Distopia (Land of Dis)

by Robert Kroese

  ROBERT KROESE

  DISTOPIA

  Copyright ©2015 Robert Kroese. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or other—except for brief quotations in reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to

  actual persons is purely coincidental.

  Published by Westmarch Publishing

  westmarchpub.com

  For the Raft.

  ..……………………………….

  With thanks to:

  all the Kickstarter supporters who made this book possible, and special thanks to: Dan Tabaka, Christopher Turner, Katherine Nall, Cole Kovac, Eric Sybesma, Cara Miller, Andrea Luhman, Taki Soma, Melissa Allison, Matthew J. McCormick, Neva Cheatwood, Daniel Boucher, Sean Simpson, Josh Creed, and Denise and Chad Rogers;

  my editor at Westmarch Publishing, Richard Ellis Preston, Jr.

  and the sharp-eyed and insightful beta readers who made many helpful suggestions for improving this book: Joel Bezaire, Alan MacDougal, Jessica Jobes, and Mark Fitzgerald.

  One

  You have undoubtedly heard the story of Wyngalf the Bold, who is reputed to have liberated the land of Dis from the scourge of dragons. And like most who have heard the story, you likely have your doubts about its veracity. Did Wyngalf really cross the Sea of Dis on a raft buoyed by the gall bladders of seventeen mud trolls? Did he really live for a month inside the belly of a giant beaver? Did he really strangle the Beast of Borgoin with its own entrails? No. Frankly, most of the traditional story of Wyngalf is dead wrong—not to mention oddly preoccupied with the internal organs of mythical creatures.

  The part about the dragons, however, is true.

  History of the land of Dis prior to the Old Realm is sketchy and dominated by unverifiable and often fantastic myths, to the extent that the Dissian Heroic Age is regarded by most educated folk as little more than a stock setting for fairy tales and bedtime stories. Underlying these stories, though, are certain historical facts, and I have done my best to separate these from the fabrications. It should be noted, however, that even in a completely factual account, certain overarching themes often seem to arise unbidden; I can only say that if parts of this narrative seem to smack of moralizing or allegory, that is not my intention. I wish only to tell Wyngalf’s story as accurately as possible.

  At least one fact can be established with some certainty: Wyngalf of Svalbraak was a traveling evangelist for a now-defunct religious sect known as the Noninitarians, which espoused a faith so arbitrary and counterintuitive that those simple-minded enough to see its appeal were generally unable to grasp its doctrinal nuances firmly enough to convert. Wyngalf himself was surprisingly erudite, if somewhat naïve—a combination that placed him solidly in the Noninitarians’ targeted demographic. He was also, truth be told, an astonishingly poor advocate for his chosen faith, and this fact was only partially explained by the intrinsic unpalatability of Noninitarianism. Wyngalf’s sales pitch was so off-putting that he could have been selling skins of water in the middle of the Vast Desert and caravans would have gone miles out of their way to avoid him. The surprising thing about Wyngalf, then, was not that he failed in his effort to establish Noninitarianism in Dis, but rather that he very briefly became an extremely influential religious leader in that land. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Wyngalf was abandoned as an infant on the doorstep of the Noninitarian Stronghold in Svalbraakrat, and he spent the next twenty-three years being indoctrinated in the stultifying nuances of that obscure faith. On his twenty-third birthday he passed the last of the Eleven Tests of Noninitarian Apostleship and was allowed to leave the Stronghold for the first time. For the next five months, he traveled down the western coast of the Sea of Dis, preaching the gospel of Noninitarianism and gradually becoming aware of the near-complete lack of interest in metaphysics that characterized the denizens of the Jagged Coast.

  Wyngalf’s story begins in earnest in the town of Skuldred, the southernmost town in Svalbraak, and the last in a series of settlements that had been unlucky enough to be subjected to his droning harangues on the Twenty-One Theses of Noninitarianism. The reception to Wyngalf’s message in these towns ranged from complete disinterest to outright hostility (he’d actually had to flee from villagers with torches and pitchforks at one point), and Skuldred was his last chance to make a convert before having to return, an unmitigated failure, to the Noninitarian Stronghold in Svalbraakrat. The bishop would then undoubtedly strip him of his vestments and sentence him to spend the rest of his life pulling weeds in the vast radish farm that spread out for dozens of acres behind the Stronghold.

  It was with these worries on his mind that Wyngalf set down his pack and hat in the town square of Skuldred, cleared his throat, and began a well-practiced sermon titled “Fourteen Points by Which the Pagan Might Be Convinced of His Errors in Thought, Word and Deed and Thereby Made Ready for Accepting the Irrefutable Truth Revealed by the Fourth Person of the Noninitarian Faith.” This particular sermon was considered something of a classic among the Noninitarian clergy; it possessed such a sublime mixture of arcane dogma and abject rudeness that listeners were never sure whether to be bored or offended. It was rumored that no preacher reciting it had ever held an audience past Point Four, but despite his recent failures Wyngalf was feeling inspired, and he convinced himself that he would not only get through the entire sermon but convert the entire town of Skuldred to his faith.

  “Attention, benighted pagans of insert town name here!” he recited, realizing his mistake before he’d even finished the sentence. A few confused townspeople had stopped what they were doing to stare in his direction. He smiled weakly and attempted to tip his hat toward them, but then remembered that his hat was lying brim-up in the dirt in front of him. Occasionally when he was delivering a sermon, a passerby, prompted by guilt or pity, would drop a copper or two into the hat. It was the only income Wyngalf had, and so far it had been just enough to keep him from starving. Not finding his hat on his head, he gave the villagers a sort of awkward salute and pressed on.

  “I present for your elucidation these Fourteen Points by which you miserable pagans might be convinced of your errors in thought, word, and deed, and thereby approach a state of readiness to receive the truth of the Noninitarian faith, as revealed by Ganillion, the Fourth Person of the Blessed Noninity. I begin with Point One, by which you are Brought Low by recognition of your Essential Wretchedness.”

  “Boo!” cried a man skirting the edge of the square with a sack of potatoes slung across his back. “Sod off!” shrieked a woman clutching an infant to her chest. The rest of the villagers shook their heads and muttered to each other or ignored him completely. Wyngalf’s confidence began to falter. The Bringing Low of the Pagans was his favorite of the Fourteen Points, and ordinarily the sheer offensiveness of it tended to keep the audience’s attention, but the insults being hurled at him thus far were few and seemed half-hearted. He took a breath and continued:

  “Being that you are pagans and therefore ignorant of the joys of a life Enriched by the Fifth and Seventh Persons of the Noninity, you are likely to greet my words with hostility. Know, however, that I do not take offense at your brute ignorance, but rather greet your outbursts as the First Proof of the Wretchedness of Pagans. For as Ontenogon himself once said, ‘The fool sees his own foolishness reflected in the wisdom of the teacher.’”

  This passage prompted no epithets, only shrugs and mutters. Wyngalf had expected the people of such a remote town to be desperate for entertainment, but they seemed too busy or jaded to pay much attention. This
did not bode well for the other Thirteen Points.

  “What’s this all about then?” said a small voice behind him.

  Wyngalf spun, finding himself face to face with a teenaged girl. She wore a hooded cloak against the wind, but Wyngalf could see that underneath, her clothes were of high quality. She had a pretty face framed by auburn curls that spilled out of the hood. He guessed she was around seventeen.

  “Run along, girl,” said Wyngalf. “A child’s mind is too immature to grasp the subtleties of the Twenty-One Theses of Noninitarianism.”

  “You don’t look like much more than a child yourself,” said the girl. “And I thought you said there were fourteen,” said the girl.

  Wyngalf sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “There are Fourteen Points that must be drummed into the pagan mind to make it ready to receive the Revelation of the Fourth Person of the Noninity. Once the mind has been prepared, he must then master the Twenty-One Theses of Noninitarianism.”

  “He or she,” corrected the girl, and Wyngalf rolled his eyes again. “What’s Noninitarianism?”

  “Why, the belief in the Blessed Noninity, of course!”

  “You believe in a nonentity?”

  Wyngalf sighed again. “Noninity,” he said. “A single God in Nine Persons.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed the girl. “It seemed from your sermon that you believed in only one god. You’re saying there are nine?”

  “No!” snapped Wyngalf, irritated that even the most basic teachings of Noninitarianism seemed to go right over these people’s heads. “There is but one God, who reveals Himself as nine distinct persons. These are the Nine Co-Equal Persons of the Noninity.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the girl. “How can a single God be—”

  “Of course you don’t! You’re a polytheistic pagan, and a silly little girl at that. And you’ve heard only one small fragment of the first of the Fourteen Points! Now, please run along and allow me to get back to my sermon.” The girl shrugged and walked away. Wyngalf turned to see that what little audience he’d had was dispersing. “Vile, depraved souls!” he shouted, trying to remember where he’d left off. “Fools and harlots!” But it was no use. His diatribe had devolved from insulting to incoherent. He took a deep breath and started from the beginning: “I present for your elucidation these Fourteen Points….” But he no longer had anything like an audience. A large swath of the square roughly coterminous with the reach of Wyngalf’s voice was now empty. Villagers were hugging the edge of the square to avoid him, as if word had gotten out that he was a carrier of some particularly virulent strain of plague. “It doesn’t seem to be catching!” he shouted at three men skulking single-file along the wall of an inn at the far side of the square.

  He sighed, composed himself, and started for a third time. This time he powered through, oblivious to his lack of audience. He told himself that if nothing else, it was good practice. He managed to recite the first three Points without once consulting the book of the Six and a Half Revelations of Saint Roscow, but the Fourth Point was by far the longest and most tedious, and he wasn’t sure he had it in him to slog all the way through it. It was late afternoon, he was tired and hungry, and he was beginning to lose his voice. Wyngalf had spent the morning walking from the village of Truiska to the north, arriving in Skuldred just after noon, and all he’d had to eat was a handful of dried radishes he’d found at the bottom of his otherwise empty pack. There’d be no supper tonight, and he’d be lucky to find a doorway to sleep in. There was little glamor to the life of a Noninitarian missionary.

  As he faltered at the Prelude to the Fourth Point, he noticed one figure standing still in the middle of the square, apparently listening to him. For a moment, he thought perhaps he had gotten through to someone, but his hopes of making a new disciple faded when he realized it was the same girl he’d dismissed earlier. Noninitarians had a strict policy against proselytizing to anyone under the age of eighteen, ostensibly because children lacked the intellectual sophistication to grasp the finer points of the Noninitarian faith, but Wyngalf had also noticed that children tended to ask innumerable impertinent questions that made it virtually impossible to get through the Fourteen Points. It just wasn’t worth the trouble.

  “Are you finished?” the girl asked.

  “No!” Wyngalf croaked, his raspy voice undercutting his air of authority.

  “Okay,” said the girl, and stood silently, watching him.

  Wyngalf tried to remember where he’d left off in the Prelude to the Fourth Point, but he was unnerved by the way the girl was looking at him. “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “My father told me to invite you for supper when you’re finished.”

  Wyngalf’s stomach began to growl so loudly that he was certain that even the villagers skulking along the outskirts of the square could hear it. “Supper?” he asked, and he had to catch himself before saliva ran down his chin.

  The girl nodded. “My father is the town fishmonger. When traveling preachers come to town, he always has them over for supper. It should be ready soon, but I can tell him you’re too busy saving souls if you want.”

  Wyngalf looked out at the empty square. The sun was sinking low in the west, and a chill breeze had picked up.

  “I can pick up tomorrow where I left off,” he said.

  “Good,” said the girl. “Come with me.”

  Two

  The fishmonger’s residence, a large, two-story affair set against the hills that bordered Skuldred to the west, appeared to be the most luxurious house in town. The girl, who had introduced herself as Evena, invited Wyngalf inside and escorted him to the dining room, where her father and mother seemed to be waiting for them. The entire house was filled with the odor of cooked fish. Evena ran through the introductions in such a polished manner that Wyngalf got the sense he was playing a part in a drama that had been performed many times before. He hoped it didn’t end with an itinerant preacher dismembered and preserved in a barrel of brine.

  “Father Wyngalf,” said Evena, “this is my father, Bulgar the fishmonger, and my mother, Erdis. Father, mother, this is Father Wyngalf, a missionary representing the Noninitarian Church.”

  Wyngalf bowed slightly, and Bulgar and Erdris stood and did the same. Evena directed Wyngalf to an empty chair at the table, and the four of them sat. On the table in front of them was a platter of some kind of fish, along with bread and a plate of assorted vegetables. Wyngalf’s mouth began to water anew.

  “Welcome, Father Wyngalf,” said Evena’s parents in unison, cordially but without great warmth.

  “I thank you for inviting me into your home,” Wyngalf said. “It isn’t necessary to refer to me as ‘Father Wyngalf,’ however. Simply Wyngalf will suffice.”

  “Fine,” said Bulgar the fishmonger. “Wyngalf it is.” He was a compactly built man with a bald head and a heavily waxed moustache that stuck out on either side of his head with the points turned slightly forward, like the horns of a bull. His wife was a pear-shaped, doughy woman with braided blond hair and a blotchy red complexion.

  “Simply Wyngalf,” said Wyngalf.

  “Yes,” replied Bulgar. “That’s what I said. Wyngalf.”

  “Beg your pardon,” said Wyngalf. “It’s a common mistake. Ministers of my faith are customarily addressed ‘Simply,’ to remind us of our humble status as servants of the Noninity.”

  Bulgar stared at Wyngalf, expressionless. “I fail to see how I could address you any more simply, Mister Wyngalf.”

  “Simply Wyngalf,” said Wyngalf.

  “Wyngalf,” said Bulgar.

  “Simply Wyngalf is fine,” said Wyngalf.

  “Wyngalf,” said Bulgar again.

  “Simply Wyngalf, if you please.”

  “You would like me to call you simply Wyngalf?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Wyngalf,” said Bulgar once more.

  “Close enough,” said Wyngalf, who was growing faint from lack of food. Everyone at the table breath
ed a collective sigh of relief.

  “Father Wyngalf, would you mind saying the blessing?” asked the fishmonger’s wife.

  Wyngalf couldn’t muster the will to object. “Of course,” he said, with a weak smile. He clasped his hands on top of his head as was customary for the Noninitarian pre-meal blessing, and waited for the others to do the same. When they had complied, he closed his eyes and launched into the Eight Part Expression of Gratitude for Wholly Undeserved Nourishment. He was so hungry, though, that he decided to skip Parts Four through Seven and made a mental note to utter the Prayer of Supplication for Failing to Fully Execute a Sacrament before bed.

  “Goodness, that was quite a blessing!” said Erdis, when he had finished Part Eight. The abbreviated blessing had taken about ten minutes.

  You don’t know the half of it, thought Wyngalf, but he just smiled.

  “You must be famished, Wyngalf,” Erdis said. “Please, eat.”

  Wyngalf ate. The fish—haddock? herring? halibut?—was dry and bland, and the vegetables were boiled beyond recognition, but it was the best meal he’d had in weeks. Whatever Bulgar the fishmonger and his wife had in store for him, he was convinced at the present moment that it was worth it. They exchanged pleasantries and commentary on the weather as they ate, and Wyngalf was goaded into speaking a little about his travels in between bites, but if the couple had any motive other than charity in inviting Wyngalf to their table, it was not evident. Evena in particular was very interested in his travels, and seemed disappointed that Wyngalf had spent most of the past five months preaching and begging for food rather than engaging in “adventures.” It was clear that the girl had never left the environs of Skuldred, and possessed an exaggerated notion of exotic lands full of adventure just beyond the horizon.

  When they’d finished eating, Evena cleared the table. As the warmth of the wine spread through Wyngalf’s body, he found himself struggling not to stare at the girl. She was a bit young, yes, but undeniably attractive, and it wasn’t uncommon for girls of her age to marry. Noninitarian devout were not technically sworn to celibacy, but were forbidden to engage in relations with anyone who had not accepted the Twenty-One Theses of Noninitarianism, so the practical result was generally the same. In any case, Wyngalf got the impression her father wouldn’t approve of any advances he might make toward her. He wasn’t sure what role he played in Bulgar’s mind, but he was fairly certain that it was not potential suitor for his daughter.