Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

By Craig Davis

Domen, cast upon the island Feallengod, schemes against King Ecealdor—unable to vanquish the distant monarch, he sets out to destroy the people the king loves. As the suffering roils, Ecealdor seems disinterested, the tokens of his love becoming hollow idols. Thereby the battle rages, men and women are drawn into choosing sides, and the islanders await some end to the tragedy that engulfs them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Craig Davis
• Release date: Dec 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9780982956717

Craig Davis

After earning bachelor's and graduate degrees at the University of Missouri, Craig Davis toiled for 20 years at newspapers, and has spent a lifetime in biblical scholarship. He wrote his first story while in Kindergarten, about King Kong. An amateur musician, he was once wrestled to the ground by a set of bagpipes.

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Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

By Craig Davis

Published by St. Celibart Press at Smashwords

23 Castlerock Cv. Jackson TN 38305

Copyright © 2005 Harry Craig Davis

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-0-9829567-1-7

Davis, Craig, Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

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"I have read all three of Davis’ works … I must say, though, that Feallengod seems a step above the others to me. In my opinion it is his best work and may be one of the major reasons Craig Davis was put on this earth. … I would highly recommend this book to anyone. Read it, and reread it."

– Stephen Kennedy, Indigenous Outreach International

"Feallengod struck me differently because, in a way, it is hard to forget about our reality when this book is about the greater reality that is occurring in the Heavenly realm. That is something I love about allegory and what really makes this book worth reading. … Two enthusiastic thumbs WAY up! … because of the nature of the book, the quality of the writing, the character development and the nature of the plot."

– Nick Brown

If you're a fan of Screwtape, Dante, or Milton, you'll love this one. Few writers are able to weave so profound a tapestry like the one Mr. Davis has done here. It is profound in the sense that whatever you wish to get out of it you are sure to get. On the surface level the characters and plot flows along nicely to make for a wonderful fantasy tale, but if one has ears to hear, the deeper (and slower) you go you'll be sure to increase your understanding of the Scriptures and become a better Christian inevitably.

– Jonathan Jones

BONUS STORY!

At the end of this book, after the appendix and map, you will find You Can’t Count What Isn’t There, the first story from the Southern Gothic collection A Time for Poncey – And other Stories out of Skullbone, available only at the Kindle Store.

Craig Davis Amazon author page

Feallengod

The Conflict in the Heavenlies

By Craig Davis

Prologue

The moon stares at me through the rough window; its bluish light shines across my table. A clear night, with stars scattered across the pitch-black sky, appears to me like great handfuls of seed strewn across rich soil. I can only wonder what he sees now.

I take the name Aberan Eft; it is to cover my guilt.

Not the name of my birth, when I broke out upon the island, yet it will remain always the only name I care to claim. The label attached to me by my parents — the man and woman whose passions burned hot for a moment but chilled their bones as I came of age — those years and years ago swallowed up by mists and trickery, never could it truly name me. No, like words thrown together to paint the plumage of some arbitrary bird, some rufous-sided yellow-crested warbler, a name should honestly hint at a man’s heart. Only the king knew my name, and only he knew when it would become a likely tag, able to truly know me.

Confession must make my beginning, for surely the things I have seen I have not always understood. Many before me have undertaken to write of what came to pass, but did they see? Have they comprehended? My pen leaves its dotted prints across the parchment now, vain attempt to record the truth passed before me, and what I have learned also from those witnesses from the beginning. But from the beginning, I confess I did not understand. Not until these final moments have my dark eyes finally lit, washed at last by honest tears of grief and joy. And yet still not completely so; but he grants me peace.

These events I have known — Lord, they haunt me, some of them haunt me still. Yet the blessedness of their burning would I offer no other man, out of avarice I admit and yet still pity. Who am I, the scribe of such crucial workings? To see through the shadows thrown by the past; to know that the minds and muscles of men only pour into the mold of the future; to realize the present is held in hand, though it tease grasping fingertips: These sweet Sirens could drive the most determinedly anguished man into utter peace. To know the suffering of the day is not without reason ...

Begone! I cast you to the battleground!

What else am I to do? His messenger has so commanded me. Deep in my chambers he visited: The king requires it of thee. He reveals the forbidden scrolls, even those from the inner sanctuary, and allows my eyes to see. But only one is worthy to read, I say. The king requires it, and so all generations will know it of thee, that thy work bears the seal of the king. The scrolls lay like shackles upon my wrists, and the candles and incense and words burn hot; they sting my eyes and nose. Like a general in disgrace, I acquiesce to fate, I fall upon my pen.

So I take up the quill. The black of the ink lends the scribe his only boldness; my enclave, stones so heavy from the ancient quarry, makes my comfort and safety. And what fear is left to still lurk, at least until the time? So I must transcribe, a troubadour — though what trust should lie to me to write of such things? My king, have mercy upon me; help me speak rightly of you. Much have I seen, and much have I learned through the wretchedness born of this little kingdom, and the caress of grace. And for what reason walk we here, but to reveal your wonder? To what purpose was torment ours, but to demonstrate your kindness? Magister, though we are fallen into wonder and doubt, still your praises rise among the mountains. But how can I bless you, so arrogant to presume upon the king’s abundance? What I can offer would be only insult to you. My king, if only I could bless you! The scratching of the quill speaks comfort in the warm loneness; my pen bleeds truth.

My poor, tired eyes, they peer blankly like the great stones of this cleric’s cell — ancient and hard, a random glistening of moisture, a hint of green. I am a man, and that is all. A noble creation, perhaps, but cursed by the frailties of my kind. Frail, but with a whisper of power, to endure the conflict of our appointment, too often abused, too often neglected. Powerful, but proud as well, proud of that power in such a way as to destine failure. The humility of our mundane lives, sacrificed to brutish pursuits and tragic ends, we suffer no greater affliction, and therein opens the door also to our greatest victory won. And surely I stand foremost of all who have abandoned themselves to those first things, if not the second. But perhaps I fulfilled his designs all along, for where offense is greatest, there mercy proves finest. Regrets make for poor company, anyway.

Never did a figure come less important into a tale, never a chronicler more the villain. The boy I was passed through the community like every other. Ages ago all seemed pure; how shades of the past fail us, to remember well, to remember rightly. Was not all deceit, even then? Lies spin upon themselves in demon rage. During the days of the stone law, in the shadow of the high mountains, I existed blissfully ignorant of both, but surely I lived always under the baleful eye of Domen. The day I learned my debt to the stone, so also I knew to fear the mountain. The strength of my limbs as I had run through the meadows and raced past the orchards, the beating of heart and bursting lungs my only concern — ah, all cast that day into the prison of memory, and my spirit limped feebly within. One heart stops, and many die. On that day I wept more for myself than for my homeland; how the times would change such impudence.

As a man I thoughtlessly bent many labors at the behest of my countrymen and received benevolence from many others. The quarries required their share of my sweat, and the docks allowed me to taste the sea spray. Maidens well hidden in the still night and bedcovers drew me into their own adventure, feeding my flesh and yet leaving it always hungering. Never did a man feast more on pastries yet desire dense, rough bread. And then too my companion, that old man, following me like a dog to a meat cart. Everywhere I saw him, in my most secret moments I could see him peering, smirking. How I hated him, yet always I clung, embraced him to my breast. Laugh he would as I cursed the feet that brought him near, and I wept and grieved, and threw my arm around his shoulder. And his eyes did peer at me, his face smirked.

Blinding lies, and yet the truth more so. And always the stone. Always that rock hung over me like a great granite foundation stone suspended, waiting, longing for some great structure to take up and support. Slowly it frayed its ropes, never bending at my failure, always menacing me with the mountain, beckoning that damned mountain spirit, the cold spectre of doom. Oh, how I longed for that shadow to retreat from my head, to allow the brightness of the sun — and then it did. But mine is not the story I must tell, though it is, and is not.

No, I must sing of my homeland, the tale of a bloody battleground. Having seen as a child the blessing of the island, I reaped unto myself only more grievous mourning at its curse. But have you not established us for this very calling? The long feather quill tickles at my chin, it entangles my beard, long and gray in these latter days. The events that now flow in ink first flowed in your mind, my lord. Did you not place your people upon this solitary, secluded land for your purpose, long before you placed this pen in my hand? May the telling of your story, Magister, bring fruit from these desiccated, sinewed branches, these limbs dried by age and cares. Oh my king, take this little pearl, take this charred wasteland, and redeem it for the destiny you have decreed.

I call my name Aberan Eft. I dwell upon Feallengod.

Chapter I

The shadows creep late already. One might think that I would begin such an account with myself, and so I have, after a fashion, but in truth the story begins with another. Thoughts of him rampage and make me to shudder, mostly for the cause that I am so much like him as he himself.

In the days of his purgatory, the progression of days, Domen raged in his head and screamed into the empty air, indestructible drape for his inhospitable rock. Never seen, his screeching often tore at the late hours; at times I swear I heard him in my nightmares. His wretched, bony frame stood defiantly before the sky as he shook his fist against all creation. Bounded on every side by twinkling waters, Domen ruled over the island Feallengod. He possessed our island, and he hated the island.

"Curse him! Curse him! Damn my hide, who can curse him?" Domen recited under his breath as he picked his way over the shards of his realm.

The sharp edges of the black crags scraped at Domen’s shins, but they raised neither blood nor complaint. Brown, leathery skin, not likely once the tender flesh of a babe, had long since grown indifferent to such injury. And equally so the stone that lay in Domen’s chest steeled itself against any tenderness that might coax blood from a real heart.

Curse him! Domen’s grumbling grew into a howl, and he bent his brow to the thought under the accusing finger of this day’s sun.

Absent-mindedly he brushed a stinging wasp from his arm and squinted into the brightness. How he longed for darkness; yet the unmerciful star’s heat beat down also upon the people he saw below, their suffering his only comfort now in the glaring afternoon. Walked I among them? Often I have wondered. But my presence that day or any other mattered not to Domen; his anger pushed him precariously to the edge of sanity, into ever deeper and more scattered hatred for all, against him or no.

Driven from memory, remote even as the island, the years or eons ago, the days he passed in the king’s presence. Domen could recall only faint shadows of the king’s courtiers, regaling him as most favored. Forgotten too was the name once his, and his wisdom and beauty – tanned now brown as a coconut husk – at that time the envy of all. But the envy itself, no, the jealous longing lived on. Domen dwelt upon faint images of worshipping eyes all the day as he paced to and fro upon his mountain: How all others had coveted his position! How they had wished to put on his garment! Just to wrap around Domen’s cloak for a moment, a brief moment, and that would satisfy them. How often he would bait his underlings, and make them grovel for his attentions! Their praise and flattery revealed their fondest and most elusive desire, yet he himself felt their unsatiated hunger even more so.

Domen looked about him at the forbidding, desolate blackness of the rock. "Upon my life, I swear I will bring you down!" he cried out, pounding his fists against his head.

Once so highly exalted, as pleasing as his station had been so long ago, all had fallen to ruin now. An appetite to gain that not his own had undone Domen, and his courts now were reduced to we hard scrabble folk making our living from the soil, our existence vexing him from below just as the birds pestered from above. Ambition for what he could never attain now appointed to him the fate he had plotted for others.

Domen stood up against the light of the midday sun and twisted the creaks out of his back. His thin frame appeared frail, but a wiry strength surged through him, and he cared not a whit for the pitiful naggery of aches and pains. He did as he wished, he did whatever he willed, not out of joy of the doing, but simply because he willed it. Domen had not a thought for what might be left in his wake; even what destruction that might result he considered only a happy accident. He was his own law, his own master, and nobody could force him to yield.

Nobody but Ecealdor.

"Ecealdor! Hear me! I will defeat you yet! You will come under my thumb!"

King Ecealdor’s decree long ago had given Domen rule of the island and its pitiable population. Even then Ecealdor had made sure the island resided under his sovereignty, and the people remained his subjects first. So Domen took title to the little realm, but gained no means to take possession: He had the kingdom, but not the keys. With no way to steal the island away from Ecealdor, Domen had yet discovered no use for it.

He crept along the precipice using both hands and feet, clutching the unrelenting rock with his bony fingers as he tested each foothold. Years of navigating the terrain had taught him every shard that would hold his weight and every new step that his taut limbs could reach. Climbing down, climbing upwards, crossing sideways between spires, he made his way to a small opening near the top of his mountain hermitage.

The little stoop that awaited him at the opening seemed out of place on the treacherous mountainside. Squatting low as he walked, Domen slinked along the level area and into the narrow cave he used for sleeping and scheming. He shot a glance of distrust and disdain over his shoulder as he slipped into its depths, away from the hated light.

Close to one wall glowed the tired embers of a long-ago fire. Never did it burn any more bright nor dim than this, for Domen could not stand more. The flickering heat and despised light seemed strangely too knowing, reading his heart. Wagging tongues of flame accused him as if to say You belong to us, so instead of stoking their mockery, Domen kept them whispering.

Near the coals, scattered bones of half-cooked birds littered the floor. Never patient with the low burning, to let the flames work their trade on his unfortunate prey, Domen often roasted the fowls only long enough to singe their feathers. Many a bloody meal he partook in his shadows. If indeed sufficient light had existed to view Domen at his eating, the sight would have quickly disabused the appetites of fellow diners, had any been welcome.

By the opposite wall lay a matted skin, Domen’s rancid pallet. The fur more resembled the dirt on the floor than the animal it had once belonged to; by faith, it surely had smelled better as an animal. Domen didn’t notice. He slept on the mat only out of habit, not because of any comfort it added to the rocky ground, and even then only sporadically. Rough cups and broken pots lay strewn about the floor, among the gnawed bones, jumbled and neglected.

Domen knew of only one thing in the back of his cave, the lovely, blessed darkness. Darkness so thick as to conceal anything lurking within its folds, and Domen never would have known. A wonderful cloak of blackness, pouring into the depths of Domen’s den, blackness after his own heart. Occasionally he would sink into that deathly womb thinking he would never emerge again. Such would not be the case, though: The one mistress more powerful than his love for the dark — his hatred for everything that lay outside it — always drew him out again.

This day the hatred boiled particularly hot.

Curse him, curse him for an arrogant butcher! You great king, you despot over a servile people! You’ll never see my knees upon the ground, you grand toad! Expects my homage, does he, when I could be just as he is! Who is he to demand submission! Who is he to demand tribute! He’ll be just as I am, or I’ll be dead in the doing!

Dizzy confusion swirled within Domen’s head, his thoughts twisting about. Again and again he repeated his charges, punctuated by obscenity, spittle flying, driven by his explosive breath and anger. He could hardly sort his rantings as his mind ran through a litany of grievances.

Both hands pulled at his hair, clenched in rage, pleased to abuse himself in the absence of more likely victims. "I reigned as the one! Chosen! The favored one! How they all envied my beauty! My beauty! My ... beauty! Domen fairly croaked. He couldn’t stand to have me in his sight, that was all of it. He could not tolerate beauty that surpassed his! I could have been just as he is! Yet here I stand, this vile island cages me, my prison! This rock, this ... this puny isolated pebble! He put me here, he put me here! Curse him, curse him!" Domen paced as if addressing a court, a prosecutor accusing the defendant, driving his points with a knotted fist pounding his open palm.

Oh, who can ruin him, who can undermine his ways? lamentation overtook him, his rasping voice breaking into a wail, the anguish of an animal in a trap. The armies, the armies! He took my armies, in chains I know not where. He has all the foolish people! Those fools, fools, putrid maggots, they always do his bidding. Who can avenge me? Who can bring him down to become as I am? The fear that fed his hatred overcame Domen. He again looked over his shoulder, involuntarily, this time not with disdain but panicked at who might be observing. He knew nobody could have crept up the side of his mountain without him seeing, and still, still he looked. The humiliation lay heavily upon Domen, to fear him even here! Domen sat on the floor of his filthy cave, his legs sticking out straight, his back slumped into an uncomfortable hunch. He held his head in his hands as it rocked side to side.

Suddenly he realized — Ecealdor inhabited his thoughts as his neck bowed. What makes submission? He quickly caught himself, looking up over his still-cupped hands, and upon his face grew a sneer. No, he thought, no longer would he surrender to despair, no longer give his mind over to such weakness as this. No, no indeed. Instead, he would have his revenge ... he would have his revenge, and never in the foothills below did we see the storm arising.

He peered through the opening of his cave, his bitterness twisting grotesquely across his face.

The sun now set behind a bank of brackish clouds. Domen drew to the opening, then closer to the brink of the outside ledge. In the gloaming he could see, far below, the people going about the business of their lives in the community, sitting under the mountain’s shadow. Each carried a long staff, according to custom, and some token of a trade — carpenters, bakers, shopkeepers, bankers, musicians, goodwives, children. Oblivious, we followed our vain busy-ness, completely blind to the tortured figure looming above us, ready to pour out his vile incantation upon us. We puttered along the busy streets, passing each other with nods of greeting and words of warmth and encouragement.

We lived proudly as Ecealdor’s people, so we believed; but our feet treading upon Feallengod made us Domen’s people as well. So had he said.

Feallengod – your name speaks of wonder and mourning, a great venture groaning under the weight of your time and place. The legends claim that the king himself, in times more ancient than history, one day called upon a great eagle to fly directly into the sun, taking fire upon its wings. Trailing flames through the heavens, the bird returned to plunge into the heart of the Ocean Heofon. Left nothing but ashes, the wind caressed the eagle’s remains, and the rain wetted it with tears, and the island Feallengod arose from its grave. So the king had baptized the birth of the nation with sacrifice, and planted a people to live according to its witness.

So thus did King Ecealdor place my people upon the island and provide us everything we might need. Lush, tall forests, green meadows and bountiful gardens covered the island. Gentle waves lapped at the sandy beaches, which in turn rose up into rich, fertile soils, which themselves boiled and soared into hills and magnificent mountains. Four Rivers crossed the land, four separate rivers indeed but always called as one by the islanders, pouring over falls and into deep pools until joining into a single stream to flow out again into the ocean. The burbling joy and oneness of the rivers seemed reflected as well in the people, in those generations before the cursing.

Life flourished on the island then. Fruit weighed heavily upon the trees, bending branches mercilessly. Fish stretched and leapt out of the warm waters, so much so that fishermen gave up their hooks, instead leaning dangerously over the sides of their boats, ready to scoop their catch out of the air with nets. Placid animals roamed the land; great flocks of birds filled the air with flight and song.

Ecealdor himself dwelt on the island for a time, walking among his people, taking note of their ways. Each man, woman and child knew to go to him with any dispute or desire, or, better yet, simply to sit in his presence, welcome to all. He entertained them in his courts, he hosted great feasts, he rejoiced in their harvests and grieved in their heartaches.

A time came, eventually, when his thoughts drew Ecealdor away from the island. Other parts of the greater kingdom called him away from time to time, always to return. But in the passage of days his absences grew longer and longer, until one day he did not return at all. Instead, he sent his court messenger Mægen-El to deliver a great document, a law to direct and remind the people:

"I, thy servant Mægen-El, am messenger of the great King Ecealdor, thy sovereign lord and benefactor. King Ecealdor sends his greetings, his love and his blessings. O people, thy servant comes to give thee skill and understanding, for thou art greatly beloved. Therefore, understand this matter.

"King Ecealdor, the most high, dost not return to the island of thy habitation. He withdraws elsewhere in the greater kingdom according to the counsel of his will. By his own name he doth swear that he doth not abandon thee. He promises to appear again at a time of his knowing. Until that day, he leaves unto thee the responsibility to carry out his desires and to wait upon him.

"King Ecealdor, the just, bids thee give ear unto his ordinances. This great law he leaves thee: Obey and prosper. This great commandment he requires of thee: Do not fail to follow. This great word he leaves unto thee: Do not step to one side or the other, but walk faithfully, and thou wilt not be forsaken.

"King Ecealdor, the powerful, leaves this law to guide thy ways and bring thee blessing and wonder. In this one thing he bids thee obey him: ‘Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out thy blessing upon his people as richly as thee take.’ For he has made thee an inheritance for his prince, and he comes to claim thee, even as he claims his throne. He bids thee to be just as he is, and he will make a way for thee. Follow this word, and great King Ecealdor will never be far from thee.

I, thy servant Mægen-El, messenger of great King Ecealdor, leave thee now. May his benevolence forever be upon thy head, across the wide greater kingdom.

And the island had not seen Ecealdor since. But the king loved it still.

My people received the law gladly, engraving it upon a great stone, set in the middle of our community in the foothills. The stone drew men and women, a warm beacon to their hearts, and they often paused to read the words of the law aloud, and bore the words upon their tongues as they went their way. But faithfulness is a constant pursuit. A custom arose that a man would run his fingers over the words as he read, and then we began only to touch the engraving without casting even a glance. Years came and went, and our sightless fingers so wore away the words that they defied reading, even for anyone so disposed. Oh, Feallengod, how you left yourself starving! With no understanding, the stone had turned into a grinding mill.

Still, the island people went about their lives, passing each other with nods of greeting and words of warmth, each with a vague feeling that, though silent, Ecealdor still saw them somewhere out in the expanse of the greater kingdom. Sometimes we would gather and discuss the law, remembered from our cradles, in the sweet voices of young mothers; sometimes we would debate the depths of its meaning, without knowing even its surface; sometimes we would boldly imagine the day we’d touch Ecealdor again. This beautiful landscape, this wonderful psalm, proclaimed the Feallengod of my childhood, merely one of many thousands.

No, Ecealdor had not been seen on the island Feallengod for generations, the people said. But still he loved it, so we believed.

A skulking goblin upon the dizzying heights of his mountain peak, Domen grew ill at the sight of us, the people of Feallengod, so far below, and his mind turned to the time Ecealdor had banished him from Gægnian.

Slitted eyes surveyed his kingdom, wretched form perched upon his pinnacle. So I cannot curse him, he muttered beneath his fetid breath. I will curse those whom he loves.

Chapter II

My mind dwells much too often on the former days, and I wonder, why did I escape notice? I fancy myself a truer target, puffed up now with grand illusions of insight and self-sacrifice, if not for the craven heart that would have in truth suggested me. I doubt not that I would have fallen just as fast if not more willingly, given the same opportunity, but a man already bereft of loyalties can not be a turncoat. Even now, I admit I have no confidence. Save my own skin: I’m sure my creed has not changed; surely too my old enemy would have had me. So why wasn’t I singled out? For evil to destroy a nation, it must first destroy a man. So I have to find peace believing my degraded past saved my future from becoming a true target. But the baleful eye of Domen instead fell upon a man much my better, a man for whom the consequences stabbed more deeply, Beorn