Tales from Opa: Three Tales of Tir na n'Og: The Triads of Tir na n'Og

Prologue

The sky was still light, though ribbons of red, apricot, and gold flamed across the horizon and tinted the drifting clouds.  The air was warm, as it would be for most of the night this time of year.  Opa was pleased; he did his best telling under the open sky.  The stars would be brilliant later, and the moon would be full.  A perfect evening for a telling.  The Fey would approve.

Talking softly among themselves, the people with whom he had dined led the way from the house to a cluster of chairs, benches, and rugs the host had brought outdoors for the occasion.

As the adults strolled, the children darted among them like minnows through a stately school of trout, their voices shrill with excitement.  Most of them were old enough to remember his last visit, the year before, and the ones who weren't were infected by the excitement of their elder siblings.

Opa was unconcerned.  They would quiet down when the time came.

The adults chose seats, spread rugs, or settled into the cool grass, drawing their children to sit beside them.  Opa followed, knowing the best seat, the place of honor, would be saved for him.  Sure enough, he spied a rocking chair, with weathered cushions of no particular color, set to one side where all gathered could see and hear clearly.  Vastly superior to the more usual old stump or rock.

With easy dignity, Opa made his way to the rocker and settled into it with a sigh of pleasure.  The children flopped in the grass all around, their faces turned to him like flowers to the sun.

Before he could speak, the host's eldest son, Peter, called out, Now tell us the story, Opa!  The eager grin on the boy's face was only slightly marred by a broad smear of jam.

Next to him, Ava chimed in, echoing her older brother as was becoming her habit.  Yes, Opa, a story!  She bounced in place, as if any moment she would be up and away.

The old man leaned back and looked around at the faces turned to his.  He had no blood relatives here, but to all of them he was, and had always been, Opa: Grandfather.  Aside from his host's family, there were three work hands and their wives and children, two sets of in-laws and their children, and many others; friends and neighbors who had made the trip to this prosperous house just for the chance to hear him.

It was, as ever, flattering to the old man; but more, it filled him with a blend of gratitude and satisfaction.  He knew how important his stories were, even if many in his audiences didn't.

He made a pretense of deep thought, stroking the white beard lining his square jaw.  Last year, it had flowed down his still-powerful chest, but its length was a nuisance for a life on the road.  A story, eh? he mused aloud.  Well, I could probably manage.

He let his eyes, still the bright blue of his youth, settle once more on Christa, Peter and Ava's mother, who sat beside her husband, Timothy, their infant son clasped in her arms.  Of course, storytelling is dry work, Opa continued.  As parched as I feel....

The woman laughed and shook her head, the fading sunlight catching the first glints of silver in her dark hair.  That was as gentle a chastisement as ever I've received.  If someone will hold Raymond?  The look she gave her husband left no doubt of which someone she had in mind.

He chuckled.  Well, we can't have a storytelling without your fruit cordials, my love.  I don't know how Opa knew you've been saving them all this time, but the secret's out now.

Opa smiled.  The flavor has lived on my tongue since last year.  I'd not be likely to forget that.

In the general laughter that followed, Christa rose with a gracious smile, handed the baby to Timothy, and went back to the house.  She was barely out of sight when Peter piped up again, quickly joined by two of his cousins—what were their names again?  Ah, yes—Josiah and Mariah.

Tell us a Triad story, Opa!

No! I want to hear about a Cavalier.

The olden days, tell us about the olden days.

I want a story about magic; can we have a magic story, Opa?

Mariah sat up and spoke with authority.  No!  It's got to be a Cavalier story.  I want a story about Oengus.

Peter turned to her with scorn.  He wasn't a Cavalier.

Was so!

Was not!

Yes he was!  He could beat anybody!

Peter turned to Opa for verification.  Oengus was not a Cavalier, was he Opa?

Opa raised a hand, concealing his pleasure behind a stern expression, and the children fell silent.  So, you remember the tales of Oengus MacHeath, do you? he said.  Oengus was a great warrior, true.  But it takes more than skill at arms to make one a Cavalier.

Perhaps they could have answered him, but their mother reappeared beside Opa's chair, a tray stacked with cups and two tall, squared glass bottles in her hands, and the moment was lost.  Enough, she said.  Let Opa have his drink first.  Would you help yourself, Opa?

She should have served him herself, he reflected, but let it pass.  After all, her hands were full, the tray was heavy and there was no place to set it, an oversight on her part she would probably correct after tonight.

With a cheerful smile, the old man lifted the nearest cup in one hand and relieved her of one of the bottles with the other.  As he poured, the smell of summer-ripe peaches and bright cinnamon flooded the air; he hummed aloud in anticipation.  Spiced peach!  My very favorite.  Madam, you are a marvel and without peer.

She beamed with pleasure.  Oh, you're too kind.  She looked around for a place to set the tray; Timothy rose, set the baby carefully on the seat, and took it from her.  She smiled her thanks and filled the other cups, passing them to her guests before finally taking her seat next to her husband, he gathering Ava onto his lap, she with baby Raymond on hers.  They gave their full attention to the old man in the rocking chair.

Opa took a moment to center himself, gathering his ki, the energy of his soul with which he infused his telling, making the tales live and breathe in the hearts and minds of those fortunate enough to hear him.  For a moment, he held the entire story in all its glory clearly in his mind's eye, even the parts he knew would remain untold.

Then he looked at each of the semi-circle of faces turned to him, one by one, holding their gazes by the strength of his will.

Clearly, none of them were old enough to remember first hand the things he told of.  Some would hear him with nothing more than amusement and pleasure, seeking only an evening's entertainment, a break from the day-to-day routine of their lives.  Others would listen with envy, wishing they knew more of the things of which he spoke than mere tales.

A few would secretly shudder with relief and be grateful that they knew no more.

But some would truly hear him, would listen to the stylized words, the rhythms of line and phrase that were part of the storyteller's art, and would hear what lay behind it, all the deeds, dreams, thoughts, and passions that Opa, of necessity, must leave aside.  And they would learn.

Those were the ones for whom his stories were truly meant.

You ask for a Triad tale, a story of valor, of magic and Cavaliers.  You ask much.  But perhaps not more than I can give.  He paused.  Of Cavaliers, always remember: a true Cavalier must have more than a sword and the skill to use it.  The path of the Cavalier begins in the heart.

He leaned back, still holding their eyes with his and not letting go.  Let me share with you the tale of one who walked that road.  One who was...another storyteller.

The Heart of a Cavalier

Chapter 1

The Maid's final cry drove Jean LeFleur from his haunted dreams and propelled him upright, blankets clutched in white-knuckled hands.  He stared into the utter blackness around him and for a moment feared he had died and entered Hell, before wakefulness caught up with him and he remembered where he was.  A dream, he whispered, it was only a dream.

His heart, hammering against his ribs, remained unconvinced.  Guilt felt to the body very much like fear.  Perhaps they were one and the same.

He couldn't help thinking that, until recently, he would have taken no more than a true scholar's lively but academic interest in the problem.  He would have led discussions among the students himself.  Tell us, then, Claude, would you say that guilt is indeed just another face of fear, or do they spring from different roots entirely?  I invite you to debate.

Now philosophical curiosity dwindled in importance as his certainty grew that his immortal soul was in peril.  His mouth twisted at the irony of it.

He wondered if Froissart had felt any such dilemma when the French journalist had witnessed and recorded the deeds of the great, heroism and horror alike, forty-some years before.  Had the chronicler of the French and English courts truly been able to remain apart from the things he witnessed and heard, as he had often claimed?

Jean had hoped to earn a name for himself equal to Froissart's.  Now he wondered if he were capable of the kind of clear-sighted impartiality Froissart insisted was necessary.

He sat still, breathing deeply of the slightly stale air inside the confines of the tent, and waited for his heart to slow to its normal pace.

As his eyes adjusted, he began to distinguish one shade of darkness from another.  The smoldering coals of the campfire a few feet outside cast a faint, ruddy glow against the left side of the tent flap.  A patch of darkness detached itself from the other corner and flowed across toward the faint redness, accompanied by the muffled crunch of boots in hard-packed snow as the guard moved closer to warm himself.

Within the tent, a black mound shifted an arm's length away, the movement catching brushstrokes of grey against the dark.  Jean peered intently at his tent mate, hoping he hadn't waked the other man.  A moment later, a gentle snore reassured him, and he leaned back on his hands with an almost inaudible sigh.  He swallowed, took a deep breath, and let the lingering aftertaste of his nightmare out with his breath.

He knew from experience that it would be impossible for him to return to sleep.  There was no point in robbing others of needed rest because of his own wakefulness.

With stealth born of much recent practice, Jean folded his blankets away from himself and rose to a crouch, lifted his sword belt from where it lay beside him, and looped it over his shoulder.  He carefully pulled on his boots, then reached back into the corner by the head of his bedroll.

A moment's exploration recovered his gear, already bundled into his cloak as protection against the damp.  He gathered his belongings to his chest, untied the tent flap, and slipped silently outside.

The guard crouched by the fire turned to watch Jean as he emerged.  The man nodded a greeting, but did not speak.  The thin mountain air was biting cold.

Jean looked around at the encampment.  The snow was a pale, shimmering grey, reflecting in shades of diamond the glittering canopy of stars overhead.  Against that backdrop, the other tents were a featureless collection of grey and black shapes.  Somewhere on the picket line in the stunted trees behind the tents, a horse blew out its breath.  All else was still.

His breath plumed from his lips in a white froth.  Jean thought longingly of his tiny cell with its single, straw mattress back in Paris.  Had he only stayed there and finished his studies, he would now be sleeping warm and snug, or nearly so.  The frozen magnificence of the Pyrenees would still be only a tale to him, and not a very interesting one at that.

But then, so many things would be different.  He would never have seen the Maid....

He slammed the door of his memory shut before it had time to bring his nightmare back, and padded across the snow to the fire, crouching beside the guard to rub his already stiffening hands over the embers.  The guard nodded again and shifted so he could look at Jean without twisting away from the meager warmth of the fire.  Perhaps the age of Jean's own father, his face was weathered into obscurity.  Jean cudgeled his memory for the man's name, but it had deserted him utterly.  As had so much else.

Again you wish to enjoy the night air, M'sieur?  The older man's voice was permanently hoarse, doubtless from a lifetime of shouting across battlefields.  I begin to wonder why it is that you bother going to bed at night, when you never stay there.

Jean fumbled with the knot that held his bundled cloak together, not looking at the other man's face.  He was loathe to speak of the cause of his troubles, but the offer of human companionship was as welcome as the slight warmth of the fire, made him wish to huddle closer to both.  I am plagued by dreams.  They chase me from sleep and pursue my waking mind until all rest eludes me.

Ah.  The other nodded wisely.  And so you make the pilgrimage to Compostella.  The relics of St. James are powerful; many have found absolution from their sins there.  My own master's household goes there often to relieve their souls of the burdens of sin.  I myself think that if the journey were shorter and not so hard, forgiveness would be less certain.  He paused, then spoke again in a different voice.  Eh, M'sieur, allow me to assist you.  In these mountains, you must be careful to stay warm, and your cloak will do more good around you than around your belongings.

Jean nodded, outwardly intent only on untying the stubborn knot.  I thank you, good sir.  This knot is stiff....

But of course, M'sieur.  If the other man noticed the tremor in Jean's hands, he did not mention it.  Hopefully he would think it due only to the cold.

With embarrassingly little effort, the guard pulled the cord free, and Jean's cloak fell open to reveal the fur-lined interior and the padded brigandine and bassinet it sheltered.  By the light of the coals, Jean could see frost already gathering on the steel plates of the armor, and the helmet looked as though it would stick to his head if he put it on, even through the horsehair padding.

For a moment, he doubted the wisdom of donning his gear before daylight offered at least the illusion of warmth, but shoved the thought aside as weakness.  And foolish as well; the steel was on the outside of the armor, after all, and the extra layers would actually add a good deal of warmth.  Eventually.

He shrugged into the brigandine with grim determination and stood shivering as the guard laced him up and helped him wrap his sword belt around it properly.  His teeth were chattering by the time he finally clapped the bassinet on his head and flung the cloak over his shoulders, clutching it tightly around himself.

Most gracious thanks, my friend, he said.  You make a handy squire.

The other man grinned, showing a wide gap where his teeth had deserted him.  As I often say, 'It is better to be prepared when trouble comes than to expect it to wait on your convenience,' no?

Jean had already hunched back over the coals, but at the guard's words he looked up in fresh alarm.  You are expecting trouble here?

The man shrugged and crouched down beside him, holding his callused hands over the ruddy glow in the center of the pit.  In the middle of the Pyrenees mountains, at the beginning of winter?  But no, of course not.  He paused, then added, Not from robbers and such filth, at any rate.  Even the bears sleep now, and the wolves hunt the forests of the lowlands, where all the sensible game has fled.

He shook his head and looked around at the stillness of the night.  Still, there is something in the air tonight.  I like not the feel of it.  I will be glad when we reach Pamplona.  Not tomorrow, but perhaps the day after.

Jean sniffed the air doubtfully, trying to sense what could set this veteran on edge, and got only frozen nose hairs for his trouble.  The darkness around them did seem a bit too still.  Almost expectant.  As though the night were waiting....

He shook himself and pulled his cloak still more tightly around him.  His own nerves still sang in the aftermath of his dreams.  Doubtless, what he felt now could be laid squarely at that door.  Best to change the subject.  So, you have made this journey before?

"But yes.  For many years, I was with the household of the Count de Foix.  That was a family that bore much on its conscience; many of them felt it necessary to unburden themselves at the shrine at Compostella, and I went with them.

I traveled with young Sir Gaston to Navarre, before his unfortunate murder, when he tried to persuade his mother to return to the old Count—Gaston-Phoebus de Foix, I mean, God rest his soul, for there will never again be his like—and with his aunt, the Countess of Biscay, when she sought comfort in Compostella and refuge in Castille after the madness befell her husband when he was cursed by—

It is most reassuring to me that this road then holds no surprises for you, Jean exclaimed a trifle too loudly; he desperately did not want to hear about murder, madness, curses, or other punishments God could inflict upon the guilty.  I myself have never been this way, and it is all new and strange.

Fortunately, the old guard was easily distracted.  He grinned again.  Eh, now, I did not say that, M'sieur.  Any place can surprise you if you are not wary, as old soldiers know.  And many strange things have happened along this road, make no mistake.

Warming to his subject, he dropped his voice and leaned forward.  "Many have seen strange lights or heard voices, though there was no one about to make them.  I myself once saw tracks made by no man or beast I know.  I was young then, but I have traveled far and seen many things since, and I still cannot tell you what made those tracks.

And sometimes there is a mist, as soft as spring, which steals among the trees even in the dead of winter when it is too cold for such things.

He sat back, with an expression that bordered on triumphant.  Also, I have heard from many others who have made this journey, and I have heard it said that men sometimes vanish into thin air, within sight of their comrades.

Jean smiled.  Perhaps the causes are not so mysterious as you believe, my friend.  After all, many and savage are the peoples who have claimed these mountains as their own and dwell like wild beasts in their highest passes, and I have never heard it said that they take kindly to intruders.  And it is said that the leopard and the wolf both prowl these heights.  Surely if men disappear from time to time, the cause is not so hard to fathom.

The older man straightened as though he had taken offense.  Or perhaps it is only that here we are closer to God, and He finds it easier to mete out punishment to those who pass by Him with the weight of sin heavy upon them.

Despite himself, Jean flinched, and the involuntary movement did not go unnoticed.  The guard softened his tone.  Forgive me if I spoke in haste.  You are young yet and have not seen these things.  Perhaps you will be favored and will never see them.  Sin sits upon young shoulders but lightly.

Jean looked at the other man, unable to think of a reply.  The other's statement seemed to him to be so utterly absurd as to be nearly insulting.  He could think of no way to respond short of laughter, but feared that if he allowed himself to laugh, it would be no pleasant sound.

The other man shifted uncomfortably, and Jean realized that he had stared in silence for too long.  Suddenly he was ashamed of himself.  He was being rude to a man who had treated him only with kindness.

Forgive me, he said suddenly.  It is only that I have much that preys upon my mind.  I do not quite know how I have sinned, but the burden of shame I bear tells me that I have, and I find it heavier each day.

The guard regarded him thoughtfully.  In truth, a fool could see that care weighs heavily upon you.  If you wish to unburden yourself, young sir, I would not take offense.  These ears have heard tales from the lips of many of greater and lesser birth, and I have learned that the telling often eases the teller's burden.

For a moment, Jean could only stare, blinking in astonishment.  Tell, just like that?  He opened his mouth, at a loss for an adequate response to such a ridiculous offer.

Just as quickly, another inner voice whispered, Why not?  True, he had spoken only to a priest of what troubled him, but that did not mean he was forbidden to speak of it.  He no longer feared the censure of others, only their failure to understand.

My home is Alsace, he began slowly, though my family has many connections in France, Aquitaine, and Burgundy.  My family wished for me a career in the church.  I am the youngest of three sons; it seemed a goodly choice.  I myself desired a life of study.  Have you ever read the chronicles of Sir Jean Froissart?

The guard shook his head.  I have heard of him, of course.  But I cannot read.

Jean shrugged.  "I admired him above all men save only the blessed saints themselves.  He wrote of all the great happenings of his day, to many of which he was witness.  I thought that a most noble endeavor, an occupation for a true scholar, of which a man might be proud before God.  I, too, wished to report on the happenings of my time, to write of them so that others who follow may understand us better, and through us, themselves.

"I was sent to Paris to study.  I learned Latin, Greek, English, Spanish, and Italian, and improved my German.  I studied many of the great writers of those lands, and learned from them, hoping to emulate them.  I wished to be counted among the great scholars of history.

The wars with England have changed many things, of course.  For me, it meant that my studies were often interrupted.  I did not wish to be a soldier—I believed that if I took part in the struggle, it would affect my ability to write about it in a proper, objective manner—but it seemed I might be required to serve as one.  When I first heard of the Maid, I was in Poitiers, with a company of soldiers being prepared to march all the way to Reims.

The Maid of Orleans?  The guard straightened, crossing himself.  They say she spoke with God's voice.  May He rest her soul.

Jean shifted uncomfortably.  I did not credit the stories.

Why not?  She is hardly the first woman to take up the sword and go to war, no matter what the good Fathers of the Church would tell you.

Jean did not care to argue the point, and shrugged.  "A silly young peasant girl, leading an exhausted army of half-starved veterans, had been appointed by God to drive out the English?  I thought, if she existed at all, it was as a fabrication built by clever men around a convenient, pretty figurehead.  A tale to give heart to those who had lost all hope.

"But then she lifted the siege at Orleans; it was afterward that they began to call her the Maid of Orleans.  Or simply, the Maid.  And then her victorious strikes, so swift, so telling, against Henry's army as it marched, driving him ever back...she seemed unstoppable.  I wished to see her—as a scholar, you understand—to see what was true and what false.  To know for myself why men followed where she led.

"When she was taken captive at Compiegne, I thought my opportunity lost.  My services as a soldier turned out not to be required after all, and I returned to my studies.  I was given the opportunity to take service in the household of a certain Flemish merchant of noble birth, which gave me immunity from the struggles around me.

I was by purest chance in Rouen, on a mission for my patron, when the Maid was to be executed.  I decided to go and see.  Out of curiosity, that's all.  I did not expect to see anything but a crazed young girl who had been put forth as an angel of war by ruthless men.  For a moment, Jean could only stare into the softly shifting light of the embers.  A shadow within the flames twisted into a human form, writhing.  He looked quickly back up at the guard.

The guard spoke before he could.  What did you see?  Was it true, what they say of her?  Was she fair?

Was she fair?  The words conjured memories that rose up against Jean's will.  For a moment he stood once more on the dirty stones beneath an archway that opened onto the square in Rouen....

The air still bore the last, lingering chill of winter, for spring had been slow in coming.  But the sun was making valiant headway, and over the stink of unwashed bodies, refuse, and livestock, an alert nose could sometimes catch the scent of new flowers and green grass on the breeze.  A festive air reigned over the day as the people responded to the longed-for change of season.

A throng of humanity filled every possible inch of space in and around the town square, leaving only a conspicuous gap around the single stake, piled all around with bundles of firewood, that was set on a platform in the very center of Jean's view.

He assumed that there would be similar gaps around the other two platforms, upon one of which would be sitting the judges while the prisoner and her guards stood on the other.

But these were out of his line of sight, on the other side of what had once been the town wall, which still rimmed the square along two sides.  People perched like a flock of birds along it, and every doorway and stoop was filled.

Jugglers, acrobats, and would-be minstrels had picked out places here and there, entertaining the surging crowds for whatever coins were tossed their way.  Men and women with trays of what meager delicacies and sweets they could lay hands upon moved like ducks through a pond, calling out their wares in cheerful voices.

He paid a penny for a sweet bun that wasn't too stale and looked around for any gaps that might enable him to get a better view.  He eyed the wide space around the stake in the center; would it be better to stay where he was, or to make for that gap, where most people were less eager to stand?  The idea was distasteful, but a true scholar should allow nothing to stand in the way of his search for truth.

A happy accident decided him; a tall, raw-boned woman, surrounded by her large family, began to rail at her husband in a voice that could have shattered glass, had there been any yet unbroken nearby.  The henpecked spouse put up a spirited defense, just as loudly though not so shrill.

The battle escalated, drawing the attention of the soldiers who patrolled the square.  Pushing their way through to the war zone, the guards finally drove the woman, her indignant spouse, and what seemed a vast number of children, out of the square entirely.

While most of the onlookers were busy being amused by the spectacle, Jean took the opportunity to slip into the space provided by the couple's departure.  He was pleased to note that he could now see the other platforms, and would be right beside the procession when the prisoner was brought through.

He wondered what the famous Maid would look like.  He had heard her called fair.  Well, that was to be expected.  All maidens in tales were fair.  But he did not expect to find her so, if he got so close as to see her face.  Jeanne d'Arc was of solidly peasant stock, and in Jean's experience, no girl of the French peasantry was anything more than passable.  Dark and brutish, stunted from a lifetime of starvation, usually painfully scrawny for the same reason, the common folk of France were almost another species from the elegant nobility, or even the merchant class.

A roar went up as a gap opened and guards came through, marching a slim, coarsely-robed figure in their midst.  Around him, Jean's fellow onlookers began to jeer and call.  Some threw rotten vegetables or offal, screeching insults and curses with cheerful abandon, accepting the shoving and blows of the guards with good-natured resignation.

Jean grimaced his distaste, but craned his neck for a better look, thankful that he was taller than those around him.

The girl's head had been shaved some time before; now sandy stubble dotted her bare scalp.  It was impossible for Jean to believe that anyone could feel sufficiently threatened by this pathetic creature that they would flee at the sight of her at the head of her motley army, offer enormous rewards for her capture, and go through the trouble and expense of a lengthy and sensational trial to condemn her.  Surely human pity dictated that she wasn't even worth burning.

Then, just as she drew abreast of him, the Maid lifted her head and looked around at the shouting, mocking crowd.  At her stare, the mob fell strangely silent.  Puzzled by the sudden quiet, he moved to get a better look.  The movement must have caught the girl's eye, for she turned her head and looked directly at him.

No, he thought dazedly, she was not fair.  There was too much strength in that young face, and the life in it burned too powerfully to make her easy to look upon.  Too hard an intelligence shone in those huge, clear eyes that seemed to pierce every pretense, every artifice Jean LeFleur wore before the world.

Angels would have such faces as they drove demons from the gates of Heaven.  Gabriel himself, were he a woman, would have such a face when he blew the trump of doom.  Before such a face, lies could not exist, nothing could be hidden, no man could look and not feel shame for every secret darkness he kept within his soul.

An overwhelming grief flooded Jean's heart.  Sudden shame held him frozen before her stare, as if the guilt of the entire human race weighed upon his shoulders.

Of course she had to die.  No man could bear the gaze of those eyes and ever feel worthy again.

Then the Maid looked away, ahead at the stake that awaited her, and he was freed.  He stumbled and would have fallen had not the press of bodies held him upright.

As breath returned to him, he wanted nothing more than to escape, to leave this place, to not see what was about to take place.  As if by not seeing, he could keep it from happening.

But the crowd fenced him in, people all around him held him captive.  Helplessly, he watched as she was led to the stake and bound to it with chains.  He saw the faggots smolder, catch, and burst into flame beneath her bare feet.  He saw....

Had she screamed?  He could not remember; the voice of his soul was screaming too loudly in protest at the monstrous injustice taking place.  He realized, suddenly, just how horrible a thing it was to do to something as precious as a human being.

And the worst of it was that he had come here, like all these others, to see it happen—as though it were a play, a game, a child's entertainment.

He thought he heard the Maid cry out the Savior's name, but he couldn't be certain.  He threw up, noisily and violently, all over the back of a fat man in front of him, and was cursed roundly, driven away with blows.

He could not remember, afterward, how he had found his way back to the room where he was staying.  He remembered lying on his bed all that day and the next, unable to eat or sleep, as the entire awful drama and its implications played out before his exhausted imagination, again and again.

The guard's hoarse voice brought him abruptly back to the present.  A heavy burden indeed, M'sieur, to witness the burning of the savior of France.  But what could you have done?

Jean looked at him blankly, wondering what he had said, and realizing that there was no way he could make this good, simple man understand.  He rose.  I need to...pardon me for a moment.

He desperately needed to be alone.  Telling another about it all had solved nothing, as he should have expected.  What had he hoped to accomplish?

The other nodded.  Do not go far, M'sieur.  It is easy to get lost in the dark.

Jean nodded.  I will return shortly.  Gathering his cloak around him, he headed out toward the horse line and the woods just beyond.

As he made his way farther from the feeble light of the fire, the night covered all but the snow beneath his feet in a veil of black and grey.  He was able to make out the soft shifting of darkness against darkness as the horses tried to keep warm, and the dim mist of their breaths.  He heard the creak of tired joints as they relaxed leg and hip, the soft swish of fur rubbing fur as they sought warmth from one another or flicked their tails in irritation.

He sensed rather than saw their heads turn toward him as he approached, and almost collided with the horse on the end, the darkness suddenly made solid and warm beneath his touch.

There now, he murmured to the invisible beast, feeling its startled breath against his face.  See how clumsy I am, falling over you like that.  It's all right.  Go back to sleep.  The horse blew another breath, reassured, and Jean felt his way along the animal's body until he was past it.

His reaching hands next encountered a tree, and he stopped.  This was surely far enough.  He felt his way to the other side of it, then bent slightly forward, fumbled under his brigandine and the tunic and shirt beneath to the tie of his trousers.

When he finished, he straightened his clothing and stood quietly for a moment, trying to gather the stillness of the night into his restless mind and heart.  If only he could have even one night without dreams, one night of true rest, perhaps he could sort out his grief and make sense of it all.  It was impossible for him to hear the voice of God through all the cries of woe within him.

The priest to whom he had first confessed had told him that the relics of St.  James might ease him, but privately he wondered if anything would.  Or ever could.

If only he hadn't seen her face.

Jean closed his eyes and breathed deeply, telling his heart to slow.  Perhaps if he simply shut out everything for a while, he could relax enough to sleep a little.  He drew another breath and tried to focus only on the sound it made as it came and went, as he had been taught.

Breathe deeply.  In.  Out.  Think of nothing.  Hear nothing.  Feel nothing.

For a time, there was only the sound of the night air moving slowly and quietly into his lungs and out again.  His heart slowed, became a comforting, half-heard rumble.  He was only dimly aware of the cold, of the darkness, of the camp behind him or the horses nearby.

The sudden realization that he could not hear the horses at all roused him from his meditation.  Horses were never so still, even at rest.  He opened his eyes, expecting the familiar blackness.

Instead, to his amazement, the world had turned pale grey around him, a grey that shifted and slid between the trees, masking and revealing them by turns.

It was light.  Much too light.  Was dawn so near?  How had he lost track of time?

Oddly, for having stood out in the snow all night, he was not cold.  The air even felt warmer against his face.  Perhaps he had dozed off while standing there without realizing it.

Perhaps he was still dreaming; the fog made the world seem unreal, distant, as though he stood and watched from the edge of a nightmare.

He turned slowly, feeling for the tree that should have been just behind him, but not finding it.  Had he taken an extra step without remembering?  Squinting, he peered around, trying to make out shapes.  Trees, yes, there were trees, but...which one had he stood by all night?

Of course, he had left an obvious mark, he recalled with relief, amused at his own fright.  He looked down at the snow to find his footprints.

His stomach sank as he saw the mist swirling below his knees, hiding the ground as though he stood in a shallow, grey sea.  It twinned around his legs like a grey cat, curling upward until it wrapped around his body.  Grey strands brushed his face like ghostly fingers, testing, teasing.

A sense of dread took hold within him, twisting along his nerves.  The silence crawled across his skin, lifting the fine hairs until he shuddered.  The very air seemed to smell of fear, though he could find no outward cause for it.

Get hold of yourself at once, he told himself sternly.  You are only a hundred paces from the camp.  You cannot possibly be lost.  If all else failed, he had only to call out, and the guard would come and find him.  Strictly as a last resort, of course.

He knelt and felt the snow at his feet.  It was not as deep as he had thought, possibly owing to the relative shelter of the trees.  He could not find a footprint.  New snow must have blown over them.  Or...suppose he had been walking in his sleep?  Such a thing was not unknown, when a man's rest was disturbed.

Jean swallowed hard and rose, staring irresolutely into the blank greyness ahead.  He felt sweat on his upper lip and licked away the saltiness.  There was nothing for it but to simply begin walking back in the direction of the camp.  He was sure to stumble into it eventually.  It was ridiculous to be frightened of a little fog.

He drew himself upright and took a moment to orient himself in what he was sure was the proper direction.  He took a step.

LeFleur!

Jean froze in place and held his breath, listening with all his might.  A moment later, the sound came again.

LeFleur!  Answer!

It seemed to him that several voices were calling, but as if from a great distance.  His relief was mixed with fresh fear.  How could he have come so far?

LeFleur!  Where are you?  LeFleur!

I am here!  I cannot see for the mist!  Here!  The voices seemed to come from slightly to his left.  Despite a warning from his better sense, he began to run toward the sound.  I am here!  I cannot see you!  Where are you?

LeFleur, where are you?  The voices were fainter, as though the searchers were moving away.

Jean increased his pace, his breath loud in his own ears.  Here!  I am here!  Where are you?  A tree loomed into his path and he crashed into it, bounced off, ran on.  Here I am!  This is LeFleur!

He knew he should have reached the camp long since, knew he must have been running in the wrong direction, but his legs seemed determined to run the entire length of the mountains of their own volition.  He was young and strong; he could run for leagues if need be.  If the voices proved so far away, he could still catch them.

He lost all track of how far he ran.  Belatedly realizing that his own noise might be drowning out any reply, he paused at last, panting, straining his ears for the voices.  Please answer me, he whispered.  Please.

He waited a long time, until his heart finally slowed to its normal rate and his breathing quieted.  He stood still, listening harder than he ever had for the sound of his name.  He listened, waiting.

The mist made no sound.  Nor did anything else.

I am lost, Jean thought before he said it aloud, in disbelief.  I am lost.

The mist drifted in silence, swallowing his voice and leaving nothing, not even a mocking echo.

Chapter 2

His search was, at first, ordered and methodical.  He marched in a straight line in the direction he had come from for one thousand paces, then stopped and called.  When no reply came, he turned exactly ninety degrees and marched a thousand paces in that direction, and again stopped and called.

Each time, he told himself that the next time he called, he would hear an answer.

But the silence remained unyielding; his fear strained against the leash he kept upon it.

Now and then, the fog lifted away from the ground, and he expected to come upon his own tracks again eventually.  He even hoped for it; in a sense, it would give boundaries to this strange, sightless world.

When no tracks materialized, his own or anyone else's, he reasoned that the topography had compelled him to stray too far off course, and stopped to rest, more because he could think of nothing else to do than because he was tired.

A large rock protruded from the soft greyness nearby; he made his way to it and sank down with a sigh, closing his eyes.

He found it easier to keep panic at bay that way, to convince himself that at any moment the fog would lift, like a normal fog, and he would see where he was and find his own way out.  The caravan had been within two days of Pamplona, after all, and there were other small villages along the route.  He could not be too far away from safety and civilization.

Hopefully, no one from the caravan would take it upon himself to write to his parents to tell them that he was missing, at least not for a while.  They would worry themselves sick.  The first thing he would do was write a letter to them himself, assuring them of his safety.

When he knew he had his fear under control again, he opened his eyes and spent some time staring around at the swirling murk, trying to distinguish some sort of features within the landscape.

His feet told him he had been going uphill and downhill by turns, and he had brushed against or run into more rocks than trees lately, which told him that the landscape was changing.  But the unnaturally stubborn fog refused to lift and let him verify his findings.

If I could only see the sun, he thought for perhaps the thousandth time, I could get my bearings.  Perhaps I might even be fortunate enough to find my way out of these mountains by myself.

Another part of him laughed darkly at the thought, but he ignored it.  Losing even that slender hope would kill him as surely as hunger or the sudden strike of a leopard.

The silence oppressed him.  Since beginning his search, he had not heard so much as the song of a bird, the chirp of an insect, or even the musical rush of running water.  The only noises were the ones he made and even those were strangely muffled, as if the ghostly fog had sucked the life from the land around him.

This, he said aloud, just to hear something, is an adventure.  One day, I will write of it.  What will I write?  His voice sounded dim and hollow, as though he had his hands over his ears.  He wondered if someone standing even a few feet away would be able to hear him.  Or he, them.

His fear quivered inside, seeking to escape his hold, and he hurriedly returned to his imaginary journal.

I see nothing but mist.  This mist changes; sometimes it is so bright as to be almost silver, and at other times it is so dark that it is like smoke.  It has no smell of its own, and seems to possess the quality of smothering all other odors, as far as I am able to tell, for even the trees put out no scent.  It is not cold.  It is, perhaps, caused by warm air coming from...from somewhere, melting the snow a little.

He sounded uncertain in his own ears.  He took a breath and continued more strongly.  It thins sometimes enough so that I can see rocks, or trees, or the snow itself.  At other times, it is so thick I cannot see my own feet, or my hands held at arm's length.  He looked downward.  This is one of those times.  I will not move until it has lifted at least a little.

He closed his eyes again to spare himself the constant view of nothing and listened to the sound of his own breathing.  How long had he been lost?  The changes in light, subtle as they were, were not enough to let him guess the time, or even if it was day or night.

It seemed he had been wandering for hours, or even days, but surely that was not possible.  He was tired, but not unduly.  He did not feel hungry yet, or even thirsty, for which he was grateful.  He had taken no food with him from the camp, and though he knew he could get water from the snow, he also knew it would not be wise to do so unless he found some way to melt it first.

He had a tinderbox, but no supplies other than his clothing, armor, weapons, and the small collection of personal belongings, including his quills and an ink block, which he kept in his pouch.

His water skin was attached to the saddle of his mule, back at the camp, wherever that was.  So were the saddlebags where he kept food and other travel supplies.

The next time I leave a perfectly good encampment to relieve myself, he promised himself aloud, I will take at least three day's worth of food and water, so help me God.

So help me God.  The words stung him with the sudden reminder of what should have been his greatest source of aid and comfort, chastising him for his levity.

Taking a deep breath, Jean rose from his rock and knelt on the ground, clasped his hands, and bowed his head until his forehead pressed against them.

"O Lord, help this poor sinner, who begs forgiveness for his trespass against You.  I am lost, and I do not know what it