Afeallan

"Chapter" Eighteen

It was dark, but Créda was able to remember seeing a path that ran along the river from the old man’s perch that lead to Néandún. He followed the sound of water and found a clearing along the path where he chose to sleep through the night. His ankle was swollen and was beginning to hurt after the adrenaline wore away. Light came and Créda was able to make out sixteen large mounds in the near distance, all surrounding a larger hill. He went to them, pressing forward, and realized they were nests made of long, thin twigs. Arched windows at varying heights proved these were no natural occurrence, nor that of animal. Créda heard a happy horn burst through the air, and several people came to greet him. “Welcome to Néandún,” they all said in different combinations of the words. The people noticed his limp. “Are you hurt?” one of them asked. “Let us help you,” said another. “Are you thirsty? Here’s is some water.” All of them looked the same.

Créda was escorted into one of their homes. The owner of the home introduced himself as Angmód. “And this is my wife, Langung.” They were an older couple. Seemed as if they were interchangeable. “We will be at your assistance if you need us. We are the town hospitality. We are happy to oblige any visitor to our fine city.”

Créda was weary. He accepted their help for several days, allowing them to wait on him, becoming gradually more comfortable. Something bothered him, though. The name of the town seemed familiar to him, though he could not place it. Then it came to him. This town, Néandún, was the place most cited in Rýnelic’s legends. He remembered, and now felt foolish for not having come here first. Of course they would know of Rýnelic, most certainly the king, to whom Rýnelic had once been betrothed, he thought. “Angmód!” he called. “Langung!” She came trotting into the room.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. Have you ever heard of a man named Rýnelic?”

“You know,” she said, tapping her forehead, “that name rings a bell. Let me ask my husband. He’s got a knack for names.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Angmód!” He was already at the door, having responded too late to Créda’s initial request. “There you are. Does the name ‘Rýnelic’ sound familiar to you?”

“Can’t say it does.” He rubbed his chin in preponderance. “You know…” he wagged his finger in the air, then stopped, returning it to his jaw. After several seconds of thinking he said, “Can’t place it. We can ask some others if you’d like.”

“Do you think you could ask the king?” Créda asked hopefully. He imagined the king sitting in the big mound in the middle of the smaller ones. He assumed he was a nice king based on the others in the town. He thought the request would not be too presumptuous. “Please, if you can.”

“King?” said Angmód.

“We don’t have a king, dear. We’re self-policed!” she said chipper, then paused, noting his concern. “But we can ask others.” Angmód left as if summoned to find anyone who knew the name.

Créda was stunned momentarily. His heart began to beat quicker and his hand trembled. “But Rýnelic rescued his daughter. They were engaged. I thought he was your hero before he was ours.” Créda began to fidget, panicked.

Angmód returned. “I’m sorry, but no one seems to know who he is. If he ever was here, he’s long forgotten, now.” He looked down pitifully. “Can we get you anything else?”

Créda sat silently. There was nowhere left to go. No one had ever heard of Rýnelic. Maybe he never had existed, like everyone else believed. He began to repeat this to himself, hoping to truly believe it. Hoping to return home and not believe, like everyone else. But he remembered the music. It would never abandon him. If there was no Rýnelic, there was nothing to go home to. Nothing to stay for. Créda left without saying goodbye. Kept walking north. Reached the sea. Kept walking.

The waves kept thrusting Créda back to the shore. Several times he tried to submerge himself, only to find himself back where he began. He hated the water. He swam and thrashed in it, only to be rejected. He looked up. There was a cliff. It would be high enough, he determined. He began to climb but was too weary from prior exertions. In the daylight he climbed. It was steeper than he had anticipated but the footholds were good enough. He was determined to reach the top and greet the bottom. As he climbed everything he had ever felt bombarded him, changing with the slow rhythm of the waves below. Happiness. Sadness. Higher. Anger. Frustration. Frustration. Frustration. Higher. He reached the pentacle. He dared not look behind him. He looked out across the ocean. There was nothing. Nothing but the hope and comfort that nothing can bring. He neared the edge, letting his toes hang over the side. He looked down and backed away thirty paces, not in fear, but for logistics. He began running. Building up speed. He tripped over a root, sprawling forward. As he rose to his knees, cursing the ground, he happened to look left. There, anchored in the cove, was a ship.