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postsofbabel · 4 months ago

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#posts of babel #neue posts of babel #screenreader unfriendly #eyestrain

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captivesrp · 7 years ago

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Frustration. Murchadh is filled with it. None of the older tribe members will talk with him about the hunt or current politics. His information sources have been cut off. He is not allowed in the hut with the scrolls, he is not being taught new dialects, and most Gwaedwn are nervous about talking to him at all. However, Fuldryn is still giving him star-charting lessons when the skies allow it, and tonight promises to be a clear one; maybe tonight Murchadh can get some answers.

In fact, the sky is only mostly clear: occasional clouds pass over the stars and interrupt the lesson. Murchadh, using one such pause, asks, “Fuldryn, you told me once that only a few tribe members stuck with Symbre. Who were they?”

Fuldryn regards Murchadh seriously. “Myself, Noè, Arial, Máerl, Caffain, Cemedwn, Dulan, Sylbrech, Brennwgan, Gaddurac, and ol’ Hwff, of course. Oh, and Effric. By the time the other Old Gwaedwn had left, though, we were already expanding our ranks. We’ve never been below two score members. At our peak, and this was something like three or four generations ago, we numbered nearly three hundred. Anything else you need to know?”

Murchadh nods along with the list of names, not surprised by most of them. “What is the chain of command?

Fuldryn arches their eyebrows. “Everyone is an equal part in the tribe.”

Murchadh shakes his head to indicate his disagreement, and at Fuldryn’s look explains, “We are not all equal. I have to listen to and obey everyone. I want to know who I should really be listening to.”

Fuldryn’s eyes start to dance as they usually do when they enter into a sparring match of wits; Murchadh knows the look from other star-charting sessions where they had gotten lost in dialogue together. “If things really are unequal, then perhaps I do not have to share my knowledge with you.”

Murchadh smiles, springing his trap. “True, but then you are admitting you lied to me, proving me right. And if there is a chain of command, then it follows that everyone should know it so that we can have order . . . unless you like chaos?”

“The discerning tribesperson should not have to be told the hierarchy,” says Fuldryn, eyes twinkling in starlight returning to the skies. “What question do you wish to bring forward that you do not want to ask Symbre?”

Murchadh had been hoping the verbal sparring could disguise the seriousness of his avenue of inquiry, but it seems Fuldryn has seen through him. “I survive by knowing everything I can about those around me,” he says seriously. “Who to side with to stay out of trouble, who to befriend to gain protection; I have survived on wits, not muscle---unlike most of the ‘equal’ members of the Gwaedwn, who I imagine don’t need to ask sensitive questions in order to survive.”

Fuldryn looks at him searchingly. “What question must you ask for this purpose? You are a blood member of the tribe, like any other; you are safe here.”

“Not like any other.” Murchadh’s tone turns accusatory. “You know what has been going on in camp. There is unrest, especially since the death of Alaric. He is the second hunter you’ve lost, and the Gwaedwn have noticed. It doesn’t just affect us children anymore. There is tension in the village, and I would like to know where everyone stands in relation to Symbre.”

Fuldryn’s eyes are lost in the direction of the village. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve noticed.” They focus back on Murchadh. “Who have you been listening to?”

“One adult and another,” says Murchadh with a shrug. “I’m not blind or stupid. Did you think that I could not see that the rites you led for Alaric were an act to appease the tribe, not to honour the fallen? Your hunters are not worth anything to you; why should I side with powers that do not consider me valuable?”

“You were not compelled to take the oath,” mutters Fuldryn, but Murchadh pushes on:

“With those who would happily let me die to get what they want? Show me I am valued, trusted---just a little. Tell me who I can trust so that I am trusting the right people, otherwise I may be putting my life in the hands of those who would push me into the path of a charging boar.

“Do you even care? I came to you, the one person I feel I can trust for the right answers---who actually might know. If you told me who I could trust, I would believe you.”

“I will not speak against my blood-people, Murchadh---there is no quicker way to ensure a tribe’s downfall. Do not think to trap me in a war that is not yet necessary; I will take no sides nor will I draw any lines.” Fuldryn regards Murchadh for a long moment. “You know who to trust, young one. Your friends, your family---whoever that is to you. But know that if it does not mean the Gwaedwn, you will be on the wrong side when or if lines are, in the end, irreversibly drawn.” They fall silent and look up at the glittering expanse above.

Murchadh studies the tribesperson for a time, but the silence that has fallen between them is cold. Fuldryn will likely never answer his questions again.

* * *

The next day is even more isolating. By mealtime, Murchadh has still not had a real conversation. Taking his food, Murchadh heads towards a fire where he suspects he might find Symbre. He is not hopeful for much, but wants to know where he stands in her opinion. He finds the leader of the Gwaedwn nursing a mug of something hot, sitting by the fire. He nods at her, saying, “I was wondering if you were willing to share any more stories about the creature we are hunting.”

Symbre regards him coolly. “I’m surprised you’re still looking for me; I hear you’ve been dragging tales out of anyone who gives you a moment.”

Murchadh sighs and sits down a short distance from her. “I wish to capture the prey, and my father always taught me to know my quarry well if I desire a successful hunt. Is it wrong to try my best to hunt this creature, which will bring glory to my tribe?”

“Your father was a wise man,” responds Symbre. “But what more can you learn from old legend that we have not shared with you already? You know everything that is pertinent to your hunt.”

“I need to learn how this creature thinks. It knows it is being hunted, and it has always seemed to know we were coming before we even left the village. I need to know how it knows this, and then where it will likely move next, to catch it. Each time I learn a new legend I learn something new about the creature.”

“Do tell.”

Murchadh’s eyes glimmer darkly in the firelight. “The first thing I learned was that you do not need necessarily to be a child to kill the beast, only innocent of bloodshed. The second is that you can flatter it; almost every story has an element of flattery; in fact, it is usually the cause of the creature’s demise.”

“Very good,” responds Symbre. “I hope you can use this information on your upcoming hunt. Your flattery could use a little work, however---I understand you have not made many allies among your tribe as yet.”

Murchadh presses his lips together. Symbre has turned to another Gwaedwn and he knows she is finished discussing this matter with him. He walks away in a foul mood, feeling disconnected from his peers in the tribe.

* * *

Even Tyree avoids him in the next few days; Murchadh’s cousin sends him a few sympathetic glances over the next few days, but Murchadh is alone in his village duties of hunting and cleaning. He meets Asgell at the archery range one day, but she does not engage with him, packing up and leaving shortly after his arrival, saying only a few words as she passes him by.

Murchadh turns once again to the forest to find acceptance, but finds himself out of touch with it. Its sounds, smells, sights embrace him, but his instincts feel slow and his mind dull to its nuances. Five days after the first hunting group had left---now slated to return---Murchadh slips into the forest before sunrise, nodding to Ungant on watch. He finds a spot to focus; sitting down, he closes his eyes and begins a breathing exercise his father taught him. Slowly, he expands his awareness from his mind to his head and shoulders, to his torso, then to his legs. From there, he works on reading the forest around him with touch, taste, hearing, and smell. Feeling the ground he is sitting on, tasting the air, smelling the flora and fauna, listening to the minute sounds of the forest. As he does this, Murchadh is puzzled. Before, even in his first days of woodcraft, he could feel the forest being absorbed into him; he became part of the forest as it became part of him. Now, he feels his own effort alongside nature’s, to hold on, but the grasping is like a hand trying to hold onto water; Murchadh feels the forest moving through instead of in him.

It is well past sunrise when Murchadh finally feels the connection he had been seeking all day. As he gets up from the turf he feels much more alive than he has for a long time. His senses are tingling and he feels heavier. As he moves slowly back to the village, he is absorbed by the forest; he feels himself vanish in the dappled shadows as he glides over the ground.

When he arrives in the village, he hears that the hunting party has returned; he hustles to Symbre’s tent to listen to their report.

“. . . we were two days out and hadn’t seen the ancient guardian yet---the big tree marking the end of Crow-watcher’s riddle,” Cydwag is saying as he enters. “We camped in the early evening, as we didn’t want to encounter the ‘fell wisdom’ that the riddle told us to beware of after dark. I went hunting and . . .” Her eyes flicker to Ffrewgí and back to Fuldryn, who seems to be leading the inquiry. “Both Ffrewgí and I experienced something that night; something weird. It might have been the creature---anyway, we don’t really remember what it was, only that it was something incredible. The next day . . .”

Murchadh listens closely as the hunter describes the remainder of the expedition; Ashrille contributes a brief chapter where she and Wyddryr---who Murchadh notices is not present in the tent---had set off in the night to search for the creature by the riddle-marker of the ancient tree. Wyddryr had been seriously wounded by a monster there, which explains his absence.

After Cydwag has detailed the group’s trip home, Ashrille tells Fuldryn that Cydwag had claimed to have seen Archora the night she and Ffrewgí had encountered the mysterious presence. Neither Ffrewgí nor Cydwag seem keen to discuss this portion of their experience; understandably, thinks Murchadh, but that Cydwag saw at least a representation of a living Archora makes him wonder about the hand that had been on the spear in the center of the village.

After a few more questions from Fuldryn, the hunting group is dismissed. Murchadh is thoughtful as he leaves the tent. It seems like the creature is getting bolder; Murchadh expects it really had been the creature Cydwag and Ffrewgí had encountered, which means it made an effort to speak to them. Interesting. Murchadh does not think the creature is evil, but it must have its own goals, and who can say what such goals might entail.

Murchadh sees Ffrewgí, head down, walking towards the captives’ complex. He catches up with him. “How are you doing?” Murchadh asks.

Ffrewgí responds darkly, “I can track a hunter in the dark now, if that’s what you mean.”

“I was meaning how you’re holding up. It has been rough for you. I want to help, if I can,” Murchadh responds gently.

“Do you think it was Archora? That Cydwag saw?”

Murchadh pauses to think. “I don’t know if it was Archora or not, but I think it means she is alive, if nothing else.”

“I don’t know,” says Ffrewgí quietly, but Murchadh thinks the boy is standing a little straighter.

* * *

The next morning, Murchadh and his hunting group are roused for their hunt. Crow-watcher gives them their riddle in the village this time around, outside of the outfitting tent where they receive their equipment. Murchadh leads Ainsley, Anwen, and Heulwen off in the direction indicated obviously in the first stanza of the riddle. He feels the eyes of the mystic follow them all the way to the edge of the woods but does not give him the satisfaction of a backwards glance. Murchadh wonders, though, how much of his dreams can Brân Crow-watcher detect. The thought causes Murchadh to shiver.

The day goes by with little event. Everyone keeps to themselves. Camp is set up, people go to sleep. The next morning, too, is quiet. Ainsley seems a little absent when he comes back to the camp from a morning supply hunt, but does not open up. By midday, they have traveled a good distance and step out of the forest onto highland plain. They cross a disused footpath while still in view of the forest fringe; a marker mentioned in the riddle. On its far side, they take a short break, and Murchadh is startled to realize that he knows this place. Despite the cool air, a heat shimmer forms along the bare ground and Murchadh suddenly sees forms passing along a well-trodden highway, their shapes indistinct. Before they can form up fully, Murchadh shakes his head and they disappear, leaving beneath their feet nothing but a thin dirt track almost lost in gorse and heather. He can hardly identify which of his worlds is real anymore, but he knows he needs to focus on this one.

By nightfall, they can see the shadowy line of a high bluff half a day’s-journey to the east. Somewhere along is a waterfall, the end of their riddle; Murchadh can already hear it faintly in a stirring breeze. They set up camp; tomorrow is time enough to search the area. That night, Murchadh is drawn into a deep sleep.

* * *

Murchadh wakes as if pulled up from a sea of fog. As he collects his bearings, he realizes that he still has a short leg and a curled arm; he is disappointed by this for some reason. He stands, looks about. He sees near him another version of himself, a hunter latticed with scars and carrying a collection of weapons. Behind that Murchadh, another, unscarred and whole. Murchadh realizes that he is in the middle of a small audience of versions of himself---not just versions, either; the other members of the crowd are as much himself as he is, but from different times and places. Many of those around him are nearly indistinguishable from him, but he can somehow sense their differences of experience, emotion, perception.

Another Murchadh steps onto a small wooden stage in front of the audience; Murchadh somehow knows that this is not actually himself from any time or place, though it looks and moves precisely as he does. This Murchadh-not-Murchadh motions for the crowd’s attention and begins to orate in a traditional style of legendry.

“Every creature lives within two realms, and each realm is bordered by naught but the thinnest wall. The first realm a creature knoweth is Within. This be the realm of dreams; it is the first to be known by our kind, and sooth, it is the first forgotten. The second realm a creature knoweth is Without. This is the realm of the crawling creatures, those who art chained, in which we live. The realm Within is that of the birds and beasts of the air; we cannot live there without sacrifice, for verily our kind cannot dwell fully in two worlds at once. For one of our kind, to live Within and travel the red pathways is to lose grasp of the realm beyond that thinnest wall, and to drink the fluid of dreams is to lose the stomach to eat Without.”

Murchadh focuses on the words, burning them into his memory. There is something here he needs to figure out. He does not doubt this is somehow a vision from the Gwaedwn’s creature. The question is, why?

The Murchadh-not-Murchadh is suddenly looking right at him. “The dark cat killeth not Without, Murchadh. It dwelleth Within, and killeth by drawing you to it. Its followers feeleth not the wind Without, forsooth have they chosen the red paths and feel the passage of visions instead. Their battle is a lure.”

This resonates with Murchadh. He recalls battles in the dream-world, how he cannot be killed nor kill his enemies there. But the danger . . . why did his golden friend not warn him of it? Can he truly lose himself to that realm? Murchadh remembers how odd it had been to feel the forest move through him, beyond him, the other day, and how long it had taken for him to rediscover the connection that had once been innate to him. There is definitely truth here; Murchadh just needs to figure out why he is being warned.

The thing on the stage continues, “There art gifts outside the Blood, Murchadh. Do not thou let the feel of flight draw thee away from the gifts of the earth, for upon earth is where thy friends dwell.”

With those last words Murchadh feels the world fading around him. He looks at the warrior beside him, who returns his gaze and nods at him with a smug smile faint upon his face, and then everything disappears into blackness.

* * *

Murchadh wakes with a start. The stars are bright in the sky; it has only been a movement since the moon rose. Murchadh walks softly away from camp and gazes intently at the stars. The creature is close---it must be---but Murchadh knows he can do nothing; he has blood on his hands.

What is the creature’s motive? Why send him a dream? Murchadh loses himself in the stars wheeling above him, returning to sleep closer to dawn than dusk. Just as he lies back on the soft highland moss, a familiar shape blacks out the stars directly above him. Murchadh rests his head back and wonders if he is seeing through the veil or if his golden friend really has a presence in this realm. Turning that thought over, Murchadh falls asleep.

Murchadh wakes the others early the next morning and outlines the plan for the day: to search for the creature near the waterfall after they break their fast. Heulwen and Anwen head off in different directions to forage a quick meal, Ainsley disappears below a ridge hunting for some meat, and Murchadh is left alone to start a fire. Heulwen returns first, with handfuls of autumn berries. The sun is well clear of the horizon when Ainsley returns. Anwen is late returning, and Murchadh becomes concerned. He gathers his things, strapping on his archery brace. Heulwen accompanies him as he finds the missing girl’s trail without much trouble and follows it east, towards the waterfall. He pushes forward, quicker and quicker, Heulwen pattering along behind him. Then he sees her, along the banks of a stream a stone’s throw down a slope from them.

Suddenly remembering Anwen’s recent coldness towards him, Murchadh comes to a stop and suggests Heulwen go and check on her. As the tiny girl heads down the decline, Murchadh sits between two taller shrubs, breathing in and seeking to center himself here as he does in the woods. The land is wilder here, more uncontrollable. He feels the wind crack through the dry twigs of the shrubs, looks up absently and watches ragged clouds race each other towards the northern horizon. An eagle circles high above him. Slowly, Murchadh can feel his surroundings absorb into him---and then through him; again, the connection is transient, unwilling to remain in him. But it is better than the other day. He sighs and stands, moving to where Heulwen and Anwen are.

“Are you okay?” he asks Anwen as he approaches.

Anwen looks dazed. “Yes,” she starts, but a confused look crosses her face. “Yes, I am okay.”

“What happened?” Murchadh inquires gently.

“I wanted to be alone . . . and---I think---” Anwen loses her thought and struggles to grasp onto words. “There was something.”

Murchadh suggests they make their way back to camp, where they all have breakfast around a fire started by Ainsley. Then Murchadh asks Ainsley and Heulwen to look for tracks by the stream they found Anwen, thinking there was something suspicious about Anwen’s responses---alongside his dream, he has a feeling the creature is involved. When they are gone, he moves next to Anwen. “Hey,” he starts, “I know you don’t like me much right now, but I---” he pauses, searching for words. “Well, I want to help you if I can. I know losing someone is tough.”

Anwen regards him unseeing for a long moment. Focus comes slowly to her eyes. Eventually, she starts, as if just realizing that he is waiting for a response. “Um---thanks. I . . . I’m sorry I haven’t---” she falters and starts again. “You helped me so much, when Alaric was sick, and . . . I just---pushed you away. I’m sorry.”

Murchadh looks at her softly. “It’s okay. I know how hard it can be. When my father died I pushed my entire tribe away---permanently.” He pauses to think. “What is the best way for me to help you now? I know something happened to you this morning; the creature gave me a dream last night.”

“A dream?”

“Yes, it gave me some advice.” Murchadh considers something. “Regarding what, it would take a while to tell you. I can tell you later. Right now, I just want to make sure you are okay. What happened? At least, what can you remember feeling, seeing---anything like that. If you met the creature, like the others did, you probably won’t remember much---just enough to have lots of questions,” he adds wryly.

Anwen looks unsettled. “Other people have seen it, too?”

“The last group,” explains Murchadh. “Cydwag said she saw something and so did Ffrewgí, but the most they could remember was a light, or something. How about you?”

“I don’t remember what I saw. But there was something there and it . . . talked to me. About Alaric, and how I miss him.”

“Did it say anything unexpected?”

She considers the question for a moment. “It knows that we’re hunting it.”

“Yes, it probably does.” Murchadh smiles. He allows the silence to rest for a moment, then, “Is there anything you would like to tell me? Anything I am doing wrong, or anything you just . . . need to get off your chest?”

Anwen is quiet for a moment. “Did you get to know Alaric much?” she asks.

“He never wanted to talk. I wish I could have known him better.”

Anwen looks down and whispers, “I really miss him.”

Murchadh moves closer to her and carefully puts his arm over her shoulder. “Tell me about the man you knew.”

Anwen takes a deep breath and sighs. She then begins to tell Murchadh about Alaric: who he was, how he struggled, and how he died. The sun has dried the drew from the leaves by the time her words are exhausted. Murchadh lets silence reign for a few moments, then suggests they join Heulwen and Ainsley in the search even if they know the creature will not be found.

From the first hunting group’s report, Murchadh assumes there will be no tracks to find and, as he and Anwen arrive at the streambank his guess is proven right. For the sake of their own report, he figures they should all make an effort nonetheless. Ainsley and Heulwen have combed the near bank and up the incline by the time Murchadh and Anwen join them, so Murchahd suggests they scour both banks all the way to the waterfall. Anwen and Ainsley hop the thin waterway and trace paths there while Murchadh and Heulwen tackle the near bank. It is high noon by the time they arrive at the waterfall. An incredible roaring fills Murchadh’s ears; the fall rises higher than he can see at its base and is as wide as ten people abreast. Despite the glittering mist, it is surprisingly warm, and Murchadh suggests they stop by the pool to cool down and hydrate.

While his companions are refreshing themselves, Murchadh moves to the rockface beside the waterfall. He leans his forehead against the rock and tries to feel the land around him again. This time it immerses him. The sound of the waterfall rushes through him, washing his mind and soul clean. The solid rock allows him to feel the vibrating pulse of the land around him. He breathes it in, and the feeling holds inside him. He opens his eyes and sees prints by his feet, leading down to the pool; the cloven hoofed prints of a great stag. Murchadh does not know why he had not seen them before. He kneels to feel the grit in which a print is formed. His fingers brush the gravel, but the print remains untouched; he realizes suddenly that its shape glows slightly. Murchadh looks down at the pool, sees the tracks hovering on the surface of the water---then they vanish.

“Well,” mutters Murchadh to himself, “it makes sense: magical creature, magical tracks.”

The hunting group explores the area for a few movements; Murchadh chooses to keep his vision to himself. Long before dusk, they head back to their camp for a leisurely dinner and early sleep. In the morning, after they eat a foraged breakfast, they begin their journey back, and the two days of their trek pass without notable event---even Murcahdh’s dreams are stilled.

They arrive in the Gwaedwn village with light still in the sky and report to Fuldryn, Logain, and Symbre in the chief’s tent. Murchadh takes the lead in the retelling of their experiences, but the others chime in occasionally. Fuldryn asks him about his dream.

Thinking they already suspect his experience with dreams, Murchadh explains without hesitation, “I was with a bunch of versions of me from different points of my life. A copy of us stepped out onto a stage and warned me to be careful how much time I spend walking in my dreams---that if you spend too much time across the veil you lose substance on this side of it. The world within versus the world without.”

“Why might you need that warning?” Fuldryn inquires.

Murchadh looks them straight in the eye. “Crow-watcher may not be the only dreamer in our tribe. In my dreams, too, I am whole; life is better without . . .” he lifts his curled arm, “without the gimp. Anyway,” he says, jumping back into the narrative of their hunt, “we reached the waterfall, but there were no physical signs of the creature.”

“No physical signs?” asks Fuldryn with a hint of an edge. “What about signs that aren’t physical, dreamer?”

Murchadh smiles. “I saw a vision of large stage tracks by the fall. They were spectral; I could not alter them, and they seemed to glow. But then they faded. I doubt they were the tracks of the creature but merely part of the game it is playing.”

“Very interesting,” remarks Fuldryn. “And they simply appeared to you?”

“No,” says Murchadh. “I was taking some time at the waterfall to center myself, to sync with the environment, and was thinking about the creature---what it knows about us, how it has been playing with us since the first hunt.”

Fuldryn’s lighten with sparks of humour. “No vision of birds, or bird spirits?”

“That was all you saw?” interjects Symbre.

“Then we turned back and returned here.”

A silence falls in the tent as the adults exchange significant looks. Murchadh waits to be dismissed. Finally, Logain ushers them out and closes the tent flap behind them. Murchadh heads back to his own tent, for the first time glad that no one in the village has been talking to him. He is wanting to have a very serious conversation with his friend on the other side of the veil; there are some answers he needs.

#murchadh #chapter ten

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