The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  He found a small opening low in the bramble, perhaps three feet high and two feet wide. He set his stuffed robe on the ground and got down on his hands and knees. Looking into the thicket, he could see a square clearing that measured about fifteen feet on a side. From what he could tell, it had been cut from the very thicket, itself. There were still several thick feet of bramble surrounding the clearing like a wall. All in all, he thought to himself, it was a very good hiding place.

  The scent of the cooking corn was very strong, and Drothspar crawled slowly and quietly into the opening. He was aware that anything could be standing on the other side of the bramble, and he peered through the branches trying to detect any shapes or movements. Nothing stirred in his vision, and he crawled in further.

  He darted his head into the clearing, first to his left and then again to his right. Nothing stood waiting to bash in his skull, a fact that made him profoundly grateful. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what would happen if someone were to bash in his skull, but he wasn’t so curious that he needed to experiment.

  He pulled himself out of the opening and stood in the clearing. A large cover of bramble stood before him, sectioning off a few feet of the open space. The sounds of the fire and the snoring were louder, closer. He was certain that everything was being hidden by the façade of bramble. He edged along the bramble, exposing more and more of the clearing. On the far side of the façade, he saw a portly, red-faced man sleeping on a bed roll. The man was snoring loudly, and saliva was dribbling out of his mouth. A ceramic jug was spilled over on its side, its contents seeping into the ground.

  The scent of the spilled alcohol came sharply to Drothspar’s senses. It had been a long time since he’d taken a drink, even before he had died. The scent was still powerful. He saw other ceramic bottles, corked and covered with melted wax. Somewhat reassured that the snoring man was drunk and quite asleep, Drothspar looked around the bramble façade and saw a copper kettle sprouting long, thin, looping tubes. He smiled in his mind. He had found himself a good, old-fashioned still!

  He helped himself to two of the ceramic jugs, carrying them over to the opening in the bramble and pushing them through to the other side. He returned to the kettle-still looking for some corn that he might take back to Chance. On the other side of the still, he found a wooden crate filled to overflowing with multi-colored autumnal corn. He found a metal pail and filled it with as much of the corn as it could hold. The wooden crate was still more than full as he carried the pail to the opening in the bramble.

  Just as he was pushing the pail through the opening, the snoring behind him stopped. He heard a gruff coughing and someone spit on the other side of the bramble façade. He pushed the pail quickly to the other side of the opening and hurried along behind it. He made more noise as he scrambled out than he had when he was crawling in. Leaves rustled under his bony knees and hands. Twigs snapped. Thorns reached out for his back and scraped as they lost their purchase.

  He felt like a child stealing apples from an orchard as he gathered up his robe and a jug in one hand and the pail and second jug in the other. He was grateful he couldn’t speak just then, because he was certain he’d be snickering. He could hear the drunk on the other side of the bramble grunting and coming awake. The man had definitely heard him.

  “Who’s out there?” the man demanded in a hoarse whisper. Drothspar started to walk away trying to settle all his booty in his hands. He heard grunts and curses behind him as the chubby drunk tried to squeeze himself through the opening too quickly.

  “Hey,” the man called out again, “come back here!” Drothspar stopped to look back at the man who had just erupted from the thicket. The living man’s eyes locked with Drothspar’s vacant sockets, and the two stood motionless. Drothspar lifted the hand with the pail and jug and waved politely to the drunk. The poor man’s eyes bulged wide and his mouth fell open.

  Drothspar didn’t wait around to see what else the man did; he high-tailed it out of the area as fast as he could. He kept an eye on the corn, making sure he didn’t drop any to leave a trail behind himself. He was laughing merrily in his mind, running along as fast as he could. He changed course a few times to put off any pursuit, but he was fairly certain there would be none. Who would believe a drunk who claimed to have been robbed by a skeleton?

  He ran until he was close to where he had left Chance. He felt like he could run forever if he had to. He hadn’t run like that since he was a little boy, more out of fun than any real necessity. With a tinge of regret, he slowed to a walk as he approached the camp. He set the two jugs down and took the pail and corn some distance away.

  There was a stream running a quarter of a mile from their campsite and Drothspar set up a second camp there. He filled the pail with water and built up a small fire. He hoped that if the fire attracted attention, it would draw the curious to him, and not to Chance. While the water boiled, he worked on getting his robe back on properly. He stowed his dagger and stashed bits of cloth back to where he thought they belonged. He wasn’t sure how he looked, but he was certain all the cloth had been stuffed somewhere.

  It took a while to cook the corn to a tender state. Unable to tell how much time had passed, Drothspar watched the moon moving through the branches of the trees. When it passed different branches, he would draw out an ear of corn and test it with his fingers for softness. The boiling water felt warm to his fingers but it didn’t hurt. About the time the sky started to pale in the east, he was convinced that the corn was done. He put out the fire and covered it with dirt and water from the pail.

  Chance was still asleep when he returned with the cooked corn. There wasn’t much variety in what he had brought her, but there was quantity. He waited excitedly for her to wake and kept an eye on the trees. He was fairly certain that no one would pursue a skeletal corn-thief, but that was no reason to be careless.

  As the sun dawned under the clouds and splashed its morning light across her eyes, Chance began to stir. She woke slowly, her eyes fluttering open and closed. She inhaled the aroma of the cooked corn and her eyes flickered open. Drothspar sat, ever grinning, with a pail of corn by her side.

  “What do you have there?” she asked groggily.

  Drothspar picked up the pail and tilted it to show her the contents. Chance worked herself into a sitting position with her elbow and hands.

  “Corn!” Her voice, excited, carried loudly in the morning air. Drothspar put one finger to his mouth, urging her to be quiet. “Corn,” she asked quietly, “where did you get it?”

  Drothspar was glad he couldn’t blush right then. He felt a little foolish about stealing the corn, but he was pleased by her reaction. He drew out his tablet and wrote, “I stole it.”

  “You’re kidding me,” she said, her eyes widening.

  Drothspar shook his head.

  “How sweet,” she said, her voice thoughtful. She placed one hand on his bony finger and smiled brightly at him. “Can I have some?”

  He handed her the pail.

  “Tell me all about it,” Chance said as she selected an ear of corn from the pail. Drothspar brought out his slate and proceeded to cover the night’s events. After a few moments, Chance interrupted him, waving her corn over his slate to get him to stop.

  “Was he really asleep when you slipped in?”

  Drothspar nodded his reply.

  “And you stripped off your robe and padding? You robbed him while you were naked?”

  Drothspar’s head snapped upright at the thought. He had, for all intents and purposes, robbed the moon-shiner while naked. He nodded his head slowly, feeling slightly ashamed.

  Chance, however, burst into peals of laughter. Her face flushed a warm crimson, erasing the pallor of hunger. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes and once again she rested her hand on Drothspar’s.

  “That’s just too precious,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Why in heaven’s name did you rob the man naked?”

  Drothspar scribb
led madly on his slate, trying to explain about the bramble thorns as quickly as he could. He showed Chance the slate, looking at her with non-existent, imploring eyes.

  Chance unsuccessfully suppressed a smirk and nodded as she read. “Well,” she said finally, “understandable, I guess, but probably not the way I would have done it.” Drothspar looked at her steadily, knowing that if he’d have had flesh, he’d have been blushing head to toe. Chance, either on her own or perceiving a change in Drothspar’s manner, blushed again, bringing healthy color into her cheeks. Her lips gave a little quiver, and she began to giggle once more. Her giggles gathered strength, and in moments, she was laughing warmly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I keep interrupting. Please, go on.” She looked at him encouragingly and took another bite of corn.

  Drothspar explained about the still, and the spilled bottle of liquor lying next to the sleeping man. He noticed her eyes widen momentarily as he wrote the word “still,” but kept writing. He explained how he pushed his loot outside the thicket, and how he hurried himself out of the thicket when he heard the man stirring.

  “That’s what caught you, wasn’t it,” she said sagely. “You got nervous and a little careless.”

  Drothspar nodded his head and explained how the thorns had tried to catch on his bones.

  Chance nodded. “You’ve got to keep your cool, even if you think they’re right behind you. Being nervous is just like asking to get caught.”

  Drothspar stared at her, his head tilted slightly to the side. Chance blinked a couple of times and looked down into her corn. The slightest hint of red flushed into her cheeks but disappeared before it could spread.

  “So what you’re telling me,” she said changing the subject, “is that the last thing this man saw was your bony bottom wiggling out from his thorny hideout?”

  Again, Drothspar’s head snapped upright as her words settled in his mind. He could almost feel his cheeks redden. He almost raised his hand to his face to make sure they hadn’t reappeared. Again he took up his tablet, writing furiously to finish the story.

  “He followed you out? He must have been determined.” She smiled. She continued to read. “You stared at each other.” She took another bite of corn. “You waved at him?” She coughed a few pieces of corn out of her mouth as she burst out in another gale of laughter.

  “Oh sweet Maker,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “Oh how I wish I could have seen that.” She looked at him archly. “Show me,” she demanded playfully.

  Drothspar looked at her for a moment then set down his tablet. He picked up a jug and the pail of corn, put them both in his hand, stood facing her, and waved his hand quickly side to side. The corn rattled against the inside of the pail and the pail clattered against the side of the jug. Combined with his ever-grinning skull, the image forced Chance into another bout of laughter.

  “Oh my dear Drothspar,” she said as he settled back down to the ground, “that’s just really too precious.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Have you ever stolen anything before?”

  Drothspar looked at her quietly then shook his head from side to side.

  “How did it feel?” she asked, curiosity brimming in her voice.

  “Kind of guilty,” he admitted, writing slowly. He looked around as if expecting someone might be reading over his shoulder. “But wickedly fun.”

  She smiled at him warmly. “Isn’t it, though?”

  They relaxed while Chance ate as much of the corn as she could. Drothspar thought about their conversation and his nighttime adventure. He wished once again that he could simply talk to her. He felt restricted by the tablet, but admitted that it was better than nothing at all.

  He wasn’t sure if she knew how close they were to Arlethord. He had told her before she went to sleep, but she’d been vacant and tired when they stopped for the night. He picked up his tablet and started to write.

  “Ooh,” she said excitedly, “did you remember something else from last night?”

  Drothspar shook his head. “We should reach Arlethord sometime tonight,” he wrote.

  “Oh,” she said, the excitement drained from her voice.

  “Do you think you’re up to bluffing our way past the citizens into the old city?”

  She sighed. “I don’t see why not.” She eyed the one of the jugs Drothspar had stolen the night before. “What have you got in those?” she asked innocently.

  Drothspar passed her the bottle. She cracked the wax top and worked out the fresh cork. She passed the bottle under her nose and blinked a couple of times at the odor.

  “Wow,” she said, “pungent.”

  She put the jug to her lips and tipped it back gently. She swallowed the liquor and reached quickly for her water bottle.

  “Wow,” she said again, trying not to cough. “That’ll clean the rust off your dagger.”

  Drothspar looked down to where he concealed his weapon.

  “Just a figure of speech,” she said smiling, her face beginning to glow. “Yes,” she said suddenly.

  Drothspar cocked his head to the side.

  “I think I’m up to bluffing our way wherever you like.” She pulled her empty little flask from her travel bag and filled it with the contents of the jug. “I’m sure it will all be fine.”

  They spent a little time rearranging Drothspar’s padding under his robe. Chance adjusted the rags here and there until she felt it was right. She took one rag and dirtied it in an unwholesome looking red-brown mud. This last rag she bound around Drothspar’s head and face. The end result made it appear that he had suffered a grievous head wound that occasionally seeped a sickly blood.

  “Remember,” she said, as they packed away their little encampment, “rack your body from time to time if someone’s watching. Even if you can’t make a sound, make it seem as if you’re coughing. If someone tries to get too close to you, just act as if you’re coughing in their direction. They’ll lose interest quick enough.”

  Drothspar nodded.

  “And keep your slate in your pocket,” she advised him. “Let me do all the talking. Let’s try to keep any attention from fixing itself on you.”

  Drothspar carried the jugs and the pail and trailed slightly behind Chance. She slung her travel pack over her shoulder with a strength he hadn’t seen in many days. They agreed to resume the fiction they had worked out for their trip to Æostemark.

  “Penitent and pilgrim,” she said brightly as they walked along. I’m sure it will work out just fine. Besides,” she said, looking over her shoulder, “we never did get to try it in Æostemark, did we?”

  Drothspar looked at her and held up the jugs, quietly asking her their purpose in her play.

  “Well,” she explained, “you can’t very well be asking the citizens of Arlethord to forgive your behavior during the last invasion.” She shook her head. “No, this time, you’re chronically ill, suffering from skin-rot and Death’s Breath. That’ll explain the coverings on your face and your silence.”

  Drothspar nodded as she looked back at him.

  “We’ll be on our way to see a holy man named ‘Petreus.’ We heard about him from the Abbot at Thenensfron. ‘A miracle worker,’ he told us. ‘A pillar of piety and sanctity,’ he said. The old man with me brought the fruit of God’s vine, blessed spirits brewed by his own family as gifts for the Representative of the Maker.” She smiled back over her shoulder at him.

  “And, of course, I’ll, once again, be guiding you as a penance, suffering the proximity of the unwashed as punishment for my wicked, wicked life.” She made an indelicate sound. “Have to be careful with that one, though,” she explained. “Some might think that’s an invitation.”

  Chapter 23 – Arlethord

  The sun arced overhead as Drothspar and Chance walked the remaining distance to Arlethord. Drawing closer to the city, they began to encounter sporadic groups of travelers heading east and those moving quickly toward the city. Few other travelers were on foot, and most gave a wide berth
to the pair after one look at Drothspar’s bandaged face. Chance maintained a sorrowful look and marched resolutely toward the city. Drothspar kept his head down and followed in a shuffling gait.

  “Very good,” he heard her say after a party of travelers passed. “Try to remember to cough from time to time. It has to look natural—and unhealthy.”

  By early afternoon, they were approaching some of the more established outlying settlements. Although they couldn’t see it, they could smell the humid fragrance of the Vistel, the river that ran through the city of Arlethord.

  “Arlethord was once two cities,” she said to Drothspar over her shoulder. “The city of Thord crouched on the west bank of the Vistel while the city of Arle was built on the east.”

  Drothspar had heard the story many times. He had spent the majority of his life in the streets of ‘Thord. It had been on those very streets that Gathner had found him so many years before.

  “The cities lived and thrived on both sides of the river. Trade grew between them along with a wary alliance. The instances of confrontation between the two cities have always been surprisingly low. Many pious scholars rightly acknowledge the Hand of the Divine in the wisdom of the aldermen of both cities.”

  Drothspar considered this last statement. It was true, of course, that the Church credited the peace between Arle and Thord as a gift of the Maker’s Grace. In all his time with Chance, however, he had never heard her talk about the beliefs or customs of the Church. It just didn’t seem in character… That was it! She was being the penitent character. She was sharing her education and piety with the unfortunate peasant that trailed her. He smiled mentally to himself. She was probably also bored with the silence, he thought, smiling again.