THE DAIGHACAER BOOK ONE - Chapter 7

Good Monday morning

It’s Daighacaer time again.

Chapter 7 is an interesting chapter, a sandwich if you please, of two ‘normal’ interactions, containing a powerful and deep life-changing experience. It is an expansion of the character and characteristics of the people who will start out on The Lighte’s mission.

The chapter opens as a breather segment with Lebrowen and Malyran having what they suspect will be their last ‘normal’ evening together for a while. It also provides a glimpse into what their contributions will be in the future unfolding of the story. 

To me, there is nothing worse than having to put a book aside to give me a break from intense, non-stop action. Just as comedy is needed in the darkest of times, so too is a time for reflection a necessity after a particularly extreme scene.

"There’s such a lot that we have to organise, Leb Love,” sighed Malyran as she lay back in her favourite chair next to Lebrowen.

“We don’t even know when we are going to leave here,” she continued. “Although I do have the strongest feeling that we are going to have to do so relatively soon. Everything about today has urgency entrenched within it. Even when we were simply waiting for Eryen to get back to us out of the Archaise, I felt the sense of urgency.”

“You’re right. I did too,” replied Lebrowen. “I’m still feeling the strain. My mind keeps pushing me to hurry, hurry, hurry. It’s quite draining.”

“Then, when we do have to leave, who knows for how long we’re going to be gone, and where we’re going to be going, and why.” Malyran looked at Lebrowen to see if he understood what she meant.

His blank expression told her everything she needed to know. Lebrowen’s mind was processing. He needed his life to be orderly. What he was experiencing now was anything but.

 *

Much as the joker played an important role in Shakespearean literature, so Jivdreg, as the resident comic, embodies the depth of understanding and emotion that he hides within his comedy and which he rarely displays.

Jivdreg’s horror-experience thrusts one right back into the maelstrom. Anyone who has ever had a dream or nightmare out of which they felt they could not escape, will relate to what Jivdreg experienced. The heart-tightening fear of having no control over one’s body is more than terrifying.

At last he reached the Patriarchal Tree which he had visited so many times with his mother. He lay down beneath its branches, watching the intimate interaction between the broad leaves and the almost invisible insects which flitted from leaf to leaf.

The day’s events had exhausted him and he closed his eyes to try and sort out in his head what actually had happened.

Jivdreg eventually felt his eyelids begin to droop and he drifted into a light sleep which was filled with wafting aromas and intangible sounds - slumberous sounds on the edge of his dreams.

Then, as if invited by the sounds of sleep, elusive, insubstantial visions came and went, flitting through his mind and consciousness.

He dreamt of wings, innumerable wings, large, small and of all different shapes and sizes. He dreamt of ships flying. Ships sailing through the sky between the clouds like chariots made of sunshine.

He saw the countryside floating beneath him and then he was lost in a vortex over which he had no control.

He felt the portent of malignant malevolence as it loomed menacingly within his consciousness.

This was not right.

Something was terribly wrong.

He tried to get away, but he was rooted to the spot.

He tried to cry out, to wake himself up, but he was held captive within his dream.

He tried to force his eyes open but he could not move.

He could not open his eyes and, as hard as he tried, no sound came out of his mouth.

In desperation he tried once more to force himself to wake up.

 *

The chapter ends with Eryen and Ryallor, two of the most important main characters, experiencing a heartwarming father-son love. It also poignantly touches on why Eryen’s wife, Allara, has neither been present nor mentioned in the first few chapters of the book.

 He yearned once again for something which he knew with a deep sadness in his heart could never be; that Allara could have been there with him to experience the delight of their son’s life.

My chosen poem for this blog is:

THE WASTELAND

It grunts
It spits
It throws up an arm
Thinking it’s in command

It shouts
It screams
It causes confusion
To create a diversion

It shrieks
It howls
It tears at its mane
This progeny of disdain

Yet

One glance up
One glance out
One glance ahead
And it’s dead

And gone

To feed the wasteland
From which it fed
To pay for the lives
Of those it bled