The Eyes That Weep

By Tloquenahuaque

In a day unlike any other, a multitude of refugees manages to ford the Great Western River to convince their kin to join them in the war against the First House, a dangerous new dogma that originated from a mysterious coup. After the discussion splinters into fierce arguing, all expectations are dashed. Suddenly, another cadre of refugees arrives carrying an elderly man on a stretcher. In his withered hands is a book depicting a horrific tale that just may alter the course of the war. The text, known as The Eyes that Weep, recounts the grave misfortunes of Delving Eye, a high-ranking detective of the First House.

Prior to the dismal events described in the narrative, Delving Eye and his companions were well-known throughout the First House as loyal, intelligent examples of their order. At the start of the new year, however, he and his cohort are forced into an emergency assignment that takes them beyond the borders of their great capitol, Kinsman Height. Dispatched to a village close to an enemy border, Delving Eye and his crew must discover why two of their military units have mysteriously vanished. The mission slowly spirals out of control, and Delving Eye's life is forever changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889438939

Book preview

cover.jpg

The Eyes That Weep

Tloquenahuaque

ISBN 979-8-88943-892-2 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88943-893-9 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Jacob Figueroa

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Foreword

Flight to the West

A Moan Moot

The Errander

Ramming Tongues

A New Year Dawns in the East

Year 100, Month 01, Day 01: Pyramid of the Progenitors

Year 100, Month 01, Day 02: Invitation

Year 100, Month 01, Day 03: Suspicion

Year 100, Month 01, Day 04: The Treasury

Year 100, Month 01, Day 05: The Armory

Year 100, Month 01, Day 06: The Depository

Year 100, Month 01, Day 07: Departure

The Road Thither

Year 100, Month 01, Days 7–13: En Route

Year 100, Month 01, Day 14: Sorrow's Crook

Year 100, Month 01, Days 15–20: Mistrust

Year 100, Month 01, Day 21: Rerouted

Murder in the Dark

Year 100, Month 02, Day 08: Return

Year 100, Month 02, Day 09: Curiouser and Curiouser

Year 100, Month 02, Day 10: Black Sun

Year 100, Month 02, Day 11: Another Rift

Year 100, Month 02, Day 12: An Unwelcome Farewell

Year 100, Month 02, Day 13: Days of Mourning

Retaliation

Year 100, Month 02, Day 21: A Problem of Estimation

Desolation and Recuperation

Year 100, Month 02, Day 26: Initial Return

Year 100, Month 03, Day 05: A Valediction Most Grievous

Year 100, Month 03, Day 08: Faces in the Night

Year 100, Month 03, Day 09: Recovery Plan

Year 100, Month 03, Day 10: The Library

Year 100, Month 03, Day 17: Epic of the Patriarch

Resurrection

Year 100, Month 03, Day 18: The Lore House Depths

Year 100, Month 03, Day 19: Defensive Acts

Year 100, Month 03, Day 20: Unmet

Year 100, Month 03, Day 21: Back to Work

A Soul in Want

Year 100, Month 03, Day 24: Unmasked

Year 100, Month 03, Day 24: Paradise Lost

A Fulfilled Errand

Midst of the Moan Moot

About the Author

Foreword

Tidings from Tradehold,

Hear ye, House of the Huntsman, for the words herein bear earnest news from afar! At summer's end came hither a great throng from athwart our eastern mark. That great stream, as ye well know, has always stood as a foreboding hurdle against any who wished to ford its winding waters. So broad is it, that neither bow nor atlatl can be made to send a shaft athwart its lithesome flow. Even those who dare to tread nigh its baleful banks can scant make out that which lies on the other side. If the sheer sight of it does not smother any hope of a fording, then those that dwell therein shall, whence comes the saying No one can ford unscathed.

Notwithstanding such heart-withering hurdles, there came hither a great throng from the eastern bank—as witnessed that sunrise by two of our forwarders. It did not sit well with our forwarders, this coming of the hoard. As ye well know, hoards often foreshadow bloodshed. Thus, both of them sent hither doves that bore warning of the newcomers. Afterwards, both forwarders went up to the throng to greet them, and to ask why it was that they had come into the western shire. The eyes of our men, however, were shocked by that which they beheld. While it was indeed true that many among the hoard were weapon-bearing men, there were also elders, women, and sucklings among them.

After speaking with the aldermen of the newcomers, one of our forwarders came hither to bring such news as dove could not. We had already gotten his word from the dove, so he came back and found that his fellows were ready to fight against the hoard. And we would have so done, had he come back to us with wounds instead of words. Our aldermen then hailed him and, after learning the whole truth, sent him back to the newcomers to bid them to meet us nigh the floating fields before Tradehold. The borough itself was not big enough to hold both us and the newcomers. Our forwarder did as he had been bidden. Upon his reaching them, the newcomers welcomed him back. After hearing him out, they found it meet to gather nigh the floating fields. So many were they, however, that they only reached Tradehold the next day.

Upon their coming to us, they stopped, bewildered, before our floating Fields. So hungry were they that it seemed as if they might leap into the shallows to take some yield for themselves. However, our drawbridges had been unraveled so that our women, bearing earthen crocks of red maize and beans, could come forth. In the end, we did not have enough food for both our band and theirs. Thus, our aldermen sent some of our marksmen into the weald to bring back what flesh they could.

Following a day's rest, the aldermen from both bands met before Tradehold to talk. As it so happened, the throng of the newcomers harbored folk from all three of the other houses—the Craftsman, the Wiseman, and the Wanderer. They had been driven from their own shires and flow hither under threat of death and thralldom. After keenly listening to their moans, our aldermen sat deep in thought. The throng, the tales, the sorrow—it all seemed to us a wonder. At length, our aldermen deemed it best that each bower of our own house, that of the Huntsman, hear the tales of our bereaved kin. Thus, our aldermen bid the bereaved to rest nigh Tradehold until all the other western alderman be gathered hither. That is why we write to you, aldermen. Come ye hither.

From Little Snare, a Son of Feather Bough

Bower of the Otter, House of the Huntsman

Flight to the West

The land of the Overcomer, which was sundered among his four sons. The Huntsman dwelt in the west. The Craftsman dwelt in the north and south. The Wiseman dwelt in the east. The Wanderer fared throughout.

A Moan Moot

Two Scores of days have streamed by since I sent word to the other Bowers of the Huntsman. At long last, each bower has come hither: the Attorcop, the Bear, the Hawk, the Ram, the Snake, the Wolf, the Alligator, and even the Jaguar. The nine sons of the huntsman have not held such a moot in many a year. Never has our own bower, the Otter, led any of the bygone moots. As lore bearer, the lot fell to me to keep a reckoning of that which happened at this Gathering. May the knowledge of this moot be handed on to our children and to their Children after them, even as knowledge of bygone moots has been handed down to us, for who are we without knowledge of our forebears?

Now, while we abode the coming of the other aldermen, a new meeting stow had been chosen for the bereaved. This was done so that they could have more room, for they were many. The aldermen's moot was to be held within Tradehold, while the others, who were too many, were to abide outside of the borough. Aldermen from each house gathered together in our great Long House within Tradehold. As the bearer of our lore, it was needful for me to be at the moot. The following is a reckoning of that which I heard and saw.

First, bereaved aldermen from the House of the Wisemen, from whom all these woes had sprung, came before us. They told that, many years ago, their house had undergone earnest infighting in which many had been killed and much had been burned. In the end, the upstarts, who called themselves the First House, won. Thereafter, they dared to wrest the whole eastern shire unto themselves; no one could withstand them. When we huntsmen asked how such unrest had come to be, the Wisemen were at a loss. The rift had sundered them so long ago that none among them were even alive when it had happened! So with itching ears and snarling noses, our aldermen became angry. They could not understand how the House of the Wiseman, known for lovers of writing and wisdom, had not some reckoning of what had happened. Are they not the lords of written song, of written thought? Send they not bands of men into each shire to gather all the writings of our folk? Keep they not the writings of all of our folk from the days of our Forefather, the Overcomer, until this same day? Yet they had nothing to show! It was rather unbecoming of them. Their aldermen answered that the House of the Wiseman had done their utmost to quell the upstarts, but it had not been enough. The writings of the Wisemen had been burned. Furthermore, much time stood between that wretched day and the moot—too much time. Taken together, these mishaps gave the Wisemen fast ground upon which to stand for their dearth of knowledge. Nevertheless, our aldermen were still unhappy.

The next house to arise from its serape was that of the craftsman. They, too, were upset with the Wisemen, but that did little to stop them from spilling their sorrow all over us. First came the northern Craftsmen of that great borough, Lakestead, which they had lost to the First House. Shocked were we to hear that Lakestead, the first borough ever built by our folk, had been taken. It sat, nestled on a once small island in the middle of a shallow lake, which the clever Craftsmen then filled with their greatest work, the so-called floating Fields of Lakestead. Forsooth, the layout of our own borough, that of Tradehold, was shaped after its likeness back in the days when the houses were the brothers that they should be. Anyhow, after such a misbetide, the northerners withdrew to their southern kin. For many years, the southern Craftsmen withstood the First House; they even drove them back into the east and kept them therein. However, after the death of their last king (whose father had been a huntsman), they, too, fell before the First House. In the end, they, too, had to take flight. Such grim news about Lakestead and the south unsettled our aldermen even more.

That brings us to the last house, the youngest, the House of the Wanderer. Oddly enough, they had the most tales to share by far. As wanderers, they betook themselves throughout each Shire (but not ours), living here and there. Thus, their fleeting stopovers afforded them many bitter meetings with the First House. On the other hand, it made their house the hardest to overcome. Dwelling in small, roving bands had been their greatest Strength. So many and so scattered were they, that the Wanderers fought alongside the Craftsmen in each war. They even kept on fighting long after the Craftsmen had given up. That the Wanderers had such strong hearts made lofty their standing before us. In the end, however, the unyielding First House whittled the Wanderers down and hedged them in. Those whom they fettered were driven into thralldom, which is the greatest fear of a free folk such as the Wanderers.

Anyhow, that was how the three houses had become outcasts in their own shires. But this was why they had flown to the west: for that they had hoped that the House of the Huntsman, their eldest brother, would give them shelter. At least, that was what we ourselves first believed. (Let it be known that, for want of room, I have greatly shortened the tales told us at this moot, keeping only that which was needed. The rest shall be lost to time.)

The Errander

After listening to such woeful news, our aldermen talked among themselves for some time. Indeed, twenty days came and went before they gave the outcasts an answer. In the end, our aldermen found it meet to give the outcast houses leave to dwell in our shire, but only nigh Tradehold. Going northward or southward was utterly forbidden. Much to our wonder, those thankless outcasts became wroth. This time, they told us straightforwardly: they wanted us at their side for one last stand against the First House. Our aldermen, however, were more than unwilling. In our eyes, this fight was not our fight. The Wisemen had begun it, and for their weakness, many others had fallen. Had they been strong, then such a misbetide should not have befallen them. If the outcasts earnestly longed for their homes, then they themselves must wrest them back.

Here, in the west, could they rest and make ready for their next fight, but they must do so without us. Our unwillingness did nothing to dampen their anger. The outcasts would not be shrugged off so carelessly. Hoping to draw us in, they then told us that the First House had already sent three fierds of fighting men westward. One was striding hither athwart the Great Grassland; another was working its way hither through the northern Broad Weald, while the third was slithering hither from among the knolls of the Southern Hill Land. Time and water were the only bulwarks that stood between those fierds and the west, or so they warned.

To a hunter's eyes, this was but bait, so our aldermen believed them not. That was when the outcasts, in the throes of death, let loose their last bellow. They told our aldermen that, by seeking shelter among us, they had led the First House to believe that we were bound to the outcasts in fellowship. The fierds were truly coming, not for them, but for us all. The snare had been sprung. The huntsmen had become the hunted. By fording our watery mark, they had wittingly tangled us in their net. That was why the First House had sent fierds hither. It was not to stop the outcasts from fleeing, but to overthrow the Huntsmen for taking them in. Those underhanded outcasts had wittingly told the First House ahead of time!

Our aldermen were wrother than ever. Some wanted to break oath and withdraw the land deal; others wanted to drive the outcasts back athwart our mark. No one wanted to fight, which shocked the outcasts. They knew well that we love to shake the Spear. It was not long before irked wrangling broke down into angry shouting. Forsooth, it almost came to blows; everyone had arisen to his feet. However, before the aldermen could take to one another, word came that a small band of men had forded our eastern mark. Believing them to be forwarders of the First House who had tailed the outcasts hither, the outcast aldermen sent men forth to quell them. We would not that anyone among the First House know where the fording was.

Upon meeting them, however, it so happened that the newcomers were not of the First House at all, but fellow outcasts. They were led to our moot. When this new band came into the Long House, we stilled ourselves, for that we all could see that they were in a bad way. The newcomers trod slowly, bearing a crippled, elderly man on a stretcher of hide. His withered look sang the song of a forlorn fellow whose body had lived through much and whose soul had much to say. The knotted fingers of his left hand were tightly clutching a small folded book. It was thick and hissed of some unbeknown sorrow. One might have even called it evil. His Fellows slowly laid his stretcher onto the ground. To help the elderly one sit upright, a young man sat behind him so that the two were back to back. Then a thick woven pillow was set between their backs. Of a truth, he meant business, and as the eldest Man there, he held the right to speak first (it also helped that the aldermen had also grown weary of yelling at one another). The others afforded him some time to gather himself. Yet they spoke not, for alongside the elderly man came something unseen, something foul, something dark. Although he himself seemed unaware of it. Weak and weary as the elderly man was, he had enough in him to give the moot that which he had in mind. Drawing a long, deep breath, began he thusly:

My dear brethren! I have dared to fare all this way under the yoke of many Threats. Much have I lost, and shall yet lose much more, for not long hereafter shall my sickly body yield to that unblessing of old.

Then he coughed unsettlingly before starting anew.

Pardon me. Despite the fact that I am quite able to converse fluently in your dialect, I am afraid that I no longer possess the fortitude to do so. Regardless, I shall endeavor to, in order that each person here might comprehend the situation in its entirety.

He stopped to breathe. At length, he began anew, once again after our tongue.

Forsooth, all of that which I need say has been written in this folded book. However, I believe that it shall bear more weight if ye hear it from the living, for the wisdom of the Dead is seldom taken to Heart by those who still draw Breath. Sons of the huntsman! Our elder brothers! Hear ye me out, I bid you, and only then let your word stand.

Our aldermen talked it over shortly. Then looked they back at the elderly one. No one uttered a word, but the elderly one still seemed hopeful. At a nod from the Huntsmen, all the aldermen sat back down. The elderly one had been given leave to share this tale.

Ramming Tongues

Before the elderly one could begin, the aldermen were brought more food and drink. They understood, and rightly so, that his tale should be of great length. As was his right, the elderly one was given food before anyone else. He was so weak, however, that his fellows helped him eat, holding the food for him. After he had eaten his fill and settled himself anew, the aldermen bid him speak.

About one hundred and eighty years ago, there arose a great rift in the eastern house. The House of the Wiseman, which had long been the bearer of our lore, was cloven asunder. Brother arose against brother; father arose against son. The holy lore of He-who-is-always-nigh, the same that has been handed on since the days of our forebear, was overthrown. In its stead, a new holy lore arose: that of the of the Holy Match, the so-called First Father and Mother. It was this new belief that sundered the easterners. So well worded was it, that few could tell whether it had been written by one earthly or holy. The Wisemen understood the threat not, for at the height of their wisdom, they became high-hearted, fat-headed, and slow of understanding. Unhindered, the new teaching spread like ivy and, ere long, overwhelmed the Wisemen. It is this same teaching that threatens us all today.

Stopping, he took a short break and quenched his thirst. Then he followed on.

Now, some sixty years after the rise of the First House, a child was born in the eastern shire. His dwelling was in Kinsman Height, once known to the other houses as Ringsborough. Like all the children of bygone times, that child learned the tales of our folk in a lore house—that much the new Teachings kept. Unlike the children of bygone times, however, he was not taught our true lore: that we were begotten by the overcomer, who begot four sons, who stand as the heads of each of our houses, who were each given one share of their father's land. Instead, that child was taught that there had never been an overcomer, and that his own house, that of the Wiseman, was not wise and never had been. Instead, the child was taught that our folk are the offspring of the Holy Match—the two whom they call the First Father and the First Mother, from whom came forth all things. Furthermore, he was taught that the other houses once held this knowledge but had since willingly forsaken it for the untrue tales of the overcomer and the One Maker. This angered the First Match, so they told their steadfast children to go forth and bring their wayward brethren back home. Those beliefs are what undergird the drive of the First House. In other words, even if the outcasts had not come hither, the First House still should have come anyway.

Now, this was news indeed! Shocked by one who knew so much, our aldermen whispered among themselves. We had been told that no one knew that which had befallen the Wisemen. Yet this elderly man knew such and still had yet much to say. Moreover, his tale was not that which they had thought it should be, though they were indeed glad that he had shared it. At length, one of our aldermen asked him, Whence came these upstarts? The Wisemen have already told that such were of their own seed but also that no one living knows how the First House became the lords of the east.

Still clutching his folded book, the elderly man nodded his head sorrowfully and coughed a little. One of those who had come with him gave him something to drink. The aldermen abode his elderly needs and gave him time to sip as best he could. Forsooth, it seemed a wonder that the elderly one was even alive. After a few sips, spoke he again.

That is true. Their withered bough began as an offshoot of the Wisemen. It is also true that since their rise some one hundred and eighty years ago, all knowledge of how they reached such heights has been lost—even among their own. They teach that, in days long gone, everyone was of the First House, and that the First House had been wrongfully overthrown. Now, they have come back to take again that which belongs to them. Indeed, the tale of their wellspring is hard to nail down. It began somewhere in Ringsborough at the Hands of some shadowy Following, the name and leader of which, is not forthcoming—that much, I know.

One hundred and eighty years is a long time, said one alderman. Why is their threat only now made known to our house? If so great be this threat, then why only now have ye come for help?

It is a long time indeed, he answered. Ye have only now found out, for that the other houses have bitten their own tongues. It is but a blunder of their own making that ye have only now been made aware. Moreover, the great rift of the bygone days, when we were all true brothers, has stopped us from sharing with one another. Forsooth, almost no one outside the western shire even knows where to ford anymore.

I see. Well, how can we Huntsmen know whether this new holy lore be untrue?

Many a heavy glare from the outcasts fell hard upon that alderman, but he shrank away not; neither did the elderly man.

A queer, but fair, thing to ask. First of all, their tale and our tale stand athwart one another. That is, they gainsay each other, which means that both cannot be true. Ours is the older of the two.

But that can no longer be shown, for that the First House have burned all the Wiseman's lore, yeah?

Yes and no. It can no longer be shown in writing. But they have not burned all of our lore; some they have hoarded for themselves so that they may learn about us—about our strengths and weaknesses, that is. However, I can say this: if one were to ask any of the folk who lived before the rise of the First House about our holy lore, then one should find an answer from everyone Holy Lore. On the other hand, that ye knew not of the lore of the First House until now shows that our lore came before their own. Moreover, there may still be other small bands among the houses that have yet to meet the First House. If thou asked them, could they tell thee of the lore of the First House? I think not. Indeed, I find it rather queer that Folks from all four shires share lore of high likeness, yet not one of them can say anything about the First House. Had the First House truly been here before us, then why have we not anything or anyone to bear some kind of witness to them? After all, they bear witness that we ourselves were here—they say that we were the first upstarts, and yet neither our lore nor folk know anything of them.

How queer indeed! came the Answer. And as thou hast said, we huntsmen had never even heard of the First House until we met those who had already fought against them.

Well said! Now, I understand that, in the west, ye hand knowledge on mostly by word of mouth. However, ye must understand that, in the east, we always write it down. Again, the First House burned much of the Wisemen's writings, which they deemed to be against their own teachings. However, those that were kept from the fires have bits of lore, which shows that that our lore reaches further back in time—if we could get our hands on them, that is.

There is no need. It should gladden thy heart to know that we, too, have some of those writings here, but not as many as ye had at Ringsborough. I cannot speak for the other aldermen, but I myself have heard enough on this.

He then looked about the Long House. The other Huntsmen were all nodding their heads, so the elderly one followed on.

It gladdens my heart indeed! It also means that ye are the last. The works of the other houses were likely burned as well after their lands were taken, but not those that the First House deemed worthwhile. No, such writings were likely locked up tightly so as not to sway the minds of lesser men. Now ye see, that all our hopes lie with the west.

Why doom they folks with thralldom?

Ah, yes! Any who withstand the First House are killed. However, those who give up must work for the First House by building their houses or working their fields.

The others have said as much, but we would ask you as well. Now, what about the child of whom thou spoke?

Inside the First House, men are not free to choose a life for themselves as they are here. Instead, their work is chosen for them. Such is done so that fewer ‘mistakes' are made. When mannish children reach six years, they are sent to a bearing house. Therein, they must learn how to heed others and bear themselves after the way of the First House. Such learning lasts for two years. At eight years, they are driven into the fields where they must work for another two years. At ten years, they must work the fields on the morrow and then learn in the lore house from midday until even. Such learning lasts for four years. At fourteen, they are sieved into trades until they fall into one in which they show some skill. Such learning last for another four years. At eighteen years, they must learn war for two years. By the time the youths reach twenty years, their leaders know the strengths and weaknesses of each one. With that knowledge drive they the youths into a life task, away from which there is no wending.

Again, our aldermen whispered among themselves. Some shook their heads; others nodded. News such as this was odd indeed. At length, one of them spoke up.

What has their rearing to do with this moot? Some of us understand this not.

The elderly man held up his hand. One of those with him gave him again some water. He shifted a little, and then spoke again even more earnestly. In time, I hope, it shall all come together. For now, let it be known among you that each man of the First House has been well honed for whatever task he must fulfill. There are no bunglers among them. Moreover, they have spent many a year learning about us, overthrowing us in almost every fight. Thus, I think it is high time that we do the same.

We Huntsmen have never learned about our foes before fighting them. Our greater skill has always seen us through.

The elderly man sighed. He seemed more tired than before, irked even.

"Between the House of the Huntsman and the First House there is little shared ground. I only wish to shed light upon a growing threat. Bear ye with me, if ye can. Now, there are many walks of life into which youths may be driven—harvesters, lookouts, sleuths, tillers, tradesmen, overseers, watchmen, and so forth. When this youth reached twenty years, the overseers understood that he could become a man of mark. So they drove him to become that which they call a sleuth—one tasked with rooting out any who withstand the law of the First House. Each borough in the east houses its own band of sleuths. For every four years of work, a sleuth climbs one rung on the ladder of mark. The higher the sleuth, the more trust he is given. Most of the time, Sleuths work in teams of two—an elder one and a younger one who learns from him. Our man, however, was rather gifted. Thus, was he knit into the first three-man team.