Crossworld of Xai

by Steven Savage

  “Have you thought of talking to … him?”

  “I do …”

  Eileen sighed. “I mean directly, Rotan. Man to god.”

  “Dear, rituals of contact are … “

  “Oh, don’t give me that.” Eileen sat up in bed. “Now what happened at that party at the Guild …”

  “That was Legante, you never know when he’ll show up. Besides, you know how … why am I arguing?”

  “Rotan Brownmiller, you are a shaman and as such your god can damn well give you some advice. You walk out there, do the rituals, and talk to Korsufar Bex. Hell, you called up the Historian with that poor confused girl, and you haven’t even talked directly to Korsufar in a year. I’d say you owe him a visit.”

  “This is not a tea party, Eileen.” Rotan felt the argument slipping between his fingers like water.

  “You’re going to go over it in your head and go nowhere unless you talk to someone. Now HuanJen and Rake, bless their hearts, are probably biased. I’m biased. You’re biased. At least Korsufar probably has the big picture in mind.”

  “Fine.” Rotan huffed. “What if you don’t like the results?”

  “At least I can blame a god. People do that all the time …”

  February 23, 2001 AD, Xaian Standard Calendar

  Rotan let the idea stew for two more days, despite the fact he knew Eileen was right.

  He didn’t want it to come down to money.

  Outsiders, newcomers, immigrants, they thought Xai was a mercantile culture. They saw the guilds, they saw people haggling over shillings. Then, they saw a culture of traditions and friendliness, where those who stayed were integrated into the culture quickly. Principles, traditions, words … Zone Clerics …

  Xai was mercantile because it had to be. Because commerce drove the Crossworld, because people could understand the need to trade, and because you had to eat.

  Xai was a social culture because it had to be. Because you came from different worlds, because you could fight easily over simple things, and because it was better than the alternative.

  Reconciling those aspects of life on Xai was difficult for Brownmiller at time. He was second-generation, part native, and some people understood it within a few years …

  The hard part about being a cleric on Xai was that you still had to pay your bills while maintaining the social and spiritual order of things. Some clerics mastered it, some … were Brownmiller.

  Sometimes you had to choose between the almighty buck and the almighty deity. And Brownmiller, in the end, knew who to choose.

  So, in those days he meditated, and he had some ritual herbs with his yogurt, and he prepared.

  To talk to Korsufar Bex, god of Construction.

  It was night.

  Brownmiller was in one of the older districts of Metris, which ironically had some very new buildings. Metris grew and changed, like anything else. Buildings went down, went up, and were modified, as he well knew. The Constructionist’s Guildmembers were always busy here, and in Piscion, and Kraftbourne …

  As he had once been. Until an incident seventeen years ago …

  … a medium-sized office building loomed in front of him. To most people, it wouldn’t seem to loom, but in Brownmiller’s mind it did. It hovered over him, a huge obsidian piece of history.

  It was obviously abandoned. The lower level was fenced off. Several signs marking it as condemned were posted, some marked with the sigil of the Gendarmes, some marked with the logo of Markovall Construction, one of the many members of the Constructionists.

  “Going, huh?” Brownmiller whispered. “How appropriate.”

  The huge shaman walked around the perimeter of the building. There’d be a way in, there always was. No one would notice him or stop him - he was a shaman, a holy man, they always had reasons.

  He found an entrance through the protective fence. There was always an entrance. It wasn’t even locked.

  “Hello, holy man.”

  There was a Gendarme looking at him, all but hidden in his long blue coat. One Gendarme walking a beat - which meant that his partner was nearby. Gendarmes always worked in pairs, just in case. Seeing one meant they had been suspicious.

  “Good evening.” Brownmiller said simply. There was only one thing to do now. Only one thing.

  The shaman reached into his motley outfit and withdrew something that would easily drive the Gendarme off.

  “Rotan Brownmiller, Guild Esoteric, Specialist Shaman. ID Number 5673. I’m going to need entrance.”

  The Gendarme moved closer. The lawman was one of the “uniform queens” as some called them - his coat was perfect, the uniform under it perfectly ironed, his hat sat a professional angle. He looked like he came off of a recruiting poster.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Brownmiller considered lying. It wasn’t in his nature, but …

  “I was here for a supernatural incident nearly two decades ago. I’m returning here.”

  Might as well resort to the truth. It was an amazingly powerful thing - besides when you avoided the truth it usually snuck up on you anyway.

  “I see.” The Gendarme suddenly got friendlier. “An hour or two enough?”

  Brownmiller mentally exhaled in relief. Someone who appreciated a decent holy man doing his job. “Yes. Thank you. And bless you.”

  “I’m … Catholic, sir. I don’t practice the native faith.”

  “I see … well … if you change your mind, let me know …”

  Brownmiller walked through the building, a flashlight in hand. He always carried a variety of equipment with him - in his line of work, it always paid to be prepared.

  The building had apparently suffered some structural damage. He wasn’t surprised. It looked like someone had tried to remodel it and instead only damaged the place.

  … which made perfect sense considering how it had gone up.

  The shaman walked carefully up a back stairway. One hand clung to the talisman around his neck.

  “Now, warn me of anything suspicious, anything at all.”

  The stairs creaked below him. Brownmiller ignored it - he tended to make stairs creak anyway.

  More creaking …

  … and he remembered.

  It had been awhile since he’d become a Constructionist. Dad hadn’t approved, but it was good money and he was good at it. You got out, you got to really build something, do something. It wasn’t like sitting in an office like dad did, and after awhile, he understood.

  Brownmiller could make things happen. It was a rush.

  Of course, construction wasn’t always safe, as he’d found out. Something had gone wrong, something no one had identified, and part of the first floor had collapsed. Krenner was Johan were killed, and he had been trapped, unable to move …

  … and has he climbed the stairs, he began to sweat. He had to remember though. It was important …

  … trapped. Dying, really. Couldn’t move, couldn’t really breathe, everything hurt, and he had a hammer. He couldn’t remember why he’d had it - not one for nails, but one of the big ones they used to break things up or hammer in stakes for the tarps.

  Dying.

  Death was a great way to get focused. One of the dirty secrets of the shamans and holy men, one of the most known least-understood secrets, was how many of them had come to their jobs by such experiences. You focused, you thought, you got a sense of the big picture very quickly when you were facing death.

  Admittedly sometimes you die, but many clerics owed their careers to one moment where life came into focus very suddenly. Those moments where you reached out …

  He’d had a hammer, and he’d thought about the gods, and about the god that watched over him …

  … and no one had quite figured how he’d managed to get out of the ruins. The hammer in his hands had his fingerprints imprinted in the handle. The next day, every hair on his body fell out. The foreman had given him a weeks sick pay.

  He wasn’t sick, he’d found his god. Kors
ufar Bex, the lord of those-who-build. When all hope was gone, he’d just reached out and focused on what he was - a man who built things. Something had then reached back - and he head the gods, and he learned disciplines, and he was sensitive to spirits. Death’s approach, the cold hand of Mortru, had woken him up.

  So he’d become a shaman and served the god and gods like him. He’d found their power when he needed it. He worked with people like himself.

  …Brownmiller was at the top of the stairs. Top of the building. It looked like some of the remodeling had gone on here as well - there were even exposed beams in the floor.

  “What a shithole.”

  The talisman around his neck twitched oddly.

  “Yes, I know. It’s OK. I just need to talk to him, Tekaklak. I’ll be out of here. I just had to come here, it was before … you and I met.”

  The talisman settled around his neck. Tekaklak was a spirit of metal and materials, sensitive to damage, to disruption, to malicious entities. It had a protective streak.

  The huge shaman sat on the floor, in front of one of the exposed beams. Reverently, he took his ritual hammer off of his belt. It was a well-crafted affair - lacquered handle, symbol-detailed head, with decorative silverwork.

  The hammer. Always the hammer. You could break things with it or make things with it. Always a choice.

  “Let us talk.”

  Brownmiller tapped his hammer on the beam, and it rang slightly …

  … some people thought the Xaian religion was primitive. It had a pantheon of gods, rituals, spirits, and interesting chemical enhancements. Brownmiller had been called on to explain his practices many times.

  He struck the beam again, silverwork glinting in the flashlight’s glow.

  … you needed gods. Gods were ways of relating to things. You called a person a brother or a doctor or what have you - it was easier than referring to them as a carbon-based bipedal descendant of primates. You called things gods because sometimes you needed to refer to the abstract and the wide-ranging in an easier way. Sometimes you needed to talk to the universe.

  Another hammerblow.

  … it all came from the Heart, the name for the unnamable. But when you needed names, you could remember where they came from, trace back, and find them …

  Metal striking metal. Vibrations extending almost visibly …

  … the shaman felt the world shift.

  “Hello, Rotan.”

  Korsufar Bex was there.

  He looked young - he always looked young. He was tanned and muscular, shirtless, wearing jean-like pants. His eyes were made of fire and his short hair seemed to blow in unknown winds. A pouch hung from his belt, filled with incandescently glowing liquid metal.

  Korsufar Bex. Lord of Construction.

  “Good day, Lord Bex.” Rotan scrambled to his feet, then managed a quick bow. His senses swum.

  This wasn’t real, he knew. It was both more and less real at the same time.

  Bex. Master of the Made.

  “You have called me, Rotan.” Bex crossed his arms playfully, eyes flaring. The sheen of sweat on his golden skin glistened like dew.

  “I have … a question to ask. I …”

  “About the shaman who left his Zone. I know what you know, Rotan, I know what Rake and HuanJen asked. You want me to give you an answer.”

  “Well … yes.” Brownmiller shrugged. Bex was an informal god, fortunately, which the large mystic found very comforting. “I have been a city shaman for nearly two decades, since you answered my call. I’m not sure being a Zone Cleric is what I should do.”

  “I see.” Bex sat down, though not on any particular item. He merely took a seat in the air. After a moment, the god reached into his pouch, yanked out a handful of molten metal and dropped it on the floor, where it quickly formed a chair underneath of him.

  “We’ve been together a long time, god and man,” Rotan acknowledged, “exorcisms, counseling work crews, blessings. Seventeen years now, you and I.”

  “So, why do you want to change, Rotan? Why settle down to one area, one group, one place?”

  “Gods never ask straight questions,” the shaman said with mocking respect.

  “Crooked questions, straight answers. Firm foundations are broad.”

  “I …” Rotan grimaced. “I am tired of the chaotic nature of my work. I have a son, I have a wife who is paid regularly, while for me it is unpredictable. For a man with a son I am not always feeling like an adult.”

  “The thrill of the adventure, of what’s coming next, of mysteries, and cracks in the world. You enjoy it, Brownmiller.” Bex’s words were gentle thunder-echoes.

  “I do. I did. But there is a time to settle down, to …”

  “Build something?”

  “Yes,” Brownmiller carefully picked his words, noting the smile on his god’s face. “In ten years do I want to be running around with construction crews or tracking down what part of a building got haunted? And do I want … that for my son?”

  “The money?” Bex asked.

  “The money … no, if that mattered too much, I wouldn’t be here would I … the money is a tool, no more.”

  “Haven’t you answered your question, Rotan?”

  “I want confirmation, Lord Bex.” Brownmiller shook his head. “You touched me that day those years ago, you saved me. We have been together for longer than my wife and I have been. I have been in the service of those who build and make, I have talked to spirits and uncovered the hidden. What kind of Zone Cleric will I be?”

  “One who will have a starting point.” Korsufar Bex answered plainly. “You and I, we are together Rotan. What you do with it, that must be your choice.”

  “I had hoped for some divine insights. I’d rather talk to you than visit some diviner or petty second-seer. But … I want to do this. I liked working with Rake and his friends. I want to build something, not just fix things. Build for others, build for my family - they’re the same in the end.”

  “And this, you see, is why we are perfect for each other, Rotan.” Bex stood. The chair he had created flowed into molten droplets and snake-spiraled into the pouch on his belt. “We make things happen. Where you are, I am, you know that. You should always know that.”

  “I wanted to see you face to face. I owe you that.” Brownmiller acknowledged. “I think … I will take it. Part of me … part of me is still eighteen and very scared and doesn’t want to be confined.”

  “It is you choice, Brownmiller. But I know what it is.”

  “I know, I …”

  Brownmiller staggered. With his bulk, it was an impressive sight.

  The lights shifted.

  There was the sound of his ritual hammer dropping on the floor, having slipped from his fingers. The metal-on-metal sound seemed to ring forever.

  And he was alone, in a way.

  And in a way, he hadn’t been alone in seventeen years. Remembering that helped.

  Brownmiller stood outside of the door to HuanJen and Jade’s apartment. The staff of the Crosspoint knew him and usually let him in.

  There was a moment of silence. Carlton the doorman had said they were in, so he waited.

  Finally, the door opened, to reveal a very disheveled HuanJen in a gray robe. Behind him was Jade, who had one of those “if looks could kill” kind of expressions.

  “Yes?” HuanJen asked wearily. It was Brownmiller’s expert evaluation that the two of them had not been asleep in any way shape or form.

  “I’m going to accept the offer,” Brownmiller said simply. I wanted to let you know in person. I thought of calling, but … I was … riding the trolleys around for awhile.”

  “Thanks …” HuanJen began.

  “Yeah, great.” Jade sounded happy, but also annoyed. “You want to come in for tea and discuss your deep feelings, right?”

  “No,” Brownmiller shook his head. “We can talk later, I just didn’t want to call, it seemed … impersonal.”

  “Good,” HuanJen smiled.
/>   Brownmiller grinned back. “I’ll leave you two to your pursuits. We can talk. Thank you, HuanJen.”

  “Hey, thank you,” Jade sighed, “it’s a relief.”

  “You have no idea. Good night you two.”

  Brownmiller turned and walked toward the elevator, stepping very lightly for his size.

  He was going to build something.

  REFLECTIONS

  Among the alternate universes, the alternate Earths, there was one thing that occurred constantly among the humans and other sentient inhabitants of the myriad Earths.

  Trying to explain alternate universes and alternate Earths.

  Some said the greater universe was like a deck of cards, universe alongside each other but never crossing - but sometimes one could jump from card to card.

  Some said the greater universe was like a giant web of jewels, each jewel a universe, and people could travel between them like light reflecting.

  Others said the greater universe was like a book, and each page was a universe.

  In short, the one universal element on all Earths was bullshit.

  Sometimes, after the grandiose explanations had died down in the bars and government agencies and secret places alternate Earths were discussed, another subject would come up. The stories, rumors, and legends about the crossroads-worlds, the parallel Earths where it was easier to travel to the various alternate universes.

  There were parallels to everything. There were infinite alternate worlds, so there were some worlds that connected easily to others.

  And, sometimes, the talk would lead to the tales of Xai, the Crossworld, one of the crossroads-worlds where an entire civilization had sprung up around travel between Earths.

  Travellers would spin tales of the Crossworld, where powerful Guilds kept sway and guided the culture. They would tell of the Portals, huge areas where magnetic generators helped the Navigators of the Travelers’ Guild pierce the walls between worlds where they were weakest. Stories would be told of strange Guild Esoteric, who kept the spiritual peace and combated menaces from beyond.

  Always, there would be talk of Metris. The capital of Xai, home to all the Guilds, the great-sprawling city of millions of inhabitants, center of commerce, pivot-point of Xaian culture.