Windbreak Chapel
Each time the hunting knife sliced through the fungal pods, separating them from their stems, a wet, musty smell was added to the already pungent swamplands. Kjeld placed the pods into a small wicker basket, on top of the flat, mud-brown discs of lichen and nightshade flowers he’d already harvested. Nearby, Lami was stooped over a collection of red-capped mushrooms with a bumpy texture, a lantern by her heels meant to cut through the gloom and fog of the marshes.
The pay wasn’t much but it was better than nothing, and it would do him no harm to learn about the salt marshes, if only to add knowledge and reason to his already sharpened sense of caution. He wanted to know what he needed to avoid or be afraid of, if he was going to stay in this grim slice of Skyrim for much longer.
Near the fetid bank Benor stood watch over them both, his lazy mien hiding a keen (though drink-muddled) mind, and in his hands was a sharp two-headed battleaxe. It looked unnecessary, with the loudest thing being the strange birds in this part of the country and the full-throated croaking of the frogs, but Kjeld knew better now. There were things out here that could catch a man, drag him into the marshes never to be seen or heard from again.
Jonna had plenty of horror stories to share while he’d been staying at the Inn.
”Grab the canis root next if you’re finished, Kjeld.” Lami’s voice overlapped the spongy tearing of rotten wood and fungus as she pried the mushrooms off the side of a dead tree.
Wiping the damp earth from his hands, Kjeld stood, moving to where she had indicated a gnarled, naked root that bore no leaves, and looked to Kjeld like a corpse’s twisted, shriveled hand. He crouched in front of it, considering how best to harvest it without killing or taking too much, when the hurried slosh of boots through shallow pools caught his attention.
The cat’s back!” Virkmund slowed to a stop near Benor, who had tensed immediately when he saw the boy running towards them. Panting, the round-faced boy with his streaming nose and bright eyes, looked eager to have been of help - to have had a change in routine. “I saw him come back. He looked more mad than hurt, but he’s there now. At the Chapel!”
Kjeld glanced at Lami. He hated to leave work unfinished.
Lami wiped her hands on her apron. “Go on. You’ve collected enough to last me a while. Stop by my store, I’ll have your coin ready when you return.”
Kjeld thanked her for her graciousness. The basket was given to Benor to carry — Benor snorted, saying he wasn’t a damn flowermaid — before he took off after Virkmund.
After finding out that Mor’vahka was paying Thonnir’s boy to look after his animals while the cat was away, Kjeld had singled him out, asking Thonnir’s son to let him know as soon as the warrior-priest returned. Virkmund had requested a new hunting knife in exchange for the favor, and though Kjeld’s stash of ore was limited, he was happy to oblige.
This time, the guards did not stop him on his way out of town. This time, he kept his hunting knife in hand and his eyes on the surrounding woodland, not at all deceived by it’s stillness. Though his hands would undoubtedly freeze by the time they reached the chapel, he preferred it over being taken unawares by spiders as large as a lowland pony.
Keeping pace with Virkmund, Kjeld frowned over his comment. “What do you mean he seemed mad?”
Virkmund’s face, ruddy from the frostbourne wind sapping the warmth from any exposed skin, shone in the overcast sunshine as they climbed the hill to the main road. “Well he slammed the door shut. He lives in a chapel, doesn’t he? I know my Pa slams doors when he’s angry about something, and they ain’t even holy doors. How mad is he if he’s slamming a holy door?”
He had a point. It wasn’t like Kjeld to be a nuisance to others, or to drop by completely unexpected. This was probably an inconvenient (if not dangerous) time to show up and remind Mor’vahka of their conversation at the Hall, but Kjeld wasn’t going to wait three more days until Mor’vahka was in a better mood. He couldn’t afford it, both in matters of money and matters of the soul.
They were unharassed on the road to the Chapel, and as they crested the hill and the distant shift in landscape beyond was now visible, Kjeld felt his heart warm to the rich autumn colors. The yellow aspens appeared almost too bright after the dreary, desaturated world of Morthal; it seemed to exist almost by itself, unconnected to the other Holds except for the wind and cold.
A handsome structure rose to meet them, a stained glass window bearing the mark of a god Kjeld did not recognize glimmered in green and purple, like an eye in the center of the chapel’s steeple. It was better-made than the entirety of Morthal; in place of wooden timbers, there was stone, hardy and weather-worn but still strong, and even the doors looked reinforced with iron in a way that not even the Jarl’s longhouse was so fortunate to have.
As they crossed the road to reach Windbreak Chapel their steps automatically slowed, and Kjeld was aware he was on what some would consider consecrated ground. What did that mean for him, a Skaal, with his sole god and his tainted blood? He found himself holding his breath as they went to the door; if Virkmund’s words were to be believed, then he didn’t want the boy to have to deal with Mor’vahka’s ire over Kjeld’s desire to disturb him.
“Thank you Virkmund, I’ll have your hunting knife soon.”
Virkmund paused as if he wanted to protest the end of this adventure, but the boy nodded, a little sullen. “Okay.”
To Kjeld’s surprise, Virkmund pulled a coin out of his pocket and placed it in one of Kjeld’s cold hands. “Put this on one of the altars, my Pa wants to make sure the Gods remember we’re still here. And to send my mother back to us.”
“Aye, I’ll do that. Stay safe out there.” Kjeld watched Virkmund walk back down the hill. What would the gods want with golden coins? It was a strange concept, giving away something valuable to a higher power, to the only being(s) in existence it would be worthless to. Kjeld turned back to the double doors.
They were imposing, and with the wind striking the back of his neck and nipping at his hands, he felt even more unwelcome than ever.
Kjeld knocked. His knife was sheathed, but he still felt the cold press of the coin against his palm as he pounded the doors - torn between expressing urgency and trying not to upset the cat further.
The left door creaked inward a few inches, enough to show a dark slit, as if the Chapel itself had been roused from a long slumber.
Maybe it was the paranoid imaginings of a tense man, but Kjeld thought he heard a low snake-like hiss from inside.
"This Chapel is closed for renovation."
Kjeld didn't bother glancing around in search of building materials. "Good thing I'm not here to pray. We... met at the Hall. You said you could help me." The wind chapped his lips, throat drying.
The door closed with a baritone thud, and there was the sound of a heavy lock unlatching. With barely a second to consider the possibility that Mor'vahka was armed, the door swung inward, and a black Khajiit in waxen yellow robes stood by to let him in.
Even without the crossbow, Mor'vahka was a formidable sight; Kjeld was taller, broader of shoulder and seemed greater of strength. But the cat gave a dangerous presence, from the intense glint of his eyes, like torchflame in an empty cellar, to the low irritably swishing tail that twitched and moved as though it had a mind of its own.
"White-Paw." Spoke the cat, as Kjeld stepped into the high-ceilinged house of worship, momentarily taken in by the austere, stony beauty of it.
Garden boxes lined the entrance chamber beneath frosty iron-laced windows, and the strong smell of lavender, thyme, rosemary and dragon's tongue found its points of origin in the soil. An enclave on either side of the chapel were shrouded by a wooden half-wall, sectioning off the sleeping quarters and the kitchen, and on the opposite end what looked to be a study.
There were two rows of pews before a wooden podium, with the pointed star-like shrine to a deity Kjeld did not know sitting on a long table behind it. A few coins and a small chunk of gold ore were the meager offerings, and Kjeld at once remembered Virkmund's request.
Moving carefully, both out of respect and fear of his surroundings, Kjeld approached the altar, realizing with a low prick of curiosity that there were two ancient, heavily carved doors behind the podium. Where they led, Kjeld felt only a passing interest in finding out.
Reidar would've asked a thousand questions by now. But he had only one pressing on his mind.
“From Thronnir and Virkmund,” he announced to Khajiit and god alike, and set the coin down. Kjeld kept his boots off the long rug, already faded from many a year of service in the center aisle between the pews, and rejoined Mor’vahka.
The cat had not moved from his spot.
“This one has questions.”
Funny, I was thinking the same thing. “So you are a Vigilant of Stendarr?”
“I serve Arkay, the god of life and death,” corrected the cat, rolling his r’s in a peculiar fashion that lent a little power to the name that had no meaning to Kjeld. Mor’vahka’s burning eyes narrowed. “Are your hands clean?”
Kjeld glanced at his palms, seeing more than dirt and stagnant water. He had been anticipating this question for a very long time. “No.”
“Tell this one of your crimes. And Mor’vahka will decide if you are deserving of life or death.”
He felt slapped in the face. Crimes. ‘Mor’vahka will decide’. The arrogance of such words made his expression turn to stone. At once he rallied against confessing anything, his shoulders rising, the muscles in his neck tensing as if he were under attack. In a way, he was. Mor’vahka wasted no time asking him whether or not he had taken a life - the life of something or someone that would constitute as murder.
“It was an accident.” Kjeld forced the words. A stupid accident that never should have happened. The flick of the cat’s ear told him the priest was listening. “Two years ago, I started having nightmares.”
“About your crime?”
“No.” Kjeld stared at the window boxes. Unsettled now that he was getting the hard, judging stare he had always felt he’d deserved. “This was before. I kept having this dream, over and over. Of climbing a summit in the dead of winter, nothing else seems to matter except reaching the top. ” A tight intake of breath. “If I had known what was going to happen, I would have ignored them! I would’ve told Storn sooner, I would’ve—would've done anything else.”
Would’ve would’ve would’ve.
There were a thousand things he would have done differently, but remorse never fixed guilt. Just made it worse.
While he stumbled, Mor’vahka said nothing, though the low, impatient swish of his tail in the shadows had started up again.
Kjeld struggled, wrestling with a part of him he had tried to ignore for so long. The Skaal were a peaceful people unless times of war demanded they act, or their own lives were in danger. Kjeld’s hadn’t been; not really. A bear is not in danger of a fox, startled or otherwise. He’d had no reason to kill that marauder.
It had just happened.
“Speak. This one’s patience grows thin.”
“It was last winter. The dreams were getting more intense, and to make them stop, I tried to find the summit while I was awake. To see whatever the All-Maker or my father’s spirit was trying to tell me.” It had been hard losing his father at eleven. Whatever childhood Solstheim hadn’t already taken from him had been obliterated on that dark day. He and Helmi had done what they could to take care of their family, whether it meant going out to lay traps with Wulf Wild-Blood before dawn, or keeping a young Reidar away from the waterfalls. Grief was not something he handled well. So he had clung to the last desperate remnant of Leiv’s hold on his life.
Mor’vahka had not asked for many details, and Kjeld had no intention of giving him more than he needed. “I changed, scared someone. There was… an altercation. I couldn’t change back in time to help them. They bled to death because of me.”
“Did you consume their flesh? Their blood?”
Kjeld recoiled, feeling as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “No! By the All-Maker, no.” Eat them? Why in nature's name would he have… Kjeld shuddered, suddenly fearing Mor’vahka’s next words.
‘That is what comes next’. ‘You are a monster and I cannot help you’.
Instead, Mor’vahka walked away from him, the wax-yellow robes stirring up a cold, subtle breeze as he left. Mor’vahka went to the bookshelf, the sounds of a protective glass-and-metal door being slid back bounced off the stonework, the spines of old tomes brushing together as the cat sought something in particular.
If Kjeld needed to run, this was his one and only chance to do so. He glanced to the door, at once feeling the coward. With a resolved grimace, he awaited Mor’vahka’s judgment — surprised but not altogether relieved to find the priest offering him a book.
“Take it, White-Paw.”
Kjeld accepted the faded book; it was thin, and there was the faint impression of a bear upon the cover, but the title was too lost to age to be legible. “Is this going to help me?” he murmured, opening the cover. The faded pages creaked and groaned in protest.
“Go.” Mor’vahka sat down in a chair beside the fire, and Kjeld noticed for the first time that he looked fatigued. “Read it. Return it when you have finished.”
“That’s not good enough.” He hadn’t come all this way for a book! In a powerful rush of obstinacy, Kjeld considered planting his feet and demanding Mor’vahka give him a straight answer for once - but he caught the cat’s eye in his peripheral vision, and saw the ire burning there.
Frustration. Anger. Control barely maintained.
Mor’vahka hissed beneath his breath, shaping the warning sound into an order. “Go. This one has work to do.”
He suddenly understood. ‘Work’ to do. The priest meant burials, funerary rites, and he likely had to cleanse the Hall of its many corpses.
Kjeld’s patience was not fully spent, yet. Mor’vahka needed time, and Kjeld intended to give it to him. “I will. Tell me before you leave town again.”
Mor’vahka said nothing, his back to him.
Kjeld left the Chapel, book in hand. He did not ask how the ‘hunt’ had gone; it had not occurred to him until he had already left the shadow of the building that he wasn’t the only one grief had a long-standing effect on.
If his friends and colleagues had been devastated by vampires, the last thing he would’ve had patience for was a werebear that wouldn’t take no for an answer. All Kjeld could hope for now was that this book — plain as it was — held some crucial piece of information that would help him.
Comments
I wonder where it will lead.