The River and the Gorge

The Ashland Gorge runs deep and wide, separating the two villages of Ormond and Ruvilla.  No bridge has ever been built that could span the gap, the flow of Sorrow’s River through the gorge becomes so quick and turbulent that it will smash any craft and foolish crew against its steep walls or tear out the bottom of a vessel against innumerable outthrusts of rock hidden beneath the foaming water.  It has been years since anyone has tried to cross, none that I can remember in my lifetime.  You can walk through that rocky, dry wasteland that leads up to Ashland Gorge and stand by the edge, listening to the roar of the river and watch it’s churning course.  I’m sure your friends have dared you to, just as mine did in my youth.  Be mindful of the hawthorns that tear the flesh of your legs and the creeping porcala vines with their waxy leaves that will leave a scarring rash.  The gorge is wide enough that those from Ormond might barely be able to spot a similar brave soul, visiting the gorge from Ruvilla, a smaller dark haired figure in their distinctive red clothes.  That brave soul might barely be able to pick out a visitor from Ormond, a tall figure with blond hair.  Squint your eyes and you might be able to see that distant form shaking a fist and hurling curses that are drowned out by the river.  Save your breath, my child, as they will never hear your answer, ill or otherwise.  Your cries too, will be drowned by the river.  Few now even remember why such bitter anger flies from everyone’s lips.  Did you know that the gorge and the river were not always there, nor the thorns that tear flesh and the angry words that tear at hearts?  Our villages used to share more than this great divide ripped in the earth and this bitterness.  Where do you thing your dark hair came from, my child?  Listen if you will, as much is to be explained.

. . .

            Mawlin Ashland stepped away from pounding on his anvil and walked outside, grateful for the slight breeze.  It was hot for the middle of spring, but still a relief from the blazing forge.  He pulled a red hankerchief out of his back pocket and wiped off his face and neck.  As he stretched his massive arms out at his sides, Mawlin spotted a figure walking down the dirt path that led to his blacksmith’s shop and small cottage.  Disappearing in and out of view as the path meandered through wild and old walnut trees, the person suddenly stopped, waved to Mawlin, then chased a squirrel up one of the nearby branches. 

            “Hallo there lad!” Mawlin bellowed, recognizing Regin, his nephew. The boy waved again as he drew closer

            “Hallo Uncle!”  The two shook hands, and Mawlin took note of grip, growing stronger with each meeting.  “Da wants to remind you that he needs help with the gathering tonight.”

            “I wouldn’t miss it for the world” he answered.  “Tell him I’ll be there by the bell’s ring this afternoon.”  Mawlin looked the boy sharply in the eye.  “I bet  you’ve grown a hand’s breath since last spring.  Do you want to stay here and learn a real trade instead of clumping around in the dirt all day?

            “I’d rather use my brain and learn the best crops to plant and when to sow and harvest.  If you do naught but bash metal all day, I hear your muscles crowd out any decent thought in yer ear” Regin shot back.

            “You little bastard!” Mawlin roared, shooting forward and grabbing the boy.  He lifted him over his head. “What say you now?”

            “You do nothing but prove my point!” Mawlin extended his arms and began to spin in circles “Mercy, mercy uncle!” the boy said, laughing.  Laughter broke through Mawlin’s scowl as well, and he returned Regin to his feet

            “Go back and help your da.  I’ll see you later this day

            “Goodbye uncle.”  The boy ran back up the path.  Mawlin grinned again and headed back inside his shop.  He sweated away the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, finishing the iron rims for Elren Torshed’s new wagon wheels.  Stepping outside again for another breath of air, he took note of the sun in the sky, deciding it was time to head to his brother’s. 

            He headed west, across the unclaimed meadows at the border of Ormond.  His shop was located on the outskirts of the town, not a practical business decision but more suited to his desire for privacy.  He was a talented enough blacksmith that people sought out his business in particular and remained loyal customers.  As Mawlin headed to his brother Farcid’s farm, he heard the faint sounds of the temple’s bell ringing.  For most, this was a sign to stop working, a brief respite to work or pray before continuing work again into the evening until the sun went down.  But today’s chores were just beginning, as the feasts his brother hosted tended to be large and boisterous affairs, and needed a great deal of preparation.  Guest from all parts of Ormond and neighboring Ruvilla gathered to celebrate their good fortunes and friendship.  Including, Mawlin hoped, a certain seamstress that had said she would come. 

            Farcid’s largest hay wagon pulled next to the farmhouse, loaded with benches and tables borrowed from Ormond’s meeting hall, just as Mawlin strode in.  His brother waved to him from the driver’s seat and pointed to the back of the wagon.

            “About time you showed up, you lazy cow.  Theses tables aren’t going to unload themselves” Farcid hollered.

            “Mayhap they will, I’d like to wait and find out for sure” Mawlin answered.  Farcid hopped down from the wagon, and they shook hands, grinning.

            “Trust me, work like this is the only reason you’re invited.”   The two men began to empty the wagon, Mawlin heaving each of the oak tables off by himself while Farcid took the benches.  The extended Ashland family flowed around them, filling the table with dishes from the kitchen, tending the enormous pig that was roasting, sectioning off a portion of the yard for dancing at the end of the night, and helping to park the wagons of the guests as they began to arrive.  Mawlin and Farcid stood by the farmhouse door as the majority of the people began to arrive and sit down, hailing each other amidst handshakes and hugs.  The smaller and darker visitors from Ruvilla in their distinctive red clothes stood out among tall and pales natives of Ormond.  Farcid’s wife, Gwynedd, came out of the steaming kitchen, fanning her face with a towel. 

            “I hope they brought their appetites” she said, standing between the men.  “Thanks as always for your help.”

            “With as fine a cook as you, I’m sure no one has eaten all day just in anticipation for tonight.” Mawlin answered before turning back to look over the crowd.  Gwynedd looked up at him and smiled

            “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be here.” Gwynedd said, and Mawlin blushed deeply.  Farcid roared with laughter at his embarrassment.  The three headed down to the feast.

            Mawlin was speaking with Elren Torshed about the wagon wheels he had just finished, when sharp poke in his back startled him. 

            “What’s an invitation worth if those invited are ignored?” Mawlin spun around, his heart rising to his throat and his stomach dropping away at the sound of her voice, filling the rest of his chest with a buzzing feeling.  Elaina looked up at him, her long dark hair framing her bright smile and brighter eyes.  He picked her up in a bear hug

“Sorry I’m late.  I had to find Gwynedd first and give her the honey cakes that I brought for dessert.”

            “Even if they’re only half as sweet as you I’m everyone will enjoy them.” Mawlin said, carefully putting her down.  She poked him again. 

            “Hush now, before all that nonsense you’re blowing knocks people over.”

            Farcid stood on top of a bench at the head table and let out a piercing whistle, motioning everyone to sit down.  Elaina slipped her hand in Mawlin’s.

            “Well, shall we sit?”  Mawlin smiled and the two walked through field as everyone found a spot at a table, her bright red dress and dark skin standing out against his blond hair and height.  They arrived at the main table with Farcid and his family just as he began to speak, raising a mug high in the air. 

            “Thank the gods for good family, good friends, a good harvest, and a happy face everywhere I look!” Farcid cried, and the air grew crowded with applause and waving mugs.  “Now let’s eat!

            Plates were emptied and filled again, washed down with hard cider and punch for the younger ones.  As the moon rose higher and torches and lanterns grew lower the small band assembled, the cheery music spreading over conversation as everyone gathered in the field next to the tables.  Two circles quickly formed next to each other, one of men and one of women, spinning in opposite directions while the band played.  As the music abruptly stopped, those two closest to each other where the circles met would dance together for one song among the cheers of the masses.  People faded in and out of the circle as the night wore on, led by exhaustion or drunkenness.  As the music crashed to a halt once more, Elaina found herself standing next to the young Regin.  Everyone laughed as he blinked in surprise before regaining a calm demeanor, offering her a courtly bow in his bare feet among the beaten down grass of the field.  She quickly curtsied in return, and two began to spin around as hands clapped to the beat.  As the song ended, Elaina wrapped her shawl around Regin’s neck and pulled him in for a quick kiss.  The applause and laughter only got louder as Regin lost his courly mannerisms and almost fell over.  The two circles of men and women formed and began to spin again, and Elaina made her way back to the table, sitting next to Mawlin and leaning her head against his shoulder. 

            “I never realized how dangerous you could be, you knocked Regin senseless.” Mawlin said.

            “Well if you hadn’t quit dancing so early maybe you could have found out” she answered. 

            The lanterns were almost burnt out, and those who remained were mostly tired, drunk, or both.  The next work day stood just on the edge of the horizon, and the revelers faded away in drips and drops.  Mawlin and Elaina walked away from the tables, hand in hand.  They passed through the dancing field, empty now save one unconscious party goer curled up around a plate of roast pork.  Elaina giggled as his snores echoed in the dark. 

            “It looks like you have a mighty mess to clean up” she said. 

            “That I do, but the effort is well worth it.”

            “So it is” she said, puling him closer as they kissed in the dim light. 

            The days piled on, as they are wont to do.  The spring grew into a hot and dusty summer.  Rain fell here and there, and then not at all.  Stepping outside his shop for a break hardly made a difference for Mawlin, as the sun seemed a mere arm’s length away like the forge.  People staggered into the closest shade at bells ring in the afternoon, grateful for any respite from the work and the heat.  One midsummer’s day Mawlin worked through the bell and waited until early evening to walk to his brother’s, not wanting to walk through the fields at the hottest part of the day.  He tied his red handkerchief around his head to ward off the sun as best he could, trudging through the wild grass burnt brown and hard by the summer.  The farmhouse was lifeless and still as he reached it, the wind spinning dust devils through the yard.  Mawlin found family and workers alike sprawled in the kitchen, the hearth unlit. 

            “Hello Mawlin.” Farcid waved from his chair

            “I’ve brought those door hinges for you” he said, dropping them on the table and falling into the chair next to Farcid.  “Where’s Regin?”

            “He’s asleep now, the he’s been hit hard today by the sun.  Won’t listen to his old man and take it a little easy.  Damn the hinges, do you have any rain in that bag?”

            “The gods only know where it could be.”

            “This heat’s fearful” Gwynedd said as she handed Mawlin a mug of water.  “People are collapsing in the fields.”

            “There’s almost no reason to be in the fields” Farcid replied.  “Whatever isn’t dead is on the way.”  He leaned closer to Mawlin and lowered his voice.  “I’ll tell you one thing brother, it’s not just the heat that is worrying us.  We’ve found a black fungus growing on the fields, creeping from plant to plant along the ground.  Whatever it touches rots away.  It’s not just here, either.  No one know what it is, even those toothless old grandda’s that sit at the meeting hall all day and tell stories have shut their mouths. 

            “We’ve gone through some rough times before, Farcid.  This winter you’ll be complaining how cold it is and looking back to these days with fondness.” Mawlin stood and emptied the last of the mug of tepid water.

            “Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Gwynedd asked. “I won’t start the kitchen hearth in this heat but we’ll put together something passable.”

            “I’ve got to make my way home.  Elaina is coming over tonight. 

            Farcid stood grinning and clapped Mawlin on the shoulder.  “I hope she brings something for dinner.  You work with fire day in and out and you’re a terrible cook.”

            “Give her our good wishes.” Gwynedd said.  Mawlin nodded and headed for the door, adjusting the handkerchief on his head.

            “That I will.”

            That evening brought a steady breeze and sparse clouds rolled in.  Elaina and Mawlin, the remains of a picnic dinner bundled up next to them, stayed outside to take advantage of the rare wind. Mawlin lay with his head in her lap as Elaina sat against one of the walnut trees.  They looked over the open fields to the distant lights of Ruvilla, dim and insignificant when compared to the stars. 

            “It’s the same there.  Crops dying, people stumbling around like they are half dead.” Elaina said. “I’ve heard talk of that black fungus you heard about from Farcid.  Everyone is worried about what may come this winter we can’t grow any food.”

            “We can’t know what will happen, we can only do our best now and wait” he replied. “Maybe these clouds will bring some relief.”

            Elaina ran her fingers down the side of his face as she looked out in the field. 

“Hopefully.”

            The clouds disappeared with the rising of the sun, and it grew hotter still.  The fungus began to spread, withering the fields ever faster in the heat.  Mawlin began to work at night to avoid the brutality of the day, and Elaina could only visit a short while before she had to head back to her own shop.  Arguments and tempers flared like a sulfur match, and fistfights became as common as dust devils.  Finally in late summer the bell’s ring in the afternoon summoned the village to a town meeting instead of rest.  Windows were thrown up and the doors propped open as the townsfolk shuffled in.  The seven men and women of Ormond’s council took their seats, and the voices of the crowd subsided to a murmur.  Straden Rawger, the chief councilman, stood as he addressed the village

            “People of Ormond, we have had a trying time.  The crops are failing, the heat is unending, and this black plague that infests the very land beneath our feet is spreading. The gods only know what will bring some respite.”

            “What do you bet it’s those greasy bastards in Ruvilla?  Who’s ever really trusted them in our fields?” shouted a voice from the back of the crowd. 

            Mawlin rose to his feet and let loose with his considerable voice. “Surely the sun doesn’t beat there, and every third days brings a gentle rain.  Their corn is surely twice as tall as I by now!  A fine line of thought from addled and crooked head!”  A thousand voices flamed to life, and Straden had to wave his arms and pound on his table till it nearly broke to restore a semblance of order. 

            “Silly fights now will solve nothing!” Straden cried. “We must think about the future.  This winter we can surely tighten our belts and survive.  But what about the next, and the next after that?  If our harvest is so poor, and no one can be sure when the heat will break or what this cursed fungus will do, our council as decided on only one course of action.  We must secure land, unblemished land at that, to make sure we will have enough food for the future.  We will claim the land outside of Ormond as community property, to be managed by the council and worked by the people.  Though this winter will be difficult, next year we can look forward to a surplus of food to ensure the survival of this village.”

            Voices erupted even louder than before, each striving to be heard above the other.  Mawlin left the hall, knowing that little would be solved soon and the debate would stew on far into the night.  As he passed through the main doors and back into the brutal sun, Regin worked out of the crowd and followed his uncle.

            “What do you think should be done?” the boy asked.  “Da thinks we need that land.  Our fields are practically barren.”

            “I’m not sure, Regin.  He certainly knows the land better than I.  I just don’t know.”

            Mawlin worked late into that night and slept through majority of the day.  As he woke up, he could see a wagon and a crew of men surveying the fields to the west of his shop and home.  The grass of the meadow, though sickly cause of the lack of rain, was still alive and free of the fungus that tainted most of the established farmland.  As the next day came and went, Mawlin spotted a group of red shirted workers from Ruvilla working their way out in the meadow, laying out fields as well.  He shook his head and kept the bellows of the forge pumping.  Later that night, a familiar single lantern light danced across the land, weaving its way to Mawlin’s forge.  Elaina had her hair tied up because of the heat, and she sat by entrance of the shop as he worked.

            “The farmland is failing” she said.  “It seems like both towns have the same idea about the meadows.”

            “There’s plenty of room for all.” Mawlin said, his face dripping with sweat as his hammer rose and fell.

            “I wish all would share your thoughts.  There are those that believe you ignorant thick skulls have done such a bad job of farming you’ve poisoned the land for all.”

            “There are enough here that blame you greasy bastards for the fungus, and the heat as well.”  Mawlin put down his hammer and walked over to her, placing his hands on her small and delicate shoulders.  “Please, if you cannot stay the night, be careful when you go back.  There is enough moonlight to see by, you don’t need the lantern.”

            “I want to stay, but I must meet with a customer in the morning.  She gabs like a goose and is never satisfied.  Likely to take the whole day to fit her with one dress.”

            “Just be careful” he said.

            “I will.”  She pulled him close.  “You be careful too.  Don’t worry too much about me and hit your thumb.”

            He grinned.  “I’ll mind myself as well.”

            The next day was the same as each day of the summer before it.  The sun shone down, its power heedless to any complaining or cry of mercy.  Mawlin woke late again, stoking the forge and watching the working crews of the villages grow closer.  He was walking outside to gather some more firewood when a wagon began to dart towards his home from deep in the meadow.  He watched its frenzied speed and began to grow worried, dropping the firewood and walking quickly, then breaking into a jog.  Elren Torshed was in the driver’s seat, a frantic look in his eyes and blood on his lip.  He pulled back heavily on the horse, and the wagon skidded to a halt as the horse whinnied in protest.

            “A fight.  With those from Ruvilla.” Elren gasped between breaths.  “Regin is in back.”  Mawlin vaulted onto the back of the wagon and saw his nephew, very pale and still, with blood streaming from his temple and both his ears.  He knelt over the motionless boy, taking his red handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping the blood out of his face, trying to staunch its flow.

            “Farcid’s farm.  Spare not the horse” Mawlin yelled.

            The vigil for the stricken boy began.  He lay in his bed in the farmhouse, head wrapped thick with bandages, and candles flickered in a small shrine in the corner of the room.  The house was filled with silent and somber visitors, while his parents never left his side.  Mawlin stood in the doorway of bedroom, silent until two hands wrapped around his waist and Elaina pressed her face into his stomach, holding him tightly.

            “I’m sorry, I came as soon as I heard.” She gasped when she saw Regin lying there, and Mawlin led her quietly away from the doorway and into the hall.

            “He was out with the other men laying out the fields.  Those from Ruvilla were working close by” Mawlin said listlessly.  “An argument started, and then a fight.  Regin hasn’t said a word since, nor opened his eyes” 

            “What can we do?”

            “Now?  Nothing but wait and pray.”  Mawlin sat in the hallway with Elaina in his arms until the anguished cries of Regin’s parents gave them the answer they didn’t want. 

            The funeral was the next evening.  Mawlin and Farcid spent the day barely speaking, taking out wooden benches and tables out of the town’s hall and laying them out in front of the farmhouse.  Unlike the spring feast, there would no dancing or revelry, no laughter and no joy.  Mawlin made his brother stay inside while he dug the boy’s grave in the family plot west of the farmhouse.  As evening crept in, Farcid and Gywnedd led the procession to the graveyard, followed by Mawlin and Elaina in a dress of the darkest red, a veil over her face.  The priests sung as Regin was lowered into the ground, and the smell of incense burning washed over the crowd.  His parents led everyone back to the farmhouse, where they gathered around the tables.  The village priest spoke while his attendants carried a number of cups among the crowd. 

            “We cannot say why the gods chose to take Regin at such a young age, but we know that they will look after him now he has passed over to the other side.  Let use share in these cups of salt water, so we know that we share our tears and can find solace with each other.”  The priests began to sing again, and Farcid took the first sip, each of those with a cup following suit.  Mawlin passed it on to Elaina, and she lifted the edge of her veil to take a small sip.  She passed it on to the table behind, and flinched when she heard the sound of the cup being poured out and thrown onto the ground.  Elaina gripped Mawlin’s hand with both of her own, and he sighed deeply, shoulders falling.  The priests finished their song, and the crowd began to disperse.  Mawlin and Elaina headed to the farmhouse amidst a number of muttered words and hostile glances.  Elren, the man who drove the injured Regin in from the fields, spat at Elaina’s feet.  Mawlin pulled her closer and kept walking into the farmhouse. 

            As soon as they walked inside, Mawlin crouched down to look directly into her eyes. “Please head back to Ruvilla.  It’s not a good time for you be here now.”

            “No” Elaina snapped. “I’ll not let one foolish man with his foolish thoughts dictate my life. I’ll stay with you.”

            “There are likely hundreds of foolish men with such thoughts.  Anger is running hotter than the sun has this cursed summer.  Please go.  I promise I’ll see you tomorrow.  Please.  I couldn’t stand the thought of you in harm’s way.”

            “What are you going to do?”

            “I’ll fix this.”

            “What?”

            “Just go.  I promise I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            She kissed him gently.  “I’m holding you to that promise.”  He led her to the rear of the farmhouse and she began to walk across the fields to Ruvilla.  Mawlin watched until her shadow was swallowed by the setting sun.  He walked around the edge of the house and met crossed paths with a very surprised Elren.  His eyes widened, and one arm snapped forward, grasping the man by the neck and lifting him off the ground.  Elren choked and spit, prying ineffectually at his fingers.

            “You.” Mawlin said in a low voice.  “Never curse me with your presence again.” He dropped the gasping man and marched off towards his forge. 

            With each step, Mawlin’s anger and grief grew.  His whole body became saturated with the force of feeling.  He quickly made his way to his forge, and kept walking, each boot step thudding into the ground.  Mawlin walked out into the meadows, guided by the work the men had already done in laying out the fields.  He looked in vain for the spot where the fight took place, where Regin was felled.  Anger threw a haze over his vision, and he gave up the search, falling to his knees halfway between the two villages.  Both hands gripped the earth that took the life of his nephew, and his mighty arms began to flex.

            Ormond and Ruvilla were tossed about in a mighty earthquake that night, and many thought the gods were angry.  People cried out in prayer and fear, but their voices were drowned out by the shaking of the earth.  When the morning came and the earth stilled, the people from each village stared out in wonder of the gorge that now separated the villages.  They could just make out the tiny form of Mawlin at the bottom of the gorge, laying very still.  Elaina was among the crowd that stood at the edge of the gorge, and she recognized him immediately.  She climbed and stumbled down the steep sides of the gorge, and her cries of sadness echoed between the walls.  Mawlin passed on to the other side as she knelt with his head in her lap.  His grief had torn the land asunder, and hers filled it with tears.  That, my child, is why Ashland Gorge lies between the two villages of Ormond and Ruvilla, and why Sorrow’s River flows such a powerful course.  The summer cooled down as the year wore on, and the rains came again.  It was a lean winter, but come the next spring the black fungus disappeared as suddenly as it arrived.  Both villages moved on, although they have been separated ever since, and all that’s left is dim memory.