The Next Life

40th Day of Harvest

766 Karloman’s Peace

The next morning, after Ekkehard woke, he found himself drawn to the village's small temple.

Although tall, the square building was not particularly spacious. It was just big enough for about ten people to sit and pray together. There was no furniture save for a small cluster of pillows and rugs, and a wooden shrine that sat prominently in the centre of the back wall.

The shrine was a combined set of two singular decorative cabinets, one resting upon the other. The lower cabinet, which was simply designed and only mildly adorned, served as a foundation for the upper cabinet to rest upon. The upper cabinet was far more embellished and covered in seasonal engravings. Its elaborate doors featured a set of unsealed windows through which Ekkehard could see its contents. Inside was a collection of intricate wooden figures.

Ekkehard approached and opened the doors of the upper cabinet and looked within.

The interior was divided up into two unevenly spaced shelves. The top shelf was empty save for a sprinkling of coloured dust, and the wooden walls around the shelf had been stained by small fires. Most of the space of the shrine was dedicated to the lower shelf where the dozens of small unpainted wooden figurines rested. Most were a few inches tall and an inch wide, while five much larger figures waited at the back of the shelf, each being around a foot tall and several inches wide.

Ekkehard picked up one of the smaller figurines and examined it.

It was a squat horse, standing on its rear legs, its fore legs upraised with large, exaggerated eyes.

‘An interesting design to find in a village such as this,’ Ekkehard said to himself. ‘I wonder who inspired such a tribute. A master groom perhaps? Or maybe you served as a Sippe rider in some war.’

Ekkehard rolled the figurine back and forth between his fingers as he contemplated the life it represented. Then, gingerly and with reverence, he returned it to its place.

It had been nearly two months since he was forced to flee his home, and for the first time since, he found himself wondering what may have become of it. Hanib had likely taken over and pillaged all their belongings by now, but his family shrine might still stand.

Many family shrines are built outdoors, in places sacred to the family’s ancestors. For the Reubkes, that place had been the hunting woods where his grandparents had erected a small wooden hut to house the shrine. Hanib’s men may not have found it, and it was possible they never would.

Perhaps one day he could visit it again. Perhaps the gods would allow him the chance to place a small figurine for his mother there, to stand beside his fathers.

Maybe one day he would leave one for his son, Cheldric, as well.

Ekkehard shook his head. That was the past. The gods had granted him a future. How ungrateful it was for him to spit on that favour by lamenting.

Ekkehard looked to the five bigger figurines that towered above the others, standing sentinel at the back of the shrine. They were the gods. The way a congregation depicted the gods spoke to the very essence of their souls, and Ekkehard admired the chosen aspects with great admiration.

Spring had been carved in the visage of the Father, his most typical aspect. A strong man standing tall and proud, wreathed in a cloak of leaves and sporting a crown of thorns. Summer was also in a common design, the Lady of War, clad in armour and wielding a glaive one-handed. These personifications told Ekkehard that Priam’s village had a strong respect for the foundations of tradition.

Harvest, however, was given a lesser-known aspect, the Debauchee. A plump scantily dressed woman, her modesty covered by fruits and reeds. She held in one hand a cup of wine and in the other a sickle. Ekkehard had only seen this depiction of the goddess on a few occasions. He recalled something about its association with those that indulge in celebration.

Autumn, the only god given a static depiction, was displayed as the Wiseman, as he always was; an old and bearded man resting upon a stool. Finally, the visage of the Cowled One, an aspect of Winter, a robed figure, its skeletal features hidden beneath a cowl. A sign that the village respected secrecy and the privacy of grief.

That was a good sign, Ekkehard thought, and he picked up the figure.

‘Not likely to ask too many questions then,’ Ekkehard mused out loud as he held the Winter idol in his hands. He put it back.

He knelt and opened the lower cabinet. Within were dozens more carved figures, several incense bowls and a disorganised cluster of scattered scrolls, some bound by string and ribbon, others loose.

Ekkehard tutted at the sight.

Scripture obviously wasn’t as important to the village as it should have been.

He leafed through the scrolls, reading the titles until he came across a familiar one, The Next Life. Ekkehard smiled and took the scroll from the cabinet along with a small charcoal bowl and set of incense sticks and an igniting stick. He placed the bowl on the top shelf of the upper cabinet and then ran the igniting stick across the surface of the shrine and used it to lite the incense.

Ekkehard breathed in the scents of the shrine. The warm earthy scent of Myrrh mixed with the spicy aroma of cinnamon both punctuated by the sweet floral fragrance of jasmine. Ekkehard was drawn to thoughts of health and harmony. A perfect setting for reading the words of doctrine, he thought.

Stolen novel; please report.

Ekkehard unfurled The Next Life across the shrine’s surface. He smiled as he read the familiar passages.

‘A good one, is it?’ Ekkehard heard a soft voice ask from behind him.

A little startled, Ekkehard turned. He had been so engrossed in his reading that he hadn’t heard the newcomer approach. He was relieved to see the face of his wife, Auriana, standing expectantly behind him.

He smiled at her, and she half returned it.

‘Its not the best of them,’ Ekkehard admitted, ‘but it is one of my favourites.’

‘That surprises me,’ Auriana replied as she came to stand at his side, ‘your typically not a fan of the flawed. You usually want things perfect.’

Ekkehard pulled a face at his wife’s words. ‘Do you really think that?’ he asked her. She looked at him puzzled and so, he clarified. ‘Do you think me shallow? I think I can find beauty in the flawed. Do you not think?’

‘I wasn’t calling you shallow,’ she explained, ‘just that you always expect a bit more than most.’ She looked back at him and then reassured him, ‘its not a bad thing.’

‘Okay,’ he said with a chuckle.

They looked at each other for a moment and Ekkehard felt a longing his journey had not given him time for. Then, Auriana broke their gaze, and looked to the script.

‘So,’ she said, ‘what is it about?’

‘Hmm?’ Ekkehard replied.

‘Your script,’ she clarified, ‘you said you like it. Why?’

‘Oh,’ Ekkehard said turning his attention to the scroll, ‘well I suppose its just that, this is one of the more common scripts, a common find in most temples across the empire. Almost every priest there is will know this scroll word for word, and yet most, misunderstand it.’

‘But you understand it?’ Auriana asked and eyed him coyly.

‘Yes,’ Ekkehard said with a prideful sniggered, ‘I mean, I like to think I see what others don’t that is.’

‘Go on,’ his wife encouraged him.

‘It’s called The Next Life. It’s about this man, a city dweller and peasant by the name of Throl,’ Ekkehard explained. ‘Throl hates being poor and longs for a chance to rise above his station. He gets the chance when a war sees him conscripted, and he became a soldier. He is a good soldier, fights bravely, kills many foes, even defeats famous champions from the other side. They call him Throl the Fighter.

Ekkehard got into the rhythm of the story and eagerly recited it at increasing speed.

‘He becomes a hero,’ he continued, ‘until one day he is wounded, badly, and his fellow soldiers think he will die so they leave him at a farmhouse. The farmer and his family try to tend to his wounds, however, Throl is impatient and fears that the war will be lost without him and his chance to rise with it. So, he tries to leave and in doing so reopens his wounds and nearly dies.

‘Eventually, he is convinced to remain at the farm by the farmer’s daughter, who helps nurse Throl to health. He falls in love with the farmer’s daughter, and she became his wife. He saves the farm from an attack by some deserters, but the farmer is killed. Throl then becomes the farmer, has several children with the farmer’s daughter and raises them.

‘Finally, one day, some old men, soldiers, heroes of the war, pass by his farm and speak with his sons. When the soldiers learn the farmer’s name, the soldiers call his sons liars and demand that they get their father and prove he is Throl the Fighter.

‘Throl comes to meet the soldiers and discovers they are old friends; recruits he had trained. They sit down for drinks and the soldiers tell the tales of their greatest victories. When at last it comes to Throl’s turn to tell a tale, he speaks of the spring in which all his sows’ piglets survived to become fully grown.

‘The soldiers jeer and ask for a better story, one with a victory. Throl tells the tale of his greatest crop yield. The soldier jeer again, so, Throl tells the tale of the birth of his first son. Finally, the soldiers have had enough, and they say that he is a liar, he cannot be “Throl the Fighter”. Throl answers, “you are right, I am Throl the Farmer.”’

Having finished his tale, Ekkehard looked at his wife expectantly.

She looked back at him with an anti-climactic expression and a half-smile. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said as she realised he was finished.

Ekkehard laughed and sighed and shook his head.

‘It’s the idea that he had moved on and found a new life,’ Ekkehard explained.

‘No,’ Auriana said tutting at him, ‘I understand that much, what I don’t get is what you think others don’t get.’

‘Ah,’ Ekkehard exclaimed. ‘Well, what do you think it is about?’ Ekkehard asked.

Auriana thought for a moment before she shrugged and answered, ‘the afterlife I suppose.’

‘Go on,’ Ekkehard replied, ‘expand.’

She sighed. ‘He is dead,’ she explained, ‘he died in the war. The whole thing is a metaphor for not being afraid of death. That there is a heaven, a place for us all in the paradise of the Father’s Garden.’

Ekkehard nodded and smirked at his wife, ‘indeed, that is what most people think the story is about. They say that the farmer’s life is Throl’s reward for defending the faith. The soldier that meets him at the end of the story are saying we don’t need to worry about this world after we are gone. The war was won without him because the gods will see the world taken care of after we are gone, and therefore, we can enjoy peace from then on.’

‘That’s what everyone else thinks,’ Auriana stated, ‘but not what you think?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he answered.

‘And you know better do you?’ she teased him.

‘Well, I am sure to a degree that is part of the intended message,’ he replied with a blush, ‘but I don’t think it is the most important one.’

‘Go on then,’ his wife encouraged him, ‘tell me the big secret. What is it really about?’

‘Freedom,’ Ekkehard replied.

‘How so?’ she asked.

‘The clues in the title,’ Ekkehard explained, ‘The Next Life. It’s not about the afterlife, but rather the next life.’

‘How is that different?’ Auriana quizzed him shaking her head in mild confusion.

‘The next life,’ Ekkehard explained, ‘is the one that is open to you today. The tomorrow that you can choose. We all have a next life, and we can choose to start that life at any moment. When we are children we have a child’s life, then we grow up and pick our young life. We have children and our life changes dramatically, the ones we had before becoming almost unimaginable compared to the new one.’

Ekkehard paused his lecture. He saw the pained expression on his wife’s face as he mentioned parenthood and regretted the example.

‘The story is about the gods’ greatest gift to us,’ Ekkehard continued after a moment, ‘the gift to choose our own tomorrow, to choose our next life.’

He watched as Auriana mused on his words before she looked up at him and said, ‘for a man who turned his back on the faith, you sure do have a passion for it.’

Ekkehard’s head dropped. He knew his wife didn’t mean any harm by her words, and yet, they stung him.

‘I never lost that passion,’ he said solemnly.

‘I know,’ Auriana said, gripping his arm and squeezing it. ‘I meant nothing by it.’

‘This a private gathering?’ Ekkehard heard a new voice ask.

Turning around, Ekkehard saw that the rest of his family and Dreux had come to join him, all reflecting silently within the temple walls. It was Dreux who had spoken and Ekkehard smiled to the man.

‘Not at all,’ Ekkehard answered. He turned and quickly extinguished the incense and put away the scroll and other prayer materials.

‘Done with your reading?’ Audomar asked.

‘Yes,’ Ekkehard answered without looking back.

An awkward silence filled the temple until at last Gerwald spoke up.

‘So,’ he began, ‘what do we do now then?’

The awkward silence returned.

Ekkehard saw that none of his family had a plan. His thoughts turned to the tale of Throl, and he decided that he would provide direction where there was none.

'Dreux,' Ekkehard addressed the farmhand turned friend and asked, 'you said you would head north, to the city of Werth and your brother, right?’

'I did,' Dreux replied with a nod.

'Would your brother have room for a few more?' Ekkehard asked.

Dreux contemplated the question for a moment and then smiled at Ekkehard.

'He could do,' the man answered.