The Yule King
by Marco Etheridge
part 1
Trace, Child, the roots of an oft-told tale,
And find at the start a bloody trail.
It begins with twelve young men in a sacred chamber, twelve steaming bowls, and a single white pebble. He who finds the pebble wins a king’s reign for the twelve darkest nights and one winter dawn on which to die.
Luti dips his wooden spoon and lifts a piece of mutton. It is good to eat meat this late in the year. As he chews, he steals glances at the others. All of them trying to appear brave, older than their eighteen summers. He must be brave as well.
The elders stand shoulder to shoulder, forming a silent ring around the table. And with them are two holy men, dark and dangerous. They stand vigil, ready to crown him who finds the white pebble.
It is an honor to be chosen. The Yule King stands as a promise that the warming sun will return to the land. The king pays for the promise with his death: a hero’s sacrifice. Luti hopes this honor will fall to another.
Luti eats with care, spooning only from the top of the stew. He sees others doing the same. Let fate wait a few more moments. Food is precious and not to be wasted, especially in the dead of winter. Whoever holds the bowl containing the white pebble shall be king, and the other eleven will be hunters. All will need their strength for the coming ordeal.
One spoonful at a time, the bowls empty. A young man lifts his bowl, drains the last dregs into his mouth, and holds forth the empty vessel. Then a second, a third. Luti offers a silent wish, a prayer, dips his spoon. He lifts it to his mouth, chews, swallows, then stares down into his bowl.
A white orb is visible in the dark stew. Luti freezes over his bowl. A stir runs through the circle of elders. Every eye is on him. No one moves. The moment drags out in silent anticipation.
Luti’s stomach lurches. He pushes down the urge to vomit. Summoning all his courage, Luti reaches into the bowl and lifts from it the dripping white pebble. He clutches the stone in his fist, a small thing with the weight of a mountain. With his free hand, he lifts the bowl to his lips, drains it, and smacks the empty bowl to the table. A hollow thump reverberates through the chamber. Then he holds out his fist and uncurls his fingers. The white pebble rests on his palm.
Luti’s prayers have been for naught. He will be crowned the Yule King. For him, there will be no more spring mornings. He will not see the return of the sun, nor the long days stretching into longer evenings over the green hills. Never again will he herd sheep on a warm summer’s day.
For the next twelve nights, Luti, the new king, will rule over the revels. All the people of the hill fort will pay him homage. On the thirteenth morning, before dawn, these others sitting beside him will become hunters and Luti, their prey. They will follow his blood trail across the snow. With swift feet and spears, they will run him down in the way of the wild boar and the stag. The Yule King will die, and thus will the sun rise once more.
All this and more races through Luti’s mind as the chamber erupts in a babble of voices. Louder still is the roar in his brain. Strong hands reach for him, lift him from the bench. A crown of holly is placed atop his head, a scepter of yew pressed into his hand. The pair of dark-robed priests appear on either side, grasping him by the elbows. The priests march him from the chamber, followed by the eleven hunters and the elders. The Yule King must be presented to the people.
* * *
The celebration begins that very night. King Luti is installed on a makeshift throne in the hill fort’s largest chamber. Drink flows for the gathered throng, fruit ale for the commoners, and mead for the elders.
Luti sits atop his throne sipping a bowl of mead. The crown of holly leaves pokes through his thatch of red hair and prickles his scalp. He gazes over the heads of the celebrants to the two doorways that lead from the chamber. At each portal stands a dark priest and a hunter. The king must be guarded every moment, lest he decide to slip away into winter’s darkness.
People approach the throne in twos and threes and pay fealty to the Yule King. They are grateful for his sacrifice, and thankful that he is king and not they. The tradition flows back into the mists of time, back to the founding of the hill fort when men used bronze instead of iron. Tradition carries the weight of law, binding the king as well as the people.
Luti raises his bowl to acknowledge his subjects, a forced smile on his face. He plays the role of the king while his mind reaches out into the starry night beyond the earthen walls.
The hunt will begin at the great gate, with eleven hunters and Luti, the king-turned-prey. A priest will tear his sleeve away and slash his forearm. Then the dash into the frozen night. At his back, Luti will hear one hundred drumbeats marking time before the hunters are released.
The scene shifts as Luti’s brain retreats to the present. From his temporary throne, he hears a woman laughing. A pang shoots through his chest. To die means never again to hear laughter, nor to touch a woman’s skin. His eyes search the chamber. There she is, against the far wall, watching him from the shadows. She does not laugh, this young woman he would have soon wed if not for the curse of a white pebble.
Yet Luti cannot abandon himself to death, not willingly, not easily. He is young, strong, and fleet of foot. There is little hope, but not no hope. His doom is not certain. There was one Yule King who did not die. This happened long ago, before Luti’s birth. On that winter’s morning, eight of the hunters returned empty-handed. Three were found dead in the snow.
The vanished king bore the name of Vatto, now the stuff of legend. He was never seen again, and yet a pale winter sun rose that morning. The holy ones explained that the Yule King had indeed perished in a valiant fight to the death. His body had been swallowed by the darkness, and thus was the sun allowed to rise once more.
The legend whispered by the commoners tells a different tale, though this saga is never uttered within earshot of a dark robe. Vatto survived. He rose into the sky with the sun. From there, he watches over all the other young men who are doomed to follow in his bloody footsteps.
Luti doubts the truth of the legend, but not the man’s escape. One young man fought off the hunters, killed three, and vanished. If this is possible for one, it may be possible for another. Raising the bowl of mead to his lips, Luti forces his young mind to ponder life rather than death.
* * *
The second night’s revels are a repeat of the first, minus the selection of the king. The third night seems to go on forever. The Yule log burns. The chamber is warmed by flames and the heat of unwashed bodies. Odors fill the room: old wool, animal skins, and sweat. Luti slumps on his throne. He does not know if he will survive nine more nights of this madness. Immediate boredom is a greater threat than any impending doom.
His stupor is interrupted by a nudge at his knee, followed by a familiar voice. “Greetings, my king. I bring you a gift.”
Luti’s eyes snap open. Before him stands Bellicia, the beautiful young woman he would have wed if the white pebble had fallen to another. She smiles at him and holds forth something wrapped in coarse linen tied with a cord. Then she leans in close and speaks in a whisper. “Do not allow anyone to see this gift. But I beg you wear these when you flee the hunters. May your feet grip the snow when others slip and fall.”
Luti takes the bundle in his hand. Beneath the linen wrapping, his fingers sense something rigid, fashioned of wood or perhaps bone. He longs to throw the gift aside and stroke Bellicia’s cheek, but she anticipates his desire and shakes her head. “My father is watching, and the priests.”
She steps back from the throne and drops to one knee, her face solemn. “Farewell, my king.” Then she swirls away into the throng.
Any trace of his former boredom vanishes as Bellicia disappears. He weighs the gift in his hand, a spark of hope that kindles a flame in his heart. Luti does not want to die. There may be honor in death, but there is sweeter honor in life.
Nine more nights. Luti sets the mead aside. If he is to survive the chase, he will need all his wits, every measure of his strength, and feet as swift as legend. The flames of hope spring higher.
Luti pictures the chase in his mind. The ceremony at the gates, the slashing of the king’s arm, the drums marking the time. The obvious path for anyone fleeing the hill fort is down the rough cart path that descends the crest of a long, barren ridge. Eight furlongs of open country before the track disappears into the woodlands of the lower hills. The easiest path for prey and hunters alike. That is where all the other runners died, on the easy path. Yet it is not the only way.
Sheep will stray. Luti has chased the stupid beasts over hill and valley, learning even the faintest of pathways. Sitting on his throne, he lets his mind wander out of the hill fort. Alone in the snowy darkness, his memory charts trails that might trip an eager hunter. Yes, there is another way, not the easy road that leads to certain death. Luti will lead the hunters on a chase worthy of a legend.
The drinking dies to silence as the last celebrants head to their beds. Luti is escorted to his quarters, the private residence of the king for the few nights left to him. It is more a cell than a royal chamber. One straw pallet on the earthen floor, woven sleeping rugs, one tallow candle, and a clay pot for night soils. To sleep alone is a strange solitude Luti has never known.
The door closes behind him, then a wooden bar slips into place. Luti stands listening at the barred door. When he is sure the guard has left, he sits on the pallet. In the glow of the candle, he reaches inside his tunic and removes Bellicia’s gift.
Beneath cord and linen, he finds a pair of what look like boot soles. Each sole is fashioned from stiff rawhide. Ridges of bone protrude from one side, bound to the sole with hide glue and sewn tight with braided cord. The bone ridges form a pattern like cleats. Deerskin straps pass through slots cut in the rawhide.
Luti crooks one foot into his lap and holds the gift against the sole of his leather boot. A smile spreads across his face. Here are claws to grip the icy ground such as a fox and badger use to flee the hunter. Bellicia has given him a mighty gift.
He hides the ridged soles inside the straw of his pallet, blows out the candle, and stretches out in the blackness. A long time passes before sleep takes him.
* * *
Another night of dark celebration. Strong hands heft the Yule log and feed it further into the fire. The thick trunk grows shorter every night, marking Luti’s remaining time. Nine nights, eight, seven.
On the seventh night, Luti stares into his mead and finds there a hard truth. Yes, they are fattening him for the slaughter, but he must give no sign that he knows this. From that night on, he is careful to spill more than he drinks, and drop more than he eats, but always in a moment when no one watches. The dogs are happy to sit beside his throne.
During the quiet hours alone in his cell, Luti works his body. He lunges across the narrow space, feints, spins, stretches his muscles. And all the while, he stretches his mind as well. He pictures the trails in summer, bare and plain, and how they will look covered in snow. One false turn and the hunters will bring him to bay and cut him down. He runs the escape route through his mind, again and again.
The twelfth night comes at last and passes all too quickly. Luti feigns drunkenness, laughs at the feeblest jest. He must not give the elders nor the dark robes any cause for suspicion. Better to let them think he is another young buffoon who will stumble through the snow to his death.
The final celebration dies to nothing, and the last section of the Yule log is cast onto the fire. As his captors lead him to his chamber, Luti staggers. The guards catch him under the arms. They laugh as they drag Luti into the cell and drop him on the pallet.
* * *
Luti is awake before they come for him. He dresses himself in a leather tunic that falls to his knees. A fur cape covers his shoulders and chest. Bellicia’s gift, the claws that will give his feet purchase, are strapped to the soles of his leather boots. He wraps his leggings low over the boots, hoping to hide the telltale straps. The precious gift must not be noticed.
Footsteps in the passage, then the door creaking open. It is time. Two guards lead him along curved passageways to the great wooden doors. Cold air bites as they step out under the stars. Torches throw a wavering glow over the wide gap between the walls and the outer ramparts. The rampart gates are open, a dark portal into the wild.
The people are assembled to witness the death of the king, standing as shadows in the darkness along the ramparts. When the chase begins, they will climb the earthen walls and strain their eyes to mark the path of the pursuing torches.
The elders stand in a tight knot and with them, the two holy men, dark-robed under the torchlight. Eleven hunters form a knot to one side, each bearing a torch and spear. Beside them is the drummer.
Luti is led before them. The dark robes step forward to meet him. One of them holds a knife. Silence for a long moment, broken only by the guttering of the torches. Then come the words of doom.
“It is time for the king to run, and for the hunters to give chase. Is the king ready?”
Luti nods, praying that the blade is sharp.
“You must answer.”
Luti draws himself up and extends his left arm, palm down.
“I am ready.”
The first dark robe grasps Luti’s wrist. His grip is like an iron claw. The other wields the knife, slicing through the leather sleeve of Luti’s tunic just below the elbow. The leather parts like butter. Another slice splits the sleeve lengthwise, and it falls to the snow.
“The Yule King will be blooded, and by his blood will the light return.”
The blade slices across Luti’s forearm. Blood wells from the cut. For a heartbeat, two, Luti feels no pain. Then the cold air finds the wound and a searing burn courses up his arm and into his chest. Blood dapples the snow at his feet.
The holy man holding Luti’s wrist releases him. The dark robes step aside. As if at a signal, the elders move apart, forming a gauntlet. Beyond are the rampart gates.
“At the first drumbeat, the king will run. At the hundredth drumbeat, the hunters will give chase.”
A black arm rises to the stars, then slashes down. The drum answers. Luti sprints away, past the holy men, between the elders, through the gates, and into the snowy night.
Copyright © 2024 by Marco Etheridge
