Psychopomp

To you, Ewain, Nine Years Ago

I was sixteen, I remember, fresh upon the threshold where a boy must become a man. In the Rhymar, my father’s household most especially, our custom demanded every boy undergo the Jadovan’s Trial to be called a man. We had to enter the Teuton Forest for two weeks with just clothes and an axe, find the sacred gemstones that manifested within it, best what predators we faced, and ultimately, survive.

Before entering, every boy is told by his father, ‘return a man or end life a boy.’ These were the parting words of my father when I entered, and two weeks later when I emerged, he said to me, proudly, ‘Now I shake the hand of my son, a man.’

Families threw ceremony and celebrations upon the return of a son, yet as my father was the Duke and I the last son of the family to pass the Trial, the ceremony for my return became a regional affair. Father was thrilled and wished to make it magnanimous, yet he also was a shrewd man who saw opportunity in many occurrences. Patrician lords throughout Varangia were invited, and so it became that dukes, marquesses, barons, and their families from throughout the northern Vesperterra traveled to witness my ceremony, join my celebration, and become part of father’s machinations.

Fires burn crimson west of the Hellas Sea, and we must have lit a hundred throughout the halls and meadows of the Zollern Estate to thwart the winter winds for our hundreds of guests, all dressed in ever finer qualities of furs and silks. Once the sun set and all gathered in the eastern field, the ceremony began. Whether plebe or patrician, every family in the Rhymar started Jadovan’s ceremony the same: with the music of our patron Ichorian’s children.

Horns call first, to call attention to the world, to our Gods that we are to inaugurate another son of the world into manhood. Then join the drums, rolling and deep to call cadence for our hearts and summon thunder. Once the percussive storm is established, voices of all in the crowd sing together the ancient words, and not a one can remain quiet without offending those nearby and the Gods that watch.

As they all sang, I marched through the buffer between them to the stage where father awaited me. I remember how his eyes reflected the fires as though his pride in me showed itself. When I neared him, he grabbed both my shoulders, sang the chorus of our peoples’ song, and as all voices and instruments knelt to quiet, he announced that I, Ewain of the House Zollern, am recognized by peers and elders, with the blessings of Jadovan and the Ichorians, as a man. He wrapped my shoulders with the pelt of the fiercest predator I slayed, a newly matured black bear, and all cheered with furor enough to rumble earth.

Celebration started soon after, with bands and troubadours from all Varangia here to pluck their jovial tunes. Father bid me to enjoy the night, seize what I could from it, and so I went with my brother Urian and our youngest sister, Sariah, to feast, drink, and dance. We feasted until young Sariah, then just fourteen, retched from her overconsumption and had to leave.

Our better senses impaired, Urian and I continued our drunkard dancing, and I remember each time I looked at the surrounding crowds I saw father in the company of a different lord. Urian confided to me that father sought suitable partners for Sariah and me. ‘A man takes initiative, then,’ my brother told me after his confidence, and he challenged the integrity of my new status if I could not attain a maiden of my own charms.

So, I rose to his challenge, and immediately knew it would be my dance that would charm some propitious young lady. My inebriation only enhanced my technique, I thought. I surveyed the potential candidates around me, assessing each by perceived approachability and kindness. None would have denied me a request to dance, as it would be an offense to the hosting family, yet I did not wish for an unenthused or overly stiff partner. Urian, observing my intrusive scrutiny and perhaps careless demeanor, struggled to tame his drunken laughter.

Who I ultimately danced with, however, was the oldest daughter of the Duke Salia, a house rival to our own whose members all had hair of fire and skin of snow. She was the only one who seemed positively puzzled by my actions and inoculate to their intentions. Freya, her name was, and she told me out of courtesy, she made clear. Her honesty struck me. She had no desire or grasp for tactful omission, and when she spoke a phrase that many more devious minds would find out-of-turn, it was…pure, not even the smallest pollutant or vitriol in her breath.

She wore her auburn hair different from the braids, buns, and layers of traditional lady Varangians. Rich helixes took the ends of her locks, mimicry of the patrician ladies across the sea in Byzantium, she told me. Their acting, their portrayals in the moving pictures, the way they could evoke emotion fascinated her, and she fascinated me.

I asked her to dance, she told me no. I asked again, thinking she would not commit the offense twice, and twice I was denied. I then asked her if she had seen Carrigan’s Launch, one of the few moving pictures I had seen, and she gave a resounding yes. I told her I could recreate the famous dance. She told me to prove it, and I told her I needed a partner to do so. Freya obliged me.

It did not take long for her to discover I lied. I had not the first clue how to recreate that eccentric choreograph from the film, but I knew how to make her laugh, so much so all around testified to my ability. When she laughed…. In that moment, I saw how the light of the fire shined so affectionately on her face, as though it sought a warmth stronger than its own. I asked her for her company for the night.

We found a vacant fire near the frigid lake that sat on our estate, and as we broke bread and supped on ale and wine, she told me more of her. I learned she wished to do a pilgrimage to the Holy Land once she found a husband willing, that she wished to do the trek across the land and though it more parlous, there would be much more to see. I learned she venerated Vesta, patron of hearths and family and that she held her family dear and her familial oaths dearer. I learned that when she spoke of her passions, her innocence burgeoned as the flame we huddled by.

Our fathers found us later in the night when the moon reached its apex, seated next to each other, and only by their words did we part. Yet before she parted, she told me how to keep in contact, that she adored letters. And from that night on, I adored them, as well.

I know not what the dreams of our ancestors were, but if ever they were the visitation of memories to us in our sleep, I would find happiness in revisiting this one every night.