wiegand

The Epic of Wiegand

I. Once when hope may fail our love, a man may curse the day he was made the ground below, the sun above, or even the tree that gives him shade. At that time, strength may be born and from this strength, a new man arise. One breathing fresher, freer air. And he now shorn of this weaker self, that old self may then despise. But this new life is made to burn as mother, daughter, father, son. Blithely does the circle turn, so flesh and spirit, all are one. . . . The first task for the teller of a tale, is to find a start. Since there is none, one must trace a star falling beyond the pale of page or plane, and thus the spell is spun. . . . His lovely mother, flower of his father’s heart held her only child before her tender eye. She gazed upon him sweetly, with unbounded love, but sadly too, for she knew she was bound to die. In those days, to men the perils of war were known, and women’s battle was childbirth, that bitter chance. Many sweet souls were lost, but those who won were granted life, this lovely puzzle, this mystical dance. Just before her death she whispered to her newborn babe, a blessing as the righteous are known to give With loving lips she sweetly said: “you shall know the truth, my son, so do not grieve.” “Dear Aiaia, my loving wife, you seem so quiet,” his father cried. “Return to me darling mine.” And then he knew, as pain rent his heart, she lay there lost in the vales of time. His cradle they made among the folk of Muir, unbounded sky before his eyes, the smell of horse, the feel of fur, the sound of hooves, the hunters’ cries. He loved the sight and smell of herds so vast they stretched to the horizon on a wide open plain and primeval forest. But black hunkering shadows passed through his dreams in premonition of glory and mortal pain. Suckled on other than his mother’s milk, he learned generosity. He soon grew, becoming the most accomplished hunter. He was fast and strong, quick of mind and eye, prematurely wise, precocious, a fearsome warrior. Once Wiegand was hunting with Yougur, his friend, son of Menot, wise old king of Muir. Wending beyond the river bend, They breathed in fresh, pure mountain air. A fine healthy catch they had, a boar of great size. According to custom, the boys to the beast prayed forgiveness for their kill. Tears welled in Wiegand’s eyes as to the mighty animal’s heart his arrows made. Yougur too felt honorable compassion and prayed: “fierce, snarling boar, may your spirit always in us live. May we thus strong and fierce by your blood be made and someday, like you, for good purpose our lives give.” Tasty he was, well roasted over glowing coals, and as his aroma mingled with the spiraling smoke, the boys gladly licked the bottom of their wooden bowls. How easily compassion slept once hunger woke. They soon discovered a nearby cave, and so they thought they ought to go exploring. Yougur knocked his head on a stone below by eagerly and far too quickly descending. Wiegand contrived to save his friend, by shearing tender branches from a nearby tree and twining them into rope he fashioned, lowered himself down to where he could see. In the unguent darkness Wiegand’s heart paced fast and peering, hearing, smelling, feeling, finally found his friend. Quickly about his waist he lashed the twining rope and dragged him back to familiar ground. To the surface with great effort he brought him but the noble Yougur would not revive. So far from friend or family, priest or shaman his lifelong friend could not survive. As the bitter boy bewailed this fate, a dark-haired maid mysteriously appeared. She presently upon noble Yougur did wait and on his forehead a pungent salve she smeared. The salve quickly roused the prince as in another way did the happy sight of this beautiful maid first to his eye and then to hither parts convey, pleasantly through him this manly message made. He fell in love, and who would not, for at once she both saved his life, rousing him from his fitful dream of death, and greatly pleased his eye. This chance, or so seeming, also impressed his superstitious mind. “My name is Mara” she quietly said, and her sudden appearance was indeed no accident. She saw Yougur fall in a vivid dream, and begged her father’s permission to effect his cure for pity’s sake, and her maidenly love, she would rescue him. Wiegand, though grateful to have his friend awake, eagerly brushed the girl aside. “I will take charge of this prince of Muir. Yougur, too weak to protest, and Mara unsure, did not speak. They each themselves solemnly swore that when they again would meet, then only would they finally live and Wiegand, who somehow made them distant stay then only would they him forgive. Yougur and Mara long yet would find their unlucky loves made new again. Wiegand thenceforth suffered dreams unkind as he and Yougur grew apart since then. These dreams revealed to him a truth that will not be conveyed in words. Wiegand was more than the usual youth. and the elders following the herds Soon noticed as manhood came to Wiegur’s son. How he grew in honor, strength and vigor. And so he was conducted to the wise old Ergeron, reciting the past, dimly seeing the future. “What is your desire, son?” Ergeron inquired. Sincere and patient, peering through his brows. He was humbly in brown cloth attired. He gripped his staff in white knuckled, bony rows. “Nothing sir, I am content,” replied the subtle boy “Surely you dream great dreams, tell me one of those.” “A plentiful herd, a good hunt, my friends, our joy.” “How entwined man’s dreams and fate become, God only knows,” Ergeron opaquely mumbled. Slowly he stood. “You must meet someone,” the old man finally said. “I would spare you this if only I could.” To a pool in a stream by an elm he feebly led. The old man gesturing, faltingly walked away. Wiegand descended, young, confident, brave. Desiring both to probe this mystery and so dismiss fears that seemed very grave. He reached toward the tree to hold his balance, and leaned forward to gaze into the pool. He felt overcome by some strange trance and saw himself a harlequin, a pathetic fool. A ripple made his image dance, and seemed to break the spell. A solitary leaf now plied the water aimlessly, and falling slowly away from home, transformed itself, this mighty arbor, into the youthful sprig it used to be. Across the pool Wiegand saw Nomen, no more beard had he than him who, now standing saw a light. He somehow sensed his timeless fate and destiny. A new and different man was born that night. Then he heard the other calling “why do you wait?” And Wiegand knew what he was to do. Again the other: “you must not hesitate. The peace of the tribes depend upon us two.” For a custom was kept from an ancient age that when a boy showed keen and able hand, he should be brought as both adopted son and hostage to the king of a rival band. So it was determined that Wiegand be sent to Uzur, to King Mozul of the northern heather. Great wails accompanied his departure and sadly bid he goodbye his father. Many days hard journey he traveled alone, through trouble and trial he passed bravely. Over icy mountain peak, barren desert, windy plain, until he entered the land of Uzur gravely.

II. Wiegand was brought before this mighty king, who, scowling, asked why he should accept the trade of such an ugly youth and what intent his clan by this exchange had made. His own fair son to Muir had gone, strong of hand and manly, bold and strong. How unlike this child, this new son: unhandsome, unkempt, unmanly, unknown. Wiegand gazed at the king, his stance unflinching, sure eyes piercing and keen. The court felt a chill, an unearthly silence. The real truth of the king was finally seen: O greedy, selfish, worthless man. Become you fear and flail you out in your futile rage. Order you your men to act, but they can’t undo, The thousand schemes and evil doings of your age. Then he struck the boy with his staff. The blow landed on Wiegand’s weighty shield weakly, glancing, fruitless. Some nearby held back a laugh. Then there appeared a shimmering field, And a voice from above thundered out, thus to scold: “O childish king, such impetuous rage dishonors you. This is Wiegand, whose great fate will soon unfold. show him courtesy, for such is indeed his due. His path is not straight, but goes to the center. Unkind though his fate, honored is his name. The palace of his glory is great, yet few may enter, those who hear take heart, your king has come.” One man moved forward bravely at this, none but the prince, mighty Mozul’s son, raising his fists to the sky. A nest of snakes, his beard; a fortress in his armor, he made to his gods this chilling cry: “I, Mogur, son of Mozul will not bear this thing as lord of my lord and father. I claim the custom of my family and challenge him before the lord of the darkening storm to battle. Bowing to him I would consider unmanly.” With this, he raised his mighty axe and strode to where subtle Wiegand stood, intent on splitting his skull. He swung mightily but the blow severed only air from air. The swift son of Wiegur was elsewhere when the axe fell. From behind and adroitly he lifted his spear, and cut the leather straps holding Mogur’s armour, which at once fell with a loud clang about the giant’s feet. Startled, he turned lurching, swinging his weighty axe well. Wiegand was struck, but the brave boy stood fast, and thrusting his spear with a startling rage, he severed the head from his enemy’s breast and so forged the way into a new age. Mozul cried, he attacked, and thus predictably, died. Though many and fierce opponents he fought. How quickly had Wiegand made both princes so quiet! This fight caused many a long silent thought. So Wiegand now reigned in Uzur. The people paid him due honor, though grieved they their honored kings. Proper rites were prepared by the priests for them, both richly clothed, armed with rare offerings. Conveyed to a wild place where fire had been prepared, these men were commended to their final peace, where their spirits mingled with those of the air. Wiegand was praying and most ill at ease. The friends of Mozul were left with no choice. Attempting a coup, they soon lived no more. Wiegand pondered well the mysterious voice, knowing some dire destiny must lay in store. To all he remained distant and strange. His ministers all obsequiously obeyed, and failed alluring liasons to arrange between the fair beauties of Uzur arrayed, And this stranger-king now upon them forced through the fathomless unfolding of twisted fate. None of their charms aroused his lust, this sad, troubled king desired no mate.

III. Thus passed our hero’s youth, while elsewhere events fulfilling prophecy conspired. Wiegand ruled unhappily, though with care, and so was Muir in sadness attired. For in the time of Wiegand’s tragic absence Nomen, son of Mozul in exchange had been sent, then through black magic and his father’s scheme arranged To overcome Wiegur and he spellbound was wandering sent — senseless, lost and unknown through field and forest. No loving wife could sound his anguished depth, no noble son avenge his wrong. He knew neither his own name nor his home. He wore the rags of a beggar, bare of foot and head he wandered, hungry, unwashed, alone. The sky his roof, the earth his bed. Soon he wandered beyond the river Thyne, marking the frontier from Muir into Uzur land, where he was found among the swine. And brought before their subtle king Wiegand. By his own son he was not recognized; asked his name he made no reply, but characteristicly the king apprised that here was a noble man gone awry. “Whence do you come?” he asked again. Silence met this mild inquiry. The subtle king sternly asked then “How do you come to be in such misery?” Finally, the aimless wanderer spoke. “I live as one without a life. I am from nowhere, a spirit yoked bereft of tribe, family, home, wife. I have wandered these seven years. my bed the earth, the sky my roof. I have eaten roots and berries, unwashed, I wander aimless, aloof. I once had home, bed, wife, son. Or were they dreams? And what became of them I do not know. Some tragedy perhaps, my mind fails, it seems forgive me, now I must rest, if you’ll allow.” Wiegand ordered servants nine to bathe and clothe the disturbing guest. Some food he was given, bread and wine and a place of honor in which to rest. The morning came with fingers of fire. Clouds of mist danced on the lake. Mother Earth gave birth to Sun once more, her thirst for life again to slake. Mighty Sun, in his early climb, looked with pity on the poor sleeping soul, and leant low to whisper in his ear a word or two about his host. That so proudly this poor dreamer dreamt If in waking he dreams then his dreams more real seemed and some small comfort from these dreams he his wanderings a mere moment’s slumber deemed and his dreaming an endless wandering be. When he awoke at once the subtle king he found and told the dream they could not fathom: that all is change, but with the permanent around. If all is one, then true and false are both the same. That King Wiegand would to greatness ascend. After much travail he would reign as utmost king. That lords from near and far would him attend, but never joy would this to him bring. Truth only would he seek, truth to soothe his troubled soul But finding this he would find a greater task than war. And once found, it would appear a more foolish goal than to live simply, with love, needing nothing more. With these words, the sad old wanderer quietly left but his listener remained entranced as stone. He lay still as one of life bereft but in his eyes desire’s fire still shone.

IV. So stunned was the king that motionless he sat seven days and nights. None could from this trance stir, though mightily they tried, with spells, devotions, sortilege and potions. Until into the camp rode a great queen. Her entourage, an army with many knights arrayed in fanfare, courtly and honorable, it seemed that all were gallant with noble signs displayed. It was the mighty army of Saraband, escort to noble Kama their honored royalty, come begging Uzur’s king his support against mighty Muir, her ancient enemy. To his presence she asked to be conveyed, in courteous speech and honorable request at this Uzur’s court was greatly dismayed for how could their unspeaking king receive such a guest? The chamberlain with the council consulted, and the council their great consideration made. Little considerable action resulted, enjoying their power, their duty betrayed. At length it was determined the queen should see their king, stonelike, though they knew not why. His life’s love she was to be. They brought her finally before his eye. Piteously she upon him gazed, kneeling beside him she heaved a sigh. Then, looking closely she was amazed to see a tear well in his sightless eye. This she kissed, and lived life anew. She felt his star and hers align. His grief and wonder were hers, she knew. She felt her soul with his entwine. The subtle king at once awoke took her hand and smiling, bowed. He turned toward her and gently spoke: “we are one, you and I, as well you know. Mysteriously to our destiny are we driven. We are life’s breath, and so for all we do. Though that subtle truth from flesh is hidden, this visible truth is no less true. So love me as I do you, in body and in soul. Forgive my faults, acknowledge my dreams. I in turn do honor to you, know this the truth in full, and take pleasure in all that to man `woman` means.” She loved him instantly, wholly, totally, and they embraced. Shudders and chills overtook everyone, as though in another world they could briefly be and then discreetly the court left the lovers alone. Was it days? Was it hours? Was it months? Was it years? Who can say? They did however, meet most privately. Soon she told him of Nomen’s plan; her fears, and the tragic deprivation of her country. He provided the men of Muir to aid this cause. Therefore she escaped, and to Uzur come so that upon her these villains should not fall and wreak such deeds upon her as may be done, Or as once visited her in evil dreams on a dark drear night, when shadows loomed. Urgently, she pressed her need, her schemes to this subtle king. He was indeed consumed. “How could this be? The men of Muir? I was, nay, am one with them — Wiegand, son of Wiegur! These are honorable men, of that you may be sure. And as for Nomen, he is now my brother! For Mozul my adopted father was, as my dear father to me was lost. Nomen became Wiegur’s son, alas that this exchange upon us was forced! When Mogur challenged me, and I bested him, Mozul could not bear my success, and died rather than look on me, my curse has been to lose any whom I call family. Therefore, far away from me be, for you are more dear than any (though I know that all are one). As for these present troubles, do not fear. I shall undertake to restore your throne.” Until well with his opponent he was apprised, Kama he bid remain high in mountain safety. Then in his mind a strategy he devised. And set out for Saraband most secretly. Once there, upon a bridge he spied a drunken loafing soldier, gazing down below. To this sad soldier Wiegand amiably cried: “hail, fellow, how now, and what ho!” The sorry man quickly stumbled to his feet and, fumbling with his buttons, grabbed his cap and gun. To the middle of the bridge he firmly took a stand, put on a stern face and loudly challenged: “Halt! Who goes there? Be ye friend or foe? If friend, then well met indeed. If foe, prepare to meet your gods below, for I shall send you there with all due speed.” “Well, now,” Wiegand soothed, and slowly strode toward the lonely bridge, slowing his pace. He was dressed as a holy man, in rough cloth robed, with belt of beads. A darkening hood shadowed his face. He was bare of foot, and held fast his staff. In order to appear more aged. He gave his voice a coughing rasp and seemed in some distant memory engaged. His only weapon was the staff on which he leaned, hewn by his own hand from a hardy rose. Smooth it seemed to its master’s hand but sharp its sting to whom he should oppose. “Why make you so tough a stand? I merely bring a message for Queen Kama, I believe she rules here in Saraband and my master quickly wishes an answer.” “She rules no longer,” replied the guard, “though swiftly she swift justice fled. As for her captor, King Nomen will reward sixty pieces of gold, fifty for her head.” At this the subtle king raised his own, and pondered, peering oddly as if he saw a mighty horde, the noble men of Muir, gone across a bitter river, to the further shore. Then Wiegand spoke: “I must see your king at once. The matter is then most grave. You must not delay. Deny me now and you take the chance that this will be our judgement day.” The king would see him, and so he was brought before the throne, but something was wrong, something dark hung in the air above them. Looking, his eye caught a child of Muir, and at this he was taken back. But a closer look revealed the brighter eye of a boy he knew when they both were young. Disguised, Wiegand had the luxury to enjoy the feeling fond remembrance can bring. “To this road those very days we were fated! Are we not just leaves in a stream? Water tossed and by the brutal rocks buffeted to sleep in an eddy or tarry out to the sea, Or any one of a thousand different destinies to us may come. Yougur, remember our childhood and prove the loyal friend of my youth. Help me now, as we both know you should.” But Wiegand’s disguise gave him the advantage, Yougur did not recognize his old friend. Apearing so wizened and almost in dotage, he had no idea how this affair would end. Nomen, called also Menander (meaning “slippery way”), was a big man, barrel chested and stout he wore a long scraggly beard, now gone quite grey and bushy brows, fat nose, a gut sticking out. Under his brows burned sharp, piercing eyes. Behind them a keen mind, ambition, and somewhere beneath, a human soul, hope, laughter, and love. His spies were everywhere eagerly awaiting a breath Of unhappiness, for he was quite sure that conflict was the cause of all social unrest. Opponents all imprisoned were or he could cure their complaining by death, while under arrest. “For the revolution!” he used to say, with gusto, sincerity, charisma and passion. The revolution seemed to mean Nomen’s way for opponents were dealt with in most brutal fashion. “Greetings, comrade. Have we met before?” Nomen cordially but forcefully said. “Perhaps, I do not recall. Are you quite sure?” “No. Now give us your tale, old man, or your head.” “Kama has found refuge in the land of Uzur. For noble King Wiegand reigns there, and well. He has sworn by his life to do all to protect her and this is not all that I have to tell. They demand you surrender your ill-gotten throne. Do not delay, for that will prove futile. The only sure outcome if you will not be gone must be bitter war, and a death most brutal.” Nomen inflated with rage at the old beggar’s words and almost exploded so that all thought the old man must die and be food for the birds that pick at the bodies their king’s temper brought. But the king remained silent, no word did he say, and pondering, took counsel from his own trusted friend, a dark haired young woman, as they walked away. To her advice only would feared Nomen bend. After the courtesy, all were dismissed, but Wiegand feigned weakness and grasped at the arm of his old friend from childhood and gently he kissed his friend’s rough cloak. Yougur looked up in alarm. He almost cried out. The other signed silence. Later that night they met in secret, alone. And Yougur told Wiegand the sad tale of violence that befell poor Muir since Wiegand left home. … “Oh! this cannot be, I will not allow. My father gone mad, lost, wandering alone? Yours slain by whom do you say? And how can we right these most villainous wrongs?” That night guards siezed Wiegand as he lay in comfortable quarters politely provided. They brought him to prison, and put him away. They left him to rot where rank vermin abided. But before dawn, Yougur appeared and he had the key that formerly chafed the guard on a solid steel band, There was no other way to set Wiegand free neither one mentioned the guard’s severed hand. “Now with this act, my life I reclaim. But my loss of Mara, I cannot forgive. Unless and until we meet once again I’ll never be happy as long as I live.” Wiegand made straight away across wide open plain on a horse which appeared miraculously, unbidden. He did not notice that through sheets of freezing rain a mysterious dark-haired woman remained hidden. Soon he reached the river Thyne, feeling much older than he was when last he crossed it, and gazing down was shocked to see the image of the same sad soldier, who, now a captain, led quite a band of worthless men. The alarm for his capture had been raised far and wide and all were alert for a horse had boldly been stolen from the king’s own stables. The king would have the hide, of this scoundrel, said to be a mountebank mendicant. Now Wiegand quickly turned about, he stunned the guard and drew his blade. With cunning too great for this simple lout, a tidy and prompt disposal he made. What happened then, is painful to tell. An inevitable war that no one could win. But why war, if not for sweet Kama’s spell? This fire would surely devour him. Oh, carnage, calamity and woe. Those who have seen will not soon forget. Oh the tragedy and the shame. To battle so brutally against one’s own kin. But Wiegand’s great courage won him no little fame. He bravely led Uzur’s men to the field, while drums beat the rhythms of their pounding hearts. The mighty bellow of ram’s horns pealed and horses stamped before their chariots. They fought in a pretty valley among the cattle. It was morning and early in the year. An unlikely place for such a battle, but one good as any to face that final fear. Wiegand’s plan was simple: lure, divert, surprise. He led one band boldly to the fore, but that another lurked hidden Nomen did not surmise till that band descended with a roar. Unexpectedly surrounded, Nomen proudly stood as if waking from a dream with new wonder. He thought he saw the ghost of death in darkening hood. His eyes saw red and his ears heard thunder. The battle went on until dark, when all were exhausted. They dragged back their dead to separate camps they nursed their wounded, and prayed, as might be expected, and sang mournful tunes in the light of oil lamps. Wiegand was shocked and could not believe so many men dead, dying or worse, and why? If not for his pride, or for dear Kama’s love, and their own bitter fate, these caused them to die. With dawn the battle was once again joined, as waves of men washed back and forth across the field. Wiegand and Nomen once more met, and then Nomen’s axe-blows rained on Wiegand’s trusty sheild. Nomen asked: “Why do you so persecute me?” His own self-worth somehow withstood the evidence of his own wretched villainy. And days there were when even he was good. “You slay my father and my beloved brother. You steal the love of my chosen wife. Atsonishingly still unsated, you seek to steal another: my kingdom. This will end your evil life.” Nomen’s pock-marked face flushed red with blood his nose stood not a span from that of his foe, his blue eyes shone, and his jaw thrust toward Wiegand poised crouching, defensively low. They met on the field with the power of titans. Axe fell on shield, spear poked at breastplate. As thundering sky ignorant children frightens so wise men shudder when they’re exposed to hate. Wiegand’s heart pounded mightily in his chest, as an unfamiliar power completely posessed him. It was an emotion he would not before have guessed, but one that much too easily overwhelms men. Like surf on the shore was Wiegand’s attack. Like a storm, like the tide, he surged without pity. Nomen was unmanned and could only fall back revealing to Wiegand a fell opportunity. Finally, fatigued, Nomen solemnly knelt, and surrendering, lowered to Wiegand his head. But neither mercy nor pity, nor conscience, he felt as the King of Saraband-Muir fell dead. Wiegand threw down his weapons at Nomen’s defeat, gave no further orders, but looked at his hands. His bitter victory was by now complete and they carried him back into rich Saraband

V. With great jubilation a feast was then given for king of kings, Wiegand of Saraband-Uzur-Muir. He was, to them, a great wheel in the sky, driven over sacred ancient ground, proud and pure. Kama came down from the mountains like the streams, full-flowing from the thaw of deep winter snow. She came like an answer to a desperate man’s dreams; they joined together fulfilling their sacred vow. Thousands came from throughout the greater nation, all gladly led by the new subtle King. Among the throng there staggered on the arm of a dark haired woman a tired old man, who’d suffered grave, undeserved wrong. High on a dais, the handsome hero stood, finally smiling, and proudly looking on as his bride came near. She was unusually abashed, thus all the more beguiling. As faithful Yougur stood by, he stifled a tear. “Where is my Mara? How can I restrain profound envy watching my friend’s great joy? I fear I may never see my life’s love again!” Unhappy man, take heart. An end to your sadness is near. All others rested their gaze on Kama’s graceful pace, she so alone, angelic, beautiful. Poor Yougur could not, so he looked away, and suddenly saw the very face he happily gazed on once, so very long ago. She was one of two mysterious figures moving resolutely through the crowd. The other an aged one, somehow familiar of gate and posture, but proving otherwise more difficult to attend in this confusion. Yougur could not see anything else. Around him arose a great clatter of bells and cheers of yeomen, as Wiegand and Kama sealed their eternal union. But his eyes remained focused on the dark haired woman. A great swirling vortex of energy centered on the celebrated king and his delightful new queen. Yougur felt himself swept up in it, he entered a new world of joy as Mara looked up, and seeing Him, he saw her sad, lined face suddenly alight or rather bloom, like a precious flower. Her dark eyes shone with the mystery of the night and her dark hair fell like a gentle summer shower. She clutched tightly her friend, the wizened old man, whom she had befriended lost in the wild. She had since become his constant companion. Through her cure, he was no more an itinerant child. He now knew who he was, and where he belonged, and so they had come to Saraband-Uzur-Muir. Like the thousands of others who thronged to see married the subtle son of Wiegur. The wedding ceremony now was ending, the guests shook off their formal drowsiness, and looked up to see the pair slowly descending Kama breathlessly beautiful in her wedding dress. As they came down, Mara and Wiegur finally won free of the crowd, and a most joyful reunion was made among the parted lovers, Wiegur and his son. All tenderly hugged, wept, laughed and prayed. “Father, forgive me for not recognizing you” Wiegand begged. The old man only touched his heart and whispered: “Sweet wife, your prophecy has come true.” Then aloud: “precious family so recently found, no more shall part.” “Dear father, now I must ask you, what is the truth? To what purpose do we struggle through these lives, if so pleasantly imprisoned by our desires in youth, we’re all due the same dire fate. Everyone dies.” “To that, son, my companion must make answer.” Mara’s body against Yougur’s tenderly pressed. Wiegand inquired, she relucted, again he asked her. Mara finally, cryptically said: “be ye blessed.” “I must know” he insisted. He held his wife close. His father stood right there beside them all. Wiegand brought his eyes up to meet those of the dark haired enchantress; rain started to fall. Each drop reflected an entire new world. They held fast one another, long though it rained. The clouds ultimately broke and behold, all worlds became one, each just rearranged. They had all gone shimmering as if a dream, or as the rain rippling on water would. Or like the leaf now floating in a stream, before where young Wiegand intrepidly stood. “Now you know.” Beside him stood old Ergeron. His eyes like Mara’s, and smiling slightly, he turned to the horizon’s mystical dawn — enlivening all, and climbing brightly. He has since returned, and there yet may be, with his friends and his family, never alone. This may be known by all who can see, that love’s hope conquers truth, when all is done.