The Peaceful Man

THE PEACEFUL MAN

By

Doug LeBlanc

He woke to blazing light. Blinking, he sneezed, and laughed. No wonder he was awake so early! He had left the shutters open last night, and the dawn light flared off the snowy mountaintops like crystal fire. He took a deep breath, and felt glad to be alive. With a smile, he rose from his bed and went over to the window. How he loved the spring! The promise of new beginning, the first budding of the flowers and trees, all these things brought great joy to his life.
As he looked out, he noticed a commotion in the town square, with people running and crying out excitedly. Richard ignored it with stoic indifference. People tend to get excited rather easily in remote place like this. He was turning away from the window when the faint cries came up to him. Most of it was jumbled and garbled, but one word came in like an uninvited guest.
“War! War!”
He felt his knees go weak. War was a disaster that could; well, there was no point dwelling on what it could do. War was simply a disaster.
He turned back to the window, and opened it. Soon a young lad was racing by, hair blowing in the breeze from his efforts.
“Here, you lad, here! What news?”
He stopped, and looked up. “Vargends have taken Teabalt! They should be here in two days! I have to go!” and he sped off into the day.
“My thanks!” Richard yelled after him, not knowing if he was heard. Slowly he closed the window, and sat down on his bed. He thought of his life here, and how happy he had been. He was in his forty-fifth year, and had never been further than half-way down the mountain in his entire life. He loved this place with all his heart and soul, and it would kill him to see it destroyed in a war. A tear slowly wend its way down his cheek.
He took a deep breath, and decisively wiped the tear away. Courage would be needed now more than ever, and he would show all the courage he had: brightness to match the darkness of the days. He rose, and quickly dressed. He made his way down to breakfast, the other tenants in the rooming house solemn and fearful with the news.
Half way through the meal, he made a quite surprising jest that had the guests roaring with laughter, then donned hat and coat, and was out the door before the mirth had settled. The smile on his face was, perhaps, slightly put on, but the feeling behind it was sincere. The Light would see them through this dark time, he was sure of that.
He smiled cheerfully to everyone as he made his way down the street, but few answered in like kind. Almost every face was etched in fear, and it almost broke his heart to see the townspeople so frightened.
When he reached the brightly-painted building that was the town hall, he was hailed by Mick Bernhard. Tall, blonde, and good-looking, he was the town strong man, and, if truth be known, the town bully as well. However, as he had few victims besides Richard, few people took note.
“Patelman’, he began brusquely, “we are forming a militia to fight the Vargends. We need your help.”
Richard stared at him in utter surprise. “You want ME to join a militia?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Mick shook his head. “That wasn’t a request, Patel-bent,” he said angrily. “We need every man and more, even weak-kneed ones like you.”
“Not me, you don’t. I am a peaceful man. You know this. I cannot and will not raise my hand against another man.”
“And what will you do when the Vargends march in?” he demanded to know, angrily.
Richard smiled. “Why, I’ll greet them with a smile on my face, a friendly word upon my lips, and a song in my heart, as I would any other visitor to our town. If they still wish to kill me at that time, they are certainly free to do so.”
“And they certainly will, if I don’t do it first, you, you…”
“Ah, good day to you both,” a friendly voice rang out in the cool morning air.
They turned and both bowed their heads. Only Richard returned the smile.
“Good morning, Mayor Freahalt. And how are you today?” Richard inquired kindly.
“Well, considering the circumstances.”
Mick Bernhard jumped in. “Yes, sir, I was just going about recruiting men to defend our town from this terrible threat. I was talking to Patelman here, but it seems his cowardice is greater than his patriotism.”
The mayor’s face turned cold. “You dare to question this man’s patriotism? Why, he has given loyal service to this town since before you were born; in fact, since the time of your own father. He is obviously not a warrior, yet you expect him to fight, even knowing of his pacifism? Boy, you are a fool!”
“A fool, am I?” he replied angrily. “I am ready to defend this town to the death, and yet this man…”
“Enough, Mr. Bernhard,” the mayor interrupted, “that is enough. Mr. Patelman is my most valued assistant, and I can ill afford to lose him to hopeless battle. Come, Richard, we must make plans,” he finished, taking his friend by the elbow and guiding him up the steps to the town hall. Mick Bernhard remained behind, fuming in frustration.
They entered the hall together, both of them looking grim, and trying not to show it. They removed their cloaks, and shed their boots for soft slippers that were the usual footwear for them. A few moments later, they were ensconced in the mayor’s office, ready to discuss the issue at length. They were quickly interrupted by a knock on the door.
On the command to enter, a ruffled head appeared. “Your lordship, I was instructed to report to you. I am Fren Darhold. I am the messenger that brought the news this morning.”
“Ah, come in, come in. Have you breakfasted yet?”
He laughed as he entered the door. “I’ll say, they’ve been feeding me since I came in. The hospitality of Bentear has certainly not lessened.”
“We hope not,’ Richard chimed in, “whatever else may change in the days to come. We are known for our hospitality far and wide.”
“Indeed, we are,” agreed the mayor. “Now, take a seat, and tell us all that has happened.”
The man did so, and began his tale.
“Well, I was riding my rounds in the lower hills, when I came across some refugees. I inquired after their troubles, and I first heard that the Vargends had crossed the borders in the lowlands, and defeated every army sent against it. They are led by a man named Wencarth, a great, hulking brute, but smart as a whip.
“From the first, he led them into victory after victory. Now he’s taken Teabalt, and, as God is my witness, there is not a man, woman or child left alive there.”
The mayor paled, and looked as if he were going to faint. “Everyone?” he croaked in a whisper.
“Everyone. I've seen it for myself, so I know. I haven’t told any of the others here about that part.”
“You’re sure there were no survivors?”
“Some may have escaped into the caves, but there was no one there when I passed it. It’s possible, though.”
“Fren, how soon before they get here?”
He hung his head. “By tomorrow afternoon, morning of the next day at the latest.”
“What are we going to do?” the mayor asked.
Richard glanced at the messenger. “Fren, what route did you take coming here?”
“Echo Canyon, of course. Any other way would take days longer.”
“Yes, of course. And, how was the snow there?”
“Not bad, on the ground. There is the danger of avalanche, as usual at this time of year. You should have it cleared, when this crisis is over, of course.”
“And assuming we will survive,” added the mayor in a gloomy voice.
“Of course we will, my dear mayor,” Richard told him confidently.
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“I wish you had, too. There is nothing to be gained by useless worry. All will be well, you’ll see.”
“How?” he demanded bluntly.
Richard shrugged, and grinned. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea.”
“Well, that makes me feel SO much better,” the mayor sighed, and put his head in his hands.
Richard gazed at his old friend calmly. He wished he could offer comfort, but he knew better. If anyone could stop his plans, it was Tom Freaholt.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” Fren asked as he rose, “I have other business to attend to. Good day, and good luck.”
“Yes, of course, and thank you, Fren. God Speed,” replied Richard. Hr glanced back at his friend, but he remained as he was. Richard hesitated, then followed the messenger out the door.
“Fren, a moment. What numbers are we facing?”
He hesitated. “Reports I’ve heard say at least five thousand.”
“What about the king’s army?”
“They’ve already been defeated. The remnants are regrouping, but they’re heading back to the city. Even if they set out right away, they could not come up with them in time. Your best plan is to escape. You could lead the people up higher into the mountains.”
“We’d have to leave the women and children here, to die. No, we’ll think of something. No army has ever taken our town, and they will not start now.”
The messenger bowed his head before the older man’s conviction, but could say nothing. He knew there was no hope. Slowly he mounted, and rode toward the roadway that led to the other villages that must be warned. Richard watched him as he rode away, wondering, wondering. He turned, and went back inside.

Business in the local tavern was brisk that afternoon. It seems half the town’s population were there, trying to bolster courage they were hoping to find in a beer glass. At the centre of a group of adoring followers, Mick Bernhard held forth with a large mug of beer in his hand.
“I tell you, boys, we can take these Vargends if we put our minds to it. Why, we know these mountains inside and out. We can strike, and they’ll never know what hit them.”
“But we’d still lose the town,” one man said.
“Well, we probably wouldn’t if we could get everyone to pitch in. Take Patelman, now. Lot of talk one hears from the man, but little to show for it. Not much of a man, if truth be known. Won’t stand with us, won’t fight to defend what’s his. They call that cowardice.”
“Richard’s a good man,” stated Bob Freahalt, the mayor’s son. “Many a person in this town has benefited from his goodness.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t a good man, I said he’s a coward. He may be the most generous man in the world, according to some, but he’s of no use to us now, is he? No real good in a fight, and that’s what counts, what matters. We need brave men right now, not do-gooders. We need warriors.”
No one argued with him. No one looked at him. Everyone felt they should defend the man who had helped them so much, but they were equally afraid of Mick. Besides, many felt his words weren’t exactly untrue. Richard was a good, kind man, but hardly known for anything resembling courage. He was, as everyone knew, a peaceful man. No one had every seen him even raise his voice, save in song at festival time. Then he could sing with the best of them, his great, tenor voice ringing out loudly across the mountains (or so it seemed).
Still, he had been seen to back down from arguments, and to avoid Mick whenever possible. Mick mentioned this with a smirk, and Bob had to resist to urge to strike him. It’s true Richard was a peaceful man, but that did not mean he was a coward. Bob wished he had the courage to say so.
The beer flowed, the conversation waxed and waned, but they knew they were doomed men.
Only Richard held out any hope, and even he was seen to glance sadly at his surroundings, as if committing them to memory; as if he would never see them again. The mountain tops seemed to uphold the great, vast blue dome of the sky. Beautiful small yellow flowers were beginning to bloom, marking the incredible greenness of the grass. In this time of fear, the world seemed more lovely than at any other time in recent memory. Perhaps more so: the time we appreciate the world around us most is when we are closest to losing it. And it was so with Richard Patelman.

Wencarth called a halt. The Vargends had travelled a great distance today, and it was time to rest. They set up a camp site quickly, and with military precision. This plateau was ideal for such an encampment, and the men had everything set up within a few minutes. Tents were erected, fires lit, meals prepared. Everything according to plan.
After they had eaten, they took out the captives. The women gave right good sport, their muffled screams echoing around the camp. Wencarth laughed at the play of his men, and reveled in the agony of their victims. The sun set in bloody, fiery splendor, almost in mimicry of the blood of the victims of the Vargends. God, how he loved war.

Night descended on the village of Bentear. The villagers were usually abed early, but tonight the inhabitants drank themselves into a dangerous, belligerent mood. When the tavern closed, hours later than they usually did, a group of them roved out looking for more to drink. They descended upon the abode of one Richard Patelman, led by a drunken blond man. Mick led them up the stairs, and they pounded on his door. There was no answer. Finally, Mick pushed the door in with his shoulder, screaming for Richard to come out from hiding. He was not there. He was nowhere to be found. However, he did have a quite passable supply of liquor on hand, and the young men helped themselves to it. The only one who concerned himself with Richard’s absence was Mick. He wondered where he was. He wondered very hard, indeed.

The full moon shone down upon the mountain tops, turning the snow to patches of silver against jet black of the rock. Like great, piercing spikes jutting up into the sky and bleeding starlight, the mountains pierced the heavens above above Richard into a vast, breath-taking canopy. The night seemed so real to him, so alive, that it seemed to echo his very breathing. He drank in the beauty like wine, and became intoxicated with the vision of splendour stretched out before him.
He wept. Tears stung his eyes, but he did not turn away. His pain was like swords, but there was great joy as well. Joy that he had known such beauty; joy that such panorama was his to see, and for so many days of his blessed life. His tears were not of grief so much, but the combination of love and joy and sadness all combined. He wept, but gave no thought to his tears. No words he had could ever convey his feelings; no songs, no artistry could match the feelings that swelled, that over-flowed into a joy beyond description.
He spent the night in this rapture, then gloried again in the breath-taking wonder of the dawn. He vibrated with it, the music of it sang in his blood; it echoed in the very depths of his being. He was more alive in that moment than in all the years he had known. There was no longer any sadness, just determination, just love.

The day dawned crisp and bright. The Vargends rose from sleep at Wencarth’s rousing, and they quickly broke camp. Soon the night’s victims were disposed of, and they were on their way.
The sun glared off the snow of the peaks, blinding them as they made their way forward toward their conquest. They climbed higher up the mountainside, defeating what little opposition dared stand before them. The town of Bentear was next on their list of conquests. Word was that they were a wealthy community, and the Vargends were anticipating an easy victory, with plenty of plunder to be had afterwards.
The only difficulty they faced was a narrow canyon that had to be crossed, for they could only walk a few abreast at a time. It was a perfect place for an ambush, but his scouts reported nothing of the kind. Wencarth thought the locals must be stupid, not to realize how vulnerable they were here. They entered the canyon, a vast, fearless army, undefeated, unstoppable. Fear ran before them on the wind, carrying news of death and destruction, coming, coming soon.

“Richard Patelman’s missing.”
“Hiding, you mean,” Mick growled.
“No,” responded Bob irritably, “I mean he’s missing. He’s been missing since last night. As you undoubtedly know.”
“And how would I know that?” Mick snarled.
“You and your cohorts were in his room, that’s why.”
“Why, you,” he snarled angrily,…
Bob held up his hand. “Don’t bother to deny it. I saw you and your friends enter his place last night. The fact remains, he’s gone, and he’s been gone all night.”
“He probably ran away,” Mick shrugged. “We all know what a coward he is.”
“Actually, he’s a peaceful man. There’s a difference, you know,” Bob reminded him.
“Not in his case, there isn’t,” he answered back with a defiant glare.
Bob looked like he was going to respond, but shrugged instead. “It hardly matters. He’s not here, for all the difference it makes.”
Mick shook his head. “You’re right. A coward could hardly make any difference at this time. I don’t think we’ve long to wait, one way or another.”
“I guess not,” Bob agreed sadly. They gripped their weapons tighter, and waited for the Vargends.

He had been here before. Once, long ago, he had come here as a young lad, daring the risky climb. The problem was that the climb was made from the inside of a cavern, and came out of a cave halfway up Echo Canyon. A favourite haunt of the local youth, it had the advantage of placing one close to Echo Canyon, without being seen by anyone. The young men would then call to passersby, startling them out of their wits as a disembodied voice seemed to float upon the air, calling to them. The locals all knew of it, and were not surprised anymore, but strangers were often surprised by the sounds that seemed to come from nowhere. Thus it was for the Vargends.
The voice startled them all badly. “I give you greetings, strangers. Welcome to Bentear.”
They looked desperately about, but could see no one.
“Where are you? Who are you?” Wencarth demanded angrily.
“Why, right here, my lord! I repeat, welcome to Bentear! If you come in peace, you and your followers are most welcome.”
The Vargends all laughed. “Well, we can hardly be said to come in peace. We DO intend to leave your town in pieces when we leave, however.” His followers all laughed at the joke their leader made.
“A shame, really. We are such a nice town, warm and friendly. Why should you wish us harm?”
Wencarth laughed. “I enjoy hurting people, especially people like you. Show yourself, or is the only thing you are good for is shouting at your betters from hiding?”
“Actually, no, my lord. I merely thought to welcome you with warm greetings, and – a song., should you come with the wrong intentions.”
“A song?” Wencarth said, incredulously. “You’re going to sing to us? That is an unusual welcome!”
Richard opened his mouth, and began to sing his favourite hymn. Soon the sound of his voice was booming across the valley, and Echo Canyon lived up to its name. The sound was doubled and tripled, and could be heard for miles. So loud was it that the Vargends covered their ears, but the sound only grew louder.
Soon the whole valley was filled with the force of Richard’s great voice. It grew and grew, until the very mountain shook with it. It shook the rocks, it shook the trees, it shook the very air.
It shook the snow.
The roar of it came thundering, crashing down like a great white sea. Huge waves of snow descended from on high, hammering into the screaming Vargends, burying many, dragging many more to their deaths off the vast mountain. In seconds the Vargend army was reduced to a few pockets of soldiers, hanging precariously onto ledges and trees, trying desperately to survive, to hang on for dear life.
Swept down the mountainside, then torn over the cliff to the great distance below, Richard Patelman fell, but sang every inch of the way, even when his mouth filled with snow. He sang himself to his death.

They were waiting for the Vargends, weapons clenched firmly, fear etched on their faces. No one doubted they faced certain death, but they felt it was better to go down fighting than to die helplessly. They would die anyway. They waited, knowing the time would not be long. They waited in silence.
They waited, then slowly a sound came to them. Faint, barely to be heard, but it was there. It was the sound of someone singing. They stared at each other incredulously. Why would someone be singing hymns at a time like this? Was he mad?
Bob was the first to understand. “It’s Richard. He’s singing. He’s singing in Echo Canyon!”
“What an idiot!” Mick burst out. “What’s he trying to do, kill himself?”
With those words, they heard the thunder that they all knew and feared. It was a fact of life here high up in the mountains. It was a sound they dreaded, a sound they knew brought death and destruction.
None of them could ever, ever remember feeling joyful at the sound.
They began to run, to charge toward the canyon where the sounds were echoing away. They ran with hope, they ran with deep wonder. The townspeople heard the same sound, and they came out of their houses and hiding places, and they, too, began to run. Soon the whole town was pelting full speed toward Echo Canyon.
The young men were the first to arrive. They stared in utter amazement as they watched the struggling remnants of the Vargend’s once vast army reduced to a mere handful of soldiers desperately struggling for survival. They could also hear the last notes of Richard singing as he fell, fell from the great height of the mountain, fell further from his home than he had ever been. It seemed the singing went on a long, long time before a barely discerned silence finally descended on the valley, save for the crying of a few people trying to hang on for dear life.
Mick took one look at the survivors, and realized there was still a task to be done. If the survivors were to gather together, they could still be a threat.
“Come on, boys, let’s take out the survivors! Quick, before they regroup!”
The young men, hopeful of battle at last, charged into the struggling men, slaying them as they emerged from the snow. Those that could.
In a short time, it was all over. Most of the survivors surrendered when they realized how hopeless their cause was. The townspeople arrived to cheer the brave young men taking the soldiers captive. They did not realize what had happened yet, save they knew their town was, against all possible odds, safe. They saw the young men taking prisoners, and they concluded they were responsible for saving their town.
When they arrived back in town, the people hoisted the brave lads to their shoulders and paraded them through town. The celebration lasted for a long time before order could be restored, and even then no one would listen to the story of what had happened.
Gradually, however, calm began to settle in, and proper order restored. Tom Freahalt was called on to make a speech, and reluctantly he did so. He had learned of the fate of his good friend, and he was heart-sick at the news. Nonetheless, he was determined that everyone know of his noble sacrifice.
Mick, especially, was not pleased at the turn of events. He was a hero for a very short time, and was not happy to have to share it with a man he had despised, regardless of the greatness of his sacrifice.
“Friends,” the mayor began, “today we have seen courage in its greatest form. We have been saved by a man of peace, Richard Patelman.”
“A coward!” Mick called out into the brief pause.
Bob Freahalt was the first to hit him. He swung hard and sure, striking him across the jaw, and sending him sprawling. He was about to go after him, but a few others grabbed him and held him back. Mick came to his feet in a blinding fury, but was attacked immediately by a number of others. The fights were quickly broken up, but not before Mick had been badly beaten.
The mayor tried to continue, but he was too choked up to do so. He left the celebration, and went home. There he wept his heart out for his loss; but also wept for joy and wonder at the depths of Richard’s great courage. They were alive and safe, when they had faced sure death and destruction, thanks to him. He sacrificed his life for the town he loved, the ultimate sacrifice possible. He was touched and deeply moved by this, more so than anything else he had ever heard of.

In remembrance of the man who had saved them, the town erected a statue to Richard Patelman. A guild was formed to keep it clean and well kept, and it was a high civic honour to be appointed to this guild.
Mick Bernhard was eventually driven from the town, but according to his own version, he left of his own will. He would not remain in a town, he said, that was so lost to sentimentality they would erect a statue to a coward. He soon left the highlands, and went to live in the cities to the south, wandering aimlessly for the rest of his days. He would not stay in one place very long, but would always move on. Oddly enough, this was usually after an argument had ensued about a certain folk hero from the mountains.
Indeed, Richard’s fame had spread across the country, and his great deed was remembered long into the future. The peaceful man from the town of Bentear would be known throughout the nation, and even beyond. Eventually it passed into the realm of fable.

Still, there were those who swore that if you listened closely in the spring time, were very still and listened with all your heart and mind, you might hear, faint but unmistakable, the sounds of a great voice singing a hymn. The voice might be that of a peaceful man, a man who loved his town with all his heart, a man who sang his heart out to save the people he loved, and will love for ages to come.


THE END