The Hope Of Eternal Springs

by Justin Kauer

All three entered the hotel. Garrve knew the place well because he had spent a lot of time there when he was younger. In fact, that was the first place he worked after he was captured and sold into slavery. He was presentable enough, and he knew how to cook. So, he was placed in the kitchen, at first to help the head cook, but later he was selected to replace the old woman who was in charge after someone poisoned one of the guards given the charge of the fighting slaves (though the guard did not die). Garrve knew that she had done nothing of the sort. He was there when she had prepared the meal. He got her the ingredients and helped her watch the dishes cook as she skipped to the loo a couple of times. You see, she was getting old, and . . . well, never mind. Garrve had tried to explain that he had, indeed, been there the whole time and that she would not have left the kitchen had she been trying to do something like that, but kept her eyes glued to the specific tainted dish. He obviously had failed in his attempts. So, Garrve was promoted through beheading. He didn’t like the way things looked at that point. He was literally in a dead end job.

  It was only about a week later when the same guard became ill, that Garrve’s fears were realized. This time, he was much closer to death, and it was said that his life was hanging in the balance. Suddenly, Celos, who had always despised Garrve, conveniently remembered the testimony that Garrve had given in the first instance. This time, Celos reported Garrve’s earlier statements to his father, the Governor of the Carnival at Sacrete dan Prudencia. Garrve was taken to face his accusers.

  “You are permitted to speak. However, I remind you that you are accused of murdering a freeman and that whatever you say will be used in your counter. We have here the physician that attended Portos. He can attest to the health of the victim in this case. Now you are permitted to speak.” said the governor.

  “I thank you most humbly for the chance to declare my innocence before God and men alike. I do acknowledge the severity of the accusations, though I should like that they be read to me here at my trial.” submitted Garrve.

  “Oh! I didn’t know that this was a man of letters!” scoffed Celos to the delight of some present.

  “Celos, you are out of turn!” yelled the governor, at which Celos quieted and sat up straight in his chair. “You may indeed have the charges read to you.” continued the Governor. “You are hereby charged with the attempted murder of . . . what’s his name?” he asked as he turned to the magistrate on his left hand.

  The magistrate whispered something but it was incoherent to most present.

  “Yes! That’s his name.” continued the governor. “It is the prosecution’s claim that, on two separate incidences, you tried to poison him. This is the trial for those offenses to the territory and the State. How do you plead?”

  “I plead with all my heart that I be found innocent before God and these witnesses! I have ever tried to serve to the best of my ability. Never have I been in need of the slightest reprimand until now, and I trust that such truth should be taken into consideration as these proceedings continue.”

  “Do you have nothing more to say for yourself?”

  “I am a foreigner and I do not have intricate knowledge of your laws and their procedures, but I should very much like to ask if I am able to ask questions and examine any or all witnesses in my counter.”

  “You may ask me first, as to which persons you should like to question, and in this case, though you are a foreigner and a slave, I shall grant you some leniency.”

  “I thank you for that. It is most kind,” smiled Garrve. “I should like, therefore, to request that I be permitted to ask said physician about the state of the alleged victim, that I may show that there was never any malice, nor intent on my part, nor even circumstance to allow myself the opportunity to intentionally, or otherwise harm the said victim.”

  “I say, young man, your grammar seems impeccable, as well as your manners! I appreciate that. Yes, you may proceed to question the physician, by all means.”

  “Which is he, my lord?”

  “I am the doctor.” said a small man who stood to answer, though standing only gave him another half foot of height.

  “Thank you.” said Garrve.

  The doctor only nodded.

  “How may I address you, sir?”

  “Doctor would be fine.”

  “Doctor.”

  “Yes?”

  “For exactly what were you treating the victim?”

  “On a foreign excursion, he was bitten by a rare insect. He was suffering symptoms as a complication from that instance. “

  “Was it a branding beetle?”

  “Why, yes, it was.” answered the doctor in an astonished wash of tones.

  “What sort of symptoms does the patient have now?”

  “From the bite?”

  “No. Why do you suspect poison?”

  “He has had blood in the urine and the stools.”

  “For the bug bite, you were treating him with what applications?”

  “It is a tincture of embalming salts. They help to stave off the fevers and shaking.”

  “Have you used that treatment on many of your patients?”

  “No. This is the first. We don’t have much call for that type of case as the bugs are not found this far north.”

  “How did you learn of such treatments?”

  The doctor looked at the governor, who nodded in turn.

  “There was a man . . . that I treated that said he was a physician . . . from another land. He put me onto it.”

  “Was he a tall, frail man with a crooked nose?”

  “That is privileged information!” interrupted the Governor.

  “Alright,” replied Garrve with a puzzled look. “Though it piques my curiosity, I shall refrain . . . from . . . Exactly what type of embalming salts did you use?” he continued as he looked back towards the doctor.

  “Chromagnium . . . and . . . Slaugh.”

  “As a doctor, you must know chemistry, correct?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Tell me then, what happens when Chromagnium is mixed with alcohol and acid?”

  “Oh . . .” he replied with surprised realization. “It can become a poison! What have I done?”

  All in the court gasped. The governor’s countenance paled a few shades until it neared blue. All looked around at each other as if something must be done, but that they had no idea as to what.

  “You have done nothing with bad intentions.” Garrve covered quickly. “You have said that you just recently learned of the treatment. I suggest that the other doctor were not on friendly terms with you, or he would have warned you that the three must never be mixed. Therefore, no malice may be placed at your feet.

  “However, as for the case at hand, Alfombra, the table servant may attest to the fact that the victim was drinking heavily last night. That is what happened. He unwittingly combined the three elements necessary to make a powerful blend of wizard’s curse, a most wicked blood thinner, and hell’s fury, an acid powerful enough to eat through steel in high concentration.”

  “Alfombra?” asked the Governor. “Who is this Alfombra?”

  “Oh, I mean Alondra. I liked to call her Alfombra. I called her Alfombra in my mind. That is the first time that it has escaped my lips.” explained Garrve, amongst the roaring laughter of the whole court, though he did not know why it was so hilarious to them.

  “I must say that for a slave, you are very impressive indeed!” cried the Governor, when he had fought back the laughter enough to speak. “I declare that I haven’t had a laugh like that for years. And your knowledge of chemistry is rare also for a slave. I have half a mind to put you to better use than as a cook, in spite of the fact that we have dined quite well these last few days. What an unusual slave you are!”

  “I was not always a slave.” replied Garrve.

  Just then, a bailiff that had been whispering with a man approached Celos with a sealed letter which he delivere
d into the latter’s hands. Celos then asked to approach the Bench, as he had something that the governor should see. As his request was granted, he quickly brought the letter and set it on the table in front of the governor. There was near perfect silence as the letter was read. When finished, the silence was broken by the governor as he gasped in surprise, but the silence continued for some time as he sat and thought. An idea apparently popped into his head, and he cleared his throat to speak. Taking second thought, he conferred with the magistrate for a moment in hushed whispers. Then he cleared his throat again in order to announce the verdict. He remembered that he, by law, was required to stand as he pronounced the verdict and any accompanying sentence. So, he gathered himself together to stand. Another idea must have popped into his head because he decided to consult the magistrate a second time. This time, the conversation was a bit more relaxed than the first. At length, the governor’s throat was cleared again, possibly the best that it had been cleared to that point, and he began to speak.

  “Given the evidence of this case, the court has come to the following conclusion. We find that the slave, Garrve is innocent of the charges brought against him. However, we find that his services will be better employed in another station. We will inform him later as to where he may serve in the near future.”

  “You see, Princess Freya, that is how I had been moved from the kitchen to the fighting arena,” Garrve explained. “I was taken in by Alban who, though much younger than I, seemed to know more about fighting than the whole of even the nobles at the tournament. He saw that I was alone and that I knew that I would soon be . . .”

  “By the rim of Zigmund’s cup! You do float about in your tale! First, you are in the tournament arena, about to fight the osote, then you are working in the kitchen as a slave, then at trial, and finally back as a slave in the fighting ranks! I am having difficulty following all of this!”

  “If that were true, Princess, then how were you able to provide such a great outline of the whole story line?” Garrve retorted. “It will all make sense after I tell the tale. Anyway, one day I asked Alban, point-blank, as to why he had taken me under his wing.”

  “It was partly because I had heard that you were placed here fresh from the kitchen and made to fight. I have seen it happen before. When a slave (or anyone else, for that matter) is placed here from a menial position other than fighting, it is usually because they know some embarrassing fact that someone in power wishes to have died with their victim. We must keep you alive until we find out what that secret may be.” Alban explained.

  “Oh, I thought that I was to be your friend,” Garrve said disappointedly.

  “Perhaps, if we get our way clear of this tournament. I could think of nothing better, to tell the truth.” your Alban said.

  “Could you just get on with the story?” Freya urged impatiently.

  “Where I am from, my lady, it is considered very rude to continually interrupt the one who is telling the story!”

  “Well, in my land we tend to get to the point — and we like to put some chronological order to the whole story as a kindness to both the listener and the teller, that the story need not be repeated time and time again or a long question and answer session follow the tale,” Freya informed her counterpart.

  “Quite so, Princess, but where I am from the emphasis is made most squarely on the experiences as to the construction of a relationship, rather than the boring timeline approach. We feel that it is like the bricks in a wall; one need not understand all that there is to know about a certain brick in order to acknowledge that a wall has been constructed. However, for your humble taste, I shall try to confine myself to a more direct approach.

  “You see, as I was saying . . .” Garrve began his tale anew with a tone that denoted his injury at having been interrupted. “I had wanted to be friends with — I mean, the man that you call Alban. He had said that he should like it to be so, should we both make it out of the tournament alive, speaking of the place, not the actual games that were being staged at the time. Alban had told me that we must keep me alive until we knew why they wanted me to die in the arena. It all seemed reasonable enough, but I was still a bit disconcerted at the fact that the information that I might have should interest my new companion more than my life. I suppose that he was just thinking realistically.”

  “Well, there must be a reason that you are still here among the living,” Freya said.

  “I am telling you that it was definitely Alban! Were it not for him, I should be dead and buried!”

  Freya replied, “I do not know about that. Alban has me believing that God can accomplish great works without us; he just wants us to grow from our experiences as we try to serve him.”

  “Yes, but, again, he can accomplish his designs without us. Anyway, I told Alban that we may have a hard time understanding any more about that trial and its implications, as we were kept away from the freemen as best possible for the duration of our respective stays. Mine was a bit longer than his. Rather, I stayed from that point on longer than he. I believe that he had actually been there at the tournament for nearly a year before I arrived.

  “At first, we kept to the basics, as he trained me in the sword, spear, and the bow. Oh, I had been trained as a boy, of course, but the moves of a soldier and those of a tourney fighter are different, almost as night and day. A tourneyman must fight and be aware of all sides, whereas, a soldier among ranks can rely on his compatriots to have his sides and back. Also, he who rides on mounted steed has distinct advantages. I do not know how Alban knew so much about arena fighting. I was most shocked at his grasp of the way to defeat different men of different body types and different styles of fighting, especially since, one night, he confided in me that he was of royal birth, as well, and then he threatened my life should I disclose that fact to anyone.

  “He told me, ‘Garrve, I do indeed, miss my homeland! I miss meddling in the castle’s kitchen, helping the cook there with the meals for the whole of the people living there. I miss my family most of all — even my brothers!’ he laughed. ‘My father was king at the castle, and ruler of our entire kingdom; he had a heart of pure gold!’ Alban continued with tear-welled eyes. ‘He taught me everything that I know, except for the cooking, of course, though I know that he can cook like no other. He was hard on me. He never let me quit on anything, even if I did not possess the natural aptitude for it. Swordplay was one of those things for which I thought that I had a great propensity. He showed me that it was never enough, that I must continually learn about everything that I did — not in order to be the best in the world, but to be the best in me!’”

  Garrve noticed that Freya’s head drooped as he spoke. He kindly changed the subject.

  “So I learned that day the very important lesson of how to learn. At the very least, I learned that my learning would never be finished. I do not understand how it was that on that particular day, at that particular time, the very same thing that my grandfather had tried to make me understand came leaping forth to my mind and seemed to brand itself in my heart, and at the same time surge forth deep from within me. By listening to the words of truth from an enslaved prince, it seemed to me that my own grandfather continued the lessons given to me years before in my kingdom across the sea. My heart burned within me, and my own eyes welled with tears as I longed for home as well.

  “My grandfather has been gone now, for the space of many years, yet his voice cries from the dust of the earth, across the great sea, over this continent and from deep within my soul, at the same time. As I hear Alban speak, my grandfather’s words mesh with his.”

  “Yes, he may have a playful sense of humor, but he also has a great maturity about him. It is a . . .”

  “A spiritual maturity.” Garrve completed. “He makes you want to be so much better than you are. It would be intimidating were it not for the fact that he instills his own confidence in you, or rather . . .”

  “H
e lets you know that you are his.”

  “Yes. It is that sense that you are his . . . friend, fellow companion, brother, or in your case, sister.”

  “Yes. I mistook that for belonging to him . . . as his wife.”

  “Dear Princess, time will heal that pain in your heart as you grow.”

  “And I learn God’s will for me?” Freya added, disappointedly.

  “Yes, I suppose that it comes down to that in every relationship where one is over another; parents to children, grandparents to grandchildren.” Garrve said tenderly, and then lightheartedly added, “Husbands to wives.”

  The princess gave him a quizzical look and then smiled, saying, “I suppose that it is better that I cannot marry Alban; I would have willfully been his loving slave!”

  Both laughed a good, long, full-bellied laugh.

  “Who knows? Maybe the man to whom you were betrothed is now dead. You might end up marrying me, if . . .”

  “No! I have already had that nightmare!” Freya blurted out laughing.

  Garrve feigned injury, “Nightmare? I’ll have you know that there are many women that still dream of me in the many lands of my travels!”

  “Oh, the poor things!” the princess laughed.

  “If you continue to be so kind, I will release Ryan, and let him have his crack at courting you!”

  Freya’s laughter stopped suddenly, and she got a look on her face that seemingly said, “By all means, do so — at your peril and Ryan’s!” which solicited further laughter from Garrve, such that it even brought tears to his eyes.

  “Anyway, go on!” urged the princess when Garrve’s laughter had subsided enough.

  “Get Ryan?” he chuckled.

  “No! Continue with your story!” the princess scolded.

  “Oh! Right! I had forgotten. Where was I?” he asked.

  “Alban was teaching you the sword . . . the art of war.”

  “Well, he was teaching me how to fight. War is another thing that he taught me a bit about, but that was later on. Yes, he was definitely teaching me how to fight in a duel-type setting.” Garrve stated with his voice trailing off towards the end.

  “That is it? That is the whole of your story?” the princess interrupted — his train of thought, anyway.

  Well, you were saying that Alban had taken you in and was beginning to teach you, and . . .”

  “And?”

  “Stop it! Tell me the rest of the story. You piqued my interest, now let it be satisfied.”

  “Alright!” Garrve relented. “If you are going to beg me, I will tell you! Later! My throat is dry and we must get everything together as we promised Alban.”

  “Come on! What happened in the fight with the osote?”

  “He ate me for supper! — A horrible way to die, really!” laughed Garrve.

  Then he turned and walked away from the fire to make all ready for the day’s events. Garrve thought to himself that, hopefully, one event was the finding of the water that Alban had promised. Otherwise, there would be tempers to flare and maybe even the clashing of swords.