Chapter One: Scavenged

This is the first chapter in the book, in which Harowhin goes into how he was found and talks a bit about how he was found, and Tayeth (his "mother") tells the legend of the Old Gods and how the Islands and the Sre'thesu came to be. I WILL BE EXPANDING THAT LEGEND TO BE AN INDEPENDENT CHAPTER at the discretion of my friend Blondie, basically the Co-Author and a good friend of mine. 

Also, remember that this is the first draft of the chapter. 

Comment and enjoy!


Click read more to read Chapter one of Harowhin's Story: Scavenged!

1

Scavenged

T

ayeth had once told me that she had found a healthy, if not slightly worse-for-wear, baby of a boy. She told me of his mark of the Sre’Caill, and its vibrancy. She would list, with casual efficiency, the markings of a bastard she had found. The babe’s hair was short, brown, and wispy, like the endless tendrils of a broken net. She would sigh with nostalgic warmth when she would tell me of the babe’s small nose and furtive mouth, and the piercing eyes of one too young to know where he was or what he was doing there. And then, with an undertone of intrigue and bemusement, Tayeth told me of the bright silvery scar of an S and T intertwined on the babe’s small left shoulder. It was my cue. I sat up, perked my ears, and exclaimed “Me!”

“That’s right,” Mama would say to me, wielding a voice of pure maternity. She would let slip a loving chuckle. Usually when she told me this story, I had requested it. She would acquiesce, although I could not ever guess the source of her silent reluctance. With age, I had always wondered why she did not keep her finding of me a secret, like in the old midwives’ tales.  I suppose it wasn’t the way of the Sre’Uinn, to circumspect the inevitable.

Tayeth would smile at me, warmly and all too often. My memories of my childhood with her were simple pleasures of a boy who enjoyed mischief. As she would leave our humble cottage looking for ashberries in season, I would try to mock-fight with her, nipping at her heels. Her minimalistic apparel never made her any less of a beauty to me. Tayeth’s hair fell down past her shoulders, which were usually swaddled in a shawl of deep blue. It was a golden brown, braided simply. I remember it smelled faintly of wither-seed, a wild herb found scattered around Sre’Uinn’s main-lake, Yhuth. We often ventured there for a mother to do her work and for a child to prance about as if he were a bear.

“My Harowhin,” she’d gleam, “you have a bear’s heart, but know not what you are.”

“Mama, I am a bear! I will be big and fierce and take care of my mama.” She couldn’t help but to pick me up in her arms and tousle my thin locks, bearing her pearlescent teeth in a vivid smile. She would cradle my head in her shoulder and neck, where I belonged, in my own right.

I loved Tayeth with the intensity that of which only a young boy can love his mother. I knew nothing but play, and the love of my mother, my protector.

“That you are, son,” she would cede, and still give a smile. If I was older, I would have been able to see the remorse in her tried hazel eyes. But my mind and body was young, and I immersed myself within my mother’s hold of me.

Tayeth would take me everywhere we went, and people would look at me. I did not comprehend then that it was painfully obvious I was not a bear. We would walk past Hilde and Kale in the Trades, and my ears would perk up to hear them speak of my mama with a shunning inflection. Eventually I asked Tayeth: “Why do friends speak ill of you after we pass, Mama?” She surmised I was growing wiser, but it was just a young boy’s curiosity. Her paranoia opened her eyes, showing her blatant fear of losing her child. Her unquestioning acceptance of me never struck me as odd until I was older.

“Because they are old bears, grumbling about at changes that affect them not.” I tilted my head at momma. “Listen, son… Harowhin,” she fumbled slightly at my name, “you are different. You know this, but still run around like a young bear like the rest of them. I suppose I cannot blame you, my son. You are young.” And it was true. What did an 8 year old cared what others perceived? I cared little for it all. I loved my mother, and knew I would never be able to catch a salmon as they swam upstream. That was my only worry.

I remember other cubs, and how the elders never called me that name. It’s almost funny now, to look back at old bear’s efforts to make such a young one feel unwanted. But the children had no mind for such things. To say we were instinctual would be degrading, but to say we were boys would be fitting. We would wrestle and mock-fight, always swearing faux fealty to the champion of our bouts. Such was the Sre’Uinn’s ways. When I asked Tayeth why it was so. Suddenly it was apparent to her I knew nothing of the history of the Sre’thesu. When she spoke the name aloud, I quickly asked which animal they were graced with.

“The Sre’thesu is us all… Cub,” (as only she called me) “you haven’t seen the others have you?” It was true. I had grown up with the bears.

 I had once seen an oddly large Hawk dart over our den and it occurred to me to sputter “Can some of us fly, mama?!” I asked with an intense intrigue that spawned from my nature.

“Yes,” she stated flatly. I think she wanted to avoid giving me some hope, but I was young and ignorant, so I did not understand her tone. Seeing the vexation sprawl across my face, she stood began to change. She had done it before, obviously, as it was part of her. But I had never really watched, nor wandered if not everyone had the talent to do so. I watched, acutely focused, as she changed. As Tayeth strode toward me, I saw her shawl recede into nothing, and short brown hairs blossomed from her above her heart. From her tanned hands came forth seemingly gargantuan paws with small black claws tucked into it. Tayeth never broke stride as she came towards me; her front paws came down to the floor in a small thud, a thin layer of dust rising as a wave in their wake. The last thing to change was her small mouth into the muzzle of a full grown bear. Tayeth came over to me and picked me up by the back of my tunic. “Mama!” I giggled wildly as I swung from her mouth. Mama set me down on a small stool  she had made of the pines (as much of our furniture was made of) and let sat on her thick haunches. Her muzzle did not really conform to the words, more they did to it.

“Little Cub, would you like to hear a story?” Her words trickled like refined honey. I clapped my hands and shook my head with eager anticipation, and she began the recounting of our history with surprising alacrity.

“In the first Era, the Old Gods were new. Vemu had seized power from God King Leeth after a series of battles which shaped the face of the mainlands. Vemu immediately took position as Empress, and her rule of the heaven’s remained true for a while. The land prospered under her mighty hand. But with time and old enemies comes paranoia, and Vemu was swallowed in it. She ordered her brother Hathil killed, and rain ran red on the mainland peoples on that day. Soon after, Vemu tried to drown Sre’Se, the Lion King. He bound her back with his mighty paws and, along with the Elder Council of the Old Gods, banished Vemu and her loyal guard to BlackSpear, an inverted Mountain with blinding drifts of snow and ice spears. For Sre’se’s part in saving the heaven’s, the Council awarded him the right to create any one thing he desired to inhabit the earth below.

“With this credence, Sre’se created the first Dragon King, Beloreth. Alone for a thousand years, he fell into despair. He flew south over the Ghail Ocean and spewed his ancient fire erratically at the waters. He collapsed in a ring of newly formed islands, and his skeleton is the main support of CommonWealth. Seeing Beloreth’s loneliness, Sre’se made the Sre’thesu, or Sre’se’s Loyal. He blessed them with the visage of man and beast, and gave each an Island to dwell upon. King Kor ruled the Sre’Uinn bears, Elder Jutiyu advised the Sre’Caill owls and their guardians: the Sre’Kun hawks. Queen Naria ruled over the Sre’Hara  felines, and Master Kraven dictated the Sre’Hith ravens. All swore fealty to the second Dragon King, Argonath, who Sre’Se formed with a stone from each Isle. The Sre’thesu prospered with little quarrel for some time. But the other Gods were jealous of Sre’Se’s successful peoples, and instilled a hatred of their “dirty magic” in the mainland peoples.

“ Uncovering this treachery, Sre’Se waged war on the other Gods with the help of Argonath. All perished in the heavens. For thirty years, man was Godless. The Blighted Years moved slowly across time, a scar on our history. Then, 30 years later, on the last day of the year, one Rehlokir and one Tovah battled for humanity. With their ascension marked the end of the Blighted Years and the beginning of the 4^th era. The 3^rd era is forgotten in the Blighted Years, and is left to rot by our memory.”

I sat attentively, soaking in Momma’s inflections and expressions. Her muzzle flexed a bit at the mention of Beloreth’s rage, but other than that, she remained placid and matter-of-factly. I did not ask questions, did not move. Momma seemed impressed that a fledgling could remain focused so long. She nudged my Sre’Caill mark with her cold, damp nose, and left me to my own devices in the cottage as she thumped outside, almost in a rush. I haven’t forgotten nor deciphered the prayers Momma whispered outside the door.