Kairos

R5 Gerraint: The Road to Londugnum, part 3 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Gerraint turned.  The Bishop had a small cut in his arm where his robe had been torn.  He held Percival in front of him, his hands tight across the boy’s chest.  Percival had a big dent in his pot-helmet, and he had his eyes closed.  Arthur had his own knife and Gerraint’s long knife and faced a man who appeared to be toying with him.  He swung slowly with his sword and Arthur desperately tried to parry.  It looked like a lesson for a schoolboy, and the Saxon laughed.  Gerraint stood behind the Saxon, and again he did not hesitate. He brought Salvation down on the back of the man’s head even as Arthur realized his advantage would be in getting close.  The man howled and reached for his head as Arthur stepped in and thrust up under the man’s breastplate.  The man cried out again and fell to join his companion in the dirt.

“Ugurt?”  One of the Saxons in the camp yelled in response and then rattled off a whole string of words in a language the boys did not know.  Suddenly, a half-dozen Saxons stood at the forest edge, growling, with their weapons ready.

Arthur backed up, horrified by the knowledge that he killed a man.  Gerraint would have felt the same way, now that he had a chance to think about what he did, except he no longer stood there.  Instead, a man, with golden brown hair, hair which appeared nearly blond in the sun, looked at the Saxons through sparkling blue eyes under strong brows. He wore a formidable suit of leather and chainmail that reached to below his knees. He wore tall boots that disappeared into the skirt of the armor, and studded gloves that came up to his elbow. He had a helmet which looked ancient, like something Greek, where only the eyes and mouth remained uncovered. He put it on and reached out his free hand and called.  “Defender.” Gerraint’s knife wriggled free of Arthur’s hand and jumped to the hand of the man.  The man still held salvation in his other hand, and he raised it for battle.

The Saxons hardly hesitated, but as they charged, there came a sudden whizzing sound in the air.  All six Saxons became target practice for some unseen archers, the last of whom fell a scant two feet from the man.  The man spoke in a strange tongue which only the Bishop understood. “Th – thank you,” he said in his native Greek, and went away, taking his armor and the sword called Salvation with him. Gerraint returned holding only Defender which he returned to the sheath he wore strapped to his thigh.  Arthur looked shocked.  Percival still had his eyes closed.

Three men came out from the deeper woods and went straight to Gerraint.  They might have been hunters, but there had a hint of the lion on their tunics.  They all went to one knee before Gerraint and the eldest spoke.  “Your Highness.”

“You are a long way from home,” Gerraint said. “Don’t tell me, you have been secretly following since Caerleon.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“Wait a minute.”  Gerraint got some insight from somewhere.  “You’ve been following me since my stepfather threw me out.” The hunters chose not to answer that accusation.  “Well, what Diogenes said, thank you, but now you better disappear before Lord Pelenor and the others return.”

“As you wish,” the elder said, and the three, without a look at the other people present, got up and disappeared among the trees.

Arthur held a stiff upper lip.  “Nice to have some extra friends.”

Gerraint nodded and thought, stiff upper lip, how British.  Then he spoke.  “I have wings to fly that you know nothing of, eyes that see farther, ears that hear better, and a reach longer than ordinary men.”  Arthur could only nod as Gerraint disappeared again and a young woman came to stand in his place.  She came dressed in a long dress with long sleeves and had a red cloak with a red hood over all.  Her hair was blond, her eyes were soft, rich brown, her skin looked milky white, and she had more than enough freckles.

“Your grace,” she said to the Bishop, and curtsied, which showed the silver cross that hung from a chain and swung with her movements.  “I am a healer, now let me see that cut.”

Many men would run at seeing her appear out of nowhere, and would be wary of such an offer, but the Bishop just smiled. Percival fetched water and cloth with which she could clean and bandage the wound.  Arthur just looked over her shoulder and pretended to admire her work.

When she was done, she stood and faced Arthur. “Greta.  I am a Dacian, which is Germanic, so not a good choice.  I am also older than you.”  She reached out and kissed Arthur’s cheek.  “You did your duty.  You must always do what is right and good and true.”  She vanished and Gerraint returned.  “And for the record, neither Greta nor Diogenes were here, and we were helped by simple hunters.”

Percival had retrieved and cleaned Arthur’s knife, and he used it to prick his finger.  Gerraint borrowed it, pricked his finger, and handed Arthur back his weapon. Arthur paused only a second before he pricked his finger and agreed.  The boys touched, and were surprised to find the Bishop’s finger over them all.  He had touched the bit of blood from his wound.  He looked at their surprised faces and laughed.

“I was a boy once,” he said.  “I know about blood oaths, and I agree.  What happened here is not for tale telling.”

Arthur nodded, but as he put his knife away, he began to cry.  Gerraint joined him, and he never did look at the man he killed.  The Bishop put an arm over their shoulders, carefully in Arthur’s case because of his wound on that side, but then he walked them back to the roadway.  There they heard all about forgiveness and mercy, and received absolution in the Roman way.  Arthur said he understood something then that he never understood before.  Gerraint simply said, “Thanks.”

The last thing that got said before Pelenor and the troop returned was a question by Arthur.  “I saw the lion on their tunics, but if they were not hunters, who were those men?”

“Fairies,” Gerraint answered.  Arthur laughed, but he was not sure what to believe.  The Bishop merely nodded before Percival got them all to laugh when he grabbed a rock and tried to take the dent out of his pot-helmet.

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MONDAY

Gerraint: The Sword in the Stone.  If you read the story of Festuscato, Last Senator of Rome, you know he put it there.  Now, Gerraint needs to make sure the right hands pull it out again.

Until Monday, Happy Reading.

 

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R5 Gerraint: The Road to Londugnum, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

They crossed the Thames at the ford of the ox where a fort first got constructed by Constans, son of Constantine, the first Pendragon.  Ambrosius, son of Constans was the one who defeated the usurper Vortigen and got proclaimed Pendragon before he got poisoned, and his brother Uther took the reins of the War Chief.  The fort had been built to protect the easy ford across the Thames and keep the road to Londugnum open, but in recent years they were doing well to keep themselves from being overrun.  The fort got burned once by Saxon raiders since Uther passed away in battle.  The local Lords made a temporary alliance to drive the Saxons back and rebuild the fort, but it became then more of a British outpost than a real line of defense.

The river crossing at Oxford was as easy as reported, and they spent the night feeling secure behind strong walls.  The Bishop visited the local Monastery, and stayed with the monks with strict instructions that the group not leave without him.  In the fort, the squires had little time for pleasantries.  They had to care for all the horses and equipment and only finished in time to eat and pass out from exhaustion, while their Lords stayed up drinking and talking about nothing important.

In the morning, Gerraint felt surprised that along with two guards, which was all the fort commander said he could spare, they picked up three new young Lords.  Kai and Bedwyr were the youngest at twenty-one and twenty-two.  Loth seemed the old man of twenty-five.  By contrast, Pelenor, Peredur and Ederyn were in their thirties and fought for Uther when they were squires and young Lords.  Of the three, Ederyn was perhaps the youngest at about thirty.

First thing, Pelenor, flanked by Peredur and Ederyn, strictly charged the three young squires to guard the Bishop at all costs. Arthur asked about Meryddin, but got assured the Druid was more than capable of taking care of himself. Gerraint looked at young Arthur and wondered what exactly the relationship might be between him and the Druid, but he held his tongue.

The group stopped for lunch before noon, and used some of Percival’s pots and pans.  Even so prepared, it became a three or four-hour ordeal, with the squires doing the lion’s share of the work.  Gerraint had something to say, but quietly to Arthur so as to not insult his masters.

We have been moving this slow since Caerleon. I don’t know how we can be expected to hold our lands against encroachment at this pace.  If the Romans moved this slow, Boadicea would have kicked them right off the island.”

Arthur looked like he had not thought of that. “We have been on the road from Leogria for three weeks, a distance people might have walked in six days.”

“We have been a whole month,” Gerraint agreed. “I could move a whole army in less time.”

“I could join your army,” Percival said, and Gerraint paused to lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“For better or worse, you are part of Arthur’s army, and I have a feeling I may be too, someday.”  Gerraint paused then as he caught a brief and unusual glimpse of things to come.  “This land needs a friendly dragon,” he concluded.

“And the lion,” Arthur said, kindly.

“I’m going to paint a cross on my arms,” Percival said.  “You can forget the lemming.  I don’t even know what one looks like.”

“A good choice,” the Bishop said softly.  As usual, he had been listening in and keeping his own counsel.

At that awkward point, when lunch started being packed and people started preparing to move out, a dozen horsemen appeared on the road ahead.  They charged the group, but then, whether they thought better of it or decided the odds were too even, they turned and rode off.

“Saxon raiders.”  Peredur said it out loud.

Pelenor said, “Mount up,” and all the men hurried.

Ederyn alone thought to remind the squires to protect the Bishop, and then the men rode away in pursuit of the enemy.

Gerraint immediately grabbed the Bishop’s hand and started to drag him into the woods.  “Get under cover,” he yelled.  Percival, who was still young enough to trust his elders, grabbed his pot-helmet and followed.  Gerraint found a sword in his hand and gave his long knife to Percival.

“What are you doing?” Arthur yelled at them and scoffed.  “We have to clean up.”

“It is obviously a trap,” Gerraint yelled back, and eight or nine Saxons took that moment to come out of the woods.  Arthur ran and pulled his own knife, which might have been a pretty good hunting knife, but not much against a sword.

The boys and the bishop backed up while most of the Saxons went for their supplies to see if they might find anything of value or at least useful.  Two of them went to take care of the boys and the cleric.

Gerraint looked big for fourteen, being five and a half feet tall, which made him as big as any number of men in those days.  He held his sword with two hands, at the ready, so at least it appeared as if he knew how to use it, even if he did not have much practice with it yet.

“A good-looking weapon.”  The Saxon who faced him grinned and showed only a couple of missing teeth.  “I’ll just have that.”  He drew a weapon that also took both of his hands, but only because it looked huge. He grinned again and swung straight for Gerraint’s legs.  Gerraint parried and barely held it off, but they heard a loud crack and the Saxon said, “Maybe not such a good weapon after all.”

“It is Salvation.”  Gerraint named his sword as he took a step back.  It was one sword which was not too heavy for him.  The Saxon grinned again and swung at his legs from the other side, the Gerraint parried easily with a strong backswing and the crack sounded louder than before.

“One more swing and you will be disarmed,” the Saxon said, and he lifted his broadsword to prepare a swing at Gerraint’s head, but as he lifted his heavy steel, the top half of his sword fell away. Salvation had shattered the Saxon’s more primitive steel

The Saxon looked dumbly at his useless weapon, and Gerraint did not hesitate.  He thrust the point of his sword through the Saxon’s neck, just above the armor, and it stuck out a little from the back.  Gerraint yanked on his sword with all his strength, and it came out as the surprised Saxon’s head lolled forward and his body collapsed to the dirt.

R5 Gerraint: The Road to Londugnum, part 1 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Gerraint kept close to his master, Pelenor.  His bright blue eyes peeked out from beneath long, curly dark brown locks with the attention of an eagle on its prey, while his right hand gently stroked his charger’s neck.  His horse wanted to run at the sound of approaching horses.  He held tight to the reins and waited, and good thing because Lord Pelenor’s horse jolted when the approaching men came into view. Dubricius, the Right Honorable Bishop of Caerleon nearly got dumped in the mud by his startled horse.

“Peredur!”  Pelenor shouted and waved.  “And Ederyn.”    Pelenor trotted out to meet them.  Gerraint and the Bishop stayed where they were.  The Bishop looked at the water that still dripped from the trees after the early morning rain.  Gerraint looked at the Bishop who Lord Pelenor charged him to guard at all costs. At fourteen, Gerraint the squire had learned to pay strict attention to what his master told him.

“Boy,” Pelenor called as he rejoined them with five riders in tow.  He presented the Bishop, and all of the others, except the old one with the long white beard, nodded their heads in a kind of bow.  “And this is my squire, Gerraint, son of Erbin, High Prince of Cornwall.  Gerraint puffed out his chest a little to show off the lion emblazoned on his tunic. To be sure, Gerraint did not know how long he would remain high prince since his father died.  His mother remarried a Roman named Marcus Adronicus.  She said she wanted a husband to raise Gerraint’s little sister, Cordella, but who knew if Gerraint might have more brothers and sisters and he might be cut off from his inheritance.

“My son, Percival,” one of the Lords said. “He is only twelve, but Ederyn here has agreed to take him on.”  Gerraint guessed the speaker was Peredur.  Percival removed the cooking pot from his head.  He had plenty of other pots and bags tied to his saddle and appeared more like a traveling merchant’s son than a proper squire. Peredur continued.  “My squire is Arthur, son of we don’t know who, because Meryddin here who brought the boy to me as a baby still won’t tell.”  He pointed last to the one with the long white beard.  The Bishop gave the man a hard stare.  Gerraint’s head shouted, “Merlin!  Gandalf! Dumbledore!”  Fortunately, Gerraint kept his mouth shut.

“Good running into you.”  Ederyn seemed a pleasant fellow.  “The closer we get to Londugnum, the more nervous I get, I don’t mind telling you.”

“Saxons to the west?  Angles to the east?”  Pelenor laughed.

“I think he sees Germans behind every rock and tree,” Peredur confessed.

Arthur came up to Gerraint and interrupted his concentration on the small talk.  “Hi, I’m Arthur, the dragon.”  He pointed behind to Percival who trailed, clinking and clanking.  “This is my younger step-brother, Percival the lemming.” Percival looked like he did not appreciate the nickname.

“He only chose the dragon because he has bad breath,” Percival said, but in a very quiet voice.  Arthur showed a fist and Percival quieted altogether.

“Goreu, the lion,” Gerraint said.  “That’s my name back home.”

“In Cornwall,” Arthur said.  “Goreu the Cornie”

“Cornish,” Gerraint corrected.  “You’re not a Brittie”

Arthur nodded.  “But Percival might be.”  He pointed.

“I’m a Christian, like our mother,” Percival spoke up again.  Gerraint noticed the Bishop listened in, and he looked like he might say something, but Arthur interrupted.

“Go on.  I’m fifteen, and that is plenty old enough to make up my own mind about that junk. I don’t know what I am.”

“I’m fourteen and a good squire, I hope.  My master, Pelenor is pretty strict.”

“Ha!”  Arthur spouted.  “I’m the eldest.  That means you have to do what I tell you.”

“Not a chance of that happening,” Gerraint said, with a sly grin.  Arthur studied that grin for a bit before he returned the same.

“I think I like you,” he said, but then Pelenor called them all to attention and they started again down the so-called road to Londugnum.  Percival put the pot back on his head.  It served as his makeshift helmet.  Gerraint kept his eyes and ears as open as he could.

Pelenor and Meryddin took the front, followed by Peredur and Ederyn.  They kept up a spirited conversation about who might be called on to fill the shoes of the Pendragon.  Uther had died some twelve years earlier and the Germans, the Irish, and the Picts in the north were all becoming bold in looking to extend their territory at British and Welsh expense.  Even the Scots, first invited by the Romans to live between the Antonine and Hadrian walls as a hedge against the Picts appeared dissatisfied with their lot and greedy for more, the ever-independent Ulster also feeling the pressure of the Irish and being overpopulated as it was.  Bishop Dubricius appeared willing to listen in from behind.  Gerraint thought that a sign of wisdom.  The three Lords thought it wise to keep Meryddin, the High Druid of the Britons and the Archbishop of Wales well separated.

R5 Gerraint, son of Erbin: born in the days of Arthur Pendragon.

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Kairos and Rome 5: Rome Too Far

R5) Gerraint, son of Erbin: born 479, in the days of Arthur, Pendragon.
10 weeks of posts

Gerraint, son of Erbin, with Percival and Arthur, romp through the early days of Arthur, Pendragon.  They fight off a rebellion and beat back the Saxons, Irish, Jutes and Picts, and rescue Gwynyvar.  Sadly, as the boys become men, the fighting never seems to stop.  And Meryddin, a fly in the ointment, appears to be on his own agenda.

Following the end of the Kairos and Rome 5: Rome Too Far, the story of Gerraint and Arthur will continue in the last book in the series:

Kairos and Rome 6: The Power of Persuasion

R6) Gerraint: Love and War   12 weeks of posts

Gerraint, son of Erbin wins Enid, his love before he is called to the continent to help Brittany (Amorica) stay free.  After a time of torment, Gerraint and Arthur continue to fight off Picts, Scots, Danes, and Angles, before the final battle of Mount Badon.  And still, Meryddin has his own agenda working, subversive in the background.

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If you read with us the story of Festuscato, Senator of Rome (The story before Greta), you saw the sword being put in the stone.  Festuscato installed Constantine of Amorica as the first Pendragon, (war chief) of Britain, Wales, and Cornwall.  Now Gerraint, Prince of Cornwall, walks beside Constantine’s great-grandson Arthur, the last Pendragon.

Don’t miss it.

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Meanwhile

Avalon Season 6 is in the works.

As of now, R6 Festuscato, The Dragon in Ireland will follow Gerraint.  Festuscato is charged to escort Patrick to Ireland and see that he begins his work safely. (Good luck with that).  R6 Greta, To Grandfather’s House We Go  will complete the posting of the book The Kairos and Rome 6.

Then, according to plan, I hope  to post Avalon season 6 before beginning the Kairos Medieval book 3: Light in the Dark Ages.  As if things ever go according to plan…

Hopefully, by then, I will have three good book covers and be able to put Avalon seasons 4, 5, and 6 up on Amazon and wherever E-books are sold.

For the present, the prequel: Invasion of Memories, Avalon The Pilot Episode (which is free) and Avalon Seasons 1, 2, and 3 are available for purchase and your reading pleasure.

The new adventure, the story of Gerraint begins MONDAY, and as I say:

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R5 Greta: The Quest, part 2 of 2

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

“Fae, dear.  I made a small bag for you.  It has salves, physics, bandages and potions in it.  Everything is labeled, and since you served your people for seventy years as their wise woman, I know that you know the good they may do.”

“Thanks, my Lady,” Fae said, as Greta fitted the bag over her shoulder.

“I do not know your future,” she told her.  “I don’t know what all you will face.  I had to guess what you might need.  There are no miracles in the bag.”  Greta felt very inadequate.

“Quite all right, Lady,” Fae answered graciously. “You would think after all of those years I would have thought of this for myself, but I didn’t.  So, you see?  I had nothing, but now I have everything.”

“Hans.”  She made him repeat his three words again.

“But what do they mean?”  Hans asked.

“Stop.  Do no harm. Friend.”  Greta told him.  “They are Agdaline words.  Very hard for the human tongue.”  Greta paused to look at the fading stars above.  She supposed they did not need to know who the Agdaline were, nor that those strange beings never expected their little pets to get loose, get big, and go wild. She spoke again.  “They are Dragonspeak,” she said.  “They are in the ancient tongue to which all dragons are bound to obey,” she said, hopefully.  Sometimes when dragons went wild, they were mighty slow in the obedience department.  Still, it had been bred into the beasts.  It was genetic, and even if they only paused on the words, it might be enough to let the quest get to safety.

Hans said the words once more and Greta felt satisfied that he said them well enough.  Agdaline was not easy.  Then she gave Hans a gift.

“Here,” she said.  “Take good care of it.  It is the sword of Avalon.”

“You have more than one sword?”  Hans sounded surprised, though when he thought about it he decided he should not have been surprised.

“I have had several,” Greta said.  “My very first got broken, though, when Sakhmet took it and started to wipe out every living thing in Egypt.  Then I lost one up the nose of the wolf.”

“The wolf?” Berry asked.  She slid closer to Hans.

“Fenrus.”  Greta nodded like it was no big deal.  “Loki’s son. Then there is Wyrd, and Salvation, you know.  This one is special, though.  It usually hangs over the fireplace at home and has not been used very much since the days of Alexander the Great.”

“Why is it special?”  Fae asked.

“It was made by little ones, not actually by the gods, but under contract, if you know what I mean.  The same crew that made Thor’s hammer.”

“Does it have a name?”  Hans asked.

Greta nodded again.  “Excalibur,” she named it.

Hans drew it out and even in the dim light of the dawn, it glowed and glistened, almost as if it had a fire of its’ own. “Wow.”

“Don’t cut yourself,” Greta intoned.

“We must go,” Berry said, stepped up then and took Greta’s hands.  Berry had become a strikingly beautiful woman.

“You are very young,” Greta said.  “As is Hans.”

“Older than you when you stepped into the haunted forest,” Berry reminded her.

“Yes, but I had encouragement and help that you do not have.  I am only twenty-two even now, but in a special way I may be the oldest person presently on this earth.  You, on the other hand, have only your hope, faith and wits to guide you.”

“We will find him,” Berry said, squeezed Greta’s hands, and firmly believed what she said.

“I believe you,” Greta said.  “But here, let me give you my heart.”  Greta wore a small, Celtic cross on a simple gold chain. She had two made four years earlier in anticipation.  Vasen never took his off, but now she gave hers to Berry.  “Let my God be your God.  Look to the source to guide you and be your shield.  He is an ever-present help in time of trouble.”  Berry placed it around her own neck and then hugged Greta.

“I love you Mother,” Berry said.

“Oh look,” Greta interrupted and placed Berry’s hand on her tummy.  “Little Marta is saying good luck.”

“I feel her moving,” Berry said, with delight. Her eyes went straight to Hans. He did not catch it, but then everyone crowded in close.

“Tight in there,” Greta said.  “Not much room to move around.”  Greta looked once more at the four.  “Go on,” she said.  “Before I change my mind.”  She turned without looking again and went into the inn to rest.  Alesander waited for her there, and Darius sat with him. She had not told Darius, but somehow, he found out.  He always did.

“Will Berry be all right?” he asked.  He had become like a father to her, and Greta smiled because she knew he would be a good father to all of their children.

“I pray that she will,” Greta said.  “But who can know the future.  It isn’t written yet, more or less.”

Darius hugged her and they kissed.  “And you,” he said.  “You should not be running off this close to delivery.  I worry about our son.”

“Daughter,” Greta said.  “And there is another month yet, at least.”

“And how is my son today.’  Darius spoke to the baby.

“Daughter, Marta,” Greta said.

“Son, Marcus,” Darius said, and Greta let him have the last word because she knew a month or so later she would have a little girl, and she did.

END

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Tomorrow

A preview of the story of Gerraint in the time of Arthur, Pendragon.

Tomorrow

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R5 Greta: The Quest, part 1 of 2

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Four years later, Greta left the Governor’s mansion alone in the early morning.  She just entered her eighth month with child number two.  A daughter to go with her son.  Faithful Alesander led the cart.  He would follow her to Hell if that was where she was going.

They went slowly because the new road through the forest was still rough in many spots.  They arrived late the next afternoon at the village of the Bear Clan. Greta rested at Baran’s house as was her custom.  Several men came to pay their respects, but then Baran’s wife turned the rest away. She knew what the eighth month could be like.

In the wee hours before dawn, Greta got up and went out to the new stables beside the new inn.  The Dacian who ran the place made a home brew beer which became very popular with his Gaelic patrons.  This was a good thing, Greta thought.

She made herself as comfortable as she could, sitting on a small stool.  She waited, but she did not have to wait long.  She heard a bang.

“Shhh.  Hush.” She heard a woman’s voice that Greta knew very well.

“Oh shush yourself, you old biddy,” the response came out of the dark.

“Old goat,” the woman came right back.  “I hope that was your head and it knocked some sense into you.”

“It was my toe,” the man responded.  “And if it wasn’t hurting I would use it to kick your butt.”

“Quiet, both of you.”  A young woman spoke.  “If you two don’t stop making love we’ll never get anywhere.”  She called it right, and Greta heard a young man laugh.

“Ahem!”  Greta cleared her throat.  “Over here,” she said.  She just turned twenty-two, a young mother in her prime.  She could have easily gone to them, eighth month or not, but why?  Let them find her.  “Over here,” she repeated.  They knew her voice, too.

Berry and Fae were the first to come out of the shadows.  They came timidly, holding hands.  Hans and Hobknot came behind with Hobknot’s mouth running.

“I told you it was no good sneaking off,” he said.

“And I told you I was not going without saying goodbye to my sister,” Hans said.  “But I was not worried.  I knew I would see her.”

“Oh, you did?”  Greta got up slowly.  Hans came quickly to help her to her feet.  She hugged him and whispered three words in his ear.  She made him repeat the words over and over until he could say them perfectly.  Meanwhile, she hugged all of the others, including Hobknot who turned a perfect red and covered his face with his hands in case she thought of giving him a kiss.

“So, where is your father?” Greta asked Fae and Berry.

“She knows,” Berry said with surprise.

“Of course she knows,” Fae said with certainty.

“From the dragon village we go north.”  Berry spoke as if repeating a lesson.  “We must go over the Toothless Mountain and beyond the Way of the Winds.  Through the pass called the Ogre’s Jaw which is the only way through the Rumbling Ridge. Down the other side, we go through the Forest of Fire and pass the Lake of Gold which must be on our left hand. We must go through the Swamp of Sorrows until we reach the River called Heartbreak.  From there we travel down the river beyond the Giant Rock and the Troll’s Eyes until we see the Mouth of the Dragon.  The Mouth will take us under the Heart of the goddess by the Road of Dreams and at last, at the end of the road, we will find the Broken Dome of the Ancient Master.  It is there that a secret door leads to the Land of the Lost, and our Father is there, still living among the lost.

North over the Transylvanian Alps and plateau to the Ukraine.  How far, then?  To Kiev? All the way to Moscva?  Greta translated.  “Sounds exciting, and complicated,” she said.  “You will remember all that?”

“Oh, yes, Mother Greta.  I will not forget,” Berry said.

“We will remember,” Fae insisted.  “We seek our father’s blessing on our marriages.”

“You and Hobknot,” Greta teased, and Hobknot spun around several times in embarrassment before settling on a spot with his back to them all.  He probably looked scarlet.

“You didn’t have to tell her that part,” Hobknot protested.  “Make me sound like a love-sick puppy.”

“But you are.”  Fae, Berry and Hans all said more or less the same thing in near unison, and then laughed a little.

“Hobknot.”  Greta called him and gently compelled him to come to be sure he did not run away and hide for the next fifty years.  “You are also the eldest,” she said.  “And a little one with a good, sensible brain.  Use it.  I expect you to think clearly if the way gets muddled and speak sense, even if the way appears nonsense.”  Greta took off the ring of Avalon.  It had the seal of the Kairos.  She put it on Hobknot’s thumb and it fitted itself snugly there so it would not come off. “I am trusting you to speak in my name. Just make sure it would be words I would actually say.  I want you helped, not hindered along the way.”

“Hear that, all of you?” Hobknot said, proudly. “My lady says you got to listen now when I talk sense.  I speak for the lady.”

“Fae.”  She called her over.  “Don’t let it go to his head.”

“Never worry,” Fae said.  “If his head swells up, I’ll just knock him down and sit on him until the swelling goes away, I will.”

“Listen everyone,” Greta said.  “Don’t forget Fae knows truth from lies.  Listen to her carefully, especially when she warns that someone is lying.”

“I wish I was there when the messenger came,” Fae said.  Greta agreed.

R5 Greta: The End of the Day, part 3 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

They were in the tent with Darius who was lying down, recovering from his many small wounds from the battle.  Bragi was not present, but Salacia decided that would be just as well.  She let the first wave of forgetfulness pass by unhindered.  They forgot all about the guns.  But she protected them from the second wave.  Darius would have a place among the little ones and needed to know. Hans would marry one, though she had become fully human now.  And Berry could hardly be allowed to forget.  There would have been almost no Berry left if she forgot her little ones.

“Greta?”  Hans remembered.

“Yes,” she said.  “Amphitrite.”  She looked at Darius.  “Salacia.” She spoke to him.  She felt a bit anxious.  She did not know exactly how he might react and prying into his thoughts and heart would have been extremely improper.

Darius smiled and held out his hand.  “It’s all right,” he said.  “Berry explained it to me.”

Salacia took his hand but spoke honestly.  “I do not love you as she does, you know.  I still love my husband, though he is now gone from me.”

Darius seemed to think for a minute, but he got it. “I understand.” he said.  “I certainly would not be interested in any of the men you have been, either.”  He laughed, a little, almost.  “But seriously,” he went on.  “You must know how I feel.  I don’t suppose I could live without her at this point, but she has been so hot and cold. Does she really love me or not?”

Salacia smiled.  “But if I tell you that, I will be mad at myself for years.”  Darius thought again, but he did not quite understand what she meant.  “Let me say this,” she went on.  “You are not the problem.  In the past, her love sometimes got met with derision.  She does not think highly of herself, and especially the way she looks.”

“What is wrong with the way she looks?”  Darius asked.  “I think she is beautiful.  I think she is perfect.”

“Perhaps she had better tell you.”  Salacia said and went back to her own time to let Greta stand awkwardly on her own two feet, still holding Darius’ hand.

“Well?”  Darius asked.

“Well,” Greta said and looked down at her too big feet. How could Amphitrite do this to her? Too late.  She did get mad at herself for having a big mouth, one the size of the Pacific!  “Well, its’ my eyes.  They are just ordinary brown, and my nose is too big and my hair is like wild straw, and there is too much of me, and I don’t want to talk about it.”  She paused to sniff so she wouldn’t cry.

Darius took her by the chin and lifted her face to his.  “I see golden hair and eyes to match, sparkling with life.  I see a small and dainty nose.  You should see the ones in Rome.  And lips, so full and red which I have kissed.  I would not trade them for all the gold in the world. And as for the rest.”  He paused to look.  “That will have to wait until we are married,” he teased.  Of course, she threw herself at him and he did nothing to resist.  After only a moment, though, they parted.  Hans and Berry were in the room, after all.

“I love you,” Greta said.

“I love you, too,” Darius returned.

They both grinned like fools until Greta had to turn and run from the tent.  Her feelings would not let her walk.  She found Hans standing by the tent door and Berry some distance away, sitting alone, looking sad, almost desperate.

“What is it, sweet?”  Greta asked, feeling oddly maternal in a strange way she never felt before.  She put her arms around the girl and hugged her.

“My tummy hurts.”  Berry said.  “And now I am bleeding a little.”  She reached over to hold on.  “Am I going to die?”

Greta laughed.  “No, sweet.  You are not going to die.  You are human.  That’s all.” And she sat and talked with Berry while the ripples of forgetfulness did their work.

At last, Greta knew she had to get back to Marcus. She stood and traded places once more with Amphitrite.  She gave Berry a quick kiss on the forehead and floated off, invisible to all the world. She let her consciousness search far beyond the battlefield.  The ripples had done the job.  But she spied Greta’s Papa on the road, and Mama came with him.

When she entered the room, Centurion Alesander was there with Sergeant Lucius, examining the men.

“What magic is this?”  Alesander asked.

“I don’t know.”  The sergeant answered.  “But I don’t like it.”

The goddess slowly let herself come into focus.

“Salacia.”  Alesander named her and fell to his knees.  He had worshiped in her shrine all of his life as had his mother and father, and she loved him for it; but Sergeant Lucius took a couple of steps back.

“Mithras defend me,” the sergeant said.

Salacia placed her hand on Alesander’s head and blessed him, and with a final thought she changed the writings of Marcus and General Pontius to reflect the new gunless and fairyless reality.  Then she looked up at the Sergeant and spoke sternly.

“I told someone just yesterday morning, Mithras does not come here.  It would be his life if he did.”  She waved her hand to set Marcus and General Pontius free and vanished, to appear again as Greta, just outside the door.

“General.”  The sergeant spoke.  “Salacia was here.  Probably drawn by the creation of the new lake and streams.”  Greta knew the General was another Mithrite.  She remembered the Roman army was full of that pretender’s disciples.

“Nonsense,” Marcus spoke, sternly.  “The gods, if they even exist, would not be drawn to these back woods no matter what happened here.  What is it, Greta?  I thought our business had finished.”  Marcus sounded cordial, but stiff.  The joy and play were gone from him.  He did not seem inclined to give in to any emotion, and Greta felt that reality like a cut to her heart.

“Papa and Mama will be here this afternoon,” she said.

“I know,” Marcus responded flatly.  “I sent for them as soon as I assessed the situation here.  I thought your father might end this trouble in a bloodless way, but that was before the Quadi showed up.  Been listening to my guards?”

“No,” Greta said.  “I saw them from above when my mind was in the clouds.”

Marcus grimaced.  “Of course,” he said.  “Wise woman talk.”  He looked down at his papers.

“But what right did you have calling him here when he should to be home, healing?” she asked.

“He is a man who knows his duty,” Marcus said as he gave Alesander a sharp look.  “But I would not expect a woman to understand that.”

Greta swallowed several things she wanted to say. She helped Alesander to his feet, and she still had enough of Salacia’s aura about her to make him respond.

“Did you see her?” Alesander asked.

“No,” Greta said, honestly enough.  She helped the Centurion to a place where he could have some solitude for a time, and then she hurried off.  She wanted to get back to Darius, but some soldiers stopped her on the way.  They reminded her of her duty to the wounded, and especially in the makeshift hospital she had made of the Roman fort.  She cursed, but for old time’s sake and for Berry’s sake, she could not help sticking her tongue out at Marcus, no matter how many rooms away he was at that point.  Women don’t understand doing one’s duty?  What an idiotic thing for Marcus to say!

Years later, Darius thanked Greta one night while they sat before the hearth in the governor’s mansion.  He said because of all the magic and wonder that surrounded her life, it saved him from becoming an emotionless statue, like Marcus.

“Was it just the magic?” she asked, and he showed her that it was not.

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MONDAY

It would not be right to leave you without some thoughts concerning what is to come for Greta, Berry, Hans, Fae, and Hobknot.  As I said, the work of the Kairos never seems to be over.  There is always some witch, creature, or monstrosity knocking on her door…especially on Halloween.  Until Monday, Happy Reading.

 

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R5 Greta: The End of the Day, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

“Anything else?”  Greta stood.

“No.  I need to finish these correspondences now.  I want the couriers to leave for Rome in the morning,” he said.

“I suppose I had better go prepare myself to go to Rome,” she said.  “To meet Darius’ father, and probably your father, too.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Marcus said. He looked up one last time.  “A sweet barbarian girl like you with all of your special talents.  Lady goddess.”  He smiled and half saluted in Greta’s direction.

Greta returned his smile.  “Big oaf.”  And she returned his half salute before she stepped into the hallway.  She heard Marcus ask the General.  “What is an oaf?”  She almost felt the General shrug as she traded places through time with Salacia and Salacia caused the two men to freeze where they stood.  She felt sorry for what she had to do, but it got decided the day before when Greta had to call on the good Doctor Mishka to dig a few bullets out of the wounded.  She felt especially sorry for Marcus.  He had become so human, so alive in these back woods.  She felt sure it would kill him.

Salacia floated out over the battlefield.  A full day later, and there were still bodies littered all around.  Nearly a thousand men had been killed in the battle.  That number would triple, perhaps quadruple in the days and weeks ahead. Salacia was not authorized to simply heal everyone.  Generally, sparing people from the consequences of their actions was the worst thing a goddess could do.  There were rare exceptions, but this was not one of them, and Salacia felt sorry for that as well.

Salacia floated to earth and materialized beside the main stream which flowed out of the remains of the mount.  She supposed her appearance looked like the appearance of Glinda, the good witch of the north.  She did not mean for it to be that way, but she did not really pay attention.  She imagined some men saw her appear and fell to their faces.  She felt sorry to ignore them, too.

Her attention stayed riveted on the top part of the great statue of Odin.  The head, one arm upraised in blessing, and the chest were planted firmly in the mud beside the new stream.  It looked very much like the top of the statue of liberty at the end of the original Planet of the Apes movie.

Vasen stood there, staring at the statue, weeping softly.  Apparently, Marcus decided to leave the Priest alone.  When Salacia walked up beside the man, she became fully manifest but had toned down her awesome nature to near human levels.  She might have passed for an ordinary lady out for a stroll apart from being so inhumanly beautiful and attractive.

Vasen looked up.  “It’s all gone, you know.”  He spoke through his tears.

“Nonsense,” she said.  “It has not yet begun.”  With a mere thought, she pushed the edges of the mount into the deep until it truly became a large lake, fed by underground springs.  Her mind followed the stream as it ran through the forest, and she only altered the course slightly to make it meet the Sylvan River at the swamps.  She wanted the stream to clean out some of the horrors of that area, and she made it so.

Vasen stood up.  He watched her, curious.  She lifted her arms.  All of the guns, the bullets and everything that did not belong in that time floated up in the air, and in a wink, she sent it to Avalon.  They were museum pieces now.

“Excuse me, my Lady,” Vasen spoke.  “Do I know you?”

“After a fashion,” she said.  “My name is Amphitrite, but the Romans call me Salacia in their tongue.”

“I’m sorry?”  Vasen looked confused.  “But a fine lady such as yourself should not be out here on the battlefield.  There are still things about that a lady should not see.”

“Nonsense,” Salacia said again.  “But I really came only to say goodbye to Granfather Woden.” She blew a gentle kiss to the statue, and the statue quietly crumbled to so much gravel.  She made the gravel line the bed of the new stream.

Vasen went to his knees.  He began to weep again.  “goddess.”  He called her rightly.  “Why did the temple have to be destroyed?  It is all gone now.”

“Hush,” she said and brushed his hair with her hand. “I told you once already.  Men will come, from the Greeks, the Macedonians, from Byzantium and the East, and they will be clothed in power from the Most-High.  They will speak of the one who was raised up on the third day, and all of the people will be drawn to them, to worship the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.” Salacia kissed the top of Vasen’s head, and he forgot all about the weapons of Trajan.  An earthquake released the water from below and that destroyed both the temple and the mount.  The people were in plain rebellion, but the Romans and the people with them won the day, and turned back the invasion of the Quadi, besides.  She let that thought ripple out from that place like one stone thrown into a calm pool.  The circle of forgetfulness spread until it reached for miles and miles.

Vasen calmed when she kissed him a second time.  He forgot all about the little ones, about Thorn and Thissle, about Avalon, and Greta’s place among them.  She let this also spread, but certain ones she protected. The Romans, Dacians and Celts all thought the knights of the lance belonged to the others, and that, she felt, might help keep some in line.  Vasen even forgot his vision of the goddess hovering over him that moment, but Salacia left the vision of Danna among the Celts.  She hoped that vision would promote peace.  Then like the ripples from the pebble, she let that fading of the memory spread out from there until it touched all whom it needed to touch.

Salacia vanished from that place and appeared in the secret place in the forest.

Bogus the Skin, Gorse, Ragwart and Thunderhead all appeared.  They had no choice, though Thunderhead kept sleeping.

Bogus uncovered his head and nudged Ragwart to do the same.  “It’s not our lady, Greta,” he whispered to Gorse.  “It’s out great lady herself.”

“I can see that,” Gorse whispered back, and whipped off his hat.

“What?”  Ragwart did not quite catch it.

“We’ve stopped all eleven riders,” Bogus said, and took a very humble step forward.  “I don’t believe any got through.”  He pointed to a great pile of things.  There were a couple of guns, but mostly spears, swords, a couple of tents, several cooking pots minus the ones the little ones kept, one wagon load of mason tools, and so on.  And there were only three riders.

“Thank you,” Salacia said, and smiled, and loved them dearly.  She sent the pile to Avalon and sent Thunderhead back to his bed, never to know he had not been there the whole time.  “Berry is fully human now,” she told Bogus.  “But if you have Fae for a time, be content.  Only try not to corrupt her.  She is a sweet woman, and remember she is still half human.”

“Too late,” Bogus said.  “If she has taken up with that old bachelor, Hobknot, you can be sure she’s been corrupted already.”  Bogus shook his head.

Salacia laughed a merry little laugh.  “Be good boys.  No more stealing,” she said, and disappeared to appear instantly where Fae, Hobknot, Thorn and Thissle were celebrating their survival.

“Oh, dear,” Fae said.

“Great Lady.”  Thissle curtsied, fairy style, as well as she could.

Thorn and Hobknot were quiet, but Salacia knew why.

“No.”  She said, simply.  “You cannot go to Greta’s wedding.  You know the rule.  You may have a celebration apart, but you are not allowed to mingle with humans.”  She got firm and sounded like the roar of thunderous waters crashing against the rocks.  Such interactions caused no end of trouble and caused her no end of headaches. “Now Fae.”  She went on a little less firm.  “You may visit your sister from time to time, but make sure you are not seen.  Your work may still be in this world, but your place is now separate and apart.”

Hobknot lifted his hand and looked so uncharacteristically meek, Salacia almost laughed again.  She handed him two bags of grain and seed, and two containers of milk and one of sweet honey.  She gave the same to Thorn and Thissle, though they claimed they needed nothing.

“Remember Nameless in the spring, and the Don, the mother goddess in the fall.”  Salacia said.  “Remember Junior whenever the north wind blows, and me in the long, hot summer. Think of me wherever the waters run cool and clean.”  She vanished. She went to see Hans and Berry.

R5 Greta: The End of the Day, part 1 of 3

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Cleaning up after the battle proved a grizzly and horrifying job, but all the same, Greta worked long into the night.  The battle had been terrible.  Her side had won, but the price had been high.  The surviving Quadi were allowed to leave with pledges that they would not return, for all the good those pledges would be, but the Romans and Dacians together were not able to hold more than a few of the Quadi leadership.  There were simply neither the men nor the facilities to do more.

Greta found out that shortly before her arrival in the village of the Bear Clan, Samartin raiders attacked the far northern Dragon Clan.  That really convinced the Celts that their time of isolation was over.  They had to choose, and though Fae’s courage helped, in truth they had already chosen the known evils of Rome and the Yellow Hairs over the unknown.  With the Romans as mediators, they would keep their own land and retain their own way of life; but there would be trade, and in time, marriages, and life would go on.

Of more immediate concern to Greta was the fate of the rebels.  She sent an early plea for mercy to Marcus and General Pontius, and on that basis, she met with them early the next morning.

“Come in,” Marcus said.  “Sit down.”  He sat at a large writing table.  General Pontius stood behind him and leaned over his shoulder.

Greta was grateful for the seat.  She felt exhausted.

“You know,” Marcus continued before she could speak. “I cannot really tell my father that I pardoned the rebels on the basis of their being bewitched.”  He stopped writing to look up.  “Even if we both know there is some truth in that.”

“Personally, I hate it when someone reads over my shoulder.” Greta said, and slumped down in her chair.  Marcus looked up over his shoulder.  The General looked at Greta and took a large step backward.

“By the way,” Marcus spoke, as he went back to his letter.  “Whatever happened to the lady?”

“She made an ass out of herself,” Greta said. “She is no longer around.”

Marcus did not understand exactly what she meant, but he accepted her at her word.  “Just as well,” he said.  “I’m not sure it would have worked out in any case.”  Greta felt she had been right.  Lady Brunhild would not have been able to control him.  Then something occurred to her.

“I thought you promised to stay out of the fighting,” she said.  Marcus turned red, but she sat straight up.  “You lied to her.”

The red deepened.  “I don’t lie.”

“Then you changed your mind only a second after you promised,” she teased.

“Yes, I did,” he said.  “Let us remember it that way.”

An awkward moment of silence followed. Greta just framed her thoughts when Marcus spoke again.

“The other proposal of yours does have some merit. I can personally vouch for seeing many rebels pour off the Mount and attack the Quadi from behind.  I am sure they fought as bravely as any patriot on the battlefield.”

“It is one thing to have internal disagreements,” Greta said.  “But quite another to be invaded by outsiders.”

“Lady,” General Pontius interrupted.  “This was not internal disagreements.  This was outright rebellion.”

Marcus held up his hand for quiet before Greta and the General started arguing.  “Kunther, Eldegard and the known leaders of the rebellion have already lost their heads.” Marcus said.  “That is a done deal.”

“I’m sorry,” Greta said, and slouched again. “I feel Eldegard really came around to our side at the last.”

“Then let the gods show him mercy.”  Marcus continued.  “In any case, your proposal that we spare the lives of the rest on condition that they take land along the frontier, North of Napoca, and be first in line to defend the border.  This is an idea which I think I can sell to the emperor.  The only adjustment is that all of the rebels be identified and branded.”

“Branded?” Greta asked.  “Like slaves?”

“Their lives are forfeit,” Marcus explained. “This is a way to keep track in case they get out of line.  Besides, I don’t believe Rome will go for it, otherwise.”

Greta had a sudden concern.  “Bragi?” she asked.

“Your brother is a special case,” Marcus said.

Greta sat up again, fearing the worst.  “What do you mean?  He stopped Kunther and saved your life,” she reminded him.

Marcus shook his head.  “Technically, he threw Drakka to the ground.  But I won’t quibble.  He is being remanded to the custody of your father.  Your father is very strict, but fair, like the emperor, my father. I imagine that is why your people made him high chief.”

“Strict is right,” Greta said, as the relief made her slouch once more.

Marcus paused.  “Come, now.  You are his only daughter, and it is different for girls.  I am sure a few tears from you and he will do whatever you ask.”

“I wish,” Greta groused.

Marcus let out his smile.  “I am sure your father will punish your brother in far more appropriate ways than I could imagine.  In any case, it would not be politically wise to behead the son of the high chief.  As wife of the new provincial governor, you must learn these things.”

“What?”

“I am recommending that Darius be made governor here,” Marcus said.

“But he is a soldier,” Greta protested.

Marcus actually became tender for a moment, but whether that was for her sake or the sake of his childhood friend, was not clear. “Actually, now that his parentage is known, he will never rise above his current rank.  He will never be a General.  He will never be given his own legion.”

“His strict but fair father will not be happy about that,” she said.

“No,” Marcus agreed.  “And you can be sure my strict but fair father will be very aware of his father’s unhappiness.  Making Darius Governor of the province, however, should satisfy.”  Marcus fell silent and stared at Greta.  It took a moment for her to get it.

“Why you stinker,” she shouted.  “You’re sticking me in the middle between Darius and my father.  I’ll spend the rest of my life having to choose sides.”

“You’re the wise woman,” Marcus said.  “Choose wisely.”  Greta growled, but Marcus could only continue to smile.  “Besides, can you think of anyone better to be in the middle?”

Almost anyone, Greta thought, but she changed the subject instead.  “What about Drakka?”

“You tell me,” Marcus said and lost his smile. “The son of Eldegard.  He kidnapped the son of an Elder of the Bear Clan. He tried to kill me, only he shot you instead.  He would be dead already if you did not specifically mention him in your note.”

“He was not a rebel,” Greta said, firmly. “He was a late comer who followed Hans and I through the forest.”  Greta paused. The big, strong, handsome son of the blacksmith.  Hard to imagine why she once thought she loved him.  “He only did what his father told him,” she said.  “We all answer to our fathers.”  Liselle was pregnant, though Marcus would hardly be moved by that. But Liselle had been an only child because her mother had several miscarriages and died shortly after Liselle’s birth.  Greta feared the same for Liselle if Drakka was not there to support and love her. “Besides,” Greta concluded.  “The frontier farmers are going to need a good blacksmith.  I bear no grudge against his taking his shot.  I know what kind of expectations fathers can have and what kind of demands they can make.  I am sure once he marries Liselle and they have their baby, he will settle down.”

“He will be branded,” Marcus said.  “My every instinct says he should be crucified. But if you vouch for him, I will let you have him on your responsibility.”  That appeared to end the interview as Marcus returned to writing his letter.

R5 Greta: Battle, part 3 of 3

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Fae took a deep breath and continued.  “When as the knights of the lance, as Hobknot calls them, crashed into the center of the enemy charge, they divided very sharply to the left and the right and many came very close to us.  That was when I took an arrow.  It must have been one of the first to ride by with a bow in his hands. But my people were watching, and with a great cry, they came pouring out of the forest and crashed deep into the side of the enemy horsemen.  Lady, it was glorious!”

“But now you got a big hole in your side.” Hobknot could not restrain himself. “You stupid moron.”

“Oh, shut-up.”  Fae smiled at him.

“No, you shut-up.”  Hobknot wanted to smile back, but he could not for worry.

“You both shut-up,” Greta said.  “Now Hobknot.  Fae is three-quarters human.  She has lived the human life between her and Berry.  I have no authority over that.”  Hobknot looked downcast, but Fae reached out and squeezed Greta’s hand.

“The Don,” she said.  “Or if in her wisdom, Danna will not help me, please, may I see her again before I die?”

Greta checked.  Danna was willing, and she had something she would also do which helped Greta understand a mystery.  “All right.” She told Fae, and she and Danna traded places through the time stream.

Danna looked at Hobknot, Berry, Hans and Bragi in turn.  They were very quiet.  Fae, however, became filled with joy.  “Great Mother,” she said.  “How often I prayed to you and to your children, hoping against hope that I might someday see with my own eyes.  I knew you were gone away.  You left the world in the hands of your children, but I never understood what that meant, until now.  All the same, I think I loved you most of all.”

“I know,” Danna said, and she did know, exactly so.  “The lady speaks true,” she added.  She smiled for Fae’s love, but it became time to act.  “Berry.”  She called softly.  Berry came timidly, but Danna put her free arm around the little one and hugged her. “Would you be willing to give your fairy blood to your sister so that she may live?”

“Oh, yes, Great lady,” Berry said.  “Even if it means I will never be little and never fly again.”  Danna made sure that Berry understood what she was asking.  Berry looked up at Hans.  “Even if it means that Hans will not love me anymore.  Yes, I will,” she said, sadly.

“Good,” Danna said.

“Wait.”  Berry got little and flew all around the tent.  She flew a couple of back flips and then kissed Hans on the cheek.  At last she got big again and stood beside Fae. “All right,” she said.  “I’m ready.”

Danna put Berry’s hand in Fae’s hand and it was done. Berry showed no outward sign of change at all.  She simply became a full-blooded twelve, nearly thirteen-year-old girl.  Fae, however, changed dramatically.  She shrank, but unlike Berry who reflected the fairy side of the family, Fae reflected more of her grandfather, Bogus the Skin.  She became a perfect little dwarf, though technically a half and half.  Hobknot got so excited, he did handsprings and cartwheels all over the tent.  As a dwarf, Fae now became considerably younger than she had been as a human. Seventy or so was not so much in dwarf years.  She seemed to want to jump up and join Hobknot in his game, but she still felt sore in the side though she no longer showed any sign of her wound.

Berry, on the other hand, became shy and tried to hide behind Danna’s back, no longer having access to her hair.  Danna had to pull her out and she held her, until Hans reached for her.

“I don’t have to give her up, do I?”  Hans asked.  “We can still be engaged, can’t we?”  Obviously, Berry wanted that very much, and she giggled a little in delight when Hans took her again, to hold her.

“You still have to wait four years.”  Danna reminded them, even if Berry still felt like that was forever.

“Now Bragi.”  Danna said at last.  “Please don’t tell Mama or Papa about this.

“No problem, er, Great Lady,” he said.  “I’m not likely to tell anyone.  They will just think I am mad.”  He meant what he said, but he smiled and Danna could tell he started enjoying himself again.

“Right now, I am Danna,” she said.  “And I have lived any number of other lives as well.”

“She’s the nameless god, too.” Hans blabbed.

“I know,” Bragi answered.

“Stop winking.”  Danna scolded them.  “Most of the time I am just a plain, ordinary person, like this time.  This is Greta’s life, your sister of the same mother and father.  And I hope you take good care of her.”  She traded back with Greta, and Greta continued speaking.  “I mean it.  Please don’t say anything to anyone.  I would like to live a nice, quiet, ordinary life.”

“Not likely,” Bragi said, with a grin to beat all grins.

Thissle ran in and jumped into Bragi’s arms. Thorn walked in and saluted.  Then the musicians came in.  It was Fiddler, Whistler and several others.  The music started, and Fae did finally get up and dance. She could hardly keep her feet still. Bogus the Skin came in with Ragwart and Gorse and several woodwives.  Greta only felt glad that Thunderhead was not to be seen.  That would have been too much.

The atmosphere quickly became festive and someone even produced a table of wine and sweet meats.  Greta did not really mind.  For the moment the war and the world were shut out.  Then she felt two arms slip around her from behind.  She turned.  It was Darius.  He did not seem to mind holding her close and she knew she did not mind it at all.

“Is this a private celebration, or can anyone join in?”  He asked.

“Not just anyone.”  She answered, and they kissed until Greta felt she could not kiss him anymore.

“I almost forgot,” Darius said at last.  “I have something that belongs to you.”  He reached under his tunic and untied something. He handed it to Greta.  It was her scarf.  Greta became wide eyed and found out she could kiss him a lot more.

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MONDAY

What a lovely place to end a story… but the work of the Kairos never seems to end.  Some things need to be remembered, but some things are best forgotten.  Greta will need some extraordinary help to keep the guns out of Rome, and to save as many lives as possible.  Monday, The End of the Day.  Happy Reading.

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