Afeallan

"Chapter" Twenty-Two

It was a tomato that first splattered across Créda’s face.

“But I have proof!” he wailed, recovering, waiving the paper Rýnelic had marked.

“Then show us the man,” someone shouted. “If he lives, bring him here. If he is dead, exhume him.”

The crowd shouted in accord.

“But he will not come with me,” Créda protested. “He is in his ship in the sea.”

“The sea?” someone else laughed. “I have never seen the sea. There is no sea. There is nothing past Geargadas.”

“But there is! I’ve seen it! I’ve been there!”

More flung debris.

A sympathetic stranger consulted Créda. “You’re acting foolish,” said the stranger in a compassionate tone. “Personally, I don’t care if you believe Rýnelic is real or not. But for your sake, stop this nonsense. You’ll only prove to hurt yourself.”

“No!” Créda pushed the kind stranger away. “I will not be silent.” The crowd was only building Créda’s courage. “Don’t you all remember? It was not that long ago. Can’t you remember how much better things were?”

Now the fists came. One at first, then many. Créda tried to fight back but could not stave off the barrage of attacks. One after the other in a torrent of pain. Créda kept protesting, waiving the parchment in the air. Léas, who had heard of the boy attesting in the streets, intervened.

“What’s going on here?”

The assailants fled, leaving only Créda, Léas, and one concerned pedestrian.

“I was telling them,” Créda gurgled through blood, “that Rýnelic is still alive. I have,” he gasped “his letter. It’s for Byldan.” Créda presented the note.

“I see,” said Léas. “This is truly great news. Come with me, we have much to discuss.”

Léas walked Créda back to the castle. He drew Créda a bath and instructed him to come to the main chambers when he was through. Créda sank low into the warm water. He realized then how weary he was. He took to first cleaning his wounds. The water turned slowly the color of sand. He felt hopeful, being in the castle. He would find Byldan. She would be kind. He dried himself and donned the robe Léas had provided for him. He walked down the corridor to where Léas had instructed him to go. Léas greeted him and smiled. “Have a seat.” Créda sat. “You say you have a letter, for Byldan, from Rýnelic.”

“That’s right. Yes sir.”

“Ah,” said Léas intrigued. “May I see it?”

Créda reluctantly passed the paper across the desk. “You still believe he was real, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” said Léas, looking down at the document. He smirked at its simplicity.

“Then why did you try to convince everyone he wasn’t real?”

“That was never my intention, merely a by-product.”

“Then what was your intention?” Créda asked hastily. Forcefully.

“My intention,” Léas said irritated and cordially, “was to get the people to stop waning away after someone who was not who they imagined him to be. I knew him well. I knew dark things about him. I was kind enough not to divulge this information to the public. I thought, maybe, it would be better if they stopped talking about him rather than coming to despise him.” Léas softened his face. He appealed to Créda. “You seem wise. You can understand, can’t you?”