MidgardBrómber
Chapter Six
It seemed he didn't move his feet as he walked. Brómber met the mare at her post. Soft words left his lips as he untied her. As he whispered Smjor tried to catch his gaze with her eye, unsure herself if she was more proud or afraid. He swung himself onto her back. She huffed. His neck stayed steady, splinted by worry. Her ears twitched each time a sharp word pierced the rumble growing behind them. Neither considered the ground beneath them as they left town.
Brómber coughed. His eyelids seemed to weigh nothing, there was hardly a task simpler than keeping them wide. The first thing he heard was her hooves passing over the earth beneath him. Thump. His eyes slipped past the church but he could not make out the color of the sky. Thump. Pain, carefully, crept back into his hand and then his eye. Thump. He could feel his heart beating in his ears.
As they rode away the sound of the town behind them stayed the same, growing a foot louder with every step she took. Thump. Their breath came and went at the same pace, his woven in-between the gaps in hers. Thump. All of the sounds of the world washed over each other, falling in and out of unison. Thump. A bell's ring. Thump. It seemed like two. Thump. The tilt of the hill forced his eyes up toward heaven. Thump. The church continued to grow taller in front of them. Thump. Her hoof slipped on a stone and he bit his lip. Thump. Someone screamed. Thump. Brómber stumbled as he dismounted the horse, hitting the ground with a thud.
He fell through the door and wept. Screams fled through the gaps in his teeth. He was standing and he heard a voice. He was rolling on the floor and a priest appeared wearing safety on his face. Godric spoke and so invited the many pins in Brómber's flesh out into the air of the church. A horse beaten by its owner for an apple eaten, an unpaid axe black and longer than his arm, a wood post longer still and hidden from view by the walls of the workshop, hands throbbing one more than the other, two guards who shared a face cut down to share a height, the echoed shriek passed among the folk, a seax back's broken but flat edge wrought from still strong steel, the dog, the dog that needed a hand the dog that stole a bit of cloth and all of the souls brought down to the earth to look closely at their grave's stones sitting empty bellies over soil that would their heaven be and eyes at eyes emptied of salt that fed the sea all until the shriek passed along each hand and into his own only to be eaten and regurgitated back into the air. Brómber could not help from speaking it all, pieces of the story tumbling from his mouth over others. A cold hand fell on him and stuck itself into and out of his chest, each finger grasping at his anguish as his other hand gripped onto Godric's arm. Blood seeped out from his lip and cloak and tongue and seax. Godric ran his hands through his hair and knew the sin if not the story. He held a crying man, a boy, a babe. A broken birch beam that curved at both sides of Godric's lap. Babble split them from each other, he could not comprehend the boy. As he looked down at Brómber, he directed his thoughts upward and apologized for having sent his guest into town alone. He thanked his lord for sending Brómber back to him and wondered how many he had taken. Then he joined Brómber and wept.
Wystan hung silently above them. Before he would ring again the older man brought peace to the younger and took from him the day's events. It was great labor to understand, Brómber's breath was unsteady and his thoughts not yet sewn together. When he could speak no longer he muttered "Smjor." Godric stood and left the boy on the floor of the church, walking outside to address the horse and then returning. He took Brómber and spoke to him at length, designing and refining the plan as he went. At the end he grabbed Brómber's face and forced him to repeat the words over and over again until he could read them on the boy's teeth.
The host fed to the guest bread and brought ale to his lips. While Brómber slept Godric thought of digging two graves without the boy's help. The priest let him rest. He needed starker sanctuary than the church could offer.
That night dreams came to him. He dreamed of dying. They were soft passings, more simple still than killing. He willed them true and held as tightly as he could to sleep. His task waited for him patiently in the sun of the next morning, knowing in faith that he would meet it there.
The priest woke him in the dark. "Remember," the priest tapped a finger to his mouth, "and godspeed."
He led the boy outside and onto his horse, saying a prayer before he sent them into the woods and away from town. He stood for a moment thinking he might watch as they left but seeing only black. That morning he waited as long as he could to ring the bell and bring his flock in for Sunday mass.
Brómber and Smjor walked through the woods. After passing the edge of the trees he began to count to a score. He repeated this again and again, flexing each finger and both thumbs to keep track of the count. Once all of his digits were exhausted he stopped and dismounted, leading the mare slowly toward the river. They sat waiting for the morning sun. A bell rang. When light crept into the valley they began to walk again, scanning the river for a spot shallow enough to cross. His mouth moved without speaking again, tracing out the same pattern over and over again.
He could barely see it in the faint light and the fog. A bank running through the river, a path just shallow enough to cross. When they came upon it she paused. Neither was interested in the cold that crossing meant but she was more reluctant than him. He placed one hand on her head and then the other. "Please," he said. She was unconvinced. She would not enter the water. "We have no time to wait."
Brómber did not know how long mass would last. Neither did Smjor. Grabbing her by the reins he pulled as hard as he could toward the far bank but she would not budge. Finally he relented. He kissed her on the head. "Goodbye," he said. "I am sorry. Run and be free." Smjor huffed. She did not think he would be foolish enough to try crossing here.
He walked toward the edge of the river, looking down to watch his step. His feet were wrapped in fog just thick enough that the water startled him as he moved into the river. He crept forward. The hair on his neck stood at attention as his boots drank in the river. One step, then another. Soon the water was up to his thighs. It made his feet heavy. He continued to shuffle deeper, pausing to look behind him but only at the fog, mistaking for a moment its movement for Smjor. He wrenched his right foot out of the mud and slid it onto a rock. He steadied himself on the stone. Here the water was past his forearms. He swung his arms around slowly from side to side, hoping to detect higher ground. It pushed on him, pulling him softly to the right.
A tunnel broke in the fog. Light streamed in. The other bank of the river came into view, he was almost halfway through. He pulled his left foot up to take another step and the rock aneath his right shifted. Then rolled. He fell.
The river kissed the boy and sucked the breath out of his lungs. He kicked his legs looking for the bottom of the river but could not find it. He swung his hands wildly trying to part the fog enough to see but hit water. Dashes of light fell through in brief flashes giving him an indication of up. He thought he saw Smjor, running on the riverbank beside him.
The water made its way into his nose and searched for the passages behind his ears. It searched through his pockets and tore at his cloak. Soon the river had fashioned his garb into a net and dragged him along, laughing and gurgling as it took him. Ice in his neck he grasped at the mist trying to secure himself to it. A branch smacked into his left hand and he threw his weight into catching it with the right. He heaved out the fog in his chest and sucked in as much air as he could. He tried to keep his eyes open as he breathed, counting each push and pull by flexing a finger. One. He swung his left hand onto the branch to secure his place. Two. He pulled himself further from the water. Three. He turned his head to look for Smjor. Four. He begged the river to stop. Five. He saw the sun through the fog. Six. He felt the river pull him north. Seven. He heard a bow draw. Eight. He slid his hand down the branch and toward the bank. Nine. It snapped.
He let go of the branch. He needed his hands to hunt the world around him, looking for the dreams he let go. He could not find the soft passing he desired in the water. The river was not as cold as before but the fog was just as thick. He let himself over to death.