Rise

Pól, 739

Fifth Age, 739
Mid-Summer
Eastern Coast, Acle

Pól

The sound of the city reaches him far before he can see the gleaming white towers of limestone rising up from the fields of green that roll right up to the coast. Pól’s blood has been thrumming in his veins for the past several days. He began to feel anxious and excited when he first caught a whiff of the fresh sea air; brine, salt, and seaweed carried on a lazy eastern wind to leaving their teasing calls inland, over fifty miles island from the coast.

Pól has been walking all morning; leading Mara, his mare along at a leisurely pace. He is enjoying just being outdoors. Home will come soon enough. He purposefully did not write home. If something happened, if his reward for a job well done was stripped away – as it had been several times before – he did not want to leave anyone sitting on the doorstep waiting for him to come when he never would. He has done that far too many times to count, but the imagined expression of heartbreak on his daughter’s face lead him to stop announcing when he would be coming home.

A frown tugs Pól’s lips downwards. His mother stopped writing when he never responded to her lengthy – if almost unreadable letters – over the years. Letters never found him in a timely manner if they found him at all.

“She’ll be almost grown by now,” Pól murmurs to himself. “I doubt Sive will be all that excited to see you, old girl, at least not like she was last time.” The last time he has seen his daughter was almost a decade ago. Roads just never seemed to lead him home. Pól briefly wonders if she will resemble the freckle-faced girl who had tears in her eye when her father was leaving. He shakes his head to dispel any idea like that. “She’ll be a woman. She might be married when bairns of her own by now,” Pól wonders aloud.

As pleasing as the air is, he cannot help ignore the troubling sounds that the same lazy, warm, wet summer breeze brings to him now. Pól frowns, narrowing his eyes. He can hear much shouting and a great commotion, but it is still far too early for any of the festivals that take place during the harvest.

“What do you think, girl?” Pól asks his horse.

The mare snorts, spraying Pól with droplets.

Pól chuckles. “My thoughts exactly.” He pats her nose absentmindedly. “But, I do think we should see what it is. I’d rather not have our first vacation in years disturbed by unruly farmers.” When the mare twitches her ears and pulls on the reins, which he holds tightly, to nip at some grass that grows alongside the cobblestone road.

“Oh, come,” Pól chides softly with a laugh as he gathers the reins. “You know that the farmers always give you carrots. You know you’ll be displeased if there is some problem that would hinder such behavior.

Mara snorts loudly as he mounts up.

Pól urges Mara out of her lackadaisical walk into a rambling trot that begins to diminish the miles left between them and Acle. The uproar only grows louder as they approach the city that is so familiar to her son who has been long away. The cobbled road winds through hills that are a deep green with soybeans, but, today, during the height of the summer they are empty. Even the pastures are empty. That is not so normal. During the summer months, the cows – kept for beef and milk – are out in the fields where they required little human effort for them to prosper except for milking in the morning and in the evenings often carried out by the children.

Once they are closer clusters of cottages, where there are normally mother’s yelling at their children who are climbing trees and shouting though the tall, undulating grass are empty and silent. Pól slows Mara’s trot – which she keeps trying to drop out of – to peer between the cottages. The copses of tall, green pines lack brown bare-limbed children swinging from the trees. The only movement and sound comes from chickens who scratch at the dusty ground. There is no one there. Pól resists the urge to dismount and explore further for fear that some pestilence is to blame. A pestilence could be the cause of the fields that are empty of any human life and for the uproar from the city that grows louder with every step. Rather than stopping Pól continues down the road, but his eyes and his mind linger in the trees. He misses the children.

Now, they are closer. The roar, similar to the voice of the ocean during a storm, becomes separate elements when Pól can see the flags flying from the steep peaks of the houses. There are differences in the clamor that makes up the generalized roar. There is angry shouting from men and women; there is metallic clamoring of weapons pounding on shields with metal bosses of the city guard; there was authoritative shouts; and last of all, there was wails of grief.

The tall, white buildings in the center of the city – residences of the local nobility – and places of official business gleam in the late morning sunlight. They draw the eye away from the golden seas beyond and from the emerald fields; however, today, they do not draw Pól’s eyes upwards. Today, the walls cannot detract from the throngs of dirty, sweaty people who mill about the streets. The hordes of shouting people shove against the bulwarked city guard who seem to be trying to contain the commotion.

Pól quickly dismounts and leads Mara in the shoving and pushing crowd, his hand tight on her bridle. Everyone is moving; he cannot find a single person to address. He spots a girl-child, no longer a child, but not quite a woman, seated on a barrel among others that line the side of the street. She swings her legs, he heels undoubtedly making ‘thunk’ noises as they slam into the side of the large barrel. Any sound her heels against the barrel are lost in the almost deafening noise of the crowd.

“What’s going on?” Pól shouts. He almost cannot hear the words as they come out of his mouth. They sound like a whisper, but he knows that he shouted them.

The girl fixes her brown eyes on him in a firm stare. A frown drags her eyebrows downwards, but she does not reply. She surveys his uniform and his horse with a slow sweeping stare.

“What is happening here?” Pól tries again.

The frown on her face deepens. She screws up her face and looks down only to spit on his boots.

Pól instantly makes to grab for the girl, but she is gone. Her ragged white shirt disappearing among so many others that are the exact same.

“Shite,” Pól mumbles as he roughly wipes his book off on the corner of the building that the barrels lean against. He cannot afford the time to think or try and figure out what is happening on his own. To figure that out he would need peace, quiet, and a preferably dark room with plenty of ale. None of which could be forthcoming in the current commotion.

“Common on,” Pól says softly to Mara even though she cannot hear him, tugging her forward into a walk. Together they slowly fight their way through the undulating crowd into areas less crowded, but no more pleasant than what they left behind as their steps carry them closer to the ocean and the neighborhood where Pól grew up.

The homes buildings become smaller, their limestone exteriors no longer gleam because their owners no longer have the time nor the money to spend time cleaning the outside of their homes. Pól loosens his grip on Mara’s bridle and reins as they move further from the pressing crowds and further into territory that is familiar to him from the years that he spent aimlessly wandering the streets as a youth who had little better to do with his time than get into trouble and see if anything exciting is taking place.

Soon he is turning down the alleyway between buildings leading into a small green courtyard that houses several large trees. Pól pauses to look around the familiar courtyard as he secures Mara’s reins to a post. The four buildings that create the walls of the courtyard share the space; their main doors open into the small private area. None of the doors sits flush to their frames and sand brought here by frequent windy storms deposited it in the corners where no one cares enough to sweep it away. A girl with brown hair is sitting in the shade of one of the trees. She can be no more than four summers old. She has a tiny horned lizard clutched tightly in her chubby fists, but her wide blue eyes stare widely up at him.

Pól gives the little girl a wolfish smile, showing far too many teeth. “Hey.”

Her eyes widen even further. “Mama!” she shrieks as she streaks from her position through one of the doors – making sure that she gives the tall stranger the widest berth possible. The door of the house bangs hollowly against an interior wall as the girl flings it aside in her mad dash.

Pól’s stomach clenches as he sees which building the girl has run into. A flash of fear and foreboding crosses his face as he considers the idea that his parents might have moved or passed away in the years since the last letter that he received.

That fear, however, quickly dissipates, when an elderly women is dragged from the dim interior of the home into the shady courtyard. “What is it, dear?” she asks from her hunched over position as the child tugs at her hand.

“See! Gra’ma! See!” The little girl demands pointing at Pól.

Shock replaces the fear on Pól’s face when the older woman slowly straightens – her hands moving to support her back. Silver streaks through her dark brown hair and her blue eyes no longer burn vibrantly as they do when he pictures her; his mother.

Ronit’s blue eyes – paled through age – widen as they land on him. “Pól?” she exhales quietly.

“Mother,” Pól says just as softly. He closes the gap between them with several long steps to wrap her in a hug.

“We’d given up on seeing you again,” Ronit says, her words muffled by her son’s waist.

Pól chuckles. “I managed to keep myself out of trouble long enough to keep my vacation.”

“You mean you kept your mouth shut,” Ronit teases.

Pól opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. Instead, he nods his agreement with a small smile quirking his lips.

The hug parts. Ronit smiles up at her son.

“Gra’ma?” The little girl tugs on Ronit’s skirt as she moves to hide behind the folds.

Pól startles when he notices the term the little girl used to refer to his own mother.

“Oh! No!” Ronit protests with a laugh at her son’s wide and questioning eyes. I haven’t had any more children and you know your brother is still firmly ensconced in the monastery. I doubt he has ever looked at a woman in that way.”

Pól gestures to the little girl. “Who is she, then?”

“I’m Polly,” the little girl says impetuously.

Ronit drops her hand to caress Polly’s hair. “To be accurate I am her great grandma. And you’re her grandfather.”

Pól’s face constricts when he feels his heart and his breath catch. “Sive?” he asks desperation and fear creeping into his voice.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Ronit quickly assures. “Actually, she’ll probably be along shortly to see why I haven’t returned.”

“Ma? Is something wrong?” A voice shouts from inside.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Ronit shouts over her shoulder. She turns her attention back to her son. “How long are you staying this time?”

Pól has to drag his attention away from the dim interior of the house and back to his mother and the question that she just asked.

“Hmmm? Oh, I have a month. I’ll stay however long you want me here,” Pól says distractedly his gaze already being drawn back to the door. “Is she inside?”

“She was working on some mending,” Ronit says.

Before Ronit can continue, a tall woman slowly emerges from the house. Her dress stretches tight over her pregnant stomach. She is much taller and developed than when Pól last saw her, but he feels that he would recognize her anywhere no matter how old she was or how much she had changed.

Pól smiles. “Sive.”

Sive freezes. “What are you doing here?” she demands.

The smile fades from Pól’s face at his daughter’s harsh tone. “As my mother said I kept my mouth shut long enough to take advantage of some of my leave.”

“It’s been over a decade since you had leave?” Sive scoffs, disbelief coloring her tone.

“I have trouble with staying out of trouble, I always have,” he says in a monotone voice. “Father?” he gestures to the little girl and Sive’s pregnant belly.

The defiance disappears from her face as she looks away and crosses her arms.

Pól shifts widening his stance and crossing his own arms. “Is there something I need to know? Someone I need to go after? My position affords me certain . . . liberties.” He carefully enunciated each syllable of the last word.

“It’s nothing like that,” Sive mumbles, but does not look back towards her father. “There is no father.”

Pól’s eyes soften. “Did he die?”

Sive’s snaps her attention back to Pól. “No,” she says firmly. Her eyes burn as she says the next words, “I’m a prostitute.”

Pól keeps his arms crossed, but his fingers dig into his biceps as anger flashes across his face. “Why?” he bites out angrily.

“Because you weren’t here!” Sive snaps. “Someone had to do something to support us after grandpa died. And I wasn’t qualified for anything else. No one wants a ‘dock-brat’ working as a maid or a nanny.”

“The Griffin’s school trains you for more than laying on your back with open legs!”

Ronit quickly moves between the pair who are facing off. She places her hand gently on the center of his chest and presses. “They closed the school shortly after you left last time,” Ronit explains softly. Sive does not wait to hear what her mother says; Sive grabs Polly and disappears into the house.

“What? Why?” Pól demands. The pinched corners of his eyes relax at his mother’s words though. He might be able to do something to remedy that even if it is too late for his daughter. It is certainly not too late for her unfortunate children.

Ronit shrugs. “We only ever heard rumors. Others tried to start up schools, but none of them lasted more than a few moons.”

“What were the rumors?”

Ronit looks away before meeting her son’s eyes. “That they closed the school her because no one could afford to pay any sort of tuition.”

“WHAT? That’s the whole point of the schools!” Pól rages. “They are there so that children have options besides thievery and whoring!”

“I know,” Ronit says gently. “But they closed it nonetheless. The only school that is open now is the one that the well-born children attend. They’ve closed almost everything. There are no more shelters for homeless children.” She sighs. “Everything has been a downward spiral for the past decade and now – as you doubtless saw – has exploded.”

“That’s what that was?” Pól asks curiosity mixing the anger on his face.

“Partially, yes.” Ronit pauses to look over her shoulder to ensure that her granddaughter is no longer present. “There is so much more to it though. Many of the nobility around here have cut their serfs and servants lose. There are more men looking for work but there are fewer jobs. Many young men are into military service to avoid prison where they would be for theft even if they were only stealing so that they could to pay the taxes. The last straw seems to have been raids from the southeast. The nobility has no interest in repairing what the barbarians destroy and the Griffins have not lifted a single finger to ease the suffering of us common folk. They only seem to cater to the needs of the wealthy.” Contempt colors Ronit’s final words.

Pól’s face sags in a defeated expression. “I’ve heard nothing of this. Not even in the councils that I’ve attended in the capital.”

“It’s happened though. And we all have to deal with it.”

“I suppose,” Pól says as he looks beyond his mother.

“I hope you will still stay here, despite Sive’s bad manners. I would love to have you and Sive and Polly should have the chance to get to know you in any way. Especially Sive, even if she thinks that is far too late for the relationship to do her any good.”

“I’ll see what I can do for her. I have plenty of connections, I’m sure I could get her a job that pays decently that isn’t . . .” Pól flounders as he reaches words that he does not want to say, that he cannot say now that anger is no longer burning through him.

“I’m not sure how much good you’ll be able to do, but I would sure appreciate it. Moreover, if I had managed to pound any manners into her, she would appreciate it too.”

Pól nods slowly. “You said everything had ‘exploded’ is that what is happening down near the mercat cross?”

Ronit nods emphatically. “We haven’t left the courtyard in a few days. People are clashing with the city guard and many have died. Nobody has drawn on the guard, but there have been deaths all the same.”

“Can I leave Mara here, or do I need to find one of the public stables and pay for a stall?” Pól’s eyes brighten as he speaks.

“She can stay. I’m sure Polly will be out here to look at her once Sive releases her,” Ronit says before continuing skeptically. “Why? Where are you going?”

Pól is already moving after the first words leave Ronit’s lips. “I’m going down to the mercat cross to see what is happening and to see if there is anything that I can do to help. If I can I would rather like to prevent any more deaths.”

---

The crowds and the noise are worse near the mercat cross Pól realizes after it takes him several minutes to move ten feet. He realizes that on his way into the city he had only encountered the edge. He feels like everyone from the city and all of the surrounding communities is crammed into the area that on certain days of the year is a large open-air market.

Pól uses his height to force his way through the crowd. Even though he stands several inches among most of the people present, he cannot see any end to the crowd even though everyone is moving. Suddenly the crowd is surging forward carrying Pól along with its terrifying momentum. He struggles to keep his feet. He can pay attention to very little else besides not falling down and being trampled until the crowd stops moving and he is deposited in front of a row of city guardsmen who have formed a wall with their shields.

Many of the guardsmen that Pól can see are young. Their own eyes are wide with fear. Given a different day or a different time, they would likely be on the other side of the barrier of shields.

Pól snaps his head to look when a man shouts for the crowd to be silent. The roar of voices all taking and shouting at once silence, but there is still sounds in the background of keening and other voices. The man who is speaking is standing atop a large object because he stands above the crowd and all can see him.

All eyes focus on the man whose ragged pants and shirt are dirty and hang off his skinny frame. His dark hair hangs lankly, dirtily around his face. The man surveys the crowd of people before he begins speaking. “Friends and brothers! You all know why we’re here today!” he shouts out over the crowd. He stops speaking because his words cannot pierce through the cheering of the crowd.

“Those greedy bureaucrats who PROCLAIM to do what is best for us,” he continues, “Have shut down our schools! They have taken away the homes for displaced women and children leaving our sisters and children to starve on the streets! WE WILL MAKE THEM BRING THOSE BACK! Their children get to attend schools and learn so that they don’t end up in the jails or dead!”

The cheer goes up again around Pól, but he frowns. He turns to a middle-aged man who is cheering next to him. “How?” he asks loudly.

“How?” Pól demands of anyone around him that can hear him.

The middle-aged man turns to him – his eyes are wide with excitement. “Doesn’t matter,” he shouts.

A guardsman with a plumed helmet makes his way through the lower ranking guards. They part before him; they close up behind just as quickly as they parted. He is the captain of the city guard. His leather armor has gold toned scale mail over the shoulders and chest. The crowd parts around the captain as he makes his way forward to stand next to the leader of the crowd. The people move back in silence. The excited tension of the crowd gives way to something more wary and nervous.

They continue to shuffle backwards, whispering nervously to one another as the captain adjusts his belt and stares around at the gathered crowd. When the captain clears his throat, the nervous whispering stops. In a crowd of hundreds of people, Pól can hear only the shuffle of booted and bare feet on the stones of the square.

“People of Acle,” the captain begins. He does not shout, but his voice carries over their heads and echoes off the surrounding buildings. “You all know me. Moreover, I know most of you. I know that the recent cutbacks on public services have come as a shock and they have had a negative impact on our community.”

Some whispering resumes along with head nodding, but as soon as the captain begins speaking again it ceases.

“I have already spoken with the council members about your demands. I have told them that I believe that it would be best for our city if we could reestablish at least a few of the services that we have lost at whatever cost. However, they have assured me that they are doing everything that they can to bring back the schools, the shelters, and create more jobs for you fine people.”

The crowd begins grumbling, their discontented whispers are louder this time around.

“HOWEVER,” the captain shouts over the crowd. They silence. “They say that they cannot come to any solution that would restore ANY programs if you INSIST on remaining on their doorsteps shouting at all hours of the day! If you would but disperse they will have a solution within a fortnight!”

This time, as soon as the captain finishes speaking the leader of the people speaks. “What Captain Henry is telling us, brothers and sisters,” he shouts over the crowd. However, despite his volume, his voice carries much less authority and confidence than the captain’s voice did only moments before. “Is that we ARE making a difference. They are hearing us!”

A cheer goes up among the people despite the stern expression that emerges on Captain Henry’s face and the stiffening of the guardsmen at that expression.

“We ARE having an impact. Here. Right now! If we leave, we have no guarantee that they will fulfill any of what they have instructed the Captain – their puppet! – to tell us they will do. Because we will no longer be here, they will no longer think of us!”

“They cannot hear each other speaking to even try and deliberate over the problems that you want resolved, Matthew Smith!” Captain Henry roars over the sound of the crowd and the shouting of their leader.

“They will have no incentive to continue deliberating if we leave!” The man, Matthew Smith, screams back.

The clamoring of the people – each shouting their support for their leader – begins to rise and they begin to move forward as if they all wish to occupy the space right next to their leader.

With this surge of movement, Captain Henry retreats – this time without the courteous parting of the crowd – to his position behind the shield wall that the people are now pressing up against. “Keep them back!” Captain Henry roars to his men.

In response to their captain’s orders and to the threat that the people now pose since they are shoving at the guards the men draw wooden batons from their belts to beat back their attackers. The crowd continues forward, despite the weapons – that’s shining wood glints in the sunlight – against them – carrying Pól along with it. He struggled briefly to remain where he was and let the people move past him and around him, but that quickly proves to be a fruitless and hazardous endeavor as he is nearly throw to the ground.

Some of the younger, less experienced guards drawn their swords in the face of the charging crowd. The panic on their faces is clear, but the cold steel does nothing to inhibit the people who are shoving the guardsmen back. Soon, shouts of pain and of anger fill the air. Batons crack firmly against bone, but the swords slides easily, too easily, through soft, yielding flesh.

Blood quickly pools between the cobblestones resulting in hazardous footing. It quickly soaks through soft leather and cloth shoes that many of the citizens wear. Many slip and fall, spots of blood appearing in the process.

Pól moves through the crowd as quickly as he can. He cannot escape the crushing mass of people, but he can do what he can to help the wounded either from swords slashes or from broken bones. He falls a few times himself. Very few people present are free from bloodstains. This hinders Pól in his objective. Everyone present appears to sustain an injury of some sort. Most of those he asks, however, say that it is not theirs.

Despite the chaos, the guardsmen are performing as many arrests as they can manage without giving away ground or placing themselves in dangerous positions. There are not enough men present to take those who stand in handcuffs away. Men, women, and even a few children stand where the guardsmen leave them.

As Pól moves through the crowd, he does what little he can to prevent any further injuries. Most, however, he cannot prevent. He can do nothing, as he watches a boy, no older than twelve, end up on the receiving end of a baton blow. Even though Pól cannot hear the sicken crack that he knows accompanied the blow he feels it in the pit of his stomach as he watches the boy crumple into a heap in the road.

Pól rushes forward, to move the boy from the center of commotion, the help him, to do something. In his hurry, though, he slams into a first lieutenant guardsman.

The lieutenant’s hand snacks out and seizes a fistful of Pól shirt and waistcoat before Pól can move away.

“I’m not part of this,” Pól snaps irritably. He points to the embroidered emblem on the breast of his waistcoat “I’m a Griffin. I’m just trying to help the injured.”

Pól moves to jerk himself from the lieutenant’s grip, but the guardsman just tightens his grip. Pól stops pulling when he hears the rending of fabric. He frowns. “You can check it against the rolls if you’d like. My name is Pól Paulson my originating school was here. Now, I must go.” Silence and the tearing of his shirt is all the meets his words.

“Your position grants you no lenience is these matters,” the lieutenant grunts.

“Leniency!” Pól half-shouts in surprise. “Bloody hell man, I’m not doing anything.”

The lieutenant, however, listens not to a single word of Pól’s protestations. “Abe,” he shouts to another of the men. “Your handcuffs. I’ve run out.”

“Wait, just a minute!” Pól grabs the man’s wrist and moves to twist it back and free himself.

The moment Pól’s fingers close around the lieutenant’s large wrist the other man, Abe, a stocky second lieutenant, moves in to assist his comrade.

A sharp blow from Abe’s baton to the back of Pól’s knees throws him to his knees. Pól grunts.

“It matters not what your position is. You are among the savage brutes, that is enough to condemn you,” the first lieutenant says as he loses his grip on Pól’s shirt.

“I. Am. A. Griffin,” Pól bites out from his position on his knees.

“Sure you are,” Abe says patronizingly.

“I am,” Pól snarls as he lunges to his feet. The position as a Griffin demands respect from everyone including the nobility. The only person a Griffin needs to bow to or show deference to are to other Griffins who out rank them, elders of their own organization, and the king himself. The queen does not even demand the respect and loyalty of the Griffins.

Light explodes behind Pól’s eyes as Abe’s baton collides with his skull. This time, without the stabilizing influence of the first lieutenant’s grasp, Pól falls to his hands and knees. A wave of nausea rolls through his body causing him to wretch up the minimal contents of his stomach. He groans and squeezes his eyes shut against the sunlight that seems far too bright all of a sudden. He shivers at the tickled of a trickle of blood that rolls down his face from beneath his hairline.

The first lieutenant plants his foot between Pól’s heaving shoulder blades and shoves the Pól down to the pavement. He replaces his iron-shod boot with his knee. He forcibly pulls Pól’s arms behind his back and clamps the iron handcuffs shut around his wrists.

“Up you get,” the lieutenant grunts and he hauls Pól to his feet by his arms and ignoring the fact that he vomits again.

Pól stumbles as the guardsman shoves him forward.

“We’ll get the rebellion in hand, just you see,” the lieutenant promises as he roughly shoves Pól in among the rest of those who have been arrested.