Chapter Two – Fallen Gods of Cheam
Ice, it’s everywhere. Ice, it’s even where you don’t see. Snow is everything that isn’t ice. Vistas of ice, rocks and mountains, between plateaus of snow. Cheamian landscapes never differ. The further south you go the more it snows. Cool winds whip across the lands, through the valleys of white, up and over the rocks of grey. Darkened greens huddle together where the ice stops and before the rocky peaks begin; the wooded areas are few yet evergreen – brown legs coated in white powder.
The village of Fjatlos sat high on the sheltered face of a rocky mountain overlooking Five Glacier Valley. A string of mountains met around a valley of glaciers, the sea of ice-packed structures flowed down the from the rocky saddles and gathered in the basin as a culmination known as the Fjatlos Basin. The village dwellings were high above the basin carved into the peaty hillside, the wooden frames buried deep into the ground. Steep walls stood taller than man, from which snow wound slide and fall without hindrance. Each building stood apart to let the snows flow freely by, the snow could be the downfall of any dweller yet snow provided the necessary insulation for life.
Tallest of all buildings was the church, rising up taller than the village hall, yet not as tall as the melt-water collector. The collectors were life-giving tall wooden structures that channelled fresh snow from the ridge that collected the water in metal buckets. Even in conditions as rough as Cheam it was easy for people to forget what kept them alive. Danger focussed the mind but everyone needs rest, everyone forgets about the natural mechanisms of life.
Life was only possible in Fjatlos due to the natural heat from the mountain fissures that provided the warmth needed to change the ice into water. The Fire Caves hide a source of pure hot water that drips and collects in the depths of the caverns. A labyrinth of tunnels hides the pools of water beneath the hills.
“Istelle, Istelle! Get back in here. You’ll freeze to death,” the voice of Sedron’s wife carried in the wind. Sedron turned his head to watch his wife and ran after their daughter Istelle.
“I’m fine mother, look I can run,” Istelle called back. Sedron was glad to see his daughter was up and running around again. Fever had wracked her body and took her to the edge of death. ‘Please not again’, they pleaded with death not to take another child, they had lost enough offspring. It didn’t feel like such a long time since they lost an older daughter to fever.
“Istelle!” her mother called.
“Mama, there’s no wind, mama. I can run and run.”
“Get your furs on, now. Don’t let your father see you like this.”
A hand grabbed Istelle from behind and dropped a thick fur garb over her head. “Careful young wolf, even the bravest hunter wear their furs,” Sedron spoke clearly to his daughter.
“Ugh! Dad,” Istelle resisted, “it isn’t even cold.” She tried to slip away from his hug.
“It is cold, young woman, and you will wear your furs.” Istelle freed herself and ran away along the frozen muddy pathways of the village. The white-grey wolf cloak trailed behind her. It hung half over one shoulder but didn’t quite fit. This cloak belonged to her brother who was lost on a village hunt.
“Get away from the edge,” Istelle’s mother called, “tell her Sedron!”
“She sees it, she won’t run over the edge.” he shouted back.
“Sedron! I’m not losing another child this year.”
Sedron grumbled, he wouldn’t let the past haunt the future. If he always dwelt on the kids already lost then he could not celebrate the three kids that remained. Four gone, but three still survive. The world was harsh and unforgiving, he was reminded of this every morning. Why did life exist on such a frigid world? Sedron tried not to ask himself, the thoughts of his own mortality and limited existence drove him to dark places. The mind was sharp when cold, but clarity was lost when the mind was left to dwell.
Istelle ran to the edge of Skull Cliff, her mother shouted again, but Sedron hadn’t moved. ‘Why is called Skull Cliff?’ Istelle had asked her father when she was younger. So young, so naive. How to explain the bones in the valley? Not to a child, you can’t explain the bones to a child. The bones are from unwanted children, bastards, and cripples. When the babies’ cries stop, the parents start. Villages elders are at least given a choice: the dignity of a swift execution or the option of leaving to wilderness with a sharp blade. Life is tough and food is scarce. The gods have forsaken this world. Ice. Snow. Ice. Snow. Ice and then more damned snow. Oh, why can’t it be warm?
Istelle’s laughter and screams of joy filled the air as she ran with friends around the village. The other parents watched with just as much concern. Life was dangerous and everyone has lost a sibling, parent, or child in recent memory.
“See, she’s fine,” Sedron said as he sat down to sharpen his iron spear. He shrugged his large round shoulders and took a piece of flint from his pocket. Everything was fine, he told himself.
“Troubles at home?” A voice called from behind. Sedron didn’t rise to the bait. His brother laughed then came to sit beside him. Alfron was taller and more muscular, yet had a poorer aim and wasn’t as nimble on his feet. Just behind Alfron were two more men, each followed by a leashed wolf, and behind them were Alfron’s two teenage sons Fomel and Kebber. “Almost time for hunting, are you ready?” Sedron heard the footsteps of the other men but hadn’t bother to turn and greet them. One of the wolves had come to Sedron’s familiar smell, it licked his face then sat by his feet. “Deaf or just ignorant, Sedron?”
Sedron smirked. “The spear won’t sharpen itself.”
The seven hunters dressed alike in white-grey skins that matched the wolves they walked with. Collective barks came from the wolves who had turned their attention to a snowfox running by, they yanked themselves against their leashes in a vain attempt to pursue. The hunters pulled the leashes tight leading to a collective yelp from the wolves.
“Easy now,” Alfron clapped his pet.
The tip of Sedron’s spear was sharp enough to cut with the slightest touch. Sedron rose and eyeballed his fellow huntsmen. He said nothing. Everyone knew each other, this hunt would be routine. No mistakes. No unnecessary deaths. No children to bury, not this time. “Pray for my return, we shall feast when I return. The lands shall be rife with meat now that the winds have gone.” Sedron addressed his wife.
“Sedron,” Welyn called out to him but suddenly couldn’t find the tell him how much he meant to her. He had to survive, she didn’t know how she could last if there was another death in the family. Worst of all if Sedron died her pillar in life was gone. She tried to smile but her eyes fell to the ground, her mind wandered into a dream of days long gone. “Sedron, I shall pray for your return. Please be careful. No heroics…” she looked to the rest of the huntsmen, “from any of you.”
“Sedron!” Elsar shouted. “No time for kissing, let’s get hunting.”
Snow crunched under the feet of the hunting party as they started their march away from Sedron’s house. The wolves rushed alongside; darting out and back with eagerness.
Cotyr looked back to see if Sedron had moved, “By gods man… you are in no hurry.” The wind howled yet the sun still shone. Sedron kissed his wife goodbye, he uttered something to her that no one else could hear.
“We shall return with a feast for the whole village,” Sedron announced to all. By now, the rest of the village had come out to wave farewell to their hopeful hunters. May the hunt be prosperous they shouted after the men.
“Or to an irate wife if you fail,” Alfron laughed.
“Careful brother or she will have your wolf for our next stew.” Sedron finally left by kissing Istelle goodbye. His other children remained inside. He mumbled a prayer to the gods that should this party fail then they must look after his wife and children, even his eldest and moodiest child. Cerrun wouldn’t listen to his father, he had no drive to do anything with life. How does a parent encourage a child to live when the child will not listen to reaso
n? Every suggestion is wrong, every bit of help ignored. ‘Be safe’ Sedron whispered to the wind.
“Gods of wind, of fire, of land and water, of trees and of men, hear my prayer. Give me strength to hunt and see that my spear will fly straight and true, give me courage in the face of fear and deliver me from danger. I ask this prayer to be heard “O’ Gods above, watch over us this day.” Alfron said aloud.
Ilkand, their father, never left the village without prayer and he had raised his own sons to be both respectful to the gods and dutiful to the village. No chief was fairer or greater in skill. Sedron long wished to emerge from his father’s shadow, but even in the old man’s death, few can see the potential that shines from Sedron. ‘Ilkand the great, Ilkand the wise, the generous, the fair, the master.’ Sedron had grown tired of his father’s legacy such that he had come to revel in the folklore of Magnar, a man that some say was even greater than Ilkand. It was he that wrestled wolves and brought home the first tamed wolf to the village. Magnar lost an eye but continued to hunt. Magnar lost a hand but continued to rule. Many say that Sedron, and Ilkand, were descended from Magnar the legendary chief of Fjatlos.
What made Ilkand so loved was not just his successful hunting strategies but his patience and fair handedness in resolving disputes. It was not