The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  The two men watched him go with a mixture of pity and disgust.

  ‘So what’s his problem?’ asked Methuselech.

  ‘He’s never told us,’ Nibulus replied. ‘He gets these fits . . . I don’t know if it’s connected with his hideous deformity or not. He never talks about it, always keeps himself to himself. I doubt if even his own countrymen know much about him. All he’s ever told me is that his father was both an undertaker and a tanner—’

  ‘Probably never had a shortage of fresh skin to cure, then,’ Methuselech commented darkly.

  ‘True. Anyway, we’ve been hiring his services for years now, and he’s one of the best fighters in this part of the world. A right vicious bastard, I can tell you. Did you hear what he wrote on his application letter this time?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘In the section on hobbies and interests he put: “Tampering with the dead”.’

  ‘I can believe it, from what little I’ve heard about his kind,’ Methuselech commented. ‘Is it true Nahovians kill their old folk with mallets?’

  ‘Only if they’re too weak to throw themselves into the family quicksand,’ Nibulus replied. ‘Anyway, we’ve had no trouble with him yet, and he does his job well. I don’t think his appearance and typically Nahovian temperament have endeared him to prospective employers, so he’s had a pretty lean time of it over the years. He seems happy to throw in his lot with us – and even if I wouldn’t say I trust him that much, he is extremely good at killing.’

  ‘Poor sod,’ Methuselech murmured as they headed back to the hall.

  ‘Come on, let’s get some beer.’

  ‘We leave in three days!’ Wodeman recalled the words of the mage-priest, still ringing in his ears, as he strode away from the temple. Just three.

  It was so little time to prepare, Wodeman realized. The commotion of this town was seriously befuddling his brain, so he headed off to The Chase. The sorcerer needed to sit down, to think, to plan.

  ‘No holy man is going to get to me!’ Bolldhe repeated inwardly, as he marched away from Wintus Hall. He too needed to think and plan, but most importantly, to drink. And he knew just the place to do that.

  ‘Bolldhe!’ came a familiar voice through the barred window of The Chase as he approached. ‘Come in and join me. I’ll buy you a drink.’

  Bolldhe looked up sharply, half in shock. It was not often he heard those words.

  ‘Oh, Wodeman,’ he registered, nonplussed, but decided to join him anyway, more out of a sense of novelty at this rarest of opportunities than any desire to converse with the shaman. He patiently manoeuvred his way through the excitable throng of ginswigging farmers and mead-quaffing foreigners with their amusing voices and interesting smells, and sat down heavily next to his new companion.

  ‘Two pints of ale and a packet of pork crackling,’ the wolf-man bellowed, above the din of the assembled carousers.

  ‘You have money?’ Bolldhe asked the woodland shaman, trying not to sound astounded.

  ‘I’m not a healer for nowt,’ Wodeman replied as he tendered a silver zlat for ale and pork-rind. ‘They pay me enough for my simple needs . . . Here, to your good health and their bad. Cheers!’

  Bolldhe resisted the temptation to sneak a look at the shaman’s feet to see if they were hairy and the rumours were true. He also carefully ignored the curious bone amulets that jangled about on the man’s waist; as an augur himself, he recognized them for what they were, and did not wish to be drawn into any conversation along those lines.

  Instead he kept his eyes on Wodeman’s face as the shaman downed the ale in one long, blissful slug. His eyes closed with what could only be described as utter ecstasy, savouring the blend of warm, malty hoppiness with a rapture that only one possessed of Wodeman’s heightened senses could attain.

  He finished the mug, slammed it down on the greasy table-top and almost shuddered in euphoria. Then, after a pause in which he seemed to forget everything in the world save the dizzy glow now spreading up from his feet, he turned to Bolldhe.

  ‘We don’t spend all our time in the woods, you know,’ he informed his bewildered new acquaintance. ‘There are certain pleasures even in this smoke-hole that I might as well partake of, since it’s available.’

  Bolldhe shrugged, and tipped a quantity of ale into his own mouth. He swilled it around, relishing both taste and texture, as the nut-brown liquid left its oily deposit upon tongue and gums.

  ‘All the other, er, forest-magicians I’ve met keep themselves to themselves, as it were,’ he explained.

  Wodeman spat in contempt. ‘Not much good as sorcerers, then, if they act like that. We Torca are not hermits. Keeping yourself to yourself is as damaging to the world as it is to you. Take this pork-rind, for example; if you cut it off the living pig’s back, it rots . . . and the pig itself is that much worse off too. We consider ourselves, all of us, an essential part of the world.’

  Bolldhe just blinked, dumbfounded. Wodeman had been sitting with him for less than a minute, and already the bloody man was trying to enlighten him.

  ‘Thank you, mentor,’ he replied, not sure of his nuances in this foreign tongue, ‘but that’s the sort of horse-shite I normally talk myself – and get paid for.’

  Wodeman laughed, without a hint of rancour, at Bolldhe’s bluntness. ‘Well, that lesson was for free. As will be all the others in our weeks to come.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ Bolldhe sighed, and wondered again if he had made the right decision about joining this enterprise.

  Wodeman, in Bolldhe’s mind, had now become a disembodied, floating mouth that just would not stop talking.

  ‘Dreamers, real dreamers,’ the sorcerer was explaining to his glazey-eyed guest, ‘do not run away from reality; they dream in order to change the world. In dreams we’re able to think freely, to release the imagination. And from this release, comes creation.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Those mage-priests can never dream properly because their minds have become too bogged down with their dogma. They cling to the affirmations of their faith like a drowning rat to a lily-pad. If only they would simply allow themselves to feel, but they prefer the stagnant reek of their smoky halls to the sun and the air, so cut themselves off from Life itself.’

  ‘Is that so.’

  ‘Only openness to everything snaps the fetters of misunderstanding – and allows the soul to go forward. Therefore do not believe or disbelieve. Just stay open-minded! Life is a series of questions and nothing is certain.’

  ‘Certain, right – Oh look, here comes Nibulus. Nibulus, over here! Quick!’ Bolldhe yelled through the open window.

  Most of the punters in The Chase became aware of the presence of the Warlord’s son before he even arrived in the square, for a large and rapidly growing crowd was forming. Gasps of amazement waxed into cheers of jubilation as Nibulus, still clad in his magnificent armour, swaggered down Pump Street with Methuselech. Men clapped, women swooned, and even the yellow dogs seemed to have smiles on their faces.

  ‘Bolldhe!’ Nibulus cried, all smiles and lofty gestures to those around him, relishing this new, heightened adulation he was receiving on this most excellent of days.

  ‘We’re heading down Neph Lane to watch the players there,’ he explained. ‘Fancy tagging along?’

  Normally Bolldhe would have declined the invitation, but at the moment he would have accompanied Nibulus to a leper colony rather than spend another minute with the droning shaman.

  ‘Sounds great,’ he enthused.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ agreed Wodeman.

  So, within minutes, all four of them had piled into a pair of passenger-carrying cyclo-tumbrels. The two drivers cackled inanely, and excitedly repeated the destination, before hurtling off through the throng lining Pump Street, gleefully running down anyone who got in their way. As tumbrel-drivers tend to do.

  While his three companions whooped with joy, and pedestrians flattened themselves against the walls to let them past, Bolldhe r
eflected on the uncanny uniformity of certain aspects of life around the world. One might assume, considering the vastness of Lindormyn, and therefore the isolation of so many settlements, that each town or village would be fairly unique. But as far as tumbrel-drivers were concerned, they were a constant: uniformly horse-toothed, grimy and ignorant, they seemed to like nothing better than hanging about their patch with their own kind, squatting around a game of cards, smoking mystery substances and boasting about their latest fares, however meagre.

  Amid the clatter of rickety wheels and flapping sandals, the constantly yammering drivers charged ahead. Along increasingly narrow streets they hurtled, herding all before them like the Wild Hunt. Men, women, children, animals, none were spared by the tumbrel-drivers from hell. Dogs barked savagely but were too craven to attack. Drovers and tradesmen yelled with indignation, but their fat-mouthed grimaces soon turned to smiles when they saw who it was seated in the lead tumbrel. No one else would have got away with it, but Nordwas truly was notable for the zeal with which its poorest inhabitants would always champion the cause of the richest and most privileged.

  The streets were now so narrow that Nibulus could almost touch the walls either side with his outstretched hands. Soon the beating of tymbals and the crack of staff upon staff could be heard. Within moments they had arrived at the six-way junction of Neph Lane, Sump Road and Ueno Parade, and ventured unto the jovial pandemonium that was the Levansy Theatre.

  The place was packed, on this glorious sunny day, with what must have been half the population of Nordwas. Everyone from beggars to barons, far-flung foreigners to indigenous inhabitants, one-year-olds to one-hundred-year-olds, had gathered in this turgid spot. Even the rats had turned out, and were chattering animatedly with each other from their elevated position on the spital-house windowsills, or hurling down morsels of corn or verbal insults at the people below, excitedly awaiting the performance.

  An impromptu stage made of two carts had been erected by the water troughs that stood in the centre of this junction. Hanging above it was a silken banner of bilious purple and gold. Embroidered upon it were the words: ‘Levansy Theatre Co. presents: The Amazing Paulus Fatuus and his Twisted Imps!’

  On stage stood a man dressed in a huge, dirty brown, multi-pocketed coat that hung loosely over his naked, heavily tattooed torso. He had skin-tight leggings with bright orange, white and green stripes, and was wearing a hat that looked like an upturned barley-riddle. His face was daubed thickly with a virulent ink-blue greasepaint intended to give him the appearance of some kind of demon, while he appeared to be performing in quick succession just about every type of act that a minstrel could fall back on, and more besides.

  Meanwhile, a forlorn Boggart was perched atop the tallest water pump (chained to it, of course), playing a three-stringed komuz with more skill than would seem possible for one of his species. And all the while amongst the crowd an indeterminate number of Haugers of indeterminate gender kept howling and beating upon crude but brightly ribboned tymbals, whipping the onlookers into a paroxysm of drunken but for the most part good-natured revelry.

  The pair of tumbrels ploughed their way straight into the crowd, whereupon their four occupants leapt out, looking around them. Immediately a small group of children gathered around their knees with palms upturned. Bolldhe’s face turned sour, and he shooed them away with a few copper zlats pressed into their grubby mitts; the other three looked disapprovingly at him, smiled merrily at the children, but just shooed them away.

  Brass beakers of sticky mint tea were purchased from sallow-faced vendors with long black moustaches, stools were hastily assembled, and soon Nibulus and his three companions were seated in respectfully comfortable isolation to watch the entertainment.

  The blue-faced minstrel capered around the stage like a lunatic, singing, cavorting and puppeteering in between, playing an assortment of bizarre musical instruments, and telling jokes that few there could understand (not because of the man’s thick, foreign accent but because it was a type of humour that appeared to say one thing but at the same time mean something completely different, a refinement that was met with the same kind of easy-going bewilderment that the rest of his act induced in the simple folk of Nordwas).

  The minstrel then, for some inexplicable reason, turned around, swept up his coat, tore down his breeches, and flatulated a passable rendition of the Wintus war anthem. The crowd roared with laughter, while those nearest Nibulus and his crew nonchalantly edged away.

  Methuselech and Bolldhe glanced at the Peladane. To their relief, his fixed smile eventually softened, and he shrugged. ‘Sounds better than the troubadours, anyway.’

  The wandering minstrels – crude, provocative and about as foreign as you could get – were despised by lords and gentry, but better received by the commoners. They had no bonds or loyalties to any but themselves, and roamed the land freely, entertaining any who would listen, for whatever coppers they could cajole.

  ‘Bolldhe, my man,’ said Nibulus, suddenly turning to him, ‘Appa tells me you’re really a Peladane.’

  ‘Was a long time ago,’ Bolldhe corrected him.

  ‘Still are, then,’ Nibulus insisted with a dismissive smile. ‘So you’re familiar with the Chronicle of Gwyllch, I take it.’

  ‘I heard mention of it,’ Bolldhe replied, staring distractedly at an acrobat performing right in front of him, who seemed to have twisted either her head or her feet completely back to front. Either way, he could not decide which way round she was.

  ‘You’ll have the chance to catch up on it during our journey,’ Nibulus continued, ‘since I’ll be bringing it along with us. Apart from being the most stirring story in history, it’s the only real guide we have in written form to this journey we’re undertaking. Old Gwyllch was a cultured man as well as a soldier, and he kept a detailed journal of his march northwards with the Nordwas contingent, to meet up with Lord Bloodnose’s fleet. Since those days hardly anyone has needed to consult it, but I tell you, Bolldhe, it must be fate that prompted him to write down his experiences. We’d be so much the worse off otherwise.’

  Bolldhe was suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Your book is the only guide we take?’ he repeated. ‘No actual people what know the land? Just a diary writ half a cen-, millenni-, five hundred years ago?’

  ‘Not just a diary. The Chronicle of Gwyllch!’ Nibulus huffed.

  Bolldhe stared at him in disbelief, but Nibulus was no longer even aware of him; his attention was fixed upon the acrobat, who was now brazenly peeling off her clothing.

  Bolldhe did not press the matter, preferring, as did most of the crowd, to look away from the whole disturbing spectacle. The Warlord’s son, however, seemed totally engrossed; not by the woman’s nakedness – she had a face like a sea-lion, and a body to match – but at the sheer impudence of the way she was staring at him with not the slightest hint of subservience, or even deference. He was not used to this at all, and felt a little unnerved.

  Just then, Methuselech drew their attention to Paulus. The Nahovian was standing just twenty or so paces away, glaring at all around him with a look of open hostility on his face, while his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

  ‘Why doesn’t he come over and join us?’ asked Methuselech, clearly puzzled.

  ‘Does he look like the sort of man who wants company?’ Wodeman commented, looking at the man appraisingly as he glared at the female acrobat, who was now writhing in front of him.

  ‘Then why doesn’t he just sod off?’ snapped Nibulus, clearly having had enough of his raucous surroundings by now. ‘If he hates company so much, why come to a place like this?’

  ‘I can see we’re going to have to watch that one.’ Methuselech frowned. ‘Maybe we should get him a job with the Levansy Theatre Company instead. He’d be more at home with this freak show . . .’

  ‘People certainly do seem to stare at him,’ Bolldhe noted, not without a small measure of sympathy.

  ‘He’s even got the same name as the mins
trel.’ Nibulus laughed.

  ‘Your mercenary’s called Paulus Fatuus too?’ Bolldhe asked doubtfully.

  ‘Just Paulus.’

  At precisely that moment, as if on cue, the blue-faced minstrel plunged his rear end into the water-trough, and the whole surface began to seethe like a bubbling cauldron. The audience gasped with admiration, then roared their approval.

  ‘Paulus Flatulus, more like,’ joked Nibulus.

  It was destiny, of course; a new name had been created. The grim but proud mercenary from the forests of Vregh-Nahov, he who had fought lethally alongside the Peladanes and proved his excellence at arms, would now and forever after be thought of as Paulus Flatulus.

  Well, anything was better than Odf Uglekort.

  At last the long-awaited day of departure dawned.

  A pale, bleary sun crawled out of the ground-hugging mists in the East, its paltry rays barely warming the chill of a crisp, dewy dawn. The birds were in full song, almost drowning out the other sounds of morning that were gradually growing in volume: the irritable clattering of shutters, the occasional slam of a door, and the hacking cough of some old man as he walked up a lane in the distance.

  Through squinting eyes Gapp peered out of the single window in the loft room. People were rising, the day was beginning, and it felt good to be alive. He breathed in deeply to clear his sleepy head. The air smelt good, so fresh and vibrant with the fragrances of early morning – sweet, bedewed grass, newly baked bread and freshly passed pig-dung – providing heaven-sent relief from the stuffy fetor of the loft’s confines. In a sudden twitch of exuberance, Gapp leapt over the huddled forms of his recumbent brothers to reach where his clothes lay, and quickly got dressed.

  While he fumbled with his clothing, his heart pounded with excitement. He could barely control his fingers as he laced up his heavy, green shirt, pulled on his tan trousers and thrust his feet into the soft grey leather boots his mother had bought him specially the previous day.