Tuesday Tidbit: Dancers on the Road

Harald’s affliction has a bad sense of timing.

As he and Toglos herded the boys out the man gate the next morning, one of the guards frowned and held up his hand, stopping them. “There was a second man wi’ ye yester.”

“Aye. He left when the gates opened. His business is farther on than ourn, he said.” All true, and the man could make of it what he would.

A different guard studied Harald, then nodded. “I recall now. ‘Ere’s a note in the book sayin’ ‘e was going up past Jerwood and wanted an early start afore t’ birds wen’ out an’ t’ schaef came in.”

“Huh.” The first guard gave them a suspicious look, then waved them through. Harald nodded to him and hurried the apprentices on their way. What looked like all the schaef north of the Gheel flowed toward the gate, and he had no desire to be blamed if the beasts balked or scattered! He’d prefer to stay another day in Gheelford, or two and visit the baths as well as getting his boots re-soled, but not with four apprentices to keep out of trouble.

“Must we travel so fast, sir?” Gaddy almost whined. If he hadn’t known that was how the boy’s voice came, Harald would have growled at him. The boy had a natural eye for wood and what could be cut from a piece, so Ceol had recommended him anyway.

Toglos adjusted one of the straps on his pack, then said, “If you want to walk in snow, you can take your time. Remember that gates closer earlier, and farms are less welcoming of strangers once winter begins.”

Harald made the Horns under his cloak with his free hand. In hard enough times, the rules of hospitality could be broken by householders with only a token penalty, unless the gods themselves intervened. Once he’d endured a winter that bad, or rather an early spring after a hard winter. He’d slept out behind hedges and walls during the end of his journey years and twice nearly slept into the Scavenger’s lands. His was not a trade welcomed by all, since he wasn’t skilled in the daily crafts.

“No, thank you, sir. I like sleeping warm,” Mak averred. The others nodded agreement, and talk turned to other things, like roasted schaef.

Had he ever talked so with other work-fellows? No, because the millwrights that he’d worked for had only taken one boy at a time, since he had to learn parts of so many other trades as well as his own. Harald shrugged, then reached up and reset the pack straps. The leather had begun to wear on his cloak despite the patches he’d had sewn on when it was new. Perhaps he could find someone to replace the patches. Ceol had joked that he needed a schaef cart to carry his tools and other belongings. Harald snorted to himself. Schaef carts among the great hauler teams … Yoorst might laugh, but the teamsters would not. Although hitching the apprentices to a wagon might work.

Two days travel from Jerwood, Harald gazed up the road, studying the trees on either side. The edges of the road grew wavy in the corners of his eyes, and the faintest hint of colors not green, grey, or dirt red appeared in his view. He closed his eyes for a moment and hung his head. He’d been too blessed for too long. “Toglos,” he said.

“Sir?”

“Scout ahead. I need a temple or other place to rest for a day.”

“Yes, sir.” The journeyman stretched his legs, not running but moving swiftly over the ground. Harald ignored the apprentices’ murmurs and stares. It was as it was, and he’d been fortunate. When the Dancers came while on the road …

Toglos returned when the Dancers filled half of Harald’s vision. His stomach had begun to sour as well. “Sir,” the journeyman said. “There’s a temple two bends up the road, Rella’s sanctuary. They have room for us should we need it.”

“I will need.” Harald set his teeth and plodded forward. Please, Radmar, Donwah, hold back the vision. Rella of the Lights, have mercy of Your grace, please. One foot before the other, one foot at a time, each step sending more and more pain through his head. Toglos spoke quietly, he ignored the sound as best he could. A bird called, pings like a whitesmith’s hammer that drove spikes into his head. A strange voice, a woman’s. Toglos answered. One foot ahead of the other. The Dancers filled his sight, and a hand rested on his shoulder.

“I will guide you,” the woman said. “You are at the temple of the Lady of Light.”

“Thanks be to—” Nausea overcame him as his guts downed tools and rebelled.

When he finished, he felt something cool and wet on his face, wiping. “I am putting a water horn in your left hand,” the voice said. Someone took his staff, and he closed his fingers on cool, smooth horn. He sipped the water, rinsed his mouth, then released it before his guts struck once more.

“Turn to your left.” He did. “The temple forecourt is ahead of us. I will guide.” He accepted her aid, could do nothing else. “Two steps, lift your foot.” He managed that. “In here.” He opened his eyes in the dimness and saw a pallet bed on the floor. Strong hands took the weight of his pack. He gave it gladly, then sat.

“The boys.” Another wave of pain swept over him and he could only lie in the dimness.

A man said, “We will see to them, Master Harald. Rest.” The door closed, taking the last of the light with it.

He staggered to his feet some time later, and eased the door open. Hazy, bright light filled the hallway outside the door, and he closed it again as his head pulsed and eyes watered. He removed his boots and sat, head in hands. A tap, then another, and the same woman’s voice warned, “I open the door only enough to bring sun stem tea and broth with water root to help rebalance your nature.”

“Thank you.” He covered his eyes with his hands. Why did light burn him so after the Dancers visited? Because Rella’s Dancers brought their own light, like Her Lamp shining on snow? No healer he’d asked thus far had an answer. He heard the tray scrape on the floor, wood on wood.

“You are most welcome. Your journeyman and apprentices are helping us prepare for winter, so do not trouble yourself about them. Rest, Master Harald. It is noon by sun. Do not try to leave this room for another hour, when the Lady’s Lamp has ceased to shine through the windows.” He heard sympathy in the woman’s voice.

“Thank you. I will abide.” The door closed, and he opened his eyes. He could just see the two pots, and two cups. He drank the sun stem first, since it did not benefit from growing cold. Then he tried the broth. The water root eased his stomach, cooling where the sun stem had heated. He finished the broth, then sipped the last of the sun stem to clear the taste from his mouth. Water root left a hard flavor, not metal or “drank too much,” but still not something he enjoyed.

He slept a little, waking when his bladder warned that water needed out. He dealt with that, then eased the door open a crack. Shadows replaced too-bright light in the hallway. He pulled on his boots once more and ventured out into the corridor. It smelled of dust, wood smoke, perhaps incense, and chill. A young man in robes of dull red with dull gold colored trim caught his eye. “Master Harald?”

“Yes.”

“If you will follow me, please? Mistress Siglas asked that you come to the healer’s chamber, so she can make certain that your natures are rebalancing as you recover.”

He nodded and followed the acolyte down the hallway. The scent of herbs and distilled spirits cut through the other smells, and his nose stung. “Wait here, please?” The youngster tapped twice on a door and leaned in, then closed it once more. “Thank you, sir. This way.” He opened a second door, and the smell of food swirled out. “Here, please sir.”

Harald stepped down into a snug chamber full of shelves, boxes, jars, and dark or clear glass bottles. One drawer read, “Veshla leather, first tanning,” and he blinked. Why leather? He glanced at the statue of the Lady of Light and remembered. Some burns, the healers covered with salve, then the thinnest, finest leather, to replace the charred flesh and keep out miasmas.

“Be welcome in the name of the Lady of Lights,” the woman’s voice from earlier said.

He turned and bowed to the red-clad healer. “My thanks for the welcome, and for the hospitality, all praise to the Lady of Lights.”

The healer came closer. She stood only as tall as his chest, her arms and legs short compared to her body. “How do you feel?” she asked, eyes narrow as she took his hand and measured around his wrist, then pressed on one finger tip, watching it.

He considered. “Much better, ma’am. My head aches only as much as if I’d failed to eat, not blinding pain as before. My gut is fine.”

Her eyes opened wider, and she nodded as she released his hand. “Good. That matches what I see. You need water and tea, and food with mild sauces to cool and re-wet your nature, but the Dancers’ visit has left no permanent harm.”

“Rella be praised. The healer priest my parents called said that I am blessed that I do not have the falling shakes, only pain and gut twist.” He could not be grateful during one of the attacks, but he tried to be at other times.

Mistress Siglas’s head tilted to the side and she pursed her lips. “When you have a spell, what happens?”

“My vision grows wavy, like the surface of water, then colors like Rella’s arch appear on the edges of my sight, the Dancers. They dance toward the center and my stomach rejects everything as pain fills my head. The pain and sickness last—” He thought. “More than half a day, no longer than a day and a night, thus far.”

As he spoke, the healer’s eyes narrowed and she leaned forward, listening closely. She leaned back when he finished. “You are blessed, Master Harald, in that you have warning. Some people are visited between one step and the next without sign or hint.” She walked to one of the rows of drawers and shelves. Mistress Siglas opened one part-way, slid it closed, and opened a different drawer. She removed a pottery bottle and turned back toward him. “Have you ever tried wheat smut when the Dancers come?”

What? He blinked and tried to recall. “Ah, no, ma’am. Wheat smut?”

She nodded once, firmly. “Wheat smut in an tisane of twisting bean. Either one alone may help, the twisting bean more than the smut alone, but together they can dampen the pain and nausea for some. Not all men and women gain equal benefit, but those of a warm, moist nature such as yours see more results. I will mix a blend for you to try.

“Put two small horn-spoons, like so—” She found a little grey and cream spoon like those cooks used for costly southern spices and showed him. “Flat level on top, one spoon in a half-tankard of hot but not boiling water. Recite ‘The turning of Years’ once, then drink it. It will taste horrible, and you may feel your heart speed up. It will settle. This will not keep back the Dancers entirely.” She smiled, sympathy and understanding in her eyes. “But it might help when you absolutely cannot stop work, or must keep moving if you are on the road.”

“Mistress Siglas, thank you. Lady of Lights be praised, Radmar hear my words, just easing the power of the Dancers will be a blessing beyond measure, if I am one who receives such a gift.” He made the Wheel.

By the time of the evening meal, he had tucked the small, thick-walled clay jar deep in his travel pack, protected by socks and other padding. He would find a spice spoon of horn to keep with the jar. As ordered, he ate lightly, a pale meat in a mild berry sauce, soft flat-bread rounds, and small beer. Everyone had sun stem tea after supper. The apprentices and Toglos all yawned mightily, as did several of the acolytes.

After all finished eating, the senior priest stood. He wore crimson and brown robes, embroidered with Rella’s Lamp and flames. “Thank you for your work this day,” he said. “Master Harald, your apprentices were of great help, moving wood and sorting it. Journeyman Toglos repaired some small things for us as well. Their labor more than balances two nights shelter and meals.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harald bowed where he sat.

He slept well that night, and woke stiff but rested for the first time in an eight day. The ground grew colder and harder every year, or so it seemed. He snorted as he wiped off the worst of sleep and travel from his face and hands. Come the morrow, he’d probably find that he’d unfolded his blankets in the only hot mud east of the Scavenger’s Cookpots. Why did the water come hot from the ground, when mines he’d visited were all cool or cold? He shrugged and eased out of the chamber without waking the apprentices. Toglos had already risen, dressed, and departed, probably for the jakes or just to move around. He’d been born to Korvaal, for Rella, and always woke before most.

Faint gold and pink washed the eastern horizon, turning the east-facing doors of Rella’s temple to glowing red and golden brown. Harald bowed to the Lamp, then entered the temple. A dozen priests, Toglos, and two others stood facing the altar and statue of Rella. White candles easily as thick as his wrists stood in polished brass or gilded holders on either side of the altar. The scent of hot spices, honey, and sweet sendal wood smoke brushed his nose, warm but not overwhelming. Rella’s statue stood off to the side of the altar, against the wall, a large carved and painted flame in a niche on the other side. Harald blinked. He’d never seen that before in a temple.

The goddess wore gold, crimson, white, and very dark red. Her cloak fell in folds to her knees, over a tunic and skirt. One hand held a smaller flame, the other carried a golden lamp. A smith’s implements lay at Her feet, beside a conical bee skep. Golden rays like those from Her lamp spread out from behind her head, and tiny golden flames glittered in the middle of Her eyes.

“Blessed be the Lady of Lights, Lady of dawning,” the senior priest called.

“Blessed be the Lady of Light,” came the reply. All bowed, including the senior priest.

“Thanks for light that all may see to work, and that plants and creatures grow in brightness.”

“Thanks for light.”

The priest turned to face the worshippers. “When the Great Cold ended, Rella gave the sign. Not the oldest or strongest, even so She extended light and warmth to bless the lands once hidden in cold.”

“Thanks be for warmth and light!”

“With heat and light came life once more, with life came brightness and dawning. Sparks from Her Lamp decorate the night and mark the passing of time, just as the full glow of Her Lamp blesses the day.”

“Blessed be the Lady of Light,” replied all in the sanctuary, including Harald.

The senior priest raised his hands. “Go now, filled with Her light, clear-sighted into the day, warming the world with your labors.”

“Blessed be Rella, Lady of Light.” All bowed low to the crimson-clad figure. Harald waited as the priests and acolytes departed, then followed a charcoal-maker. At least, he looked like a charcoal burner, clothes dusty black and expression tired.

(C) 2024 Alma T. C. Boykin All rights Reserved