by Ko, John
“No, we are going to do this together as a team. From now on, we do everything together. We are going to go ask Brother Monster to join us together. We are going to stay hungry together, and later we will eat together,” the Captain says. “I also upgraded our room. We will even be sleeping together.”
Wake chokes on something, and the others look at their Captain oddly.
“I thought you all would be more excited. I got us a Full Team Room. It has dividers and everything.”
“Oh, that actually sounds quite nice,” Rachel says, full of relief. “Anything’s better than the ones they assign you to on Tour. Let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than having to share a washroom with twenty other girls.”
Wake thinks about it for a moment. “Wait a minute. If Monster joins us, that will be four boys and two girls. We’re going to be totally crammed on our side.”
“That is true. Too bad we failed in getting the Princess.”
It’s Wake’s turn to groan.
Riser’s far from happy as they enter the House of Worship. It’s the largest building in town, with ceilings so high she wouldn’t be able to hit the rafters with a stone. She’s always been terrible at throwing things, though. I’d like to throw something at Fate right about now.
She lets the others pass. Hopefully, she can hang out in the back—anything to not be associated with this worthless mission.
The Fate leads them towards a corridor on the far side of the Prayer Hall. Their footsteps echo loudly as they pass pew after empty pew. The hundreds of candles lining the walls remain cold and unlit waiting for this week’s service to come back to life again.
They enter the narrow corridor at the far end of the Hall. The torches here are spaced so far apart that there are moments they walk in complete darkness. As they near the end of the passage, the chattering of old men can be heard. The Fate comes to a stop in front of a solid oak door.
The Fate knocks three times and calls out, “Hello, Monster? Is anyone there?”
“I don’t think we should call him that,” whispers Rachel. The voices on the other side continue unabated.
The Fate shrugs and continues to knock. “Hello, Brother Monster, are you in there?”
“Maybe we should go. This is a House of Worship. We can’t just go wandering around,” Wake says.
The Fate ignores the advice, instead shoving the door open. On the other side sit three men of varying degrees of oldness: kind of old, really old, and ancient.
The room is bright and warm, lit by a smoldering fire in an oversized fireplace. An incredibly tall youth works a series of stove ranges on the far side of the room.
“ … A Vision is never wrong. It is impossible for it to be wrong. The very nature of a Vision is that it comes true,” argues the ancient one.
The one with the most hair shakes his head and answers, “The world is a mutable place. No fate is set in stone. A Vision is true at the time of receiving it, but its purpose is not to show an absolute truth, but to be a guide on what may or may not be. I can quote at least a dozen examples of this being the case …”
“I’ve heard your dozen examples before and each one has a counter …” begins the ancient priest before finally noticing them in the doorway. “And just what do we have here?”
“Pardon us, sirs. We knocked, but no one answered. We are here to speak with Brother Monster concerning a matter of great importance,” the Fate explains. His chagrined teammates look anywhere but at the three old men. The Daughter settles for staring at the back of the beanstalk of a cook—unforgivably skinny, even compared to a normal man. Only his height and pale skin, tinged ever so slightly blue, betray him for his namesake.
“Go away, Fate,” the towering cook says without turning.
“Greetings, Monster, are you ready to join my Team this fine day? This will most likely be your final opportunity.”
“Are you daft? I would never join your team, ever—just because you call me that,” the tall boy growls back. He continues to stir a large pot in silence. Finally, he picks it up and turns. His prominent fangs shoot upward as much as the corners of his hairline recede backwards, highlighting a strikingly angular face—one that abruptly fills with shock at the sight of them.
The heavy iron pot clatters to the floor, spilling hot broth everywhere.
Chapter 11
BROTHER MONSTER
[The House of Worship, Greenwood]
The fateful day Brun received his Vision was the happiest of his life. It wasn’t just the peace and fulfillment he felt, but the fact that he, a Half-Orc, received it, which mattered most. To a young orphan, it was undeniable proof that he wasn’t some abomination, but that he too was worthy of the One God’s love.
Even the doubt that filled the face of Father Arnold upon hearing the news wasn’t enough to discourage him that day. The Head of the Sanctuary was known to approach such things with skepticism—it’s just how you’d expect a Master of the Doubting Palm to react. But when he finally came around to believing, his belief was unshakeable, a trait he passed on to his prized pupil.
The blessing of a Vision wasn’t uncommon at the Vision of Divine Mercy Sanctuary, although it’d been a dozen years since anyone had been graced with such a gift.
At Father Arnould’s suggestion, Brun immediately began to fast and pray. Slowly, the overwhelming experience began to gain clarity. The vision gained focus and the memory of the voice rang clear.
On the third morning of meditation, he finally accepted the path he must follow. Before only himself and the Maker, he took the Vow of Pacifism, and in doing so everything felt right for the first time in his twelve years of life.
He wanted to scream his vows out for all to hear. Instead, he took them in private. He did not want to cause any more trouble for the Brothers and Sisters of the Sanctuary. The Half-Orc had already been denied permission to take the official vows of Priesthood. No matter how much Father Arnold pressed the matter, The Order was unwilling to set such a precedent.
In the end, they wouldn’t even acknowledge the Vision. The case was classified as needing further investigation, which proved to be a difficult matter. Brun would not betray the Voice he heard so clearly during the Vision: “Speak not of what you see, but only that you have witnessed it. In this manner, follow the Path of Peace for all the world to behold.”
From that point on, his training took on new meaning. With renewed dedication, he began refining the art of Laying Hands and mastering the lore of Herbology. He also continued training in the ways of the Doubting Palm, but only practiced the forms that caused no harm.
Once his studies reached completion, he knew it was time to leave. He always knew his time at the Sanctuary would come to an end, but leaving the only home he had ever known proved hard.
But he gathered his resolve and left all he knew behind. The Half-Orc took only the clothes on his back, a plain tunic that almost fit him, and a blessed rope to cinch it tight—a final gift from the fatherly Priest. His only other possession was a voluminous dark robe, a self afforded necessity that helped hide his pale, steely skin.
The young Healer traded in his herb collection for the robe. There was even enough coin left over for a new pair of sandals, though in the end he decided to remain barefoot as he’d grown accustomed to. It would only be a matter of weeks before he would outgrow anything he could fit now, anyway.
The coins ended up in the offering box.
His once dark robe is now threadbare. It fails to cover as much of him as it once did. But you’ll never find him without it, even though it’s now too tight to properly fasten down the front and rests instead on his shoulders more like a cloak than a proper robe. That’s about to change, he realizes. He wasn’t wearing it in his Vision and this marks its nearing. Just when I thought I’d have to wait another couple years.
That was until he turned to face the annoying fool and those who entered with him.
Brun barely felt the broth splash his toughened, exposed fe
et. The scalding drops to the shins however, were quite painful. They’re sure to leave tiny blisters, but the discomfort wasn’t enough to make the self-disciplined boy blink twice.
With a grimace he grabs a cool, moist cloth and begins to wipe up the mess. Could it really be? he wonders to himself as he steals a glance towards the new arrivals.
“Brun, don’t worry about that now. Are you hurt, son?” one of the clerics asks. The one able to get up with the least discomfort attempts to do so before the Half-Orc gestures that he is fine.
“Just look at what your rude intrusion …” another of the old clerics begins before the oldest cuts him off.
“I understand that the deadline to submit final Team Rosters has already come and gone,” the ancient priest says. “Brun will turn eighteen before spring, so he will already have reported for Service by the start of the next season.”
“There is no problem there. The proper paperwork has already been submitted … with his name on it,” the cheerful boy replies. “I was going to change it, if I had to. I am glad I do not. Brother Monster can still join us.”
The oldest one carefully studies the Fate. After a long moment he asks the Half-Orc, “Brun, what do you think of all this?”
The Half-Orc returns from the windowsill holding a long, thick leaf serrated with small white teeth. He sits down onto a stool far too small for him and begins to apply the gel of the prickly plant to his burns.
“This is your team, Fate?” he asks, not looking up from his work.
“Yes, Monster. There is one more, but he is currently at work.”
The Healer remains quiet. He grabs a second plant and crushes the broad leaves into his palm. After applying a generous portion of the salve to his shins, he looks up and says, “Why should I join? I have no points, no real chance of qualifying.”
“No worries, Monster. With you on the team, we will make it for sure.”
“Will you stop calling me that, if I join?”
“What, Monster? Is that not what people call you?” the Fate asks.
“I don’t like being called that. I don’t like what it means.”
“People will not stop calling you Monster just because you do not like it,” the Fate says with a shrug. “Monster, you make the name, the name does not make you. If you do not like what it means, change the meaning, not the name.”
One of the clerics chuckles politely. “The boy is right, Brun. And he calls you that with no malice.”
“Fine then, grab a bowl if you’re hungry. Somehow, I made too many noodles. It’ll take me a minute to salvage the broth, though.” For as long as he’s been cooking, the Half-Orc has never once made too much of anything. His measurements have always been exact.
I blamed the mistake on being distracted by the deadline coming and going, but … He takes another look at the group. He tries not to show it, but, tonight, for the second time in his life he feels like he’s experiencing the impossible—a miracle.
Chapter 12
POE
[The Lobby, Greenwood]
A slender shadow slips along the side of the road, a large case strapped to their back. Dressed somewhat like a gentleman, the delicate youth wears a broad collared tailcoat with matching waistcoat over a half-buttoned shirt, barely tucked into a pair of tight breeches. And of course, a three-cornered hat pushed precipitously forward in the manner all bards are famous for.
Hair like winter’s sky covers half the bard’s face. But it’s not enough to hide the scar that runs down from their right eye, ugly as a trail of tears. The wound may have even appeared dashing on another, but in this bard’s case, it’s too obvious a flaw on an otherwise flawless face. Poe looks every bit the part of an aspiring bard, except for one thing: a charming smile.
Poe has no reason to smile, though. Everywhere the bard looks there is always some reminder to be sad. Even just being bard. Among the first things Poe learned in life were, Mother’s passed away and Father’s away being a bard. That’s why I don’t have parents like everybody else.
For the longest time Poe felt nothing but resentment towards the profession. At least that’s how it was until that one day—the day he came back with that song, a song written just for Poe.
It ended up becoming one of his most famous. By now, the whole world has heard it, twice over. But the only one who’d ever fully understand it would be Poe.
That’s all it took. Just one song and Poe was hooked, fascinated by how a few notes and a string of words could reveal what has always been there.
Ever since that day, Poe followed in his booming footsteps. But lately, things haven’t been so booming.
Why can’t I do this? Poe wonders. I’ve tried everything. I came all the way to Wysteria just to wake up every day before the sun even rises and play for these backwater bumpkins. I’ve listened to old favorites until I can’t stand them anymore. I’ve listened to songs I could never stand until I liked them. I even tried drinking that horrid coffee stuff and I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. Why can’t I just finish this song?
It’s all Poe ever thinks of these days: the song. At least I’m finally comfortable performing in front of strangers now. But there’s really no other reason for me to keep following this stupid Tour. It may have worked for him, but it’s definitely not working for me. Distracted, Poe steps right into a pile of something soft and squishy. Aggravated, the bard tries to wipe off as much of the stink as possible.
That’s it. I’m done with Wysteria. It was a mistake coming her in the first place. I’ve wasted too many months on this backwater peninsula, and for what? Nothing! I’ll play one more morning for these ingrates and then I’m on the next ship out of here. It doesn’t even matter where—anywhere has to be better than this.
Lately, the conversations in Poe’s head have gotten longer. It couldn’t be helped though: the bard needs someone to talk to. Ever since Poe ran away from school and arrived in the Three Kingdoms, the bard hasn’t uttered a single word out loud.
As usual, there are at least a couple of ‘competitors’ passed out on the benches bordering the Lobby, but they don’t matter. They’d be kicked out soon enough when the Sitters do their morning rounds.
Other than the rabble, Poe is always the first to arrive. However, this morning someone’s beaten the guitarist to the Lobby.
I’ve never seen him before. He must be new. But why is he running around like that? Poe wonders, almost tripping over the blonde giant sleeping in the middle of the road. Whew, that was too close.
The rest of the rabble are harmless enough, but that was Kearney Dim, the self-anointed ‘Big League Rookie,’ who in reality is nothing but a Big League Brute. Just last week, he broke some kid’s arm over a card game. The kid was on a hot streak until Kearney accused him of having cards up his sleeve. The big bully yanked the boy’s forearm free of his sleeve and shattered it across his table. No one ever found the extra cards.
Poe clutches the strap of Desi’s case at the thought. The musician would risk broken bones over the song, but not Desi. Never Desi Derata. The guitar that Poe’s father made from the better parts of three other instruments is worth more than anything.
This should be far enough, Poe decides, picking the furthest possible corner. After a quick tuning of Desi’s six strings, the bard begins to play softly. As the guitar begins to sing, Poe seeks that moment of clarity, that place where the irreplaceable isn’t lost, where every day isn’t a torturous test.
As much as Poe silently complains about it, the Three Kingdoms of Wysteria are not the source of the bard’s torture. In fact, Wysteria’s Tournaments have provided the perfect atmosphere for the young bard to safely blend in and get lost. Poe’s just old enough to not stick out amongst the kids on Tour. And though there’s no way anyone would mistake the fair-haired bard to be from either Bae or Silla, Poe could always claim to be from Gorgury, the third and newest kingdom.
It didn’t take long for a stranger like Poe to figure out how things work around these p
arts. Really, Wysteria’s Tour is just a lesser version of the real thing, the International Tournament of Tears. The only real difference is that instead of traveling each month from nation to nation as the World Circuit does, Wysteria’s Tour travels from town to town—that and the level of competition, of course.
Even not being able to speak hasn’t been that big of a hassle. At least, I still have my tongue, Poe thinks, remembering an old friend left behind. And as difficult as it’s proven, the torture isn’t even from having to complete the song. It’s from remembering the one who began it—that he’s no longer around.
When Poe’s eyes open, the new boy stands there bouncing on his heels, staring back as if in a trance. Suddenly, he starts smiling—almost like he’d forgotten to.
“That was beautiful. Why did you stop, though?” he says, tilting his head “Please keep playing.”
Poe nods briefly and begins to play the song a second time. It’s been a while since anyone’s asked to hear it again. By now everyone else on Tour is more than sick of it. But it’s the only song Poe is willing to play, at least until it’s finally done.
Warmed up, the second performance is near perfect. But still no closer to completion.
The new boy applauds loudly. And even though Poe’s stopped playing, the boy continues to nod his head to the beat.
“Being on Tour really is amazing!” the strange boy says. “Why do you only play the beginning though? You play it too well to still be learning it … Is it possible that you are actually still writing the end?”