Pilgrimage

by Kim Fielding

  Just past the village, a narrow pathway twisted through a flower-speckled meadow and skirted a small hillock before passing under an elaborate iron archway. Mike thought this was strange, because there was no wall or fence, just the arch. Once he was through the archway, he saw hundreds of small metal bowls with lids. They were laid out in careful rows, and the vegetation between each row had been flattened by trampling feet.

  “What is this place?” Mike asked, looking around in bewilderment.

  “Garden of the dead.” Goran’s mood was unusually somber despite the fact that he still swayed a bit from the ale.

  “Garden of— You mean it’s a cemetery?”

  “It’s where the ashes of the dead are kept.”

  Weird. Although once Mike thought it through, it wasn’t any weirder than preserving corpses, sticking them in expensive boxes, and burying them. “The shrine is here somewhere?”

  Goran wordlessly gestured at an extra-large bowl near one corner of the garden. It was big enough for Mike to sit in, if he wanted to, and it had no lid. When he drew closer, he saw that the insides of the bowl were badly stained. His stomach lurched. Blood. He startled when Goran set a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ll go get an animal. Shouldn’t take long.” He pointed at a small stand of trees near the garden. “I’ll find something there.”

  “An animal? To kill, you mean?”

  “You heard the innkeeper. You need a blood offering.”

  “But… I don’t want to kill something.”

  Goran shrugged. “I’ll kill it for you. You’ve seen already—I’m good at it. It’s what I was made for.” He sounded bitter. He turned to walk away, but Mike caught his arm.

  “Don’t,” Mike said. It didn’t seem right that some poor creature had to die. True, Mike was no vegetarian. He’d eaten meat twice already that day. But there was a difference between killing to survive and killing just to soothe some god’s hurt feelings. He didn’t think he could explain this to Goran, though, because he barely understood it himself. “Just give me your knife,” he said with a sigh.

  “You’ll offer your own blood?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I don’t plan to exsanguinate myself or anything. Just… I don’t know. A couple ounces or so. Do you think that’s enough?”

  “I don’t know.” Goran drew his knife from the sheath and handed it over. But while Mike was still trying to decide where to maim himself, Goran held up a hand. “Wait! Not yet.” He spun around and sprinted away.

  “Don’t kill anything!” Mike called after him. He felt stupid just standing there, so while he waited, he strolled around the garden, looking at the lidded bowls. Although all were about the same size and shape, each bowl was uniquely decorated with raised designs. Some of the designs were just abstract shapes and some were stylized leaves and flowers, but others looked like dogs or campfires or wheeled carts. Some showed faceless people sewing, tending to faceless babies, harvesting food. Quite a few were faceless men working at forges. And several of the bowls included couples—both het and gay—engaged in various sexual acts.

  Goran came running back into the garden with something clenched in his hands. “I’m ready now,” he said a little breathlessly.

  Together they walked to the shrine. Mike folded back his left sleeve, wincing at the grime seemingly embedded in his skin. He took the water skin from around Goran’s waist, wet his forearm, scrubbed a bit, and rinsed. And then he sliced himself crosswise.

  The blade was very keen. Goran had a sharpening stone that he used often, making sure his knife and sword were finely honed. He’d even lectured Mike about it, saying that sometimes the difference between life and death was the sharpness of a man’s blade. So now Mike barely felt the cut at all. Holding the knife handle in his right hand, he positioned his bleeding arm over the giant bowl. He and Goran both watched as the thick red liquid pattered against the metal with a distinct ping-ping.

  “That’s enough,” Goran said gently. He took Mike’s hand and turned his arm over as he pulled it away from the bowl. The bleeding had already begun to slow. But then Goran smushed his other hand over the cut, pressing hard with a bunch of sharp-smelling leaves.

  “Ow!” Mike protested, trying to pull away. “That really stings.”

  Goran hung on to him. “Stay still. It’s marrowweed. Helps with healing and stops infection.”

  Mike stopped struggling. “Oh.”

  “It’s not as good as dragontail, but it’s the wrong time of year for that. Marrowweed should do well enough. I’ve used it many times.”

  “Dragon tail? You have dragons?” Mike couldn’t stop a nervous glance upward, as if a fire-breathing serpent might be circling overhead.

  Goran laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous! There’s no such thing as dragons. The stems are thick and sort of scaly, so I suppose someone thought they looked like a dragon’s tail might. It’s an ugly plant, but the sap is very useful for wounds. But as I said, it’s too early in the season.”

  Mike nodded. He felt a little silly for asking about dragons. But really, were they any less likely than universe-hopping and gods who appeared in the flesh while you were in the middle of jerking off?

  After instructing Mike to hold the leaves in place, Goran tore a strip of cloth from the hem of Mike’s shirt. He tied the cloth firmly around Mike’s arm, keeping the marrowweed in place. “You should have some blackflower tea too. I’ll see if I can find some when we’re back on the road.”

  “Okay. You, um, seem to know a fair bit about healing.” Apparently literacy was rare around here, but perhaps these people had mandatory first-aid courses.

  “I’ve learned a few things,” said Goran. He didn’t look happy about it, which was strange. He took the dagger back, wiped it very carefully on some broad leaves, and slipped it back into the sheath.

  Mike improvised another quick prayer to Alina and then conveyed Miho’s message in somewhat less disrespectful terms. Together, he and Goran left the garden of death.

  Chapter 8

  THEY STOPPED for the night somewhat earlier than usual. That was partly because Mike’s arm was throbbing painfully, and Goran wanted to change the dressing and give him some tea. In addition, Mike wanted to read the next section of the book to see where they should go next. Besides, by early evening they’d entered a thick forest, and little of the remaining light filtered through the leaves.

  Goran fussed over Mike. He found him a comfortable spot to sit where the ground was soft from decomposing leaves and Mike could lean against the trunk of a huge tree. Then Goran lit a fire. He’d begged a tin pot and a clay mug from an old woman in the city of smiths. The pot had a broken handle, but he was able to prop it over the fire and fill it with water he’d collected from a small stream. He sprinkled some plants into the pot, and as he waited for the water to heat, he checked Mike’s arm.

  “It doesn’t look inflamed,” Goran said. “That’s good.”

  Mike smiled at him. “The marrowweed must have helped.”

  “You still need to drink the tea. And eat. I’ll catch us something.” He frowned sternly. “Don’t tell me not to. You need meat.”

  Deciding to ignore the double entendre, Mike said, “That’s fine. You go bash out the brains of some adorable furry thing, and I’ll scarf it down. I just didn’t want something to die so that I could make an offering.”

  Goran gave him an odd look before packing some fresh leaves onto the wound and retying the makeshift bandage. He must have judged the water sufficiently heated, because he poured it into the mug. “Drink this,” he ordered, handing it to Mike.

  The first sip burned his tongue and tasted like bong water. He made a face.

  “Drink it all,” Goran scolded. “If you end up with gangrene and I have to amputate your arm, that’s really going to slow down our journey.”

  “Gee. Thanks for the kind thoughts.”

  Goran grinned and ruffled Mike’s already tangled hair. “Back soon.” Then he disappeared into the trees.<
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  Mike pulled out his book and read by firelight as he choked down the entire mug of tea. Maybe it was only psychosomatic, but his arm felt better when he was done. He remembered the liquid antiseptic his mother used to pour on his childhood cuts and scrapes. He always complained, but she just applied more. “If it’s stinging, that means it’s working,” she’d say. He wondered whether his mother and Goran would get along. Mom would probably think Goran’s hair was too long—she was forever nagging Mike about haircuts when he was a kid—but she’d be impressed by his good looks and Eagle Scout-like skills. And she’d probably enjoy the way he sang all the time when he was happy. Mike had inherited his lack of musical ability from his father. Mom sang pretty well.

  Jesus. Mike’s mother was never going to meet Goran. She was literally worlds away. Mike would be very lucky if he ever saw her again himself.

  Goran returned before long. This time he carried something that looked like a cross between a pigeon and an alligator. “We’re supposed to eat that?” Mike asked.

  “You’ve never had marblebird? They’re ugly but tasty.” Goran sat a little way from the fire and began plucking the thing. “And they’re stupid. Really easy to kill. They’re one of the first things I hunted.” His big hands moved deftly, confidently.

  “I drank all the tea. Thank you.”

  “Good boy,” Goran said with a grin. “I’ll let you eat the liver.”

  “Ugh. And I’m not a boy.”

  For a while they were silent, Goran working and Mike watching him through the flickering flames. Insects chirped and trilled, an owl hooted, and a light breeze set the overhead leaves whispering. The air smelled really good, Mike noticed. Fresh, like young growing things. He was sleepy, but pleasantly so, not the end-of-the-day exhaustion he’d been experiencing lately. Maybe the tea had something to do with that, or maybe it was just watching a handsome man look at him and smile every few moments.

  “That was an interesting choice,” Goran said softly when he finished preparing the bird. He stood, moved closer to the fire, and propped the carcass over the flames.

  “What was?”

  “Offering your own blood. It was… kind of you.” His back was to Mike, so Mike couldn’t see his expression.

  “I don’t know. I guess it was kind of silly. I’m fainthearted.”

  Goran turned to look at him. “A fainthearted man doesn’t willingly slice into his own flesh. And it wasn’t silly.” He squinted thoughtfully. “You are a kind man, aren’t you?”

  Mike snorted. “Hardly. I’m a selfish sonofabitch.” It was true. He’d never gone out of his way to harm others, but he almost always put his own needs and desires above everyone else’s. He didn’t donate much to charity, and when he did, he always took the tax deduction. He didn’t volunteer his time anywhere. When he was near people who held cardboard signs begging for food or money or a job, he pretended he didn’t see them.

  In fact, he’d been called coldhearted. That was what Benny had called him the night he’d dumped Mike for the guy he’d been screwing on the side. “I can’t try with you anymore!” Benny had yelled. “You just won’t let me in, dammit. You won’t let anyone in. You keep yourself locked up like a fucking bank vault. I need more. Everyone needs more. You better learn to open up or you’re always gonna wake up alone.”

  “Are you all right, Mike? Is your arm hurting?”

  Mike blinked and again focused on Goran. “No, it’s fine. I was just woolgathering.”

  “Didn’t look like you were enjoying it much.” Goran sat next to him, almost close enough that they were touching, and leaned back against the tree to watch the marblebird cook. “Did you find out where we’re going next?”

  “Varesh?”

  “Really? You do realize that your book is leading us in a roundabout way, don’t you? We’ll have to backtrack south again almost to the border.”

  “Sorry. There’s no map or anything. The author did say something about labyrinths making for better penitents, but I didn’t really understand that part. He spouts off about all kinds of stuff, and most of it doesn’t seem to have much to do with being a pilgrim.”

  “It’s fine.” Goran seemed to consider for a few moments. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take us on a longer route to Varesh. It’ll add several days to the trip, but we’ll get to spend almost the whole time in the forest. Otherwise we’re going to have to climb Demon’s Tooth, and it’s nastier than the mountain we already crossed.”

  Demon’s Tooth? Not without proper hiking boots and a shopping trip at REI. “Forest it is.”

  “Good. It reminds me of ho—the place I lived when I was a child.”

  “There were a lot of woods where you grew up?” Mike asked cautiously. He didn’t want to scare Goran away from talking about his family again.

  But Goran nodded as he stared into the fire. “Yes. Most people there farmed, but not us. My father was the lord’s lead huntsman. He caught game for the lord’s household. Father taught me the bow and sling, but it was my mother who showed me how to use a sword. She was deadly with hers. I was nearly born with a weapon in my hands. I was hunting almost before I could walk.”

  “Now I understand why your parents named you Goran.”

  “It was more apt than they knew,” Goran said bleakly. He stood and disappeared quickly into the forest. He didn’t show up again until the bird was ready to eat.

  The marblebird was tasty. Mike admitted as much to Goran, who gave him a weak smile. But then Goran perked up a little when Mike obediently drank more of that vile tea. They made their quick bedtime preparations and slept within arm’s reach of each other, lit by the slight glow of the dying coals.

  MIKE DECIDED he liked the forest. There were no towns at all, which meant Goran had to hunt and gather everything they ate. But he was good at it, and they ate well. He even taught Mike how to search for some sweet purple berries and showed him how the young leaves of a certain tree were tasty, if slightly tough. You had to chew them thoroughly. There was no alcohol either, which was a good thing. More of Goran’s true self showed through when he wasn’t drunk—and Mike was learning how much he liked Goran’s true self.

  The road through the forest was soft and comfortable under Mike’s feet. The daytime temperatures were perfect, and although the nights were chilly, the travelers easily found wood for a fire. Interesting-looking plants grew among the trees, and birds and animals were everywhere once Mike learned how to look for them. He wasn’t as keen about the bugs, however; this world had voracious mosquitos and spiders as big as saucers.

  He liked the quiet. It was a different sort of quiet than he’d experienced before. Even when he was home alone, he usually had the TV on or music playing, or he’d watch videos online. And of course he couldn’t escape the sound of traffic, noisy neighbors, low-flying airplanes. He learned that he could walk beside Goran for hours with neither of them saying a word, and yet there was nothing awkward about it. Sometimes they exchanged smiles over nothing at all.

  But Mike discovered the best thing about the forest several days in, when the trees unexpectedly thinned and he and Goran found themselves beside a clear spring-fed pond. “Would you like to bathe?” asked Goran, who’d probably grown tired of hearing Mike whine about being filthy and stinky.

  “God, yes! And can we wash our clothes?”

  “If you like. We’ll have to camp here, though, unless you want to walk in wet clothing.”

  It was only about noon, but Mike nodded eagerly. He was ready to sacrifice a half day of travel if it meant being temporarily clean again.

  They ate first—some leftover game from breakfast, along with a handful of sweetish tubers Goran had collected and roasted the night before. Mike was so eager to get into the water that he gobbled quickly, making Goran laugh.

  But Goran ate fast too, so they finished about the same time. Goran stripped first, unbuckling his belt and setting it gently on a boulder near the water’s edge. It was one of the few times
Mike had seen him unarmed. Then Goran unlaced his boots and kicked them off. He didn’t wear socks. But when he pulled off his tunic, Mike almost forgot to breathe.

  He’d known Goran was magnificent—the tunic was tight enough to leave little to the imagination. But to actually see those bulging biceps, the powerful chest covered in dark hairs, the line of hair that trailed down Goran’s flat belly to the waistband of his trousers… trousers that he was now tugging past his muscular, hairy thighs and then completely off. His uncut cock was thick and soft, his balls heavy but not too pendulous, and the whole package nestled in a luxuriant bush of dark curls.

  Mike was unaware that he’d frozen in place and was staring until Goran gave him an angry glare, turned quickly—flashing a backside at least as spectacular as the front—and dove into the pond with a huge splash.

  It took much longer for Mike to undress. Not because his clothes were more numerous or more complicated, but because he was suddenly self-conscious. He’d been in relatively decent shape before this little adventure, and all the days of limited food and steady walking had worked off the couple of extra pounds he’d been carrying. But he was… lean. In a really good mood, he might claim lithe. And he was perfectly averagely endowed. But Goran was spectacular, like the statue of a Greek demigod brought to life. He was majestic and luscious and jaw-dropping and—

  “What’s that?”

  Mike glanced nervously down at himself. He’d taken off everything except his blue briefs, which after many days of constant use were now considerably worse for wear. “My underwear,” Mike answered.

  Goran stood hip-deep in the water, staring. “What? They’re… tiny trousers. And very tight.”

  “They’re underwear. In California we wear them under our clothes.” Well, most people did, anyway. He’d hooked up with more than one guy who went commando.