“But I won’t!”
“You shall. I am sure of it.”
Brash Phluster’s eyes darted. “But then ... that means ... Calap Roud? Nifty Gum?”
Solemn my nod.
“But that won’t be enough!”
“It shall suffice. We shall make good time today, better than our host adjudges.”
“Do you truly believe so?”
“I do, sir. Now, the others have begun and the carriage is moments from lurching forward. Unless you wish to breathe the dust of its passing, we had best be on, young poet.”
“What if Purse hates your story?”
I could but shrug.
Now, it falls upon artists of all ilk to defend the indefensible, and in so doing reveal the utterly defenseless nature of all positions of argument, both yours and mine. Just as every ear bent to this tale is dubious, so too the voice spinning its way down the track of time. Where hides the truth? Why, nowhere and everywhere, of course. Where slinks the purposeful lie? Why, ‘tis the lumps beneath truth’s charming coat. So, friends, assume the devious and you’ll not be wrong and almost half-right, as we shall see.
Not twenty paces along, Tiny Chanter pointed a simian forefinger at Calap Roud and said, “You, finish your story, and if it’s no good you’re dead.”
“Dead,” agreed Flea.
“Dead,” agreed Midge.
Calap gulped. “So soon?” he asked in a squeak. “Wait! I must compose myself! The Imass woman, dying in the cold, a spin backward in time to the moment when the Fenn warrior, sorely wounded, arrives, sled in tow. Yes, there I left it. There. So.” He rubbed at his face, worked his jaw as might a singer or pugilist (wherein for both beatings abound, ah, the fates we thrust upon ourselves!), and then cleared his throat.
“He stood silent before her,” Calap began, “and she made gesture of welcome. ‘Great Fenn,’ said she—”
“What’s her name?” Sellup asked.
“She has no name. She is Everywoman.”
“She’s not me,” Sellup retorted.
“Just so,” Calap replied, and then resumed. “ ‘Great Fenn’ said she, ‘you come to the camp of the Ifayle Imass, the clan of the White Ferret. We invite you to be our guest for the time of your stay, however long you wish it to be. You shall be our brother.’ She did not, as you may note, speak of the dire state of her kin. She voiced no excuse or said one word to diminish his expectation. Suffering must wait in the mist, and vanish with the sun’s light, and the sun’s light is found in every stranger’s eyes—”
“That was stupid,” said Oggle Gush, her opinion rewarded with a nod from Sellup. “If she’d said ‘we’re all starving,’ why, then he’d go away.”
“If that happened,” said Apto Canavalian, “there can be no story, can there?”
“Sure there can! Tell us what she’s wearing! I want to know every detail and how she braids her hair and the paints she uses on her face and nipples. And I want to hear how she’s in charge of everything and secretly smarter than everyone else, because that’s what heroes are, smarter than everyone else. They see clearest of all! They wear Truth and Honour—isn’t that what you always say, Nifty?”
The man coughed and looked uncomfortable. “Well, not precisely. That is, I mean—what I meant is, well, complicated. That’s what I meant. Now, let Calap continue, I pray you, darling.”
“What do they look like?” Apto asked Oggle.
“What does what look like?”
“Truth and Honour. Is Truth, oh, fur-trimmed? Line stitched?
Brocaded? And what about Honour? Do you wear Honour on your feet? Well tanned? Softened with worn teeth and the gums of old women?”
“You do maybe,” Oggle retorted, “wear them, I mean,” and then she rolled her eyes and said, “Idiot.”
Calap continued, “To her words the Fenn warrior did bow, and together they walked to the circle of round-tents, where the chill winds rushed through the furs of the stretched hides. Three hunters were present, two men and another woman, and they came out to greet the stranger. They knew he would have words to speak, and they knew, as well, that he would only speak them before the fire of the chief’s hut. In good times, the arrival of a stranger leads to delight and excitement, and all, be they children or elders, yearn to hear tales of doings beyond their selves, and such tales are of course the currency a stranger pays for the hospitality of the camp.”
“Just as a modern bard travels from place to place,” commented Apto. “Poets, each of you can lay claim to an ancient tradition—”
“And for reward you kill and eat us!” snapped Brash Phluster. “Those horses—”
“Will not be sacrificed,” uttered Tulgord Vise, in a low growl of lifted hackles. “That was settled and so it remains.”
Tiny Chanter laughed with a show of his tiny teeth and said to Tulgord, “When we done ate all the artists, peacock, it’s you or your horses. Take your pick.” His brothers laughed too and their laughs were the same as Tiny’s, and at this moment the knights exchanged glances and then both looked to Steck Marynd who rode a few paces ahead, but the forester’s back stayed hunched and if his hairs prickled on his neck he made no sign.
Tiny’s threat remained, hanging like a raped woman’s blouse that none would look at, though Brash seemed pleased by it, evidently not yet thinking through Tiny’s words.
“The Chief in the camp was past his hunting years, and wisdom made bleak his eyes, for when word came to him that a Fenn had made entrance, and that he brought with him a sled on which lay a body, the Chief feared the worse. There was scant food, and the only medicines the shoulder-women still possessed—after such trying months—were those that eased hunger pangs. Yet he made welcome his round floor and soon all those still able to walk had gathered to meet the Fenn and to hear his words.”
Clearing his throat, Calap resumed. “The woman who had first greeted him, fair as the spring earth, could not but feel responsible for his presence—though she was bound to honour and so had had no choice—and so she walked close by him and stood upon his left as they waited for the Chief’s invitation to sit. Soft the strange whisperings within her, however, and these drew her yet closer, as if his need was hers, as if his straits simply awaited the strength of her own shoulders. She could not explain such feeling, and knew then that the spirits of her people had gathered close to this moment, beneath grey and lifeless skies, and the strokes upon her heart belonged to them.
“It is fell and frightening when the spirits crowd the realm of mortals, for purposes remain ever hidden and all will is as walls of sand before the tide’s creep. So, fast beat her heart, quickening her breath, and when at last a child emerged from his grandfather’s hut and gestured, she reached out and took hold of the stranger’s hand—her own like a babe’s within it, and feeling too the hard calluses and seams of strength—and he in turn looked with hooded surprise down upon her, seeing for the very first time her youth, her wan beauty, and something like pain flinched in his heavy eyes—”
“Why?” Sellup asked. “What does he know?”
“Unwelcome your chorus,” muttered Apto Canavalian.
Calap rubbed his face, as if in sudden loss. Had he forgotten the next details? Did the Reaver now stand before him, Death at home in his camp?
“Before the fire ...” said I in soft murmur.
Starting, Calap nodded. “Before the fire, and with the sled left outside where the last of the dogs drew close to sniff and dip tails, the Fenn warrior made sit before the Chief. His weapons were left at the threshold, and in the heat he at last drew free of his wintry clothing, revealing a face in cast not much elder to the woman kneeling beside him. Blood and suffering are all-too-common masks among all people throughout every age. In dreams we see the hale and fortunate and imagine them some other place, yet one within reach, if only in aspiration. Closer to our lives, waking each day, we must face the scarred reality, and all too often we don our own matching masks, when bereft of privilege as most of us
are.” It seemed he faltered then, as if the substance of this last aside now struck him for the first time.
Statements find meaning only in the extremity of the witness, else all falls flat and devoid of emotion, and no amount of authorial exhortation can awaken sincerity among those crouchd in strongholds of insensitivity. No poorer luck seeking to stir dead soil to life, no seed will take, no flower will grow. True indeed the dead poet’s young vision of masks of suffering and blood, but true as well—as he might have seen in his last days and nights— a growing plethora of masks of the insensate, the dead-inside, the fallow of soul, who are forever beyond reach.
Calap cleared his throat yet again. “The Chief was silent and patient. Tales will wait. First, meagre staples are shared, for to eat in company is to acknowledge the kinship of need and, indeed, of pleasure no matter how modest.” And once more he hesitated, and we all walked silent and brittle of repose.
“Too grim,” announced Tiny. “Brash Phluster, weave us another song and be quick about it.”
Calap staggered and would have fallen if not for my arm.
Brash weaved as if punched and suddenly sickly his pallor. Drawing deep, ragged breaths, he looked round wildly, as if seeking succor, but no eyes but mine would meet his and as he fixed his terror upon me I inclined my head and gave him the strength of my assurance.
Gulping, he tried out his singing voice. “Va la gla blah! Mmmmmmm. Himmyhimmyhimmy!”
Behind us the harashal vulture answered in kind, giving proof to the sordid rumour of the bird’s talent at mimicry.
“Today,” Brash began in a reedy, quavering voice, “I shall sing my own reworking of an ancient poem, a chapter of the famous epic by Fisher kel Tath, Anomandaris.”
Apto choked on something and the host ably pounded upon his back until the spasm passed.
One of the mules managed a sharp bite of Flea’s left shoulder and he bellowed in pain, lumbering clear. The other mule laughed as mules were in the habit of doing. The Chanters as one wheeled to glare at Mister Ambertroshin, who shook his head and said, “Flea slowed his steps, he did. The beasts are hungry, aye?”
Tulgord Vise turned at that. “You, driver,” he barked, “from where do you hail?”
“Me, sir? Why, Theft that’d be. A long way away, aye, no argument there, and varied the tale t’bring me here. A wife, you see, and plenty of Oponn’s infernal pushings. Should we run outta tales, why, I could spin us a night or two.”
“Indeed,” the Mortal Sword replied dryly, one gauntleted hand settling on his sword’s shiny pommel, but this gesture was solitary as he once more faced forward in the saddle.
“For your life?” Arpo Relent asked, rather bitingly.
Mister Ambertroshin’s bushy brows lifted. “I’d sore your stomach something awful, good sir. Might well sicken and kill you at that. Besides, the Dantoc Calmpositis, being a powerful woman rumoured to be skilled in the sorcerous arts, why, she’d be most displeased at losing her servant, I dare say.”
The host gaped at that and then said, “Sorcerous? The Dantoc? I’d not heard—”
“Rumours only, I’m sure,” Mister Ambertroshin said, and he smiled round his pipe.
“What does ‘Dantoc’ mean?” Arpo demanded.
“No idea,” the driver replied.
“What?”
“It’s just a title, ain’t it? Some kind of title. I imagine.” He shrugged. “Sounds like one, t’me that is, but then, being a foreigner to it all, I can’t really say either way.”
A tad wildly, Arpo Relent looked round. “Anyone?” he demanded. “Anyone heard that title before? You, Apto, you’re from here, aren’t you? What’s a ‘Dantoc’?”
“Not sure,” the Judge admitted. “I don’t pay much attention to such things, I’m afraid. She’s well known enough in the city, to be sure, and indeed highly respected and possibly even feared. Her wealth has come from slave trading, I gather.”
“Anomandaris!” Brash shrieked, startling all three horses (but not the mules).
“Anomandaris!” cried the vulture, startling everyone else (but not the mules).
“Right,” said Tiny, “get on with it, Phluster.”
“I shall! Hark well and listen to hear my fair words! This song recounts the penultimate chapter of the Slaying of Draconus—”
“You mean ‘ultimate’ surely,” said Apto Canavalian.
“What?”
“Please, Brash, forgive my interruption. Do proceed.”
“The Slaying of Draconus, and so ... “
He cleared his throat, assumed that peculiar mask of performance that seemed to afflict most poets, and then fell into that stentorian cadence they presumably all learned from each other and from generations past. Of what stentorian cadence do I speak? Why, the one that seeks to import meaning and significance to every damned word, of course, even when no such resonance obtains. After all, is there really anything more irritating (and somnolent) than a poetry reading?
“Dark was the room
Deep was the gloom
That was Draconus’s tomb
Dank was the air
Daunting the bier
On which he laid eyes astare
The chains not yet broken
For he not yet woken
His vows not yet revoken
His sword still to awaken
In its scabbard black oaken
Cold hands soon to stroken”
“Gods below, Phluster!” snarled Calap Roud. “The original ain’t slave to rhymes, and those ones are awful! Just sing it as Fisher would and spare us all your version!”
“You’re just jealous! I’m making Fisher’s version accessible to everyone, even children! That’s the whole point!”
“It’s a tale of betrayal, incest and murder, what are on earth are you doing singing it to children?”
“It’s only the old who get shocked these days, old man!”
“And it’s no wonder, with idiots like you singing to innocent children!”
“Got to keep them interested, Calap, something you never did understand, even with a grown-up audience! Now, be quiet and keep your opinions to yourself, I got a song to sing!
“And his head flew into the air
On a fountain of gore and hair!
And—”
“Hold on, poet,” said Tiny, “I think you missed a verse there.”
“What? Oh, damn! Wait.”
“And it better start getting funny, too.”
“Funny? But it’s not a funny story!”
“I get his brain,” said Midge. “All that fat.”
“You get half,” said Flea.
“Wait! Here, here, wait—
“Envy and Spite were the daughters
To the Consort of Dark Fathers
She the left breast and her the right
Two tits named Envy and Spite!
And deadly their regarrrrd!
Cold the nipples’ rewarrrd!
And when Anomander rose tall
Between them so did they fall
Sliding down in smears of desire
Down the bold warrior’s gleaming spire!
And crowded the closet!
Sharp the cleaving hatchet!”
“Damn me, poet,” said Tulgord Vise, “the Tomb of Draconus has a closet?”
“They had to hide somewhere!”
“From what, a dead man?”
“He was only sleeping—”
“Who sleeps in a tomb? Was he ensorcelled? Cursed?”
“He ate a poisoned egg,” suggested Nifty Gum, “which was secreted into the clutch of eggs he was served for breakfast. There was a wicked witch who haunted the secret passages of the rabbit hole behind the carrot patch behind the castle—”
“I hate carrots,” said Flea.
Brash Phluster was tearing at his hair. “What castle? It was a tomb I tell you! Even Fisher agrees with me!”
“A carrot through the eye can kill as easily as a knife,” observed Mid
ge.
“I hate witches, too,” said Flea.
“I don’t recall any hatchet in Anomandaris,” said Apto Canavalian. “Rake had a sword—”
“And we been hearing all about it,” said Relish Chanter, and was too bold in her wink at me, but for my fortune none of her brothers were paying any attention to her.
“I don’t recall much sex either—and you’re singing your version to children, Brash? Gods, there must be limits.”
“On art? Never!” cried Brash Phluster.
“I want to hear about the poisoned egg and the witch,” said Sellup.
Nifty Gum smiled. “The witch had a terrible husband who spoke the language of the beasts and knew nothing of humankind, and in seeking to teach him the gifts of love the witch failed and was cast aside. Spiteful and bitter, she pronounced a vow to slay every man upon the world, at least, all those who were particularly hairy. Those she could not kill she would seduce only to shave clean their chest and so steal their power, which she stored in the well at the top of the hill. But her husband of old haunted her still, and at night she dreamed of warped mirrors bearing both her face and his and sometimes the two were one in the same.
“The city was named Tomb. This detail, by the way, is what confused legions of artists, including Fisher himself, who, dare I add, is not so nearly as tall as me. And Draconus was the city’s king, a proud and noble ruler. Indeed he had two daughters, born of no mother, but of his will and magic gifts. Shaped of clay and sharp stones, neither possessed a heart. Their names they took upon themselves the night they became women, when each saw her own soul’s truth and could not look away, could not lie or deceive even unto their own selves.”
Noting at last the host of blank expressions, he said, “The significance of this—”
“Is a form of torture I will not abide,” said Tiny Chanter.
“Carrot through the eye,” said Midge. “Anyone got a carrot?”
“Eye,” said Flea.
“Anomander kills Draconus and gets the sword!” shouted Brash Phluster. “You never let me get to the funny bits—you can’t vote, it’s not fair!”