Review: Tears of Min Brock by J.E. Lowder

The Moon KingThud.

Elabea was startled awake.

“Who’s there?” she gasped as she pulled her covers close.

Although only fourteen summers of age, Elabea had seen her share of Ebonite night raids. Even so, she would never get used to warriors barging in while her family slept. Herded gruffly out into the night, they would be led to the communal fire with the other villagers. While Ebonite commanders took roll call, the warriors harassed them: spittle and curses flew; blades threatened children and women; kicks and punches landed on the men. Elabea quickly learned that the census was merely an excuse for Ebon to flex its military muscle.

She scanned her attic bedroom’s shadows for any sign of a warrior.

Nothing.

If not a raid, she wondered with a sigh of relief, perhaps it was my father downstairs.

Quinn often drank wildeberry wine well into the night, and in his inebriated state, sometimes hurled objects across the room followed by a string of curses.

Thud.

This time, Elabea recognized the sound as coming from outside. Gathering her courage, she peeked through a crack in her shuttered window.

Lances of silver-blue moonbeams crisscrossed Hetherlinn while the trees strained against the windstorm and hindered her vision. Suddenly, the trees parted, as if sensing her need for an unencumbered view.

Floating above the communal fire was a warrior and his mount that glowed like the moon. He turned and looked at her cottage, Number 17. Elabea gasped and jerked back into the safety of the shadows.

Did he see me?

Fearing the worst, she pulled her quilt close and sat perfectly still, hoping the ghost-warrior would soon be on his way. She tried not to worry, but worry she did.

He’s definitely not an Ebonite. So where’s he from?

She fretted, straining to hear any more sounds, wondering most of all.

Why is he here?

She jumped to the only logical conclusion her mind could comprehend, and that conclusion made her eyes bulge with fear.

He must be a monster from the Cauldron.

Flashbacks from her countless trips to the oak with her friend, Galadin, began to fill her with panic. The Oracles, she worried as she bit her lip. He’s come to punish us for climbing the oak.

As quickly as that notion lit her anxiety on fire, another took its place, and cooled her like water. We’ve played in the oak since we were five summers of age. Surely we would have been caught before now.

She relaxed her grip on the quilt, but remained fearful of the creature looming beyond her cottage. She tried to push his image out of her thoughts, but her will was not up to the task. The harder she strained, the more engraved his face became.

And what a face. Like dancing fire in a wintry sky.

Her curiosity, a trait that got her into trouble more often than not, joined her inner fray, and soon, her fears were overruled by a desire to take another peek.

She pushed away her blankets and found herself once more at the crack, staring out into the moonlight. The hovering warrior had not moved, but instead of fear the sight of him sent peace coursing through her veins.

His steed rose and boxed the air with his front appendages. Then, in a silvery flash, they were gone; disappeared into the deeper shades of the night. It was as if they had never existed at all.

Elabea stared, mesmerized by their flight.

She laid back down, but she knew that sleep was out of the question – not because she feared his return, but because her imagination simply could not leave him be. Throughout the night, she pondered every possibility as to his identity.

Being restricted to her village by the Oracles, she was limited to information from beyond its borders. He was not from any of the surrounding nations, she reasoned. She had already ruled out the possibility that he was Ebon, nor was he a creation of the Cauldron. She tested another theory, one that went against the teaching of the Oracles.

Could he be from Claire?

The idea stirred her fantasies to the wind. High within her imagination they swirled, like snow on a zephyr.

Exhaustion finally took its toll, but before she drifted off to sleep, she felt the need to bestow him with a title.

The Moon King, she murmured. He’s the Moon King.
Morning came too soon, and Elabea stumbled out of bed. She tiptoed quickly across the cold planks and threw on her brown tunic. Woven from a thick cloth, it resembled a floppy bag more than a dress. It was the required outfit of Hetherlinn, as ordered by the Oracles, creating uniformity and squelching individualism. She often wondered if the other nations had to dress the same.

She pulled her wavy cinnamon-colored hair out from beneath her tunic and it fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were morsels of dark chocolate reflecting a fiery heart, and her smile – when she thought to smile – was inviting. A few freckles, sprinkled like nutmeg, adorned her creamy cheeks. Elabea was an attractive girl on the cusp of womanhood, but she did not consider herself pretty. Aside from an occasional compliment dropped by her mother, all she heard were insults. The residents of her tiny community seemed to hold a personal grudge against her, and many in Hetherlinn, especially the ancient widow, Mithe, castigated her on a daily basis. With nothing else to counter the poison, she accepted their demeaning comments as the truth.

Elabea slipped on warm wool stockings and boots, then strapped a thick leather belt around her waist. The belt, snug about her, accentuated her developing figure, and gave her the sensation of wearing something slightly more attractive than a sack.

She stepped to the square opening in her floor. The warmth from the kitchen fire below embraced her while the aroma of breakfast porridge made her stomach rumble. She descended the rickety ladder, the rungs creaking beneath her weight.

“Mother,” she asked as she dragged herself to the table near the fire. “Did you see anything… odd… last night?”

“No,” Areall answered. Her tone was as dull and flavorless as the porridge she scooped from the large black pot that hung over the fire. Like everything else in their cottage, the fireplace was simple and primitive, by order of the Oracles. Rough in places, with some cracks here and there, it was anything but elegant. Black soot covered the stones, rising up to the thatched roof.

“Last night, I saw something…or someone…riding out of Hetherlinn.”

“Probably just an Ebonite warrior on a night patrol,” Areall sighed as she plopped the bowl of gruel down in front of Elabea.

“I know what they look like, and he was definitely not one of them.” Elabea snatched up a wooden spoon. “He was larger than any man I’ve ever seen, and he glowed blue like the moon.” She dug into the creamy broth.

“You must have been dreaming.” Areall’s voice was overly tired for so early in the morning.

“I’m not a child,” Elabea snapped back. “I’ve seen fourteen summers and in another four, I’ll be permitted to marry…” In a more sullen tone she continued, “If anyone will have me.”

“Perhaps the moon was playing tricks on you,” Areall yawned, not the least bit interested in the conversation. She knew Elabea’s curiosity could be relentless, like a wolf in winter, desperate for a meal, and she was in no mood for it.

“At first, I was frightened, but soon…” Elabea’s thoughts drifted to the events of the previous night. She let the conversation fade for a moment, then with the spontaneity of youth she exclaimed, “Whatever he was, he was magnificent.”

Elabea twirled her spoon as her imagination began to work. “Is there a Moon King,” she asked.

“Moon King?” Areall chortled. “There hasn’t been a king other than Brairtok anywhere since the Dark War and…” Her rosy cheeks faded to white as if death had touched her flesh. In a serious tone, she abruptly added, “Let’s talk of different matters.”

“Could he have been something of old, something from the Dark War?”

Elabea’s spoon stopped twirling as she pondered the next question, one she was certain would get her into trouble for asking.

“Mother, could he be from Claire?”

Areall’s eyes widened. “Never mention that nation again. You know the Cauldron’s Oracles ban discussions of things that might be… or might have been.”

“I know,” Elabea persisted, her spoon spinning in her fingers. “But do you really think the Cauldron can hear inside our cottage?”

“Yes.”

“Then why hasn’t it seen me at the oak, or heard

Galadin and me talking about Claire… ”

Areall clasped her hand over Elabea’s mouth. “Hush, child.”

Elabea looked into her mother’s buggy eyes. She had seen that look before; more times than she could count. It came with every question she asked about the Cauldron, Ebon, the Dark War and the forgotten land known as Claire. It was the look of fear.

“The vapors from the Cauldron of Ebon travel far and hear much,” Areall whispered. “You must respect the Oracles, my daughter.”

Areall did not remove her hand until she was convinced Elabea would humble her tongue. Finally, she dropped her hand and returned to her chores, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Elabea stared at her mother. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“No,” she replied.

“Well, I am,” Elabea snipped, her curiosity piqued. “Nothing happens in Hetherlinn, or in all of Allsbruth for that matter.”

Areall spun around. Her eyes narrowed. “Nothing is good, Elabea. Nothing means no more war. Nothing is a blessing to life.”

Elabea thumped her spoon against the table with a petulant pout. “If this is life, then life stinks.”

Areall sighed and decided upon a different tactic. Pulling up a chair, she sat across from Elabea, hoping a calm discussion would end this battle of wills.

“Do you remember the stories of your youth,” Areall gently asked.

“Yes,” Elabea moaned, still beating out a rhythmic cadence with her spoon.

“Then you remember that the Dark War ended the tyranny of the King of Claire. Since that day, the Ebonites and the Cauldron have guarded and guided us. The Cauldron’s drone is a gracious reminder of all we’ve been blessed with.”

Elabea stopped the thump, thump, thump of her spoon and listened. She had become so accustomed to the drone’s perpetual presence that she no longer actually heard it, but she knew it was always there, just like the air that she breathed, as constant as day and night, winter and spring. Its tone conjured images in her mind of the wind howling through the hollow of a dead tree, low in pitch, monotonous. Ominous.

“That’s why,” Areall continued, “we must try our best to obey the Oracles of the Cauldron.”

“And what of their night raids?” Elabea huffed. “What have we done to deserve those?”

“It’s for our own protection. They simply need to tally us to make sure no one has… ”

“Listen to you,” Elabea interrupted. “Can’t you see that we’re prisoners in our own village?”

“Oh, Elabea,” her mother sighed. “I wish you could see life through my eyes.”

“And I wish you could see through mine.”

Silence.

“I suppose,” Areall conceded, “we’ve lost some liberties; but those are but inconveniences compared to the peace and prosperity we now have.”

“Peace and prosperity?” Elabea shot back. “The Oracles decree we can only travel five arrow shots from our village. The Oracles determine what we can and can’t talk about. The Oracles forbid you to teach us how to read. The Oracles demand… ”

“Enough,” Areall interrupted, her voice almost a whisper. “Such curiosity leads to a rebellious heart, and a rebellious heart leads too… ”

Elabea rolled her eyes and began banging her spoon against the bowl again. Areall gently laid her hand on top of her daughter’s to stop the incessant drumming, then, with a patronizing smile, returned to her chores.

The conversation was over.

After a moment of silence, Areall asked, “Would you like to continue learning how to knit?”

Elabea let out a dramatic sigh. “You know I hate to knit. And why aren’t you willing to discuss this? Why do you pretend all is well? Do you really enjoy the night raids… and wearing this?”

Elabea yanked at her tunic.

Areall smiled, but it hung broken and crooked on her attractive face, beaten down by war and the oppressiveness of the Oracles.

Quinn, Elabea’s father, picked that moment to stumble out of his bedroom. Bumping his forehead against the low threshold, he mumbled something that sounded like a curse, rubbed his sore head and staggered toward the fireplace. There, he fell into a wooden chair to begin another day, sitting and staring into the glowing embers that held no answers to his misery. Like all the days before, Quinn would slip further into despair, an occasional grunt about Min Brock the only thing that shattered his silence.

“Father,” Elabea announced, “I’m going to the meadow.”

Like the other children of Hetherlinn, Elabea was banned by her parents from visiting the meadow and climbing the ancient oak that grew in its midst. Despite their commands, threats and subsequent punishments, Elabea continued to visit what she called, her meadow. Overcome with their own personal pains, Quinn and Areall resigned themselves to defeat, and Quinn waved a rubbery arm while Areall huffed disapprovingly.

Elabea threw open the door and the cold breeze took her breath away. She pulled her shawl closer. A rustling sound near her ear made her turn to inspect. There, embedded in the doorpost’s rough planking was an arrow. And not just an arrow. The shaft was clear, glistening like dew, while the fletchings were unique colors: the cock feather was yellow while the hen feathers were orange.

Wrapped about the arrow’s shaft and secured with a leather strip was a parchment that twitched with the breeze.

The thud I heard last night must have come from this arrow.

This isn’t an Ebonite arrow, she noted. Their shafts are wooden and the feathers black and white. More proof that the Moon King isn’t from Ebon.

Before her thoughts could fade, his mystical face flashed in her imagination. I didn’t see him shoot this, but who else could have done so?

The rustling paper stirred her curiosity.

If I take it, I risk violating the Oracles, but this wouldn’t be the first time. Elabea glanced furtively back at her parents. Besides, I’ve been going to the oak for most of my life. Nothing has ever happened, even when Galadin and I dared to ask to hear a whisper.

Stepping outside, Elabea closed the door behind her, then stretched her fingers toward the shimmering shaft. Flesh touched parchment and tingles raced up her arm. Startled, she jerked her hand away.

The Cauldron’s never known about us at the oak. How will it know now? What harm could come?

She stretched out her hand again, and this time yanked the arrow free.

Nothing happened.

She untied the leather and unrolled the parchment. Even as a simple girl from Allsbruth, she knew that the paper’s thickness and weight were proof it was an expensive quality. Exquisite black etchings were on one side, except for six characters that were gold.

I wish I could read. she bemoaned.

Drawn to the golden letters, she ran her finger across the marks. Suddenly, a whisper pierced the winds.

“Elabea.”

She shuddered and withdrew her finger.

“Galadin?” she demanded, looking this way and that for her best friend, who was noted for playing practical jokes. Only the wind answered.

Armed with the proof she previously lacked, Elabea went back inside.

“I told you I saw something last night,” Elabea crowed, holding both the parchment and arrow high.

Areall’s eyes widened as if seeing a poisonous snake about to strike. She sprang toward her daughter and snatched the offending items from Elabea’s hands.

“What have you done?” Areall scolded as she raced to the door. “What have you done.”

She heaved the arrow outside and slammed the door shut. “Your curiosity will bring death to us.” She darted to the fireplace.

Startled by her mother’s erratic behavior, Elabea stammered, “What are you doing?”

“This is a curse,” Areall shouted, crumpling the parchment into a ball. “It violates the teachings of the Oracles.” She tossed it into the flames. “I must destroy it before…”

She let her sentence fade, as if satisfied that the fire would quell any uprising their daughter had instigated, then returned to her chores as if nothing had happened.

Quinn lifted his throbbing head and glared at the women. “Why must you two be so loud?” he thundered.

Elabea remembered a time many summers ago when his eyes sparkled with life, but that was before he went off to fight in the Dark War. Now they were opaque and lifeless. Quinn’s eyes drifted to the parchment in the fire. Even in his hungover state he recognized it.

His eyes became icy. “Where did you get that?”

Backing away, Elabea answered truthfully, “It was attached to an arrow that was stuck in our door. Why? What is it?”

“It is from the land of lies,” he slurred.

“Claire,” Elabea whispered. She realized that despite the flames, the parchment was not burning.

“Don’t say the word,” Areall yelled, her placid expression replaced by churning rapids. Turning her fury on Quinn, she shouted, “Your night of drink is making you talk too much.”

“I’ll talk when and how I like,” he yelled back.

While they argued, Elabea saw her chance. Darting to the fireplace, she grabbed a small stick on the hearth and plunged it into the coals.

“Stop,” Quinn roared as he struggled to rise from his chair. “Leave it.” Becoming dizzy, he slumped back down.

“Amazing,” Elabea muttered as she dragged the parchment onto the cool hearth. “It’s not burnt and is even free of soot. It’s so…beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Areall snorted. She crept toward the parchment as if an evil spirit possessed it. “Its beauty is its deception,” she whispered. “Burn it, child. Destroy it or you will curse us. The Cauldron will know and see. They will come.”

Elabea calmly lifted the parchment from the hearth. “They’ve never come before. Besides, how can something so beautiful be evil?”

Without another word, Elabea raced out the door.