Free Small Magics by Erik Buchanan

cried, I sailed off to see the world so wide, And my poor love fell sick and died, And now in the ground she’ll lie.
    “So sleep, my love, do not despair, For the Mother I know keeps you fair, And soon my love I will join you there, And in the ground I will lie.”
    “He must miss her terribly,” whispered Eileen as the lute’s notes carried them through the last chords of the song.
    “I heard that played in one of the taverns in the city,” Thomas said. “I never knew where it came from.”
    Timothy grinned. “How could you, lad? I hadn’t told you.” He shifted his fingers on the lute and began playing a jig. “Here, let’s lighten up our moods before we all get depressed. And refill those glasses!”
    He made the strings dance as he played, and soon his small audience was clapping and singing along with him in the choruses as he went from one dance tune to another. He played until he claimed to be tired then took to telling stories for a while. They listened, enraptured, until the lateness of the hour and the strength of the whiskey began to claim them. George, who’d been imbibing rather freely at the tavern before, ended up stretched out on his blanket, snoring. Eileen fell asleep as well, and Thomas rolled up his own blanket to act as a cushion for her head.
    “Well, it grows late, lad.” Timothy said at last, looking around him. “Or rather it grows early. The moon is down.”
    “Aye,” Thomas agreed, looking at the sky. “Darkest before the dawn.”
    “It always is,” said the juggler.
    Thomas took another sip of his whiskey. He had drunk more than enough already to make him careless of words, and there was something that he really wanted to know. “Timothy, can I ask you something?”
    “About what?”
    Thomas glanced down at Eileen and George. Both were sound asleep. He lowered his voice and took the plunge: “About what you said today, about the Blessed Daughter…”
    Timothy laughed. “It was a story my mother used to tell. Said she got it from her mother. One time, long ago, the Four were equals. Not a family, but Gods together, and they each had names.” He took another drink, mused on his story a moment. “The names are gone now, of course, but she said that, back when they had names, they all created the world together. The Mother created the earth and the sea and all living things. The Father created the sky and the weather and the forces that make the earth shake and the tides roll. The Son put iron in the ground and gave man fire and the knowledge to use it. And the Blessed daughter, well, she gave the world music and joy and magic.
    “And the Banished had names, too. They were the first of the Four’s creations; beautiful and immortal and doomed. They tried to overthrow the gods and were driven below ground, to lie in torment until the end of time, able to venture out on the earth only when summoned by those who would use their power.”
    Timothy reached forward and stirred the coals of the fire, then sat back. “Then, of course, the Church of the High Father got the ear of the king.” He reached for the bottle again, found it empty, and set it aside. Grinning at Thomas, he said, “What happened next, Scholar?”
    “The Church of the High Father began to rise in strength and declared itself to be the one true religion,” said Thomas, remembering the history and theology classes he’d taken. “Took two hundred years and a half-dozen wars.
    The other gods were declared to be lesser beings who assisted the High Father in his creation, but who were not worthy of worship themselves. The High Father became creator of all, the Mother was reduced to his consort. The son became the Rebel Son, whose gifts to man were against the will of the High Father. The Daughter became the image of frivolity.”
    Thomas took another sip of his drink. “It didn’t work, completely. The nunneries are all dedicated to the Mother. Smiths and miners and carpenters all have shrines to the Son,