The End of All Things

Chapter 1

It often seems that without Greatness, Life has only failure as its sum. Many measure Greatness through fortune, or fame, or great deeds. Others disregard such measures as meaningless, believing that skill, or learning, or accomplishment are the truest measures of Greatness. And there are some who accept only the ideal of humility as worthy of being praised as ‘Great’. The obvious contradiction of this belief typically goes unnoticed by its adherents, who are often too busy trying to out-humble each other to appreciate the irony of their actions.

None of this mattered to young Misha, however, at least not when we join her story. Though she had set out with Greatness in mind, at the moment all that mattered to her was getting warm and dry. She had given up on staying warm and dry hours ago, though she hadn’t stopped being angry over it. While it was hardly a downpour, the steady rain had soaked her clothes and plastered her hair to her head. To add insult to discomfort, the trees, nasty old things that they were, were saving up the biggest, coldest raindrops in preparation for her, dropping them with fiendish delight and unerring accuracy as she passed beneath.

When she first noticed the sky darkening to an ominous gray, she had been happy for what little shelter the forest would provide; but she had decided that sky and forest had forged an unholy alliance against her, with the sole aim of making her journey a prolonged misery of cold, hunger, aches, and exhaustion.

She grumbled yet another oath she had often heard the men in the village use, knowing that it was perfectly unladylike and that her mother would certainly express displeasure over Misha’s proficiency with it. So far as Misha was concerned, if she was old enough to get married (against her will, but never mind that for now), she was old enough to curse.

She stopped in her tracks and asked no one in particular, “If I’m not to curse, exactly what am I going to say to my husband? ‘Yes dear, no dear, as you wish my dear?’ Bar that! ‘My dear’ can…” and she continued both her journey and her opinions of her betrothal and betrothed in what she considered to be a most satisfactorily unladylike way.

It was this unwanted marriage that had brought Misha to her current state of unhappiness. Still, she was convinced that she would be happier freezing to death in this horrible, horrible forest, hundreds of leagues from a decent meal, than she would be sharing even ten minutes of her life with that idiot Thomas.

Though she was presently in peril of starving to death (unless she froze first--either way it would be Thom’s fault), the day had dawned bright and clear and full of the promise of food aplenty and the warmth of the Lenzing Fire. Dancing and feasting and singing, all in celebration of the lengthening days, and All Praise to Mother Laufengren for turning her back on King Holly and nudging the Oak King awake.

Everyone knew the old folktales weren’t true, but that one was a fun story even if it was only a tale: every year when winter covers the world, old King Holly rules from his castle of moonlight and shadow, with Mother Laufengren (clad all in white and silver), at his side. His younger brother, the Oak King, sleeps beneath a blanket of snow and oak leaves, kept safe by King Holly’s love and strong arm. And each year, when the Holly King’s eyes grow heavy and his chin starts to droop, Mother Laufengren puts on her dress of green and gold, and puts her husband to bed before she slips out to knock on the Great Oak and awaken her other husband, the Oak King. Then the world turns green, and the fields and the animals are plentiful.

So far as Misha was concerned, Mother Laufengren didn’t really need either king for anything but company; she could turn the world green as she pleased, with or without the Oak King. Then again, why do any work herself when she could get two brothers to each do half while she took the credit?

Besides, Misha liked the idea that a woman could have two husbands. Not that her mother agreed with that notion.

No one, not even Father Clarke, forgot to take part in the Brightening Day celebration; and if anyone did say that Mother Laufengren and her kingly lovers were a fable, they said it in whispers just in case one of them was listening. Besides, truth or fable, it wasn’t as if they didn’t give thanks to the Almighty, too. Father Clarke would see to that.

To Misha’s mind the day had been the perfect Brightening Day: blue skies full of fat white clouds, and a breeze just cool enough to remind everyone that winter wasn’t so far gone. It danced through the village, tousling hair and flapping skirts.

She had only been barely aware of it at the time, but there had been a growing feeling that something about to happen, but she hadn’t paid it any mind. After all, it was Brightening Day! Of course things were going to happen. Whatever the feeling was, she had been content to ignore it that morning.

A few voices muttered about the storm they could smell on the wind, and that had given her pause. What would the village do if it stormed? Could the Lenzing Fire burn? Would they still throw the straw Holly King into the river if they had to walk through the rain?

But what did that matter? Spring was here, and the long, cold dark of winter was over. A little spring shower was just the thing to wash away the stale air and grime of the winter closeness.

As it turned out, the sky hadn’t turned black with storm clouds. If anything it only turned a lovelier shade of blue, and the clouds grew whiter. She danced a few turns with Jack in Leaf, whom she suspected was Adam Hoffson, and made as many lewd jokes to him as he made to her. Everyone laughed, and she thought that he was the best Jack in Leaf she had ever seen. He hopped and danced away, rustling in his suit of leaves, thrusting his hips at every woman and girl he saw (and even a few men), demanding food, drink, or dance as he went.

The whole village had formed a procession down to the Greenbrooke with the straw Holly King leading the way, carried with dignity and reverence by Short Rob and Nick Chandler. Old Maggie said a few words, reminding everyone who the Holly King was and why he was to be respected and even thanked, and then Rob and Nick heaved him into the river. Misha and the other girls threw in flowers gathered just for that moment, so he floated away with his crown of holly on his head and flowers all around him. Songs of farewell were sung, and a few of the men, Bill Miller and Tam Smith included, poured beer or ale or mead into the river so he would have something stronger than river water to sip on his journey. Father Clarke gave a sermon (which he kept miraculously short), and then Short Rob gave a whoop and everyone cheered and headed back to the village for a midday feast. The walk to the river had been quiet and solemn, but the trip back was full of loud conversation and laughter.

Waiting for them in the village, ‘helping’ put out the food and drink, was Martin Bandy the Storyteller. Martin often said he was never fit for honest work but hadn’t the heart for banditry, so he wandered the world looking for a benighted village that would take him as their lord and heap praise on his head and food on his table, just because he was himself. Since he had to eat to sustain himself on his quest, he told stories to earn his bread. He insisted that he’d lost track of the days, and that it was only through good luck and the grace of the Almighty that he found himself in Greenbrooke in time for the feasting. No one believed him, but everyone was glad he was there to share the feast.

Oh, the midday feast: plenty of food for everyone, music, singing, a little dancing here and there, and lots of laughter between mouthfuls. Hot cross buns, fresh bread, meat, eggs… lots of eggs). Offerings of honey and berries and flowers were made to the wakening world, and milk, bread, and wine as well. Old Man Derry poured out libations for the earth to drink, saying, “Give a little back to show our thanks, and we’ll get a hundredfold in return.” Then Henry the Goat and Tall Rob had a tussle because Henry wanted to dump a whole keg of beer, and everyone roared with laughter.

Jack in Leaf was still hopping around, staggering a little here, swaying a little there--folk had been generous when he asked for food and drink. A little less generous with kisses, but he’d found a few of those as well. Henry the Goat and Jack Withers had been especially generous with kisses, though they’d had to run him down and jump on him, shouting that if he could kiss the daughters he could kiss the fathers as well. All in all, everyone celebrated the passing of winter with good heart.

There wasn’t a person in the village who didn’t have flowers in their hair, even the men. The men were happy with one or two, but the girls were almost covered in flowers. If they could have gathered enough to make dresses they would have, and a few insisted that if it were warmer they would’ve worn nothing but flowers. Whether they really would have, and whether their parents would have let them, wasn’t important. The idea was fun regardless. One or two girls, like Mary Carver, sniffed at the suggestion, but the other girls laughed.

Then it all went wrong. If you were to ask her, Misha knew exactly who to blame, and it wasn’t Thom. It was her own father, Bill Miller, who ruined Brightening Day.

She had been laughing at Martin Bandy’s story when she became very aware of the feeling she’d been ignoring. Something was going to happen. Something important. She looked about for a clue, but everything looked normal.

Everyone was eating their fill and looking forward to the real feast they would have in the evening. Old Man Derry was talking with her father and Tam Smith, and Thom the Lout, Tam’s son, was standing nearby pretending to listen. Martin was telling his tale while his audience laughed. Jack in Leaf was dancing on a table playing a fiddle (it was definitely Adam Hoffson). Perfectly normal. Then everything seemed so real to Misha that it was almost unreal, and she yelped when her mother whispered in her ear.

“Come along, dear; we have something to attend to, and then you can get back to Martin’s story.” She wasn’t scolding, or angry, or even matter-of-fact; if her voice was anything, it was happy.

Normally Misha would have fussed a little just to fuss, but she was confused and distracted by that feeling of an imminent Something, so she went along with her mother. Presently she found herself standing on a table with her father and Thom the Lout, who was looking as confused as she felt. Thom being Thom, that wasn’t a surprise.

Her father tried to get everyone’s attention, but the noise had risen to such a pitch that an army could have marched past and not been heard. He had just drawn breath to give a shout when Tam’s bellow cut through the din and smothered it like a wall of water falling on a campfire.

“You lot shut up! We’ve something to say!” Every one fell silent and turned to see what the commotion was about, and the burly smith cast a warning eye over the crowd. “I’m fond of your playing, Jack, but I’m telling you now it’ll be easier to play that fiddle if it doesn’t get cracked over your head.” Jack-Adam had a belly full of beer, but he still had sense enough to lower his fiddle. Then, in a softer, friendlier voice Tam said to her father, “I think they’ll give ear to you now, Bill.”

Any other time Misha would have laughed at the look on her father’s face, but just then she was too curious to hear why she was standing on that table.

Bill gave Tam a smile and a nod, and turned back to the village. “I’ll keep this short as one of Father Clarke’s sermons.” A muffled “Saints preserve us” from Henry the Goat was met with quiet laughter (even Father Clarke laughed), but soon everything calm again.

“We all know what today is, and we all know what today means: it’s a day of renewed life and new beginnings. We’re here celebrating the passing of Old King Holly along with the return of the Oak King and the warmer days he brings with him. Thanks be to the Almighty that we’ve all made it through another winter.” This last elicited a murmur of amen’s and much nodding.

“It’s been a tradition for as long as anyone can remember to celebrate another kind of passing on Brightening Day, and another kind of beginning: the passing of two children, who will begin a new life, a fuller life, together.” Misha’s eyes grew wide enough to fall out of her head. She glanced at Thom the Lout and saw he was staring at her with a look of stunned horror. Somehow her father couldn’t see the impossibility of what he was saying, and he kept talking.

“I know that you’ve all watched my daughter since she was able to wander-”

“Watch her or clean up after her!” yelled Martha Chandler.

“Watch her and clean up after her, more like!” retorted her sister-in-law, Donna, to much laughter. Bill laughed along with the rest of the village, which hadn’t helped Misha’s mood.

“Dad…” but he shook his head without looking at her.

“All right, so you watched her to make sure she didn’t knock your houses over; you watched her just the same. And I can’t believe you haven’t noticed that if she was around, so was Thom. That’s why Tam Smith, Jenny, my Ellen and I are announcing that…”

Misha couldn’t stand it, and refused to hear what she knew her father was about to say; and apparently neither could Thom the Lout, since they both shouted “NO!” at the same time.

Everything went dead quiet then, but it can’t be said that any of the parents looked surprised.

Someone yelled, “That’s right, boy, run while you can,” but Misha didn’t pay them any mind.

“Dad, I won’t marry him. I can’t marry him!”

“And I won’t marry her before she marries me, that’s for certain,” agreed Thom just as passionately. She had been pleased at that, since they couldn’t get married if neither of them wanted to.

“There, you see?” She considered the whole affair finished. “I don’t want him, and he doesn’t want me.”

But Thom just couldn’t let it go; oh no, not Thom the Lout. Matters weren’t bad enough to satisfy him, so he kept talking. “She’s pretty, sure; but I won’t have such a shrew in my house. Besides, she’s trouble in a skirt, and I can’t watch her and make a living at the same time.” He was looking at his father, so he didn’t see the look that fell on Misha’s face.

“Oh, so I’m a shrew, am I?” and before anyone could shout “Stop!” she had snatched up Old Man Derry’s walking stick and brought it down on Thom’s head. The stick broke with a snap, and Thom fell over like he had been pole-axed, which was made all the worse since he was standing on a table.

Then there was plenty of excitement. Thom’s mother let out a howl like she had been thrown into the Greenbrooke in midwinter, and Henry the Goat roared with laughter like it would save his life. Misha leapt from the table and bolted, running through the crowd like the hangman was on her heels.

Which is why she was marching through the cold, dark woods, cursing the very storm she had dismissed earlier that day. Truth to tell, she had been shocked at the clamor: it wasn’t as if Thom had never been knocked senseless before. She was more worried about how Old Man Derry was going to get about with a broken walking stick, but everyone else was crying over Thom the Lout, wailing over a tiny bump and a little blood.

That was miles back and hours gone. Having left her home, she had determined to find a properly submissive prince who would appreciate a beautiful young woman with a clear idea of what needed to be done; but first she needed to avoid starving or freezing to death. Sadly, inns and houses tended to be near the roads, and roads were plainly not an option for a young woman avoiding search parties. So she stubbornly marched on, refusing to admit, even to herself, that perhaps she had overreacted, and that Thom hadn’t really deserved to be bludgeoned.