The Gospel of Fern

It was coming, and he was trying to run on legs that didn't work right.

They wobbled fatly and he lurched , careening across the uneven ground as if he were ten tankards in the ale. Everything in the forest was impossibly large, trees looming to dizzying heights with roots as thick as his unsteady legs. He stumbled over a ropey knot of them and, arms pinwheeling, fell hard.

The vibrating ground he could feel through his scraped palms sent a shock of terror down his spine. Hot urine ran down his thigh as he scrambled, crawling on all fours into the thick underbrush. Driven in animal fear, he hardly felt the thorns tearing his tender arms and legs.

The bramble had covered an opening in a pile of boulders. Desperate, bleeding, and whimpering, he squeezed himself into the crevice, knowing it would do no good. The creature would find him, and scatter the boulders as easily the healer in his village had scattered rune stones across the ground.

He could hear it's low snuffles coming close and tucked his thumb into his mouth, curling one finger over his small nose, and sobbed. The stone surface he rested his cheek against heated and he cried out for his mother, though he knew she too far away to hear him.

She was always too far to hear him.

He knew the last things he would see. He had seen them, many times... over and over... the terrible wild jewel of its eyes, and the roaring inferno of rage that was the creature's throat...

Jack startled awake, his cries caught in his throat, heart pounding. Tendrils of fear gripped his guts, clinging like webs, and slow to let go. His cheek was tender where he had rolled too close to the smoldering embers of the fire he had lit the night before. He had been too exhausted from the days of traveling in the bitter cold to notice the slight angle of the ground of the stone outcrop where he had taken shelter and rest.

He had been pulled to this place for a reason, and the Dream was her way of reminding him of his penance due. If the Dream was coming, One must be near.

Jack took several deep breaths, watching his exhale plume in the cold and counting himself into calmness.

In...one-two- three-four-five-six-seven

Hold...one-two- three-four-five-six-seven

Out...one-two- three-four-five-six-seven

Once his body had calmed, Jack sat up and began feeding the nest of pine needles, his bedding, into the smoldering coals. They smoked, then caught and Jack slowly fed the rest of the deadfall he gathered into the tender hungry flames until they bloomed hot and could hold their own.

Much like his dream, the small space he had sheltered in was closer to a chance hollow in randomly strewn boulders than a cave. He had built his fire near enough to the entrance for the smoke to be pulled outward, but not so close that he couldn't pass through. As the fire warmed the ground and stone, Jack caught the faint animal scent of the former residents...fox?...or coyote? Either way, they were long gone to hunter's traps and arrows, or perhaps back to the earth, feeding the trees that surrounded him.

Sufficiently warmed, he shrugged off his fur-lined cloak that had served as a blanket and reached for his pack. Jack undid the drawstring closure and rummaged, finding the various items and parcels he needed, by touch. First was a wooden bowl that he placed at the mouth of his shelter to catch the melting snow. Next, a small bundle of dried apples and shelled nuts. He carefully moved some loose stone near the small fire, then sat back to eat his meager meal, watching patiently as the bowl filled, drop by drop.

When the bowl was about half filled, he took it and drank deeply. The water was icy cold and tasted faintly of earth, but he didn't mind. Jack put the bowl back under the drips and went back to his pack, digging deeply until he found the last bundle.

She accepted their necessity, but hated these Shaper tools; a polished silver mirror, a small pair of scissors, and a small, thin blade housed in a carved bone handle. She hated all that was stolen from the earth and Shaped to human purpose. He had to keep them wrapped and buried in his pack, and even now, with her quiet, Jack felt a sense of unease as he unwrapped them.

Jack retrieved the bowl again, and using the edge of his cloak to shield his hands, carefully dropped the fire heated stones into the frigid water. A few sizzled and steamed as they settled to the bottom of the bowl. Jack rolled up the sleeves of his tunic and dipped his fingers in the stone warmed water, then ran them through his hair and beard. Using touch, the mirror, and the scissors, Jack trimmed his beard and hair. He was no barber, but did a fair job; good enough for the day ahead.

He would pass now; a rough trader seeking work, or trapper who had just come in from the Wilds.

By the time he was done, his small fire had started to gutter out and the icy air was seeping back into his shelter. He rolled his sleeves back down, pausing over the scars on his forearms. He ran a finger lightly over the raised marks, like brands, each bump a trespass, a shame, a cruelty he had inflicted and each connecting line a penance. The serpentine shape forming, as new lines were raised, mirrored perfectly on each arm, served as a reminder for his last great evil, the one that could never be undone.

He said his thanks, as she had taught him, while he put his belongings back in his pack and wrapped his cloak back around his shoulders.. He poured the rest of the water over the remains of his fire and covered the warm, damp ash with dirt and pebbles. He hoped his scent would not keep other creatures from finding shelter there.

He thanked the stones for protecting him, the fire, and the branches that had warmed him, as he crept through the opening back into the cold. These Gratitudes that had felt so strange at first came easy now, as easy as his steps, his breath, his heartbeat.

He faced east as he stretched his cramped limbs, eyes stinging from the cold. The sun was just creeping, silver over the horizon, winking out all but the most stubborn stars. They glittered in the lavender-blue gauze between night and day and then gave way to sunrise, as stars must do. Jack set the rising sun to his right shoulder and headed north, towards the smell of frozen mud and horse dung that meant a road, a village, and a tavern.

If he made good time, he should reach his destination at dusk, the most likely time to find the next One.

As soon as Jack's hand met the iron handle of the tavern door, the constellation of scars along his forearms prickled. More startling than painful, the sensation was similar to the sudden shower of embers from a knot of sap bursting in a burning pine log, intense but mercifully brief. Even as the flares along his arms faded, Jack knew they were only the first notes, ringing the long quiet he had enjoyed, promising another spin the strange and eternal duet he had entered so long ago.

Fern was waking.

Jack felt her stir, where his fingers met the winter bitten ache of the latch, he Knew the journey; deep rock, trickled in moisture. Jack could feel the weight, centuries of time and earth passing above; the sharp bite of chisel and hammer, the grief of flame breaking chert from iron and the forcing of this new Shape, twisted to fit his palm.

Had his shoulder been bare, where he leaned in to force the cold swelled door, Fern's Knowing would have told him- the taste of sun, how wind whispered secrets, and the deep root pull of drinking rain buried in earth. Jack would have Known, through his skin, the bite of axe and saw, the planing to plank and finally his Shaped bone, nailed and hung.

Winter was the most difficult season for Jack to Know. He hailed from softer, warmer forests and hills, where winter had playful nips of frost and sometimes a dusting snow. He felt tinges of resentment for the merciless ice-toothed jaws that gripped this land in frozen death for months, robbing a man of even faint blush of warmth. Still, he was grateful for the necessity of the wool shirt, leggings, and rough stockings that separated his skin from the blood and fear soaked Knowing held in the fur lined cloak and leather boots.

Wool was quieter, holding green craggy hillsides and cloud dotted skies. The Story held less fear and pain, less Shaping- less than even the summer favored linen cloth. The Knowing of wool was softer, even as the weave was not.

"One is here", came Fern's thought, eager and full of purpose; a clear brook riffling over colorful stones and moss covered roots.

Jack was grateful for the cooling comfort of her thoughts, as the animal stench of the place overwhelmed his heightened senses. His stomach rolled. He could smell the gristle and rot in their teeth, the unwashed sweat clinging to fabric and skin, the soot and grime tangled in their hair.

"Shapers-s-s" all splashing brook vanished and instead, she was hot sand hissing across arid rock. The scars on his arms prickled, then quieted as she recoiled. Fern's withdraw allowed his humanity to settled back over him. This was not a kindness on her part. Like the allowance of the tools in his pack, necessity drove her withdrawal.

Fern was not her name. Her name had no shape for human breath. Her language changed with the tilt of suns and season, with the moods of the sky. She spoke in the riddles of roots buried in stone and the poetry of stars. The language of her real name was rich and ancient; syllables strung in leaf fall and seed burst, bashing stone shores, and shimmering in moon puddled hollows.

Jack called her "Fern" for the way she pushed through his thoughts, uncurled, and unfurled herself across his mind. His rudimentary naming amused her; indulgent humor over a his stick figure grasp of the world.

Once he stoppered the rush of frigid air with the reluctant door, all curiosity about his arrival slid away. His arrival barely caused a ripple in the pool of conversation. He was not a man to take note of, neither handsome, nor ugly, his clothes simple, but well stitched, ordinary height- Jack was just another traveler along the road to the city. His careful neutrality and his reputation for cruelty, skills his father's drunken brutality had taught him, were why men needing dark favors had once sought him in the murky corners of taverns.

Jack made his way to a small table near the wall. He had chosen carefully, though his progress appeared random.

The table sat just past the line of firelight from the stone hearth; small enough to discourage company, with one rough chair that faced out from the wall. It was not so far into the dark corners as to cause suspicion, but enough to obscure his face a bit and allow him to take in his surroundings. Jack leaned forward a little as he settled into the chair and catching the barmaid's eye, he showed a coin and raised his eyebrows. She gave a quick nod and an equally quick dimpled smile to show she had seen him and understood. She would bring him ale and whatever simple meal was being offered.

He placed the coin at the outer edge of the table and glanced around. The place could have been any small tavern, outside any small village, outside any small city. Jack knew some of the rough hands, now cradling cups of ale, had likely pulled the newer stones that made up parts the central hearth from their oxen-ploughed fields. He knew those fields would be just past the tavern in one direction of the road, and the village and city would be in the other. Anyone, after bringing their yield to market, would pass by and be tempted to spend a few hard-earned coins.

He knew some edges along the rough central beams would be rounded, where drunken hands had steadied ale-sodden bodies so often, the grain would be worn smooth. He knew the rickety stairs across the room would lead to a loft broken into half a dozen rooms or so, with straw beds and thin walls. He knew the barmaids might earn some extra coin up there, willing or unwilling. Few of patrons would see a difference or care much, even if they did.

Jack didn't need Fern's help to know the Stories here though he could feel her watching through his eyes. He knew the darkness a shiny coin could buy. He had been that darkness.

The dimpled barmaid brought his meal, some sort of stewed meat and vegetables, he would not eat and cup of ale he would not drink. He would bring the spoon and cup to his mouth, but spill the contents of each to the floor. The scuttling rodents would take care of the stew and the hard packed dirt would take the ale.

If the broth or meat passed his lips, Fern's Knowing would tell him the animal's death. He would feel the terror and pain of life taken without permission, without the Prayers of Asking or Gratitude. In the Wilds, he set his traps and asked for the lives he took to continue his own. They came as they willed, not as he Shaped them and he gave them Prayers in return for their kindnesses.

The barmaid squirreled the coin into her apron pocket, lifting her eyebrow; did he need more? did he need change? He could see she was older than she had appeared in the firelight and distance. She knew her business and read him as one who didn't speak much. Jack gave a quick shake of his head, no, to both questions implied in her raised brow. She gave a brief nod of understanding and another quick smile and left him to his solitude.

He watched her pass a table of soldiers, city guards by the look of their close shorn heads and easy manner. They had none of the ghosts of the battle-worn or the lean hunger of mercenaries. One pulled her into his lap, laughing and planting a drunken, wet kiss on her cheek. She slapped at his roaming hands and pushed off his lap, all giggles and dimples, seeming to play along with him.

Jack saw it though, the flash of fear and disgust in her eyes, as she straightened her apron. She had not gone willingly up those stairs the first time. There was no coin bright enough to pay for that darkness. Jack ran a self conscious hand over his arm where the scars were hidden.

She was not One, though, nor were the soldiers. Jack felt Fern pull him to focus and he resumed pretending to eat while searching the tavern. He shifted his eyes away from the firelight and into the gloom of the periphery.

Once focused, finding the One they were seeking was not difficult. Much like Jack, the One was sitting, back to the wall, but nearer the door. The shadows seemed to collect there, and even without Fern's knowing, Jack would have recognized the hard set of the jaw and arrogant angle of the shoulders. He knew, as well as he knew his own face, that had the dim lighting not obscured their features, the One would have a cruel mouth and a predator's stare. Hard lives often etched the same tells into a person's face.

As if sensing Jack's gaze, this One got up and pulling the hood of their cloak over their head, made for the door. The moon was full and caught in a strand of blond hair escaping from the hood as the One went out into the winter night. Jack waited, counting to fifty before leaving the tavern.

He could feel Fern twisting in anticipation and his arms throbbed in rhythmic time with his footfalls. He needed to backtrack to the forest to retrieve his pack from its hiding place. A dragon skin pack would have made him stand out. It was too valuable for a tradesman or trapper to carry.

He wished he could just leave it there for the forest to swallow, but the pack was the first line to connect the first small scars on his arms. His first Penance. She had made him peel the hides from her slain children and sew the pack himself. She made him Know their Stories and carry his life in all that was left of them.

He thought of the final steps in dark path that had brought he and Fern together: the men dressed in merchant's finery offering him more coin than he had ever seen and a salve to cover his scent. They had filled his ears flattery and his belly with ale and he had been too arrogant to question past the gold they offered. He was not certain, even if they had told him the entire truth of what they asked, he would have answered differently.

He wondered, as he always did, what had driven this One to do what Jack had done. He wondered if they would choose clean death or Penance. The first Knowing was brutal and some did not survive. Jack felt just a small flash of sympathy, and knew instantly his mistake would not go unpunished.

He had been too long in the Quiet of the Wilds and had forgotten the lightning ferocity of Fern's rage. His arms lit up in molten agony and she drove herself hot and merciless into his mind, not caring what she tore. Jack was reminded of every woman he had taken this same way and every cold coin he'd tossed at their broken sobs.

The Knowing rolled over him and he dropped to his knees to let the Truths run through him

"Be a good boy Jack...run" his mother touched his face, leaving a smear of blood from his father's deadly blow that had been meant for him...Fern and her mate, not he or she, but They, soaring weightless... Jack was Jack and Jack was They, soaring weightless and They were Jack fleeing, his mother's blood drying on his cheek, closing his heart

He was Jack, rubbed in salve to hide his scent, pushing a thin blade through a jeweled eye just opening and They became One Gone Forever and Fern

Jack's thin blade took her children, One had rippled like sunlight on water toward him, and his closed heart had almost opened to magic...but he was his father's rage and his mother's blood drying on his cheek...he was cold coin and broken women and colder lives taken...

The Other had been silvery fog squeezed into a crevice between boulders, hiding from Jack's thin blade...the Other had cried for They, then Fern Alone...and then was Blood Drying On Jack's Cheek

And Jack was Fern nuzzling her mate and Fern swallowing Their heart, all Their Knowing became One Knowing Alone...and Jack was Their Children's Blood Drying on His Cheek and Fern's Grief was his mother's words and so she gave him a choice...clean death or penance

And Jack was Jack on his knees accepting the Knowing for her children that were the dried blood on his cheek and she cleaved his mind with inferno of her grief and Jack was Fern and Fern was Jack and the blood of her slain children became the scars on his arms

Jack was Fern's child , hiding in the rocks and Fern was Jack's mother who could not hear his cries and Jack was the monster who tore the rocks asunder, devouring the sun rippling on water and silver fog that hid in the spaces between stone.

And Jack was Jack, heart split open, sobbing for all he had lost and all he had taken...

The burning scars quieted, Fern's grief and rage spent. They would find this One and the next until his scars were complete. Fern's Knowing would not be lost.

Jack shouldered the pack that had been Fern's children, the pack that held the thin blade with the bone handle he had used to murder them.

He would not leave the pack for the forest to take. The pack was Jack's to carry, as was Fern's Knowing his to offer, and the scars his Penance serve for destroying what could not be replaced.