The Journey

[Endovelicus 610]

THE JOURNEY

 

 

---

 

Heavenly Father: 

We pray to You for those on the perilous ocean 

That You will embrace them with your mighty protection 

And grant them success in all their rightful undertakings. 

Grant them in all hours of need to see 

That they have a God who remembers them, 

And grant them grace in the hour of danger

To commit their souls into Your hands.

Amen.

 

---

 

The sea roared and thrashed, men heaved rope while others the contents of their innards. Raymond was in the latter group. He held fast, cranium shoved tightly ‘gainst the linen of his swaying hammock, purge-filled bucket by his side. God’s wrath was upon them. Waves struck the wooden frame of the whaling ship, rain buffeted the deck, lightning crackled. It was as if the Sea itself was against their enterprise, grieving the loss of its children. Raymond had no mind for poetic anthropomorphisms. He had been on this damned ship for a fortnight and he had spent those fourteen days ill and vomiting. He was never fond of the sea. The Savoyard had been born in an isle, true, but the amount of time he swam, much less went on a boat, could be counted on one hand, using two fingers exactly. He hated it. 

 

The continous drone of a Gwynonese pibgorn mingled with the singing of the sailors irked him. Could a man not rest? They sung in their ***** language. Raymond had nigh forgotten his childhood dialect, a cousin to Gwynonese. The sound of a familiar song began to ring in the underhalls of the ship, a song his own mother used to sing to him when he was but a poor babe. 

 

“Ble rwyt ti'n mynd? meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin,

Ble rwyt ti'n mynd? meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn,

Ble rwyt ti'n mynd? meddai John,

Ble rwyt ti'n mynd? meddai'r Nefar Biond,”

 

His mind could not decipher the ditty, it rang inside his head like a cavernous sigh. Yet, in its unfamiliar familiarity he found residual comforts. Of happier times. Sitting by a comfortable fire, running across green pastures. Of warm nights and rainy days. Raymond’s fever stricken mind fell into a melancholic sleep. Being pulled into a different realm, away from cold reality and into the warm embrace of the world of dreams, of different ages, different memories.

 

---

 

Light linens, petrichor, warmth. A mother and a father. A soft mattress. A babbling babe. A sleeping hound. Peace. Comfort. Heaven. The flame-haired mother singing, the child cooing, the father laughing. Peace. Comfort. Heaven. The father raising the child up, the child smiling, the mother kissing the babe. Peace. Comfort. Heaven. The babe crawling, the dog running, the mother sewing, the father working. Joy. The mother placing the babe in the cradle, the black haired father reaching down, the child grasping his finger. Happiness. The mother sings, the father listens, the dog sleeps.

 

“Mynd tua’r coed, meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin,

Mynd tua’r coed, meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn,

Mynd tua’r coed, meddai John,

Mynd tua’r coed, meddai'r Nefar Biond,”

 

A knock upon a door. An inquisitive look. A black haired child approaching and opening the door. A rain-drenched man with a sullen face and dark eyes; “Where be yer mother, lad?”. A sudden rush from a servant woman, whisking away the black haired child to a room. Confusion tinged with fear. An old hound by the black haired child’s feet, grey and aged. A broad room, decorated plainly, toys scattered, a statue of a saintess holding the Owynchild. A window revealing dark and brooding clouds. A door, left ajar. The black haired boy tip-toed onwards, listening, looking. The sullen man removed his cap; “The esquire, mistress…”, a downcast look, sudden wordlessness, “...he be dead.”. The crack of a slap, the flame-haired mother, furious, confused. “Liar!”, a shrieking shout, “He cannot! You were supposed to look after him! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO LOOK AFTER HIM DAMN YOU!”

 

Sobbing, the flame-haired mother caressing her child. The black haired child confused, missing his father, grasping the old hound. Foul winds screeching ‘round the manse. Coarse rain pelting the glass of the windows. The flame-haired mother, singing…

 

“Be wnei di yno? meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin,

Be wnei di yno? meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn,

Be wnei di yno? meddai John,

Be wnei di yno? meddai'r Nefar Biond,”

 

A dark household. The scent of funeral incense and of burning wax. The sad face of a saint. A bereaved mother and wife, grief-stricken, driven mad. A black haired boy, head bowed before the funeral pyre, wept. Two matrons consoled the starved mother. The mad mother wailed. The mad mother did not look upon the face of the black haired boy. The black haired boy did not weep for the dead-man, he weeped for the dead mother. A flame-haired man placed his hand upon the dead mother’s shoulder; “Worry not, Mery, the brothers of Saint Lucien will care for him.”, an assurance hidden in half-truths. The dead mother nods, handkerchief to her green eyes. The flame-haired man approaches the black haired boy; “Raymond, son, you’ll be coming with me.”, a smile, feigned, “Your father is in God’s hands now, the good prophet shall care for him, hm?”, the black haired boy did not utter. A golden wren chirped.

 

A bouncing carriage, a sleeping uncle, a sad child. The winding road. The green hills. The sad-bright sky. The bleating sheep. A bright hamlet passing by, a spinster spinning, a young boy playing, a shepherd praying, a new mother singing…

 

“Hela'r dryw bach, meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin,

Hela'r dryw bach, meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn,

Hela'r dryw bach, meddai John,

Hela'r dryw bach, meddai'r Nefar Biond,”

 

The white sun, circling overhead. Mad. A cluster of trees and bushes, thorns, ripping apart the flesh of the black haired youth. A clearing. Men strung upon a great ashen tree, Half naked augurs and sorcerers chanting, dancing and bathing in the men’s blood. A black haired youth, being ripped from his robes, made to join the sun-priest’s dance. A black haired youth looking up, recognizing faces. A black haired father, a murdered lord, a drowned king, a crusading priest, a half-pagan patriarch. The black haired youth dancing upon their spilt blood, his own blood, chanting the ancient songs of the sun. 

 

A great darkness, ascending. The mad sun ceasing. The earth quaking. The men scattering. A great flame appears, setting the ashen tree to flame. The black haired father, the murdered lord, the drowned king, the crusading priest, the half-pagan patriarch, looking down from the highest skies. A great cavalcade, breaking the brambles, stampeding upon the sun-priests. An imperious figure, bearing a regal sword brings it down upon the black haired youth. Trembling, the black haired youth falls onto his knees.

 

From the sword’s tip a robin springs, flying into a black haired youth’s hands. The imperious figure’s maw opens as if to shout, instead, it sang...

 

“Be wnei di yno? meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin,

Be wnei di yno? meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn,

Be wnei di yno? meddai John,

Be wnei di yno? meddai'r Nefar Biond,”

 

Stale air. A cavernous room. Moans of pain and suffering. The smell of mold and dried blood wafting, like incense before the chapel’s altar. A shattered man, neck around a nose, sobbing. A priest, reading the shattered man’s last rites. A oyashimese swordmaster, solemn. “Amen.”, rang the priest’s words, their finality hitting the shattered man, his wailing growing louder. “Do it, Novice Ashford.”, commanded the priest, eyes beset upon the black haired youth. A huff, a pause, a nervous sigh, a boot upon the stool that held the dead man from the grasp of death, a push, a loud crack as rope became taut. Apathy. The oyashimese swordmaster brings out his blade. Sadness. The oyashimese swordmaster readies himself as the dying man struggles for air. Coldness. The oyashimese swordmaster brings his sword towards the man’s frame, cutting him in twain. Pain. The dead man draws his last breath, guts and viscera hanging from his abdomen. Death.

 

A warm summer’s day. A closed cloister. Bees surrounding followers. Monks walking passed underneath shaded alcoves. A black haired youth, sitting upon a bench. Feeling nothing. Seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. “You did good, young Raymond.”, shallow, empty praise. “We will make a true brother out of you just yet.”, a nod from the black haired monk.

 

A black, cold cell. An empty and barren room. A black haired monk kneeling before a flickering flame. “Lord, why do you remain so far away? Why must you hide, when I beseech you every day? Why? Why?! WHY?!” A shout and a slam, the flickering flame withers. A sob. A wave of melancholic sadness, the black haired monk holds his face within his palms. “Why did my mother go mad? Why did she leave me here to rot? Why am I not dead? Why am I here?”

 

A soft chirp from the window, a wren sings, flying towards the rising sun…

 

“Lladd y dryw bach, meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin,

Lladd y dryw bach, meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn,

Lladd y dryw bach, meddai John,

Lladd y dryw bach, meddai'r Nefar Biond,”

 

A cursed morning. A sorrowful feeling. A haunting sight. The smell of chrism, the feeling of a razor upon skin, the fallen hair cluttering ‘round the feet of the Abbot, the oil soothing inflamed skin. The shorn-headed monk ordained. The shorn-headed priest looked upwards, a statue of the Prophet smiling. Misery and pain.

 

A sunnier cell. A pyre-shrine. A dirge of a psalm being sung. A shorn-headed priest reading. A sad man weeping. A sigh and a wheeze. Green eyes cast towards the window, silence and thought. “What now, Owyn, hm?” The shorn-headed priest queried, voice ringing aloud within the stone walls. “I am one of yours, like Evaristus and Clement, what now? Am I to service the scum of the earth here within these walls? Am I to light fires ablaze and preach your Spirit? I am your slave, against my will, what now?” Silence. “Have you gone mute? After God commanded you to bite your tongue in your uncle’s court and you disobeyed Him, now you choose to be silent?” A sardonic smile, another sigh, a brusque turn, a look of hatred, “Say something useful for once.”, a whimper, “Say something. Answer me. ANSWER ME DAMN YOU!” spittle flies out towards the roaring flame of the pyre-shrine, “It would be the least you could do.” 

 

A wren knocking upon a window. A stirring priest awakening. A sudden knock at the door. A sealed letter. A briar tree stamped ‘pon the wax. An invitation. A command. The Prophet smiled.

 

“A'i hebrwng e gartref, meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin,

A'i hebrwng e gartref, meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn,

A'i hebrwng e gartref, meddai, meddai John,

A'i hebrwng e gartref, meddai, meddai'r Nefar Biond,”

 

---

 

Raymond stirred on his cot. Nausea overtook him and he heaved the contents of the other-day’s meal into a half-filled bucket by his side. The prelate opened his eyes, wiping his mouth on a stray linen left by his cot. He coughed and went to fetch water, drinking greedily, extinguishing the fire within his stomach. Raymond coughed again, and swayed on unstable legs up towards the deck, pushing past throngs of people, some shoving, others carrying cargo. The Ashford reached the top of the deck and looked over yonder. A port. Henry’s Wharf.

 

Providence

 

[JoanOfArc 4586]

Gawain felt the wind blow the docks as he awaited for his nephew on the docks. His nephew's demeanor seemingly went over the Cardinal's head as he slapped his nephew on the back. It was good to have the boy back around.