The Chronicles of Atticus Wrentavius Seneca Cornelius; or The Wren King: Chapter 2
“Doubts are the messengers of the Living One to the honest. They are the first knock at our door of things that are not yet, but have to be, understood…”
-George MacDonald
After a miserable loss at darts, Atticus decided to fly over to his father’s study. Seneca was a guardian of the ancient histories, which was a privilege reserved for birds not just of intellectual gifts but of high moral standards. These birds were servants and thus entrusted with this knowledge for the posterity and education of Bird-kind as well as other woodlanders. Seneca suffered no exceptions regarding the sacredness of his studies with High Elders, the Owls, a mysterious group that was as unfriendly as it was cryptic.
To Atticus, Seneca was grave and grumbly about everything in life. He was reserved in conversation, rarely if ever laughed, possessed almost no imagination, and was interested primarily in his research. He and Atticus had little in common; however, there were questions that naturally must have answers. Atticus suspected that his father possessed at least some information if one could get him to open up a little. So, the determined young bird decided try a more humble approach than his usual interrogation, which always ended in arguments.
He found Seneca’s door ajar. He was staring at the indecipherable marks on a small fragment of fragile limestone. Atticus let himself in and perched just inside the doorway. He watched his father for a moment before making a slight flapping noise with his wings.
“Son!, humph, eh, uh, hello there, eh, excuse me, I was just finishing up.” Seneca fumbled a bit and, as if waking suddenly, turned his attention to Atticus. Though disheveled and appearing as if he’d just traveled a great distance, Seneca, with feigned composure, asked after Atticus’s studies and whether his mother’s headache had eased.
“Oh, I finished up early today, and mother is feeling much better, though she told me your own headaches have increased lately. Have you spoken with a physician about them?”
“Oh, no, no, I see no need. I’ve just been working long hours, and you know I don’t sleep well as a rule.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot of other woodlanders talking about the artifact that was discovered in the Old King. Did you ever find out where it came from? Does anyone even know how old that tree is?” asked Atticus.
“That old oak must be at least 400 years or more in age,” Seneca said, while fumbling around with his stacks of leaves in some agitation. We’ve explored that oak tree very little due to its proximity to the Forbidden Valley, as you know. Then of course the strange reference to a “tree of unusual reach” in the piece we were studying last winter led us to risk our little foray.” Seneca paused and then continued.
“I do wish others wouldn’t talk so much of it. Wild stories will be circulating that have no bearing on truth. Don’t encourage such conversation, Atticus. In any case, this piece of writing here must be quite old judging from the archaic dialect and singular writing style. The Elders and I are still somewhat baffled on the meaning of it or how it came to be embedded inside the knothole of the great tree. The piece of limestone appears to be part of some kind of poem or musical piece. But enough about that for now, did you wish to speak to me about something? Is something troubling you, son?”
“Yes. Well, no, not particularly, however, eh, it’s just that this tablet and the trip to the Old King got me thinking,” Atticus shifted around searching for words.
“Atticus, is this about humans again?” Seneca assumed an expression he had mastered well over the years, much like a stony fortress. Atticus always bristled at the look, knowing he was already shut out. Nevertheless, he went on with his petition, choosing his words with caution.
“Father, the ancient tales speak of an age in which woodlanders and humans used to be able to understand one another. I have heard you say that there are some texts that suggests the possibility that they even worked and lived together, in brotherhood.”
“Son, these texts you speak of are still being studied, and even the oldest and most learned philologists still debate over the different interpretations. The fragment of tablet that was found recently is in a new language almost completely indiscernible. We have gone over this before, son. Even the Elders don’t know to what extent the words of the Ancients may be creatively embellished or true. We are dealing with a language that has evolved over time. Some words may mean something quite different from what they mean today.”
“Yes, the debates, or fights rather, amongst the Elders have become legendary,” Atticus stated with a touch of sarcasm. “Sometimes I think they just like being mysterious because it makes them appear important. We may never know anything the Elders don’t want us to know.”
His father looked over his spectacles, grabbed his beard, and mumbled something Atticus couldn’t quite make out. He thought he heard his father say the words youth these days.
“I will have no more of this foolish talk, Atticus Wrentavius. Wisdom, my son, is what I wish most for you, yet wisdom appears to be the least of your concerns.”
“It is wisdom that I seek, dad. Why must everything be so secretive and dark?”
“Then you should apply to study with the Elders.” Seneca began rummaging through the leaves on which he had been writing and making plans aloud. As he was feverishly talking in a vain attempt to lead his wayward son in the right direction, Atticus interrupted in frustration.
“Father! I don’t want to spend years trying to figure out what those ol’ curmudgeons want me to think!”
Seneca stopped, stunned at his son’s outburst. Atticus continued, “I want to know what you think! I am tired of my questions being criticized! I just want the truth!
Silence like a humid summer heat descended on the study, as the two wrens sought an answer in each other’s faces. After the moment passed, Seneca mumbled, “What is truth?” He looked out the window as the wind picked up, and leaves blew in and swirled around the two birds as if to break up the argument and encourage them to make amends.
Seneca then stammered, “I…I do not know, son, exactly what to say. I have questions too.” His own words seemed to mock and humiliate him. There was a most dreadful sound like that of laughter shrieking forth from somewhere over the Forbidden Valley. As he and Atticus peered out the window in the that direction, Seneca said, “The weather seems to be threatening, son. You should hasten home.”
“Will you be shortly behind’” Atticus whispered as he stared out of the window, distracted by the strange sounds in the air.
“No, I don’t believe so. Tell your mother not to wait up.” replied Seneca, turning toward his work.
The wind increased and its mischievous fingers rustled the contents of Seneca’s desk as he attempted to shutter the windows. As Atticus flew out, he noticed a scrap of leaf being tossed in the wind and caught it.
When he found himself alone, he read the writing on the scrap. His father’s usually meticulous writing appeared to have taken a few too many sips of his Aunt Allie’s special cough remedy. The words were unlike anything Atticus had ever heard his father utter. His father—the sensible, disciplined, confident, unromantic, and intellectual wren of impeccable reputation. The most trustworthy of all the scribes and scholars the Elders could wish for wrote this:
Doubt is a specter that chills even the wisest, bravest, and most honorable of souls. How much good has been forgone because of this foul apparition? How many brave deeds have been omitted from history because of its devilish mockery?
***
Atticus flew over toward the Forbidden Valley at a reckless speed. The air smelled of rain, not unusual for autumn months in the mountains. The moody sky seemed to sympathize with him, and the damp air wrapped him in its melancholy embrace. The wind beckoned him away from his home, toward the Old King. He noticed smoke from the closest cottage and was drawn to it. He beat his wings harder against the wind and flew over to the little cottage which abounded in lately diminished floral explosions and vines. The cottage seemed alive as the wind tousled the ivy and dislodged wilted flowers, which circled about in a violent dance. In a nearby field, a boy and his dog rounded up goats in defiance of the aggressive wind.
As he came in closer to the cottage, he heard music from a violin, which seemed at variance with the howling wind. This place doesn’t look like a witch’s dwelling, Atticus thought. The scene was too inviting, and the wind was picking up. He descended toward the little farmhouse and flew into what appeared to be a workshop. He landed on the old 1930’s Ford truck which sat with an open hood and in the final stages of repair. He began to poke around in the engine, fascinated.
“Toby would love this,” he said to himself and the cat he failed to see sneaking up behind him.
All at once the large cat jumped up as a man came out of nowhere and swatted the animal, yelling at it in his strange language. Atticus fell into a small vat of some kind of grease and, to his horror, was stuck. The brawny, raven headed man shouted something, and the music stopped. A tall young woman with reddish gold hair came out, and the couple began talking in their language, none of which Atticus could understand, but he imagined they wanted to prepare him for dinner.
The gentle lady reached for Atticus and brought him out of the grease and began to wipe his delicate feathers. However, he panicked and slipped out of her grip. He ran like a bird on fire straight for the woods. The wind had picked up, and the sky lowered its black, purple, and green face in ferocious anger. Is the sky after me too?
As Atticus ran, he quickly tired from the grease coating on his feathers. They became heavier by the second. He thought he heard the cat running behind him and pushed harder to find cover, all the while attempting to fly in awkward thrashing movements. The dark sky descended further, and Atticus became disoriented. A flash of intense light and an immediate clap of thunder piercing the electric air told Atticus he was in danger. These mountain downbursts could surprise man or beast with their sudden ferocity. A blast of rain with bits of ice followed as he scrambled for cover. Just as he was nearing the edge of the wood near the Old King, the wind and rain ceased all at once, and the air grew oppressive with damp.
Atticus knew that he only had seconds before a sky demon would descend. Then he heard the appalling sound of a low rumble and moan followed by the shattering and cracking that could only be trees in the path of the monster closing in on him. The wind picked up at a more ferocious speed than before. He was blinded by the sudden flash followed by inky blackness and piercing rain and debris. He heard the beast coming closer and faster, cracking and snapping just behind him, trees breaking and twisting like mere twigs. To his horror, Atticus was lifted and pitched along a steep descent and down into a ravine. Lightning shocked the atmosphere, and thunder followed as the wind grabbed Atticus again, and, shrieking, threw him in a fit of rage. He spun as he shot up and then was forced down! Down he went, rolling and banging amid leaf and limb and flashing light.
He tumbled down and away from the sounds of breaking trees and the screaming of the monster, which now seemed miles away, until he came to a stop. He could not move. He hurt all over and felt faintness coming over him. His breathing slowed as the air changed. He thought he heard human voices from somewhere, feminine and sweet, then fading into something even more foreign. Atticus wondered if the Old King had survived the sky demon attack. The sound of trickling water came to him, and he desired to find it. Did he hear words in the water? That is not possible. His head pounded. But there again, he heard words for sure this time, though soft and resembling tinkling jewels, the water said, “Be still. Be still, Atticus. Be still.” They were repeated though they became fainter as though the source of the voice retreated along the brook and danced around the enormous trees, sprite-like but gentle and calming, and before he had more time to doubt his senses, the air, clear and scented, enveloped Atticus with a warm and intoxicating silence.