, mushy bread.

 I think I do it for the children, Mòr replied. She looked back at him with a smug grin.

 Conn ignored her and hastily consumed his soup, despite its bitter taste. His mind dwelt on the dream. The vision of her, and her scorn, was a common occurrence these days. Some of the other villagers had shared certain experiences, though no one dared speak of them. Despite this, he felt obligated to share his night with Mòr then, however uncomfortable it would be. Exposing one’s heart was a threatening thing. Someone could simply reach in and crush the heart if it was left unguarded, and the few unsavory characters that skulked around the main road were apt to seek out his secrets.

 I saw her again, he murmured, setting down his bowl. She leaped upon me this time, and pulled me to the ground like I was a deer, or something. He saw Mòr shift uncomfortably in her seat. She took the ladle, spooned some more of the mixture into her own bowl, and thoughtfully smelled its rising aroma.

 This would be the sixth time, Mòr observed. I wouldn’t say anything to the neighbors. The wrath of a woman is a foul omen, alive or dead.

 There is nothing I can do or say to make these visions go away. Earnan will expose me and exile me for it, I’m sure.

 Oh, hush with all that nonsense, Mòr said.

 Why shouldn’t he? Conn retorted, holding up his spoon with authority. The nature of our kind has moved beyond the petty superstitions of the southern wild men. They cannot understand themselves, and rightly so. They look at a tree and see their natures molded with it, dumb bastards...

 Mòr smiled and interjected, So then how will you possibly make your way today, brother, with all your worries?

 Ah! Yes. With ease, sister. These people are so distracted with their subtle pleasure that they don’t even bother with others. Unless there’s something juicy to glean, I am impervious. Even so, this little one may repel any foul omen! He turned to his daughter, stroking her forehead. Her little eyes exploded with astonishment, melting gradually to a giddy coo.

 Ardara. You are my charm of charms.

 Conn watched the ebbing fire burn before him and lost himself in the pulsing embers. Heaving a long relaxed breath, Mòr looked over to Ardara and gently rocked her straw bed. Conn thoughtfully noted the silence between them and rose from the mat, looking around the dwelling quizzically.

 Where did Fearghas get off to so early?

 Mòr thought intently for a moment and, as the epiphany struck her, she shook with excitement. She rose and embraced Conn. He was taken to hunt the white beast this morning with the garrison troop! Some time ago before you woke, men arrived here to retrieve him.

 Conn let out a cry of joy and grabbed his sister’s hands. He felt the blood rushing to his head and dropped back upon the straw mat. Well then. Took them long enough, I say! he shouted, holding his hand to his forehead. The council was taking so long to approve it, I nearly lost hope. Fancy that. Didn’t I tell you that he would be accepted as a soldier, like father was? Thank the ancestors, indeed! Laughing at his excitement Mòr collapsed down at his feet, shaking her head.

 Father was a garrison soldier for three seasons! Mòr exclaimed.

 But he battled against the Lochlannach, and routed them.

 You weren’t even born yet! The man was spewing dung for all you knew. He could spin quite a yarn.

 Yarn or no, my boy is a soldier and you can’t convince me that it’s silly to celebrate such a thing.

 Mòr tilted her head back and laughed, slapping him against the leg. She looked up at him in admiration and embraced his leg lovingly.

 She would be so proud of him... and you, Mòr murmured. Conn lifted her from the ground, placing her on her feet. Playfully, she pinched his cheek and pulled at his unkempt beard. She is proud of you as well.

 Conn nodded. A wistful calm entered his heart.

 "Hunting the white beast... Never would I have dreamed that my son, my son, would become one of the foragers in the garrison, especially this garrison. You know that this garrison has the best trained attendants to the King? I can’t say that I envy the boy, though. I hear the regimen is strict. Hopefully, he is well. Conn scratched absently at his jaw. When did he say he would return?"

 Mòr shrugged. I could not say when for certain, though I am sure he will return with them by nightfall. Conn nodded, pacing across the room with a dark look on his face. He turned to Mòr with a thoughtful expression.

 They say the white beast is rather peculiar, Conn added in a dramatic, hushed voice. Its flesh makes you see fantastic, impossible things. The council has been discussing what to do about them of late, according to Taog. Apparently they are disappearing. He paused a moment to dig around in his pocket. He pulled out a piece of smoked meat and bit into it carefully, minding the bones.

 Remember when father used to hunt them, when the nets were scarce? He once told us the hills teemed with the beasts, they were so numerous—like the sand on our beach. Now, they are almost gone. It’s unsettling. One day they will be gone, just like us. Vanishing away into the great nothing.

 All good things end; that is the way of things, Mòr said. She gave him a stern look and reproachfully shook her finger at him. You almost drowned when you ate some of father’s catch, wandering about like a fool. You thought you were a fish for three days, and it was absolutely embarrassing. Mòr could help not but laugh, cupping her right hand over her mouth. From her crib Ardara looked on in sublime awe. As Mòr sat down once again, she grabbed her wool threads and edged closer to the fire.

 Now then, off with you, she urged, gesturing at him. Your deliveries await.

 I only have a few today, Conn said. Gormal’s was especially difficult. He vowed it would be the last time too. He wasn’t one to take requests.

 Kneeling under the weight of his tunic, Conn retrieved a large leather-bound package by the front portal, wrapped in reed string. Balancing it in his arms, Conn unlatched his door’s brass clasp and walked into the township.

 Conn’s eyes surveyed the rolling hills of the land, the silent smoke ascending from the settlement, and the sea foam assailing the white stone that protected them from the tide; the great light was on the rise. The village of Skara Brae was small, as it always had been, and the land had lowered considerably under the assault of the wind and sea, beating away at the coastal mount. Beyond the might of the elements, Skara Brae was ageless, unchanged from the time of its genesis. Conn preferred this, and that was why he called it home.

 He was the intuitive one of the lot. He even understood the secret of the white stone, and why it held the sea at bay. Since his arrival, he had made adjustments to its strength, marveling at its craftsmanship. It was the melding of stone and iron that captured the awe in his heart. To that point he gathered the settlement had simply been since the dawn of understanding. He did not know where it had come from or to what end it would serve, and assumed whoever built it possessed an otherworldly wisdom beyond his own. On the warmer days he walked along the great barrier, running his fingers along its smooth exterior, whispering the words of the Great One.

 "Upon this generation we scaffold the beginning of Man.

 We are not deluded with undue grandeur, or treacherous foresight.

 Let the realms be cleansed with fire of the infirm.

 We shall devote ourselves to the ultimate promise.

 Truth, and our ambition to meet it, will break our shackles."

Conn understood the words to be a warning of tarrying upon indecent thoughts, or something like that. He never meditated upon them in earnest. He had only heard them from Earnan, from a book he couldn’t read.

 Minding his steps down the scabrous footpath, he approached the homes of Earnan and Eircheard. Conn stopped on the side, chuckling as he pulled out another piece of dried meat to chew. He took pleasure in watching them, the two most incongruous of personalities that resided in Skara Brae. Their antagonizing tendencies were clear to all but themselves. Some nights leaving the forge, grunting under the weight of his tool set, he could hear Earnan banging hopelessly upon Eircheard’s door, contemptuously demanding that his neighbor silence his hand drum playing. Enjoying conflict more from a distance, Conn strictly opposed any active intervention between the two. Today was no exception, so he continued onward, only hearing the stones crunching under his feet.

 Halting abruptly, Conn rummaged through his tunic pockets. I... I’m missing. No. Yes, here it is. More on that later, I suppose, he said to himself. He gazed southeast from the path at his forge, hoping he had all he needed for the day. Again, he checked his bag and continued forth.

 Approaching the second fork, not some thirty five paces from the spot, Earnan’s suspicious gaze pierced him in cold scrutiny. He had known Earnan since his arrival in Skara Brae. Conn didn’t particularly enjoy him, however, finding the scribe to be viciously combative against those he disagreed with. Since the death of his wife, the man had displayed considerable scorn against him, supposing that his child would be the end of them all. Much to Conn’s distaste, Earnan concerned himself with many of the villager’s affairs, promulgating the wisdom of An Dlí and spreading his message of purity. Long before Conn’s arrival, Earnan orchestrated the exile of the feebler residents of Skara Brae, considering them weak and dangerous. Since then, he put the others to death. Conn’s fear of the zealot was unprecedented, so he kept his distance. To his knowledge, it was his craftsmanship that held back the incendiary man. So it was in such a capacity that their uneasy truce was maintained. Instead of grimacing, Conn waved cordially back despite Earnan’s hostility. Gritting his teeth, Earnan spat the other way, avoiding eye contact. Cries of pleasure then attracted Earnan’s gaze, arousing his disgust as Eircheard publicly engaged in relations with his wife.

 Conn’s eyes widened.

 Always the libertine, I see, he remarked.

 Eircheard’s own wealth, being the village authority on fashionable trinkets, made him immune to most. He was markedly eccentric, indifferent, and without a sense of shame. He had no need of such things, Conn gathered. Who would, when half of Skara Brae’s estate was tied up in your pockets? To the man’s credit, many in Skara Brae did what suited them best, which happened to be anything given the proper motivation. Public displays of scandal were common. Conn didn’t so much mind that. It was the infants however, and their frequent exposure that troubled him. Strom was far away, but even he had scruples. The people of Skara Brae didn’t pay much mind to it, though; they saw the nature of birthing children as pure protocol. What reason was there to behold your child with esteem when they simply drew upon your resources? Conn’s attitude toward his own children had separated him thoroughly from the others, who insisted that his mollycoddling would make them ineffective. Many of them didn’t even know their own children. After birth they were escorted by garrison troops to a neighboring village that specialized in that sort of thing. While Conn walked by, Eircheard waved back clumsily. At least some people in Skara Brae still maintained some sense of decorum.

 Digging into his bag, Conn pulled from it Gormal’s parcel and walked eastward. She was a younger woman, now sullen and depressed in light of her husband’s recent passing. Earnan was less inclined to disdain the poor woman, for she was needy and readily comforted by many of the village’s males; nevertheless, she was the subject of much ridicule in the township for her inordinate capacity to weep. In droves, the men would confront her, asking for her blessing only to be turned away. Her grief was an affront to proper civilization, according to the village elite. Better for society that she return to her breeding, for she was of right stock for that sort of thing. In this rare case, her request for solitude was honored due to the nature of her husband’s death, which forty days before evoked national heroism in battle with the Lochlannachs of the north. Conn’s heart was burdened by her sight, for the remains of her husband had yet to reach her, if ever they would. Lonesome, she cloistered herself away in her home, waiting for death, bereft of purpose. Since then, Conn was one of the few she still consulted.

 Sheepishly, he approached the door to deliver his parcel: one bronze bust of Cathal, of questionable likeness. Conn wasn’t especially happy with how it came out, hardly recognizing the figure himself. In life Cathal had only spoken with him once, threatening him to move out of his path, so Conn labored his best to capture well Cathal’s disdain. The exclusivity of the visits didn’t sit well with him or the community. Despite the gossip, Conn still maintained the relationship. He knew the feeling, and the pain that she felt so deeply. As he calmly knocked upon the door, he could hear shuffling around inside. Two latches, a lingering third, and the door opened with a creaking of the unused hinges. Two blue eyes appeared, wisps of golden hair covering one of them, set into a wan face tired of tears. Her cheekbones were shaped like a precious stone. She stepped out in a shroud of mourning which covered her bare, cold shell. Conn knew that she had not eaten well in some time. He quickly reached into his sack and extracted the bust, feeling the pronounced heroic grimace of Cathal between his fingers. Gormal silenced a gasp of sorrow within her, her hand covering her mouth. She sobbed and fell into the arms of Conn, who stood surprised, unaware of what he should do. Desiring not to start a scene, he gradually planted her upon the even ground of the door frame, placing the bust in her hands, and closed her fingers around it.

 Quite something else, isn’t it m’ lady? Though I did my fair share, I will not charge my usual rate I’ll have you know. Seeing her enraptured by the totem, Conn smiled awkwardly and patted her on the shoulder. Try to hold up, yeah? It... well... it gets better, over time that is. Loss is a terrible, terrible thing.

 It is so wonderful to see his face again, she said, relieved, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I have yet to see him, his body, in person. They told me that they could not find him. I did not believe them. Ruddy... two-faced, bastards! Telling me, me their lies." Her body shook with bitterness. Conn grabbed hold of her until her mood calmed and became peaceable.

 Conn, Gormal said charmingly, do... do you desire root drink, master craftsman? I...well, would you care to accompany me for a moment?

 Conn raised his eyes, surprised and slightly embarrassed.

 Although that does sound lovely, I mustn’t really. Desperation and fear began to well up in him as he felt the pull of her body. It was a trifle to all the others, but he knew deep in his heart it was foolish. His beloved’s memory was worth more than a meager pleasing.

 Yes, well, I am sorry to keep you then, Conn. She nodded hurriedly, adding with it an air of professionalism. Thank you again for your work. It is very beautiful.

 Conn nodded humbly and wished her well. Back down the path he walked uneasily, sensing her eyes following him to the Main. He dared not look back. The cause of the lonely widow was one that he upheld as a righteous thing, regardless of what Earnan thought about such kinds of encouragement—but he was not ready yet. The Main called him.

 Keeping to his right, he trudged under the weight of his bag toward the home of Taog, until Eircheard stumbled in front of Conn with stark eagerness, midst pulling on an assortment of luscious furs to cover his shivering naked body, with a queer, inquisitive expression.

 Conn you scoundrel! he guffawed. I didn’t think you were the one to corner the art market. Eircheard’s voice was boisterous, rich and filled out to the depths of his enlarged hedonistic body. Conn was not particularly averse to speaking with Eircheard, as there were worse people to converse with. The man possessed an odd fascination with external expressions of individualism. It was the only thing Conn found Eircheard and Earnan to equally embrace, though Earnan was keen on often reminding the expressive trinket peddler that his charms warded away only the weakness of the body, serving as a catalyst for breeding. It was common knowledge to Conn that the scribe had busied himself in the arts of animal breeding long before he arrived in Skara Brae, and insisted mightily that gaudy accessories could enhance sexual desire. It was a fool’s errand to charm the wit of Eircheard, though, and Conn always enjoyed watching Earnan attempt to arrest his attention for yet another breeding scheme. Digging his fur moccasins into the earth, Conn eyed the trinket man with resolve, suppressing the urge to longingly gaze upon Taog’s dwelling behind him.

  Good, wonderful friend, what do you think of this green stoned bracelet? Is it not the finest bit you have ever seen? I know myself that you are more accustomed to the rougher metals, but look, here. The way it shimmers in the great light above, it is absolutely divine! Eircheard paused momentarily to adjust his clothing and leaned in toward Conn.

 Don’t tell Earnan I said that, he whispered.

 Stepping back, which put Conn at ease, Eircheard musingly stroked his beard and began to pace back and forth didactically before Conn.

 Now, he began deliberately, with a subtle flair of intimidation, what of this bust you did for Gormal, hmm? This curious business is not your usual trade. It is an unsavory thing to move into another’s line of work, you know. Very unprofessional. Conn furrowed his brow in protest, folding his arms in disapproval.

 It was a favor, you oaf, he retorted. Conn didn’t like being accused of falsehoods, no matter how trivial. Gormal came to me several weeks ago and wouldn’t leave my doorstep until she coerced me into doing it.

 Quite, yes. That’s all fine and good now, isn’t it? exclaimed the interrogator, who stopped before Conn, his back turned to the blacksmith. Really lad, do you expect me to believe this?

 "I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care. Go on now. Believe what you want, and I’ll just keep making swords and shields." Conn was beside himself, exasperated and thoroughly insulted, and he made that clear enough to Eircheard. Seeing this, the merchant calmed himself significantly, muting his combative disposition.

 Well, fine then, he pouted, his luring voice grabbing Conn’s attention, was it difficult? How did you do it?

 Conn suddenly became aware of how much he rather would be speaking to Taog.

 Well yes, quite so, Conn relented. Not something I would recommend. It’s a matter of collecting beeswax. Then, and very carefully, construct a mold. The rest is just particulars. Let us simply say that the whole ordeal was a trial in and of itself. Eircheard’s absorption in the nonchalant description steadily gave way to indifference, as Conn assumed would happen. The reaction was expected, if not routine, as it was common to watch Eircheard plummet from heights of fascination to utter boredom.

 In my research, Conn continued boldly, I have found the substance of the white stone to have curious properties during the forging process. It’s certainly strong, and very durable.

 Mmm, mmm, Eircheard nodded, lost in his thoughts, yes. This here, my boy, is more of what this village needs: ingenuity. Perhaps we can discuss this at a later time. I’ll have you over for dinner!

 Conn acknowledged, with forged deference, the invitation, quickly realizing his mounting anxiety. When Conn didn’t immediately speak, Eircheard cracked a wry grin and whispered into his ear, Do you wish to partake in my wife when we discuss our business, hmm?

 Conn held up his hands immediately, disgusted and deterred.

 Ugh! Oh, no. No, not at all. That’s quite all right. Alack, poor Eircheard, I do not share your... enthusiasm. A dinner is not something I can manage quite yet. I am very busy doing work for the township. Gormal’s request alone took some weeks to prepare so I couldn’t possibly—

 Why do you encourage such foolishness, Conn?

 For a moment the accusation caught him off guard, as if a rogue child had run up to him, hit him on the head, and dodged his rebuke. Only after a few moments did he comprehend the source. Filled with indignation, he turned, looking downward onto a curiously misshapen man, stunted and imbued with hatred. Most of his weight was stowed in one of his legs, while the other majority of it stowed in his back. His body was a mess, something Conn took no pleasure in seeing, nor confronting. Earnan’s eyes, though dimmed with age, still conveyed a deep hatred for the world, and all that did not conform to his vision of grandeur. Though he was not old enough to be numbered among the greatest of Elders—at least those still left after his purging—his influence was great in the community. It was his vision that wooed them. Like any statesman, Earnan could play his audience well, attending to their fears and proclivities, and was one of the few that could truly rule the whim of the mob. Conn struck his most dignifying pose, wiping his nose with his hand, and sternly glared at the tiny prophet, enough for Earnan to see anyway. Hastily, Eircheard stepped forward, stepping in front of Conn fiercely, in his attempt to protect his tinkering cohort.

 "Oh ho! And why must you stink our presence with your blathering, dried up nonsense. Those rags, and that hair, do you have no scruples? What worth is a man if he cannot be vivacious and uproarious? I don’t rather care for you and your, ah, stupid, antiquated stories. Neither does my quaint associate." Earnan, aghast, was taken aback, but quickly recomposed himself.

 You, Eircheard, dare? That you would speak to me in such a tone. Have you no decency, you incestuous swine?

 You leave my daughter out of this! Eircheard shouted lunging toward Earnan.

  Conn quickly intervened, seeing that his impetuous friend had lapsed in focus. The dispute drew attention from all around them, siphoning off some members from the nearby council, as well as some garrison men behind them. Conn made certain to grab a hold of Eircheard’s furs to successfully diffuse him, and was pleasantly surprised when the merchant’s body went limp in protest. Delicately, Eircheard held out his hands akimbo in care of the precious fabric, relinquishing his temper.

 That. Is. Enough! shouted Conn, irritated. All he had desired to do was speak to his friend not two dwellings down the road, and now he was mediating a conflict. He wanted so desperately to leave, but upon looking into the eyes of the bystanders, he resolved in himself to take the opportunity to capitalize on his heroics.

 Settled then? There is no need for this kind of behavior, no sir, he whispered into both of their ears, hoping to diffuse the situation.

 Eircheard, filled with deep indignation, shook himself free of Conn and stomped back into his home shouting obscenities, sporadically throwing up his hands in anger as he did so. Moments later, the pounding drums echoed loudly across the stone pavilion. Earnan winced, and looking at Conn, pressed his crooked finger upon Conn’s tunic.

 Mark this, Conn. I am watching you. You’re not fooling anyone. I’ll find you out. Mark my words, Conn! Your foreign ways have always contaminated this village and robbed me of my vision! You assault progress, vision, order, civility. He spat them out, each enunciating their weight. Cathal’s death was of weakness! They all die because they are weak. But one day, when all weakness has been stomped out, then we will realize our true potential, and I’ll have all the free thinking bumpkins like you locked up. Mark this!

 Alarmed, Conn was paralyzed with fear. He knew well the consequences of exposure, especially in a small village. Mustering up his courage, he feigned bravery and casually brushed away Earnan’s hand. The old man gasped a withered cry of disdain, but Conn paid no mind to it. As he took up his bag and walked away, he felt the cold eyes probing, searching methodically for a way to crush him. The notion conjured the vision he had the previous night and slowly, the cold paranoia gripped his conscience.

 Leaving the gathering crowds behind him, Conn entered the northeastern area of the township, where his friend Taog lived. Taog was a good man in Conn’s eyes, a sustaining figure in the village. He was a politician, one that presided over the districts of the Southern Kingdom, and it was through him that Conn received invitation to come live in Skara Brae all those years ago. Their friendship was cordial and peaceable, though Conn thought the man was rather impregnable. He didn’t hold this against Taog, who still had the gusto to spill a few details over a boiled root drink. When Conn neared Taog’s dwelling, Taog was already standing outside enjoying the sun, anticipating Conn’s arrival. Being a rather punctual person, Conn suddenly felt a twinge of disappointment rise in him, for Taog was probably waiting on him. Nevertheless, Taog waved genially, beckoning Conn to approach. He held a counsel staff in his hand, gesturing with it for Conn to come alongside him.

 Hello, my brother, Conn spoke, embracing his friend, how are you today? This order from King Roy, of mail and iron clubs, has spent all my energy. I have them here if you’d like to see them.

 Taog scratched his chin, respectfully indifferent, and while looking about the township, preoccupied, he held out his hand and screened out some of the horizon ahead. Taog’s internalized struggles were well known to Conn, for the King often placed unbearable burdens upon the poor man. Conn knew himself that to carry such a weight of duty would crush him in moments, but not Taog… Taog was a strong mediator, an ally, and worthy friend.

 I am well without inspecting them brother, well without. Unfortunately greater things have arrested my focus.

 It wouldn’t be the first time, sir, Conn responded politely.

 Please, Conn. There is no need for that. I do not place myself above the common man.

 So now, what is all this about? You look oddly proper with your hand raised like that.

 Oh, Taog sighed, looking weary from his ruminating, my mind is poised upon the upcoming summit. All of it, in grandeur and scope, has been entrusted in my ‘capable hands’. The King neglected to inform me of this, as usual. I have a day to prepare. Charming, I assure you. 

 Conn was familiar with Taog’s facetiousness, spoken so eloquently in the formal tongue of the Northern Kingdom. He remembered the last Kingdom summit to discuss a matter of stately coalition some years ago, many of the meetings being held in secret. What Conn knew about it came from Taog, the privileged insider. Faithfully recalling the proceedings, Taog conveyed them to Conn that year, during which the Lochlannach presence dawned and consumed the lands South of Strom to the southeast. During the meetings, their mark of extinction was designated according to the law. The act was supported in full by Earnan, who advocated their extermination, calling for a complete assault via the sea, an idea which he was particularly enamored with. The strange prophet had some alleged maritime experience, of which he informed all those he met. On the waters, Earnan was adamant that a great victory would come to pass, something having to do with the Lochlannach’s belief in spirits, though Conn himself never heard of the offensive’s outcome.

 What concerns the council this time, brother? asked Conn as he set aside his bag of parcels.

 A subdued glaze washed over Taog’s face, pensive and unnerved. It was one of his many sober expressions of remorse. Taog never enjoyed planning conflicts.

 Oh, there are many things the council plans. Only recently have I become aware of a good portion of them. It was brought to my attention by a garrison courier that certain events have come to pass in the field. One of the Kingdom’s apothecaries has extracted a volatile substance from the elements that I find repugnant. Everyone is up in arms about it, and certainly it will be the subject of intrigue tomorrow. No, the whole matter does not sit well with me. It is an ill thing to start a war, which I am certain such discoveries ultimately amount to.

 Conn nodded with understanding. The secrets of the council were never his to have, so it was far from him to object or weigh in on their dire natures. Though lately Taog had grown somewhat distanced from Conn. Their greetings had shortened considerably, and Conn hoped all was well with him.

 Gazing longingly at the parcel sack, feeling its weight pull down on his arm, Conn was reminded of his utmost duty to deliver the final parcel. It contained a personalized set of armor and weapons for the very King of the Northern Kingdom. Fortunately for Conn, the King’s dwelling was right next to Taog’s in the village. The proximity of the two Conn had always marveled at, wondering what it would be like to live next to a king. Taog assured Conn that is was rather dreadful, especially when Roy was preparing a speech. As he gathered up his things, Conn prepared to move onward, when a formal call to order was shouted from a garrison guard stationed at Roy’s entry portal. Taog heaved a sigh, and extended his arm forward, wearing a dry expression of reluctance.

 And so he comes... whispered Taog, who slowly began to prepare himself, bowing politely.

 From the doorway and out of the priestly throng of the procession emerged a large man, stocky, though not particularly fit to run or do strenuous things. He was one to prefer pleasurable activities, allowing his more spry constituents to carry out the physical displays of might and honor in proxy. Ceana, his well-endowed wife, graced him with dignity, at least as much as she could muster. She was his fourth spouse, leaving Roy with an odd legacy of dubious lineages and royal loose ends. Her success so far Taog had attributed to her capacity to serve the needs of the King foremost, thus securing her own beneficial treatment. Conn knew that Taog considered her a constant annoyance, and lamented at having to serve Roy when she was present. Her pettiness and need to be recognized at all times was burdensome, as she would often disturb official proceedings with lewd exhibitions of her figure. During one of his rants, Conn once organically remarked, Well, if women were perfect, men would be awfully bored from a lack of many things; namely arguments. It was some time ago that he said this, though the memory persisted. Conn stifled a snigger, hiding it with his hand.

 Hail subjects! Roy proclaimed bombastically, holding out his hand over them.

 Midst Conn’s subordination, he met eyes with Taog’s, feeling mutually underwhelmed. Roy chivalrously laid his scepter across Conn’s shoulder, then Taog’s, and summoned the two to their feet. Conn avoided direct eye contact with Roy, as he heard once from Taog that the King didn’t enjoy the wandering eye of the plebeians.

 Beautiful day, isn’t it? said the King. It was more of an announcement than a question.

 Yes, Conn began, but suddenly realized he had nothing to say.

 Tell me, Conn, Roy resumed, how is your son doing?

 Well... he is doing quite well my lord, in fact he–

 Conn! Please, interrupted Roy, who appeared to be bored of even his own speech, tell me how one would make a chamber of sorts, a large one. The vagueness of his request was not helped by his odd gesticulations.

 Conn looked at Taog helplessly.

 Your Highness, that’s a... well... I beg your pardon?

 I need something from you that has never before been constructed. Conn, I need you to build me a chamber, one that can withstand immense pressure.

 So a cauldron? he ventured. Is that what his Lordship desires of me? Conn felt increasingly uncomfortable and continued in his reverent posture for safe measure.

 For a moment, Roy reflected on this. He was oddly sincere midst his incompetence. Conn was glad that he could understand his cursory demands so quickly now. It was a useful talent, for this had not been the first time Roy approached him not knowing first what to ask. Roy continued to think until he became aware of Taog’s presence. 

 Well then, this has been rather educational. I shall resume this with you another day, Conn. Leave us! I have private matters to discuss. The curtness of King Roy, as Conn respectfully dismissed his presence, had come to bother him less in the passing years. Conn had at first felt slighted by the King, but after only a week or two of living there, he discovered the King’s benign ignorance of it. He was not alone in this discovery, for most of the village knew and had their fun with it. Every year at the community dinner, Eircheard would ask the King to sing them a song of victory. Roy would throw back a guffaw, and relish the request, but by this point Eircheard would have already left. Nimbly he would trot off, back to his own home, abandoning the rest of the dinner guests to Roy’s tragic misunderstanding of ballad structure. Conn found it fiercely humorous. In the same manner, Conn watched Roy, possessed of his own importance, begin to turn into his private dwelling, leaving the two to their own devices.

 Sire? Sire! Conn called out, I have your parcel! Those items you requested...

 Damn it all, Conn, Roy cried, lifting his head in anguish. I am busy man, leave it be. I’ll send my man servant at a later time to collect it. He nodded to himself, as if accepting his own council, and turned back into his dwelling. Conn stood in the wake of the King’s sudden disappearance, utterly dumbfounded.

 Bugger me, Conn murmured. He looked down at his sack. I’ll never get paid at this rate.

 Our lord has always been a profound visionary, Taog marveled, shaking his head in dismay.

 Profoundly stupid, Conn mused. He’s rather harmless, I think. Just a man yoked by his own self-esteem.

 What do you mean? Taog asked, turning to Conn with a curious expression.

 Sometimes I wonder if life here is everything I had hoped it to be. It seems rather elaborate.

 Elaborate? repeated Taog surprised.

 Like a sham, Conn continued, grabbing his bag stiffly.

 That’s silly, Conn, Taog said in a straight voice, though not offended. This was why Conn liked speaking to Taog about his worries. Take your mind off such things.

 The bestial men of the South, their practice is to look at the rocks and the trees and see in them fantastic things. Things not made up of soil and flesh, but of nothing we can know or see. They think somewhere there are powerful creatures, more than men, ruling over them, like benevolent kings, if you can believe that rubbish. Yet somehow, I am afraid, they are more joyful in their ignorance than we are in wisdom. Conn looked over and saw Taog’s eyes go wide, astounded by the thought.

 I think you spend too much time on the roads in travel, Conn. Our kingdom has transgressed those petty constructions and foolishness. I am not about to believe that there is a creature that lives in the sky and reigns over me. Taog knelt to the ground and grabbed a clod of dirt. Before Conn’s eyes, Taog crumbled it into dust, and scattered it to the winds. That is life. That is who we are. I think it is best you make use of it, because someday that is all you’ll be.

 Then why am I so unhappy? Why is everyone here so blissfully unaware of one another, like they have mule blinders attached to their faces? We only see in others what we can extract from them, or what they produce. When you grow old, the village puts you to death, or sends you off. It didn’t used to be this way.

 Earnan’s program builds strength in the village, Taog advised in a stern voice, though mindful still to keep enough grace in it. The weak and deformed have no business among us if they only spread their defunct sicknesses like an infection.

 Like my wife? Conn shot a gaze of contempt at Taog. Is that who you mean?


 Taog held his hands up defensively, with a steady look.

 Conn, please. I knew your wife. She was a strong woman and Fearghas is a strong boy of good stock.

 But see, that is what I mean! To you, to the rest of the village, we are just tools that breed and live like we are nothing more than animals. There is nothing beyond. We are without meaning or worth...

 Conn, Taog stopped him, steadying him with his hands. You are rambling about crazy, foolish things. Gormal has filled your head with bizarre ideals in her grief. She’s sick Conn, and so are you. Stop! Go home and live. Don’t burden yourself with these thoughts anymore.

 Conn realized, for the first time in many summers, that he perhaps had come to settle in the wrong place. He felt disaffected and alone in the community. Though Taog meant well, his advice only confirmed Conn’s suspicions that he no longer belonged in Skara Brae. That night he resolved to discuss it with Mòr and Fearghas. Perhaps they could migrate to Stron, where he and his father would go on retreat all those years ago. Like in Skara Brae, there was a communal forge. It would be an easy enough transition.

 Indeed, Conn began, but kept the rest to himself.

 After a long pause, the two of them standing side by side in the road, Taog turned to face Conn, bowing politely, though awkwardly.

 Pleasure as always, he said, full of propriety.

 Pleasure is all mine, Conn replied. I appreciate your wisdom.

 Taog chuckled, patting Conn on the back.

 I may have a silver tongue, Conn, but I prefer to speak truthfully to my friends.

 And I am better for it, Conn said with a wave of his hand, I shall see you on the morrow.

 He turned away from Taog and, carrying his blacksmith sack with him, stepped off the beaten path, to the south, up a hill thick with rich, green, tall grass. Overlooking the entire township, Conn felt safe there. For many years it had become his place to think, a place to cope and understand who he was, despite Earnan’s defamation of the practice. He opened and lifted from it a small disk of his design, which served as a key to an elaborate lock he fashioned just for the forge, and inserted it into the door of the windowless building. The three bolts fastening the door unhinged with a loud metal pop, making a terrible racket. Conn enjoyed the clamor. To him it was the sound of industry and achievement. There was nothing wrong in taking pride for the things he made. The lock was doubly beneficial. In one way, its success encouraged him in what he did. In another, he had suspected for some time that Eircheard was attempting to steal his ideas, with the inclination to build tools for more serious tasks, rather than his luxury trinkets and fashionable clothing. Rather than publicly accusing and condemning Eircheard, and causing trouble for his otherwise established business relationship, Conn put the lock on his door. He thought it an amicable compromise, albeit slightly passive aggressive. After installing the lock, Conn noticed Eircheard’s curiosity increase substantially. However, Eircheard had failed to craft similar tools; consequently, Conn felt at ease.

 Entering the forge, Conn pushed aside a pile of scraps and set down his pack near a work station by the door. The fire now was only a glimmer in the smoldering coals leftover from the previous night. He placed his hand on a lever and began to rock it back and forth, siphoning air into the fire. Immediately the fire grew and grew, filling the space with its light. Picking up a blunt pein sledge, Conn rotated the head by the handle in his hand. Conn’s eyes grew hungry and he set to work.

Lump

Steam rose from the water as the iron entered, the lurching metal stiffening suddenly. Conn took a sheet of woolen cloth and brushed away the sweat, squinting, rotating the bolt to scan for impurities. The slag that had begun to form around the edges made him wary. Too much of it and the iron would become cast, and brittle as glass. The piece was notably hot, short, and difficult to work with. It troubled him. He was doing something different, and for the life of him couldn't deduce what it was. The sword was meant for his son Fearghas, a memento for his first day as a soldier of the garrison. He had worked on it all day, but it was far from finished. The last sword he made was riddled with cracks, but it was not his art to make such things, so he hadn't blamed himself too harshly; that is until Cathal was killed. Perhaps it was guilt that made him build the bust for Gormal, or maybe it was that he had lost someone of his own so recently. Was it in battle that he discovered the imperfections? Conn hoped not. He knew Cathal to be diligent in his sparring with the other men. It was quite possible he discovered it far before he battled. If he was ever to be consulted about it, Conn had long since crafted his reply. Being the only blacksmith in the village, people are bound to receive what they pay for. It was Cathal's fault for not consulting a better smith for his eccentric desires. A sword one third of a pole was highly unorthodox. Simply unacceptable for fighting! His sword would be different. At only four hand breadths in length, it would be swift and capable of any style; perfect for his son. With care of the sharp edges, Conn placed the blade on the anvil and briskly hammered it, drawing out the length a little more.

 I'd like to see Eircheard make this, Conn said softly. What use is a piece of iron when you wear it around your neck? You can't dig with that! No, no no no... He swung hard, casting embers around him victoriously.

 Lately his anvil had shown signs of wear, something that was common in his trade. It had everything to do with the climate, Conn reasoned, for it never happened in Strom. The thought of the warped anvil damaging the blade didn't occur to him until later in the day. He dared not imagine the damage; it was unthinkable! After so much work, only to find it ruined. When Conn finally worked up the courage, he turned the blade back onto its side and found a crease, running straight up the middle and down to the very base of the hilt. It made him furious, disappointed in himself for letting such a thing happen. In anger he threw the sword loathsomely at the wall, the entire edge piercing the flesh of his salted pig.

 Bugger me! An entire day's work, all wasted. Rubbish, rubbish...

 Consigned to failure, Conn set down the pein hammer on the anvil. He felt more shame than anger, for it was an apprentice's mistake. If he had only possessed the foresight to look over his blade after drawing the length at the hilt, all of it could have been avoided. The boy would never know, however. He was only a soldier, not a smith. For all he knew, Fearghas would prize the blade beyond the crude arts of war and hang it as a trophy in gratitude. Conn felt prideful once more. There was still hope.

 Somewhat encouraged, Conn closed the mouth of the forge with a pair of tongs, walked toward the pig, minding the clutter of the room, and inspected the goring. It was deep, far more than he expected. Putting his hand on the dried hide, he let it slide down the greasy corpse, his fingers touching the handle delicately. Conn reached in and withdrew the blade with a grunt, misjudging the ease of the pull. His elbow rocked back with his entire body, knocking into the bench behind him. He shouted a brief cry of pain and winced, sucking in air between his teeth. He looked at the blade incredulously.

 Ah! Oh bloody fortune! Feh! Bugger all in the great green plains almighty!

 Throwing his weight into it, he stuck the pig again, the edge going deep into the carcass, swift and quiet. Withdrawing the blade, Conn looked over the whole edge. Every sword he had made to this point was simply flat, but the crease added something new. Taking another sword from a pile of models he used to build Cathal's blade, he stuck the pig, the edge barely entering the body. He found it a bother to move, lodged in place and frozen as if someone stood at the other end pulling at it. To him, blades were meant for stabbing, not necessarily cutting. Until this point it occurred to him that the average soldier had his weight cut out for him if this was the battle that they faced in the field. The crease did something, and upon closer inspection he found that the blade allowed for air to escape from the wounding point. Without the crease, the sword was lodged and trapped inside the victim. Taking the blade, Conn marveled at the mistake as a stroke of brilliance, suddenly feeling much better for hastening his work. He supposed that was how people made their way in the world—by accident. Negligence somehow perpetuated events that amounted to work completed, and he was fine by that. As long as he finished his work, he paid no mind to the process by which his tasks completed themselves.

 Stepping outside for a moment, he gazed up at the purple horizon where the sky lights danced in the budding night. He longed to be lost in their shimmering waltz across the sky, where land and beast could not touch him. He took pleasure in the things grander than him. It reminded him of his smallness, and of the smallness of Skara Brae. He found life less threatening in the wake of death, while the beauty of nature, and his transience, only amplified his pleasure. From on high the light greeted him, smiling down on him.

 Time to go home. Back to them. Back to the world.

 Conn stepped back inside. The coals of the forge smoldered, dimly illuminating the interior of the workroom. Carefully taking the sword, he wrapped it in linens and fabrics until it was completely padded and protected, and inserted it into his pack. He didn't mind the extra weight, for his home was near, and already in the distance Conn could see the fire inside his dwelling illuminating the windows. After he tied the strap shut, he hoisted it onto his back and walked out into the night, toward home.

* * *

 Entering his dwelling he smelled the meat on the stuck, a tool he fashioned himself. It was an odd curiosity that he enjoyed. Taog was the only other villager who had laid eyes on it and was fascinated by its usefulness. The gears themselves were the best part, though the turning of them he wished to automate. The crackling of the grease on the fire sizzled sporadically as the wheels turned. From where he stood, he noted Fearghas on the bench nearest to the handle and crank. Conn lifted the hardened leather apron over his head and set it down in the corner nearest to the door.

 You took your time, Mòr called out, minding Ardara's head as she stabbed the meat with the end of her knife. Well, the meat's getting over cooked...

 Beside the fire, Fearghas turned around and shot up from his seat, ecstatic.

 Dad! You're home! He rushed to embrace Conn.

 I am. Glad to be back, Conn replied, patting his son on the back. And, by the look on your face, you have stories to tell.

 Yeah? You couldn't imagine it. Everything, it was so amazing, Fearghas exclaimed, letting go of his father to dance around the room with joy. The beast—he was this gigantic thing. We brought this new weapon along too—you wouldn't believe it.

 Oh, there's always something else. When you get as old as me it's all the same thing. Seen one, seen them all I say, Conn grumbled. Mòr cast him a sour look from the fire. She set down her plate and resumed her stirring of the food on the hearth.

 Indulge the boy, Conn; let him be a child, she called out, her eyes focused on the rising steam.

 When you live to see how many years I have, trust me, those stories lose their allure.

 Thirty-six summers, Conn! That's how old you are. Don't tell me that's old.

 Well, to a man maybe. You know, I thought women stopped counting after twenty? Do you have something to tell us?

 Fearghas let a laugh escape him as Mòr threw down her wooden stirring spoon, leaning back on her stool, judging Conn from afar.

 Now see here...

 Make me, Conn goaded.

 I'm only twenty-three. Take it back.

 Oh, come off it. Conn dismissed the icy stare and set down the remainder of his things, taking care to hide the sword until the right time. Fearghas looked on with queer fascination, and offering his hands in reconciliation, he stepped between the two.

 Now, now. Be civil. Relax, you two.

 She started it! Besides that, who'll make me? You? Little mortal man! Conn bellowed, adding some melodrama to his voice. The play acting had been mothballed for many years now, since the middle years set in. But still, Conn occasionally found a moment to fit something in, to let him feel like a young father again. The fear of losing those moments was quelled when Ardara was born, but only a little. He knew in the back of his mind that the time would come to say goodbye again. Life used to be something that simply happened. He had thought nothing more of running through the streets as a child in Strom's sprawling fisheries and sailing depots. When his sister was born, everything changed. Life became a series of goodbyes. Goodbye toys, goodbye play-daggers, goodbye senseless cavorting, goodbye, goodbye...

 Ridiculous. I haven't eaten since this morning, Conn sputtered, famished and exhausted from his day in the forge. I have thought of salting another pig and hanging it along the roadside, for safe measure. Something to keep my hunger away while I'm working.

 It would sooner rot, I should think, Mòr retorted.

 Today I heard I was supposed to fast before hunting, otherwise the beast would smell the food in your belly, Fearghas said in a playful voice.

 Conn nodded in approval. He had heard this too. He hoped that his son knew it was a joke.

 How did the hunt fair? Catch anything good? he asked while reaching for a piece of meat. He shifted around in his seat, to look at Mòr, who carefully smiled, spooning some broth into a bowl for him. Conn kept his eye on her, waiting for the damnable oats to be sneaked in.

 The question caused in Fearghas’ mood a noticeable change, so much so that he began to fidget in his chair, scratching his chest and shoulders. Then, with a dire way about him, he reached around behind him, grabbing his short dagger and displayed the long jagged groove carved into the metal blade.

 Its teeth did that, he stated soberly,