The Broken Temple

By David Morrin

The sequel to The Hidden King.

 

Jarla has discovered his true identity as King of the Dalnin but does not feel ready to take up his new role. He has unfinished business and longs to find some connection to his dead mother. He searches out the woman who saved his life as a newborn and thereby sets in motion a journey to a mysterious foreign land that once again throws him into mortal danger. He journeys beyond the confines of life and death in his quest to find his mother and thereby to bring peace and healing both to himself and to the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Morrin
• Release date: Mar 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224018734

David Morrin

David Morrin is an artist, musician and writer with a deep interest in religion and spirituality. Inspired by reading Tolkien at a young age he went on to study English Literature and has worked in mental health crisis intervention. He currently resides in Totnes, Devon in the UK.

Book preview

Chapter One

The cottage was barely more than a barn, one storey, long and low, with a dark-tiled roof bowing and buckling with age, moss-green on the northern side. The remains of a wooden fence toppled their way around the small enclosure in which animals would once have roamed and crops been raised, all long gone. The pathway leading from the road across the sodden landscape showed little sign of use as the party approached the dwelling, if such it indeed it was, as no sign of human habitation could be discovered by the casual observer. The rain was still falling, as it had been for days on this final stage of the journey, and the four riders sat their steeds under hood and cloak as water ran in torrents from their shoulders. None of them really knew what to expect now they were here. They had been warned that in all likelihood it would be a fruitless journey but what else could they have done? This was the last throw of the dice and had to be pursued to the end, there were no more clues after this. They had been sent in this direction with but little expectation that such an old trail would likely lead to much. Inquiring through the local villages as they went this is what they had come up with, a dilapidated croft, isolated and lonely, lost in the hills, most likely abandoned and uninhabited. The party passed the fence and rode slowly up to the house, the patched plaster on the walls crumbling away to show in parts the rough local stone from which the place was built.

‘What will you do if she’s here?’

Jarla had no idea, now that they were so close. He had been putting that very question to the back of his mind as they travelled. He didn’t want to face it, he knew that, but was compelled to follow through with this plan. He knew he couldn’t stop, he had set an intention on that sunny morning on the terrace at Dhasanor and this was where the intention had led him. It had been a long journey, in more ways than one, and now they were here he wanted nothing more than to turn and run away.

‘You are doing the right thing, take solace from that and be brave.’ The words of Malana were reassuring but did little to ease the nausea and the shaking of his limbs. Yes, he was cold and wet, they all were, but his body seemed to have taken on a mind of its own and was trembling almost uncontrollably as he sat on his horse before the cottage, unsure if he could keep his feet if he dismounted.

‘We are with you, Jarla,’ said Sargon. ‘We are with you come what may.’

Sargon and Khalxat had wanted to call him King but Jarla had forbidden it. He didn’t feel like a King of anything as he sat there in the rain under the dark lowering skies in this barren Godsforsaken place, let alone King of an ancient people he had never even heard of until such a short time ago and whose heritage and history was almost completely unknown to him. ‘You’ll be alright after the coronation,’ Sargon had said with a smile and a wink one day. Jarla hadn’t been sure whether that made him feel better or worse, if he was honest. Probably worse though. Either way he knew that he was not ready, not ready to begin the journey of Kingship, whatever that may eventually turn out to entail. There was something in the way, something holding him back and until it was addressed he knew he could not be what they wanted him to be. ‘You just have to be yourself,’ Khalxat had assured him. ‘We’re a pretty down-to-earth bunch when it comes to it, nobody will expect you to be anything you’re not.’ Even still Jarla knew that he was on his own journey with this, quite apart from the whole Dalnin thing. This was personal, it was his journey. There were wounds from the past and until they were healed he was going nowhere, he knew that. He couldn’t be who he was meant to be unless something shifted. He had always felt, how to explain it? Unreal? Disconnected? They had always said he was a dreamer and it was true he had lived in his own world as he was growing up. He had been solitary as much by choice as circumstance and had never really felt part of the world around him in Salthaven. The life he lived inside his own mind had always seemed preferable to the one that was going on around him, that was why he had wanted to get away but it turned out that wherever you go you find yourself waiting there. He had no regrets, far from it. After all that had happened the three people who sat here in the rain with him were his family now, he knew, and was grateful beyond words, nothing would change that, but there was something inside that was trying to find expression. It was as though something wanted to be born, something precious and fragile and very important, important both to him and to whatever destiny his Dalnin journey would lead him to. This was why he had come here, he had to know, he would not find peace unless he knew and he needed to find peace because he hadn’t yet, of that he was sure. There was more, there was always more. He couldn’t say what that more was or what it looked like but he knew it was there.

After what seemed like an age but in reality was but a few moments Jarla dismounted. It turned out he could stand upright after all, although a bit sore from the riding. He had never been on a horse until the day they had left Dhasanor. They had found the most docile and good-natured animal they could for him but it had taken a while to get used to it still. The others followed his lead and stood behind him as he approached the low wooden door in the crumbling whitewashed wall of the cottage. They were all quiet, Khalxat just behind Jarla, Sargon and Malana side by side behind her. The rain fell on the roof and dripped off the gutter-less tiles, splashing into the gully in the soggy yard around the cottage, the only sound that could be heard in this deserted place.

Jarla uncovered his head from the hood of his cloak. His fair hair had been cropped closer before they left the city and although growing back now his fine-featured face was fully revealed as the rain fell down on his slender form. He had been a youth, now he was a man, that was what he told himself anyway, whether he felt like it or not. He raised his hand, the decision made, and gave three loud knocks on the weatherbeaten door in front of him. He stood there, waiting.

Their first idea had been Salthaven. It was all Jarla could think of, loath as he was to return to the place. He had a vague memory of his first schoolteacher saying something about his birth but could not recall what had been said. The teacher had moved away to another parish and a new one had come. There may be someone who knew where he had gone and if not then something in the Magistrate’s register might give them a clue. Sargon and Khalxat were keen, of course. This was their royal family after all, they wanted to know almost as much as Jarla did. There were so many questions. Where had they come from when the ship went down? What had they left behind and why? What had been their purpose in travelling to this part of the world? None of these questions could be answered of course and this somewhat optimistic quest they were on now could hardly be expected to shed much further light. This was something personal to Jarla, they understood, and were glad to help him as best they could. The vision he had received as part of his initiation in the mountain had revealed a scene to him, vividly and clearly, such that it was now etched in his memory forever, as though it was actually a memory of his own and not some kind of dream that had arisen in the course of the ceremony he had undergone. He was a witness, as surely as having been there himself, it seemed to him. He had been there himself of course but he had none of his own memories of the moment, how could he? He had been scant hours in the world before his rescue on the beach that sunny morning but now he could see it all. Mostly he saw his dead mother lying on the beach. He saw the wreckers, he saw the barrel, he saw the woman who saved him, he saw the yeomanry and that was all. The vision ended there, there was nothing else. Surely a record would have been kept? A foundling had been adopted, not unheard of in these parts but sufficiently uncommon to have been noteworthy to someone whose job it was to take note of things. And then there was word of mouth, if not a physical record, although Jarla had no idea how to even begin going about such an investigation. Nobody had ever said anything about his birth. There was no reason why they should, of course but then if you thought about it another way was it not odd that nobody had ever said anything? There must be folk in the area who knew, who remembered the events, surely something would have been said, even by the other children in the village, who could have teased and bullied him with such a tale if they had been so inclined to do. But there had been nothing.

‘Strange in itself,’ agreed Sargon. ‘As though there was a reason why folk did not want to talk about it.’

‘Well probably no-one wanted to talk about the wreckers,’ said Khalxat. ‘It would bring shame to the area.’ This was certainly a good point but still something nagged at Jarla. As he understood the facts his mother had drowned and the woman who saved his life had been hanged, that was the end of it. He had set out to merely find the last resting place of his mother, to pay some kind of respects, to feel something for her, to bring a kind of closure as much as was possible. He had seen her dead body, had felt the connection. She was his mother, of that there was no doubt and he was overwhelmed by love and loss but the connection had been severed, severed immediately and terminally. What purpose could this hopeless journey really fulfil? Maybe he should give it up, just get on with what his new life as Dalnin King would bring him. But he couldn’t. He had to know where she was, he had to re-establish some kind of connection and unless he had tried as best he could he would not be able to settle to anything, it would play on his mind, hold him back, keep him incomplete.

The schoolteacher was surprised to see Jarla at the door.

‘We were told you’d left,’ he had said. ‘Didn’t expect to see you in these parts again if I’m honest.’ Jarla had explained that he was looking for the man’s predecessor. ‘He’d left before I got here, I never met him, no idea where he went to be honest. The only one who might know is old man Storan. He did odd jobs for the school for years, was here longer than anyone, too old for it now. Used to live over the hill from here, near the Godshouse. That’s all I can tell you, I don’t even know if he’s still alive.’ They had followed this lead but it had gone nowhere. Storan, they were told, had died some three or four years ago. They had left disappointed but as they made their way along the track away from the house Malana had stopped still where she was. She stood on the spot, eyes closed, swaying gently. She didn’t respond to questions, Sargon had gestured to let her be. He had seen her trance states before and knew there was nothing to be done until she came out of it of her own accord. It had not taken long.

‘We must go to the Godshouse,’ she had said.

The place was nearby, they were there in no time. There was a priest, a man young for the vocation, it seemed to Jarla. He had listened to their request for information and that he had not answered immediately seemed cause for hope. Perhaps this was it. There was a graveyard, as all Godshouses had. Maybe she was buried here.

‘It is a strange story,’ he had said. ‘I don’t believe I can give you all the answers you seek but perhaps I can help you on your way.’

Nothing.

Silence. Splashing of water off the roof.

Hopeless.

Then the faintest of sounds from behind the door. Scraping, two or three muffled thumps. Someone pulling on the door from the other side, the door swollen and tight in the frame, not easy to open.

Then there was a woman standing in the doorway, dishevelled dark hair, a shawl around her neck and shoulders, faded linen dress, barefoot.

‘Hello Jarla,’ she said. ‘I’ve always hoped that you would come and find me. I am Nerual. You’d better come in, I’ve got something for you.’ The cottage was dim inside, the small windows allowing little light in even where there was glass, although many were boarded up. The floor was bare earth with some worn and fraying reed mats about the place. There was little furniture save for a solid wooden farmhouse table and two benches near the fireplace in the end wall, some few other bits and pieces and a pile of blankets for a bed. ‘I don’t have much to offer,’ said Nerual, ‘but you and your friends are very welcome.’ The party filed in and stood in the middle of the cottage, nobody sure of how to proceed. This is why they had come though, so the only way was forward.

‘I am trying to find my mother,’ said Jarla. ‘Where she lies, I mean.’

‘I know. What I mean is, I know you wouldn’t have come just to find me, why would you?’ Jarla could scarce believe it now he was actually here. The conflict in his mind was torture.

‘You murdered my parents and then you saved my life,’ he said, for want of any other words forthcoming.

‘I know, I know,’ said Nerual. ‘Please, sit down, let us take some time here.’

They all took seats as best they could on the rough benches by the cold fireplace.

‘I am sorry there is no fire today,’ said their hostess. ‘I have no wood nor turf to burn. I am poor and get by as best I can.’ She pulled the shawl closer around herself and sat down on a three-legged stool. ‘I am glad to see you have grown up fine and strong. You have a horse too, and good friends. I am happy.’

The silence was difficult. Jarla was at a loss.

‘I thought you were...’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to be shy. We can speak plainly.’

‘I was granted a vision,’ said Jarla, beginning to doubt the accuracy of what he thought he had been given to understand, ‘but you are alive. My mother...’

‘Is dead, dear Jarla. Unfortunately I can tell you that for sure, I wish it wasn’t so and have wished such ever since that day on the beach but it is too late for wishing. I understand why you would hate me, I have hated myself and been hated by others but I don’t ask for pity on that account. I am what I am. I was young then, though, and my life was difficult in those days, as it is difficult now. There’s nothing I can say to change anything Jarla, but for what it’s worth, I love you and have loved you since the moment you came into my arms. I have never forgotten you, you are the only good thing that ever happened to me and that’s the truth of it.’ The silence held for a few moments. All were in uncharted territory. Sargon, Khalxat and Malana sat quietly.

‘Is there anything you can tell us about my mother?’ asked Jarla. ‘I mean about what happened to her...afterwards.’

‘Afterwards was a very hard time, as you can imagine. It seems to me that I have been reliving that day in my mind ever since and what came afterwards is less clear but I will try. I don’t seek to excuse myself, I have spent so long in mental torment I have no excuses left but back then I was a young woman living a life in poverty and want amongst people to whom thievery and criminality were a way of life. I fell pregnant young to a violent man who cared not for me or for any offspring, for he had others, plenty of them. He was the boss, you might say. He lived by making others do his will and was cruel and bullying to make sure they did. He was the one behind the wrecking. To be honest none of us ever really thought it would work, it was something from old tales and sea shanties, not something that folk actually did but there it is. Ships sometimes wrecked on their own account on that bit of coast, you have to know what you’re doing there, and we would always go and get what we could as the tide brought it in. Seemed fair enough to us, we’d done nothing wrong, wasn’t our fault the boat had gone down and we were poor. But then the next step seemed to be to see if we couldn’t send one down ourselves so we started lighting the fires, the lads did anyway. And then it seemed to work once or twice and it became a thing we’d do when there was a storm. We had no idea why your Ma and Pa were on the sea at that time anyway, it was the wild time of year, storms come up out of nowhere on the Long Coast, most craft stay close to home if they have to go out at all. But I’m sure you know that, Jarla.’ Nerual paused. The light was growing even dimmer as the clouds lowered further still outside. She got up and took a lamp from the table. ‘I have a little oil, we can have some light,’ she said and, having lit the lamp and hung it on a hook above the fireplace, sat down again. She pulled again at the shawl around her shoulders as though for the cold, bundling it up high around her neck and under her chin. ‘And then he hit me too many times,’ she continued, ‘and in the wrong places and so I lost the baby. We had no doctors or midwives. It was awful, a dark day in my life, a dark day amongst many dark days before and after. I was barely back on my feet when the storm came and the lads lit the fires. Could hardly walk the next day, I was last to the beach, so slow was I still. We saw your mother, beautiful she was, so peaceful. We knew then we had done a bad thing. We’d never seen one of the victims before, the sea usually just took them away but there she was and there you were, like a gift to me, a gift from the Gods. I would have kept you, that’s the truth of it, if we had got away quicker, but then I don’t know what kind of a life you would have had. I don’t know what kind of life you actually have had either, come to that, but you wouldn’t be riding a fancy horse if you’d stayed with me, I can tell you. You would have been loved though, if that means anything to you just now, I wouldn’t blame you if it didn’t but it’s the truth. Then the Yeomanry came and it was all over. They killed a few, captured the rest and the ones they took were hung the next day, didn’t bother with a trial. The fires had been seen, somebody told on us, that was all there was to it, no use trying to deny it. They knew it wasn’t the first time, they’d been waiting for the chance to catch us and there it was. They could have taken you off me there and then but they would have needed a wet-nurse so they let me keep you. They took me to the poorhouse at Staverley, put me in the dormitory with all the other broken women and girls. I did my best but there wasn’t much there comfort-wise. They’d told me straightaway what was going to happen to me as soon as you could be taken away, I was to go the same way as the rest of ’em. Not much to look forward to really but that’s how it was. A bad start in life for you Jarla, but I gave you everything I could.’ Nerual fell silent for a while. All knew the