Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  * * *

  Strolling through the city, safe and sound, made Reuben feel like a traitor to all that he had been protecting the last five years. He walked down the daylight streets with their merry folk parading around, frivolous and unaware of the peril that was slowly eating away at the world. But then again, Reuben found it hard to blame them. Did they really understand what horror the other continent had fallen to? How could they? And they had drink to distract, money to make, lives to live. How he had wanted to, at times, revel in drunkenness rather than face what was approaching. The endless days of tedium, the patrol that had to be kept without fail. They all took a toll and now he felt in the mood to let himself go for once. The first time in a sober and terrified five years. Well, tonight would be different. Walking along these streets he found what he was looking for, outside the wealthy districts, but not so far as to be in the poorest part of the city’s above ground domain. The doorway was old fashioned, with its dark lacquered wood all dented and worn. The original design of the carved wood might have been of vines and grapes. And the name, on a newer but still weather stained plaque, Broken Barrel, had the proprietor’s name underneath, Donovan Whelan. For the first time since entering Entigria, Reuben’s face split into a grin. He’d been right, his old friend had gone and done it. He pulled the door open with gusto, and the rush of air carried with it the peculiar strains of stringed music that contorted and mixed with the aroma of fermented grain that billowed out into the afternoon. He smiled to himself; here was where he could find solace, relief, and finally escape from the morbid sobriety that haunted him.

  He stamped confidently into the large open room of the tavern house. He was just looking over the rough but comfortable furnishings, the tables clean yet notched, walls adorned with haphazard array of paintings, when a voice out of history accosted him. “Can that be Reuben?” The call came from a wizened fellow sitting in the corner. Through the dusky air, out from the foggy past of a haze of drunken nights at stein house after stein house, the figure loomed tall in his memory. It was not Donovan but one like him, another misfit who had joined the cause and call to valor in arms; though his age, demeanor, and pomposity had propelled him to officer rank.

  “Patterson, I can’t believe it. Thought you would have shuffled off to the great beyond by now,” said Reuben. But in truth it was a balm to him to see the red hair and shaggy beard of a friendly face. The room was not full at this time of day and the smattering of other clientele paid little attention to the exchange, especially after the interloper was known to one of the regulars. Reuben walked over to the table and sat next to his old companion.

  Patterson patted Reuben on the shoulder, “Ah, shows what you know. I’ve got plenty o’ drink left to sup before I peg out,” he said picking up his tankard. “This here brew is the elixir of life I tell you. Come on then, tell me what a young lad like yourself is doing back here.”

  Reuben rubbed his throat in response. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. It was like nothing anyone here could understand I’d bet,” he said.

  “Oh c’mon. You can tell you’re ol’ captain. I’ve been around, you know,” said Patterson, his beard bristling with good-natured indignation. Reuben had been hoping to escape his cares, not retell them, but this was an old friend, and one that he had been taught to obey once upon a time. His face, which had lit up when he’d first seen Patterson, clouded over.

  Reuben stared fixedly at the wood grain of the table as his voice carried on in a flat monotone, “The burrows came first, encircling the outer lands. Then they began sprouting all around, near the walls, then within the city. And I don’t mean the little moles you get in the gardens,” he said. “These were great ugly weals on the land. And when they burst, those blisters poured out the enemy, imps and knights both.” Reuben, engrossed in his tale, did not notice as someone sat down next to the two. It wasn’t until Reuben’s hand, which had begun tracing the raised grain of the table, brushed up against a sweating tankard that he looked at the vessel with surprise. Reflexively he took a swig, and nearly coughed back the rich, malty brew when he realized that it was Donovan next to him. He looked none the worse for all the years that separated them. He was lanky, but the friendly smile and greasy, brown, wavy hair were just the combination to be disarming. He raised his glass to the two, a silent cheers for the three being reunited. Reuben said, “Everyone here lives in a dream, has no idea what it was like on the other continent. I tell you, the way things are going they’ll find out sooner rather than later.”

  “Can you still fight?” asked Donovan.

  Reuben looked sidelong at his old companions, “Well don’t ask me to use those blasted longbows they used to have. Damn things kept my skin nice and pink for a week when we first learned ‘em. I’m way out of practice now, don’t fancy going through it again really.”

  Donovan chuckled into his mug of ale, “Yeah you never did get the hang of those things. For me it was the hand to hand stuff, didn’t make any sense to me. Foe gets right there in front of you, you’ve already messed up. Should have shot him before then.”

  Now it was Reuben’s turn to laugh, “Between the two of us we might have made one decent recruit.”

  Patterson interjected, “Perhaps, excepting that type of person would have twice the problems you two did following the rules. Poor guy would have never made it out, he’d be knocked back so far down the ladder that he’d never graduate.”

  Donovan slapped the table, “You remember,” he said, his eyes sparkling, “You remember when we took our ol’ captain’s favorite…”

  “No, no, don’t remind me, I was sore for a week after all the cleaning we had to do, and deaf for half again as long from all the shouting,” said Reuben.

  “I see you’re not all dolled up in gear, you a proper citizen these days,” said Patterson.

  “Ha, not likely. Oh, they have my stuff alright, what was left of it. Still got a blade on me,” here he parted his tunic to show the short, straight-bladed weapon. Don’t know why they gave it to me in the first place really, you cut one down and ten more showed right up in its place.” The happy smile faded from his face as he recalled the series of lost battles and the final retreat to the city.

  Donovan noticed the look. “Come on now, no grim old campaigners here in my place.”

  Reuben raised an eyebrow, “Is that so? Well what to do with grumpy old sorts like me then?”

  “Depends. But for you old friend,” Donovan held up a hand, gesturing for Reuben to wait a moment. He went behind his bar and opened up a cabinet behind, pulling out a bottle and a couple of small snifters. “For them such as notice and appreciate a good sniff, I bring out this little beauty.”

  * * *

  Lightness, calm. The mattress was lumpy but for Reuben it was the most comfortable rest he’d had for many years. The warmth he felt from the good camaraderie and, he hiccuped, the good drink, filled him to the brim. Muzzily he had groped his way up the stairs of the tavern to the few rooms on the second floor. These were used mostly for Donovan’s office, quarters, and storage. But for an old friend, he had said, there was always room. So, long after the busy evening had taken the proprietor away to attend to his business, when the place was quiet once more, the three old soldiers had continued their acquaintance. It felt good, like having a family again. Now quartered at the tavern, he felt free. Drifting off to sleep was not easy though. Gradually the warmth drained from him as, despite his best efforts, the events of the last day kept creeping into his consciousness. Thankfully Donovan had a few bottles up here too. Reuben reached for one at random. One slow pull and it was emptied. He coughed, that one had tasted smoky and bitter. The next one was floral but too sweet. He sputtered a bit, recorked it and reached for another. This one had no taste at all. The room spun gently around him, spiriting away his consciousness into a jumbled mass of dreams.

  Reuben had heard chimes before, when he was a child. Their home had a porch and there, Father had set several pairs of chi
mes. He owned many sets: glass, wood, metal, but he only ever put out one or two at a time. He would change them depending on the time of year, upcoming festivals, or just his current mood. Reuben could recall seeing him in the morning each day before his land was overrun, and Father left to go fight. He always surveyed the chimes each morn while he puffed away at his first pipe of the day. Then, once a year in spring on the solstice day, he would have every single one up at once. The noise was a riotous cacophony which drove Mother to go visit friends or family for the day. Reuben had stayed with his father though, listening to the music. The slightest stir in the breeze set off the cascade, frightening at first and without form. But his father had taught him to listen, to see the patterns barely discernible in the wall of clanging percussion. He remembered the joy expressed in the creased face, how his father’s eyes lit up as a steady breeze set his creation in motion. And through the noise he had caught it, only for a moment, but it was enough. And he too had stood in rapturous wonder at the simplicity and complexity interwoven, the secret melody that rewarded those that waited for it. He remembered the look of recognition on his father’s face. “You hear it too?” he shouted above the din. Reuben had only been able to nod. “Good, Son. Now you understand. Remember, this is something that can never be taken from you.”

  And in that moment, only one of a handful of times in his entire life, Reuben believed. Believed the gods were there, that there was purpose and order to the world. That morality and ethics and all the good ways taught to him by his parents were both necessary and right. Then the day the news came when the town fell, no survivors. The horror and emptiness inside. The way his mother looked as she stared at the letter all evening long. The last letter his father had sent, how things were looking better and he’s been stationed at the town where there didn’t seem to be much activity. And every day after that until the capital of the nation was surrounded, slowly choked out of existence by the inexorably advancing ash. The circuits had prevented a great deal but only as a stalling tactic; all knew it was inevitable that the end would come. Those that fled via conventional means were not heard from again. Others tried magical escape, and probably made it out. He’d only been rescued because of his mother’s and his father’s service. It was a political move, to rescue the last survivors. He had tarried long. He’d resisted long but finally had relented to his mother’s plea to pray. Religion had fallen out of favor when the cinders seemed to advance despite the frightful masses, the crowded pews, and the filled alms boxes. He was proud of himself for not being among their number. Spite, a chance to tarry longer and prolong the standoff were beguiling reasons to try. Not enough though. It was the tears in his mother’s eyes begging him to remember how much his father had cared about the city, about keeping the festivals, that had won him over in the end. So he had bowed the knee, humbled himself in supplication, but not without letting those he asked assistance from know just how much he hated them. He had done his best to make the hovel place holy. He had scrounged up a prayer book and gone through the rituals. There was no robe so he had to fashion one. He had taken scraps of cloth from every tattered bit of clothing he could find, each one reminding him of the former occupant, now gone. And he had prayed, said the words, made the signs. He spat out the verses with bad grace and barely concealed contempt. And he hated even more that every time he did so the incense would be renewed, the means by which his failing city stayed the progress of the cinders. It had to be the marking of the gods, only they could delight in giving something only in the cruel jest. But Mother had thanked him. She even hung up some chimes that day that she had made herself. That had made it worth it to see her smile, just once, it had made it all worth it.

  He woke up, and in those first moments of confusion upon consciousness he realized the chimes were not just figments of an overheated nighttime panorama but part of waking reality. He stumbled over to the window and peeked into the soft light of dawn, too harsh for his watery eyes. There below, across the street, he could see the jangling metal bars suspended on strings. The dawn light filtered into the borrowed room. It was unfortunate enough to end its journey only to illumine the wreck of a perfectly good debauch. Reuben’s clothes hung half off the bed, being heartily damp from night sweat. Bottles were strewn all around, a great shameful semicircle of departed spirits. How one body could contain so much potent liquid was certainly offset by the equally disquieting stench. Reuben had been busy, drinking for the departed in a jolly attempt to join them in his own right. The loud knock at the door pulsed through the air, jarring the remaining brain cells into enough alertness to curse their existence as well as that of the knocker, the door, and most of all the stupidity of drinking such an exorbitant amount.

  A cool bath, a fresh set of clothes. One tentatively eaten biscuit, along with fortifying water and a cup of strong tea, and Reuben was out and about walking the open street once more, trying with as much haste as possible in his current frail state to leave behind the scene that he had created at the inn. It didn’t do much good to walk quickly, every time he tried the world would start to spin. So, sitting down in the city park seemed a wise idea. How long at it been since he’d seen green grass? Or felt the warm sun unfiltered through a veil? It was bliss to rest on the bench, notwithstanding the painful stab in his head from the grudging drink. Or the stab in his heart remembering how not two days before he had sat on a different bench, one with a coal box in front. That brought the tears, but he kept them hidden. He’d not be caught blubbering in the park, not when he had the meeting in only an hour or two. Long enough then, to sort out everything he’d need to tell the councilors.

  * * *

  Fragrance permeated the air like heavy perfume in a garden. Syrupy sweet, the myriad blooms of flowers rose from the well-tended beds all along the white gravel pathways, all of which was only one part of the walled garden. Careful choices had been made for color, blooming season, light requirements. Master gardeners had put decades of careful tending into it, coaxing and patience, considered pruning, all to create a verdant tapestry with bursting fireworks of color. For the aesthete overcome by the natural wonder, benches were provided, masterpieces in their own right. They were delicate in design though sturdy in construction, the resting spots for those to enjoy the park were dotted throughout the area with no discernible pattern. Gazebos were also in evidence, placed strategically at optimal viewing points. The emerald jewel of the city in the green season of growth made a perfect halcyon spring day. And all of it was utterly wasted, lost, dashed against the rocks, in the surly-sour thunderstorm face of Reuben.

  The beauty of the gardens were lost on him. It was not as if his ability to appreciate such things had atrophied, costing the garden its glory; rather, it was lost through remembering the cost his family had borne in their protection. Watered gardens here while the rest of the world burned, while his own family had been reduced to himself alone. It was easy to ignore in the small utopia but every crunch of gravel reminded him too easily of the sound of snow beneath his boots. While others tarried his time of service had been the grist on the turning wheel of years.

  The afternoon light was too bright for his puffy eyes. If only he could conjure up a dark cloud to match the brooding gloom he wove for himself. No bird song could penetrate to his soul in this place, not while his heart festered with grief and anger. Strangers, who might have otherwise greeted him, passed him by without comment, either dismissing the raggedy personage as out of place or cowed by the air of unfriendliness emanating from him. But one passerby did not continue, and the crunch of stone near him announced the stop of the bold individual. Surprised that someone would dare approach him, his guard was down and he looked on in amazement at the newcomer. She was a tall woman, dressed in a simple but elegant light summer green dress; yet the cheerful attire did not match the sour look on the preened and artfully highlighted features of one of the society ladies. Her look of disdain was biting, the lips pursed with disapproval.

  “I will have to
speak with the administrator of these gardens. I understood that they had been cleaned up after the recent rain. However, I see they missed some of the debris blown in from the lower districts.” The look of pleasure in her pronouncement exacerbated Reuben’s already tenuous grasp on anything approaching civility. Before he could retort the woman was on her way, nose held high, family-crested broach bobbing on her chest. Even her walk managed to be offensive, just fast enough to carry her away but slow enough to welcome a parting shot, if he dared.

  “Bitch,” he growled. That was his misfortune, for the quick scuttle of gravel attested that his voice carried further than intended. The aristocratic shouts of consternation and belittling rained down upon him with swift scorn. For some reason his mean and unkempt appearance was not daunting. As he gazed at her, steady from his seat on the bench, he wondered at how stupid it all was, him sitting in a park being yelled at by some fancy person. He tried to ignore the venom sprayed at him, besides he was relishing that he had made her angry. That put him ahead, she hadn’t been able to keep control of herself. It was enough to bask in the rosy self-satisfaction of it. Though part of him felt it as the heat of indignation like a stone within, urging him to say something back. Caught between these two incompatible states of mind he did not expect anything much. And then, the sudden force, a blow, the ringing sensation. The world jostled in his eyes and his cheek and jaw blossomed with pain. Wrath won out. His face still ringing he stood up. Another mistake. The green dress woman, seeing the intent in his eyes, rushed off. He checked himself from following, just barely. Ha, he had scared her off. Good riddance, and the fire abated. Best not to linger though, his recovering senses prodded him. He set off towards the council chambers, it would test what little remained of his patience to present information.