Do you remember the day Birsten reappeared on the square, wearing what he has been wearing for the past decade, a grey suit with bluish striped white shirt, and a now light pink, once dark red tie, with a grey coat on if it’s winter, and not if it’s not, which became his signature dress – which was not his invention, yet he was the foremost carrier of this new trend coming to be the future fashion, like a uniform?
It was the second day of Yolken Festival. Birsten, a man in his mid-fifties at the time, left his home behind the Blacksmiths Quarter, long before any living thing including the cats, cows, and cocks, the famous early-wakers of Sval, were awake. It was only the guards at that time, for the service of the first night was over two hours ago and the tired and sleepy, and overfilled with joy folk were resting to be able to eat and drink more later during the day.
It took an hour for Birsten to prepare. He had washed his clothes, tailored a year ago but was to be worn for the first time, and spent half of the hour trying to make them as straight as possible. How happy he’d be had there been irons back then but, alas, he had to wait for half a decade for such invention. Seeing his clothes free of wrinkles, he then shaved his beard and moustache three times to ensure that not a single hair was left on his round face, and made his hair. Unlike iron, mirror was available at that time but it was a luxury few could enjoy, because of which he took a basket, filled it with water and looked at his reflection, hence doing the much ne could given the circumstance.
He checked his son’s bed before putting his shoes on. Yeah, all was good. He lit the torch after the shoes, as none was allowed to walk outside without one between sunset and sunrise, waited in front of the sill for a moment, praying, and with his left foot started his march-like walk to the square.
Birsten was a war veteran like many men from his village, where he left as a teenager to become a full time soldier, and spent many years defending the Pass under the command of Orion the First Lord of Leira, and left at the age of thirty, to finally marry and settle, in Sval. He found the love of his life soon after moving, and the only fruit of this cherished couple joined them soon after at a great expense — a boy came to life, forcing his mother to death.
Birsten made a good father, and made an even better mother. Raised to be a carpenter, and quitting his training halfway to join the army, he was not more than a modest representative of his profession, yet his income was enough to provide a decent life for the two.
He was a happy man mostly, and his son was no different was his old man. The two found a reason to laugh most of the time and smile in the others, few ever saw them frown, and none, except the times which enforced greatly, hence excused them of this unfavorable experience, saw them sad and upset, making them the favorite of many, both for men and women and from all walks of life, making Birsten remaining single a great mystery.
It’s not a romantic story, that he remained loyal to his wife, but simply that he couldn’t take another woman. The year and half he wasn’t a single man was filled with love, alas it also was full of annoyance. Thirty years alone had him get used to a way of life, and a partner at that was not something he could easily get used to. And when he started passed the wife, and Birsten didn’t dare restart the process.
Brennan, son of Birsten, had his military training as any man in Sval was obliged to. Towards the end of the training Wanda decided to attack, as usual hence once more, and Sval, alert as always, replied swiftly and forcefully. It was the war that people talk about when they do about the war: skirmishes lasted two whole months and part of the pass was claimed by Wanda for the first time in three centuries. Orion, whose town like castle, or castle like town made the border at that time, had three hundred archers sneak out and take position on what from that day on called the purgatory, emptied Leira and called the enemy for open war.
Being on the defensive is easier than being on the offensive. Three thousand men stood against fifteen thousand men on the nineteenth day of July. One of Orion’s best speeches was delivered on that day and a decisive victory, after a long fight from noon to sunset, was at hand for Sval. It wasn’t the time for the first offensive of Sval yet, hence regaining the control of a kilometer and half of the strip was the whole gain which came at a great cost: Sval lost five hundred men and, as you would rightly expect, Brennan was among the martyred.
“Bow and arrow” Birsten told Brennan all the time. “You don’t see no faces, you smell no sweat, no vomit, no blood. Take a deep breath, close one eye, stop your heart, and boom! You’re a ghost playing gods, you can’t give life but you sure can take many”. But Brennan loved horses so much so that even girls, from the prettiest to the cutest, the funniest, or even the hottest didn’t come close to his admiration of these noble and beautiful creatures. First three months were the basic training and the rest was specialised, and he knew before he was there what he was to sign up for. “I love them more than myself” the boy used to say, and found his end on one of them.
Birsten, I was saying. He cried, yes. He cried like the spring rains like the others did. Yet he didn’t make a sound, not a word came from his clinched lips. This grave misery was one he didn’t ever experience, neither he heard of such a thing. He willed to go home, hug his son and wake up from this nightmare. He did, he went home and slept in Brennan’s bed once the services were over at the martyrs’ cemetery after two weeks, but he woke up to the freezing cold of his empty house under burning August sun.
He didn’t leave his home for almost a year, from that August day to June, the very Yolken Festival day on which he reappeared on the square. He kept his silence all along, neither to thank the neighbors that left food to his door nor to the treasurers that brought him his allowance. He didn’t talk to the flowers, he didn’t talk to the walls, he didn’t talk to the windows, he didn’t talk to the utensils, he didn’t talk to the clothes, he didn’t talk to the shoes, he didn’t talk to the slippers, he didn’t talk to the table, he didn’t talk to the chairs, he didn’t talk to the chest, he didn’t talk to flies, lizards, the snake that almost bit him, chickens, or the fox that somehow made his way into the city and all the way to the quarter, and, more importantly, Birsten didn’t talk to himself either. Nature can’t take silence, even in the deepest night voices raise time after the other. Birsten stood against the nature, and paid the ultimate price of losing his sanity. Mad people are mostly scary, yet Birsten remained as he once was: Cute, sweet, and harmless.
In the dark of the night, or the morning as it was a time too late to call night and too early to call morning, the red cheeks of Birsten, redder than the wine of Vinehead glowed with the guard approaching towards his home as Birsten got out. Unable to recognize the old chap, “halt there” the guard warned only to realize, seven steps later, that this was Birsten. “Good Gods” the guard whispered and came closer to our man to salute him. Uninterested, Birsten got rid of the guard and turned left, followed the long and narrow streets joining Steepen Road, and at the blue hour, before the first rays of the sun, he was on the square. He walked around the square, then walked again, and again to find the best spots, and chose a corner on the northwestern side, close to the stall of Eve, who was making the most delicious pies in the city. He might have gone insane but still knew the value of the beautiful smell of sweet and tasty pies.
Finding his spot, Birsten took position. He raised his shoulders and head, turned a bit to the left to face the statue of the twelve martyrs, the twelve soldiers that lost their lives three centuries ago defending their homes and turned Sval from a temporary dwelling to home proper, saluted them with a bow, and started his decade-long duty.
All were happy to see Birsten return from the dead. His hair might have turned white, so white that the few greyish rebels were easy to spot even by a blind man, yet the redness of his cheeks competing with the unique color of the wines of Vinehead remained precisely as it was. All agreed that he had lost weight yet some argued that he also got shorter than he was, and the others disagreed with wine, ale, or mead-full hands, mouths, or stomachs.
His first words after the long silence, at seven minutes past eighth hour were “brown doesn’t go well with this color” to Edwin, the military advisor to the Chief at the time, who expressed his happiness to see Birsten again and especially on such merry day. Edwin couldn’t hear his reply and it probably was the best for the moment, not only because Birsten wasn’t willing to talk much for the time being but also his eyes were fixed on a cart approaching carrying cider. Oh, how long it had been since Birsten last had a sip of this godsent delicacy! Surely he could leave his post for a while and get a pint or five. Martyrs would understand him. Wouldn’t they? A bit of cider shouldn’t hurt, wouldn’t hurt. No, yes, wouldn’t.
Thirteenth minute past eighth hour he had cider after a long while, and thirty ninth minute past eighth hour, four minutes after the arrival of Eve, he had his first apple pie, two minutes later he had his second, and ten minutes later he had his fifth. “M-hm” and “a-ah” were all he spoke and it was more than enough until Edwin returned – this time with the Chief, who tried to visit Birsten couple of times over the past year and found but a closed door.
Chief bowed in front of Birsten respectfully while he was busy licking the crumbs and the cream from his face. He looked at the Chief wondering why he was being disturbed. Neither of the three was fond of talking making the situation more awkward: Three men formed a triangle watching each other with emptier and emptier eyes as seconds passed by. The most experienced of them all, Chief made the attempt to break the silence.
“Seeing you among the walking, Birsten, is a joy to behold for us all. Long we awaited your return, long we waited to hear your beautiful voice and rejoice with your beautiful laughter. This city is full with its people, each and every one of you who make it a place worth waking up with excitement of the day coming. Your loss has caused grave misery for us all, it’s one that changes the rest of the days, but so long that we have breath to take, we have to make the most that we can – and am happy to see that you’re trying exactly that.”
Not a bad speech it was, was it? Birsten would appreciate it another time, but not this time. He looked at the Chief with empty eyes and the stare triangle was built again.” When was tomorrow” Birsten asked proving Edwin wasn’t wrong about the morning. “Guess we’re one man down, Chief” he said sadly and walked to Eve’s stall seeing the crumbs at Birsten’s feet. Birsten was happy with the pie but his stomach couldn’t handle another, least for the moment. “Brennan will love it” he said and gently put the pie aside. Aye, Brennan would love it, but will was so strong of a claim to make. “He will” Chief said patting Birsten’s shoulder and looked at Edwin. No more needed be said. Things were to continue as they were: His monthly allowance to be paid and the state and the people of Sval were to take care of him, the much they did and could till the end of his days.
Birsten had many more visitors as people woke up from their sleep and hit the streets and towards the evening came the craze. There were circles around stalls, shows, and you know who? Birsten. He was a crowd favorite again, for some thought that he was a harmless madman and making fun of him was for the good of all, and others thought that he was just mocking them and his sense of humor was second to none. Our guy wasn’t fond of the attention he got but he wasn’t a mean person to leave people’s salutations, questions, and comments unanswered.
Until the noon of the third day of his reappearance. He was on the square for the martyrs, for his son, for his fellows, not for these annoying, disturbing folk. “Listen to me, o Sval” he cried on this last day of the festival. His voice filled the whole square as if a dragon was talking and wonder brought silence.
“I’m stew, I’m pies, I’m fries, I’m meat, I’m vegetables, I’m fruits, I’m clothes, I’m shoes, I’m hair, I’m skin, I’m toes, I’m windows, I’m doors, I’m floor, I’m roof, I’m wood, I’m rock, I’m earth, I’m ashes, I’m dust. Brennan was he forever be, Durvadur’s legacy will never leave. Bore people, dry your throats and sink your stomachs, stink in your piss and suffocate in your shit. I shall brown tears on my feet and blue pearls on my wings, white sand on my head and red carpets on my back. I’ll come be the guard of the guards, and ye will bow to ruins, figs, and all what’s left in between. Bow now, bow you people. Bow said I!”
Not as a merry coincidence, the horn of Orion was heard right after Birsten’s order and the commander, second most powerful man in Sval behind the Chief, whose name was forgotten by many already, appeared on the square, just across Birsten, in full armor. Chief was a loved man, Orion was loved and feared at the same time. “Do as he says” Orion ordered and all square was on their knees. Commander walked to Birsten, bowed slightly in front of him and asked to walk home together. “Aye, am full” Birsten agreed and the two walked to the quarter. Fun was over, fun is never over nevertheless.
Birsten wasn’t the first war veteran. In her three centuries of history, Sval had countless veterans. Many had lost limbs, many had wounds that healed or not, and many had became mad, but Birsten was among the few who not only got wounded in war, twice, but also lost his child. He, though, was the first to have fought alongside his child and have darker than ever days to see.
Rock, head of Svalian intelligence and counter-espionage, whose name was known by probably everyone but identity, excluding his seven vices who report to him personally, known only by Chief, Orion, and Kurt, who actually only guessed without proof because of which the count can easily be one down, had watched what went on from morning on from his room overlooking the square, and reported shortly, in person, the need for a decree first to make it fast, and a law later to make it permanent, which would accompany the three laws and decrees in force as of the date, and ensure the well-being of Birsten and future Birstens.
“A good one” Chief said when Rock spoke of his idea that afternoon, just as Orion and Birsten were entering home. “But why stop it there? Once we can, you know”.
“Will take much, more than just coin. Not all would be happy with it.”
“None on this land is safe from the danger. They’ll be fine.”
“You’ll need least three more.”
“And we’ll have them.”
This short discussion was all it took. Chief took the pen and paper and wrote the decree himself, signed and sealed it, and handed for it to be announced first in the city, then rest of the land. Within a week were found seven candidates and one was liked by Birsten more than the others. The woman, thirty-seven years old with no child, not because she was barren but both her ex-husbands were, had a simple job: Accompanying Birsten day and night. Not controlling him except taking him back home when needed, and making sure that he kept eating regularly. Mental support was on the cards but was not one of her main duties for Birsten was deemed a lost cause already.
And was planted the seed for the first mental institution in Sval where Birsten’s home acting as its first place. Once the caretaker was appointed, new patients, three at that, were taken within two months and with the first snow there were eight people at the house, three nurses, and five patients, who hardly managed to squeeze in such tiny space and especially in winter, because of which a dedicated three-storey place was built directly when the last snow watered the fertile soil.
Even winter didn’t stop Birsten from returning to the square, no more in the morning but in the afternoon, at times till the sunset and in the others later, but never earlier, each and every day. When the new building finished and decorated, Birsten remained in his home, together with his own nurse, and ever since he, with his suit and tie, and daily shaved beard and moustache, salutes the twelve martyrs, and remind the people what actually matters in life.
