The Highwayman

23

Walking-Awkwardly-in Place Bransen stood in the growing darkness outside Chapel Pryd. At just under five and a half feet he was smaller than most men, and since he could not stand straight, he seemed even shorter. His battered, bony frame barely topped a hundred and twenty pounds, making him closer in weight to the average woman than man. His hair hung long and black and his beard was scraggly, unkempt whiskers dotting his chin and cheeks, along with splotches of angry-looking hives. The unique and purplish birthmark on his right arm had not diminished, yet another mar on a body so full of imperfection.

His teeth were straight and white, his best feature, but they were rarely seen, for Bransen didn't smile often. Every day of every week led him on the same journey through Chapel Pryd to the river. Every night found him in his underground chamber, whose walls were smooth and unmarked-as the monks had moved him to another room and regularly inspected his walls.

Only three things sustained Bransen: his memories of the Book of Jhest, whose words he recited in his mind every day as he went about his chores; the conversations and lessons of the brothers in the room above him, particularly when they used the formal speech of ancient times as they read stories of legendary heroism and valiant deeds; and finally, the few scraps of mostly illegible parchments that Brother Reandu had generously obtained for him, pages ripped from old and decrepit tomes and errant works produced by tired brothers. Reandu hadn't been able to teach Bransen any more than the basics of this form of writing, but playing with those pages and trying to make sense of the words had greatly benefitted the curious young man, at least in relieving the boredom of his life.

It was the Book of Jhest, transcribed in his mind, that truly sustained him.

Especially at moments like this. These few minutes each day, after his last trip to the river, afforded Bransen the privacy and opportunity to further explore those words of wisdom implanted in his mind.

Very slowly, Bransen visualized his chi, starting at his forehead. He moved his internal eye down the line, collecting all the scattered flashes of life energy as he went. His lips stopped quivering, the drool held back. His head stopped lolling and settled in balance. His shoulders straightened and his arms stopped twitching and flailing. He couldn't see it, but the red splotches that so marred his face disappeared, although the birthmark on his right upper arm did not.

He took a deep and calming breath as his inner eye moved down the line between his lungs and to his belly.

Bransen stood perfectly straight.

Bransen stood perfectly steady.

Slowly, he lifted his arms before him, then above his head. He brought them down to his sides as he rooted his feet into the ground. In that moment, Bransen, the boy they called Stork, was so strong, and he believed that he could hold his ground and footing even if Laird Prydae charged into him!

The young man took a few strides forward-not awkward and stiff-legged strides but real steps, powerful steps, balanced steps. "I am the son of SenWi and Bran Dynard," he said, and he did not stutter. "I am the child of Garibond, the boy he loves, the boy who loves him."

A wobble of Bransen's hip belied his calm posture. The moment of clarity was quickly passing, and a wave of exhaustion was following.

In another few moments, he was just Stork again, stuttering and gangly, drooling all over himself. But beneath that slimy and shiny covering and those crooked and twitching jaw muscles, Bransen was smiling.

Every day, he escaped the bonds of his infirmities. Only for a moment, perhaps, but that moment was more than he had ever dared to hope.

One day, he mused, he might tell Brother Reandu of his secret, and tell him in a voice strong and stable.

Perhaps that fantasy would take place, but Bransen remembered all too well the monks' reaction to his writing the Book of Jhest on his walls. He remembered the panic and the anger; and though he had not been punished, he saw the flash of hate and outrage in Bathelais's eyes, the implication and threat all too clear.

But he wanted to tell someone, and Reandu was probably his best friend. Or maybe he would get stronger, and maybe he would learn to sustain the power offered by his forcefully composed chi for longer periods-forever perhaps-and then he could go to Garibond and show him.

That was Bransen's deepest wish and hope: to return to his beloved Garibond, not as Stork but as a whole man. Wouldn't Garibond be proud of him! And if he could become whole, even if he were to continue working for the monks, he should be able to find enough time each week to go back and visit his beloved Garibond!

The young man picked up the empty chamber pots and staggered toward the chapel's back door, his simple dreams sustaining him through each labored step. "Has he spoken at all today?" There was no missing the contempt in Master Bathelais's tone, a simmering revulsion that seemed to be growing almost daily.

"No, master," replied Brother Reandu. "Father Jerak sits, staring into emptiness. It is almost as if he is looking at the past."

"He is, and seeing events as if they are only now unfolding. Last week, he demanded that I go to Laird Pryd to insist that he ease the burdens of those working on the road."

"The road?" Brother Reandu echoed, and then he grew even more startled as he added, "Laird Pryd?"

"It is an argument twenty years old," Master Bathelais explained.

"It is good that the masters at Chapel Abelle saw fit to convey the powers and title of master upon you, dear brother," said Reandu. "If we were at the discretion of Father Jerak now-"

"Father Jerak has no discretion," said Bathelais, and when Reandu started to balk at the bold statement, he held up his hand. "I say that with great sadness, brother. Long have I considered Father Jerak my friend-more than my friend. He has been as a father to me in more than Church ways."

Brother Reandu nodded. Father Jerak had ruled Chapel Pryd wisely and compassionately for many decades.

"You will need to formally announce your position as presiding father of Chapel Pryd very soon," Brother Reandu advised. "Our superiors offered you this at your discretion."

Bathelais rocked back on his heels. "You ask me to unseat my beloved friend."

"Will Chapel Pryd survive the weeks, months, even years we may have to wait for him to go and sit with Blessed Abelle? Master, Rennarq whispers in Laird Prydae's ear in favor of Bernivvigar even as the people shout the same, all the more loudly every day."

Bathelais's look turned icy.

"The Samhaists had more than a thousand people gathered at their bonfire last night." Bathelais winced at that.

"The people are angry," Reandu went on. "How many men are dying in the south? How little have they to eat, and less now that Laird Prydae has been forced to pay taxes to Laird Delaval."

"We are not responsible for the policies of Laird Prydae."

"But neither are we fulfilling our promises to the people of Pryd. We cannot heal their illnesses when so many of our resources are caught up in the greater issues of the holding. We cannot continue to tell them that our God is a benevolent God when their sons, husbands, and fathers die in the south. We cannot continue to tell them that our God is a bountiful God when their stomachs pinch with hunger."

"What would you have me do to alter the realities of our life in these dark days?"

"We are in need of a stronger voice in Chapel Pryd, with no confusion. Retire Father Jerak with all honor and respect, and speak out with a voice bold and full of conviction."

"And what will this voice say?" There was no missing the skepticism in Master Bathelais's tone.

"Speak out against the policies of Laird Prydae," Reandu pressed. "Against the conscription and the taxes. Against the suffering of the common folk. Bernivvigar embraces that suffering and says it will make the people more prepared for their ultimate fate. Are we any different from the Samhaists if we remain silently by the side of an oppressive laird?"

Bathelais's eyes flashed with anger for just a moment. "We are here at the sufferance of Laird Prydae," he reminded. "Prydae understands that if Laird Delaval is not successful in his campaign against Laird Ethelbert, then Ethelbert will annex Pryd Holding."

"And Laird Delaval will do the same if he wins," Reandu argued. "He already has, in everything but name."

"Name is an important factor to a man like Laird Prydae."

"Is that what all this is about, master? The pride of one man? It is well known that Laird Prydae was ready to throw his sword to the side of Laird Ethelbert when he believed Ethelbert meant to place him in the line of succession of Ethelbert Holding. It is only because of Ethelbert's rejection, since the line will now end with the gelded Prydae, that our laird saw Delaval's offer as more tempting. And even that offer calls for the annexation of Pryd by Delaval upon the end of the line of Pryd!"

"You involve yourself too much in politics, brother."

Reandu was a bit taken aback by the tone of warning clear and present in that statement. "The matters of politics are the only reality the people of our congregation know," he said.

"I do not recall Laird Prydae asking our opinion, brother."

"Then what is our purpose?" Reandu blurted, but his bluster dissipated quickly under the threatening scowl of Master Bathelais. Reandu suddenly found his breath hard to come by, as so many implications of his continuing resistance flashed across Bathelais's eyes. Fear, frustration, and anger all rolled together within Reandu, gathering into a single, tangled ball that left him speechless.

"Go to your duties," Master Bathelais instructed. "If you truly wish to help me now, then help me find a way to positively distinguish us from the Samhaists. I will take your words concerning Father Jerak under serious advisement, as I believe that you might be correct in your observation. Father Jerak cannot openly oppose Bernivvigar at this time. Father Jerak cannot properly clean himself at this time! But I warn you, and only this once, beware your words against Laird Prydae. I prefer a tentative hold on the people of Pryd to no hold at all, brother, and your indignation is a sure way to the expulsion of the Church of Blessed Abelle from Pryd Holding."

Reandu continued to reel in unfocused anger and frustration, and could barely mouth out, "Yes, master," as Bathelais walked away.