Legend of the Aroline

“A swirling leaf rides wind without aim. The water of a babbling brook doesn’t seek; it flows. So too do I live in time.

In an era of false contentment, I watch with eyes undeceived. I have no aim, and yet am not aimless. I seek nothing, yet I find much.

I am, therefore I think. I am, therefore I walk. I am, and so I wander.”

~ First Creed of the Plenty, c. 1238

Benowa sat calmly beneath a blooming aroline tree, its purple flowers swaying gently in the breeze. The sun was just starting to set, and from high on his secluded hill Benowa watched the ashes rise from the town he once called home.

He felt deeply for this loss. Years—years of his life—sacrificed to prevent the scene before him. He had failed. No. Not failed. He shook his head. No—the Plenty did not think in such ways. The duty to protect had found him, not the other way around. It was not he who had failed, but the duty.

He relaxed a little and shut his eyes. Soon they would come for him: a garrison of at least thirty men, perhaps more. They’d carry their tall banners and surround the hill. He could see all in his mind’s eye. His enemy—no, not enemy—his opposition had become predictable.

Yes. They would come. They knew the aroline tree well.

Benowa opened his eyes again, spotting the soldiers leaving the burning city behind. He could run, but he did not feel the familiar pull in that direction. All his life he’d been taught to follow that guiding power within his soul. Now it appeared to abandon him. But that did not trouble him—least of all Benowa. He knew, as did most of his order, that a lack of wind did not make a boat non-destined to sail. Instead it meant he should be calm, wait, and watch.

So that’s what he did. Before long he could hear the soldiers. He briefly wondered what would happen when they arrived. Not what the soldiers would do, of course—he knew they’d surround him, call for him to surrender, then let arrows fly the moment he stood. This was their way.

No, Benowa mostly wondered if the pull would awaken within him or demand that he remain still until the soldiers shot him. The idea made him laugh. He imagined himself sitting peacefully, then taking several arrows. Wouldn’t that be nice? But he doubted it. The flow he felt wasn’t done with him yet.

The soldiers surrounded the hill exactly as Benowa had predicted. No—this was not his time to die. Already he felt the flow begin to quicken, imperceptibly at first. He had not drifted to the end, but to a simple pond. His life-water had sat calmly, drifting imperceptibly toward its next stream. Any moment now the pull would come, and he would awaken, abandoning mind and reason to follow the flow.

“Benowa of the Plenty!” a man shouted in a baritone voice. The tones were sharp and came with a rasp. Benowa looked at the man. He was tall, a little over six feet. His face was clean-shaven, but his hair long. His hands were scarred, and he held himself with authority. Three rings tied into his hair marked him as a captain, husband, and father. His uniform was neat—not a detail out of order. That struck Benowa as odd. The opposition wasn’t normally so careful about their dress.

All these observations took Benowa less time than an intake of breath.

“There will be no escape, as I’m sure you have seen. I know you have seen us coming and have chosen to wait. Stand now, and you have my word—you will be taken prisoner. Otherwise we will be forced to—”

Benowa didn’t hear the rest. With sudden force the pull of the flow overtook him, and he cleared his mind of everything except what it wanted him to do. A lesser member of the Plenty would have doubted the flow in that moment. What it wanted him to do was strange, and all logic argued against it. But Benowa was wise.

Moving very slowly, he stood and held his hands out. The captain smiled. Rarely were his targets so willing.

“Place your hands behind your back and—” the captain began.

He didn’t get to finish. In an instant Benowa fell backward just as two arrows flew through the spot he’d been standing. Benowa landed hard on the grassy ground, making no attempt to catch himself. He rolled right, and two more arrows pierced the ground near him.

“Move in! All fire!” the captain shouted.

Benowa lay still for a moment, counting down from four. When he reached zero he used his powerful arms to push himself back to his feet, ducked, then dashed forward. Another arrow grazed his cheek, but he pushed on, unperturbed. Within seconds he reached a fist-sized rock on the ground and flung it at the nearest archer. It smacked into the man’s head with a dull thud, causing him to drop his bow and grab his face in pain.

Benowa did not wait to see what became of the man. The flow told him to step to the right, so he did. Another arrow flew past him and hit another archer in the chest. The flow told Benowa to hold stance thirty-seven. He listened. Then it led him to stances fourteen, ninety-one, and sixteen. A strange set, but Benowa managed, his legs stretching in odd ways as he did so.

He rarely knew where the flow was taking him, but he did understand its goal. Or rather, he knew its goal. Why it wanted him to protect the aroline tree was beyond him. But he was trained to follow, not to question. He stepped back into a normal stance with his hands behind his back and assessed the area. He’d dropped to one side of the hill, and most of the soldiers who could see him had fallen. Only the captain remained, though it would be only seconds before the other archers ascended the hill and could see them.

The captain didn’t wait, however—instead he drew his sword, a dark, shining blade with jagged spikes on one side. Benowa allowed him to approach until the flow he felt subsided. Some among the Plenty believed such a quick withdrawal could only mean one’s time had come. Benowa, however, saw it as a stamp of approval. Instead of halting him, he saw it as a charge to take control of his actions and do whatever he thought necessary.

Back in control of himself, he deftly dodged the first of the captain’s blows, sidestepped around him, twisted his arm, and held the captain’s sword arm so that the jagged side of the blade was placed at his neck.

“I admire your clothing,” Benowa said. “You are different. Please—call off your men so that we may chat. I require your help, you see.”

The captain did as he was told, and the archers put their bows down.

“You have been sent here to kill me,” Benowa said, “but I do not think it is my time to die. Nor is it the time of any left standing on this hill today. But I find myself in a difficult spot. You see, you wish to kill me, and I must protect this tree. So I offer you this tempting alternative: swear upon your god that you will do this tree no harm and protect it when I am gone. Do that, and I will allow your blood to flow.”

The captain gritted his teeth but followed the command. As soon as he finished his vow, Benowa released him and walked back toward the spot he’d previously been sitting.

“Fool,” the captain said. “I made no vow of your safety.” He made a single hand motion for his soldiers to attack. Within seconds the soldiers picked their bows back up and let arrows fly.

Benowa made no attempt to dodge. Instead he smiled as the flow returned. He had never felt such a rush as he did now. It was pulling him with more strength than he had ever known. As the arrows pierced his back he did not feel the pain. Instead he laughed as the pull swept him away so strongly it pulled his soul from his body.

Yes, Benowa thought. This is the way the flow tells one it is his time.