Chapter 6

Dag Svent lamented his terrible luck. A sudden killer freeze was coming on, and he didn’t even have his heavy fur cloak. He shivered as the temperature continued to drop- he was many rastmil from the nearest friendly steading. There was nothing for it but to hope he could find shelter and make a fire. He would rather not spend the night in the wilds and he rather suspected he wouldn’t catch much sleep tonight, but at least all the beasts would be dened up to stay warm also. Gathering a fagot of dry and sappy branches as he went, he searched for shelter.

There, at the base of an isolated and treeless scarp was a dark spot, and he tried to keep his eye on it as the snow fell thicker and the daylight dwindled. Reaching the low opening at the base of the upthrust upheaval he thumped the ground three times politely, also knocking the heavy wet snow from his mostly still dry fagot of branches while calling the traditional ‘seeking shelter’ blessing upon the dwelling.

Dag had been well lessoned in proper manners and behavior as a scion of Svent. The clan of Svent was old and prominent in the Country’s history, and even still quietly practiced several of the olden Blot rites. (The less stalwart families thought the Svents were stuffy and old-fashioned.) Bowing his head, Dag reached out with his other sight, and felt a welcome bidding to enter. He made aloud the proper response, still properly upholding of the name of Svent even as his numb hands lost all feeling altogether.

Dag clambered down into the hole, dropping four feet to the floor. While gloomy, it was out of the wind, and a welcome shelter from the hard freeze outside.

Finding a cold fire-pit, the ashes looking positively ancient, he took the time to sweep up the old ashes and throw them out the door before starting a handful of fire for light and warmth. The light revealed a pair of seated skeletons in an alcove dressed in rags still identifiable however as from the olden times, a Lord and a Lady, clasped bony fingers still sporting rings. Dag stood, and having already been offered shelter hospitality, greeted them politely, thanking them sincerely again.

The feeling of welcome continued, and Dag actually managed to sleep some, in fits throughout the long late-autumn night, somehow wakened in time to nurse along his meager fire. Each time he bowed respectfully to the Lord and Lady under who’s shelter-rite he was kept.

In the light of day the once lordly pair looked worn, dusty, and empty, yet Dag made all the proper manners while feeling only the most meager response. Yet as he turned to leave, the other sight had him bidden to wait so he paused, and a stone slab fell away from the wall behind him revealing a copper-lined chest resting on six claw-feet with the top askew, revealing a treasure hoard. Take it he was urged, you are such a polite little boy, such nice manners, the first who didn’t try to steal from us. Take it now, with our blessings, and go.

Bowing quickly, Dag lost no time dragging the chest free, seating the top, and heaving it out the entrance and clambering after. He managed to lift it again, and he staggered away under the not insignificant weight. He imagined it weighed all of three lispund, and he had to strain somewhat to carry it.

After he got a small distance from the scarp, there was a rumble, and the scarp sank down, hiding the cavern which had offered him shelter from the killing night cold, leaving instead a flat plain in that direction as far as the eye could see.

He fashioned some fallen logs into boards with his hand ax, and made skis for the dark brown copper-cased chest and refashioned his knapsack into a harness so he could tow it through the knee-deep snow. His reunion with the Svent clan was filled with thanksgiving, rejoicing and amazement. The Family was sworn to secrecy and the gift was hidden cleverly, and used as a reminder that good manners were always important.

What a curious dream, I thought, perhaps old Bull had been right believing in other sight, but when I tried to use the other sight as Dag had, I could only sense things vaguely. Perhaps it took a rawer frontier, and less iron, people, and smells.

I hadn’t payed much attention to what I was smelling, so I started to do just that. I wondered at the alteration of the name, and decided I preferred Swents as a name, it sounded friendly and mild. Svent and Svents sounded both Dracula-ish and snake-like somehow. Sort of a stuck-up name, too proud of it’s self. It felt to me like Bull hadn’t taken his real name into exile.

I had put all the coins back in Bull’s bank, now hidden once again, with none but me knowing of the gift my ancestor Dag had won. I would keep it that way, no waving of ancient coins, to excite speculation and desire. The precise value of the coins was not important, it was just treasure. The gift would continue whole and secret, to be passed down assuming I won love and was blessed with children. It would only be at dire need that the layer of silver would be drawn down enough to reveal the hoard, and with a Remittance Annual, from whence might that need develop?

I determined that part of the legacy I would pass along with the gift, was good manners, to honor the reason for the gift in the first place. Especially while seated at the dining table.