Pilgrimage

by Kim Fielding

  “I wish I were a Connecticut Yankee,” Mike said on the third afternoon, shortly after they’d passed through a tiny hamlet even more miserable than the last. Goran was drunk, because although there was no inn, a haggard-looking woman had given them a jug full of liquor. It had belonged to her husband, who’d recently died. Quite possibly the liquor had killed him, Mike thought, because the stuff was vile. Goran drank it anyway. Mike had looked at the woman and her three small children, and he’d given her all but his last two coppers.

  “Wish you were what?” Goran asked. He was slurring his words a little.

  “I wish I could… help. Where I come from, we have machines, medicine. Irrigation. Some of those things would really improve lives around here. But I don’t know how to create them.”

  “Your country must be wonderful.”

  “In some ways, yeah. I suppose so.”

  “And you miss it.” Goran slung an arm around Mike’s shoulders and squeezed—not especially gently. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Goran didn’t remove his arm. It was heavy, and he smelled like sweat and dirt and alcohol. But Mike was pretty ripe himself, and he kind of liked walking like this. It had been ages since anyone had touched him more than briefly. He wrapped an arm around Goran’s waist and told himself it was only to keep his intoxicated companion upright and moving forward.

  It had been hours since they’d last passed any sign of human habitation, and Goran had long since sobered up. The road had been gradually rising for the past two days, and the setting sun illuminated an impressive-looking peak ahead of them. “We’ll climb that tomorrow,” said Goran. “Ugolin’s not far away on the other side.”

  “Okay.” Mike looked at the barren landscape around them. “I guess that means we’re sleeping here tonight.”

  Goran shrugged. “At least it’s warm. And dry. Have you ever spent days and days out in the rain and then tried to sleep with it still coming down on your head? No fun.”

  He was going to ask why Goran had done such a thing—why not find shelter somewhere and wait out the storm?—but Goran had wandered off the road and was looking for a reasonable place to bed down. He chose a spot that seemed pretty much identical to the other zillion square miles of nothing, and he sat down.

  Mike sat beside him. He had a little food left over from lunch: dry brown bread, a couple tiny hard apples, a lump of something alleging to be cheese. He silently split the meager morsels in half and gave Goran his share. They chewed and swallowed without complaint and washed it all down with a few gulps from a water skin Goran had acquired. When dusk fell, they lay on their backs and looked up at the sky.

  “That’s mine,” Goran said after a while, pointing off to the right a little.

  “Your what?”

  Goran turned his head to look at Mike. “My constellation. Goran the Hunter. Don’t you know the story?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “My parents used to tell it to me when I was very small. Tomismoran, the king of the gods, made humans one day when he was bored. But after a while he lost interest, and the people began to starve. But one of them—Goran—learned to hunt. He could take down game from so far away that anyone else would only see a speck on the horizon. He fed his people and showed them how to hunt too.”

  “A hero.”

  Goran’s teeth glittered in the starlight when he smiled. “Yes. But everyone kept telling him how wonderful he was, and I guess after a while, it went to his head. He claimed even the gods couldn’t hunt as well as him—not even Tomismoran.”

  Mike had been subjected to enough Greek and Roman mythology to know that was a bad idea. “What happened?”

  “Tomismoran struck him through the heart with an arrow. See it? Those stars over there.”

  Mike just saw random stars, but didn’t say so. “That’s harsh.”

  “Goran should have remembered his place. The gods set him in the sky as a reminder to all people that we are only human.”

  “So he was like one of those celebrities who starts believing all the stuff the fans say. Probably an easy trap to fall into. He was still a hero for saving everyone, wasn’t he?”

  Goran’s smile widened. “Yes.” And then he scanned the sky and asked, “Which stars are yours, Mike?”

  The stars were different here. Mike didn’t know much about the constellations even at home, but at least there he could pick out the two Dippers. Here there was only a chaos of tiny faraway lights. “I don’t have any.”

  Now Goran propped himself up on one elbow. “You don’t? Then who are you named after?”

  “Um, nobody. My parents just liked the name.” He didn’t mention his middle name, which he’d inherited from his father’s grandfather.

  “Hmm.” Goran collapsed onto his back again. “If there’s no story already about Mike, I think we should create one. Let’s see… Mike the Traveler. He charmed even goddesses with his pretty face—”

  “I am not pretty!”

  “Oh, I wasn’t talking about you. I meant him.” Goran pointed to the sky. “That Mike. He had a pretty face and he chatted with gods. And he traveled very far, but eventually he came home again with… with pockets full of gold and enough stories to fill a hundred books. He was very popular.”

  Mike snorted. “Well, definitely not me, then.”

  “Three dozen new suitors showed up at his door every single day, every one of them madly in love with the pretty, rich adventurer. One day Mike fell in love with one of them too, and they got married.”

  “And lived happily ever after?”

  “Yes. Because Mike the Traveler was much smarter than Goran the Hunter and knew not to anger any gods.”

  Shaking his head, Mike said, “If Mike’s so smart, he should know there’s no such thing as love and happily ever after.”

  There was a momentary pause. “You don’t believe in love?” Goran sounded unbelieving and a little sad.

  “It makes a good story.”

  Mike turned his back to Goran and closed his eyes. After a moment or two, he heard Goran shuffling around on the ground a bit, trying to make himself comfortable. Soft snores soon followed.

  But even though he was exhausted, Mike didn’t fall asleep. He kept thinking about the way he had felt with Goran’s arm around him and the sound of Goran’s soft chuckle in the darkness as he told his silly tale about Mike the Traveler. A tale he’d given a happier ending than Goran the Hunter had earned.

  Moving as slowly and quietly as possible, Mike rolled over to face Goran. Who, as it turned out, was facing him. But Goran’s eyes were closed, his mouth hanging slightly open. A few strands of hair had escaped the leather tie and lay across one cheek. One of his hands was curled softly near his face, and in the moonlight he looked much younger—a boy with several days’ growth of whiskers. He looked strangely vulnerable too, which was stupid because, as always, he wore his weapons and could no doubt handily slice and dice anything that threatened him.

  Mike had underestimated him at first. Goran might be uneducated, but he was a lot brighter than Mike had originally given him credit for. He liked his alcohol a bit too much, but he was kind. And although he grinned often and had an easy laugh, there were depths of sorrow to him. He claimed to have no family—although he’d admitted he’d once had parents who told him about his namesake—and he never mentioned friends.

  And he was beautiful. God, he was so beautiful.

  Mike didn’t realize he’d slipped his hand under his waistband until he felt his cock hardening beneath his palm. Flushing hotly, he rolled away from Goran. But he didn’t move his hand away. Instead, he began to stroke himself.

  He tried very hard not to remember what had happened last time he attempted to jerk off. He didn’t want any demanding gods showing up right now. Instead, he closed his eyes and bit his lower lip, and he thought about Goran. He felt a little guilty about it—beating off to fantasies of a man who lay right beside him—but although he tried to imagine past b
ed partners or porn stars or even a couple of his favorite actors, it was Goran who filled his mind.

  In surprisingly little time, Mike’s cock and hand were slick with precome and his balls were tingling. He wished he could have kicked off his filthy clothing. He wished he was on a soft mattress instead of the hard ground. Christ, he wished someone else’s hand was gripping him, twisting just so, moving just like that.

  Mike came with a muffled grunt.

  He had no way to clean his hand, his dick and belly, his clothes. So he fell asleep like that, dirty and empty.

  Chapter 7

  THE UPHILL climb was long and steep. Mike’s feet had become accustomed to the sandals by now, and his legs had stopped aching. His body had given up complaining about his stony beds. But his stomach still demanded food, and Goran’s water skin provided too little liquid for them both.

  “It’ll be better soon,” Goran said, making an obvious attempt to cheer him. “The rain falls on that side of the mountain, so the land is more fertile. There are more people too. We’ll pass through a real town.”

  “Good. Maybe someone will know what I’m supposed to do at the shrine in Ugolin.”

  “And we can find food and ale.”

  “Of course and ale.” Mike carefully didn’t look at Goran when he asked the next question. “Why do you drink so much?”

  Goran shrugged. “I’m thirsty.”

  “But you get drunk whenever you can.”

  “Whenever I can, as long as I can. When you pay me, I’ll have enough money to stay drunk for months.”

  They reached a spot where they had to clamber up rocks using their hands to keep from slipping backward in the scree. Mike carefully avoided looking to the left, where a sheer drop-off scared the crap out of him. He’d never been very fond of heights. “Why are you so interested in staying drunk?” he asked a little breathlessly.

  “What else is there?”

  “I don’t know. Work?”

  Goran snorted. “I work to have enough money for ale.”

  Fair enough. “What about family?”

  “I told you. I have no family.”

  “But you could. You could meet someone and—”

  “No.” Goran’s voice was hard, and although Mike couldn’t see his face—Goran was behind him—he could imagine it was set in anger. It occurred to Mike that his companion was potentially as dangerous as the mountain they now navigated.

  But then they reached a relatively level spot where the road widened enough for them to walk side by side for a short time. Goran gave Mike’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’m not like you, Mike. Soft. And I don’t mean that as an insult. I only mean—you see that bit of moss over there, under that rock? It’s soft to the touch and it’s growing, changing. If we came by here in a few weeks, it wouldn’t look the same. But me, I’m the rock. The only way it can change is if it’s broken.”

  Mike wasn’t sure he fully understood the analogy. And he wasn’t any closer to learning what had hardened Goran, stolen his family, driven him to drink. None of his business, Mike supposed. He’d hired the guy to guide him; that didn’t mean Mike got to psychoanalyze him. Hell, Mike had a couple of pretty big skeletons in his closet too. He sighed, and then was almost happy for the distraction of another dangerous stretch of pathway.

  GORAN WAS right—the other side of the mountain was better. Even though they were still high on the slope, plants grew lushly, and small animals scuttled through the brush. Goran threw a rock at a large rodent thing hard enough to kill it. Mike would have felt sorry for the beast, which resembled an oversized squirrel with a thin, striped tail. But he was hungry, and it took Goran mere minutes to skin and clean the animal, start a fire, and set it to cooking.

  “Keep it from burning,” Goran ordered.

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “To find water.”

  Mike took a seat on the springy ground near the fire. He watched the fat sizzle and pop in the flames and focused on the pleasure of a decent meal. He had to laugh at how drastically his definition of a decent meal had changed.

  He heard Goran return before he saw him, loudly singing a sprightly tune about maidens in spring. Mike twisted around as Goran appeared through some bushes. “Did you find water?”

  Goran grinned. “Yes! And even better than that.” He held up a red-stained hand. For a heart-stopping moment, Mike thought it was fresh blood. But then he saw that Goran was holding something small between his thumb and forefinger. A berry.

  After sitting heavily beside Mike, Goran dumped a handful of fruit onto the leaves in front of him. “I thought it might be too early in the season, but I found a few ripe ones. Go ahead and eat them. I’ve had my share.” He smiled again, revealing slightly reddened teeth.

  Mike didn’t recognize the berries. They were reminiscent of extra-large currants but were a deeper red, more like cranberries. There weren’t many of them, but they tasted delicious: sweet and a little tart. He gobbled them quickly.

  “They were my favorites when I was a boy,” Goran said. “The first treats of the spring. My mother would send me out to gather them, and then she’d pretend to be angry when I ate half of them before I even got home. She called me her little bundabeast because the bundabeasts like them so much.”

  He shook himself slightly and tossed the water skin to Mike. “Here. I think our meal’s nearly done.”

  THEY SLEPT on the mountain that night. The ground was soft with a thick layer of pine needles. Just as they were settling down, a doe and her fawn passed close by, making both men smile. “Agata is busy this time of year,” Goran said.

  “I guess so.”

  “Maybe that’s why she came to you now. Her powers are strongest in spring, and Alina’s at her weakest.”

  “That makes sense.” Mike rearranged his makeshift bed a little, then yawned. “I was born the first day of spring. March twenty-first.”

  “Spring begins the first day of Dvor for us. But either way, it’s a lucky day to be born.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “I don’t know. Sometime in the summer. My mother told me I was born on an unusually hot day.” Goran chuckled lightly. “I’m not sure she ever quite forgave me for that.”

  Minutes later, he was snoring. Mike didn’t jack off. The forest canopy blocked any glow from the night sky, so he couldn’t make out Goran’s face.

  The next morning, they were soon off the mountain, walking through gently rolling farmland. Mike could tell at once that the people here were more prosperous, although they still worked very hard. They seemed surprised to see Mike and Goran. Probably few travelers made their way over the mountain.

  They reached the town by noon. “Market day,” Goran observed as crowds of people swarmed around them, many heading to and from the center square, which reminded Mike of a modern county fair but with medieval trappings. People sold produce, meat, and live animals as well as fabric, tools, kitchen implements, and other items he couldn’t identify. There was cooked food too, and just like at the modern fair, a lot of it seemed to come on sticks. However, Mike had never attended a fair that served giant crickets, roasted and salted.

  “Bug kebab. Ugh.”

  Goran looked at him like he was nuts. Certainly the locals were enjoying the treat—the cricket stand had gathered an eager crowd. Still, Mike was relieved when Goran kept walking through the market, leading him down a series of progressively narrower streets. Goran stopped in front of an open doorway where a thin man in a stained apron was leaning, watching them. The sign above the door bore a crude painting of a goblet and something that looked like a lumpy turkey leg.

  “My master is a pilgrim,” Goran said to the man without preamble. “He’s journeyed very far already. Can you spare us food and ale?”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Going to Ugolin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell that old bitch Alina I’m not afraid of her.”

  Goran nodded slightly.

  They
didn’t enter the inn, but the man ducked inside. He returned shortly with clay tankards and plates heaped with food. There was a grain something like rice but nuttier and slivers of meat and vegetables. Goran demonstrated how to use a thin tortilla-like bread to scoop everything up and into the mouth. They squatted outside the inn while they ate. Mike had long since given up caring about hygiene.

  Mike drank only the single tankard of ale, which was plenty. But the innkeeper refilled Goran’s cup three times, never saying a word. It was a strange sort of generosity, thin-lipped and grim.

  “Thank you,” Goran said to the man when their meal was done.

  The innkeeper glared. “You make sure and tell her. Miho at the Spotted Horse isn’t afraid of her!”

  “We’ll tell her.”

  “She’s shown me her worst already, she has. Took my wife, all my children except the oldest, and he’s the laziest sod that ever set foot on this earth. She can’t hurt me.” He spat on the cobblestones and turned to reenter his inn.

  “Excuse me!” Mike called.

  Miho paused and swiveled his head. “Gave you enough already.”

  “It was very kind of you. I just had a question, actually. I’m not sure… what am I supposed to offer her at the Ugolin shrine?”

  The smile Miho gave him in return was the least cheery expression Mike had ever seen. “Gotta give the bitch blood,” Miho said. And then he went inside.

  UGOLIN TURNED out to be a village a couple hours’ walk from the city—sort of a suburb, Mike thought. It was a pretty little place whose well-kept wooden houses sprouted window boxes full of flowers. There weren’t many people around—Goran explained that those who weren’t out working the fields were likely at the market in town—but a few older folks stared at them from doorways. One whole section of the village consisted of workshops, all of them abandoned for the day. Metalsmiths, Goran said. The village was known for them.