Chapter 3 - The Long Road Out Of Eden

The moon shines down through the palms that shelter Calix's resting place for the night, their shadows moving on the sand as the fronds dance in the wind. He can hear Fabian next to him, whispering the 23rd psalm as the elder brother clutches Eleison in his trembling hands. For days, all they've had a chance to think of is just trying to stay alive, but now Calix's mind is consumed by the memory of a promise that he made to their mother before departing for the holy land. "Bring him home safe." High above the brothers, silent stars blink in the blackness of an endless sky. There can't be much left of this night and when the sun rises, they too rill rise with it. A grim determination sets in as Calix contemplates the dawn. Be it as pilgrims or prodigals, they will find their way home. Corinium, Wessex, Britain Calix awakes with a start, the strange dream still lingering in his mind. He looks down and sees Eleison not in his brother's hands, but by his own side. Egon is visible a few paces away, standing watch over their camp while the others sleep. With none of the local townsfolk prepared to offer a Christian a bed for the night, they have been forced sleep under the stars outside the Roman walls, much to Hrothgar's vocal displeasure. "Why can't you just put your cursed cross away and shut up about it?" Their band of five had left the Red Briar encampment just a day ago, but the burly man already seemed sick of Calix. The two celtic girls, Glöyn and Muireann also sleep nearby, but, much as in his dream, it won't be long until dawn. Three long days of trekking south-east across the rolling downs of northern Wessex lie between them and Calleva, the next town on the road to Kent. Magan had instructed them to gather information on the Roman bishop's forces and defences at Durovernum. However, it was clear that Glöyn and her brother were the real reason that this small group had left ahead of the Saxon's pagan army, moving quickly and quietly cross country in search of the slaver Chad and the stolen children.

Glöyn lay quietly in her furs, wondering silently to herself how things had gone so wrong... One moment she had the beginnings of a host of warriors pledged along a parallel path to hers and now, nothing but a small band of ragtags. They had all fought to free themselves, but for how long would they keep to her path? And if that path diverged from that of Magan's? What then? Would she once again be on her own to seek for Gruffyd alone? She would, of course, do that very thing. She would not leave her little brother to the designs of some christian from Rome. These were their lands, that of the Old Gods... After nearly an hour of trying and failing to sleep, Calix suddenly jerks nearby from a dream, and she sits up with a sigh. "Trouble sleeping? Not used to being out in the wilds?" She asks with a bit more sneer in her voice than she intended.  

A cold, brisk wind rustles through Muireann's hair, her grandmother's shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders as she watches the waves beat against the foot of the northern Irish cliffs far below. The earth hums beneath her feet, it's power easing her aching heart. But only a little. She remembers placing a small rag doll in the crook of Brighid's arm, taking her place among their ancestors. Too soon, she thought. The little girl had been so full of life. Her eyes burn, stinging from the tears in her eyes. And I couldn't save her.   It had been years since her sister's death, and the pain of her memory twists in her gut like a knife. She cracks her eyes, her vision blurry from a night of restless sleep. And the tears she'd been crying.  In the cool quiet, her fingers curl around the tattered edges of her shawl. That she'd managed to hold onto it was a miracle in and of itself. She thanks the gods every day. A small piece of home. The home she can never go back to. Thatched roofs in flames, burnt stone husks where once slept families, friends. The druids had seen it coming. She had seen it coming. But too late. Half the village slaughtered, the rest in chains. She rolls over, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she stares at the dying flames, the early morning light beginning to touch the horizon. She traces a few runes in the dirt, slowly pushing herself to a seated position, hissing slightly as a dull pain lances down her leg. Muireann had injured it in the initial attack on her village. Months later, it still hadn't fully healed. She curls one knee to her chest, grimacing as she stretches the other leg out.  Staring across the fire, she gazes curiously at the others. One of which, she knew to be a Christian.  Christians, she thought, are the reason my people are dying out. They've destroyed Ireland.  And to be traveling with one......... But at this point, she really didn't have a choice.       

Calix sits slowly, almost reflexively glancing down at himself to ensure the chain around his neck with its seemingly innocuous, indefinably precious charm still sits around his neck and hadn't been torn from him in the night. He looks first to Hrothgar's snoring form and then through the predawn to Goewyn, the distaste in her tone not missed, as it hadn't been for the entirety of their journey out here. His own is noncommittal as he replies,  "Somehow, weeks of sleeping in a cage in chains got me used to it." He stands, grabbing Eleison's hilt and pulling it with him as he crosses the few steps to where Egon sits on watch so he can crouch beside him. Of all of them, it had been the Kentish warrior who had seemed the least offended by his existence.  "You can get a bit more sleep if you want. I'll watch."

Egon nods to the Frank as he approaches. His mouth stretches a yawn as a wave of exhaustion attempts to claim him, prompted by the temptation of sleep. Striking a sort-of middle ground, Egon sits next to the embers of their small fire. He pokes at the coals with a stick and a solidary flame springs to life. The flame flickers indignantly at being roused from its slumber, but begins to crackle contentedly as Egon places a few small twigs and pieces of straw next to it. With the flame fully reignited, he rolls a half-burnt log closer to the flame.  After the long silence of tending to the fire, he speaks. "Sleep does not come so easily anymore," he says, his voice quiet as to not wake the others -- though, on second glance, the only one sleeping was Magan's man, Hrothgar. "I am impressed that you were able to rest at all."

Muireann glances at the Kentish man. "It was hardly restful." Her thick Irish accent sometimes made her hard to understand, especially this early in the morning. She traces circles in the dirt with her toe peeking out from underneath the dirtied fabric of her dress. Her dirty blonde hair falls across her face as she rests her chin on her knee, and she pulls it back behind her ear with slight irritation.  

Calix rises from his crouch as Egon moves past him to tend the fire, the tip of his sweord dipping into the dirt at his side. He doesn't move to follow his fellow former slave, looking away as the fire stokes back to life beneath Egon's focus. It feels somehow a further slight on top of Goewyn's jeer; a flaw in his character to sleep poorly and another to sleep well. Somehow, beneath the Breton stars that seem to get more distant by the day, he wonders if that memory of Fabian might agree. Looking back to Egon, he opens his mouth to comment but the blonde Celtic woman does so for him, cutting his gaze her way. "No,"  he agrees, "It wasn't." He reaches for the leathern jacket he'd abandoned while sleeping, pulling it on over the tunic that had felt an insult when he'd first been brought here in chains and now feels a luxury. The movement forces Hrothgar's sleeping mass into his vision and he adds,  "Though he looks to disagree."

"There are only three kinds of men who sleep well," Egon says. "The naive man sleeps well because he hasn't seen what keeps others awake. The exhausted man sleeps well because his body simply will not continue without rest. And then...well, then there is the monster, who sleeps well because he does not see horror as horror."  He trails off, his eyes turning to Hrothgar. "I wonder which one he is," he muses aloud.  With the fire fueled again, he moves and sits near Calix. "That blade. A man who owns a sweord does not part with it lightly. I assume it was taken by the slavers?"

"A fourth," Calix snorts. "The horror itself."  He doesn't shift away as Egon moves toward him, his hand running reflexively over the pommel so the wheel that's etched there is buried in the heart of his palm. "In Brittany, yes. When Magan took it, I thought it was lost twiceover." His grip tightens as he thinks of first the beach that day, and then Theli in the fire. "It won't be taken a third."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Egon says. He gestures at Hrothgar. "And...I know you feel a stranger in a strange land. I know it's not much comfort, but you have an ally in me, as long as the god you serve is not one that makes slaves of children. Not like that cretin in Canterbury."

"We don't know for what purpose he wants them," Calix says slowly. "They're young. Unbaptized. He –" The words die in his throat as he hears himself saying them, knowing his audience isn't one who will consider it might be the truth. "Nevermind. No. My god is a shepherd, not a slaver. If it's alliance you offer, I take it gladly." He sets Eleison down beside him, glancing up at Hrothgar again. "Though some will resent you for the offer."  

Egon chuckles.  "After the last few weeks, if resentment is the only thing I have to stomach, I do believe that I can handle it."

Muireann gazes broodingly at the fire, her face gaunt with exhaustion. She looks sideways at Goewyn. "I never said thank you. For saving us." She falls silent for a long moment. "I hate them." Her voice nearly breaks, from exhaustion or emotion, it's hard to tell. Muireann isn't sure herself. 

A distant howl echoes through the trees, the wind rustling their leaves along with it. High overhead, wispy strands of grey drift across the face of the waning moon. 

A thin smile curves Calix's lips, one that speaks of mostly recognition, though some of the Saxon words feel clumsy as they turn in his head. He's just about to answer when the howl draws his attention and he pauses, gauging how far it might be. When he turns back to Egon it's with a shrug and a rise up to his knees as he moves to stand, nodding toward the women across the fire. "Everyone is awake. No point in waiting for the sun."

"I'll wake the bear," Egon says, standing and moving over to where Hrothgar lays. "Hrothgar, wake up. Time to get an early start on the day."

Hrothgar's eyes blink open and his hand tenses around the axe at his side, the hook of the beard close to Egon's ankle. He stares at the kentish man for a long moment, before mumbling something about "can't be too careful" and pushing himself wearily to his feet. "What's the rush? It's not even dawn yet," he grumbles in west saxon.

Goewyn looks away from Egon and Calix to Muireann when she addresses her. She nods and offers a sad smile. "I only wish we had been sooner. Such a life is no life."  She stares into the coals of the fire, pulling her knees up against her chest and resting her chin upon them. "Me too." Her words are low and Muireann isn't sure if Goewyn meant for the others to hear her or not. She says nothing else for a time until the others suggest moving onward. "So be it. I shall gathering my things. The quicker we move, the better. I do think we shall beat them to Canterbury, but I would if we could. I fear what the Christian man will do with the children."

"Take your pick," Egon says in Kentish. "Howls in the distance, slavers that got a head-start and travel faster than us...or perhaps just that everyone but you had already awakened." Egon takes a step back to give the saxon his space, and then returns to his patch of ground to gather up his meager possessions. A langseax, a leathern jacket, and a helm, as well as the clothes on his back -- that was what he had to his name now. His name. His false name.

Hrothgar continues to grumble, but follows suit, stretching his tattooed arms, before strapping on plates of boiled leather. "Roast them on a spit, most likely," he remarks to Geowyn in Cornish, spitting on the ground.

"Spits are saved for special axe-wielding heathens," Calix responds with a smile in his native Breton, kicking sand over the fire to douse it. To Goewyn, he adds in West Saxon,  "They will be fine, whether we catch them here or in Canterbury."

Muireann grimaces as she folds her leg beneath her to stand up. She grabs her bow, using it as a brace to pull herself into a standing position. She watches Calix kick sand on the fire, giving the large Saxon a withering look as she slings her bow across her shoulders. She ties the ends of her shawl around her neck. Picking up her quiver of scavenged arrows, she looks ahead. Not behind. Behind her was the past and the dead. Behind her was Ireland.

Egon shoots a glance at Calix, picking out the special disdain with his half-understanding.  Why? Why must you?  "Whatever they will do, we must stop it,"  he says in Kentish.  "I'd prefer it if we did not have to venture into Canterbury -- but if we must, we must."

Goewyn's eyes blaze with a sudden fury as she snarls back at Hrothgar. "Speak not of such things! Do not forget that is my little brother you speak of."  She looks up at the larger man with a challenge to keep speaking, staring him down and ignoring, for now, the words of Calix.

Hrothgar has another barb for Calix on the tip of his tongue, when Goewyn's withering look silences him. "Sorry, Glöyn," he mumbles, looking away and gathering his things more quickly.

She holds his gaze to nod at the man, accepting his apology as he turns away to gather his things. Only then does she turn to look at Calix.  "Keep your falsities to yourself. Your words betray your thoughts of us 'heathens'. You are helping me retrieve my brother, so we are allies, but to say that we are friends would not be true. Come, we are moving."  With an alacrity that none of the others can match, she stows her gear and is staring at them impatiently, with spear in hand. 

"There is nothing to betray, when I have been honest from the start," Calix replies bluntly. "Lead the way."

Banks of mist blanket the eastern horizon, making the dawn diffuse, grey and damp. Nevertheless, a wan light eventually begins to spread across the landscape as the sky turns an ever paler blue. The hike into town takes the travellers past empty fields, for the most part. Although, as time wears on, a few farmers emerge from their hovels, rising with the sun to watch the foreigners with suspicious eyes. Eventually, the Roman walls of Corinium rise up to bar further passage into the town. This early in the morning, the gates still stand closed with a sleepy watchman on the verge of dosing at his post atop the walls. He starts and straightens at the sight of five approaching warriors bearing axe, bow, spear, seax. "Halt, strangers," he calls from the rampart in West Saxon. "State your business in Corinium."

"Good day, friend," Egon says in Kentish, lending the guard a small smile from his position at the bottom of the Roman walls. "My companions and I are on the trail of some bandits that passed near here, and we are hoping to procure some horses for our journey." It wasn't technically a lie -- horses would be a boon to their mission. But that was not their main goal here -- to find more information about the area: rivers, potential hiding spots, and anything else anyone might have heard. But the guards might not take too kindly to them poking around.

"Where you bloody from, Kent or something?" The guard demands in a strong local accent, leaning heavily on his spear as he squints down at Egon. "Speak plainly man. Don't need no fancy words. You want the ealdorman, or the farrier?"

"Forgive him, he's overwhelmed by the beauty of this town you have here." Calix replies in West Saxon, shifting beside Egon. "Send us to whichever we can get to faster."

"'Aight," the guard yawns, obviously satisfied that this slightly odd-looking group of travellers is not looking to sack the town. There's a muffled thumping as he slopes down the steps to the gate and then a dull thud before the doors swing open with a creak. "Farrier's just up yonder," the guard tells them, leaning sleepily against the wall. It's only when Calix is about to pass him that something catches the eye. "Ey, what's that then?" The man demands, gesturing at the cross hanging around Calix's neck with his spear.

"Nothing of concern," Egon says as the man gestures with his spear. He does his best to sound casual, nonchalant, but he sees the suspicion in the guard's eyes and braces himself.

"Uh huh," the guard responds without conviction, not taking his eyes off of Calix. "Go about your business and do it quickly. I've got my eye on you lot!"

Calix's mouth begrudgingly closes as Egon responds before he's able to, his own retort lost. Not for the first time since setting foot on this godforsaken island has the weight of the cross around his neck been significant; a weight Simon Peter had felt once and spurned thrice. The thought of repeating those mistakes makes his palms itch, forcing his fingers to curl into themselves as he steps past the guard. "We don't have any intention of being here long."

Calix passes the guard and the man spits on the ground behind the travellers. Possibly normal behaviour, but the timing and proximity certainly give the impression that it's directed at Calix. Hrothgar loiters behind everybody else once they are inside. The heavy-set Saxon stands close to the guard on the gate, speaking too quietly to hear. The pair briefly shake hands and then both raucously burst out laughing. After a friendly pat on the back, they part ways once more and Hrothgar follows his travelling companions to the stables up ahead. The stench of manure hangs heavy in the air and a boy in his early teens can be seen mucking out the animal pens with a pitchfork. Three horses trot around in circles, braying at each other as the boy works.

Calix watches Hrothgar over his shoulder, his jaw setting as the Saxons laugh. It takes little imagination to guess at what. Not for the first time he considers his surroundings; the thought that he could hide his cross and disappear into Corinium, leave whatever this  is behind. But there's reason yet to get to Canterbury, and so long as his path runs parallel to Egon's it feels foolish to part. Forcing his attention away from the scene at the gate, he looks back to the stables in front of them, and ultimately the boy at work. "Early start," he notes in West Saxon, gesturing toward the stables. "Where can we find your master?" 

The boy straightens and leans on his pitchfork as he looks up at Calix, shielding his eyes against the ever brighter eastern light behind the stranger's head. Sweeping a mop of dark hair out of his face, the stablehand gestures over his shoulder towards the thatched building besides the horse stalls.

With a nod of thanks and a shrug back to the others, Calix heads toward the thatched building, glancing toward the wooden shutters and finding them closed. Stopping short of the door, he calls through in West Saxon, "Good morrow. You have fine horses out here."

Through the open door, a loud snoring can be heard from the shadowy interior. Upon closer inspection, a middle-aged man with a scraggy beard sits asleep in a chair with his head-lolled back and his mouth open.

Muireann, having been silently, stoically following along as they'd approached the town and subsequently been let through, slips up and peeks around the doorframe, taking in the snoring man. She purses her lips. "Looks like he's sleeping," she says in somewhat broken Mercian, about the closest to Calix's language as she can get. "Perhaps we should just take the horses." She wasn't being serious. Mostly.  

"Hey!" The boy shouts from behind them when he hears Muireann's suggestion. In his hand is suddenly a short, but very sharp looking knife. The man inside jolts awake with a start. "Wh- what's all this then?" He blusters disorientedly, rapidly blinking as he pushes himself upright.

Calix is just cutting Muireann a glance when the boy startles them and he turns quickly, hand outstretched to each of the newcomers. "Nothing. Nothing. " The emphasis is aimed at the boy. "We mean no harm. She has a poor humor. We were sent here to see about your horses." He looks from the man and back, gesturing slowly for the boy to put the knife down. " You don't need that. If we meant to take them, we would not have bothered waking your master first."

Slowly, the boy lowers his weapon and returns to the work in the yard, while the stable master stands and approaches the potential customers. "Y'got silver?" He grunts, watching them with suspicion. His eyes fall to Calix's cross.

"Some. Some as weapons." He notes the drifting eyes and shifts to pointedly look back toward the others and put his shoulder instead into the man's view. "Better, we can work. Man that size re-thatching your roof?" He nods toward Hrothgar and smiles. "Save you just in time for winter."

"A man'd have t'thatch roofs every day f'r a year to buy one 'orse, let alone five," the stablemaster grunts in return. "Any man with a blade like you carry knows that. A weapon like that'd buy four 'orses." Behind Calix, Hrothgar scowls at the prospect of being volunteered for labour like a servant. "We're warriors, not thatchers," he snaps. "You look like an honourable ceorl, sir. Please forgive the foreigner's blunders. Does your lord have any problems that he wants solved?" The stablemaster shrugs and returns to his seat. "Y'ave t'ask the ealdorman," is his thoroughly non-commital reply.

"Thank you for your time," Egon says, and turns to leave. "We'd best speak with the ealdorman, then. But we need to be quick about it."

Muireann looks at the stablemaster for a moment, her expression impassive. She turns to follow the Kent. "I don't understand," she says, once again muddling through her loose grasp of Mercian, her voice heavily accented with her native Irish. "Why would he turn down an offer of free labor? His roof won't survive through winter in that state." 

"It's about perception," Egon says. "Calix wears a sweord, which affords him a sort of status. The stableman knows this, and believes that Calix should be able to pay in silver due to this status. It's all politics -- not my favorite subject."

Muireann frowns. Silver....it wasn't something she was used to. When her village traded with the Welsh sailors, it was with goods, not...small metal coins. Things had been simple then. But the druids were gone. She was the only one left. I suppose....I'll need to learn.... "This place is strange," she mutters to herself, this time in Irish.

"He would be right, if we were in Brittany," Calix responds, following Egon out. He shoots Hrothgar a look. "Or if my manservant had been willing to play his part for one conversation. Now instead we're about to play tenfold the politics."