Chapter Two: The Cleansing

by Carl E. Mullin ©2020

The deep and sharp tone of a loudspeaker broke the moonless darkness full of oppressive humidity.

“Attention all units. Attention all units. It is now H-hour minus four. Repeat, this is now H-hour minus four.” The speaker choked sharp as it was shut off.

The shieldmaiden ignored it.

She faced the bare and shadowed adobe wall of this little house she had lived in for the last few days. There was a white porcelain pitcher sitting in a large and deep bowl of the same color upon the towel-draped tall stool. Her hand reached down and raised it high. The lukewarm water poured over her head, snaking her dark and wet crimson hair over her pale neck. The cooling water riveted down her strong swimmer’s shoulders bringing relief from the jungle heat of the night. A temporary relief but still a relief. She opened her mouth and her breast rose and fell as she filled her lungs deep and slow. Her slender fingers spread the water down her hair. She poured more sweet relief over her body. Her sleep had been fitful. Soon the rose-fingered dawn would break the darkness, bringing more than the heat of her brother’s sun. The wait was finally coming to an end so she prepared for her duty. A final duty perhaps.

Perhaps not. Outside the engines roared loud. Elephantine steps resounded.

With a bar of soap she lathered her already baking limbs. She will not think of what her fate may be for it is useless to think of such things. She will think of her duty and of the plan. With each stroke of her hands on her limbs, she went over the memorized details of the map, of the movements ordered, of the names of her steel-helmeted men. She will not worry, for what need there was for a worry? Soon, she will go to the hall of her fathers, full of the glittering shields on the isle of the blessed to share their august company. Or not. She does have the comfort of knowing that their shades will watch over their kin, to send their power forward to preserve her if the Gods permit so. If the sacred weavers permitted it. What need was there for worry then? She will master herself and face whatever comes with a bold tiger-heart beating inside her small rib cage. No, she will cleanse herself, to wash away the pollution from her body and of her mind and of her heart.

Her heart resisted. It remained heavy as it had been for years. Well, she shall have to make most of it.

 A final pour of water from the pitcher. The cupped hands splashed her face. The soapy feel washed away to her bare toes. She dried herself.

Time.

In the pitched darkness, her hand felt the baked clay of the wall as she stepped away from her toilet. She reached her already made bed covered with the tools of her craft. She took care to avoid seeing the final item at the foot of her bed.

Instead, she sought out a small wooden box standing upright atop a rustic dresser. Its twinned doors bonded together with a long ribbon of red Chinese silk about its two ornate and dark-brown knots of brass. The doors’ panels were carved deep with lush roses blooming out from within the serpentine design full of knots and traversed twists. Her fingers untied the ribbon and opened the box. A small and flat drawer under the doors, she unlatched and pulled out. The drawer protested at first and then surrendered its prize. She will have to find a carpenter to plane and refinish that drawer’s warping sides another day. When was it made? she wondered. Before her time that she knew. Yes, time to redo this flaw. If she comes back.

With reverence, she fished out a teacup candle and a tube of matches. Then a saucer and a flask. These she placed inside the box. A match she struck. It flared hot and yellow in an angry burst before it calmed into a slight dance of gas and fire on its wooden end. Her face emerged in its warm orange light, her eyes glittering bright. With a practiced grace she put the fire to the candle’s wick. The wick caught its burning gift. It bent and struggled before towering in warm pride. The box’s interior brightened. The armor on the bed sparkled in the soft red glow, their blue shadows giving a deep mass to their hard forms.

In the back of the box two faces came into the light. Their varnished blue eyes sparkled with life. Side by side the two goddesses maintained their eternal poses since the day an unknown master painted them, his oils brushed against the primed panel centuries ago. Painted them he did, with prayer and holy care, permitting no crack or thoughtless discoloring to dishonor the divinities or his profession.

She glanced down at a single piece of fabric next to the altar-box. A black-bordered silk ribbon of robin’s egg blue. With ginger care, she picked it up and breathed deep its scent with closed eyes. Her half-closed eyes peeked at the dancing light for a moment then she placed a soft kiss on the ribbon.

After replacing the ribbon on the dresser, she turned to take an inventory of her tools on the rough-hewed bed.

At the pillow, she picked up her helmet, her hands on its ear disks of steel, a blend of an ancient Corinthian and Saxon helmet design. It was manufactured out of the skymetal mined from a pockmarked nickel-iron asteroid tugged from beyond Mars. In the low-gravity mills ringing the earth, the mineral was mined and reshaped into a foam-metal much like the bone-structure. The inside of metal was shot through with millions of microscopic holes. Like the arch of a building that directed the energy of gravity out and down its columns, these holes can absorb the impact by scattering its kinetic energy outward, making the metal both lighter and more resilient than any earth-manufactured steel, most useful to the armor-wearer.

Across its top a low and sleek plumeless crest streaked, terminating above the forehead into a shape of charging horse-head, a gracious design for deflecting any blow from an edged weapon. A crimson lacquer shield-shaped seal sat above the eyes. On it was a snaring golden lion of England ready to pounce with bared claws, daring any would-be sniper to take an aim. Above the seal was an embossed captain’s insignia. The front of the helm has two eye-shaped visors with shatter-proof plexiglass and a graceful T-shape nose guard that merges with the cheek-plates under the eyes. The broad cheek plates slope down to cover most of the bearer’s jaws. A stark and projecting brim on the rear of the helm would protect the bearer’s neck.

All alongside the rim of the visor, the crest, the cheek-plates, and the brim was a continuous border design of Keltic-Saxon ornamentation, similar to the style of the illuminated Books of Iona made in the Inner Hebrides that carried the sacred stories of Homer. Contained within a simple border that flown with easy masculine grace this broad etching was a curvilinear pattern full of geometric design, interlaced lines, and zoomorphic heads and leaves. The pattern repeated in smaller rings onto the disks of the earmuffs too. She tipped the helm to peek inside its interior. The leather lining was screwed onto the steel and padded with sewed-in foam and attached to a loose chin strap.

The helmet set aside, she fingered quick her long linen shirt and the loincloth of brown leather embroidered with the royal lion in butterscotch color. Then the unzipped riding boots bearing their tiny lacquer shield-shaped seals on their lateral sides. Then the deerskin leather gauntlets with skymetal plate atop the back of hand and embroidered plant motifs in butterscotch color. Finding them in good repair, she set them aside.

The light brown leather battle-corset and the glittering breastplate armor were laid out side by side. The battle-corset has leather shoulder straps and two belts for weapons. It was hardened with five different types of protection, wood, clay, wool, and skymetal, sandwiched in various combinations within the thick leather skin. The wooden plates were lacquered many times, each resin increasing its resistance while preserving its lightness. Clay plates absorb the kinetic energy. Thick wool pads soften the blows. Thin skymetal plates increase protection. The bone braces were stitched into dark brown leather sleeves onto the corset to protect her core from extreme strains and movements.

The stainless skymetal breastplates were sculpted in the shape of a nude female torso. Between the breasts an impressive lion’s head projected out in deep relief to deflect any blow from the body’s most vulnerable spot. The riveted spaulder plates covered the shoulders and allowing the bearer to slide it over her corset so that it could be fastened with latched straps. Next to it she picked up the leather belt and tested its tensile strength with a couple of jerks. Good.

As she pressed the ribbon to her lips she glanced them over the elbow plates and knee plates. She slid her fingers across the golden lion atop its chemically-treated crimson field of her circular shield.

His snare did not fail to give her a small thrill. Multiple layers of lacquered wood and clay plates intersected with leather and fabrics lined the conclave hollow and then fitted with riveted arm and hand straps. It was heavy for one of her sex, designed for defense and brutal bludgeoning with its thick, curving edge as a club. Years of carrying that shield made her shoulders and arms taut and strong.

That one item at the end of the bed demanded her attention but she refused to look at it. Not yet.

Instead, she distracted herself with the broad and unbuckled thigh holster. Its two-buttoned canvas holsters held telescoping fight sticks of iron with textured grips and small balls on their heads. Nasty and effective clubs, especially useful for her sex.

Between them a sheath bore the soldier’s most essential tool. She put down her ribbon and pulled out her double-blade dagger. Its mirrored finish reflected back her eyes. The hilt had metal plates screwed together onto the dagger’s tang and then cross-latched by thin leather straps. The strap’s rough surface provided a good friction during some nasty wetwork. The hilt was enhanced with a small rear quillon to prevent slipping while pulling out. Its butt had a small metal button with the royal seal on it and is good for cracking glass or a head. Close to its main quillon on one side is a short serrated edge. Good for sawing a rope, a shoot of wood, or for gutting a fish. Opposite it on the other side was a small and deeply curved line cutter. Finding it flawless, she slid it back in.

She picked up a war-ax with three edges. Made of traditional iron to give it a killing weight, the head had a peculiar C-shaped profile, like a man with a curved-in beard, while its “cheek” is narrower than its cutting bit. The ax could chop the wood and its curved neck could act as a hook to disarm a sword or a rifle. On the opposite side of the blade was an elongated pick shape for climbing. At its crown was a short spike for a quick stabbing. The cheeks were etched with a stark and serpentine design of ivies and fox-heads. Their silver-like lines sparkled against the black slope of the head. The handle was a curved yew-wood with a leather strap wrapped in a cross-hatching pattern. A long leather wrist-band hung low from the handle’s knot. Useful for securing her hand to the ax in a close combat. She took a couple of steps back and held it out to feel its heave and balance. She made a couple of mock throws and nodded. It will do. She would prefer a carpenter’s ax for a more satisfying blow but it was a good ax. She dropped it back to the bed.

She almost turned to peek at the unwanted object but snapped her head away.

Instead, she picked up her white leather holster and produced a long-barreled semiautomatic sidearm. Made of a mixed alloy of earth steel and skymetal to compensate her sex’s natural weakness, it felt light in her hand. Its stainless surface gleamed bright in the rosy light. Its grip panels were textured rosewood with an inlaid brass pattern of florid design. A cast-metal loop projected from the grip’s corner to be stringed to her uniform. The gun’s frame held the royal crest of a lion surrounded by ornate etchings. The safety switch on, she pulled back its reload slide to inspect the chamber. Empty. She ejected its clip from the bottom and her thumb pressed down on the assembled .45 bullets. Full capacity. The .45 has good stopping action. The recoil tolerable on her shoulders. The kettlebells and boxing helped with her shoulders. The .22 and 9mm were easier on her frame but weren’t much good in a battle. Police action maybe. But her task is to deny the enemy any recourse and with all due speed. She dropped the clip onto the bed, separated the barrel, and peeked down its bore for cleanliness. She reloaded and held it out to check its balance with one hand. She switched to the other hand. A two-hand check. She sighted it. With a nod, she reholstered it and replaced it back onto the bed.

She paused. She took a deep breath and looked.

A sword rested in its scabbard with great patience. The sleekness of scabbard’s dark-tanned cherry panels was interrupted by two crossing leather straps, one at its “throat” under the locket and the other above the steel chape on its point-end. Its hollow was lined with a fine deer-hide. The locket and chape were simple and stainless steel plates. The locket was bedecked with the twisting etching of the world-tree Yggdrasil, its branches adorned with jewels still bright with colors after eight hundred years. Stolen loot? Perhaps. It mattered not. Not anymore.

She breathed deep and picked it up. A wedding gift to a shieldmaiden of her blood and a mark of great respect. The sword-hilt glowed. Its brass pommel and quillon were carved deep with patterns. The quillon was most detailed with two raven-heads facing in opposite directions. Like the god Woden’s ravens, Memory and Thought, one faced the past and one faced the future. A tight coil winded about the wooden handle and bound it to the blade’s tang. She took the hilt and pulled. The sword flashed bright as it appeared in the candle-light. Its length was modest and broad with double blades fitting for her sex’s frame. Some nameless swordsmith had taken this old sword and its scabbard some eighty years ago, before her time. In the storm of hiss and fire, he took a heritage centuries-old and molten it and hammered it into a shape fresh and sharp. In his hands, he midwifed its mother form into a daughter form for the generations yet to be born into this gods-infused world of forms divine and profane. Its scabbard he took. He stripped it bare. He resanded it and refinished it and refitted it with fresh fur-lining and made its tan-cherry surface glean fresh and new.

Her free hand slid up its blade, tracing its curved fuller at its core, her fingers feeling the fine-detailed floral etching inside it. Her throat grew tight as she examined for some minute flaw. With a sniff, she tested its point. With a sigh, she held it out in one hand. The balance was good. Yet it felt heavy. She glanced on the twined raven-heads with sadness. She bent to kiss the quillon and lay it to rest before the altar-box as if a child for presentation. Now her appointed hour approached.

She studied the faces in the box before her and they looked back with aristocratic calm, their smiles beatific. They stood side by side. One stood with a helmet propped back on her golden tresses and a snow-white spear in her hand. In front of her, a small white owl perched on her golden wrist bracer. Her blond companion wore a heavy red cloak patterned with falcon-feathers and topped with a fox-fur collar. She held a long-staffed ax with a curved etched blade. Her large forest cat peeked from over the fox collar at the owl. A sword hung from her slender waist.

With practiced grace, red wine poured from her flask into the saucer. The dark pool glittered in the warm and dancing light, a libation for the Gods. Before the holy icons she held up her sword, her eyes dancing with reverence.

“Kharis. Lady Athena. Lady Freo, who some call Freyja. Hallowed patrons of my blood, the bringer of the olive tree and the rider of the monstrous warboar, lend me thy ears. Cast thy kind eyes upon a daughter of a line fast passing into the sand of time and remember the gifts and sacrifices of my house up to thee. You who brought hope and aid to my house in the ages past turn away from me not. Throw your aegis over me and speak counsel as you have done for my mother before me and her mother’s mother and her mother’s mother. Today, a war called my name. Today, I seek you out with a holy libation. Touch me with thy spear and thy ax and renew suppleness of my limbs and the quickness of my wits. If today I am to go to the hall of my fathers then unsex me and lend me thy strength and thy fire so that I may not suffer a straw-death but to embrace my fate all-heart. Aid me so that I may bring greater glory to thy holy names and a greater honor to my blood. Bless me in exchange for this meager gift. Should I—”

She paused. With one hand she picked up the ribbon of robin’s egg blue and held it tight. “My Ladies, should I escape this evil then let my happiness be made complete. This, my sole request. Kharis.” She closed her eyes and kissed the quillon with a quiet grace and wait.

She opened her eyes and looked into their calm blue eyes and waited.

Nothing.

She sighed. Her answer will come soon enough. The sky grew deep blue outside and her room emerged into reality in the cool color set against the orange light. She looked again at the sword in her hands and her heart was filled with a deep longing. How pretty it is. How it brought so much sorrow to her for so long. A smile of regret tugged at the corners of her lips.

She slid the sword into its scabbard with a snap.

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