Pilgrimage

by Kim Fielding

  “What’s your business here?” the guard with the thick mustache asked an older man. The older man had a dog, a medium-sized mutt with lopsided ears, and was using a rope as a leash.

  “I live here. You know that. You see me every day.”

  The audience inside the wall snickered, but the guard made his face go stern. “Then what were you doing in Dalibor?”

  “Visiting my daughter what lives there and helping keep an eye on her babies. You know that too.”

  “Do you have proof of what you say?”

  One of the onlookers shouted, “Yeah! We want proof!” and the others laughed.

  The old man scowled. “Tomorrow I’ll bring ya a dirty nappy or three. That’ll be your proof.”

  The crowd approved of this response—they clapped and hooted. The guard was less pleased, but he impatiently waved the man through. Next he questioned a middle-aged woman and her daughter, both of them carrying large baskets, and a beefy man who was missing one eye. The guards’ goal seemed to be embarrassing each person as much as possible without overstepping the bounds of their duties. Mike seriously considered slipping out of the crowd and going around the city instead, but by now it was fully dark. He wanted a meal, a bath, and a bed.

  “What’s your business here?” the mustached guard demanded of Mike.

  “I’m… just passing through. Planning to spend the night before I move on.”

  The guard looked him up and down very slowly. “Let me see your face,” he ordered.

  Mike wasn’t sure whether there was still danger of someone mistaking him for Lord Meliach, but he couldn’t think of a way to refuse. He pulled the scarf down to his neck and shifted his feet as everyone stared. He hated being the center of attention.

  But that wasn’t enough to satisfy the guard. To Mike’s consternation, the man placed a hand on his sword hilt. “Passing through why? Where are you going?”

  “I’m… I’m a pilgrim.” Absurdly, Mike pictured himself in a tall buckled hat.

  “Pilgrim, eh?” The guard smiled, which wasn’t especially comforting. He had terrible teeth. “Pilgrimage where? Gonna go ask Agata for a bigger cock?” The other guards, the bystanders inside, and even some of the people waiting to get into the city roared with laughter at this witticism.

  Mike felt his face grow warm. “No,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “It’s plenty big enough already.” That at least earned him a few muted chuckles.

  “Then which god are you honoring, stranger? Or were you lying about what you’re after?”

  “I’m going to Alina’s shrine.”

  The guard narrowed his eyes. “You honor the goddess of death?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess so. Don’t sound all that devoted to me. Does he, boys?” The guard looked over at his colleagues, who grinned and shook their heads. The crowd chimed in as well, hooting derisively. He took a couple steps closer, proving that his breath was as bad as Mike had feared. “I think you oughta show us how committed you are to your pilgrimage, boy.”

  “How?”

  “Pay.”

  Mike thought of the little bag of coins tucked in his pocket. “I have hardly any money. I… pilgrims are supposed to travel light, right?”

  “Well, then.” The guard’s smile grew. Flecks of food were caught in his mustache. “You’ll have to find some other way to pay. Whatta you think?” He looked first at his colleagues and then at the rabble inside. A few of them called out filthy suggestions that made Mike’s ears burn and his stomach clench. The guard seemed to consider his options before he finally nodded. “Sing.”

  “Wha-what?”

  “Let’s see if your voice is as pretty as your face, stranger. Sing us a song.”

  The onlookers cheered their approval.

  Mike’s heart was beating very quickly. He was glad he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, because otherwise he’d probably puke. He had a terrible voice—he couldn’t even stand to listen to himself sing in the shower or when he was alone in the car. No matter how drunk he became, he’d never let anyone talk him into karaoke. The only thing that terrified him more than public speaking was public singing. “I… I can’t,” he said hoarsely.

  All three guards pressed in close, each with a hand on his sword. Mike didn’t know whether they could kill him for refusing. He didn’t want to find out. “Sing,” said the guy who seemed to be in charge.

  Mike couldn’t even speak. A lump had grown in his throat, and it was amazing he was even breathing. Maybe he wasn’t breathing, actually—he felt light-headed, dizzy. He’d never fainted before. He wasn’t sure now was a good time to start.

  There was a bit of a commotion inside the gate, and the guards turned to look. A couple of big men were dragging a cart closer, accompanied by cheers from their pals. “Make ’im stand on here!” one of them shouted. “So’s we all can see him good.”

  Hands grabbed Mike’s arms and pulled him forward through the gate, then hoisted him onto the cart. Everybody stood back expectantly except the guards. They remained very close. The mustached one drew his sword. “Sing,” he repeated.

  For a long, horrible minute, Mike couldn’t think of a single song. Not one. And then… he thought of one. Even as he was opening his mouth he knew it was a terrible choice, possibly the worst choice, and he was going to blame every fucking baseball game he’d ever attended, but goddammit, it was the only song in his brain right then, and those swords looked awfully sharp.

  “O-oh say can you see,” he began. The guards removed their hands from their swords, but the crowd drew closer. There were more people now too, probably passersby trying to figure out what the hell was going on. “By the dawn’s early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming.” His voice cracked and warbled, hitting every note except the right ones. And he wasn’t even at the hard part yet. Maybe he should have let them kill him. But they hadn’t, and so he kept on singing. He had to fake it in a few parts where he wasn’t sure of the words, but that was hardly the worst offense he was paying to the national anthem. Everyone gaped at him the same way drivers gape at a particularly spectacular car wreck.

  By the time he hit the high notes—or, more accurately, failed to hit the high notes—his knees were shaking and his mind reeling with horror. He was sure his face had a redder glare than any rockets ever did. But he finished the damn song and then stood there on the cart, breathing hard, head hanging.

  After a brief and somewhat shocked pause, his audience erupted in catcalls, wolf whistles, and clapping. Someone shouted out for another verse. But Mike hopped down off the cart and looked at the guards. “That’s all,” he whispered. His throat was raw.

  The guy with the mustache looked at him thoughtfully. The guard must have decided he’d forced as much entertainment from Mike as he was going to get, because he gave an irritable shrug, stomped back to the gate, and began hassling a young couple.

  Mike tried to avoid the crowd’s attention as he slunk into the city.

  Chapter 4

  MIKE HAD never felt so lost. He didn’t even know the name of this city. The streets were dark and mazelike, they reeked of garbage and manure and sewage, and he had no clue where he was going. He could still hear the mangled “Star-Spangled Banner” echoing in his head.

  He finally stumbled into a small square where torches illuminated a number of rough tables and chairs. Men and women had gathered, eating, drinking, and talking. His stomach rumbled. He gathered his courage and approached a middle-aged couple who were laughing quietly over their goblets. “Excuse me,” Mike said.

  They looked up at him and the man frowned. “No beggars allowed here.”

  “Oh, I’m not. I’m traveling. I… I’ve never been here before. Could you recommend a place I can get something to eat? And a room. Cheap. Please?”

  Their expressions softened. “Try the Bearded Hare,” said the woman. “Not fancy but good enough, and they won’t cheat you.”

  �
�Perfect. Thank you. Um… how do I get there?”

  They gave him directions, which he followed carefully. He ended up only a few yards from the gate where he’d first entered the city. He was considerably relieved to see that the gate was bolted shut and there was no sign of the guards. The crowds were gone too, although a few people still wandered the streets. It was simple to find the Bearded Hare once he knew where to look. A fair amount of noise came from inside the two-story wooden structure, and above the door was a sign painted with the image of a goateed rabbit.

  After ducking slightly to enter, he found himself in a large smoky room that smelled of beer and grilled meat. An enormous fire roared in a hearth at one end, and fat candles sparked here and there on the walls. There were long wooden tables with benches, a pair of kegs on a shelf, and an open doorway leading to a kitchen. Maybe two dozen people were inside, mostly men but a few women. A man and woman in their fifties and a younger man who must have been their son were moving around the room, bringing food and drinks and clearing away dirty dishes.

  The woman walked up to him. “Help you?” she asked. She seemed neither hostile nor friendly, similar to a tired employee working the night shift at Denny’s.

  “I was hoping you had a room available for tonight.”

  She gave him a quick, shrewd look. “With dinner and breakfast?”

  “Yes. Yes, please. And a bath.” He added the last because he realized that indoor plumbing and an en suite bathroom were probably too much to hope for.

  And he was right. “No baths. Can get ya a washbasin and a rag. Eight coppers.”

  “Um, hang on.” He fished out the purse. As she watched carefully, he opened it and counted the coins. Twenty. Maybe he should save them for an emergency. But no—he was hungry and exhausted and he desperately needed to sleep away the memory of this day. He handed her eight coins.

  Without another word, she led him to the end of one of the tables, very close to the fire and with no one else sitting nearby. Within moments after he’d taken his seat, she plunked down his dinner in front of him: a tankard of ale and a terra-cotta plate piled with mystery meat and mushy vegetables. She gave him a hunk of bread and a spoon. “We’ll get your room ready when we’re finished with this lot,” she said, waving her hand to indicate the other customers.

  “Okay. Thanks.” He dug into his food. It wasn’t very good. Too much salt, not much else in the way of spices, and everything overcooked. The ale was warm and sour. But the serving sizes were generous, at least, and that was good enough. He was too tired to care about more than filling his belly, and he ate quickly. When he finished, his hostess and her family were still busy serving other customers. Mike decided he might as well take advantage of the downtime and pulled the guidebook from his pocket. As he looked it over more carefully, he realized it was truly difficult to read. The handwritten font was unfamiliar, and the spelling was inconsistent. A lot of the words were old-fashioned too. It reminded him of another high school reading assignment, The Canterbury Tales. His teacher had made the class read some of the fourteenth-century version before relenting and giving them a modernized one. That book had been about pilgrims too, he recalled, but he didn’t remember anything it said.

  He puzzled over the book until his eyes grew blurry. But all he got out of it was a list of specific places he was supposed to visit—minor shrines and holy spots, apparently—and a heap of unrelated stories and advice. The first shrine was located on a hillside near a village called Kutina. He was supposed to gather some flowers there.

  Yawning, he put the book away. He could read more once he got near Kutina, wherever the hell that was.

  “Your room is ready,” the woman said at last. A few customers lingered, but her husband and son seemed to have things under control. Mike followed her through a small door he hadn’t noticed before and up some rickety stairs. A short hall led to another door. “You’ll have it to yourself tonight. No other lodgers.”

  It hadn’t occurred to him that he might have roommates.

  She pulled the door open and waved him inside. It wasn’t exactly the Marriott. The ceiling was low and sloping; he’d have to stoop in a good part of the room. Six lumpy-looking mattresses took up most of the floor space. One of them had sheets, a patched brown blanket, and a pillow piled on top. A pair of tiny windows looked down on a courtyard containing an outhouse, a well, and a chicken coop. A single small table was jammed into one corner of the room, and a large bowl and towels waited for him on top. In another corner was an ugly ceramic vessel with a handle. Mike had the unhappy suspicion that it was a chamber pot.

  “Your coppers bought ya breakfast in the morning,” his hostess announced. “No noise tonight.”

  “I’m just going to sleep.”

  She nodded once and walked away. He heard her shoes clomping down the stairs.

  Mike shut the door. She’d left him a single candle in a holder on the table. By that feeble light he undressed completely and did his best to wash himself with the tepid water and a little chunk of soap. But then he had no choice but to put his dirty clothes back on. He promised himself that as soon as possible, he’d have a better wash in the river. His mouth tasted gross, his hair was a snarled mess, and he needed a shave. Maybe before he left town, he could find the local equivalent of Walgreens and pick up a toiletry or two.

  He blew out the candle and lay down. The mattress wasn’t much better than the floor of the barn, but he fell asleep immediately.

  A ROOSTER woke him up. No, several roosters, and they were having a contest to see who could be most obnoxious. Mike squinted at the window. The sky had just begun to brighten, but he could hear activity going on downstairs already. Somebody was drawing water from the well, and someone else was clanging pots in the kitchen.

  He was suddenly hit with a painfully intense craving for coffee. He liked his with a little sugar and a touch of cream. He could almost taste it, rich and bitter, sliding down his throat and waking up his body. He doubted he was going to find coffee at the Bearded Hare, but he climbed off the mattress anyway and readied himself for another day.

  He was still groggy when he ventured downstairs. Early as it was, several customers were already gathered in the main room and the owners were bustling about. Mike was cold and chose a seat near the fire again. The owners’ son thumped down a tankard of ale, which was kind of disgusting at this time of day, but Mike drank it anyway. He also received a full bowl of something lumpy and porridge-like, a rye roll, and a plate of half-burned sausages. Not knowing when he’d get his next meal, Mike polished off everything. There were no napkins, and he grimaced as he wiped his hands on his trousers.

  It was time to hit the road. He waited for the hostess or one of her family members to approach his table. Maybe they could tell him how far away Kutina was and how to get there. Instead, one of the other customers rose from his seat, strolled across the room, and collapsed onto the bench across from Mike.

  When Mike was in third grade, his mother had dragged him along to his sister’s gymnastic lessons. While Marie tumbled and bent and leapt, Mike was supposed to do his homework as his mother read. But as he sat next to her, he’d sneak glances at her book covers: hunky, bare-chested men with long hair flowing in the wind, usually clutching half-dressed women in their bulging arms. Mike had been too young at the time to understand why these covers fascinated him so deeply. In retrospect, Ethan Hawke had not been the first hint that he was gay.

  The man who now sat across from him looked exactly like a cover model from one of those books, assuming the cover model had been drinking heavily and hadn’t bathed in a while. This guy had thick dark hair, biceps and pecs that bunched under a too-tight tunic, and a lush patch of chest hair at the open neck of his garment. His eyes were green—and red, due to the drink—his nose was straight, his chin firm. When he smiled at Mike, he had dimples. Mike couldn’t help noticing that a scabbarded sword and a sheathed dagger were strapped around his hips.

  “Hello,” said t
he man.

  “Um, hi.”

  “I’m Goran. You?”

  “Mike.”

  Goran scratched his head. “Strange name.”

  “I guess. Look, nice to meet you, but I have to—” Mike stood and started to leave, but Goran grabbed his arm.

  “We should talk,” Goran said.

  Those were possibly the three most toxic words in the world—in any world. His father had said them when he’d called to tell Mike of his diagnosis. Benny had said them right before admitting he’d been fucking someone else for weeks and didn’t want to see Mike anymore. Agata had said them before dragging Mike into a crappy alternate dimension where he wouldn’t have any shoes. He didn’t want to hear whatever this Goran guy had to say.

  But Goran had a very strong grip, and although he was still smiling broadly, he looked resolved. Mike sat back down. “What?”

  Goran let go of Mike’s arm and waved at the landlady. “More ale!” he called.

  Mike didn’t want more ale. He wanted to leave the Bearded Hare. But he waited as the landlady refilled their tankards. She demanded something called a leeka in payment. To Mike’s surprise, Goran dug a coin out of his tunic and handed it to her. Then Goran took a very long swallow of his drink and belched loudly. “Gets the innards going, it does,” he said with a grin.

  “Look. I really have to hit the road, so if there’s something you want to say—”

  “Hire me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Another long swallow. “I said, hire me. You’re on your way to Alina’s shrine, yes?”

  How the hell did Goran know that? Mike nodded carefully.

  “So I can be your guide. I’ve been there before, lots of times. Know all the places where you’re supposed to stop along the way and even a few shortcuts.” Goran winked.

  “I don’t need a guide,” Mike said, although that wasn’t exactly true. He had no idea whether he’d find his own way with only the book and occasional help from locals.