Tuesday Tidbit: When Duties Collide

Halwende discovers that even god magic takes work, and his father disapproves of his son’s tardiness.

“Blessed be Valdher, Lady of the Forest,” Maltaria and her assistant chanted.

Halwende and the others bowed to the small carving of Valdher. “Blessed be the Lady of the Forest,” they replied.

“Blessed be She who gives wood and game.”

“Blessed be the Lady of Game.”

For once, Halwende paid close attention to what the priestess said, and to how she said it. She pitched her voice . . . lower, but also to carry more easily even in the chapel. It didn’t echo the way Valdher’s voice had, but it differed from Maltaria’s speaking voice. Yet she wasn’t speaking for the goddess, either.

Since the day wasn’t a great feast, the service did not last too long. “Praise and thanks we give for Your bounty and Your protection on Your servants, hunters and leaders alike,” the priestess intoned. That was different, but appropriate.

“We give thanks and praise,” came the ragged echo.

Once formal worship ended, everyone save Maltaria herself and Halwende departed. He bowed once more to the Lady of the Forest and waited as the priestess, joined by an assistant, put out the lamps on the altar and those on either side of the statue. The figure looked the same as She had in the forest, except that here, Her eyes stared past Her worshipers, into the distance, and looked green-black, not full of forests. He shivered again and made Her sign.

“So.” Maltaria clapped her hands once. “Here is as good a place to work as any, and if we are interrupted, well, the keep had best be on fire, or under water.” She smiled, and he relaxed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She studied him, then pointed to the floor. “Sit.” She sat as well on the smooth, clean wood. “How many years have you? Fifteen?”

He tried to recall. He’d been born on the turning of autumn, twenty years after the end of the Great Cold, so that meant . . . “Yes, ma’am. Almost sixteen.”

“So you are of legal age and proper discernment. That might make things easier.” She sighed and rested her staff across her folded legs. “Or perhaps not. Close your eyes and concentrate on relaxing your muscles.”

He closed his eyes and looked inside, then started making his shoulders, neck, and other things let go of their grip. He breathed slowly, as if he sat in hiding, waiting for game, or for an enemy warrior. The green-brown glow inside himself grew brighter as his muscles loosened.

“Ah.” The priestess spoke quietly, her words like wind in the forest. “Good. Very good. Keep your eyes closed and look outward, look for light that matches what is inside you, and tell me what you see.”

How—? Halwende breathed in, smelling the scent like needle-leaf of the incense in the chapel. As he breathed out, he looked out as well, looking for a glow the same as his. One he found very close indeed, Maltaria, strong and clear, like a good spring of water. He looked farther, pushing a little, and found two others of Valdher in the rooms behind the chapel. “I see you, ma’am, and two in the preparation rooms, and,” he sought farther. “I see a red-gold glow across the courtyard and down, two blue and brown lights near father’s private office, and—.” Is that really? “Ah, glowing black near where the men slaughter kine and schaef?”

“Very good. Look inward again, please, then open your outer eyes.”

It felt good to rest his gaze inside. He did for a few heartbeats, then opened his eyes. He saw carved branches arching over his head, polished wood in light and dark brown, touched here and there with green of leaves. The ceiling, he stared up at the ceiling. How strange. He blinked a few times and tried to sit.

“Hold this.” The end of her staff appeared above him. He grasped just below the ornately carved wooden cervi head, and used that to help pull himself upright. She was strong. He knew that, and stared at his legs for a moment, then met her eyes. She smiled, and her one eyebrow rose a little. “You have very strong magic. And you will probably have a headache soon. Besides the one about to be inflicted upon us.”

Huh? Oh no.

Maltaria raised one hand. “Kneel in devotion, Halwende, and give thanks for your life, and for the Lady’s mercy. And don’t tense, or the headache will be worse,” she warned, getting to her feet with the aid of the staff.

“Yes, ma’am.” He shifted to his knees and sort of crawled to the proper place for such things. He knelt and began reciting a prayer of thanks. His back and the back of his neck crawled.

“Where is he?” came a bellow from the corridor. “What do you mean he never left the chapel?” It sounded like am ovstrala’s bellow when the males fought for the does. “I ordered him to attend me!”

Halwende’s shoulders tensed in anticipation of a blow. Instead Maltaria spoke in her “worship voice.” “He attended to—and is attending to—giving thanks to the Lady of the Forest for sparing his life and those of your servants, Lord Hal.” Calm and relaxed, she sounded in full control of herself. Unlike his grace.

“What mean you?” The anger remained, but not so loud as before. “The young fool endangered Pol as well as himself, by coming in so late.”

A soft thump, wood on wood. “Were you told of the two einar in mating fury that attacked the cart and those with it, your grace?”

“Yes, and that was no excuse.” Lord Hal bit each word short, snapping them.

“And that your heir ordered his men to leave him behind, lest they be endangered as well should his arrows miss? They did as commanded.” The priestess’s words came smoothly and quietly. “And that he then brought in the healthy einar for your table, after granting mercy to one that ailed? Carrying the einar by himself, on his shoulders?”

“That I did not know. But he must obey me.” The words came slower, still angry.

“I’m certain that he will, your grace, after his devotions. He has been here since worship began.”

Heavy boots stomped on the floor outside the chapel. “Send him to me when he finishes.” The boots departed.

Lady of the Forest, thank You for life given and taken, for mercy given. Thank You for the bounty of the woods and the wilds, Valdher of the Forest. He recited silently. A tiny ache had begun in the back of his head, as well as at his temples. He needed to eat, and to rest, if he could.

Softer footfalls approached. “Lady grant me patience, as fast as Your grace permits.” A light sigh whispered above his head. Halwende finished and stood. He bowed to the statue, and turned to the priestess. Maltaria gave him a stern look. “Attend to your father, then get food. You pushed your magic farther than you should have, but I wanted to see what you would do. Now I know, and we will build from there.” She raised her hand and made Valdher’s Antlers. “Go with the blessing of the Lady of the Forest, younger brother.”

He bowed again. “Thanks for the blessing.”

He took the longer route to his father’s meeting hall. The keep, one of the first built after the ice and snows began retreating north, could be navigated easily, provided one already knew where he needed to go. A few servants hurried past on errands. The first of the harvest had begun arriving, and the women and some men busied themselves in the still room, kitchens, and storage rooms. The time for preserving meat had not yet arrived, but it would come with the first true cold. Hills and the western ridge sheltered the Valke lands from some storms, but not from true winter. He shivered a little, recalling his grandmother’s stories of the Great Cold, when Sneelah had been the only deity to rule the north.

Halwende heard voices from the meeting chamber and stopped short of the door. ” . . . and that’s all from the Kalman farm, your grace,” the chief steward said. His voice always reminded Halwende of an eigris, the long-legged, sharp-voiced wading birds that stalked the marshes, spearing fish and other things. The steward stood easily as tall as Duke Hal, perhaps taller when he stood straight. He stooped most of the time, round shouldered, eyes on the ground ahead of his feet, or on the record books and papers of his trade.

“Hmm.” His father’s voice rumbled. “Very well. You are dismissed.”

“Your grace.” A soft thump as the big record book closed, and light steps approached the door. Halwende stayed clear of the steward’s path. The man walked like an eigris, long, steady strides that only looked slow.

After he assured himself that he heard no more voices, Halwende gathered his nerves and entered his father’s hall. A small fire burned in the hearth near the duke’s chair of office, a sturdy, dark seat upholstered in grey, with a high back that bore carvings of real and legendary beasts, topped by a valke in flight. The chair dominated the room, just as Duke Hal dominated the Valke lands. More than once Halwende had wondered if even the Great Northern Emperor had a stronger presence than his father. He’d never seen the emperor, so he had no way to know. His father loomed, a man’s man, a warrior among warriors. He stood a head taller than Halwende, broad-shoulders, with heavy legs. Duke Hal, one year from entering his fifth decade, looked younger, aside from the bulge over his belt. His hair remained dark, unlike many of the ruling dukes.

“What excuse this time, boy?”

Halwende bowed, then straightened. “None, your grace.”

A storm cloud lowered over his father’s face, his skin turning darker brown. “You are a fool, twice a fool, for hunting so late in the day. Pol is too old, too important, to be forced to sleep in the open outside the walls.”

So why did he leave the walls? He did not provide aid, he just paced me. As he had so often, Halwende said, “Yes, your grace.”

“And you left your near-ruined garments for the servants to deal with.”

“Yes, your grace.” His aching head kept him from anger at the unjust words.

His father stared at him, then barked, “I have arranged a betrothal. You will be wed to Malita of Kamsicht when she comes of age in three years. The emperor chose your brother’s betrothed as his own, so I had to find a replacement. Kamsicht will do.”

Who? Oh, the girl with the mines and no brothers. “Thank you, your grace.”

Duke Hal stared at him again, eyes narrow. “What were you doing for so long in the chapel?”

“Giving thanks for the successful hunt, your grace, and for your servants returning uninjured.” Do I dare? Yes. “I felt it wise to make good on my promise to Valdher sooner rather than later.”

Fingers drummed on the wide arm of the ducal chair. The cloud of anger lifted, just a little. “Very well. That I will accept. Two einar charged?”

“Yes, your grace, the healthy one that I brought in, and one that had an injury. The injured boar ailed, smelled of dead flesh, so I left it for the eaters of the dead.” For a moment he saw again the enraged einar, mouth open, racing toward him. The vision faded as his head pounded.

His father stood. Halwende backed to the side, out of the duke’s way. “Well, you did one thing properly. And Pol was uninjured. Don’t hunt so late in the future.”

Halwende bowed. “Yes, your grace.”

“Go.”

He went, and grabbed whatever remained on the table outside the kitchen for the servants and those who could not sit for the meal. Something in bread, and sauce-soaked trencher bread. He grabbed a fist-sized lump. He hesitated, then drew his knife and cut a trencher in two and took half of it as well. When he became duke, should he live that long, he would never, ever eat trencher unless it was a time of true dearth. When his mother yet lived, they’d only eaten trencher at the end of spring, when the stored food ran low but the fresh had yet to arrive, and then always with greens and young meat to ease the sting. Duke Hal gave it to his servants and sons even at harvest.

(C) 2021 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

What Purpose War?

It depends on the conflict, the participants, the causes . . . Glory for the ruler, or for the country (and the ruler), gain territory, redress past losses, revenge, gain territory, loot and run, because of alliances, to end oppression and evil, for the glory of G-d and to win souls (which is not strictly limited to the three monotheisms, as it turns out), to gain territory . . .

I got to musing on this because of teaching 1.5 wars (Austrian Succession, Seven Years’ War, American Revolution), preparing for another one (Napoleonic), listening to Sabaton, and reading about the news from Central Europe. Not so much why do men fight, although that is a lot of what Sabaton’s music explores, but why do nations and countries go to war? And what is the purpose.

Those of you who have read my stuff for any length of time know that I vehemently disagree with the “War is good for nothing” line of thought. There are, indeed, worse things than fighting and death. Look at political prisoners in Lenin and Stalin’s Gulags, the Killing Fields, Timurlane’s little trip through Central and South Asia, the Holocaust, the Holodomor, and a few other incidents documented in oral tradition and archaeology. War to keep would-be-Stalins from taking over? War to end Nazi atrocities? War to stop hostile military-aged invaders from overrunning your country ahead of someone else’s armed forces? War to secure a border when a nut-case with delusions of being the next Alexander tries to take over? In the name of his deity? Oh yes. Just War Theory and the international laws the derive from it always allow self defense. Most government laws in the US allow self defense, and the defense of those who cannot defend themselves.

What about war for territory? Used to, that was the main goal. It might be territory for a tribe (or super-tribe, a nation), or a monarch, or a deity (the Northern Crusades, jihad, the Inca’s early wars.) Winning made it yours. That was the only justification needed, although reasons and excuses generally followed, after the fighting stopped and the land had been claimed and pacified. Louis XIV was pretty up-front about setting the Rhine as his eastern border, and the lands that bordered the Rhine, and gaining glory for France—which meant glory for Louis. Other rulers were similar, he was just one of the more flamboyant and less successful. I think resource control can come under territory. Old school, very traditional, and frowned upon today. Not that it stops certain groups or individuals from attempting it.

To be honest, I can respect “I’m fighting to conquer land and rule it because I can” honesty. The silken phrases of professional diplomats wear on a person. “We need oil and farm land. You have it. Next question.” I may disagree, but it’s pretty clear what the goals are.

National honor? Well, what exactly does that mean? For China it means conquering Hong Kong, Taiwan, Tibet, probably chunks of Korea and Vietnam, and controlling the territories that border Chinese territory. It means being recognized as the only power in the world, and all the other powers paying homage and kowtowing, possibly even literally (the nine bows and six prostrations). For the US? Um, heck if I know. Helping allies if they are attacked, keeping our word?

What about WWI? I think as much ink has been spilled on the “real purpose of WWI” as on the battles themselves, if not more. To preserve empire? To uphold alliances? To gain territory? To get even with Serbia for assassinating Archduke Franz Ferdinand? Because everyone wanted a short, hard war to “clear the air” and sort out who the fittest was for the next stage of evolution? Because Europe was due? Aliens? (OK, I have not found that one yet, but it’s probably out there.)

Like anyone who really studies military history, or who has been in the military, I don’t want war. War is an evil, although a lesser evil compared to some. Just as killing in self-defense is still taking a life, no matter how justified. War is hell, war is terrible, war can bring out amazing and wonderful things. It is something to be avoided if possible, and fought when needed. For there are worse things than fighting a war. No matter the original purpose of the war.

The Wild Hunt

That time of year is drawing closer, the time of short days, weak sun, long nights, and strange things riding under the stars. And for old legends that re-surface in interesting places, from fantasy novels to country songs and folk-tale collections. One story in particular returns over and over with twists and new developments: the Wild Hunt. Continue reading

Tuesday Tidbit: A Priest’s Duties

Halwende is recovering from overdoing things just a wee bit.

His legs ached, burned. He bit his tongue to keep from groaning. Instead he stretched a finger-length at a time, as slowly as he could. The heavy, rough blanket scratched. It also covered his privates, another reason not to leap from the bed.

“My lord Halwende,” Eticho said with a tired sigh. “There are easier ways to draw attention to your hunting skills.” The healer-mage and priest of Rella snorted a little. “Not as dramatic, to be sure, my lord, but easier on you and on the rest of us.”

Halwende sat, with great care and much wincing, keeping one hand on the blanket. He leaned forward then straightened again. Everything moved as it should, and hurt as if he’d been used as a target by beginning staff-fighters. “Master Eticho, I assure you, I have no desire to repeat that particular experience. Einar are not light beasts. Nor are cervi.”

“Drink this. It tastes terrible. It will finish lifting the burning-stem sap from your blood, as well as restoring the balance of your nature.”

Thus warned, Halwende accepted the mug and drained it in one go. Indeed, the healer spoke no falsehoods. Halwende’s guts churned and threatened to reject the bitter, liver-ish brew. “Is there a rule that healers are forbidden to make good-tasting medicines, sir?”

A snort, and the older man folded his arms, studying his patient. “There is, for those that might cause craving for more. Some of the black-bulb-laced pain-killers must be made unpalatable. Some tinctures as well, to prevent over use, or using the doses too quickly.”

Well, he’d always wondered, and now he knew.

“And you will want to put on clothes, because our sister Maltaria, Valdher’s speaker, is coming to meet with you before you emerge from my clutches.” Eticho snorted and shook his head. His bald patch shone a little in the light from the tiny window, that bit not covered by his soft, dull-red skullcap. He leaned forward and squeezed Halwende’s shoulder. “My brother, you have a hard, but blessed, road ahead of you. You can always come to one of us for support and soul-counsel, should you need it.”

How does he—? He does, so the others do. Blessed Lady, I hope Father doesn’t know yet. Once Eticho turned his back, Halwende eased out from under the blanket and dressed in clean clothes. Well, the others remained blood-stiffened and unwearable until he dealt with them. He’d gotten dressed, and had raked the flop of brown hair out of his face by the time Maltaria, priestess of Valdher, swept into the small room. Halwende went to one knee.

“Rise, little brother,” Maltaria said. “Then sit, before you fall over. I’ve half a mind to chase you and your father both around the walls, beating you with my staff for prideful folly, but our Lady acted first, at least in your case.” She sat as well and folded her arms, looking at him. Before he could start to squirm, she nodded once, then sat back against the high-backed, leather-padded chair. “You need to learn to control your magic better, as in to use it, instead of ignoring it and wishing it would go away, Halwende.” Her stern expression softened. “Little brother, most of us are not chosen as, let me say, directly as you were. Don’t worry if you feel off balance for a day or so. Having Valdher speak to you and through you is never easy, although it comes more easily with time and experience.”

The sympathy in her hard blue eyes drew the question he feared to ask. “How should I tell his grace, my father?”

“Not alone. And not until you are more certain about how to balance being a priest and being a ruling noble.” Maltaria frowned a little. “Pol told me about the hunt. Why did you order him and his assistant to run?”

He wanted to lie. He didn’t dare, not here, not now. He looked at the floor and the toes of his shoes. “Because if the einar hurt or killed them—” He heard his voice rising in pitch as he lost control, and stopped. He took a deep breath, and said, “Because I’d rather be killed by the einar than endure what his grace, my father would do and say if Pol were injured because of me.” What Duke Hal had said after the ambush— He glanced back up at the priestess.

Maltaria’s face darkened like a storm cloud racing from the north. “Were you not the heir, I would order you, senior priest to junior, to go on retreat away from here in order to study and meditate so that you could better discern Valdher’s desires for your vocation. I can’t.” Eyes narrowed, she exhaled a long sigh. “What I can do is order you to attend worship daily, and stay after to train your magic, since you are not doing that to my satisfaction.” She winked. “Because you did promise to attend worship in thanks for a successful hunt, did you not?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Relief washed over him. Even Duke Hal hesitated before challenging the priests of the gods, especially Valdher and the Scavenger. Well, no one with two still-working bits in his brain challenged the Scavenger.

The hunt. “Ma’am, the Lady said— She called me priest, and pathfinder.”

The senior priestess’ remaining eyebrow rose to the edge of her green and cream headcover. “Did She? That . . . ah. That explains the vision.” She spoke to herself more than to him, but he felt better even so. Maltaria nodded once and stood. “No, stay seated. I have a possible idea, but meditation and prayer are still needed.” She skewered him with a firm look. “Yes?”

He gulped. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good, little brother. Worship tomorrow, then we work. Do not speak of this to your father, not yet. The hunt, yes, but not your new vocation.”

Eticho returned with food. “Start with this, my lord. You are suffering the same as if you over-worked your magic skills, as well as extreme physical exertion.” He folded his arms and watched Halwende start to eat. “Do you know how much that cervi weighed? Or the einar?”

Halwende swallowed and looked up at the healer. “A lot, sir. A lot more by the time I got here.” He pointed down with his knife tip, then returned to eating.

“The cervi was eighty pfund. The einar weighed almost a hundred. You shouldn’t have made it back to the keep with that on your shoulders.” Eticho shook his head. “Some day, you will regret having been young, unstoppable, and determined.”

He regretted the last two already, but Halwende kept that to himself as he devoured meat, cheese, and heavy bread under minced, pickled vegetables.

“And drink all of that,” Eticho ordered, pointing to the small pitcher. “If you get bladder rocks, the pain will be worse than you want to imagine. And that’s before they leave.”

Halwende did cross his legs upon hearing that. No thank you! He drank the water with mint.

Only when he finished did Eticho wave toward the door. “Go take care of what you need to. Come back here if you feel any pain in your low back or guts, you hear me? You have not passed water since last night.”

“Yes, sir.” He felt like a child again, almost. Halwende slunk out. What did he need to do first? Clean his hunting clothes. That first, before his grace berated him for not caring for his belongings properly.

Indeed, he went to his chamber and found Odo, his personal servant, frowning at his hunting boots. “My lord, these need to be dealt with.”

“Yes, they do, and I will, now that Master Eticho and Valdher’s speaker have given me leave to resume my duties.” He wanted to snarl, but he felt too tired. Odo reported to the chief steward, who reported to Duke Hal. What point in snarling when his father would just . . . do something, even if he was the heir now? “I’ll see to them.”

Halwende gathered tunic, jerkin, trews, and boots, along with a few other things, and carried the lot down to the wash troughs. Since it was not wash-day, he had no fear of disturbing Mistress Kai or her women. He started with the tunic, jerkin, and trews, brushing off the dirt and anything else brushable. Then be plugged the end of the trough and went to the pump. A bucket waited. He pumped cold water into the wooden bucket, then hauled it to the trough. Two buckets should do for the moment. He dipped the material into the trough, swished it back and forth, and waited for it to soften in the water. He’d broken clothes before through impatience.

As he’d feared, it took a great deal of work until the dried blood, hair, and dirt released its hold on the fabric and leather. His shoulders hurt as much as they had the night before by the time he finished. Sitting and working on his boots, getting the fat back into the seams, came as a relief. While he was close to the pump, he drank as much water as he could hold. He hung the garments in the proper places to dry. The boots he took back to his chamber. First, he washed himself, as much as was seemly.

“His Grace wishes you to call on him tomorrow, following morning worship,” Odo informed him later that evening.

Thank You, Lady of the Forests. Should he tell Odo why he would be late? No. Either way his father would likely berate him for something. Better to be late with a solid reason than to anger the priests. And their patrons, especially now. “Thank you. I will do as he commands,” after I do as the Lady of the Forests commands. Halwende drank more water. He’d added water to his supper wine. His father had ordered the meal sent to his quarters, or perhaps the healer had informed his father that he needed more time to recover from the previous day. Either way, he ate in peace.

He’d rather eat at a fire out in the field, hunting or patrolling the Valke lands. Why did his brother have to be the one killed in the ambush? Because he’d been the one to ignore the signs of people passing through earlier, and had walked into the trap. Halwende caught himself before he snarled at the memory. It would do no good. Edwacer had died, leaving Halwende as the only male heir, unless his father decided to replace him with Cousin Otto. Halwende finished the last of the water, visited the jakes, then prepared for sleep. It might come easily, for once.

(C) 2021 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

Saturday Snippet: The Lone Hunter’s Territory

The Lone Hunter does some digging for Martha (and himself).

“That’s an unusual name, sir,” the librarian behind the reference desk at the Devon County library observed, her tone cautious yet curious. She returned his ID. “Jude Tainuit. Is it French?”

He smiled, careful not to bare his teeth. “No, ma’am. Tainuit is, well, Austrian or Hungarian, depending on who had won most recently.” Or Austrian again, or Romanian, or Ukrainian, or . . . “Mother said that our ancestors ended up traveling with the Moravians in the early 1700s.”

She smiled, light green eyes bright behind the brown frames of her reading glasses. “Ah. That makes perfect sense, Mr. Tainuit. Have you talked to Mrs. McMurdo, the new head of the county genealogy society? She’s very interested in . . .” When she finished with his card and getting his books, he knew more about the president of the society than he really needed. Or perhaps not. Now he knew better how to avoid her.

He found a quiet corner where he could see two exits and settled in to read. He preferred to go elsewhere, but his current abode lacked amenities such as good light for reading. And people might notice a light where it ought not be. They tended to look closely at such things, this time of year. He wasn’t ready for that, not yet. Not until he confirmed some legal niceties. Jude paged through the state property codes, then found what he sought. “Adverse possession, that’s the term now,” he murmured, then began to read and take notes.

Twenty-one years of acting as owner, without challenge by the actual owner, allowed someone to claim land. Jude snorted. Three more years, then and the field would belong to Martha. She’d discovered the extra property by accident, and he’d offered to look into the question. If she cared for the ground and paid taxes, then it should be hers. And if she claimed all of the old Jantzen ground, well, he’d have an excellent place for his own shelter, one closer than his other lairs.

Things had been easier before computers. Not simpler, no, but easier, he sighed under his breath as he finished making notes. Likewise earning a living, especially for one like him. One good thing about the latest changes to the state’s labor laws—they encouraged people to pay cash for day labor without asking questions. He liked cash. When used wisely, it bought an identity, one that those in authority had accepted at face value thus far. That might change, or it might not. Jude stood with a slight wince. Unpadded wooden chairs did not agree with him.  He returned the books to the reference desk, and departed with his notes. He’d checked his small, black leather rucksack in the lockers for such things, and collected that on his way out the door. He trotted down the steps of the stone building and strode down the sidewalk, head up, a slight smile on his face. A few people nodded back, or smiled in return. He moved as if on an errand, just another harmless pedestrian. People assumed what they wanted to assume and in his case it was true. Mostly.

He cut into the park. The shade smelled of pine and hot elms, and fresh-cut grass. His eyes welcomed the shadows. Early September felt determined to hold onto its heat with both hands, so to speak. Once he reached the far, “wild” end of the park, he hopped the waist-high wooden fence. The town had yet to replace the still-sturdy old white fence with the deer-proof ten-foot tall fence they’d raised taxes for. He preferred low fences, but his gardens and vehicles were not the ones imperiled by the deer. Since the park flowed into part of a state forest preserve, deer came and went at will. So too did what hunted deer, especially in winter.

By road, Martha’s farm lay four miles west and south of town. As the Hunter traveled, less than three miles. He kept to the edges and woodlands, crossing the road briefly to avoid the Graff farm. Something there troubled the soil and he detoured around the property. He needed to look into the problem, soon. But not until he knew more, and Martha decided about the Jantzen property. He eased along, checking the fences as if he belonged. Since Devon County was his Hunting territory, he did.

The forests and fields drowsed, full of late summer’s bounty. Apple and pear trees drooped, heavy laden with color-brushed fruit. The nut trees too, both wild and tame, bore well, those that had survived the hard winter. Grain flourished. The wheat bowed in the breeze, heavy-headed as it eased closer to ripeness. Maize and kaffir corn—sorghum they called it here—oats and barley too looked strong, at least in this corner of the county. They and River County had been spared the terrible hail that had pounded through in early July and had stripped the lands farther east. He hated hail worse than ice storms and blizzards both. Hail meant that he had to climb onto roofs and fix them. Please, Lady of Night be kind, may I not have to climb a tall ladder again soon. He savored the hot, sleepy afternoon breeze, rich with an intoxicating blend of heavy scents, dusty grain undercut with the tang of a cow byre, hints of apple and the sting of wood smoke. Perhaps harvest would be good this year.

Squeak! Jude glanced to the edge of the Meijer’s cow pasture, near the old hedgerow. A dark-winged hawk labored to climb. It flapped hard as it carried a field mouse into the sky. Jude smiled. Good luck be with the hunters of pests. Hawks and even a few eagles had returned since his youth. Good. Too much prey on the ground led to sickness among the animals, like the deer disaster to the east and northwest.  Predators and prey both waxed fat this season, thanks be to the Great God. He stopped and looked both ways at the edge of the state highway. He listened hard. He stretched his stride as he crossed the four lanes. The highway didn’t have much traffic this time of day, but large trucks and SUVs seemed to view the speed limit as a challenge rather than a restriction.

He stopped at the old property line, looking at Martha’s “extra” field. The true owners had failed to maintain the fence. It had fallen apart and turned into a weed-choked hazard. Martha’s late husband, Sean, had cleared away the remains as part of a county weed-control project and never rebuilt it. He’d rented out the ground, and the renter plowed and planted the entire area. And so it had gone for almost two decades. Jude considered the dark-brown soil at his feet, and the woodlot and orchard—now returning to forest—across the way. He shook his head yet again. His father had filled his ears with stories of fighting over stony patches of farm and forest, back in the Old Land. To have so much land that a family might forget that they owned it? He couldn’t quite believe it even standing here. The ground now served as a hay meadow, since hay prices kept rising. Plus it broke the line of small-grain fields and served as a pest control, at least for some pests.

He let himself into the house. “Mow!” Bauxite stood in the mudroom doorway, yellow eyes intent on him. He double-checked the soles of his shoes for soil, then stepped into the tidy kitchen. “Mrrrew?” Demand shifted to plea as he fetched the black cat’s special little blue china dish and gave her a few drops of cream.

“No more, Miss Bauxite. It will turn your stomach,” he reminded her in his own tongue. The black cat hunted in the house and garage. He still couldn’t quite understand having an animal that didn’t work outside, but Martha liked the cat. He shrugged to himself. He left the notes on the kitchen table and retreated to the guest bedroom. Clean, heated water on demand truly proved the Great God’s love for His children. Five springs in Jude’s Hunting territory gave clean water, but cold, bone numbing and tooth aching cold. He knew them all, plus the remaining public well. That he did not entirely trust for drinking, but for wash water? Quite sound.

He had two hours before Martha returned. He re-checked all the doors and windows, then lay down to rest for an hour. All Hunters caught rest when they could. “Lady of Night, protect Your Hunter if it is Your will,” he murmured. He relaxed and allowed sleep—the little death—to claim him.

“No,” Martha said that evening after supper. She’d read the notes as he washed the dishes. “No one said anything about Sean’s renting out the field, no complaints,” she clarified. “Not while Sean was alive, and none since he died.”

Jude gestured to the notes. “It looks as if, since you farmed and paid taxes on the ground, three more years and it is yours. Should you wish to file a claim, and no one comes forward before then.” He did not push. He wanted her to get the land, but it was not his place to ask.

“And you said that the orchard on the other acres is still bearing?” She took his mug and refilled the tea, then got more for herself.

“Thank you.” He nodded as he cradled the mug. The heat eased the small ache in his weakened hand. “They’re old trees, not grafts. Apples, sweet and cider both.” He smiled a little. “The deer should be well-flavored, as many windfalls as they’ve eaten this past few weeks.” They left the mature trees alone, even winter, something he found odd.

Martha smiled as well, then sipped her tea. She looked a touch like an aging apple tree herself, joints a little knobby from hard work. Her eyes and hearing remained keen. She stooped a tiny bit when she forgot herself. Her face, longer than the usual local shape, had once been beautiful. Traces of that beauty remained, even though age and experience had added character to her visage. Her hair sported more grey than golden brown, now, but with her medium green eyes and slightly tan skin, she shared a resemblance with him. That was enough resemblance for people to accept her claim that he was her brother’s son. Close enough, since they were both children of Adam. She’d coached him with enough small details over the years to satisfy even the old high-sheriff, when he’d asked.

“Three more years,” Martha repeated, her tone thoughtful. “It might be good to claim the ground, if only so the probate’s easier. I shudder to imagine the mare’s nest if whoever inherits the farm—either farm—discovers an extra chunk or a missing chunk.”

He winced along with her. He’d heard horror stories over the years about death settlements and property borders. There were good reasons for a family to hold land in common through trusts. Even as slowly as the inheritances now passed through the Clan, common ownership made sense. Gathering the apples and pears and cleaning the orchard might cement the claim, since Martha already used wood from the old woodlot. Even if she didn’t realize it. He set the thought aside for now and had more tea. He needed to be on the move, soon. The sun had almost set.

“Will you be staying, Jude?” she asked. Nothing more than her usual concern colored her voice. She tidied the notes and slid the pages to the folder with farm business papers and the plat maps in it. The maps had last been re-drawn in the 1960s, at least for this part of the county. Why not more recently? Another puzzle for later.

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I have early work tomorrow, and need to do some things before it gets too late.” All true, just not how she would take them.

Martha shook her finger at him. “Young man, you need to get a vehicle other than Shank’s mare.” She stood, collected the folder, and left the kitchen. He stood as well, washed his cup, and hurried out. He locked the door behind himself.

(C) 2021 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved.

NOTE: This will be the only excerpt from Familiar Generations One: The Lone Hunter that I will post.

Tuesday Tidbit: Trickster in Trouble

Sometimes even a Coyote gets in over his head.

The next day was for wash, and work around the ranch. After getting the eggs, and helping with the horses and the garden, Deborah sort of dozed in a rocking chair on the porch. She wasn’t sleeping, but she wasn’t entirely alert, either. A breeze tickled her, brushing under her nose. She sniffed, then sniffed again. What was that? Now awake, she inhaled hard. Nothing. She relaxed and shifted to magic, went down the steps, and touched the ground with the tips of her fingers. Oh no!

She hurried back to the barn, where Corey was mending a bridle. He frowned with concentration as he stitched the leather. “Sir?”

He looked up, started to speak, and stopped. He looked toward the north and east. “What do you sense, and where?” He set the tack aside and they went back outside, just to the little wash area.

She crouched again and touched the earth. “That way,” she tipped her head. North this time. It felt . . . She wrinkled her nose, “Sir, it’s like someone was cooking and really messed up, then got distracted and left whatever it was on the stove?” Which made no sense, but she didn’t have the right words.

Corey’s features sharpened. He didn’t go cold like her dad, but intensity surrounded him. “Yes. And it will attract stronger. Get your medicine bag and come.”

What did he mean? She trotted to the little stone house and hurried up the stairs. Recharge bag and travel first-aid kit would have to do. She grabbed a jacket and hat, in case rain came. She managed to balance the load as she hurried down the steps, then raced toward where Corey waited with Uncle Nathan.

“. . . Too close to the house,” Corey – Kaak’ki – was saying as she slid to a stop. He carried a smaller, soft leather bag. “Prayer and shield.”

“Go,” Uncle Nathan ordered. Cousin Brigham stood at his shoulder and nodded. “We’ll shield the homeplace.”

“Sir.” Kaak’ki took the lead. She followed him up the trail across the creek, then turned hard to the left, along the edge of the mesa. She felt dusty, dry, and Church-y magic moving around the house and yard. Kaak’ki slowed and gestured to marks in the dirt. “A Coyote.”

Too-large paw prints, claws out, paralleled the trail, then turned across it. They’d been made since the last rain, she knew. “Yes, sir. He was hanging out the other night, invited me to come look at something. I closed the window and went back to bed.”

“Good.”

They wove through the brush. Ahead she saw some big rocks she’d never really noticed before. They blended into the mesa if you stood on the main trail. The icky magic-smell-sense grew stronger and she wanted to gag. “I think we’re closer, Kaak’ki, or the problem’s worse.”

“Both.” He slowed and she drew even with him as they entered an open, grassy area. “When we stop, shield you and what we find, then be hands. Do not try to Heal until I say. I’ll explain later.”

“Shield me and what we find, don’t use other magic, yes, sir.” He knew something. Was it that bad, like the lady in the wreck the year before? Or was it not attracting predators? Both? He started jogging, and she stretched her legs to keep up, starting to pant. Storm towers glowed, so white that they hurt her eyes as much as staring at the sun did. Hard sky, hard land, hard to breathe, she was soooo out of shape!

“Behind the rock,” Kaak’ki warned, slowing and moving away from a large, dark boulder the size of her uncle’s big pickup. Wrong flared up at her. “Be Thou my battleshield,” she murmured, pulling power from her locket and making a shield between herself and the wrong.

Kaw, kaah! Kaw! A raven called. Kaak’ki gestured toward the sound, and she followed in his tracks between more boulders and large rocks. Cold, wet air slapped at them, trying to shove her hat away. The raven dove ahead of them, a sleek, black dart, then soared up on the wind. Something moaned, as if in pain. They slowed, and Kaak’ki stopped so fast she almost skidded into him. “Oh fu—” He used a lot of the words Uncle Rodney was not allowed to say around nice people, plus a few she didn’t recognize that sounded Asian.

She peered over his shoulder and cast a hard shield around herself and the half-man, half-canine writhing beside a dying fire. Large patches bare skin glowed red, like a really bad sunburn, and hanks of tan and black brindled hair lay on the ground. Messed-up magic smell sent her stomach churning. Kaak’ki said something in a different language, hard words that fit the hard land. The Coyote moaned, then answered in the same speech. Tears left black tracks down his face and muzzle. “Patruyeh, stay on this side of the fire. Hold the shield,” Kaak’ki ordered.

“Yes, sir.” She knelt by the Coyote and drew more magic through her locket, weaving a stronger shield around them. Her cousin opened the flap on his leather satchel and removed a fan made of sleek, black feathers, along with a bundle of herbs. He used a lighter to ignite the herbs, then began chanting, and fanning the smoke over the fire on the ground. The smoke flowed under the bad magic stench and lifted it, breaking whatever it was. Magic, dry but flowing, sweet like the scent of desert rose bushes just before a good rain, swirled around her and the Coyote, replacing the bad magic. The Coyote lay quiet, still whimpering and weeping.  

Thunder rolled, hard and steady. Kaak’ki ended his chant and set the half-consumed herb-bundle on the ground to finish releasing its smoke. He knelt on the other side of the Coyote and waved magic over the trickster with the black feather fan. “Kaw!” She almost jumped to the moon as a raven cawed in her ear, then landed beside Kaak’ki. “Burn cream,” he ordered, his voice changing, sort of.

“Burn cream,” she repeated, looking in the first-aid bag. Deep magic moved. She didn’t dare glance to see what was going on. Instead she found two tubes of cream, one expired but only just, and some sterile wipes and the burn-dressings-in-a-pouch, if they needed them. She also got a bottle of water out of her recharge bag. The magic settled, and she looked up.

Kaak’ki had shifted. His hair carried a sheen of black, black like a raven’s feathers. Bird eyes overshadowed man eyes, and his blunt fingers carried a claw-like seeming, almost scaly, like a bird’s feet. Of the flying bird she saw no trace. He opened his mouth, and a harsher voice, but still his, spoke. “Clean the burns you can see. I hold him still. Do not Heal.”

“Yes, sir.” She’d taken two first aid classes, she could do this. Deborah pulled on a pair of gloves and concentrated on treating the raw, glowing crimson skin, wiping it as gently as she could with a bit of bandage and then the cream after dripping water on the burns to clean them. Kaak’ki immobilized the Coyote. She locked the trickster’s moans out of her ears and mind, working hard not to Heal, not to ease his pain. Holding the shield took so much energy! Thunder pounded around them, and she smelled ozone, lighting close, too close? Light faded as the storm drew closer.

“Give me the medicine and bandages,” Kaak’ki ordered when she finished her first task. She handed them to him and glanced away, shivering. She untied the jacket from around her waist and pulled it on. She should have taken off the gloves! Too late. “Shield, Patruyeh, shield and hide us!” Deborah called everything she had from the locket, then spun more magic from inside herself as something heavy, so heavy, and old, and cold, thundered with the storm. She eased away from the Coyote and risked peeking around the rock.

A tall, white-clad woman strode in the storm! She wore a pale, loose leather dress with beadwork on the shoulders and sleeves, and thick black braids hung behind her. Power, ancient and so far outside Deborah’s ken as to be terrifying, walked with the woman. A huge form paced the woman through the clouds, shaggy and strong, with an enormous hump on its shoulders. Each time the woman and the buffalo stepped, thunder shook the land. Deborah ducked behind the rock and cowered. White Buffalo Woman! No wonder her dad and Ears had been terrified of her. Anyone sane should be. Please, Lord, please may she keep going, please may the Coyote not have done something to tick her off, please; please may the Thunderbird’s talons not strike them, please! Cold wind from the storm tore at her, threw dust into her eyes, trying to distract her. She focused on the shield, holding the shield, being invisible and small, part of the land, part of the dust and soil and plants, rooted like soap-root and chamisal.

How long they hid, she could not say. “Patruyeh, lower the shields, please,” Kaak’ki croaked at last. He’d been chanting quietly as he tended to the Coyote. She drew some of the power, not all of it, back into herself and into her locket. Food. She stripped off the gloves and grabbed chocolate and more water, and jerky, out of the bag. She offered part of the jerky to Kaak’ki. He took it, then said, “I have water.”

Should she? Would it break a rule? “Sir, may this gentleman,” she nodded to the bandaged Coyote. “May he have some jerky and water?”

Kaak’ki, tipped his head to the side, like a curious bird. “Yes.”

“Sir?” Deborah offered the Coyote some meat. He took it, chewing slowly. Then she held the water so he could sip it. Pouring it into his muzzle might not be a good idea. She devoured the chocolate, then gnawed on the jerky and drank her own water. Sunlight poured down on them, a blessing. She tidied up, packing the unused ointment in the bag and getting out a smaller plastic bag to hold the garbage. As she did, the dusty power moved again. When she finished and lifted her head, Kaak’ki sat still, a raven beside him. The bird clicked its beak twice, then launched into the air. She shivered.

“We go,” the raven-warrior said. He sounded terribly tired.

The Coyote managed to sit up, whimpering a little as he did. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Help given, help repaid, should you be in need.”

Deborah bowed to him from where she knelt, then somehow staggered to her feet and collected her things. She and Corey left the Coyote and plodded back toward the ranch house. The air smelled sweet and healthy, pure and proper.

Aunt Ella and Cousin Brigham met them at the edge of the mesa, with more food and drinks, and walking sticks for balance. “Nathan said that you’d been exhausted,” her aunt said. “Eat, then drink this.” The yellow sports-drink had never tasted to good. Her aunt helped her, and Brigham helped Corey as they picked their way down the slope. “The others are cleaning up after the storm. No hail, but the wind made a mess of the laundry.” Aunt Ella sounded peeved.

The next day, Uncle Nathan went riding with her to where they’d found the cheat grass. It wasn’t far from the trail up to the pine-topped ridge, now that she looked closely. “Go call your dad. I’ll start on this, then you can help.”

“Yes, sir.” She went up the trail until she got a few bars on her phone. She stopped beside a tree and started shaking again, like she’d shaken the night before.

” . . . Uncle Nathan says not to talk about it. Corey’s still exhausted, Dad. Should he be?”

A long silence from the other end of the line, then her father sighed, a very long sigh. “Yes. Cousin Corey and I have talked about,” another long pause, “military things. That’s how he knows my working name, and what I am. I can’t explain it, Lovie, but I think you need to help him with the barn chores tomorrow. He’s older than he looks, and doesn’t recover as fast as he used to.”

“Yes, sir.” That fit what she’d guessed earlier that morning. She’d even helped clean two of the stalls for him before Corey told her to get breakfast.

“Tell him that you spoke to me, and that Shadow says good job.” A shorter pause, “Lovie, you did exactly the right thing. I’m very proud of you, so very proud of you.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she hugged herself. “Thank you, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too, and you’d better go help Uncle Nathan, before he asks you to start helping him dig up the cheat as well as just killing it.” She heard a little laughter in his voice.

She made a face. “Yes, sir.”

“We’ll talk more when you get home. Now shoo.”

She stuck her tongue out at the phone. “Yes, sir. Bye.”

“Bye.” Silence. She turned off the phone and hurried down to where her uncle worked. At least shadow-mages and Hunters got to finish things, she grumbled a little. Healers never got a rest! A little something nudged her. Did she want to have to talk to things like White Buffalo Woman? “That would be a nopity nope,” she whispered, mimicking Master Tay.

She stayed close to the barn the next day, cleaning tack, drinking lots of water and a little can of soda, and making sure that Corey rested. “Sir, Shadow says good job.”

He stared past her, looking into the distance and the years, the way Bunicot and her dad did. His chest expanded as he inhaled, and the carved black raven-in-flight on his necklace seemed to lift a little, then settle as he breathed out. “Thank you.” After several minutes he returned from his memories. “And thank you. Are you going to ask the Coyote for any favors?” He winked and smiled.

She shook her head so hard her braid thumped her nose. “No, sir. I’d be afraid to ask for anything. He is a Coyote, after all.” She turned the saddle in her lap, reached for the soapy rag, and said, “I don’t think any Healer can cure that.” She dared to wink back.

Laughter, warm, healing laughter, filled the barn to overflowing.

(C) 2021 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved.

Saturday Snippet: Einar and Intervention

A hunter becomes hunted, and haunted.

The men sped their steps as much as safe. Einar ate anything—plant, animal, alive and otherwise—and tended to attack first, ask names later. Running attracted attention, especially when the males were in mating fury. The hunters eased to the right, away from the einar boar, still on the trail to the cart. Could the ovsta pull the cart, and three men in it? No. Halwende glanced up at the trees around them. Too straight to climb, no low branches in easy reach, the old forest provided no refuge. The smell grew stronger. Ahead he could see the other servant, and the cart. The ovsta snorted, pawing the ground. She smelled danger as well.

Halwende heaved the cervi into the cart, turned and reached for his bow. Blood pounded in his ears as he nocked an arrow. Pol and his helper got the cart moving. “My lord,” Pol started.

Skerweeeee! Not one but two einar raced toward them, both bleeding from a mating battle.

“Run, now!” Halwende commanded, sighting, drawing, and loosing his first shot. It hit, and the einar stumbled. The second one slowed too, enough time for Halwende to nock a second arrow. “Damn it, run!” Small red eyes over a large, blood-red mouth laden with dagger-sharp teeth, heavy shoulders rising to a ridge, the second einar charged straight for him. Valdher have mercy! Halwende aimed for the chest and released the arrow.

Wind swirled around him, full of the sound of leaves and rushing waters and creaking wood. Arrow and einer hung in the air, motionless in mid-flight and mid-stride. Before his mind could understand Halwende heard a voice, a woman’s voice, filling the world. All the beauty and danger of the forests echoed in her words. “Halwende Valke, I claim you for my own, priest and pathfinder and magic worker.” The power in her words drove him to his knees, then prostrate on the dirt and grass of the clearing. “You are my servant, my priest, my speaker.”

He cowered, shaking at the weight of her presence. No, Her presence, because Valdher spoke, Valdher of the Forests, Lady of the forested wilds, Lady of the Hunt. He dared not refuse, not here, not now.

“Speak, my servant.” The command could not be denied.

“M-m-my Lady, great Lady, I know not what to say.” He dared not say otherwise.

“Look at Me.”

Shaking like trees in the winter storms, Halwende dared to look up. A woman clad in green and brown stood beside the motionless einar. She wore brown boots, sturdy but fine with green embroidery on the leather. Dark green trews tucked into the boots, under a knee-length skirt of green and brown. A belted tunic embroidered with trees and animals and a hooded cloak, brown like tree-bark, covered her shoulders. He dared not look into Her eyes. No man could look at a goddess and live.

“No man save my priests. Meet My eyes, Halwende, priest and pathfinder.”

He looked. Deep green brown eyes that held every forest in creation locked with his. He could not glance away. Ageless, wild, terrible, beautiful, full of life and death intertwined, Her gaze took away his breath and thought. Nothing existed save those eyes.

She drew closer and extended one brown-gloved hand, touched his forehead. “I mark you as mine, until I release you.” He prostrated himself once more as she stepped backwards, toward the frozen einar. She sighed. “Little one, I grant you mercy.” She plucked the arrow out of the air and jammed it into the beast’s eye, into the brain, the impossible shot. Wind roared, leaves swirled from above and below. Halwende covered his eyes.

When he looked again, two dead einar lay in the clearing, the second only two man-lengths from him. “Th-th-thank You, great Lady, Lady of the Wilds, thank You,” he chanted, shaking so hard his teeth rattled. Silence, not even the sound of the cart, came to his ears, then the first of the normal sounds of the forest. Bird song, leaves rustling and slapping in the wind, proper sounds in this part of the forest. He smelled sun-warmed dirt, metallic blood, flesh-rot, and his own fear.

At last he made himself move. Two dead einar waited for him. He inspected both beasts, and sighed a little. The first one, the one he’d shot, should be edible if soaked to get the anger-taste out of the meat. The second one? No. “Thank You, Lady, for Your mercy,” he whispered as he saw the oozing green and black wound beside the beast’s sack. Only mating fury had kept it moving, the pain must have been so terrible. Halwende did not cross his own legs, but he wanted to. No wonder Valdher had granted the boar a clean death. Halwende considered the arrow, driven so deep that only half the shaft remained visible, and shook his head. It stayed there. Someone else could remove it. Instead he grabbed the creature’s forelegs and pulled it well clear of the trail and the clearing, onto some rocks where the scavengers could dine in peace.

“I’m going to sleep outside the walls, I think.” With a groan and a sigh, Halwende drew his hunting knife and set to work cleaning the good einar and considering how to carry it. If he’d brought his full hunting kit, he’d have a drag-sack as well as other things, but he did not. He’d be washing his jerkin and tunic himself. His father did not allow his children to impose on the washer women when blood and other things fouled hunting clothes. If he weren’t so tired, he’d hate his father. Instead he heaved the beast onto his shoulders, staggered to his feet, and began trudging toward the keep.

#

Pol and two others met him just before he came into sight of the keep, as the sun touched the edge of the ridge to the southwest. “My lor’ hurry.”

Go to the Scavenger and take my father’s rules with you. Halwende slogged forward, ignoring the servants as he plodded. His legs ached, his shoulders burned, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open so he could see the ground ahead of his boot toes.

They crossed the outer gate as the watch called the first warning. Halwende didn’t bother to answer. He made it as far as the stones of the inner courtyard, then staggered, eased to his knees, and rolled the einar onto the ground. He stretched out beside it, too exhausted to move.

“And I do not care what Lord Hal said,” a woman’s voice snapped. “You, you, and you two over there, get that litter and carry Halwende to the healer’s quarters. Now!”

He opened his eyes and saw Valdher Herself. No, not the goddess, Her speaker, the priestess, pointing with her staff. Valdher Herself did not have the mole on Her cheek, or the pink scars and a missing eyebrow from fighting a wild fire three summers before. He closed his eyes again and slept.

(C) 2021 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved.

Friday Query

So, is there any interest in my releasing a story in the secondary series “Familiar Generations” about the Lone Hunter? It would be a $.99 short story, the first in the next “generation” of Familiar stories. No, don’t worry, Lelia, Tay and Co. are not going to disappear with Overly Familiar, but I’d like to get something out since I’m setting Familiar Paths aside this month to work on the next Merchant book.

Also: Is anyone willing to answer some questions about the US Army and the area around Ft. Bragg? I need some info about checking into a base, and if a scenario would be reasonable (for Mike and Rich versions of reasonable.) If so, please ping my e-mail (see the About) page, and thanks in advance.

Thursday Tidbit: Marriage Arrangements

This is from the next Merchant book, tentatively called City, Priest, and Empire. Halwende meets his bride to be. Neither are excited about the arranged match.

Aedit matched her picture, to his mild surprise. Hair the red-brown of his hunting boots hung in a thick braid over her shoulder. Dark green eyes met his. An expression of polite interest raised thick red eyebrows and curved up the ends of her small mouth. The shape of her face tapered to a nice chin. She wore a soft brown over-tunic embroidered in dark gold, a fine white shirt, and black-brown skirt. Her shoes—not slippers—were sensible leather. He approved.

She spoke. “Your Grace, I do not love you.”

That he had not expected. His anger flashed, then faded as she continued. “You are not who I wished to marry, nor was I give a choice in the matter.”

Well, she was honest. So was he. “Then already we agree and share something. I was betrothed to Malita of Kamsicht. The emperor broke the betrothal.” He folded his arms and shrugged a little as her eyes opened wide and her eyebrows rose halfway up her high forehead. “At least you are as depicted.”

Surprise flashed into irritation. “Really.”

“Really. I had feared to find you more like a schaef in features.”

Aedit went still, perhaps not even breathing. “I— You— That—!” She spun on her toes, stormed to the end of the chamber, then stomped back. “If you want me to hate you, it won’t work.”

“No, I want you to be tolerable, to have healthy sons, and to not abuse the servants.” Or abuse him, but he could fix that easily if he needed to.

She mastered her temper as he watched. “Very well, I too want a tolerable man who will provide me with steady roof and board, and healthy children.”

“Good.” Love was for tales and common folk. He could almost feel her escort’s eyes staring holes in him. He glanced at the matron. Her face resembled the sun seen through forest-fire smoke, so red it glowed.  Was she expecting sweet words and flattery? He wasn’t in the mood. He extended his right hand to Aedit. “Shall we confirm the bargain?”

She glanced at her matron, then back at him, and smiled. Aedit extended a lightly callused, sturdy hand with clean, if slightly stained, fingers and nails. They touched palms, “I call fair dealings,” she announced.

 A choked, angry voice squeaked, “Fair dealings, seen and witnessed.” The matron stood, “My lady, you are— This is not proper!”

“No, Agtha, it is full and proper. Contract made and agreed to. This marriage is a business matter, not a love ballad.” She folded her arms. “I prefer honesty to sweet words from a bitter heart.”

Oh, he remained bitter, but not at her. To be bitter at her made as much sense as beating an untrained ovstrala for not answering voice commands.

(C) 2021 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

When Days Gang Up on You

So, I had a Monday. It was a Monday when a month of Mondays all decided to jump me at once. “One day at a time,” the gospel song has it, but the days didn’t want to wait that long. I staggered home feeling flat, miserable, and under the weather.

Since, apparently, my body had decided that, “Alma is going to rest. I am going to force the issue,” I rested. Mostly. As much as I can rest with stuff to be done. But I rested. And hydrated, because I got dry on Sunday. I volunteered to help with a Trunk-or-Treat. The dewpoint was low, the breeze was cool, the sun shone down, and I got dry.

I’ve been burning the candle too quickly, worrying about too many things, and it all landed on top of me. This isn’t all that uncommon, but usually my stress appears in a less dramatic fashion. Apparently my body decided that I was ignoring all the other signals, so Steps would be Taken. My body won.

It happened. I rested, relaxed, stayed away from the news and from pre-concert stuff (a source of growing stress) and concentrated on some things I needed to do for Day Job, that could be done at home.

A lot of us tend to go until we hit physical walls, or at least our bodies say, “King’s X, I’m downing tools.” And then we wonder why, oh, juggling four running chainsaws, while riding a unicycle and reciting “The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner” in Hebrew suddenly isn’t happening. Mind and body are interconnected, and the feedback gets to the breaking point. At least it does for some of us.

It shouldn’t take Drama in order to get me to relax, but it did. So I rested. I’d spent the Sabbath not resting. It was fun, and I enjoyed teaching, singing, and helping with the community service project, but that wasn’t rest. I know better.

Take a deep breath. Go walk out in the leaves, enjoy autumn if you can. Play with a cat or dog. Listen to relaxing music and let your brain float for the duration of the CD or album [No, Alma, following along with the score of {cantata of the week} is not resting!] Turn off the TV or internet, if you can, and watch the stars come out in the evening. Or read something entertaining and escapist. Disengage for an hour, or as long as you safely can, and just float. The last two months of the year are overloaded. Shed some load, if you can.

I went to bed early, acknowledging the inevitable. Rest matters. You can’t care for others if you are not functional. My characters say that over and over. I need to hear it, too.

Note: I have no patience with people who insist “I’m taking a ‘Me week/month/semester’ ” while forcing others to pick up the slack and more. I’ve had to work around that person. I’m talking about taking a day, hour, off, breathing, and then wading back into the fray.