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| Chapter 78. The Journey Home | |
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Once outside he watched as the villagers fetched the lone oxen and yoked it to a sturdy cart. Feeling uneasy in his idleness, Mog joined in with carrying the heavy water jars between the well and the cart. When that was done, there were boxes of provisions and Denae’s sacred treasures. Sweating and panting, he stood beside the loaded cart as the most skilled fighters and hunters of the village gathered to demand that they be allowed to join the expedition. “Six of you shall go with Jenir the Guide, but the rest must remain to protect the village,” Xian finally shouted when Denae’s pleas were drowned out by the choir of persistent and enthusiastic proclamations. “They will draw straws,” Denae said into the hubbub that followed, “Those with the longest straws will go.” Maeve appeared beside him as Denae gathered the straws and each of the young men and women filed past to take their turn. She smiled sweetly up at him as he clasped her hand. “You should have awakened me,” she murmured. Mog shrugged and squeezed her fondly. “A goddess needs her sleep,” he whispered into her ear, then kissed her temple. He paused for a moment to savor the silky smoothness of her raven hair against his lips then blushed when he realized Denae was standing in front of them, watching. “I wanted you to have my staves,” Denae said, clearly touched by Mog’s display of affection for Maeve. The old woman gestured to a boy who shuffled shyly toward them bearing two long staves. One was beautifully carved from its gold shod base to its bejeweled crown. Maeve made a small gasp of wonder as the exquisitely beautiful thing was pressed into her hand by Denae. By contrast, the other staff was plain but sturdy, the trusted companion of a traveler. Mog received it in gratitude, but when his hand clasped the smooth ash wood he felt the tingle of magical energies rise to his touch. It was not as ordinary as it appeared. “May these guide and protect you well on your journey,” the kind old woman said. Then she kissed them each on the cheek and said a final benediction to carry them safely on their way. “Thank you, Denae. May the gods always smile upon you.” Denae beamed at them, but the expression quickly vanished when Ronan appeared with his worn old rucksack and battered staff. He stood squarely beside Mog and the cart. “I wish to come with you,” he said. “Your help would be welcome,” Mog said before anyone could protest. He knew that Denae was sore with the monk for attempting to lie, but Mog was grateful to the man for leading him to Maeve. Ronan nodded and flashed him a tense smile as the villagers crowded in. With only a few hours before the blazing heat of noon, they were given a hasty breakfast of warm flatbread wrapped around goat cheese and bean paste. No sooner had the food been doled out than they were in motion, guided in an enthusiastic parade toward the thorny gate and the open road. The elders pressed in to walk beside he and Maeve and offer good wishes, Xian among them. “I needed to talk to Xian,” Maeve murmured, her face tense with panic, “I should not have been allowed to sleep in so late… I kept putting it off.” He watched as Maeve stepped away from him and went to walk beside Xian. Slowing, Mog regained her hand and squeezed her fingers to offer his support for whatever she had to say. He sensed she was scared and a little ashamed of herself for not talking to the man sooner. “Xian,” she said, then hesitated, “I know this is awkward but I did not know how to tell you this. I’m sorry I have left this so long. I think I know your parents.” Xian’s normally placid face betrayed shock in the heavy silence that followed. “I might be wrong, of course,” Maeve said quickly, filling the void between them with a hasty retraction. “Why do you believe you know them? I have no memory of them. You confirmed that when you tried to enter my mind.” “It’s my intuition,” she said, “They had a son named Sean who was a necromancer. Your name sounds like Sean and your age is the same. And they have not seen their son in many years.” Stunned, the man said nothing as they strode over the hard-packed red earth. Mog sensed that the man was horrified by the idea of leaving the warmth and security of this place. This had been his home now for many years, he had even become an elder. Beyond the village he would be regarded with pity and looked upon as a freak, too crippled and wounded to be of use. At last he smiled up at her and shook his head. “I will not slow your journey by coming with you, but I bid you tell them where to find me and I will make them welcome should they visit.” “I understand,” Maeve said kindly, then kissed the man on his scarred cheek. And she did understand, for Maeve knew what it was to lose everything and perceive hope as an agonizing delusion. Perhaps she had known all along that Xian would not leave the village. She leaned into Mog, clasping his hand against her face with an expression that was at once sad and wistful. “Do you really think he’s the Gaenor’s boy?” She nodded. “I’m sure the whole clan will be here the moment you tell them,” Mog said, “He’s safer here than on the road.” “I know, but I might never see him again and I felt obliged to tell him. I had to let him choose.” “Aye, it is his choice.” ****
With eleven of them marching through the sage lands, they had very little to fear. The centaur only revealed themselves a few times, and then only to mark their land with a nature spirit before rushing off in a cloud of red dust. Mog walked hand in hand with Maeve beside the cart, his feet keeping rhythm to the songs that their youthful guardians were singing. Eventually he joined in, giving voice to an old Ascalonian work song that his new friends soon picked up and repeated, rejoicing in a new song. “Cheatin’ Thom was a scoundrel’s son, “Are all of your songs about scoundrels and booze hounds?” Maeve muttered. Mog chuckled and wrapped an arm around her as they walked. “It keeps the mind from dwelling on sore feet or an empty stomach,” he said. “I do not remember you singing songs like that at the temple. Is that how you survived after the Searing?” “Pretty much. They were lean times, but I’m sure you experienced much the same, or worse.” “Perhaps,” Maeve said thoughtfully, “but I no longer care about the past. I like how things are now. For once I am anticipating the days to come.” “Hopefully I can help you to keep it that way.” “My cottage has a spare room. It’s not that big. The room, I mean. The bed is nice though, big enough for two… for two guests. But it would just be you because I have my own bed...” She looked away, blushing painfully. Mog chuckled. “No need to be ashamed. We’ve both been alone for a while and of course we remember the times we had together. But yes, I think we should take it slow and get to know one another once more.” Maeve smiled and squeezed his hand. “I’m scared this isn’t real,” she admitted, “I am worried I am in love with a memory and not with you.” “Whatever brings you delight, will delight me, O Goddess,” he said, “I do not jest. If it is with another that you find comfort, then I will be happy for you. I am content to bask in your light for however long you choose to shine it upon me.” Maeve smiled sadly but did not move away from him as they walked. “Who am I fooling? I still love you.” “Good,” Mog laughed, “and I’m glad there’s room for me in your heart and your cottage, both.” “Room to spare.” ****
They made camp an hour before sunset near a spring. It was the last reliable source of water before they reached the scrubby forest of the foothills the next day. The little valley was lush with long grasses and reeds which the ox cropped enthusiastically while the humans made a wind break from oil cloth spread between a pair of thick cottonwood trees. The sage-scented breeze was warm and kept the mosquitoes at bay. After dinner, they shared stories until the fire died down to embers. Maeve and Mog retreated to their own small shelter of oil cloth and a nest of blankets. He had not asked her to bed down with him, but he was ecstatic when she did. Maeve curled up beside him and he drew her close, enveloping them both in a private cocoon of warmth and contentment. His hands gently stroked her arm and shoulder, soothing her as a storm of conflicting emotions crested and faded within her. Finally she rolled over to face him, her hand trembling as she traced the line of his jaw. “Kiss me,” she whispered, “please.” Mog closed his eyes as he tilted his head, his lips finding hers followed by the teasing flutter of her tongue. Her hand curled around his shoulder, drawing him closer, their bodies pressed together, and yearning as one. “We’re under attack!” “Lyssa, why do you toy with me?” Mog grumbled, silently swearing as the moment was lost. The passion drained out of him, replaced with the cold thrill of fear. Grasping for his walking stick, he staggered free of the blankets and stood ready to protect Maeve. The camp was in turmoil with shadowy figures darting through the encampment and the cries of frightened and confused people. “Surrender now!” said a grim figure backed by a half-score of his toadies. The tone of the man’s voice suggested that the only reason violence had not been unleashed upon the camp was because the speaker preferred a more personal approach. Mog heard the rustle of chain mail and saw the flutter of cloak and robe. These were more sophisticated assailants than mere bandits. It was a marauding guild group, possibly the White Mantle. Either way, they were outnumbered and hopelessly over powered. “What do you want?” demanded Mog in his best bellow. A lantern was unhooded and he squinted as the light shafted into his eyes. Stripped down to his undershirt and breeches, he hardly presented a threatening image. Nevertheless he straightened his back and held his head high, hoping his full height would at least add some measure of intimidation. “I might be outnumbered but I’ll take at least two of you with me. Who wants to be first?” “Mog? Is that you?” His stomach did a flip at the familiarity of that voice. “Army?” Suddenly the fire left his body and he nearly swooned with relief. Sure enough, his old friend stood before him clad in his finest leathers and a dark half-mask that, if it were possible, made him seem even more menacing. “Mog!” cried two women and he was almost bowled over as two bodies thudded into him, one heavy and the other feather light in comparison. “Lemmy!” Mog gasped, “Brigit!” “We’ve been worried sick about you!” Armand cried, “and you’ve been out here all this time having a camping trip?” “Well, no…” “Maeve!” Brigit cried and Mog glanced back to see Maeve rise confused and disheveled from their shared bedding. “Camping and having a little fun,” Armand snorted, “No wonder you were taking your time about it.” Mog opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out. He was utterly flabbergasted. “You might have sent us a message,” Armand continued, ripping off his mask, “You might have saved us some trouble. You know, like caring enough about your friends not to make them worry that something horrible had happened to you.” “Thank goodness you’re both alright,” Brigit said, smiling brightly. Sister Lemony was still glued to his leg. “This is so like you,” Armand continued, gathering steam for the next part of his tirade, “We’re all imaging what terrible fate has befallen you and you’re off snogging wenches and getting drunk, all without a care in the world. Well fine, see if I come bail you out next time.” “Army, he’s alive,” Brigit said, her calm voice somehow grounding the free-flowing rage that was Armand’s hallmark when he was frightened. Mog remembered it well. “Eh, I love you, too, yeh miserable lout,” Mog chuckled. Now it was Armand’s turn to be stricken dumb. “Now if you don’t mind, you’re frightening my retinue. Call Master Bei’s goons off, please.” “Alright, I’ll forgive you,” Armand grumbled, “but I’m warning you, there had better be a good explanation, and I don’t mean one of your ridiculous tales.” |
