Dreamwalker by Mary Fonvielle Page A

have lived much earlier.
    Then the demon came.

 
     
     
     
     
    D aybreak over Delving Vale brought fresh frost and the biting chill of a promised winter, but Father Josue woke with thoughts of the Summer War. So few knew it as the Summer War, so named because it was believed the fighting between humans and elves would stop after the first harvest of the first year. That was three centuries ago. Josue guessed that his father’s generation had been the last to teach their children the old name. Now it was just the War, an ongoing fact of life wherever you were.
    Josue rose to dress, then stepped out into the chill of the morning. Rays of yellow sunlight seeped through the trees that bordered his tiny homestead to his right, and far to his left the edge of the cliff overlooked the sleepy village in the valley far below. Rubbing his arms and hands to get the blood flowing, Josue set about his morning routine, speaking the morning prayers eastward and breaking the thin layer of ice that covered the bowl set out for the old shaggy dog that followed him quietly a few paces behind.
    Josue had never been a solider. By the grace of his goddess, Lyetia, he had received an early calling to Her service, and lived a life of relative peace and prosperity that so few were ever granted. Years of service had granted him knowledge and patience, and when the hairs on his head and chin began to sprout white and he received his second calling, this time telling him to leave the temple, Josue’s travels gave him wisdom. He had seen much, done much, and in what he quietly greeted as the final years of life, he contemplated what it all might have been for.
    His life in Delving Vale was a simple one, more so than even his years at the temple. With some help from those he came to know as his friends, he built a small one-room cabin on the rise that overlooked the valley. A simple garden and the kindness of others kept him fed and clothed, and the old dog whose name he had long since forgotten was ample company. People came from the village for blessings and prayers when required, and, rarely, for advice or guidance. These were farmers and craftsmen, and most seemed content enough with lives unfettered by the war beyond the mountains that sheltered them. They were happy to have a man of the gods, but Josue knew his use was wearing thin.
    The feelings of a worn welcome melted away when he heard laughter on the road. Ellys, the young daughter of the local militia captain, would be arriving soon with her mother, bearing a jug of goat’s milk and enough eggs to last him the week. Ingra, the girl’s mother, was a kind and warm woman who wouldn’t hesitate to give away what others were found wanting, but Josue had been giving Ellys lessons in reading and writing this past year in exchange for the goods.
    Josue walked out toward the path to greet them, but as Ellys’s familiar brown curls came bouncing into view over the rise he was surprised to see she was accompanied by her father, Draven Gree. Draven was a quiet man, reserved and well spoken. That he had been a solider was clear, but he never spoke about the war and quickly changed the subject when asked. He and his wife had been among the first to settle in the valley, years before Josue arrived. They had never spoken much, only on polite and superfluous things. Josue had always suspected he preferred it that way, and sought to avoid the priest whenever possible for reasons that were his own. His arrival today perplexed the old man.
    Ellys ran forward to greet him, her joyous smile and child’s energy beaming through the redness of her cheeks and nose. He took the little covered basket she offered and thanked her, and upon seeing the pointed look in her father’s eyes he bade her go and play. Ellys delightfully complied, the shaggy dog bounding after her in a rare display of enthusiasm.
    He greeted Draven with a quiet smile and the blessings of his goddess, and Draven accepted them courteously.