Entry 5 : Suspicion Stirred

Fear is a complicated emotion. It lurks within us, awaiting the moment when our fortitude shows the slightest sign of weakness. It slithers through the narrow cracks in our armor and worms its way to the very core, lying below the surface until it can no longer be hidden. It takes the guise of other emotions: anger, jealousy, even bravado, and seeks to push away all who would snuff it out. If left to rot, it will break us.

At the same time, fear is a natural instinct that exists to keep us from harm. The first few pangs of it can act like a spell of divination, warning of threats to your life and those of the people around you. It will speak in a murmur or a scream; it will be a tingle across your skin or an iron fist that strangles your heart. It can paralyze or inspire to action, petrifying your blood or flooding you with intoxicating adrenaline should you choose to fight or flee. It is both a gift and a curse to those of us born in mortality, and we are burdened with wielding its double-edged blade.

I have never felt it so deeply as when the priests of Malar first entered our camp.

By all definitions, they were just two men, albeit dressed strangely, but the clan watched their approach as one would an imperial force. They were both pale, dark of hair, and moved with all the serenity of an ice floe drifting out to sea. One was significantly taller, boasting broad shoulders, sturdy arms, and a neck like a musk ox, while the other looked more like a reed blowing in the wind, gaunt and delicate. Neither bore the iconography of a particular clan, and instead wore black, sackcloth robes beneath their furred, sable cloaks. Even from a distance, their robes’ decoration clattered against my ears, chasing away the morning’s stillness with a symphony of metal against bone. All across the shoulders, sleeves, and hems of their garments were sewn hundreds of knuckles, teeth, and pewter trinkets stamped with unfamiliar symbols. I could see that not all the bones belonged to beasts, and warmth drained from my skin as they stepped into the meeting circle.

When they passed between the stones to approach us, the charm holding tongues in the crowd broke. A ripple of murmurs washed over me, bringing battling opinions of awe and suspicion.

“What do they want?”

“They look important…”

“How dare they come here?”

“I can sense their power…”

None, however, echoed the ferocious dread that was clawing its way through my heart, rending my nerves to tatters and sending a fresh layer of sweat across my brow. Whatever news they brought, whatever offer they chose to present, something within me knew it would destroy us.

Their expressions were placid beneath streaks of dark, carmine war paint, and every move they made was the picture of courtesy. They smiled at both my mother and me before bowing deeply to my father, the reedy one producing a wine skin from beneath his cloak as he straightened.

“A gift from the Temple of Malar, to thank you for this gracious audience, Chieftain Dahl. We are both honored and humbled to be welcomed into the presence of the fabled Nanoq Clan.”

Bjorn ignored the gift and folded his arms, “If only you had chosen to come during more fortunate circumstances. At the moment, we seem to find ourselves being persecuted in the name of an unknown god.”

The hushed conversations among the clan came to an abrupt halt. Bjorn was known for his straightforwardness and did not harbor patience for small talk and pleasantries. Should any extended negotiations be required, it was usually Sigrid who stepped in to barter and settle, but now she stood stone-faced, in silent agreement with her husband.

The priest chuckled, “Forgive me, I should have known you would prefer to cut straight to the nature of our visit. Very well,” he stashed the skin from whence it came and bowed again, “I am Dyri, and this is Leifur, my brother in faith. We have come with an offering of salvation to you and your clan.”

“Ah, in that case, we are not in need of your services. We find our redemption in Selune and could not possibly have anything to gain from the salvation of he who drinks the blood of children.”

“Selune?” Leifur said. His voice was like a breath of wind through the forest’s canopy in spite of his gargantuan figure. “Your loyalty is admirable, but has she not abandoned you? Do your people not starve and live like mange-riddled foxes on mice and grass? What deliverance can she offer when she has so clearly turned her head?”

"Better to serve a silent god than one that has already stolen so much from us!” The cry of Gorm’s mother was reflected throughout the throng, resentment barked out from all directions. It was no small number among us who had an empty seat around their fires.

Dyri turned to face them, undaunted, and stretched out his arms in a gesture of sincerity. “We hear your grief and offer up our deepest sympathies, for it is no easy thing to lose a child. Malar does not relish being a party to such tragedy, but he would not ask it of his followers without due cause. Be joyous, Nanoq Clan, for we have come to tell you the reason and bring to you his offer of continual prosperity.”

Around us, the clan murmured, transfixed by his theatrics and soothing locution. It was as if with every word, he wove a net that captured their attention and bid them to contemplate his message, while my parents and I stood dumbfounded.

“The dealings of gods are mysterious to mortals, but Malar has been carefully observing the movements of Selune and telling us of her concealed intentions. The insult of a long-passed slight was festering in her heart and she decided she could no longer bear the shame of it. So, instead of outright punishing the accused, she chose to abandon the Nanoq quietly and let them endure on their own.

Malar saw your people upon the snows, still praising her name long after her departure, and admired your devotion. Surely it is a noble breed that chooses to follow an unheeding goddess who discarded them without warning! And, he would see your faith rewarded. Guided by his unending mercy, he kept the game running and staved off the winter sickness. He kept your warriors strong and your mothers healthy in childbirth; it was the sacrifice of your sons that allowed him to do so. They had no fear or sorrow upon their deaths, only satisfaction and glory, for they knew that they would spare the lives their people.

But…there is only so much Malar can do when the root of corruption and Selune’s sorrow still walks free.”

Before Dyri’s hand moved, I knew upon whom it would land. His eyes met mine with an overlay of pity as his finger leveled itself between my eyebrows, but I could see something else roiling behind the facade. Hunger. Elation. Desire.

“This child, for whom you waited so patiently, was conceived by means that are detestable to those of merit. Instead of entreating their own goddess, your leaders turned to Bane, father of evil and destruction, and abandoned their morals to request from him a son. They offered up one year of famine as payment, to be taken upon Bane’s whim, and Bane agreed. He sealed their agreement with a Blood Moon on the night of the boy’s birth, and laid in wait to collect his debt—”

Bjorn was an even-keeled man. Even through the disapproval and disappointment of his clan; through every failure and child-sized funeral pyre, I had not seen him lose his temper. While Dyri told his wheedling tale, I saw my father’s body tighten and rippling veins snake up from beneath his collar. His hands flexed and shuddered as though something beneath the skin fought to break free, and when he opened his jaw to cut Dyri off, I could see his teeth lengthening and gums turning black.

“Get OUT! You filthy, lying, sons of jackals! Leave my clan and do not return with your falsehoods lest you wish to find yourselves broken on the end of my claws. You will rue the day you came to us, and I shall see both you and your kind eradicated from this plane. GET. OOOUT!” The final word ended with an ursine roar as the bear could no longer be contained, and it burst from him in a whirlwind of fur and torn skin. He took the great-axe from his back and held it in both paws, the menacing crunch of snow beneath his feet akin to the snapping of bones.

Not once did the disarming smile fade from Dyri’s lips, nor did his decorum waver in the sight of this monstrosity. He merely tut-tutted and swept his cloak into another flourishing bow.

“I know it can be distressing to have one’s past transgressions laid out in the open. Malar did not expect you to admit your faults right away; we merely came so that your people had a chance to be delivered from the repercussions of your mistake.” He looked over his shoulder at the open-mouthed crowd, each one of them far too stunned to speak. “Think upon our words Nanoq Clan, but do not tarry. Another Blood Moon is mere days away, and all will be well if Bane’s gift is returned to him upon an altar as it rises. Call upon us should you want us to perform the ceremony.” Then, just as calmly as they had entered, Dyri and Leifur departed, leaving behind a mire of confusion, confliction, and betrayal.

My mother and father shared a look I could not decipher, but it was not hard to guess at their thoughts. They knew in their hearts that the tale was nothing more than a clever fabrication, but how much weight would their words hold in light of the clan’s impending starvation? How could they make an argument for the constancy of a goddess who had not spoken for nearly a year? And, how could they protect me when it seemed like my death was the only solution?

As I looked to the tribe and was met with their accusatory stares, I could not find an answer.