“This is bad, Flicker,” Calap muttered with low breath. “We can maybe eat Sellup tonight, if she ain’t gone foul by then.”
“We should eat her now,” Brash interjected. “Thatd save us all for another night, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it? We got to suggest it— you do it, Flicker. Go on—”
“Good sir,” said I, “I am of no mind whatsoever to suggest such a heinous thing. Tell me, would you have her complain all the while? While a single piece of her flesh exists, the curse of the unliving remains—what eternal torment would you consign to the poor lass? Besides,” I added, “I know little of the art of necromancy, but it occurs to me that such flesh is itself poison to the living. Will you risk becoming an undead?”
Brash licked his lips, his face white. “Gods below!”
“What if Nifty got away?” Calap demanded. “It’s impossible. He must be hiding out there somewhere. Him and his women. His kind get all the luck! Think of it, he’s got an undying fan! I’d kill for that!”
“Calap Roud,” said I, “your tale of the Imass is cause for concern. Where it leads ...”
“But it’s all I got, Flicker! The only one I remember word for word—”
“Hold on!” said Brash. “It ain’t yours? That’s cheating!”
“No it isn’t. Nobody said it had to be our own compositions. This isn’t the Festival. They just want to be entertained, so if you need to steal then steal! Gods, listen to me. I’m giving you advice! My rival. Both of you! Flicker, listen! It’s your story that’s going to get us all killed. You’re too close to what’s really going on here—”
“Am I? I think not, sir. Besides, my task now is quite different from the one you two face.”
“That was some fancy trickery from you, too! She knows we can do a day or three without food. She only has to make sure you outlive me and Phluster, and then you can make the last long run to the ferry landing. You’re in cahoots, and don’t deny it!”
Brash Phluster smirked. “It don’t matter, Roud, because Flicker’s going to lose. And soon, before either of us.”
Arch did an eyebrow upon my benign demeanor. “Indeed?”
“Indeed,” he mimicked, wagging his head. “You see, I saw you, last night. And I saw her, too.”
Calap gasped. “He’s rollicking Purse Snippet? I knew it!”
“Not her,” Brash said, his eyes bright upon me, “Relish Chanter. I seen it, and if I tell Tiny—and maybe I’ll have to, to buy my life, why, you’re a dead man, Flicker.”
Calap was suddenly grinning. “We got him. We got Flicker. Hah! We’re safe, Brash! You and me, we’re going to make it!”
Did I quiver in terror? Did my knees rattle and bladder loosen to the prickly bloom of mortal panic? Did I fling myself at Brash, hands closing about his scrawny throat? An elbow to the side of Calap’s head? Did my mind race, seeking an escape? “Good sirs, more of this discussion anon. We have reached the spring.”
“Aye,” said Calap, “we can wait, can’t we, Brash?”
But Phluster grasped my arm. “Your tale’s going to go sour, Flicker. I know, you was nice to me but it’s too late for that kind of stuff. You were only generous because you felt safe. I’m not such a fool as to take such patronization from one such as you! I am a genius! You’re going to disappoint Snippet, do you understand me?”
“I shall resume my tale, then, once we have slaked our thirsts.”
Brash’s grin broadened.
“I always hated you,” said Calap, now studying me as he would a worm. “Did you know that, Flicker? Oh, I saw the aplomb in your pertinence, and knew it as a fraud from the very first! Always acting like you knew a secret nobody else knows. And that smile you show every now and then—it makes me sick. Do you still think it’s all so amusing? Do you? Besides, your tale’s stupid. It can’t go anywhere, can it, because what you’re stealing from isn’t done yet, is it? You’re doomed to just repeat what’s already happened and they won’t take that much longer. So, even without Phluster’s ultimatum, you’re doomed to lose. You’ll die. We’ll carve you up and eat you, and we’ll feel good about it, too!”
Ah, artists! “The truth of the tale,” said I, most calmly, “is not where it is going, but where it has been. Ponder that, if you’ve the energy. In the meantime, sustenance beckons, for I see that some water survives still, and Mister Must is already unhitching the mules. Best we drink before the beasts do, yes?”
Both men pushed past me in their haste.
I followed at a more leisurely pace. I have this thing, you see, about anticipation and abnegation, but of that, later.
Steck had ridden up and was now dismounting. “Found their tracks,” he said, presumably to Tulgord. “As we know they must stay relatively close to the trail, however, we need not worry overmuch. Deprivation will bring them back.”
“We can go hunting, too,” said Tiny. “A bit of excitement,” and he smiled his tiny ratty smile.
“Drink your fill,” cried the host, “all of you! Such benison! The gods have mercy, yes they do! Oh, perhaps this will suffice! Perhaps we can complete our journey without the loss of another life! I do implore you all, sirs! We can—”
“We eat the artists,” rumbled Tiny. “It was decided and there ain’t no point in going back on it. Besides, I’ve acquired a liking for the taste.” And he laughed.
Midge laughed too.
So did Flea.
Relish yawned.
“We rest here,” announced Steck Marynd, “for a time.”
Purse Snippet was crouched down at the murky pool, splashing her face. I squatted beside her. “Sweet nectar,” murmured I, reaching down.
“They’re tyrants one and all,” she said under her breath. “Even Steck Marynd, for all his airs.”
Cool water closed about my hand with a goddess touch. “Milady, it is the nature of such paragons of virtue, but can we truly claim to anything nobler? Human flesh has passed our lips, after all.”
She hissed in frustration. “Our reward for cowardly obedience!
“Just so.”
“Where will your tale lead us, poet?”
“The answer to that must, alas, wait.”
“You’re all the same.”
“Perhaps,” I ventured, “while we may taste the same, we are in taste anything but the same. So one hopes.”
“You jest even now, Avas Didion Flicker? Will we ever see your true self, I wonder?”
Cupping water, I took a sip. “We shall see, Milady.”
A woman I once knew possessed a Kanese Ratter, a hairy and puny lapdog with all sanity bred out of it, and hers was more crazed than most. Despite its proclivities, which included attacking in a frenzy overly loud children and stealing the toys and rattles of babies, the beast was entirely capable of standing on its hind legs for inordinate amounts of time, and its owner was most proud of this achievement. Training with tidbits and whatnot was clearly efficacious even when the subject at hand possessed a brain the size of betel nut.
I was witness to such proof again when, at a single jab of one finger from Tiny Chanter, Calap Roud sat straight, all blood rushing from his face. Sputtering, he said, “But Flicker’s volunteered—”
“Later for him. Tell us about the giant and the woman.”
“But—”
“Kill him?” Midge asked.
“Kill him?” Flea asked.
“Wait! The tale, yes, the tale. Now, when we last saw them, the Fenn warrior was seated before the chief and a scant meal was being shared out. Gestures are ever delicate among such tribes. Language speaks without a single word spoken. In this song of nuance, it was understood by all the Imass that a terrible fate had befallen the warrior, that grief gripped the Fenn’s broad, wounded shoulders. He bled within and without. His troubled eyes found no other in their weary wandering over the wealth of the chief, the furs and beaded hides, the shell-strung belts and steatite pipes, the circle masks with the skins of beastly faces stretched over them—the brold bear, the ay wolf,
the tusked seal. Of the meagre portions of rancid blubber, dried berries and steeped moss tea, he ate each morsel with solemn care and sipped the tea with tender pleasure, but all was tinged with something bitter, a flavour stained upon his tongue—one that haunted him.”
We were gathered, squatting or seated in the shade of the carriage and the stolid mules. The wellspring’s basin trickled as it slowly refilled with water. Flies danced on the mud our passages had left behind. Steck Marynd had dismantled his crossbow and was cleaning each part with an oiled cloth. Midge had produced a brace of fighting knives and was making use of a large boulder bearing the grooves of past sharpening, the whisk-whisk-whisk sound a grating undercurrent grisly in its portent. The host, Sardic Thew, had built a small fire on which to brew tea. Brash Phluster sat leaning against one gouged carriage wheel, examining his fingernails. Purse Snippet had walked behind the carriage to prepare her small pewter cup a few moments earlier, and now sat on my left, whilst to my right was Apto Canavalian, surreptitiously sipping from a small flask every now and then. Flea and Relish had begun dozing, and Mister Must sat upon the driver’s seat of the carriage, drawing upon his pipe. Arpo Relent and Tulgord Vise sat opposite each other, askance their mutually resentful glances. Thus, we were assembled to hear Calap’s tale.
“The maiden, kneeling to the Fenn’s right, could hear little more than the drum of her own heart. What flower this thing called love, to burst so sudden upon the colourless sward? Its seed is a ghost that even the wind carries unknowing. The blossom shouts to life, a blaze of impossible hue, and in its wild flush it summons the sun itself. So bright! So pure! She had never before known such sensations. They frightened her, stealing all control from her thoughts, from her very flesh. She felt swollen of spirit. She could feel the rough truth of his scarred arm against her own, though they did not touch. She felt herself swaying closer to him with every breath he drew into himself, only to sway back at his exhalation.
“In all things of self, she was still a child, and her soft cheeks glowed as if lit with the fire of the hearth, as if all coverings but the sky could not contain her heat. Softly, unnoticed by any, she panted, every breath shallow and making her feel half-drunk. Her eyes were black pools, the sweat swam upon her palms, and in the folds between her legs a coal fanned hot and eager.
“The flower is suffering’s gift, its only gift. Did her kin see it? Did its sweet scent fill the hut? Perhaps, but the winter’s cruel ways had stolen the warmth from their souls. They sat in misery, wilted with need, and as the Fenn ate all he was offered they saw the count of their days diminishing. Before their eyes, they witnessed his return to strength and hale vigour. When blood flows, the place it leaves becomes pale and weak, whilst the new home deepens rich with life. They could not shake the chill from their huddled forms, and outside the sun surrendered to the Blackhaired Witches of night, and the wind awoke with a howl than spun long and twisted into a moan. The hide walls rippled. Draughts stole inside and mocked the ashes that seek naught but contented sleep.”
Calap Roud licked his lips and reached for a gourd of water. He sipped with great care, making certain he did not disturb the settled silts, and then set the bowl back down.
The host poured tea into Snippet’s cup.
“When spake the Fenn, his voice was the bundle of furs, soft and thick, tightly bound and barely whispering of life. His words were Imass, proof of his worldly ways despite his evident youth— although, of course, with the Fenn age is always difficult to determine.
“ ‘I am the last of my people,’ said he. ‘Son of a great warrior cruelly betrayed, slain by those he thought his brothers. To such a crime, does the son not have but one answer? This, then, is my tale. The season was cursed. The horned beasts of the mountain passes were nowhere to be found. The Maned Sisters of the Iron Hair had taken them away—’ ”
“The who?” demanded Arpo Relent.
“Thus the Fenn named the mountains of their home, good Knight.”
“Why do people have to name everything?” Arpo demanded. “What’s wrong with ‘the mountains’? The river? The valley?”
“The Knight?” retorted Tiny Chanter. “Aye, why not just ‘the idiot’?”
“ ‘The brainless ox,’ ” suggested Midge.
“ ‘The Bung-Hole Licker,’ “suggested Flea.
The three men snickered.
“I never licked no—”
“Hood’s breath, Relent,” growled Tulgord Vise. “Details are abominations with you. Stopper your trap and let him get on with it. You, Calap. No game left in the mountains, right? Let’s get on with the tale. Betrayal. Vengeance, aye, that’s the making of a decent story.”
“‘My father,” said the Fenn, “was the Keeper of the Disc, the stone wheel upon which the tribe’s life was carved—its past, its present and its future. He was, therefore, a great and important man, the equivalent of chief among the Imass. He spoke with wisdom and truth. The Maned Sisters were angry with the Fenn, who had grown careless in their rituals of propitiation. A sacrifice was necessary, he explained. One life in exchange for the lives of all.
“ ‘The night’s gathering then chose their sacrifice. My father’s second son, my own brother, five years my younger. The Clan wept, as did my father, as did I. But the Wheel was certain in its telling. In our distress—’ and at that moment the Fenn warrior looked up and met the Imass Chief’s eyes—’in our distress, none took notice of my father’s brother, my own uncle, and the hard secret unveiled in his face.
“ ‘There is blood and there is love. There are women who find themselves alone, and then not alone, and there is shame held within even as the belly swells. Truth revealed can rain blood.
She held to herself the crime her husband’s brother had committed upon her. She held it for her love for he who was her husband.
“‘But now, on this night, she felt cut in two by a ragged knife. One of her sons would die, and in her husband’s eyes she saw tears from a love fatally wounded. Too late she cast her regard upon her beloved’s brother, and saw only the mask of his indifference.”
“Wait, I don’t understand—”
“Gods below!” burst out Tiny Chanter. “The uncle raped the mother, you fool, and the boy chosen was the beget of that!”
“The mother’s uncle raped the boy? But—”
“Kill him?” Midge asked.
“Go on, Calap,” Tiny commanded.
“‘In the deep of night, a knife was drawn. When a brother slays a brother, the gods are aghast. The Maned Sisters claw through their iron hair and the earth itself shakes and trembles. Wolves howl in shame for their bothers of the hunt. I awoke to hard slaughter. My mother, lest she speak. My father, too. And of my brother and uncle, why, both were gone from the camp.’“
“Vengeance!” bellowed Tiny Chanter. “No man needs a god when vengeance stands in its stead! He hunted them down didn’t he? Tell us!”
Calap nodded. “And so the Fenn told the tale of the hunt, how he climbed mountain passes and survived the whelp of winter, how he lost the trail again and again, and how he wept when he came upon the cairn bearing the frozen carcass of his brother, half-devoured by his uncle—who had bargained with the darkest spirits of the shadows, all to purchase his own life. Until at last, upon a broad glacier’s canted sweep, he crossed blades with his uncle, and of that battle even a thousand words would be too few. Beneath the cold sun, almost blinded by the snow and ice, they fought as only giants could fight. The spirits themselves warred, as shadows locked with honoured light, until even the Maned Sisters fell to their knees, beseeching an end.”
He paused again to sip water.
“And it was light that decided the battle—the sun’s flash on the son’s blade, direct into the eyes of the uncle. A deft twist, a slash, and upon the crushed and broken ice and snow a crimson stream now poured, sweet as the spring’s thaw.
“And so the son stood, the slayings avenged, but a bleakness was upon his soul. He was now alone in his famil
y. He was, he knew, also the murderer of kin. And that night, as he lay sleeping, huddled in a rock shelter, the Maned Sisters visited upon him a dream. He saw himself, thin, weak, walking into the camp of his tribe. The season had broken, the terrible cold was gone from the air, and yet he saw no smoke, and no fires. He saw no one and as he drew closer he came upon bones, picked clean by foxes and here and there split open by the jaws of rock leopards, wolves and bears. And in the hut of his father he found the Wheel, split down the centre, destroyed forever more, and in his dream he knew that, in the moment his sword took the soul of his uncle, the Wheel had been sundered. Too many crimes in a single pool of blood—a curse had befallen the tribe. They had starved, they had torn one another apart in their madness. The warrior awoke, knowing he was now alone, his home was no more, and that there was a stain upon his soul than not even the gods could wash clean.
“Down from the mountains he came, a vessel emptied of love. Thus he told his tale, and the Imass keened and rocked to share his grief. He would stay for a time, he said, but not overlong, knowing well the burden he presented. And that night—”
“That will do,” pronounced Tiny, grunting as he climbed to his feet. “Now we walk.”
“It’s Flicker’s turn now, isn’t it?” So demanded Brash Phluster.
“Not yet.”
“But soon?”
“Soon.” He paused and smiled. “Then we vote.”
Strips of charred meat were apportioned out, skins filled one last time, the mules and horses brought close to drink again, and then the trek resumed. Chewing with an array of curious and disparate expressions, we trudged along the worn trail.
What fate had befallen this region? Why, nothing but the usual vagary. Droughts settled like a plague upon lands. Crops withered and blew away, people and beasts either died or moved on. But the track where walked pilgrims asserted something more permanent, immortal even, for belief is the blood’s unbroken thread. Generation upon generation, twisted and knotted, stretched and shredded, will and desire set the cobble stones upon this harrowed road, and each is polished by sweat and suffering, hope and cherished dreams. Does enlightenment appear only upon the shadeless travail, on a frame of soured muscles and aching bones? Is blessing born solely from ordeal and deprivation?
Crack'd Pot Trail Page 9