John Cap didn’t hesitate to further slow his sluggish gait. And yet he showed the self-restraint to ignore, not take, the verbal bait. “Fine by me. Sounds great.” He held his tongue despite temptation to curse his darned incarceration and the irritation of the ties they used to bind his limbs.
It was a twisted vine that entwined him. Rough and itchy on the skin.
Meanwhile, the distaff folk were atwitter at the sight of that mighty mate, this mystery date with destiny.
“The ale girls claim that he’s a star man,” waxed a moon-eyed Hexxi Huggum, “fallen from the very sky.”
“Ooo yes!” swooned Vexxi, her star-struck twin. “He shines like a distant constellation,” there was a twinkle in her look, “made man to see with the naked eye.”
A gaggle of girlies giggled nearby.
“Flesh and blood son of the heavenly Archer,” added Hexxi breathlessly, “armed with his long horn and strong bow.”
By now both siblings were on their toes, just to gaze over the steady flow of lasses and ladies flooding in to see this scene by the she shore.
“Though I hear that this beau shot Arrowborne,” interjected Teely Tynn. She was one of the ten hot oven women, tiny but loud as anything. “And he’s due to be sentenced to a letting or get well hung from that nasty tree, the lying ironwood I mean.”
Her daughter Nynn, who was standing aside her, made an exasperated face. “Mother, I told you — that’s not what happened.” The teen bared her teeth through painted lips and hissed a desperate, anguished whisper. “Shhh! Please! Please, just stop! You’re going to embarrass us, me, even more.” Her kid sister Lillyx looked on unsure and didn’t dare say a word.
But Mrs. Tynn continued anyway, paying no heed to her daughter’s pleas. “There’s also talk of conspiracy between this soldier and the leaver — not to mention the rest of his foreign force. That has to be why the Guard bring him here. To face the brother Treasuror’s justice…”
Nynn, in tears, spun on her heels. “I just want to die!” she cried, running off. “Someone, kill me now…”
The gossip girls didn’t know what to believe, though the Huggums were ready to disagree.
“But he’s such a strapping lad.”
“Too much of a man to be so bad.”
“And more of a dream than a nightmare.”
“A prince of some kind”
“To be sure.”
“So we think we’ve got it figured out,”
“At least the highlights of the plot…”
“Errant young knight meets his destiny while on a romantic mission of mercy.”
“Or —”
“Guy takes a walk on the wild side then gets love-struck and starry-eyed.”
“Either way, we don’t care.”
“It’s a fairy tale!”
“Straight from a once-upon-a time.”
“And our big love scene is coming up next”
“If we’ve guessed the storyline…”
“Fresh from his kingdom our hero comes to make one of us his princess bride,”
“Married to share his magic carpet, riding over the clouds so high,”
“Bound for his isle of sky blue eyes and happily-ever-after lives!”
“And did we forget to mention…”
“Babies?”
“Beautiful babies.”
“Our beautiful babies.”
“A castle full of our beautiful babies.”
“Um, just to preserve the line.”
“Naturally.”
“Anyway…”
“That’s what we have…”
“In mind.”
The tag-team contingent wrestling John Cap breached the perimeter of the tent, a downtrodden ring nearly worn to a trench.
“Halt there, henchmen!” ordered Taan-syr, taking the lead again.
Now folk took note of a stench that came with them, a hint of their time in the pit of the pen. It was a smell they knew too well and not the sort of thing you’d mention. Not if you knew what was good for you. Not to a Guard on a mission.
Moon-syr had his captive by the vine but looked like a child with a great big dog, trying to rein it in. “Aye sir!”
Guur-syr, working from behind, rebound the ruptured wrapture ropes around the prisoner’s he-man hands, which were graced with the grip of three men from Syland. “Consider it done. My sir!”
John Cap fought against the knots but all in vain, to no avail. For they were tied in an old-time way with the skill of an ancient mariner.
“Just to be sure this one’s secure and there are no surprises…” Taan-syr pulled a hefty chain of rusty ironwood from his pikeshaft. He weighed the length in his rawhide mitts then heaved it at his cohorts.
“Listen up, mateys! Look smart men! Anchor him here, this castaway, dry-docked and locked to our treasured ground. I’ll call for the landlubber when it’s time.” Taan-syr took a step toward the tent then stopped, jibbing starboard back around. “And don’t let him out of your sight till then.”
“Aye aye, captain!”
“We won’t sir! Arrr!”
At that their commander tacked northeast and gave a passing wave to the doorman — and the dark Guard’s pike. As luck would have it, a gust of wind just then raised the flap for him. He shot the old flag a salute and sailed right in.
Moon-syr and Guur-syr swashbuckled the stranger with the weighty ironwood links. Then they hooked his foot to a thick, black root protruding from the soil. It so happened the tent was tied to it too, to hold down its leeward side wall.
“Now then…”
“That should hold him!”
John Cap stood there on display, like some kind of animal.
Two crows watching from the wings flapped their lips, each commenting.
“I’d say we have a bird’s-eye view.”
“Welcome to the Syland Zoo!”
Two or three score — then a fair number more — of the Keep’s most curious people-folk formed a perfect semicircle that focused on this new attraction. The lion’s share of them were female, lamb-frocked damsels flocking in to get a closer look. They gawked like tots at their very first circus, angling toward the center ring to see the amazing feats of the strongman or hear shy Tarzan’s wild call. All were enthralled, none disappointed, by the muscular spectacle.
“Hurrr!”
John Cap made a loud groan or two trying to loosen up the ropes.
A thrill rippled through the swelling crowd.
“He speaks!”
“That’s news to me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Or is that…”
“Some sort of love song?”
“Or poem.”
“I wish I knew his foreign tongue.”
The chained male steeled himself to listen to the din, the talk about him. He stood there still in the morning sunlight, proving his mettle by keeping upright and squinting into the blinding beams that reflected off his shiny skin, so wet with sweat from the heat and the effort. A hint of stubble on his square chin glowed like gold dust encrusted with flecks of diamond, despite his mask of muck and grime.
The young man smiled wryly to himself.
The strains of a Guardsong came from the tent, audible but unclear. Folk automatically turned right toward it and lent or bent an ear.
Then a thick plume of smoke, a mushroom-shaped cloud, rose from some hole or vent in the roof. It hung black and ominous over the dome.
Boxbo and Ixit predicted the fallout.
“Looks like our council is almost done.”
“Just about time for the real fun!”
“Let’s find a blind spot to duck and cover.”
“Boxbo, you know there’s no shelter here…”
Suddenly something in the air made everyone u-turn and unspin around. But it was not due to a sight or sound. No, this time the cause was a swirl of wind — a twisted mistral or small cyclone — the kind that some call a dust devil. Surely not your average gust. It
pelted the skin with sand and grit that it churned up from the sunburned ground and cast in handfuls at the crowd, briefly blinding them. Then in the blink of a bloodshot eye it blew by and met the unflappable tent, climbing the limberwood walls of it to make for the morning sky.
And there it found the mushroom cloud, which it swallowed up and flew away.
More than a few Keeple had a curse for the weather as they brushed clothes off and wiped the dust from rosy cheeks. Yet right on the heels of that ill whirlwind came something much more people-pleasing.
“It’s elderman Myne!” someone called, all athrill. “He’s back, alive and kicking!”
“And with his two fine offspring too!”
Out of a far corner of the wood, from a pass to the hotter, more arid southwest, there came an almost priestly man with a handful of followers in his wake. At his side, on the right, strode a strong young buck, just fresh from the hunt by his striking look, with a bloody black pelt slung over his back and a shiny talon blade in hand. And there on his left, a stunning young huntress, one with a walk to race the heart and a spear tinged in crimson in her fist.
The followers were just plain folk but growing by the minute.
“We missed you yesterday Mr. Minyon,” waved one woman, hailing him.
“Yes, we hope that all’s alright,” cooed another, quite concerned.
“Was it your health?”
“Or your four humors?”
More and more folk-women, and some men, fluttered in like May moths to a flame.
“Did you catch the croup that’s going around?”
The man, Minyon Myne, pressed both palms to his breast and sighed as if truly touched. Then he gave a light wave back to the crowd. His lips, thin but firm, seemed to form the words, “Bless your precious hearts…”
“Pray tell you’re in good spirits now,” called someone from a far-flung row.
“Please, dear elderman, tell us so!”
Minyon Myne, the perfect gentle man, made a low, slow bow then looked up again. His face had the gloss of polished headstone.
“I am humbled, treasured friends, by your thoughtful concern for my own health and wellness.”
His voice poured out smooth as thick, silky snake’s milk.
“Rest assured that I’ve never been better, graced by a hand from the great beyond.”
Much relieved, his flock grew giddy, eager to share their news with him.
“Oh, you’ve missed some real excitement!”
“Have ya heard word of the goings on?”
“And we’ve wanted for your calm, sage counsel.”
“If just to survive the council’s return…”
Minyon let slip the slightest grin but then in an instant it was gone.
The entourage stopped, having met its match — the rapture around the stranger John Cap. And yet they hardly noticed that, or the fact that they’d come to a sudden halt. For such was their lingering wonder about the pious one’s prior whereabouts.
“If ya don’t mind sayin’ father Minyon, where in the wide world of Ayll have ya been?”
The elderman held his long hand high, as if about to testify.
Everyone pricked up an ear to hear him.
“Our path brings us back from a sacred trek, an annual mission, this day of remembrance.” He turned to his west and the broad-chested huntsman. “I think you know Axon, my righteous son.” Then he looked to the huntress at his east. “And bravehearted Eela, my daughter and sundial…” He smiled a beaming smile at her. “Of us all, the youngest yet one most cunning…”
It must have been the sight of her, now lit just so in the pure, sweet light, that brought the elderman to tears, a sudden well that fell from his face.
“A moment, dear peers, to compose myself…”
But all were spellbound by his sorrow. They studied the Mynes from head to toe.
The three of them — Minyon and his kin — had hair of red like the best of men, but longer and sleeker, straight down to the shoulder, or spilling over to cover the back, with a slick wet look as if soaked in blood. A liquid thick, maroon, and sticky. They shared a remarkable skin tone too, this middle-aged man and two just grown children, made of a substance more sculpted than born — something mined then fashioned into shape — hand finished, rubbed hard till near perfection, reflecting a glassy kind of complexion a few shades paler than typical folk. And their eyes surprised as well. Deep pools of dark, all but black as a vell’s.
Black too was the garb this Minyon wore, a simple suit of woven worm’s wool, clothes unadorned and strangely clean for someone coming from the road. Although they did fit his beardlessness.
Son and daughter were dressed in worn leathers, boar and boven, both softened by time. He in a vest baring arms and chest with wading pants just past his knees. She wearing less, but a low-cut bodice and short kilt showing her endless legs.
Each one was shod in old, crude sandals.
Finally, minister Myne continued, wiping the wetness from his cheek. “Thank you, fair Keep’s-people, for your indulgence. You must forgive this… my mortal weakness…”
“No need to apologize, pastor Myne.”
“Yes, please take you time.”
Minyon placed his palms together in a grateful, prayer-like pose.
“You are too kind, my brothers and sisters... O, what more witness does one need to show what a woeful soul I am. A sinner no better than any of you. A flesh and blood man of Syland.”
All eyes upon him were damp now too.
“Still, I owe you the simple truth.”
Axon tucked the talon blade into his wide belt of boven hide. Eela twirled her spear in the air then stuck it in the ground.
The elderman’s gaze turned distant and hazy, as if into a misty past.
“As on every Mid Summer’s Eve for thirteen full yet hollow years, I led my family in retreat, commemorating the one not here. Our bittersweet anniversary… of love and the hell of our lives before… For it was this day all those seasons long gone that the Wild took my wife and their dear mother, Faunon.”
Minyon tipped his head to the heavens then back earthbound looking folklorn again. He seemed to meet each treasured eye, reaching a heartstring deep inside. And there was a soothing to this voice, a music difficult to describe.
“My son and daughter grew to know the weight of this solemn time on me. And so it was yesterday they surprised their unworthy father with a present. Something to lighten my heavy heart.”
He spread his arms wide to touch them both.
“It was a daredevil hunt they devised and the ritual sacrifice of a beast born of hate, heat, darkness, and death — a creature I’d met but in lore and myth. Bull-bear or bear-bull as you wish, a monster both mammoth and malicious with bitter irony, nothing delicious, dripping from every crack, each tip of its thorny-toed hooves and black bared teeth. We found it guarding the pass southwest, at the place that the plainsmen call Hell’s Breath.”
The faithful gasped in disbelief.
“Oh, my friends, what happened then… it was something to behold! No less than a quest from some new testament or deed retold from a book of olde. A scene beyond my wildest dreams. An act befitting our fallen queen. Faunon honored by her children. Sainted, consecrated in blood…
“They drew straws and the first task fell to Eela to track and trap the bully thing, a trial using naught but her bare feet and the wits she had about her. Well, as well as the aid of a herder’s spear borrowed from a flocker here.
“She poked and prodded the grizzly demon until it was bullfull, seeing red. A bad-news bear gone very mad.”
Heads bobbed and nodded in approval, although no one made a sound now or uttered a single word.
“The final feat belonged to Axon, armed with only a claw-blade in hand. Standing face to face with the beast, he spoke his last peace, a warrior’s speech:
Give me life
But brutish and short
For kin and bone
I give my
heart!
“Then he went in for the kill.”
Suddenly Minyon slipped into a whisper and people pressed closer just to hear.
“That’s when I found myself on my knees — miracle, wonder unfolding before me. A vision of foul bile spilled on the soil, turning the stained ground holy.”
The followers were fully beguiled. The elderman’s voice grew louder again.
“I swear that a father has never been prouder.” He sighed in a sad and wistful way.
“Don’t stop now,” a new acolyte worried.
“Tell us the tail of your story.”
“Amen!”
Minyon smiled. “Of course I will. How could I leave you out there in the wild?”
The sun shone in his entrancing eyes like two stones of treasured obsidian.
“To do justice to this animal king, they gutted it swiftly and by hand — Eela peeling its pelt from the front, Axon skinning the belly and back. It came to them like second nature, the more the gore the more they enjoyed it. Soon there were entrails everywhere.
“And I read them, just to be sure.”
That really piqued his pupils’ interest.
“What did they say?!”
“Please…”
“Yes, yes, do school us!”
He raised his palm and silenced them with a dramatic pause…
“First I foresaw an impending feast, a menu full of fetid beast — truly, all bull,” he quipped. “Bear with me…”
His joking evoked a fawning laugh. Then Minyon’s tenor turned serious.
“But down in the bowels, I found true news and knew we needed to return. So we hastily fashioned a pilgrim’s pyre and set our sacrifice afire.
“Grateful for its gift to us we ate of its meat, lifting it up to the heavens first in humble praise of this life not taken in vain. And we prayed that by this offering we might bring some peace to the wrongly departed — their long-lost, my much-missed, our dearly beloved. The girl of my dreams taken bride by a nightmare. O my Faunon Myne…
“I searched for a sign of her in the flames… but no spirit appeared or called our names. That is, until suddenly, there it was! For an instant a flare of light so bright, the glow of a figure all in white… And then in a flash it was gone — burned out. Nothing but ashes, dust in the wind.”
Lore of the Underlings: Episode 6 ~ Meeting Minyon Page 2