“Ooh look what I found! Look at this! I'm chomping at the bit to get a load of this!”
Professor Sigiwoud Thœrchéi-Yzweck burst into the common room.
“Ah, Sigiwoud found that Salami he lost two centuries ago. And now there's a family of gnomes living in it.” Scoffed Charlomann Schakkothaal, a new member of the college’s research team in the Classics Department. Young and oddly suave for a professor, he was the epicentre of the staff banter.
“No.” Sigiwoud barked defensively placing the tray on the coffee table. “A rabbit farmer gave my office a call last night. A rabbit warren of his tunnels into a tomb. The tomb of a poet. Wueëttschi.”
The faculty fell out their seats, sputtering forth their coffee and biscuits.
“Are you joking?” They exclaimed in unison almost.
“And most of all. We er, we f-f-found…” Sigiwoud ran his hand through his grey hair, a broad smile on his face. “We found the poem that actually covers Sjuurdecho!”
Much champagne was had that night. It was all the news would talk about. Teachers itched for the next day, to tell the tale of Gauliscia’s fabled hero. Filmmakers rubbed their palms in glee. The father of the Gauliscian nation had been found and it's writer. Wueëttschi, the Gauliscian Homer and Sjuurdecho the Gauliscian Aeneas.
- Swiftly, Sjuurdecho, son of Hreuwachi, Lord of Glades and Sentinel of the Dales dashed through the tight thickets and gloomy glens, bow in hand. His body radiated the full bloom of youth, a slight plumpness to his cheeks, soft small hairs came through his face and his flesh was young and smooth. He knelt down by a thick, tall and ancient pine, its roots deep into the rich soil that had fed this forest since the dryads and nymphs had first planted the saplings here. Ensnared in the long and strong string was a tawny hare, large and long eared. It's soul had fluttered up to skies, where it could scamper in lush warrens, rolling in beds of bell flowers without fear of the foaming fangs of foxes nor the tearing talons of raptors.
Sjuurdecho cut the stiff and cold cadaver from the snares, tied up its hind legs, slinging it over his back with his quiver. His ears pricked to a faint rustling in the dense grove, Sjuurdecho drew an arrow and notched it into his willow bow. And there it pranced, a high antlered stag, it's hazel pelt flecked with white, it crossed the winding woodland path, leaping over the side ditches, heading to the river from its forest pastures. But Sjuurdecho made haste in pursuing it, light on his feet and eyes fixed on the prize. He loosened a shaft, it flew through the low lying mist and lodged in the side of the great stag. But indeed was it a great beast and though it was slowed, it cantered on for the river. Sjuurdecho took up the chase, gliding over thick stumps, evading the long mossy arms of the trees. At last he reached the stumbling stag, by the roaring currents of Xohwaez river where it's foreshanks buckled and it fell to the shingle bleating. Slinging his bow, Sjuurdecho unsheathed his blade, Hlosswa, it's metal carved with prayers and it's hilt adorned with talismans of his ancestors. Taking the deer by the muzzle he slit its neck, it's head drooping, the hind’s spirit ascending to verdant glades, joining the immortal herds of Bœcher the Cernunnos. But the river was shallow here, the logs and crags poking out the river like the fins of a serpent. Sjuurdecho had never crossed the river, nor had any of the Franchomanni, for the river spirits had forbidden it. Perhaps now, this ford risen, a sign had come to the Franchomanni to cross the Xohwaez. Binding it's cloven hooves with supple vines, he carried it on his shoulders, for a while, but eventually could not and hauled it through the mast and undergrowth.
As the celestial chariot passed beneath the earth, a chariot of the same stables, the lunar chariot rose up, it's starry cloak wide and dark. Uettwi, son of Tyrchobaard was on sentry duty that night, going up and down the walkway on the high palisades of the frontier, bow in hand. He was a blessed archer, the finest of those who donned Franchomanni armour. Uettwi was young and had not yet rushed into battle, thus he knew not of the gore which stained the minds of its veterans, nor of the grief which rent the hearts of mothers, wives and daughters in twain. With him, Wiedo, son of Jutzile; chief farrier to the mounted escort of the King. Wiedo too was not of many years, but his looks betrayed his maturity and he was indeed often entrusted with burdensome tasks on account of this.
“Uettwi, I have seen in the feasting hall, your deep desire for the drinking and indeed the wenching. Always do you satiate your lust for these matters with undue haste, filling your mouth with golden mead and red flesh, or advancing on the nearest untaken woman or even harlots and strumpets with great wide-eyed desire. I tell you, this does not further your renown -what unravished maiden will place her hands in yours and take in your hot seed?”
Uettwi gazed into the woods, at the creaking trunks and wind-rustled leaves.
“Alas Wiedo, my flesh is young and it aches to slide with the skin of others amongst other things. So too does my throat pine for a horn of mead or beer. The women must know such is the life of a young man.”
Before Wiedo could continue his admonishing, a great heaving and straining was heard on the forest path leading to the gates of the ramparts. Both men drew their weapons, leering into the dark expanse. To them, it seemed most likely to be a great brown bear, dragging the carcass of an elk to his warm hollow, giving sustenance to his Cubs. But equally it could be a woodland ogre, hauling a terrible mace of oak trunk and studded with iron and flint, ready to bludgeon down the gates and feast on the wrought slaughter.
“Halt! Who goes there? Whither do you hold your course?!” So demanded Wiedo, poised to raise the alarm and quickly dispatch the lurker with a hail of arrows.
“A friend! Sjuurdecho, son of Hreuwachi! I return from inspecting my snares but indeed with a felled hind too. Swing wide the gates, lest you wish not to join me in the gilded halls this night to feast on this great high antlered beast.” Replied Sjuurdecho, hollering over the high wall of felled logs. Wide were the gates swung, creaking as they went and Sjuurdecho bounded through.
The Hold of the Franchomanni; Rothaburg, a great bustling town of carved wood and bricked stone. Horses whinnied in their hay-packed stables, blacksmiths clanged on their anvils, carpenters sawed at their workstations, hunting hounds barked at their tethers and of course the great gilded hall of the King; Heldesaal, the warm glow of mirth leaking out the thatching and chimney as did the joyous revelling; beer horns thumping, the fiddles squeaking and the men bellowing the songs; tales of warriors, great beasts, maidens and enemies. Over a roaring fire turned the great beast felled that day by Sjuurdecho, lard cascading from its crisp flanks, servers tearing off hunks of dripping meat. On the tables, bowls of crusted and fluffed bread, of stews from rabbit, frog and snail, platters of river fish and indeed of earthy roots. Such was the feast laid for the King and his Lords.
When all had retired, the inebriated slumbering where they slumped, drenched in mead, limbs loosened by drink and entangled with stools, drinking horns and meat bones, the serving maidens cloaking their body fruit underneath great fur hides of wolf, bear and elk, and the guards, resting on their spears, the watchfires flickering and the embers fading. The great stag was eaten to the white bone, the thick gore pooled on the coals. Sjuurdecho could not rest that night. That stag had lead him and so thus the Franchomanni to that uncrossed ford. Alas the shamans had waved him away, they hungered too much for the feast to ponder over such matters. Silently, he took to his feet, clambering over bench and torso, carcass and barrel. Outside the hall, darkness shrouded the town, all slept, all was still. Sjuurdecho made for his own house, of spruce and stone. He took up his bow and quiver, blade and helmet. For indeed did demons and other fanged wretches roam the starlit glades. Sjuurdecho jumped over the wall of Rothaburg, lowering himself down the high outer palisades, before making haste into the forest. As he ran down the woodland path, somewhere, far off, a deep sustained bellow resounded throughout the realm, creaking the pines and shaking the soil. A Minotaur of the Guhuerx Clearing, a mighty creature, tall as a great oak and with horns more piercing than the King’s spear. Sjuurdecho kept running, over mossy logs and blue brooks. The howl of a wolf echoed, as did the bawling of a moose and the hooting of an owl. And there it was, in a moonlit clearing, of polished stone a great domed house. From its chimney leaked spells of dark colours and ill shapes. With a gloved fist, Sjuurdecho rapped on the door.
“Enter, son of Hreuwachi! Long have we awaited your handsome body to grace our hut!” Croaked a voice from within. Sjuurdecho took from his tunic fold the carved wooden icon of his household. The Naamensgéist. The ancestors. He clasped it tight.
“Oh Fuljær, father of my fathers before me, root of my honour, protect me now in this most eerie of places and shield me from their evil potions and wicked spells.”
And so he entered.
Purple mist hung low in that domed house, herbs of the wood hung from the gables, skulls of bats and foxes fixed their eyeless sockets on Sjuurdecho. Three cloaked figures shuffled towards Sjuurdecho, leaning on their ancient staffs, prayers and curses scratched into the wood. The first, unveiled, revealing most hideous of features, like those of a vulture; with creviced red skin and a chaffed mouth.
“Away Hag!” Cried Sjuurdecho, his fingers curling round his sword hilt.
“Do not jump so, son of Hreuwachi. Lest we are compelled to transfigure you to a wretched pestilence of the forest floor, scavenging amongst the unyielding mast for acorns and truffles before being carried away by the talons or fangs of a beast. For we know why you have come. Leuffrech, the high antlered stag and spawn of Wœdin led you to the Xohwaez river, and there it's spirit fled, on the raised riverbed, ankle-high, where man and horse can cross. This was indeed a gesture of the gods, Sjuurdecho. And truly does your destiny lie across that river.” Thus spoke the enchantress, her voice cracked and ancient.
“And what is my destiny, O enchantress?”
“Come, follow.”
And so Sjuurdecho followed the three hags deep into their lair, until they were beneath the great dome, stood around a great mixing porringer. The liquid was clear and bubbled. From the cupboards and shelves and gables, they began to hurl items into the boiling pot; claw of squirrel, snout of boar, stem of dandelion, pine cones, leaf of willow, two blue pebbles, six brown mice, feather of goose, fang of lynx, horn of goat, fin of serpent, and a bundle of oak twigs. Finally, a drop of the green berry vial.
“See Sjuurdecho! Gaze upon it! What do you see? What see you?” Such was their croaking, clenching his garments, inhaling the reeking stew.
“A people of the steppe, cold and flat. They till the land and their host is heavily armed. A battle? The ground is stained with blood. Women weep. Myself? Crowned? That, and that is all.”
Sjuurdecho stumbled, such was the vision.
“The crown!? This is not mine for the taking!” He wailed, bringing to mind a murder of the revered King.
“It will be. And through no foul deeds on behalf of your hands. The Franchomanni will be yours to lead. We shall grant you this stewardship, only, if you prove to us that the fate of the Franchonanni can rest in your hands. Deep in the Wouënck Groves there lives a Satyr: Chjésson and there he enslaves 12 of the fairest faeries that dwell in these woods. In soft beds of flowers and ferns they lay with men, and are compelled by beatings to give their earnings to Chjésson. But we care less about that, more do we yearn for the Satyr’s ichor, thick and silver. Bring us his head and a flask of his essence, perhaps the Faeries will have a reward for you..”
