Crack'd Pot Trail Page 14

  “If I don’t like what I hear you’re a dead man.”

  “Yeah,” said Fl—oh, never mind.

  Studiously, I avoided Purse Snippet’s piercing regard, only to be speared by Relish’s. The maddening expectations of women!

  As if chilled, Apto Canavalian drew tighter his cloak. He rose to stand close to me. “Flicker, a word if you please.”

  “You need fear nothing from Brash Phluster, sir.” I raised my voice. “Is that not true, Brash?”

  The young poet’s face twisted. “I just want things to be fair, Flicker. Tell him that. Fair. I deserve that. We both do, you and me. Tell him that.”

  “Brash, he is standing right here.”

  “I’m not talking to him.”

  Apto was gesturing, clearly wanting the two of us to walk off a short distance. I glanced around. Mister Must had reappeared with his tea pot. Sardic Thew held out his cup with shaky hands, whilst Purse Snippet offered the old man a frail smile as he went to her first. Our host’s visage flashed dark for a moment. Relish was now braiding a whole string of nooses together, reminding me of the winter solstice ritual of an obscure Ehrlii tribe, something to do with hanging charms upon a tree in symbolic remembrance of when they used to hang bigger things from trees. Her brothers were throwing small rocks at Sellup’s head, laughing when one struck. The deathless fan, however, gave no indication of noticing, busy as she was eating Nifty’s heart out. Steck Marynd sat staring at the ashes of the campfire, and all the knuckle bones that glowed like infernal coals.

  Arpo Relent had worked his penis into exhaustion and was now slapping the limp tip back and forth with all the hopeless optimism of an unsated woman on a wedding night.

  “We have a few moments yet, it seems,” I conceded. “Lead on, sir.”

  “I never wanted to be a judge,” Apto said once we’d gone about twenty paces up the trail. “I shouldn’t be here at all. Do you have any idea how hard it is being a critic?”

  “Why, no. Is it?”

  The man shivered in the wretched heat, leading me to wonder if he was fevered. “It’s what eats at us all, you see.”

  “No, I am afraid I don’t.”

  His eyes flicked at mine. “If we could do what you do, don’t you think we would?”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s like the difference between a fumbling adolescent and a master lover. We’re brilliant in squirts, while you can enslave a woman across the span of an entire night. The truth is, we hate you. In the unlit crevices of our cracked soul, we seethe with resentment and envy—”

  “I would not see it that way, Apto. There are many kinds of talent. A sharp eye and a keen intellect, why, they are rare enough to value in themselves, and their regard set upon us is our reward.”

  “When you happen to like what we say.”

  “Indeed. Otherwise, why, you’re an idiot and it gives us no small amount of pleasure to say so. As far as relationships go,” I added, “there is little that is unique or even at all unusual here.”

  “All right, it’s like this, this here, this very conversation we’re having.”

  “I’m sorry? “

  “ ‘Entirely lacking profundity, touching on philosophical issues with the subtlety of a warhammer. Reiterations of the obvious’— see my brow lifting to show just how unimpressed I am? So, what do you think I’m really saying when I make such pronouncements?”

  “Well, I suppose you’re saying that in fact you are smarter than me—”

  “Sharper than your dull efforts to be sure. Wiser, cooler of regard, loftier, far too worldly to observe your clumsy maunderings with anything but amused condescension.”

  “Surely it is your right to think so.”

  “Don’t you feel a stab of hate, though?”

  “Ah, but the wise artist—and indeed, some of us are wise— possesses a most perfect riposte, one that pays no regard to whatever murky motives lie behind such attacks.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  “Well, before I answer let me assure you that this in no way refers to you, for whom I feel affection and growing respect. That said, why, we forge a likeness in our tale and then proceed to excoriate and torture the hapless arse-hole with unmitigated and relentless contempt.”

  “The ego’s defense—”

  “Perhaps, but I am content enough to call it spite.”

  And Apto, being a critic whom as I said I found both amiable and admirable (shock!), was grinning. “I look forward to the conclusion of your tales this day, Avas Didion Flicker, and you can be assured that I will consider them most carefully as I ponder the adjudication of the Century’s Greatest Artist.”

  “Ah, yes, rewards. Apto Canavalian, do you believe that art possesses relevance in the real world?”

  “Now, that is indeed a difficult question. After all, whose art?”

  To that I shrugged. “Pray, don’t ask me.”

  All chill had abandoned Apto upon our return to the others. Light his step and fair combed his hair. Brash Phluster bared his teeth upon seeing the transformation, and stewed to a boil of suspicion was his glare in my direction. Mister Must was already perched and waiting atop the carriage, small clouds of smoke rising from his pipe. Steck Marynd sat astride his horse, crossbow resting across one forearm. He wore his soldier’s mask once again, angled sharp with a strew of discipline and stern determination. Indeed, backlit by the morning sun, the exudation surrounding this grim figure was an aura of singular purpose, a penumbra ominous as a jilted woman’s upon the doorstep of a rival’s house.

  Tulgord Vise was in turn swinging himself onto his mount in a jangle of chain and deadly weapons. Stalwart in pose, vigorous in defense of propriety, the Mortal Sword of the Sisters cast grating eyes upon the much-reduced party, and allowed himself a satisfied nod.

  “Is this my horse?” Arpo Relent asked, glaring at the beast that still stood barebacked and hobbled.

  “Gods below,” growled Tulgord. “You, Flicker, saddle the thing, else we linger here all day. And you, Phluster, give us a song.”

  “Nobody has to die anymore!”

  “That’s what you think,” retorted Tiny Chanter. “The Reaver himself is your audience, poet, as it should be. A blade hovers over your head. A sneer announces your death sentence, a yawn spells your doom. A modest drift of attention from any one of us and your empty skull rolls and bounces on the road. Hah, this is how performance should be! Life in the balance!”

  “And if was you?” snarled Brash in sudden courage (or madness).

  “I wouldn’t waste my time in poetry, you fool. Words—why, anyone can put them together, in any order they please. It’s not like what you’re doing is hard, is it? The rest of us just don’t bother. We got better things to do with our time.”

  “I take it,” ventured Apto, “as a king you are not much of a patron to the arts.”

  “Midge?”

  “He arrested the lot,” said Midge.

  “Flea?”

  “And then boiled them alive, in a giant iron pot.”

  “The stink,” said Midge.

  “For days,” said Flea.

  “Days,” said Midge.

  “Now, poet. Sing!” And Tiny smiled.

  Brash whimpered, clawed at his greasy mane of hair. “Gotho’s Folly, the Lullaby Version, then.”

  “The what?”

  “I’m not talking to you! Now, here it is and no interruptions please.

  “Lie sweet in your cot, precious onnne

  The dead are risin from every graaave

  The dead are risin, I say, from every graaa-yev!

  Bright your little eyes, precious onnne

  Bright as beacons atop that barrowww

  “Stop your screamin, precious onnne

  The dead ain’t deaf they can hear you fine

  Oh the dead ain’t deaf I say, they hear you fiii-yen!

  Stop your climbin, precious onnne

  Sweet it’s gonna taste your oozin marrowww

  Oh we n
ever wanted you anywayyy—”

  “Enough!” roared Tulgord Vise, wheeling his horse round as he unsheathed his sword.

  Tiny giggled. “Here it comes!”

  “Be quiet you damned necromancer! You—”Tulgord pointed his sword at Brash, whose poor visage was pallid as, well, Sellup’s (above her mouth, that is). “You are sick—do you hear me? Sick!”

  “Artists don’t really view that as a flaw,” observed Apto Canavalian.

  The sword trembled. “No more,” rasped Tulgord. “No more, do you hear me?”

  Brash’s head was bobbing like a turd in a whirlpool.

  Done at last readying the horse I gave its dusty rump a pat and turned to Arpo Relent. “Your charger awaits you, sir.”

  “Excellent. Now what?”

  “Well, you mount up.”

  “Good. Let’s do that, then.”

  “Mounting up involves you walking over here, good knight.”

  “Right.”

  “Foot into the stirrup—no, the other—oh, never mind, that one will do. Now, grasp the back of the saddle, right, just so. And pull yourself up, swing that leg, yes, perfect, set your foot in the other—got it. Well done, sir.”

  “Where’s its head?”

  “Behind you. Guarding your back, sir, just the way you like it.”

  “I do, do I? Of course I do. Excellent.”

  “Now, we just tie these reins to this mule’s harness here—do you mind, Mister Must?”

  “Not in the least, Flicker.”

  “Good ... there! You’re set, sir.”

  “Most kind of you. Bless you, and take my blessing with solemn gratitude, mortal, it’s been a thousand years since my last one.”

  “Then I shall, sir.”

  “For that,” Tulgord said to me, “it’s all down to you for the rest of the day, Flicker.”

  “Oh Mortal Sword, it is that indeed.”

  I would at this moment assert, humbly, that I am not particularly evil. In fact, if I was as evil as you perhaps think, why, I would have killed the critic long ago. We must bow, in either case, to the events as they truly transpired, though it might well paint me in modestly unpleasant hues. But the artist’s eye must remain sharp and unforgiving, and every scene’s noted detail must purport a burden of significance (something the least capable of critics never quite get into their chamber-potted brains, ah, piss on them I say!). The timing of this notification is, of course, entirely random and no doubt bred and born of my inherent clumsiness.

  Leapt past that passage? Good for you. (And I do so look forward to your collected letters of erudition, posteritally)

  “Just like the dog, tally ho!” shouted Arpo Relent as the journey resumed, and then arose a milked joccling sound followed by an audible shudder and visible moan from the Very Well Knight.

  We set out, in the scuff of worn boots, the clop of hoofs and the rackle of carriage wheels, leaving in our wake Nifty Gums corpse and Sellup who was now gnawing beneath the dead man’s chin, in the works a love-bite of appalling proportions.

  Shall I list we who remained? Why not. In the lead Steck Marynd, behind him Tulgord Vise and then the Chanters, followed by the host and Purse Snippet, then myself flanked by Apto upon my right and Brash upon my left, and behind us of course Mister Must and the carriage of the Dantoc Calmpositis, with Arpo Relent riding his mount off to one side at the trail’s very edge.

  Pilgrims one and all, and the day was bright, the vultures cooing and the bees writhing in the dust as the sun lit the landscape on fire and sweat ran in dirty streams to sting eyes and consciences both. Brash was gibbering under his breath, his gaze focused ten thousand paces ahead. Apto’s mouth was also moving, perhaps taking mental notes or setting Brash’s latest song to memory. Relish punched one of her brothers every now and then, with no obvious cause. Usually in the side of the head. Which the brothers endured with impressive indulgence, she being their little sister. Purse walked in a drugged daze which would not ebb until mid-morning, and bearing this in mind I pondered which of two tales would prove most timely at the moment, and, a decision having been reached with modest effort, I began to speak.

  “The Imass woman, maiden no longer, awoke in the depths of night, in the time of the watch, which stretches cold and forlorn before the first touch of false dawn mocks the eastern sky. Shivering, she saw that her furs had been pulled aside, and of her lover no sign remained. Drawing the skins close, she drank the bitter air and with each deep breath her sleepiness grew more distant, and around her the hut breathed in its own dark pace, sighing its soot to settle upon her open eyes.

  “She felt filled up, her skin tight as if someone had stuffed her as one would a carcass, to better stretch the curing hide. Her body was not quite entirely her own. She could feel the truth of this. Its privacy now a temporary condition, quick to surrender to his next touch. She was content with that, as only a young woman can be, for they are at their most generous at tender age, and it is only in the later years that the expanse contracts and borders are jealously guarded—trails carelessly trampled are by this time thoroughly mapped in her memory, after all.

  “But now, this night, she is young still, and all of the world beyond this silent and unlit hut is blanketed in untouched snow, plush as a brold’s virgin fur. The time of night known as the watch is a sacred time for many, and one of great and solemn responsibility. Malign spirits are known to stir in the breaths of the sleeping, seeking a way in, and so one of the tribe must be awake in vigil, whispering wards against the swollen darkness and its many-eyed hungers.

  “She could hear nothing past her steady breathing, except perhaps something in the distance, out across the bold sweep of snow and frozen ground—the soft crackle from among trees, as frost tinkled down beneath black branches. There was no wind, and somehow she could feel the pressure of the stars, as if their glittering spears could reach through the layered hides of the hut’s banked roof. And she told herself that the ancestors were protecting her with their unwavering regard, and with this thought she closed her eyes once more—”

  I paused a moment, and then continued. “But then she heard a sound. A faint scrape, the patter of droplets. She gasped. ‘Beloved?’ she whispered and spirits fled in the gloom. The hut’s flap was drawn to one side, and the Fenn, crouched low to clear the doorway, edged inside. His eyes glistened as he paused.

  ‘“Yes,’ said he, ‘“It is I,” and then he made a soft sound, something like a laugh, she thought, though she could not be certain for it left a bitter trail. ‘I have brought meat.’ And at that she sat up. ‘You hunted for us?’ And in answer he drew closer and now she could smell charred flesh and she saw the thick strip bridging his hands. ‘A gift,’ he said, ‘for the warmth you gave me, when I needed it most. I shall not forget you, not ever.’ He presented her with the slab and she gasped again when it settled into her hands, for it was still hot, edges crisped by fire, and the fat streamed down between her fingers. Even so, something in what he had said troubled her and she felt a tightness in her throat as she said, ‘Why would you forget me, beloved? I am here and so are you, and with this food we shall all bless you and beg that you remain with us, and then we—’

  “ ‘Hush,’ said he. ‘It cannot be. I must leave with the dawn. I must hold to the belief that among the tribes of the Fenn, those beyond the passes, I will find for myself a new home.’

  “And now there were tears in her eyes and this he must have seen for he then said, ‘Please, eat, gain strength. I beg you.’ And she found the strength to ask, ‘Will you sit with me when I eat? For this long at least? Will you—’“

  “That’s it?” demanded Relish. “She gave up that easily? I don’t believe it.”

  “Her words were brave,” I replied, “even as anguish tore at her heart.”

  “Well, how was I to know that?”

  “By crawling into her skin, Relish,” I said most gently. “Such is the secret covenant of all stories, and songs and poems too, for that matter. With o
ur words we wear ten thousand skins, and with our words we invite you to do the same. We do not ask for your calculation, nor your cynicism. We do not ask you how well we are doing. You either choose to be with us, word by word, in and out of each and every scene, to breathe as we breathe, to walk as we walk, but above all, Relish, we invite that you feel as we feel.”

  “Unless you secretly feel nothing,” Purse Snippet said, glancing back at me and I saw dreadful accusation in her eyes—her numbness had been burnt away, making my time short indeed.

  “Is this what you fear? That my invitation is a deceit? The suspicion alone belongs to a cynic, to be sure—”

  “Belongs to the wounded and the scarred, I should think,” said Apto Canavalian. “Or the one whose own faith is dead.”

  “In such,” said I, “no covenant is possible. Perhaps some artists do not feel what they ask others to feel, sir, but I do not count myself among those shameful and shameless wretches.”

  “I see that well enough,” Apto said, nodding.

  “Get back to the tale,” demanded Tiny Chanter. “She asks him to stay while she eats. Does he?”

  “He does,” I replied, my eyes on Lady Snippet’s back as she strode ahead of me. “The darkness of the hut was such that she could see little more than the glint of his eyes as he watched her, and in those twin flickers she imagined all manner of things. His love for her. His grief for all that he had lost. His pride in the food he had provided, his pleasure in her own as she bit into and savored the delicious meat. She believed she saw amusement as well, and she smiled in return, but slowly her smile faded, for the glitter now seemed too cold for humour, or perhaps it was something she was not meant to see.

  “When she had at last finished and was licking the grease from her fingers, he reached out and settled a hand upon her belly. ‘Two gifts,’ murmured he, ‘as you shall discover. Two.’ “

  “How did he know?” demanded Relish.

  “Know what?” asked Brash Phluster.

  “That she was pregnant, Relish? He knew and so too did she, for there was a new voice inside her, deep and soft, the tinkle of frost in a windless night.”