by Sam Sykes
Do you suppose there’ll be more?
‘More what?’
Memories.
He waited, listening patiently for an answer. All that responded was the stream, burbling aimlessly over the rocks. He furrowed his brow and frowned.
Are you still there?
The sun felt warm on his brow, uncomfortably so. Someone, somewhere else, muttered something.
‘Memories,’ it replied with a sudden chill, ‘are a reminder of what was never meant to be.’
He blinked. Behind his eyes, shadows danced amidst flames in a wild, gyrating torture of consumption. Against a pale and pitiless moon, a mill’s many limbs turned slowly, raising a burning appendage pleadingly to the sky before lowering it, ignored and dejected. And at its wooden, smouldering base, bodies lay facedown, hands reaching out toward a warm brook.
‘Remember,’ the voice said with such severity to make Lenk wince, ‘why we do not need them.’
‘No,’ he whimpered.
‘Well, fine,’ someone said beside him. ‘Refuse if you want, but you don’t have to look so agonised at the suggestion.’
He opened his eyes, glowered at the stream and the quivering reflection of a stubble-caked face staring down at him.
‘If I’m looking pained,’ he said harshly, ‘it’s because you’re talking.’
‘Feel free to leave. I don’t recall inviting you here, anyway.’
Denaos was no longer one singular voice, not so easy to ignore as he had once been. Rather, every noise that emanated from him was now a chorus: complaint followed by a loud slurping sound, an uncouth belch as punctuation and the sound of half a hollowed-out gourd landing in a growing pile of hollowed-out gourd halves to serve as pause between complaints.
He looked down at the young man and grinned, licking up the droplets soaked in his stubbled lip.
‘They can’t figure out the concept of clothing that keeps one’s stones from swaying in the breeze, but they can make some fine liquor.’ He held out the fruit-made-cup to Lenk. ‘You’re sure you don’t want any?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what it is,’ Lenk replied, rising up.
‘Drinking irresponsibly is a time-honoured tradition amongst my people.’
‘Humans?’
‘Drunks.’
‘Uh-huh. What’s it called?’
Denaos glanced to his left and cleared his throat. Squatting on stubby legs beside the stream, fishing pole in hand, the Owauku took one eye off of the lure bobbing in the water and rotated it slowly to regard the rogue with as much narrowed ire as one could manage with eyes the size of melons.
‘Mangwo,’ he grunted, slowly sliding his eye back to the bobber.
‘And … what’s it made of?’ Lenk asked.
‘Well, now …’ Denaos took a swig, swished it about thoughtfully in his mouth. ‘I’d say it’s fermented something, blended with the finest I-don’t-want-to-know and aged for exactly who-gives-a-damn-you-stupid-tit.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Delicious.’
‘I suppose I should be pleased you’re making such good friends with the reptiles,’ Lenk said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Or do they just find your sliminess blends well with their own?’
‘Jhombi and I are getting on quite well, yes,’ the rogue replied as he plucked his own rod and line from the ground and cast it into the stream. ‘Probably because he barely understands a word of the human tongue and thusly isn’t as prone to be a whining silver-haired hamster.’ He grinned to the Owauku. ‘Am I not right, Jhombi?’
Jhombi grunted.
‘Man of few words,’ Denaos said. ‘Speaking of, I trust negotiations with Togu went well?’
Lenk stared blankly for a moment before clearing his throat.
‘Yes.’
‘So he’ll-’
‘I said yes.’
‘Oh …’ The rogue blinked, taken aback. ‘Well, uh, good.’ He slurped up the rest of his drink and tossed it aside. ‘When do we leave, then?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Delightful.’
‘After the party.’
There was something unwholesome in Denaos’ grin.
Lenk growled. ‘I hate it when your eyes light up like that. It always means someone is about to get stabbed or molested.’
‘And yet, you have now inadvertently invited me to an event that is conducive to both.’ Denaos chuckled, shaking his head. ‘My gratitude will best be expressed in the generous offer that I will save you for last in either endeavour. How’s that sound, Jhombi?’
Jhombi grunted.
‘Jhombi agrees.’
‘How would you know?’
‘How would you?’
‘How is it that he can’t speak the tongue? Every creature on this island does.’ He glowered as a thought occurred to him. ‘Well, except for Hongwe.’
‘Who?’
‘Tall Gonwa, looked irritated and important.’
‘Ah.’ Denaos furrowed his brow. ‘They all look irritated, though. What made this one look important?’
‘Well, he had a satchel.’
‘A satchel, huh? I suppose that does count as sort of a status symbol amongst a people for whom the concept of pants is an incomprehensible technology.’ The rogue glanced at Lenk with worry on his face. ‘You negotiated all our terms, right? We’ve got pants?’
‘We’ve got pants, yes,’ Lenk said, nodding. ‘Kataria said-’
‘Kataria was there?’ Denaos asked, blanching.
‘She was, yeah.’ He glared at the rogue. ‘Why wouldn’t she be?’
‘Well, was there any trash to root around in? Filth to roll in? Perhaps a bone with a tiny piece of meat on it?’
Lenk’s neck stiffened. ‘I thought we settled this.’
‘Settled what?’
‘You talking about her like that.’
‘We did settle, but on different things. What you settled with was a willingness to ignore the fact that a woman — called such only in theory, mind you — threatened to kill you.’
‘She saved my life.’
‘I’m not finished.’ The rogue pressed a thumb to his own chest. ‘I settled with the idea that I should cease trying to help a man intent on ignoring that this “woman” has fangs and that he wants them near tender areas.’
‘If she was planning on killing me, she would have done it already, wouldn’t she?’
‘So you’re honestly trying to rationalise your attraction to a woman a step above a beast with the excuse that she hasn’t killed you yet.’
‘I am.’
‘And nothing about that seems insane to you?’
‘Like you’ve never threatened to kill someone and not gone through with it.’
‘There’s no time limit on murder oaths.’
‘Point being, things change, don’t they?’ Lenk replied. ‘Oaths are forgotten-’
‘Delayed.’
‘Even so … things change. Things happen.’ Lenk stared at the stream intently, his mind drifting back to so many nights ago. ‘Something … something happened.’
Denaos cast a suspicious glare at the young man. ‘What kind of something?’
Lenk sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It’s going to sound insane.’
‘Coming from you?’ the rogue gasped. ‘No. Not the man who’s been spotted, on more than one occasion, talking to himself, yelling at nothing and possibly eating his own filth.’
‘I told you, I wasn’t eating it, I was-’
‘No!’ Denaos flung a hand up in warding. ‘Stop there, sir, for there is no end to that thought that will not make me want to punch you in the eye.’
‘Just listen-’
‘No, sir. You’ve given me the excellent news that we are soon to be off and that we’re having a celebration tonight. My life is going exceedingly well right now. I have food, drink, and the comforting company of a surly green man-lizard. Tomorrow, I’m going to start heading back to a world where undergarments are not only invented but encouraged. I tried to talk you ou
t of this deranged bestiality plot you’ve cooked up, and I defy you — defy you, sir — to say anything to lure me back in.’
In the wake of the outburst, the stream burbled quietly. Neither Denaos nor Jhombi looked up from their lures. A long moment of silence passed as Lenk stared and then, with a gentle clear of his throat and two words, shattered it.
‘Eel tits.’
Denaos blinked twice, cringed once, then swiftly snapped his rod over his knee and sighed deeply.
‘Gods damn it.’ He plucked up one of the empty half-gourds and stalked to a nearby mossy rock, taking a seat. ‘All right … tell me.’
‘Well, it happened days ago, before Kataria found me with the Shen.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was in the forest and I was … hallucinating.’ Lenk stared at the earth, the images returning to his mind. ‘I felt a river cold as ice, I saw demons in trees, I … I …’ He turned a wild, worried stare upon Denaos. ‘I argued with a monkey.’
The rogue blinked. ‘Did you win?’
Lenk felt his brow grow heavy, his jaw clench. Something spoke inside his head.
‘Not important.’
‘Not important,’ he growled. ‘I saw … Kataria there. She said things, tempted me and she peeled off her shirt and … eels.’
‘Eels.’
‘Eels!’ Lenk shouted. ‘She was there, speaking to me, saying such things, telling me to stop-’
‘Stop what?’
‘It doesn’t matter. The fever was eating at me, cooking my brains in my skull.’
‘Are … you sure?’ Denaos’ face screwed up in confusion as he stared at the young man curiously. ‘I was there when Kataria dragged you in, and I should note that I saw nothing writhing beneath her fur. I was there when Asper looked you over. She said your fever was mild.’
‘What would she know?’ the voice asked.
‘It was my head, not hers!’ Lenk snarled, jabbing his temple fiercely. ‘What would Asper know about it?’
‘Considering the years she’s spent to studying the physical condition? Probably quite a bit.’ Denaos tapped his chin. ‘She started screaming and ran us out a moment later, but I remember clearly-’
‘He knows nothing.’
‘Remember what? How could you know? You and Kat have both now said she went mad and drove you out like … like …’
‘Heathens.’
‘Heathens!’ he spat. ‘How could you know what she knew? What happened after she drove you out? Why did she do it in the first place?’
Denaos remained unmoving, glaring quietly at the young man with the same unpronounced tension in his body that Lenk had seen before, usually moments before someone found something sharp embedded in something soft. The fact that there was scarcely anywhere on the rogue where he could keep a knife hidden was small comfort.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is no business of anyone’s but hers. I believe her word over yours.’
‘Liar.’
‘A good point,’ Lenk muttered.
‘What is?’
‘Why so defensive over her?’ the young man asked, raising a brow. ‘You’re always the first to suspect, yet you so willingly take her word over mine?’
‘She has the benefit of not being visibly demented,’ Denaos replied.
Lenk wanted to scowl, to snarl, but the pain inside his head was growing unbearable. On wispy shrieks, the voice was agonisingly clear.
‘Traitors. Liars. Faithless. Ignorant. Unnecessary.’
‘Just ignorant,’ Lenk muttered, shaking his head. ‘Just … just …’
‘Look,’ Denaos said, his tension melting away with his sigh. ‘I’m not sure what kind of message is entailed by displaying the object of your attention with sea life replacing her anatomy, but it can’t be good.’ He leaned back and looked thoughtful. ‘The Gods send visions to speak to the faithful, to reward them, to guide them,’ his eyes narrowed, ‘to warn them.’
‘I didn’t think you were religious.’
‘Silf’s creed is silence and secrecy. It’s probably a mild blasphemy even telling you about this.’
‘So why do it?’
‘Greed, mostly,’ the rogue replied. ‘Averting a man from imminent mutilation of heart, head and probably genitalia seems a deed the Gods would smile upon.’ He glanced at the young man. ‘Tell me, what were you hoping to do once this whole bloody business was over and we stood on the mainland again?’
‘I’d given it some thought,’ Lenk replied, rolling his shoulders. ‘Farming is as good a trade as any. I figured I’d get some land and hold onto it as long as I could. Just a cow, a plough …’
‘And her?’
Lenk frowned without knowing why. ‘Maybe.’
‘Do you remember how she smiles?’
Lenk stared at the ground, a slight grin forming at the corner of his mouth. ‘Yeah, I remember.’
‘Remember her laughter?’
His smile wormed its way to the other side of his face. ‘I do.’
‘You’ve probably seen her truly happy a few times, in fact.’
He stared up at the sun, remembered a different kind of warmth. He remembered a hand on his shoulder, a puff of hot air between thin lips, heat that sent tiny droplets of sweat coursing down muscles wrapped under pale flesh. He remembered smiling then, as he did now.
‘I have.’
‘Good,’ Denaos said. ‘Now, of those times, how many had come just after she shot something?’
His smile vanished, head dropped. The rogue’s words rang through his head and heart with an awful truth to them. Surely, he realised, there were some moments between the shict and himself where she had smiled, where she had laughed and there hadn’t been a lick of blood involved.
But had she really smiled, then?
‘So she …?’
‘Was around for the violence? It’s a possibility, really. Nature of the beast, if you’ll excuse the accuracy of the statement.’ Denaos sighed. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but it’s the truth.’
‘It’s not.’
‘It is,’ the voice hissed.
‘It’s not!’ Lenk insisted.
‘Her motivation is pointless. She is a distraction, useless. He, as well, but less so if he makes our purpose that much clearer to foggy minds.’
‘Well, it’s not like you’ll have to stop seeing her,’ Denaos offered. ‘Just keep killing things and she’ll continue to follow the scent of blood.’
‘He is right.’
‘He is not!’ Lenk muttered.
‘Ours is a higher calling. We are not made for idle farming and contemplating dirt. There is still too much to do.’
‘What happened to you?’ he whispered. ‘Why do you speak like this now?’
‘Too much to cleanse. A stain lingers on this island. Duty is clear.’
‘Well, you asked for my opinion,’ Denaos replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’s hardly my fault that your thoughts run so contrary that you find sanity offensive, but the fact remains …’ He held out his hands helplessly. ‘Adventuring or the shict. You can embrace both or give up both, but never dismiss either. And you’ve got divine reinforcement for that fact, not that godly visions are necessary.’
‘Or real.’
The sudden appearance of what appeared to be a pale, talking stick drew both men’s attentions up to the stream bank. Dreadaeleon stood there with skinny arms folded over skinny chest, nose up in the air in an attempt at superiority that was made unsurprisingly difficult given his distinct lack of clothing, muscle and dignity.
‘How long have you been standing there?’ Denaos cut him off with a direct swiftness. ‘It’s weird enough to be wearing a loincloth, talking to another man in a loincloth, without a third boy sitting and staring … in a loincloth.’
‘I had come by to talk to you. Fortunately, I arrived just as the delusional talk of gods came up.’ Dreadaeleon waved a hand as he sauntered toward them. ‘It’s irrelevant as pertains to the subject of hallucin
ations.’
‘It is?’ Lenk asked, quirking a brow.
‘Wait,’ Denaos interjected, ‘don’t tell me you’re going to listen to him.’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Dreadaeleon replied smugly. ‘Insight based on reason and knowledge is far superior to conjecture based on ignorant superstition and … well, I suppose you would probably cite something like your “gut” as credible source, no?’
‘That and the fact that, between the two of us, I’m the only one who’s managed to talk to a woman without breathing hard,’ the rogue snapped. ‘You’re aware we’re talking about women, right? Nothing even remotely logical.’
‘Everything is logical in nature, especially hallucinations, which you were also discussing.’ The boy turned to Lenk. ‘To credit one hallucination to one delusion is preposterous.’
Lenk frowned at the boy. ‘You … do know I’m a follower of Khetashe, don’t you?’
‘And yet, gods’ — Dreadaeleon paused to look disparagingly at Denaos — ‘and their followers don’t seem to be doing much for you. I once believed in them, too, when I was young and stupid.’
‘You’re still-’
‘The point I’m trying to make,’ he said with fierce insistence, ‘is that hallucinations are matters of mind, not divinity. And who is more knowledgeable in the ways of the mind than a wizard? You know it was the Venarium that discovered the brain as the centre of thought.’
‘Being that this is also a matter of attraction,’ Denaos muttered, ‘brains have shockingly little to do with it.’
‘Then we should introduce a little more to the situation.’ Dreadaeleon folded his hands with a businesslike air of importance as he regarded Lenk thoughtfully. ‘Now, the hallucination you experienced, the … ah …’
‘Eel tits,’ the young man replied.
‘Yes, the eel … that. It was a sign, make no mistake.’ He tapped his temple. ‘But it came from up here. Wait no …’ He reached out a hand and prodded Lenk’s forehead sharply. ‘In there.’
The young man growled, slapping Dreadaeleon’s hand away. ‘So … what, you think it’s madness?’
‘Madness is the result of the rational coming to terms with the irrational, like rel-’
‘Sweet Khetashe, I get it!’ Lenk said exasperatedly. ‘You’re incredibly enlightened and your brain is big enough to make your neck buckle under it.’