Keeping the Fire: The Story of Hewava

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“People in our days call the Delen and the Peoples of the province of Concordance to the north “Windy Voices. ” It is meant as an insult, a jab and their language full of ‘Hus’ and ‘Wus’ and ‘Shus’ but the truth of the name is older, for these People have always believed that what is said in a story becomes a Wind, a Spirit. The Delen tell many stories. All of them are true. When you tell a story you make it so, even if it is true only during the telling and in the heart in the time thereafter. There is a story, and it is a true story, that they tell about Hewava.

Hewava was a Ness Caster, one of the old followers of Ness, the name means both the Goddess and myriad methods of her worship, for such things are inseparable. When People had need of a charm, they would come to him and he would throw dust across them, dust of herbs, dust of colors, dust of stones each its own power. Hewava was also a storyteller, and for this we was well liked. He was a master of his arts and it earned him gifts, a fine house, well made tools, food enough for a thousand winters and his three wives and their many many children. He could have been content with such things. He was not given the time.

Hewava kept his fame from need. When People were happy he could tell stories, but the truth was that they always gave him less for a story than a cure. What was worse, once they were healthy and safe, they began to look elsewhere for their needs to other storytellers, Djaughts, or traders. Certainly, Hewava was the Ness Caster everyone turned to. But the safer, the happier they became the less they needed him. Hewava became afraid for this. You see, he had three wives and many many children and he did love them all, but he could not care for them all without the fame he had earned.

And so he made a choice. Some stories say that he brought an illness to the People, one he could cure always, but in so doing took a cost from them. He never took more than they could spare, but it was a theft all the same. Other stories say that he spun stories about horrible winds, outsiders, and orcs that he had killed or kept at bay with his power. The act of doing so was so taxing, but so necessary, that he could not take care of his worldly needs and so it was only fitting that the People do it for him. Some other stories say that he gambled with his power, tried to beat a Wind out of a ration of luck that was meant to be given to another. He won, but the cost fell upon other families and brought them ruin. All of these stories are true. When I tell this story, I say it thus: Hewava was a clever storyteller and a good leader of his community. But once you are held up on the shoulders others, you start to care more for staying in your place than you do for those that hold you. His tongue went from salve to tool, and it cost him.

Hewava was caught by the People. They dragged him through their town, beat and killed his wives and took his children for their service. The whole time, none of his power would save him. This was the worst humiliation for him, to be abandoned not by those he loved, but by that which was given to him. To have his gift turned to rot. They buried him in earth, buried him in a place that was not meant for him, a place that bore another’s name. They meant him to die there, broken to the point where he could not dig himself out again, but he was bitter. And so Hewava did what he had the whole of his life. He turned his prison of roots into his ally. Like all things with him, it was a seduction at first, but that gentle caress soon became a cold grip. He lived on, drinking water from rocks, eating old preserved offerings, roots, the leather skins used for writing poems, who can say what else?

Hewava survived. But he did not do so by living. He did so but never letting go. And still he waits. He waits as a reminder not to forget where our gifts come from. Even the air we breathe is ours only while we hold it. He waits eager to flee the darkness and the roots. But he the same tether that holds him to life holds him here. He waits for People to use, People to be his servants, People to give him a life again.”

The Djaught Mehethe had been listening carefully. Polena had been talking to him in the Khaobishar for a long time now. He did not know whether this was really the old speech, for it was lost, or if she was making up sounds to fill the spaces between the real words. But these last few words, these last few “he waits” he knew. He leaned close to Polena. The blessed candle fixed to his hat had long burned out. Only the feeble lantern light remained. He took Polena’s hand softly, and spoke to her clearly, taking here eyes with his.

“Polena, where does he wait?” Polena smiled, but it seemed more a smile of realization or familiarity than one of joy.

“Just there, just outside the candle light.” The Djaught looked into the darkness. There was nothing that he could see, just the same empty stones, the same dangling roots, the same endless darkness that had been there for hours. All the same, he held his rod close. The lantern was a large one, and it burned for three of the nine hours when it was full. By now, it was nearly empty. He had the strange sensation of being by the hearthfire with his grandmother who would tell him the old stories. In those days, when he was a child, he would fall asleep before the end of them. When he would awaken in the morning or just before dawn, the fire would always be out. He had never seen it go out before. He wondered what it would be like to watch the darkness swell around him in those last fading seconds of light.

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