Story for the Day: Aoidhe
The Gods of Frewyn often visit their children. Sometimes they visit through dreams, sometimes through action, and sometimes through direct address, and sometimes, when they can concede to make a visit, they leave something behind. Sometimes they leave a memory, sometimes they leave material intimations, and sometimes they leave behind their direct progeny-- in this case, a young boy. The God Aoidhe, known for his wantonness, enjoys answering prayers, especially those made by young women in desperate want of a child:
Sewynpaudir: Frewyn prayer beads |
The boy need not say more to invite the
suspicions of the cleric, who was already taking It must be so: He saw now why Matias would resent such a child,
though he should rather be treated as a blessing than a blight. He placed his
hand on the boy’s back once more and tried again to search for hereditary
expressions, wanting a confirmation of the two faces he had discovered. He
strained to contentrate, his features forming a pained glower, he closed his eyes
and pressed hard against the boy’s back. The two faces began reconstructing
themselves as he applied his conscience, and there, in the most furtive corner
of the boy’s mind, was proof of his parental line. Wyn Abhaille, the cleric breathed, that I should be fortunate to see such a miracle in my time--
pains to prove the validity of
the father’s ill vaunted claims. He had his own methods for detecting any
hereditary link between parent and child: he pressed his hand against one of
the boy’s wounds and concentrated his efforts inward, propelling his
consciousness, searching the inner chambers of his heritable composition for traces
of his lineage. His essence vibrated as it traveled, caroming along every vein,
every nerve, every impulse, transmitting signals and conveying an image to his subconscious.
He knew this image, but it obscured itself, attempting to hide while under scrutiny,
moving a little farther off the closer the cleric came to deciphering it. His consciousness pursued it: it formed a shape, materialized momentarily, and then was gone
again, off to some distant corner of the boy’s subconscious . He tried again,
searching with a more spiritual eye, peering around the corner of every cell,
every organelle, every microcosm of molecular mystery. The storms of the mind,
the brontide of wakefulness, the rush and rote of the boy’s undulating
feelings burst on him in a fulmination of sound and sentiment, and there,
hiding between receptors and conveyers, behind the fremescence of bereavement
and longing, collocated with the face of a woman was the familiar presence. It
turned to acknowledge him, and the cleric gave a small start, gasping and
removing his hand, his surprise and amazement unseen by the boy, who was bent
in inconsolable dejection. He stared at the boy, remarking his structure and
features once again under the new idea of his parentage.
Aye,
that’s enough now, said a voice, at once abrupt and familiar. No more proddin’ him. The voice sounded
playfully displeased. Ogham’s wee-uns
sure like pryin’, and I sure don’t blame ‘em, but you best heal him and let him
be.
The cleric made a genuflection seemingly
to no one.
That’s
a good lad. You help him now and let him alone. He’s a strong-un. He’s one o’ mine.
The question of Why don’t you save him? rushed through
the cleric’s mind, and though it was the thought of but an instant, it was
attended and responded to.
‘Cause
he’s gotta find his own way. I look out for him, but we got a rule here: no
interferin’ or that’s ol’ man Diras on us.
But
you have already interfered, the cleric thought as humbly as he could.
No,
I answered a prayer. Ain’t the same thing. She needed someone to love her, she
wanted a lad, she turned to me for help. What’s the sense in havin’ believers and
children askin’ you for things if you don’t mean to listen to ‘em?
But he
is now a bastard child—
Aye,
but that don’t mean he don’t have value. Give him a bit of a push at the
plough, and he’ll drive ‘em down the field to furrow.
The cleric was silenced.
Now,
you go on way outta here, and no more pokin’, hear me? I’m watchin’ him.
Yes,
Your Excellency.
There was a pause. Excellency. Never heard that one before.
The voice was almost laughing.
The cleric became nervous and felt
afraid of offending. But how else should
you be addressed?
There was an ethereal shrug. Dunno. However yer wantin’ really. Most folk
what talk to me just say please and then ask me what they’re gonna ask me. Huh. I don’t even get no swearin’ named
after me. Nobody got no trouble sayin’ Borras’ name a hundred times. Folk in
Tyfferim even call out for Chune, but no one says what about me ‘less they want
a few wee-uns. I know, it’s ‘cause they think I don’t got nothin’ to do with
money or luck and that.
The cleric hesitated. Well, you are associated with fertility and
bountifulness—He tried for a less opulent title—My Lord.
Lord,
eh? Lord. The voice effected to be deliberating. Don’t mind that one too much. Not
many folk use it, but ‘till do. No
more Excellencies, though. Makin’ me think I were my brother. He’s got ideas
from drivin’h is chariot all day. All that sunlight. Makes his brain go soft
and all.
The cleric chanced a thought here. Do you watch all of us in this way, My Lord?
The voice seemed to smile. Some o’ you. There was a pause, and
then, If you pray hard enough.
There was the intimation of a
smirk, and the cleric imagined a wink somewhere in the ether.
You
should know all about that, havin’ Ogham’s gift, though he was always a few
apples short o’ the cart.
If the cleric could have contracted
his brow and frowned in such a state, he would. Is it not blasphemy to speak this way about a God?
You
say what about yer siblin’s and it ain’t blasphemy. And if it were, you’d still
say what about ‘em ‘cause that’s family regulation: I grew up with him, I rile
him.
The cleric supposed this was fair,
as a Being of such Eminence was proposing it, and indeed it was His own
family—but just as the cleric was suddenly desirous of asking a thousand
questions now that he was become more comfortable speaking to the voice, a
pressure began pushing against his conscience.
‘Mon, now, the voice sang, in a plaintive tone, that’s you outta here, lad. Leave
my boy be.
The cleric winced and fought to
remain in the boy’s subconsciousness. Are
you with him because he is meant to be a a grant man amongst the Gods’
children?
There was an implied shrug. Dunno. Hope so.
The cleric was seriously confused. How can you not know? Are you not a God?
Sure I am, but that don’t mean I
know everythin’. Not even ol’ man Diras does.
The cleric’s expected his
features to glunch. But the boy is your
progeny—directly so, My Lord. That must mean he is destined for something.
Ain’t
gonna tell him what to do.
But he is your son…the cleric weakly
projected.
Sure
he is. I got lots o’ wee-uns runnin’ all over the kingdom. Gotta sow seeds if I
want what to grow. I look after all
my wee-uns, but this one’s my fav’rite.
The cleric thought that there were
no favourites amongst the children of the Gods and supposed he must have been
mistaken. But if you love him, as you
seem to do, My Lord, is this suffering necessary?
Nah,
he don’t need it. Hasn’t made me angry yet.
The cleric paused and hardly knew
what to answer.
He won’t be sufferin’ long. Don’t be wringin’
yer robs over it.
You
will help him indirectly, then? but no answer was given, and he grimaced as
a subrisive voice writhed in mirth and forced him out of the boy’s subliminal
mind.
In a moment, the cleric was
returned to the infirmary, the image of waking life blurring into view, and he
saw only the boy and heard only his sorrowful lamentations, and wondered
whether he was aware of the strength of the spirit he carried with him. He must
not be, if he despaired so far to be in such a wretched state. Telling him,
however, he knew was impossible; the clouds should part and a bolt of
lightening should crack the sky and destroy him if he dared divulge such a
secret. He had been given instructions to leave the boy to himself, he had been
given assurances that the boy would be well, and as he should never even
consider disobeying a command when it came from such a channel, after the boy’s
wounds were tended to, he called for the guard to come and escort the boy home.
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