For the wet chill in the air, the fog hung low and crept across the ground as dusk wrought all gray in the village under Hollon Castle. Little John was meant to return home before the sun set, yet he stayed in the street to watch an odd procession. The brothers of the cathedral, chanting low, had packed their possessions in three horse-drawn carts and were leaving the village. Hoods drawn down, the monks spoke to none as they marched, and slowly, the streets became empty and silent but for their cantos.
“Little John! Night is nigh and you are playing in the street?” The voice was that of Big John, the leather-worker.
“Father, look! Where are the good brothers going?”
Big John watched as the last monk passed him by, Brother Mathius, the man who had seen the restless King Damian after his death. The brother drew back his hood and nodded to Big John, meeting his eyes for an instant before continuing. Swallowed by the mist, the procession disappeared, leaving behind only the echoes of its chant.
“Come, we must return home. Evil flies by night.”
Taking his son by the hand, Big John hurried through the streets to his own dwelling, the back room of his shop. Old John, his father, was sitting by the fire and carving. Having no other light but that from the hearth, most of the room was filled with a soft, warm glow, while shadows danced in the corners.
“You found him, eh?” the old man asked, not looking up from his work.
“Yes, he was in the street, but that is not what concerns me. The monks have left Hollon.”
Old John closed his eyes and sighed. He motioned for his grandson to sit at his feet by the fire. “I believed they would leave, but I did not want it to be.”
“Grand Da, why did the good brothers go?”
“Little John, you do not remember, for you were yet too young, but Hollon once had another king.”
“What about lords Petrik and Fralis and the good sirs of the Pride?”
“Listen, boy. Once a king named Damian was the ruler of our land. He and Lady Katera, another who has since gone, bade the brothers of the monastery to be the Scribes and keepers of history. Ever since that time, they have kept the Book of Hollon, and in it write the truth. Now, the events of court have forced them to leave this land, and I can understand why they have done this.”
“I believe they will seek refuge in Righen,” Big John said, as he began stitching the sole of a boot, “Lord Sepon has made it known that enemies of the Pride are welcome in his fair land.”
“Father, where is Righen? When Squire Crawler comes to speak in the square, he tells us that Lords Petrik and Fralis say that there is no true land but Hollon, and that beyond the dangerous Outlands are naught but dens of cruel barbarians. And if the brothers go there, who will write the Book of Hollon?”
The men met eyes, and Big John acquiesced to his father’s unspoken query. “Of the first matter, Righen is a kingdom ruled by Lord Sepon, a just and honorable man, and it is a week’s march beyond the Outlands. It is a civilized land, and as for Squire Crawler, discount what words you hear from him, for he has earnestly earned his name; he crawls about the ground liken unto vermin to earn praise from whichever master rules. The Book of Hollon, I assume, went with the brothers on their exodus to Righen. There, the brothers will be able to scribe the truth and not fear the Pride interfering.”
Silence reigned for a quarter of an hour while the men worked and the boy watched the fire. The cold night, bayed at first, roared in with the wind, loudly throwing open the thick wooden door. Little John started at the sound and his father got up to re-latch the door.
“Father, I dreamed again about the demons and that man.”
“Was it the same as before?”
“Yes.”
Old John stopped carving. “What man?”
“Do you not remember, Grand Da? The evil knight that was shamed in the square, I dreamed that he was there and he was dressed in such white armor that it shone. The kings and their knights turned into black demons with red eyes, and they struck at that man with their swords of fire. Then I saw him in a boat sailing down a river and going far away, and the demons chased him in a dark cloud of smoke. I was afraid that they would catch me, but the white knight shouted to me not to fear.”
“Da, he saw the shaming and stoning of Sir Tiernan,” Big John explained to his father.
“I asked Samson why they were hurting the knight, but Lord Petrik heard me. When he came to the crowd, I kneeled and put my head down, just like I had been told, because he is a king. He told me that knight was mad, and had many dealings with demons so that he and his evil brothers could destroy Hollon. Lord Petrik said I should not fear, for as long as I should be loyal to my rulers and land, such punishment would never be mine.”
“This happened in the dream?”
“No, it really was so. I have spoken with a king!”
Old John shook his head. “If such is the state of this land that the king threatens children, then it shall not be long before I leave for Righen.”
“Da, do not speak of such things!”
“Boy, it is the truth, and you know that if you yourself had the courage in you, you would have spoken against the Pride when they killed Damian, when they shamed Tiernan, or when they caused you, your son, and all of Hollon to starve!”
“I heard no such words from you!”
“I spoke, but who listens to an old man? This land has fallen from the grace in which it was founded, and we have all been party to it, even by inaction. I remember the bright days of Hollon, long before the darkness of the brutish Pride.”
Big John sat again and returned to his work. “No matter my belief, should I speak a word, my fate would be written. If that merits me a coward, than I confess it. Not all men are so brave as the Brothers Noble. Why, after what was done to Sir Fainden…”
“Son, what was done to Fainden?”
“The Pride made it known that they intended to burn his manor and kill the serfs who lived there. Recall that while his servants accompanied Sir Fainden to Righen, he bade that those who worked his land should live in his manor, that it should be theirs. When the valiant knight was told of the deeds of the Pride, he rode to Hollon to save those who had served him so faithfully.
“When he reached his manor, he discovered that in fact the plan had been a trap, and the Pride awaited him. A great crowd had gathered, and when Sir Fainden tried to convince them of the corruption of the Pride, he found that they had been turned against him, and they believed only the words of their rulers. Even the loyal serfs had been made to doubt, and all mocked the shamed knight. I believe that if Lord Sepon had not been in Hollon with him, Sir Fainden would have been killed.”
“Such cannot continue! Will not a day pass without pain and torture?”
“Calm yourself, Da. These matters are not ours, for we are but farmers and craftsmen, not knights of the realm.”
With a great sigh, Old John drove his knife into the thick arm of the wooden chair and placed his carving on the floor. “We are the people of Hollon, and every matter is ours, or it should be.”
“Father, can I be a knight of the realm when I am strong?” The men had thought Little John asleep by the fire, yet he sat up, amusing himself by tearing bark from a small tinder-stick.
“Little John, why would you wish to be a knight?” his grandfather asked.
“If one is a knight, all the people want to hear of your deeds and matters. If I were to be a knight, the Pride would take heed of me, perhaps even allowing me to ride in their ranks should I prove loyal. As well, if I were a knight,” Little John hesitated, “there would be no time I should sleep hungry.”
“My son, there shall come a day when the people of Hollon will no longer starve, I promise you!”
“That day is the day we flee to Righen,” Old John whispered.
“Then I trust you have not yet heard the proclamation, Da?” The old man shook his head. “This day Sir Rhyer has declared Righen but a renegade province of Hollon, thus falling under the law and will of the Pride. I believe they mean to conquer the kingdom of Lord Sepon.”
“Why? Can they not bear to see others living free and not under their yoke?”
“It will be an even match, for I have just heard from Samson that the brave Sirs Jarib and Ivan have joined the court of Righen.”
“Father, who are Sirs Jarib and Ivan? Are they mad as Sir Tiernan, or cruel as Sir Fainden?” the boy asked.
“Little John! You must drive from yourself the notion that all said by the Pride is the truth. Every coin has two sides, and in like does the world. Sirs Jacob and Ivan were knights of Hollon long ago during the reign of King Damian, yet they roamed to the Far Lands beyond the Outlands on quest.”
“Yes, and upon their return, they learned of the murder of their liege, the rape of their land, and the plight of their people. Thus, they have gone to Righen to serve their old friend, Lord Sepon,” spoke Big John, finishing the tale. “Now Righen has four knights in service to its court, while Hollon has the Pride.”
“I fear Squire Crawler will soon be knighted, for his masters give him much power. Should such occur, I would stay not a day more in Hollon, and many would join me.”
“Do not leave, Grand Da! This land is good and strong, and so long as the Pride leads, none can bring ruin upon us!”
“Boy, you are yet young and know nothing of the running of the world. You believe Hollon is pure, but you have nothing against which to measure it. So blinded have you been by the false glory of the Pride that you follow them as surely and as foolishly as a dog. Little John, you will one day be a man, and thus you must learn to think for yourself as does a man.”
“Da, we should not be speaking of all of this. Perhaps matters are hard now with winter coming, yet should the Pride hear of our treachery…”
“Let them come then, if that is their aim. If an old man and the village leatherworker are such a threat to the kingdom with their words and ideals, let the Pride come and do to us what they would. I am no longer afraid.”
“Grand Da, I heard Lord Petrik say that Sir Tiernan wishes to return to Hollon because he- ”
“Silence! Speak no further ill of Sir Tiernan. We here are blessed, for the Pride bears us no enmity, but I doubt it has been as painless for Sirs Tiernan and Fainden and Lord Sepon. Thus far, they have stood alone against their enemies and survived, yet none follow even when their hearts tell them so. Out of some twisted belief, Lord Petrik wishes to be seen as a dark, tragic hero, yet all his machinations have only made his enemies into the very thing he would be. The great crime of Lord Petrik is known to all, and such is punishment enough for now.”
Little John threw his tinder-stick into the fire and found another to play with. “What has Lord Petrik done?”
“Such is not for children to hear, my son,” Big John finally said, after Old John fell silent and would not answer.
“I have heard that the Pride now has learned dark arts to control the clouds, moon, and stars. There is nothing of our lives which they do not rule, and anything we might do would not effect anything in any way. The people of Hollon are trapped, and if your beliefs, John, are common, than all have willingly stepped into that trap.”
“Be that true, then I fear there is nothing that might be done. It would be folly to revolt against them, yet cowardice to do nothing. Of the two, I chose the lesser evil and should be branded a coward.”
“No, put aside for a moment what you believe. Listen to me, the Pride only has power when the people believe they do. Since you and others support them for the thought of their might, remember that if all believed them to be weak, so should they become,” Old John replied.
Big John tightened the stitch and tied it off, then began working the underside leather around the seam. “That, surely, is madness. None would follow me or any other in believing against the Pride. They are the only ones to lead us, and so we must do their bidding. Theirs is the power and we are but the servants to their greatness. There is no escape to be had.”
Little John had truly fallen asleep by the hearth, and Old John watched the fire for many moments before answering in a low voice. “There is Righen.”
“Perhaps, yet I cannot leave this land. It was here that I was born, here I have lived, and here I shall one day die. I have heard that when his brothers rescued Sir Tiernan from the cross, he re-christened Hollon to be Malentor. If that were truly the matter, it would be simpler for me, but the Pride still call this land Hollon, and for that long as it remains, so shall I.”
“And of my grandson? Will you wait until he dies of starvation or is slaughtered by the Pride during a purge? Little John is but a child and so is innocent and cares nothing for the wars fought in the shadows, why should he be one to suffer?”
“There may yet come a day when I send him to Righen, but that day is not here. As for myself, I shall wait and see the way of things once spring comes. This winter will be harsh, that is true, and many will doubtless die, but I will survive, if only to feel again the warm sun.”
“What of the words of Dame Aaran?”
Big John shook his head. “She was mad as well as a witch of the black arts, we cannot take her words as truth.”
“There is much you do not know, John. I remember being young and sitting at the knee of my own Grand Da while he told to me what had been told to him when he was but a boy. This land is old, much older than the name Hollon, and the old ways and god still exist, yet hidden. Below Hollon Castle and the Midnight Tower are the catacombs, and they have been there since before any history is written. Dame Aaran spoke the name Almeranth, a name that has been long forgotten, but has not gone unheard.”
“Those are but legends, Da. The past is gone and we are living now. All that came before has gone, and I do not believe in demon nor spirit; let the church deal with them.”
“Believe what you wish. The scribes have gone from here, as have the last of the valiant and their kin. Before I die, I shall see the fair fields of Righen, and know the wind against my face. I was free once, long ago, and I shall be free again!”
Sighing, Old John pulled his knife from the arm of the chair and returned to his carving. Night drew on, untempered by the fire and the room with dancing shadows. Big John completed the boot and took from his pocket a small piece of bread, but could not bring himself to eat it. Rather, he put it by Little John’s seat at the table for the coming morning and picked up his son, laying him gently on his small bed before himself lying down upon his cleared workbench to sleep.
Old John continued to work long into the dark. From the block of wood he had made two pieces and on one the first had carved the names of the men of the Pride. The other, he fashioned to the likeness of a tree, carving his name by the roots, his son’s name on the trunk, and his grandson’s name among the branches. As for the litany of the murderers of the king, he threw it to the flames.
“Ah, burn. I can do no more but pray that such is enough, and believe in the old ways that they may counter Almeranth and his servants to save us and our land.”
The carved tree he put by Little John’s bed, hoping the boy would find it when he woke. At last, having taken all he would need and want and placing it in the small journey-bag, he dressed in another pair of pants and shirt to combat the quickening cold. Old John took his cap from its peg and paused by the door, letting his eyes play over the room one final time.
“Farewell, my children. I have done all I could, would that only be enough. I go because I remember Hollon, and I remember my king.”
Old John the woodworker stepped out into the wind-torn night. Shouldering the journey-bag, he set down the path. He did not know the way to Righen, but the stars would lead him, just as they had led him to Hollon so many years before.
