Crack'd Pot Trail Page 8

  “Oh be quiet, will you?” said Tulgord Vise. “Plenty of light left this day, and we’ve plenty of cooked meat from yesterday. No, what we need is water. Sardic Thew, what chance the next spring is dry?”

  The host stroked his jaw. “We’ve no more than trickles for days now, in every watering hole. I admit I am worried mightily, good sir.”

  “Might have to bleed someone,” said Tiny, showing his tiny teeth again. “Who’s flush?”

  His brothers laughed.

  I spoke then. “Vows are as stone, each a menhir raised like a knuckled finger to the sky. The knights who hunted the Nehemoth were not alone in such cold chisel. Another traveled in the group, a strange and silent man who walked like a hunter in forestlands, yet in his face could be seen the ragged scrawl of a soldier’s cruel life, a past of friends dying in his arms, of the guilt of surviving, of teeth bared to fickle chance and a world stripped of all meaning. The gods are as nothing to a soldier, who in prayer only begs for life and righteous purpose, and both are selfish needs indeed. This is not reaching up to touch god. It is pulling the god down as if stealing a golden idol upon a mantelpiece. Begging voiced as a demand, a plea paid out as if owed, such are a soldier’s prayers.

  “Faith fell beneath his marching boots long ago. He knows the curse of reconciliation and knows too its falsity, the emptiness of the ritual. He has abandoned redemption and now lives to excoriate a stain from the world. That stain being the Nehemoth. In this, perhaps, he is the noblest of them all—”

  “Not true!” hissed Arpo Relent. “The Well Knight serves only the Good, the Wellness of the soul and the flesh that is its home! Not a single three-finned fish has ever passed these lips! Not a sip of wretched liquor, not a stream of noxious smoke. Vegetables are the gift of god—”

  “Didn’t stop you stuffing your maw last night though, did it?”

  Arpo glared at Tiny who grinned back. “Necessity—”

  “Of which the hunter and soldier understood all too well,” I resumed. “Necessity indeed. The vow stands tall upon the horizon, bold in bleak skies. Even the sun’s light cringes from that dark stone. Has rock earned worship? Does a man so lose himself as to kneel before insensate stone? Does one cherish home or the walls and ceiling so enclosing? To see that vow each day, each night, season upon season, year upon year, is it any wonder that it becomes unto itself a god before the supplicant’s eyes? In making vows we chisel the visage of a master and announce our abjection as its slave.

  “Yet, does not the soldier now standing unmoving behind his eyes not see and understand the dissembling demanded of him, the bending of reason, the burnishing into blindness the madness of absurd conviction? He does, and is mocked within himself, and the god of his vow is a closed fist inside iron scales and those iron scales mark the lie of his own hand, there upon the saddle horn.”

  At last, Steck Marynd did twist round in his saddle. “You presume at your peril, poet.”

  “As do we all,” I replied. “I tell but a tale here. The hunter’s face is not your face. The knights are not as travel here in our company. The carriage is nothing like the carriage in my tale. To noble Purse Snippet I paint a scene close enough to be familiar, indeed, comfortable, as much as such luxury can be achieved here on this fatal trail.”

  “Rubbish,” said Steck. “You steal from what you see and claim it invention.”

  “Indeed, by simple virtue of changing a name or two here and there, or perhaps it is enough to say that what I relate is not what you may see around you. Each listener crowds eager with an armful of details and shall fill in and buttress up as he or she sees fit.”

  Apto Canavalian was frowning, as Judges are in the habit of doing when they can’t really think of anything worth thinking. He then shook his head, casting off the momentary fug, and said, “I see no real value in changing a few names and then making everyone pretend it isn’t what it obviously is. How is this invention, or even creative? Where is the imagination?”

  “Buried six feet down, I should think,” said I, and smiled. “In some far off land in no way similar to any place you know, of course.”

  “Then why bother with the pathetic shell-game, now you’ve shown us where the nut hides?”

  “Did I really need to show you for you to know where it is?”

  “No, which makes it even more ridiculous.”

  “I most heartily agree, sir,” said I. “Now, if you will permit, may I continue?”

  Flitting eagerness in the Judge’s eyes, as if at last he understood. It warms the soul when this is witnessed, I do assure you.

  Before I could speak, however, Purse Snippet asked, “Poet, how fares their trek, these hunters and pilgrims of yours?”

  “Not well. In flesh and in spirit, they are all lost. The enemy has drawn close—closer than any among them is aware—”

  “What!” bellowed Tulgord Vise, wheeling his horse around and half-drawing his sword. “Do you glean too close to a secret here, Flicker? Dare not be coy with me. I kill coy people out of faint irritation, and you venture far beyond that! You sting like spider hairs in the eye! On your life, speak true!”

  “Not once have I strayed from what is true, sir. Now you show us your clutter of details and would build us something monstrous! Shall I weigh upon your effort? Terrible its flaws, sir, set no hope or belief upon such a rickety frame. This tale is thin and clear as a mountain rook. Sir, the blinding mud so stirred resides behind your eyes and nowhere else.”

  “You dare insult me?”

  “Not at all. But may I remind you, my life is in the palm of Lady Snippet, not in yours, sir. And I am telling her a tale, and for this breath at least she withholds her judgement on its merit. In the Lady’s name, may I continue?”

  “What’s all this?” Tiny demanded. “Flea?”

  Flea scowled.

  “Midge?”

  Midge scowled, too.

  The host waved his hands. “Whilst you slept—”

  “While we sleep everything stops!” Tiny roared, his face the hue of masticated roses. “No votes! No decisions! No nothing!”

  “Incorrect,” said Purse Snippet, and so flat and so certain her tone that the Chanters were struck dumb. “I am not chained to you,” she went on, her eyes knuckling hard as stone upon Tiny’s faltering visage. “And the blades with which you would seek to threaten me strike no fear in this breast. I have charged this poet to speak me a story, to continue what I so poorly began. If he fails in satisfying me, he dies. This is the pact and it does not concern you, nor anyone else here. Only myself and Avas Flicker.”

  “And how does he fair so far, Milady?” Apto asked.

  “Poorly,” she said, “but for the moment I shall abide.”

  The day was most desultory, in the manner of interminable treks the world over. Heat oppressed, the ground grew harder underfoot, stones sharp stabbed beneath soles already tender with threat. The ancient pilgrim track was rutted and dusty, repository of every discarded or surrendered aspiration and ambition. To journey is to purge, as all wise ancients know, and of purging the elderly know better than most.

  But what burdens could be so cast off our straining shoulders here on Cracked Pot Trail? Crushing and benumbing this weight, that our art should have purpose, but dare I hazard that those of you who are witness to this grim tale who are neither poet nor musician, not sculptor or painter, you cannot hope to imagine the sudden prickling sweat that bespeaks performance, no matter its shaping. Within the heated skull vicious thoughts ravage the softer allowances. What if my audience is composed of nothing but idiots? Raving lunatics! What if their tastes are so bad not even a starving vulture would pluck loose a single rolling eyeball? What if they hate me on sight? Look at all those faces! What do they see and what notions ply the unseen waters of their thoughts? Am I too fat, too thin, too nervous, too ugly to warrant all this attention? The composing of art is the most private of endeavours, but the performance paints the face in most dramatic hues. Does failure in one devour
the other? Do I even like any of these people? What do they want with me anyway? What if—what if I just ran away? No! They’d hate me even more than they do now! Dare I speak out? Ah, these are most unwelcome streams, swirling so dark and biting. Assume the best and let the worst arrive as revelation (and, perhaps, dismay). An artist truly contemptuous of his or her audience deserves nothing but contempt in return.

  But, the razor voice inside softly whispers, idiots abound.

  No matter. The rocky outcrops are patiently ticking, the blue sky egalitarian in its indifference, the sun unmindful of all who would challenge its stare. The story belongs to the selfsame world, implacable as stone, resistant to all pressures, be they breaths wind or rain’s piss. The mules plod befuddled by their own weight and clopping strain. The heads of the horses droop and nod, tails flicking to keep the flies alert. The plateau stretches on into grainy white haze.

  “I am not happy about this,” Tiny said in pique, his girthless eyes flitting. “Special rules and all that. Once special rules start, everything falls apart.”

  “Listen to the thug,” Arpo Relent said.

  “Midge?”

  Midge spat and said, “Tiny Chanter is head of the Chanters, and the Chanters rule Toll’s City of Stratem. We chased out the Crimson Guard to do it, too. Tiny’s a king, you fool.”

  “If he’s a king,” Arpo retorted, “what’s he doing here? Stratem? Never heard of Stratem. Crimson Guard? Who’re they?”

  Calap said, “Since when does a king wander around without bodyguards and servants and whatnot? It’s a little hard to believe, your claim.”

  “Flea?”

  Flea scratched in his beard and looked thoughtful. “Well, me and Midge and Relish, we’re the bodyguards, but we ain’t servants. King Tiny don’t need servants and such. He’s a sorceror, you see. And the best fighter in all Stratem.”

  “What kind of sorceror?” the host demanded.

  “Midge?”

  “He can raise the dead. That kind of sorceror.”

  At that the pace stumbled to a halt, and Steck Marynd reined in to slowly swing his horse round, the crossbow cradled in one arm. “Necromancer,” he said, baring his teeth and it was not a smile. “So what makes you any different from the Nehemoth? That is what I want to know.”

  Midge and Flea stepped out to the sides, hands settling on the grips of their weapons as Tulgord Vise drew his sister-blessed sword and Arpo Relent looked around confusedly. Tiny grinned. “The difference? Ain’t nobody hunting me, that’s the difference.”

  “The only one?” Steck asked in a dull tone.

  Was it alarm that flickered momentarily in Tiny’s eyes? Too difficult to know for certain. “Eager to die, are you, Marynd? I can kill you without raising a finger. Just a nod and your guts would be spilling all over your saddle horn.” He looked around, his grin stretching. “I’m the deadliest person here, best you all understand that.”

  “You’re bluffing,” said Tulgord. “Dare you challenge the Mortal Sword of the Sisters, oaf?”

  Tiny snorted. “As if the Sisters care a whit about the Nehemoth—a madman and a eunuch never destroyed the world or toppled a god. Them two are irritants and nothing more. If you truly was the Sisters’ Mortal Sword, they must be pretty annoyed by now. You running all over every damned continent and what for? An insult? That’s what it was, wasn’t it? They made a fool of you, and you’ll burn down half the world all because of wounded pride.”

  Tulgord Vise was a most frightening hue of scarlet wherever skin was visible. He stepped forward. “And you, Chanter?” he retorted amidst gnashing teeth. “Hunting down a pair of rivals? I agree with Steck, necromancers are an abomination, and you are necromancer. Therefore, you are—”

  “An abomination!” shrieked Arpo Relent, fumbling with his axe.

  “Midge, pick one.”

  “That girl there, the one with only one eyebrow.”

  Tiny nodded. He gestured slightly with his left hand.

  Sellup seemed to vomit something even as she pitched forward, limbs rattling on the sand before falling still. Face down on the ground, motionless in death, and all eyes upon her. Eyes that then widened.

  “Beru bless us!” moaned the host.

  Sellup moved, lifted to her hands and knees, her hair hanging down and clotted with—what was it, blood? She raised her head. Her visage was lifeless, the eyes dull with death, her mouth slack in the manner of the witless and fanatic fans of dubious sports. “Who killed me?” she asked in a grating voice, tongue protruding like a drowning slug. A strange groaning noise from her nose announced the escape of the last air to grace her lungs. “That wasn’t fair. There was no cause. Pampera, is my hair a mess? Look, it’s a mess. I’m a mess.” She climbed to her feet, her motions clumsy and loose. “Nifty? Beloved? Nifty? I was always for you, only you.”

  But when she turned to him he backed away in horror.

  “Not fair!” cried Sellup.

  “One less mouth to feed, though,” muttered Brash Phluster.

  “You killed one of my fans!” Nifty Gum said, eyes like two dustbird eggs boiling in a saucer.

  “It’s all right,” simped Oggle Gush, “you still have us, sweet-thumb!”

  “Tiny Chanter,” said Steck Marynd, “if I see so much as a finger twitch from you again you’re a dead man. We got us a problem here. Y’see, I get hired to kill necromancers—it’s the only reason I’m still hunting the Nehemoth, because I guarantee satisfaction, and in my business without my word meaning something I’m nothing.”

  Tiny grunted. “Anybody hired you to kill me?”

  “No, which is why you’re still alive. But, you see, over the years, I’ve acquired something of a dislike for necromancers. No, that’s too mild. I despise them. Loathe them, in fact.”

  “Too bad,” said Tiny. “You only got one quarrel and you won’t get a chance to re-load before one or more of us get to you. Want to die, Steck?”

  “I doubt it will be as uneven as you seem to think,” Steck Marynd replied. “Is that a fair thing to say, Mortal Sword?”

  “It is,” said Tulgord Vise in a growl.

  “And you, Well Knight?”

  Arpo finally had his axe ready. “Abomination!”

  “This is great!” said Brash Phluster in what he likely thought was a whisper.

  Tiny’s tiny eyes snapped to him. “For you artists, yes it’s perfect, isn’t it? It was your meddling that caused all this.” And with that he looked straight at me. “Devious tale—you’ll spin us all to death!”

  Innocent my regard. “Sire?”

  “I don’t know Flicker’s game and I don’t much care,” said Steck Marynd, his stony eyes still fixed upon Tiny Chanter. “You claim to be hunting the Nehemoth. Why?”

  “I don’t answer to you,” Tiny replied.

  “You killed one of my fans!”

  “I still love you, Nifty!” Arms opening, Sellup made pouting motions with her dry lips and advanced on her beloved.

  He howled and ran.

  Oggle shot Sellup a vicious glare. “See what you done!” she hissed, and then set off in pursuit of the Great Artist.

  Pampera posed for an instant, arching to gather and sweep back her hair, her breasts pushing like a pair of seals rising for air, and then with an oddly languorous lunge she flowed into a fluid sprint, buttocks bouncing most invitingly.

  “In the wayward seas

  My love rolls in heaving swells

  Can a man drown with a smile

  Plunging deep beneath the foam?”

  To my heartfelt quotation, Brash Phluster gusted a sigh and nodded. “Gormle Ess of Ivant, aye, he knew his art—”

  “Sandroc of Blight,” Calap Roud corrected. “Gormle Ess wrote the Adulterer’s Lament.” He tilted his head back and assumed the orator’s posture, hands out to the sides.

  “She was beauty beheld

  In shadows so sweet

  Where the fragrant blossoms

  Could kiss the tongue

&
nbsp; With honey dreams!

  She was desire adamant

  So soft to quiver under touch

  Leaning close in heat

  All this she was and more—

  Last night—oh the ale fumes

  Fail to abide the mole’s squint

  In dread morning light!”

  “Oh sorrow!” cried Sellup, clapping her hands and offering everyone a bright and ghastly smile.

  Arpo, staring up the trail, suddenly spoke. “Could be the coward’s running... from us.”

  “We got horses,” said Tulgord Vise. “They won’t get away.”

  “Even so, we should resume our journey” Arpo then jabbed a mailed finger at Tiny. “I will be watching you, sorceror.” Taking his horse’s reins, he set off.

  Tiny grinned at Steck Marynd. “The Well Knight has the memory of a twit-bird. Leave off, Marynd. When we finally corner the Nehemoth, you’ll want me at your side. In the mean-time—

  “In the meantime,” Steck jerked his head at Sellup, “no more of that.”

  “I was only making a point,” Tiny replied. “And I don’t expect to have to make it twice. Midge?”

  “Once will do.”

  “Flea?”

  “Once.”

  The march resumed, because time yields to no reins, nor its plodding course turned aside by wishes or will. The mules cloppled, the carriage clattered, the horses snorted, and we who would claim to exception and privilege among all the things of this world, we measured each and every step in bitter humiliation. Oh, we stood taller in our minds, as is reason’s hollow gift, but what do such conceits avail us in the end?

  Sixty paces ahead rose the tumulus announcing the wellspring, the heap of stones fluttering with bleached rags stuffed in cracks like banners of the crushed. But of Nifty Gum and his Entourage of Two there was no sign.

  Snarling under his breath,Tulgord Vise kicked his horse into a canter, riding for the spring. Dust swirled like a mummer’s cape in his wake. With a click of his tongue Steck Marynd rode out to one side and stood in his stirrups, scanning the horizons.

  Calap Roud and Brash Phluster drew close to me.