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DargonZine Volume 15 Issue 03
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DargonZine Distributed: 5/13/2002
Volume 15, Number 3 Circulation: 701
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
A Matter of Faith 1 Nicholas Wansbutter Mertz, 1009
William Zeneca's Bad Day Dan Toler Melrin, 1017
Spirit of a Woman 1 Rena Deutsch Mertz 994
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 15-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright May, 2002 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@rcn.com>
What would you do if I asked you to allow a complete stranger to
control your thoughts, senses, and emotions? Just for a little while, of
course. Would that be okay? I hope so...
Because that's exactly what you're doing every time you open a
book. Fiction is, at heart, just such a subversive little beast.
Most fantasy and science fiction readers will immediately recognize
Samuel Taylor Coleridge's catchphrase "the willing suspension of
disbelief", which describes the recipient's intentional receptiveness to
storytelling of any sort, be it written (novel, short story, poetry) or
performed (theater, movie, music, television program). In all these
cases, the recipient seeks out these experiences for the pleasure of
leaving their own lives and being immersed in someone else's dream,
created for their pleasure.
Therefore one of a writer's primary goals is to create something
that readers find pleasurable. Of course, if fiction were all
friendliness and goodness, people would soon find it tedious. Like yin
and yang, goodness only exists in the presence of evil, and triumph can
only occur where there is a real likelihood of loss. That's why authors
must concern themselves so much with negative things like the various
types of conflict, foreshadowing, plot complications, and dramatic
tension. In order to make you feel good, a good writer must first make
you feel bad. But both of these depend on one thing: that you give the
author the power to make you feel what he or she wants you to feel.
This conspiracy between reader and writer seems, on the surface,
very one-sided. You give the author the freedom to control what you see
in your mind's eye, so that you can vicariously experience the sights,
sounds, smells, and other sensory images that he or she creates.
Furthermore, you allow the author some ability to manipulate your
emotions when you become engaged with a work of fiction. The author's
first concern is to get you to care about the characters in his or her
work, and then use that leverage to take you on an emotional ride
through the events of the story. The writer can also expose you to new
ideas or ways of thinking that you might otherwise avoid or not
consider.
Yes, as a reader, you let the author get away with a lot, expecting
only that the writer entertain or amuse you in return. But what happens
when the reader's pleasure isn't the author's only (or even primary)
motive? What if the author wants to make you consider a new idea or
convert you to their way of thinking on some controversial topic of the
day? One doesn't have to look very far to see this in action; the
world's greatest literature is filled with examples of stories that were
specifically written in order to manipulate the readers' opinions --
some subtly, some less so. Any story with a clear theme, rather than one
written simply to entertain, has some element of this.
Of course, no writer can force you to see or think or feel
something you don't want to; you can always put a book down if you don't
like it. But if you are indeed willing to suspend your disbelief, that's
our opportunity to connect with you. While it'd be unfair to say that
all writers want to manipulate the hearts and minds of their readers,
it's true that every story requires you to be open to the images and
concepts that the author chooses to depict.
One of the biggest challenges for DargonZine's writers is to learn
how to show you what we want you to see, tell you what we want you to
think, and compel you to feel how we want you to feel, in a package
that's delightfully pleasing and enjoyable to read. As our contributors
develop into really good writers, we hope that we can exercise that
control proficiently and with subtlety, while providing you with
entertainment that is second to none.
In this issue we begin two new series and introduce you to our
newest writer.
Nicholas Wansbutter returns to DargonZine with the first half of "A
Matter of Faith", which follows one of the two protagonists he
introduced in his first story, "A Matter of Honour".
It's always a particular pleasure to print the first story from a
new writer, and our second debut of the year is New Jersey resident Dan
Toler with "William Zeneca's Bad Day".
Finally, after a year's hiatus, Rena Deutsch returns to the pages
of DargonZine to begin a new series entitled "Spirit of a Woman" which I
hope you'll enjoy.
Our next issue will be a little delayed by this year's Dargon
Writers' Summit, but we'll get it to you as quickly as possible, along
with Summit photos and a debrief.
========================================================================
A Matter of Faith
Part 1
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<ice_czar@hotmail.com>
Mertz, 1009
Lev had smelled the sea all morning, leading up to when the group
of Cyruzhian monks he travelled with reached Dargon. It was nearing
mid-afternoon and pouring rain when the brothers came within sight of
the ducal seat. Water smote Lev on the head like pebbles dropped from a
tree and dripped down his hood in front of his face. Despite the
thickness of the black cloak he wore, he was soaked to his very bones;
such was the intensity of the downpour. He shivered. His feet, covered
almost completely in thick mud, felt like two blocks of solid ice. Ever
since he had received a blow on the head some years ago trying to rescue
Zhilinda Fennell from her kidnappers, his left side had never worked
well. Now it was all he could do to keep up with his fellow Cyruzhians.
As the group crested the last hill that would put them within
eyeshot of the city, Lev could hear a loud rumbling like thunder. He
guessed that was from the water crashing against the shoreline. He
peered through the rain, trying to get a good look at the city.
Obscured by mist, Dargon Keep was a darker shadow on a dim
background, perched like a magnificent bird on a rocky outcropping. Lev
could only imagine what it looked like in sunlight, without sheets of a
pelting deluge to obscure the view.
Lev could make out detail on only the closest buildings, but even
so, he could see the roofs of more houses than he could begin to count,
intermixed with soaring church spires -- the smallest of which would
rival the bell tower at Heart's Hope Monastery in Fennell. He felt sure
that the city could very well have gone on forever, except that the deep
rumble of the sea could be heard to the northwest despite the din caused
by the pounding rain.
Lev slowed to a stop when he noticed that his brothers were some
distance behind him. What were they waiting for? Lev wanted to get to
the city as soon as possible, if for no other reason than to get out of
the rain. He hobbled back to the group.
"In this light we can see Dargon for what it really is, if what I
have heard of it is true," one of the brothers said. "A dark pit of evil
and faithlessness."
"What are you talking about?" Lev could hardly believe his ears.
"I've never seen something so grand in my life!"
"What do you know, novice?" the other monk scowled. "You're just a
dumb farm boy, easily mystified by --"
Lev felt his face heat and his muscles tremble with tension. "And I
suppose you know everything there is to know about the world because
you've been all the way to the outer cloister, brother!" Lev filled the
last word with scorn, spitting it like it was a swearword.
"Brothers!" Prior Yaroslav stepped in between Lev and the other
monk. "Hold your tongues! You should be ashamed of yourselves! If you
cannot keep a civil tongue with one another, how are you supposed teach
the Stevene's Light to strangers?"
Lev swallowed, and backed away from the prior. His body felt
suddenly weak. He stared at the ground and shuffled his feet as Yaroslav
reprimanded him. He felt foolish for his hasty words. He had never had a
bad temper, but just a few moments ago he had felt enough anger to do
violence.
"We are not here to condemn," Yaroslav continued. "We are here to
give Stevene's Light and what help we may to all in need -- no matter
who that may be. Know that the healthy person does not need a physician,
but the sick person does. Even at that, Dargon is certainly not the
rats' nest you would have us believe it is, brother."
"Yes, reverend sir," the brother who had spoken murmured, his eyes
downcast.
There was silence for the next few menes. Lev could feel the
tension in the air and his chest tightened. Desperately, he sought for
something to say that would break the mood. "I don't know about you,
brothers, but I think the sooner we are indoors, the better."
The monks mumbled approval, and the group began to trudge down the
hill towards Dargon. It took the better part of the afternoon to
navigate the muddy highway that was nearly a creek, with runoff from
higher ground sweeping over their feet. By the time they reached the
outskirts of the city, the relentless deluge had slowed to a steady
shower, and a mist had rolled in from the sea. Though clouds had covered
the sun all day, it was apparent that it was setting, as darkness
descended even more oppressively over the city. Lev could see only a few
cubits in front of him, making all but the closest buildings invisible.
They took to the Street of Travellers, having approached Dargon
from the southwest, and moved east along the road. Lev noticed that the
buildings were much taller than those in Fennell Keep. The group did not
encounter any of the people of Dargon, as they were presumably all
huddled inside away from the cold and wet. The rain had put out most of
the streetlamps, so the streets were very dark. Here the buildings
muffled the sound of the sea, so that it was almost totally quiet, save
for the gentle patter of the rain.
As the monks approached the western end of town nearer the ocean,
more life began to show itself in the unlit streets. A hand grabbed at
Lev as he walked past a darkened alleyway.
"Please, good sir," a voice croaked. "Have you any alms to spare?"
Lev jumped at the touch. His cloak fell out of the man's grasp, and
Lev steadied himself. He looked at the shape huddled in between two
houses: it was a man who wore only rags on his body, and his skin looked
as if it were rotting from his bones. Lev recognised him as a leper, and
felt ashamed at his initial reaction of fear. He knew the despair and
helplessness that came with having parts of his body paralysed. Lev
looked up to Yaroslav for guidance.
The prior lowered himself to a knee, and produced a flask from
within his robes. "Unfortunately we did not bring a healer with us, but
this should help a little." He spread the oil on the man's skin,
unafraid of the leprosy that ate at it. Lev was impressed by the prior's
lack of fear. As Lev looked at the leper, he could imagine the pain that
the disease inflicted on the man, but was not sure he would be so
willing to touch him. Lev felt a pang of guilt.
Yaroslav placed a hand on the beggar's head, and said a prayer. "We
can take you with us, to the Cyruzhian monastery if you wish."
"No," the man said. "It is too late. I would be there now if I
could, but the guards at the abbey don't let anyone in after dark. Not
since the shadow boys sought refuge there but a fortnight ago and nearly
stripped it bare!"
"Stripped it?" one of the young brothers behind Yaroslav gasped in
horror.
"Aye," the leper said. "And tried to burn it to the ground as
well." He glanced about nervously before he continued on. "I hear tell
that Liriss paid them to do it -- the monks haven't been doing him any
favours you know."
"Liriss?" Lev asked.
"Shush!" the leper scolded. "Not so loud, young sir. Liriss is a
great and terrible man. Do not trifle with him."
"What is this Liriss' interest in the Cyruzhian brothers?" Yaroslav
asked quietly.
"Liriss is the lord of all crime in this city. He dislikes the
Cyruzhians because they spread their teachings in his territory! Not the
least of which, they hurt his 'fishmongering' business by chastising
those who would hire such services, and even of a night they've hired
the girls themselves to keep them safe in the abbey for a little while."
"Tell me, friend," Yaroslav prodded. "Is there a certain place
where this Liriss practices his trade of 'fishmongering' most?"
"Oh, yes," the diseased man said. "The Shattered Spear is certainly
one place, since the owner asks no questions. It is not too far from
here, nor from the abbey."
"Then that is where we shall spend the night." Yaroslav stood, and
gestured for the others to follow.
Once the monks were a ways down the street and out of earshot of
the beggar, Brother Gregory said, "Reverend sir, is it wise for us to
stay at such a place?"
"Yes, I think so," Yaroslav replied. "For one thing, it is
certainly a place where our help will be needed most. For another, it is
close to the monastery. Finally, I think that if this crime lord Liriss
really wanted our brothers out of the city, they would be. That said, I
do not know what his intent might have been for robbing the brothers,
but I think we should be as safe at the Shattered Spear as anywhere
else."
Lev nodded to himself. He was not overly anxious to be locked up
inside of a monastery again, so soon after leaving the confines of one.
After only spending a short time in Dargon he had seen a lot, and he was
sure there was more still. The other brothers only murmured quietly in
agreement.
"A hymn," Yaroslav suggested, "to keep our spirits high and our
feet moving."
He chose a cheerful song that served to take away some of the gloom
of the cold and wet, and drew curious looks from windows and any
townsfolk who happened to be on the streets. By the time the song was
ended, the crash of waves upon the shore was noticeably louder, and the
area of town certainly poorer. Here the air no longer smelled of salt.
Instead it was stale and smelled like the latrines in Heart's Hope. The
alleyways were so narrow that two people could not pass down them side
by side.
The group travelled single file down one such alley where drunkards
slept, who had to be stepped over carefully. Near the end of the street,
torchlight flickered, emanating through the open windows of a very noisy
tavern. They rounded the corner and emerged onto another relatively wide
street, and almost knocked over a man who was leaning up against a wall
and vomiting the contents of his stomach onto the muddy road.
A bout of raucous laughter filled the street as the front door to
the building was flung open, and a man fell through it face-first in the
mud. All of the monks could read, but it made little difference, as
there was no written sign by which to identify the place. There was,
however, a sign depicting a spear that had been broken into several
pieces hanging above the door.
"I would say we have found the 'Shattered Spear'," Yaroslav said.
The prior led the way into the boisterous tavern. Inside, a raging
fire in the hearth threw modest light and warmth. The inn stank of
unwashed bodies crammed together, and the smoke of a poorly vented
fireplace. But Lev was so thankful of the warmth that he was happy to
put up with it. Lev was certain he and his fellow monks made little
positive contribution to the smell themselves, having travelled for
several days without washing, and being soaked and mud-bespattered as
they were. For now, Lev craved only to sit near the fire and warm
himself.
The monks pushed their way through the crowd until they were in
front of the fire, where they took seats on the stone hearth. No one was
sitting there, presumably, because it was quite warm in the crowded inn
already. The Cyruzhians were chilled from their long journey through the
rain, however, so they were glad of the added heat.
Lev looked over at Brother Gregory next to him and noticed that
steam rose from his cloak as the warmth of the fire forced the water out
of it. Lev then looked around the room. The place was not especially
large, and probably as a result seemed to contain more people than it
really did. Wooden tables were scattered throughout, but there were no
seats empty. In one darkened corner, two men with hoods pulled over
their heads sat huddled close together over a table in quiet discussion.
In the middle of the room, a muscular bald man with a scar running down
his right cheek was challenging a sailor to a drinking contest, while a
young barmaid placed half-sloshed mugs on the table. At the bar, beside
a fat farmer who fell half-off his stool every time he broke out in
peals of laughter, a barmaid half-out of her bodice was sitting on the
lap of a man with tattoos covering both arms. No one appeared to have
taken much notice of the monks, concerned as they were with their own
drink and company.
Lev had to cast his eyes away from the women in the tavern
forcibly, for he was shocked by the reaction he had to seeing them.
Lev's heart leapt when they moved in such a way as to reveal some of a
smooth leg, or their hair swished about. He could feel fire in his
loins, and a light-headedness. He knew that many changes were occurring
in his body, despite his prayers; the full realisation of it hit him
only now as he was faced with close proximity to attractive young women.
"We don't have tables for beggars. You either buy something or
leave," a man, presumably the owner, said gruffly as he approached the
group of monks huddled on the fireplace hearth.
Yaroslav stood and fixed the man with an engaging smile. "My good
fellow, we are not beggars, though I must admit we have little with
which to pay. We are but humble brothers come from the monastery in
Fennell --"
"If you're monks, why aren't you at the abbey?"
"If you please, good sir," the prior held up a placating hand. "The
guards do not let anyone in at this time of night. We seek only to warm
ourselves by your fire, and spend the night. How much would we have to
pay for a piece of the floor?"
The barkeeper mumbled a sum into his bushy moustache, which Lev
could not make out, but was sure the amount was outrageous. Prior
Yaroslav seemed unperturbed, however.
"I will give you all that we have," the prior said as he pulled a
few coins from a pouch.
"You'll need more than that! Forget it -- get out now or I'll have
you thrown out!"
The smile disappeared from Yaroslav's face, and he took a step
towards the barkeep. The prior was nearly a full hand taller than the
other man. He placed a hand on the bartender's shoulder. "We haven't any
more, but we can return in the morrow to repay you ..."
"No ... that won't be necessary," the barkeep's voice was shaky as
he took the coins from Yaroslav and made as if to move away.
"But I insist!" Yaroslav said, clapping the man on the shoulder and
making him jump. "Indeed, we shall even provide some entertainment for
the inconvenience. A hymn, a story perhaps?"
"I said that won't be necessary."
"It is, though," Yaroslav continued. Lev could see the prior's grip
tightening on the barkeeper's shoulder. "I'll bring more money with me
tomorrow, and make a public donation on behalf of the Cyruzhians --"
"Curse you!" the barman bellowed, "I said no! Stay here the night
if you will, but leave my customers alone, and don't come back!" He then
nearly ran back to the bar.
The exchange had gone unnoticed in the cramped and noisy tavern,
and Yaroslav returned to his place at the hearth without so much as a
person glancing his way. He let out a low chuckle as he resumed his
place.
"I figured he'd think it bad for his business if we took to
preaching in this little establishment of his ..."
"We will come back, reverend sir, won't we?" Lev asked.
"Of course! There is still much work to be done, and I did not tell
the man that we would not return." He gave the brothers a knowing wink.
"You are wise in the ways of the world, reverend sir," Brother
Gregory said.
"A prior must be, I'm afraid."
For over a bell the monks sat warming themselves by the fire, and
presently the inn became a little quieter and a little less crowded.
Some of the folk tottered out the doorway, having had their fill of
drink and frivolity. Others passed out on or beneath tables, or dozed at
the monks' feet amidst the thoroughly soiled rushes. By the time another
bell had passed, it was almost quiet in the room, such that one could
talk without having to raise their voice to be heard. Yaroslav raised
his voice nevertheless.
"Gentles!" he clapped his hands together to gain the attention of
those clients who still hunkered over tankards of ale and cider. "What
say you to a tale before the night is ended?"
There were some murmurings of approval, but no one spoke aloud. The
bar owner was nowhere to be seen, and most of his employees had
disappeared into the rooms above with more lustful customers.
Yaroslav began his tale with a dramatic battle scene, the famed
knights of Barony Fennell making their ultimately fateful charge against
the overwhelming Northfield army at Balkura, during the Great Houses
War. Many of the patrons leaned forward in their seats, taken up in the
story, as Yaroslav recounted Baroness Fennell's last stand in which she
hacked down two score rebel troops before finally being overwhelmed.
Yaroslav was a wonderful storyteller, waving his arms in dramatic
fashion and describing the grand scenes of knights, ladies and magical
creatures. Part way through, the innkeeper returned, and stared in
horror when he saw the prior preaching. However, when he tried to speak,
several of the customers shushed him. By now, most of them were hanging
on Yaroslav's every word. It was at this point that the prior's tale
began to take on a serious tone. It culminated in another battle,
followed by a gripping scene of loss and sorrow.
As Yaroslav finished, he sat down once again. The remaining patrons
of the bar stared at him for several menes, then began clapping and
pounding the tables. A serving girl appeared with a tray carrying bowls
of soup for each of the monks. Lev glanced over at the barkeeper as she
handed out the dishes, and saw that he was nodding his head approvingly.
Yaroslav took his bowl with a word of thanks to the girl, and smiled
appreciatively at the Shattered Spear's owner.
Lev took his bowl from the girl, making a conscious effort all the
while not to look at the cleavage she displayed when she bent over. He
set to eating the soup. It was hot, and contained onions and leeks. He
had not eaten since mid-morning, and devoured the meagre meal hastily.
When all of the monks had finished and set their bowls on the hearth,
Yaroslav stretched and yawned mightily.
"Well, brothers," he said. "I'd say we have done enough for one
day. You may say your prayers in silence before sleeping."
With that, the monks all found open spaces on the floor on which to
curl up, wrapped in their black cloaks. Lev found a place near one of
the windows and huddled up against the hearth, which was warm from the
fire. He closed his eyes and recited the vespers prayers to himself,
quietly. Today had been a good day, he thought to himself. This was
where he belonged, out among the people of Dargon, rather than locked
away in the monastery scriptorium.
Lev woke up some time later when water dripped on his face from a
hole in the roof. He was not sure what had woken him up, and for several
menes did not even know where he was. Slowly, his mind cleared of the
initial grogginess from being roused from deep sleep and he sat up. The
inn was quiet, save for the snores of the many people that lay strewn
about the tables and the wooden floor. The light by which he could see
was cast by the fire, which had petered to glowing embers. He wriggled
about amid the floor rushes to avoid the water dripping down from above
and lay back down. It was then that he heard the soft sound of someone
sobbing.
At first he could not place where the crying was coming from, but
after several menes of listening in silence, he determined that the sobs
were coming from outside the inn, probably directly outside the window
by which he lay.
Now fully awake, Lev gripped his walking stick and pulled himself
to his feet, intent on discovering the source of the weeping. Someone
was in pain, he felt quite sure. He hoped that he could help. He missed
his old self, who had been so enthusiastic about doing God's work and
being a member of the Cyruzhians. Cloistered deep in the monastery
scriptorium, Lev had felt that enthusiasm wan as both faith and devotion
became the daily norm. In the short time he had been in Dargon, Lev had
found that it was not so much a lack of faith as a lack of adventure
that had made him feel thus. He had been doubting his choice to be a
Cyruzhian monk for some time. He felt restless locked up inside the
cloisters of Heart's Hope Monastery. In Dargon, he had felt renewed
happiness with his life. Here was a test for him: someone in need for
him to help.
He carefully picked his way through the bodies that littered the
floor -- a task made doubly hard by his lame left foot and reliance on
the wooden staff he carried. Eventually he made it to the door and
pushed it open. Outside it was as dark as the inside of the inn and
still raining. For a moment Lev paused in the doorway, not wanting to
get wet again -- it felt so good to be dry after being soaked all of the
previous day. He sighed, both in admonishment towards his own
self-centredness, and at the prospect of the cold water, and moved out
onto the dark street. The door swung shut behind him, and he felt his
way around the side of the tavern.
He felt his way around the corner and was met by the sound of
retching, rather than the crying he had heard before. As his eyes became
accustomed to the dark, he was able to make out a form leaning up
against the wall, vomiting onto the muddy street. Lev moved closer and
noticed the form to be that of a woman. His heart jumped inside his
chest and he stopped again. He closed his eyes and listened to his heart
pound for a moment.
"Cephas give me strength," he whispered to himself.
Ahead, he could hear the sobs renewing with the end of the bout of
sickness. Lev wondered if she was drunk, and remained motionless, but
the girl's lamentation bore into his heart. He opened his eyes, a sense
of duty overtaking his doubts, and moved forward once again.
"What ails you, my lady?" he called softly.
Abruptly the weeping stopped, but the girl's voice was shaky when
she replied. "Who's there?"
"A friend," Lev said, thinking to himself all the while how
beautiful the girl's voice was -- like soft notes played on a flute. "I
hope. I mean you no harm. I heard you crying ..."
"There's nothing you can do," she moaned. "Leave me be!"
Lev halted his approach only a couple of cubits away from the girl
and reached out a hand tentatively. "You have not told me what is wrong.
How can you be so sure?"
The girl replied with an odd mixture of laughter and weeping.
"What's the use?"
Lev placed his hand on her shoulder. He wished with all his heart
that Yaroslav were with him that moment. Not only did he not know what
to do, but he was afraid of the girl because she excited him in a way he
hadn't felt before, and made him ashamed when he remembered his vow of
celibacy. Even in the rain and darkness, he could make out her feminine
figure. He could feel his knees tremble as he stood there with his hand
touching even just her shoulder. She lowered her head in what appeared
to be shame, and suddenly Lev thought he knew at least part of what
ailed her.
"You work here, don't you?" he said. "As a ... a ..." the word
caught in his throat.
"As a whore?"
Embarrassed, Lev withdrew his hand. "No, that's not what I meant
... I ..."
"Well that's what I am!" she snapped. "There's no need for you to
be ashamed of it! I'm a strumpet, nothing more!"
"I should be ashamed," Lev said, "since it is others like me --
men, I mean -- who have made you thus. You are the one who should not
feel guilt, for you are innocent. Only those who violate you will burn."
"Thank you," the girl said. "No one's ever said anything like that
to me before." She took Lev's hand in hers, and he felt flames of shock
and excitement surge through his arm. "But that is not my only problem
..."
"Oh?" was all Lev could manage.
"No, it is much worse ... for I have not had my flux for several
moons, and I have been sick quite often." Lev looked at her in
puzzlement. She took his silence as an invitation to carry on, but when
she did, she had to bite back tears. "I think the child of one of those
... men grows within me!"
She clung to Lev desperately and fell into violent weeping. Lev
froze in panic when she came so close and clutched him. Despite the
rain, he could feel her body warm against his, and he did not know what
to do about the sensation. At a loss for anything better to do, he
cautiously wrapped his free arm around her and patted her back gently.
For several menes they stood like that, Lev paralysed with fear, and the
girl clinging to him.
After a while she pulled herself away and a thin shaft of light
from between the shutters of the nearby window caught her face. Lev was
sure she was one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen, even
though he glimpsed her for but a moment. The image seemed burned into
his mind: soft, pale skin, golden hair, large watery eyes and small lips
like rose petals.
"I, uh ..." Lev stammered, and said the first thing that came to
mind to cover his discomfort. "I don't know your name."
"I am Samara," she replied. "What is your name?"
"Lev."
"You've been kind to me, which is uncommon," Samara said. "Let me
thank you --"
"Not like that!" Lev backed away from her quickly when he felt her
hands touch him. "I'm sorry, but ..."
"No, I was stupid," Samara said. "Who would want a pregnant whore?"
"No, it's not that," Lev was trembling now, with both excitement
and fear. "Uh ... I just shouldn't, that's all. I mean, I'd like to ..."
Lev winced. Cephas' boot, did he really just say that? What type of
fish-tongued idiot was he turning into?
"I understand," Lev could hear a smile in Samara's voice. Without
warning, she approached again and placed a kiss on Lev's cheek. "Thank
you for talking with me. I should probably get some sleep."
Lev felt dizzy, and had to lean heavily on his staff to keep from
falling down. He mumbled feebly, "Yes, good night ..."
Samara left, and after a few moments, Lev's head cleared. He now
felt like jumping and shouting for joy. That one kiss had been one of
the most wondrous things he had experienced in his lifetime. Full of
energy, he went to stride from the alley but staggered as his lame leg
refused to cooperate. Lev paused, reality returning to him. This was no
way for a Cyruzhian monk to be thinking and behaving. He had sworn an
oath of chastity when he had joined the order. He should not be taking
such pleasure in the touch of a woman ... and yet what an experience it
was.
Lev shook his head and hobbled back to the front of the inn and
went back inside. The Cyruzhians were by far the most strict sect within
the diverse Stevenic religion. In fact, they prided themselves in their
different ways. Lev realised that most Stevenics would wonder what Lev
was worrying about. Many of them would probably have jumped at Samara's
offer with great glee. But Lev had been raised in the Cyruzhian
tradition and he believed in it. He had sworn his life to live that
tradition.
He sat back down on the piece of floor where he had been sleeping
and tried to compose himself. He began reciting prayers to himself. He
repeated in his mind stories from the Stevene's life that he had
committed to memory. As he prayed, he came to a tale about the Stevene
travelling through a field of ripe wheat. Beautiful golden wheat, like
the colour of Samara's hair. He had seen it for only a moment, but it
was etched into his mind ... smooth, flowing locks ...
Lev took a deep breath and resumed his prayers. He silently
rehearsed a canticle that told of the Stevene's death. At his execution,
some of his followers had brought roses. Pink roses with soft, perfect
petals, dampened by the morning dew, like Samara's lips. Cephas' boot!
What was wrong with him? He couldn't even say a simple prayer. How could
Lev be a proper follower of the Stevene's Light, a proper Cyruzhian
follower if he couldn't even think? What was wrong with him? In Heart's
Hope Monastery he had never had problems concentrating on his prayers.
Lev wrapped himself in his cloak and laid down heavily on the
rush-strewn floor. He could hear the waves crashing against the shore
far away. He tried to concentrate on that sound to lull him to sleep. He
had seen the sea once before, a deep, comforting blue. Like Samara's
eyes ...
========================================================================
William Zeneca's Bad Day
by Dan Toler
<Jdauthors@yahoo.com>
Melrin, 1017
"I don't like it, William," muttered Tam Ward, shaking his round
head disapprovingly. "I just don't like it. You can yell and scream at
me all you want, but it'll still be the same. I just don't like it." He
swung his pudgy arms in a gesture that allowed no objections. Tam was a
short, round fellow who made an odd partner for his taller, slimmer
companion.
The grass under their feet was brown and beaten into the muddy
ground of the field north of Traders Avenue. In contrast, the sky
overhead was a merry blue with a few white puffy clouds for variety. The
two men were standing next to their wagon, which was one of many that
the Grand Players of Baranur owned. It was set up as a house, with waxed
paper in the window frames and a door in the back. The yellow paint was
peeling off, but that was the least of the show's worries.
"Are you joking?" asked William Zeneca in his showman's voice.
"This show was a great buy."
"What do you mean 'buy'? The owners *gave* it to us, William. They
gave it to us, and we inherited their debts. Does that sound like a good
idea to you?"
William shrugged. The original owners were fools, convinced that
since their best act -- a strange creature indeed by all descriptions
-- had escaped, they would never be able to succeed in life. As far as
William was concerned, they were fools. Other shows survived without
fantastic beasts. Why not the Grand Players? "It sounds like a way to
make quick money."
"Quick!? William, that means we've got to pay off the debts before
we can start making money, not after. And besides the debts, there's the
price of running the show, paying the performers. Oh, believe me,
William, I wouldn't be too sure about those fellows once you start
making money, even if they're happy now. They'll start asking for
double, even triple what you're paying them today."
"Now calm down, Tam." William wiped his oddly crooked nose with the
back of a bony hand and sighed. The two of them had held this
conversation before. "There's no reason to think that. The Grand Players
of Baranur have been around quite awhile, and there's no reason to
suspect --"
"William, none of these performers were with the original show. Not
one! All the original performers quit along the road. Who wants to work
for a show that's in debt except a bunch of half-wits? And that's what
we're working with, William: halfwits. And if you take my advice, you'll
sell the show off for the amount of money we owe, pay back the people we
owe it to, and break even."
William could not understand how Tam had so little faith in him. It
was William's fortune-telling idea that had brought the two together in
the first place. Tam had thought him a great genius for cooking up that
one. Ever since then, he had refused to believe in William for no
apparent reason.
"All right, Tam, will you shut up! Just stop whining. The show's
ours, and that's that."
"Well, I still don't like it --" Tam muttered, and toddled off to
pretend that he was making himself useful. William wished he would
actually do something. After all, there was plenty that needed to be
done. The Grand Players of Baranur were putting on their opening
performance that evening, and the entire company was putting in their
best efforts to set up the tent that housed their show.
"It'll fit nearly a hundred audience members," William thought.
"Two Commons apiece -- we'll be able to pay back our debts after seven
or eight shows." He whistled merrily to himself, and set about examining
the show's setup. The poles were already pounded into the ground, and
various aerialists and acrobats were arguing over how to stretch the
large canvas piece across the tops of them correctly. It amused him how
much these people argued. If they spent half as much time working as
they did bickering amongst themselves, the tent would be completely
ready by now. Maybe the problem was the constant rivalry between the
acrobats and the aerialists. The two groups never seemed to stop
fighting. To make matters worse, the aerialists and acrobats made up the
entire show; all except for Paitr, the strong man, who sat on a crate
off to the side, busily painting a large wooden anchor to look like
iron. Zeneca chuckled. At least one member of the troupe could not
complain about his salary. He was too replaceable.
On the other hand, he was also the only one who kept his mind to
himself. Sometimes, William wondered if this was because Paitr lacked a
mind to voice. Well, of course he had one. Everyone had a mind. Even
foolish, weak strong men.
This field was a good place to attract customers. Drunks and
merchants' guards frequented that part of Dargon, and they were just the
sort to pay a couple of Commons to watch cheap trapeze artists and a
fake strong man. It would be interesting to see just how many customers
did come. William did not doubt that the show would recover. He was
simply curious to see how the many people he could draw. It would be
quite interesting. Quite --
A hand tapped William lightly on the shoulder, interrupting his
thoughts. He turned around and found himself facing a dirty-faced young
woman with a wild, frantic look in her eyes.
"Yes?" he said.
Her cold blue eyes darted left and right, like those of a deer
surrounded by hunters. "Please," she whispered frantically. "Please,
will you hide me?"
"Well what -- what --?"
The woman tried to push past him, and he grabbed her by the arm.
Who did she think he was, coming into the area of the show, asking him
to hide her, and then trying to force her way past him?
"I can't explain now, just -- please! I can talk later, but please
-- please -- my father!" She flung out her free arm, frantically
pointing out into the throng of purchasers and sellers who frequented
the marketplace.
William let go of her arm at the sight of a tall man on horseback
wearing a huge broadsword. He was dressed in a bright red shirt with
gold buttons and a flaring gold cape, and was shooting his eyes into the
crowd on either side of his horse. The man stood out in the crowd
because of his height and elevation, besides the fact that those around
him seemed to sense that he was in a hurry and was in a foul mood.
William agreed. This was no one to be ignored or brushed off.
"Is that your father?" he asked, terrified that the answer might be
in the affirmative.
There was a pause, and it soon became clear that there was no
answer, which was even worse.
William turned to see why exactly the young woman was not
answering. He was planning to tell her to leave, and in no uncertain
terms. Instead, he caught sight of her; she was just disappearing into
the wagon that served as his and Tam's house. He tried to run after her,
but a man's booming voice stopped him.
"You there!"
Cringing in terrified anticipation, Zeneca turned to face the
voice. Sure enough, it belonged to the tall man on horseback, presumably
the girl's father. The man was still many yards away, but he had
obviously seen the show and had headed towards it. "Me?" Zeneca motioned
to himself, and flashed his most charming grin. He had to admit, he had
thought the man would take a little longer to arrive.
"Of course you," the man bellowed. "Who did you think I meant?"
William tried to recover. "Well I --"
"Who was that running into your wagon?"
"Wagon?" He could do no better. This man made him nervous to no
end.
"Yes, wagon. The thing right there, behind you. Who was running
into it?" By now, the fellow's horse was towering over William, and he
was still shouting..
"Someone was running into it?" Maybe, with luck, the merchant would
give up.
"Yes," the man on horseback shifted impatiently. "Someone just
slammed that door."
"They did?"
"Yes, they did. Didn't you hear them? Or are you deaf?"
William thought he might be, if the merchant did not stop roaring
at him. "Now --"
The man eased his sword in his scabbard. "You're making me
impatient, young man."
Young man? Really! "Young man? You're only a few years older than
--"
"Who was running into that wagon?"
"Oh, the wagon." William wiped his nose with his first finger,
trying to act casual. "Well, I really don't know. You see I, well, I
only work here."
"Then I suggest you see who is in the wagon."
"It's really none of my --"
"None of your business. Yes, I see. Well," the man leaned forward
confidentially, "if you should happen to meet a young runaway woman,
would you mind very much taking her to the guards? I have had an artist
send a sketch of her out to most officials in the city, so they can take
charge of her. You will be rewarded handsomely."
"Of course." Zeneca said, putting on his most sincere face.
"Excuse me, William," Tam's voice said behind him. "Paitr wants to
know if he should put lard on his anchor to make it more convincing."
"What is this?!" the tall man roared indignantly.
"Wonderful!", Zeneca thought. "He knows I lied to him." He
scrambled desperately for a way to cover up. "Of course, Tam. That's
what Mr. Zeneca always has him do."
"What?" Tam pursed his lips confusedly.
"Mr. Zeneca. Our boss."
"Oh." Tam grinned. "Well, I'll go tell Paitr about the lard." He
headed back towards the fake strong man, whistling a pleasant tune.
"If you'll excuse me," William said. "I'm going to get about my
work now, if you don't mind."
"Please," the man on the horse said softly. "Please. She is my
daughter." Abruptly, he stiffened his spine, looked Zeneca up and down,
and left.
With a feeling of intense relief, William waited for the man to
leave the field. It did not take long, but it seemed to stretch on for
an eternity. "A reward," William thought. "I really should remember
that."
As soon as the man was gone, Zeneca ran up the rickety wooden steps
into the wagon.
"I need your help!" she cried the moment he opened the door.
He was paying her very little attention, now he had gotten his
first good look at her. Well, he was paying attention, just not to what
she was saying. Facially, she was not unattractive, if a little dirty at
the moment. But her figure was perfect. He'd never seen a better pair of
hips. Not even on an aerialist! Well, perhaps a little more size up top
...
He tried to bring himself back to what he should be thinking about.
"All right," he said. "What's going on here?"
Shaking nervously, the girl sat down at the small table that rested
against one wall. "I've run away."
This was simply too much. "What!? I've heard of being direct, but
could you please try and be a little clearer?"
"I ran away from home, and he's looking for me."
"And you've gone off to join the circus? Well not mine! I don't
want that guy after me. I'm not anxious to get my head lopped off by his
broadsword. Not that I think he'd go that far, but still, he might get
my show shut down for that. Do you want to do that to me?
"Don't answer that. I don't care what you want to do. Look, you can
stay here for a few bells, until he gets far enough away for you to
leave, but after that, as far as I'm concerned, you're just another face
in the crowd."
"Can I just stay for a few days?"
"Why?" William leaned forward, leaning his hands on the table the
table suspiciously.
"It's hard to explain --"
William started for the door. "If you'd rather leave --" He had no
patience for this kind of thing.
"No. No." The young woman shook her head. "There's a ship coming
into port the day after tomorrow. I've booked passage on it, and I
wasn't planning to leave until then, only, father had business out of
town, and he wanted me to come with him, down south. I had to leave home
right away, or I'd have to go with father and miss the ship."
"And why are you leaving? On the ship, I mean."
"My father won't let me marry."
How odd. William's eyebrows rose. "He won't?"
"Well, he wants me to marry, but not anyone I love. It's happened
three times now. I meet a nice man, well set-up, intelligent,
attractive, and father rejects him. I don't know how long it's going to
take, but I'm going to end it now."
"If you're going to stay here," William decided. "You can work."
"You can't --"
"Yes I can, unless you'd rather have me return you. There are rags
with the performers. Take a few and start cleaning out the wagons." He
started to leave, then turned back. "And what's your name?"
"Sera."
"Sera," he muttered. "Hmmm --" Pursing his lips, he closed the door
behind himself.
Opening night had arrived, and Tam was drinking in the Lucky Lady,
a tavern in the northwestern part of Dargon. The common room was dimly
lit by a large beeswax candle at each table and a couple of even larger
ones in wall sconces. The little light provided was obscured by the
thick smoke given off by the patrons' pipes. The smell of the smoke
mingled with the fresh scent of second-rate brandy, yet Tam could still
vaguely catch the scent of ducks and chickens roasting in the kitchen.
Around Tam's table sat a group of four roughly-dressed men. The
only women in the Lucky Lady were courtesans, and none of the men with
Tam could afford the services of such. So they sat and drank, and
gambled, hoping to win enough to buy a little more enjoyment that
evening. Most went home broke, but that did not stop them from trying
again soon.
"And then," Tam continued, his words barely comprehensible and the
smell of one too many drinks reeking on his breath. "Then William landed
us with this. We now own the Grand Players of Baranur, one of the
cheapest acts *in* Baranur. Still, it's better than picking pockets,
which is what I used to do."
"You mean," asked another patron, somewhat less drunk. "You mean
you're part owner of that show over there?" He motioned vaguely toward
the west.
"Yeah."
The man narrowed his eyes. "Then what are you doing out of the
show?"
"I'm in charge of the technical stuff; the performers, the tent,
you know. During the show, I'm off." Tam waved his hand in the air.
"William handles them, and also the money. Well, actually, he hires
someone to do that, but he takes care of creditors, you know."
"Straight?"
"Straight."
"Prove it."
Tam pursed his lips. "I can getcha in behind the scenes."
Chuckles erupted around the table. "I'd like to see that," the
other man said. The others nodded in agreement. One snorted.
"Well," said Tam, scowling at the one who snorted. "As a matter of
fact you can all come. All of you."
"Let's go!" All four men piled out of the tavern, Tam struggling
vainly to get ahead of them.
"And now!" William announced loudly over the crowd that packed his
tent. "I would like to introduce to you the finest balancing act in
Baranur. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the Great Dargonian
Tumblers!" The crowd erupted in cheers as twelve scantily-clad men and
women rushed in through a gap in the back of the tent, and proceeded to
begin a tumbling routine that could be called mediocre at best. But the
crowd did not care. They were too full of ale.
"Good," thought Zeneca. "They're loving it!" It was all part of the
theory that made him buy the show in the first place: cater to the right
clientele, and you succeed. These people might not have the most class,
standing around in tattered rags and with dirty faces. They might not
have the best breeding; at least one small fight had broken out at the
back of the tent, but a guard had broken it up before it turned into
real trouble. Nonetheless, as long as they paid, the patrons were
welcome.
The duke had sent guards to this event. They certainly did not like
the show, from the looks on their faces, but they liked disorder less.
There would be no trouble tonight.
Whatever the guards thought, William's theory about the right
clientele was true. They would gawk and stare at anything. One man did a
forward flip and landed on his back instead of his feet. The patrons
laughed hysterically, and William could catch the stench of stale rum
and ale. He hoped Tam was enjoying himself. He also hoped the man he had
hired to take the money was honest. Well, he ought to be. He cost
enough.
The six women stood on their partners' shoulders. Two of them fell,
and the crowd's reaction was mixed. Some were laughing. Others were
gaping at the four who managed to stay on top. Still others -- no doubt
the ones with a bit less stupidity -- were laughing at those who gaped.
Zeneca, on the other hand, was trying not to laugh at the audience.
"Wait just a moment," said a heavily-built, specially-hired bouncer
who was guarding the flaps of the tent. "Who are you?"
"It's me," Tam replied, stepping into the light that poured out
from the massive tent's ante-chamber. "Tam."
"Go right in!" The guard held the tent flap open, and Tam led his
confederates through into a small, separate part of the tent that served
as a dressing room and staging area for the performers ready to go
onstage. Crates and costumes littered the floor, lying in the straw with
props and even the tools that had been used to put up the tent. Tam
wished he could get it through the performers' heads that they simply
must pick up their tools before beginning rehearsals. Paitr, the strong
man, stood ready at another opening in the tent, this one leading into
the show. For a moment, Tam wondered if he should have Paitr clean up.
"No," he told himself mentally. "Paitr only used a paintbrush and some
paint, and he cleaned that up."
"Well," Tam said to the others. "Do you believe me now, Torquil?"
"Of course I do," he replied softly, then leaned closer. "Is there
any chance you might get us in the front for free?"
Tam really did not know if he ought to. "Well --"
"What's this stuff?" one of the thugs asked, feeling the fake
anchor Paitr would use. It glistened with lard.
"It's a trade secret." And it was true. There was no point in
telling everyone how you did things. Next thing you know, one of these
fellows might have told one of his friends, and within the month there
would have been no customers. People would be talking of it in the
streets. He could just see it now. "Did you hear about that show up off
Traders Avenue?" one would ask. "You mean the Grand Players of Baranur?
Yeah, I hear they're fun to watch." Then the first man would say: "Don't
bother. I hear their strong man lifts a wooden anchor!" "Ha!" the second
guy would snort. "Thanks for warning me. I'll make sure not to go
there." That kind of thing would just go on and on.
There was a chorus of dissatisfaction from the men at Tam's reply.
Well, how much harm could a few people do? "All right," he said
reluctantly. "But you can't tell anyone." He took a deep breath. "It's
lard. It makes them look like iron. Now let's get out of here."
"Not yet," Torquil said.
"What do you mean 'not yet'?"
Torquil turned left and right to look at the others as he talked.
"How'd you like to play a little joke, fellas?"
There was a mutter from the others in the affirmative. He motioned
them to come closer, and whispered something as they huddled together.
"Hey," Tam said. "Hey, what are you guys planning?"
Torquil held a finger to his lips. "Shhhhhh." Then he whispered:
"Just a little practical joke. Watch!" He grabbed the torch that sat in
a small stand in the floor.
Then, all the men stood aside as the "tumblers" ran past Paitr and
out the door towards their wagons. Apparently, they were not performing
again that evening.
Paitr knew his cue was coming, so he reached behind himself and
picked up the anchor. It was funny, the way he carried it into the main
tent, holding it in both hands and leaning it on his shoulders as if it
were a difficult feat. Indeed, it *was* quite interesting to see him do
this, when you knew it was covered with lard.
There was a chuckle from the other men as Torquil reached out the
torch and held it under the end of the anchor that hung over Paitr's
shoulder.
"No," Tam said. "Don't do that."
One of the men motioned for him to be silent. "*No*," he said more
loudly. "*Don't do that*." Apparently, this was too much for the man who
had told him to be quiet. He stepped away from the other men and struck
Tam a hard blow to the side of the head. As he fell into
unconsciousness, he could not help but wonder what William would do to
him when he came to.
"Thank you all!" William shouted to the crowd as the tumblers ran
off through the back exit. "Thank you very much!" The crowd's cheers
shrank to the usual murmur, but he paused for several moments to
increase the effect of his words. "And now my friends, I must sadly
introduce this evening's last act. I'm sure you all have to get up early
tomorrow," the crowd roared with laughter, and some fellow in the front
row snorted loudly. "Because I'm sure you all have a lot of work to do."
More laughter from the audience. "So without further ado, I present you
with Paitr, the strongest man in the world!"
Amidst hoots and cheers from the crowd, the man himself appeared at
the back of the tent. The strong man did not appear to notice that one
end of the anchor was burning, but the audience laughed hysterically at
the sight of this. It was just a very small flame, and even if it did
give off a good deal of smoke for its size, it certainly did not provide
enough heat for the strong man to feel, given that it was a good arm's
length behind his head. Trying to ignore his audience, Paitr set the
"anchor" down on the ground, and by this time, the flame was burning on
a section of anchor about as long as his thumb. Seeing this, he screamed
loudly.
William, of course, saw none of this. The first thing he saw was
when he turned around, only to see Paitr throw the anchor into the side
of the tent in terror, as a group of five or six rowdy drunks suddenly
appeared through the performers entrance, guffawing. And the crowd was
going wild. Until the flame from the anchor began crawling up the
canvas. "No!" Zeneca cried, and dashed past the drunks, making for the
performers' section of the tent. Inside, Tam lay unconscious, and, more
importantly, the bucket of water kept for such emergencies was empty.
Half-witted performers! He remembered specifically that Tam had told
them specifically to fill it up.
"Does anyone have water?" William tried to shout to the audience,
but it was too late. They were in a state of panic. One man tackled the
one behind him, clambered over him, pulled out a long knife, and sliced
a hole in the side of the tent. Seeing this new plan, another fellow
tried it. Within mere moments, people had cut holes it the tent in
several places, and were rushing through them like water through a
sieve.
William struggled to hold himself upright as flame consumed one
side of the tent, and guards were struggling through the audience
towards the drunks, who could not seem to stop laughing in spite of the
fact that their malicious practical joke had turned into something that
threatened many lives, including their own.
"I'd better get out of here," William muttered. No one could hear
him, but saying something just made him feel better. Quickly, he stepped
out through the performers' section of the tent, bending and picking up
Tam on his way out. Of course, the bouncer was no longer guarding the
back flaps. "Good thing for him, too. If he was here, I'd bloody kill
him!"
At the sound of the terrified crowds, Sera stood up from her
cleaning work in William's wagon, and crept out through the door to see
what was the matter. People were running in every direction to get away
from the blazing tent, although a few were actually standing outside and
laughing at their few comrades still inside. The city guards were trying
their hardest to pull these people away. The show seemed to have
attracted quite a number of guards, and was gathering many more from
Traders Avenue. This was only natural, considering that anyone on that
road would see the tent like it was a signal beacon. Guards would come
to that kind of thing, usually.
Meanwhile, out back of the tent, several more guards were talking
with -- or interrogating -- a small group of ruffians who seemed to be
torn between laughing and cringing. Another seemed to be asking William
questions, while yet another was bent over the prostrate form of Tam
Ward, trying to get him to come to.
"Just stay that way, Tam," Sera thought. "If you don't, you'll get
questioned, too." She liked Tam. He had struck her as a very nice man
when she met him earlier. Of course that was only for a few moments when
she was cleaning the performers' wagons, and he had seemed to be more
interested in talking to the aerialists than to her. Still, he was
polite enough. Even if he had not been, Sera would not have wished
interrogation by the guards on anyone.
As for the tent, she calmly went back inside, closed the door, bent
over, and began scrubbing the floor again. It was William Zeneca's
problem, not hers.
"I just don't understand how it happened, Tam," William sighed,
leaning against his and Tam's wagon. It was the next morning, a few
menes after dawn, and the sacks under his eyes told the tale of a
sleepless night. He could still strongly smell the charred remains of
the tent on the fresh breeze that blew over he and Tam -- and over
anyone else who happened to be about on that morning. That particular
fact might have made William think great philosophical thoughts, if he
were that kind of person. Well, he was not that kind of person, and he
had other worries at the moment. "I just don't see how it could have --
Tam?"
Tam looked drowsily up from where his eyes were fixed on the ground
next to their wagon. "Huh?"
"Tam, tell me your story again, from the beginning."
"Well, William, it's like I said. Those guys snuck past the guard.
Then they just ran in and punched me out. I don't know what happened
after that."
"In the name of all the gods!" William stamped his foot on the
ground. After all the questioning last night, the guards had concluded
that the only ones to blame were the babbling drunks. That would keep
the duke's men off him. "And now, what do we do? What about our
creditors?" That was his main concern. Without a tent, how was the show
to continue operating? They certainly could not afford to buy a new one!
A hand tapped William on the shoulder, and he swiveled around.
"What!?" he cried, and the young aerialist who stood there jumped a few
inches.
"The rest of the troupe," she said shakily. Then she seemed to
compose herself somewhat. "The rest of the troupe elected me to
come
tell you --"
"Yes!?"
She picked up a little more nerve, straightened more. "They said to
come say, 'we quit'."
William was sure he had misheard her. "What? Why?"
By now, she had a lot of nerve, and was angry. "After last night,
we wouldn't even consider working for a bumbling fool like you." She
leaned forward, into his face, and spoke very slowly. "*We* *quit*."
Without another word, she turned her back to him and walked off towards
Traders Avenue, following her comrades, who were already nearly at the
road, carrying small bundles of their personal effects at their sides.
Paitr was the last to go, moping sullenly away from the show. William
shook his fist at the man in anger. "You can't fire! I quit you!" The
former strong man let out a loud, deep laugh and went on his way.
"Great," William said. "Now we lost our workers *and* our tent."
"What now, William?" Tam asked. "Do we reform?"
"You mean get jobs?"
"Yeah. I was figuring, we've both got pretty good backs. I figure,
you could teach me to work on a farm."
"Tam, are you feeling all right?"
"Yeah, why?"
William sat down on the wagon wheel. "Well, I mean, getting jobs,
Tam. Do you know what that means?"
"Yeah."
"Tam, it means *work*!" William bent his head over and dug his
nails into his head.
"And --?"
Zeneca had a better idea. "Suppose you teach me how to pick
pockets?"
"Yeah," Tam said. "Yeah, I guess I could."
"Wait!" William pointed to their wagon. "I've got a better idea."
Tam leaned forward suspiciously. "Yeah?"
William jerked his head to the interior of the wagon, where Sera
still slept. "What do you suppose the reward is for taking that girl
back to her father?"
"I don't know, she seems pretty nice, and from what you told me,
which isn't very much, I'd hate to send her back to him."
That was not what William had in mind at all. "No! I've got a way
to make everyone happy, except her father."
========================================================================
Spirit of a Woman
Part 1
by Rena Deutsch
<Rena3@hotmail.com>
Mertz 994
Cool morning air touched the young woman's face as she stepped
outside to start her tasks for the day. "It is going to be a wonderful
day today," Anna thought and took a few moments to listen to the
twittering birds.
"Don't dawdle, Anna!" a voice called from inside the house.
"Straight, Zarit," Anna replied, "I was just going to feed the
goats."
"Hurry up! You have to make the bread!"
Dutifully, Anna complied. It was her handfasting day and tradition
required that she prepare the bread, which was to be shared at the
ceremony. Anna smiled inwardly as she thought of her beloved, Sarim. He
was a traveling merchant, who had passed through her village six times
during the course of the year, stopping each time for a sennight.
Riverrun, as they called the village, was about halfway between Tench,
Sarim's hometown, and Dargon, and provided an ideal place to interrupt
the long journey. He had brought beautiful cloth from Dargon, as well as
kettles, knives, and other household items, which he sold and traded for
local goods such as baskets and grain. Anna was sure her romance had not
gone unnoticed. Jerel and Zarit hadn't mentioned it once, but
increasingly sent her to trade with the merchants.
A deep feeling of love rose in Anna every time she thought of Zarit
and Jerel who had taken her in when her guardian, Tobias, had passed
away. The couple had treated her as if she were their own child, not
like an orphan who should be grateful to have a place to sleep. Over the
years, Zarit and Jerel had buried five infants; none of the babies had
lived for more than a sennight. Anna could see grief and sorrow in
Zarit's face every time she aired the little blankets and clothing so
the moths would not make a feast of them.
"Sarim, when will you come back to me?" This question had haunted
Anna since the day they had bid their farewells last autumn and he
returned to Tench. He had promised to be back when the roads were free
of ice again. Winter had never seemed so long. Finally, the ice had
thawed more than a fortnight ago. Anna's heart ached to see Sarim again.
Every time she had closed her eyes and thought of him, her body
remembered his embrace and her lips his soft kiss good-bye.
"Anna! It's time!" Zarit called out, "Come inside and make the
bread!"
"Coming!" Quickly, Anna finished feeding the goats and opened a
gate, which would allow them to enter a small enclosure behind the
house.
"Daydreaming again, aren't you?" Jerel laughed, when she entered
the house. He was sitting at the table, sipping from his mug. Anna
blushed.
"Straight!" he grinned, "I better go outside and set up the altar
and clear the site."
"Make sure the altar's facing east, Jerel" Zarit reminded him.
"As if I would forget," Jerel mumbled and left.
"Anna! The bread!" Zarit spoke up again.
"I'm working on it, Zarit," Anna said as she gathered the
ingredients for her handfasting bread.
"You need flour, salt, honey, --"
"I know, Zarit," Anna interrupted, "I have it memorized. You made
me!"
"Straight! And you better get it right!"
"I will!" Anna measured the ingredients for the unleavened bread
and mixed them in a bowl. Her thoughts drifted again to Sarim. She had
just finished doing laundry the day he had finally returned.
"Sarim! Where did you come from? I didn't hear you coming."
Overjoyed, Anna had wrapped her arms around his neck.
Gently, Sarim had taken Anna's face in his hands and kissed her. "I
missed you! And to answer your question, I arrived early this morning
and took care of some business." He had picked up her laundry basket.
"Come, I have something to show you and much to tell."
"Where are we going?
"Let me surprise you," Sarim had answered, smiling at her, "You'll
like it!"
"I love surprises!" She had cried joyfully and followed his lead
towards an unplowed field with an easy spring in her step.
"This morning I arrived with my brother's caravan. I bought this
field plus some of the adjacent forest. I had spoken to old Marten last
fall about buying part of his land and he'd agreed. By summer, I will
have a house of my own here and a harvest to look forward to." He had
turned around and looked directly at her, a broad smile on his face. And
then his expression had changed. Anna had noticed the longing in his
face as he reached out for her, drawing her close.
"All winter long, I have been thinking about you, dreaming about
holding you, making you mine. I couldn't wait for the roads to clear. My
father noticed my restlessness and finally I confided in him. We talked
for a long time and reached an agreement; my younger brother will take
over the trips to Dargon and I will settle down here, eventually
establishing a trading post. That way my brother won't have to stay here
and trade; he'll just pick up and drop off wares to exchange. My father
is too old to travel, so he asked that I bring the woman I love to meet
him." Sarim had slowly let go of his embrace, taken her hands in his and
looked straight into her eyes, "I am very much in love with you. Will
you be my wife, Anna?"
Anna had held his gaze and nodded. Inwardly, she had wanted to
scream for joy and cry at the same time. It had taken all her strength
to express her feelings and give him an answer. "I too have been waiting
for the roads to clear, hoping you would come back to me soon. Winter
seemed too long, and spring so far away. At night, I dreamed you were
there, holding me, keeping me warm. My heart longed for your return. And
now you are here, making my dream come true. I love you, Sarim, and
shall be your wife." She had put her arms around his neck and kissed him
passionately.
"Anna! There is no need to beat the dough. You kneaded it enough."
Zarit shook her head and began to place items for the altar in a basket.
"Yes, Zarit," Anna replied, formed a round loaf, and placed it on a
row of stones above the fire to bake.
"I've laid out your dress. It's time to put the final stitches on."
"Isn't it a bit early? The ceremony won't be until this afternoon."
"It is not too early!" Zarit insisted. Anna sighed inwardly. She
would have rather waited until it was time to actually put the dress on
and leave. Anna reached for a wooden box, which contained her sewing
needle and thread. Skillfully, she applied the finishing touches to her
dress, then spread it out on her bed and admired her work. The dress was
dark green with puffy sleeves and a triple-layered skirt. A light-grey
collar and a belt of the same color completed the dress nicely. Anna had
used the rest of the grey fabric to sew an underskirt and make a few
ribbons for her headpiece. Originally, Anna had wanted a different color
for her handfasting dress, but Zarit would not hear it. She had reminded
her that it was a tradition among her family to wear a green dress on
their handfasting day. "You're my only daughter, Anna," she had told
her, "Who is going to uphold the family tradition if you're not doing
it?" And Anna had given in.
"Anna! Don't forget your bread!" Zarit called, sounding
exasperated.
"I'm coming, Zarit." Tearing herself away from looking at the
dress, Anna left her room. A sweet smell enveloped her almost
immediately. She took a deep breath in, then went to check on the bread.
"It's done, Zarit! It's done!" she called out excitedly.
"Then take it out and put it next to the window so it can cool
off."
Careful not to burn herself, Anna removed the bread, placed it on a
platter, and set it next to the window.
"Done, Zarit. Is there anything else I need to do? Anything I can
help you with? I cannot remember if there was something else."
"No, Anna, you're all done. Go and wash up and then rest."
"As if I could rest," Anna mumbled as she walked to her room. A
washbasin was already set up for her on a small table. "Zarit thinks of
everything!" she thought and methodically reached for a cloth and towel.
"Are you ready, Anna?" Jerel asked a few bells later, knocking on
her door.
"I'm ready." She replied from within. Anna opened the door smiling
at him. "Time to leave?"
"Straight!" Jerel held out his hand and led Anna outside. Holding
her head up high, she followed Jerel. Torches arranged in a circle
lighted the area for her ceremony. The altar was set at the east border
of the circle underneath a rising Nochturon. As Anna approached the
altar, she quickly glanced over the items laid out. A small sigh of
relief escaped her. Everything was there: the bread she had prepared, a
chalice with wine, a bowl of water and one with salt, a red candle, a
censer with herbs to burn, and two garlands. Anna barely noticed the
people who had gathered to share her ceremony; she only had eyes for
Sarim, who already stood next to the altar, waiting.
"Friends," Jerel called out. "I present tonight my daughter Anna
and Sarim Molag from Tench. Both have expressed their desire to be
handfasted tonight. They will be partners, friends, and lovers for the
duration of thirteen cycles of Nochturon. If they feel that after
thirteen cycles each other's company is no longer desired, they will
part ways, honoring the other's choice. However, parting is not the
intention of this couple. So let us proceed with the handfasting of Anna
and Sarim!"
Zarit stepped forward and lit the red candle. She turned and faced
Sarim.
"Sarim, do you join us here of your own free will, to acknowledge
before the people of this village the bond that is shared between
yourself and Anna?"
Sarim looked at Anna and smiled. "I do," he answered.
Zarit nodded and continued, "Then answer this challenge: Will you,
Sarim Molag, care for this woman, working to meet all her needs? Will
you forbear her in her weakness, care for her in sickness, and be kind
to her always?"
"I will," Sarim said loudly.
Zarit reached for the chalice, holding it up high for all to see,
then addressed Anna. "Anna, do you join us here of your own free will,
to acknowledge before the people of this village the bond that is shared
between yourself and Sarim?"
"I do," Anna replied.
"Then answer this challenge: Will you, Anna, care for this man,
working to meet all his needs? Will you forbear him in his weakness,
care for him in sickness, and be kind to him always?"
"I will," she answered, blushing.
"Then share this wine ..." Zarit handed the chalice to Sarim. He
took a sip and passed it on to Anna, who followed his example.
"... and share this bread." Zarit picked up the loaf and gave it to
Anna in exchange for the chalice. Anna broke a piece off and held it up
so Sarim could take a bite. Then Sarim took the bread from Anna, broke
off a piece and held it so Anna could take a bite.
"Now that you have shared bread and wine, take these garlands as a
sign of your union," Zarit continued and handed each a garland. Sarim
took the garland and placed it around Anna's neck.
"Take this garland as a sign of my love," Sarim said, his hand
brushing against Anna's cheek. Anna smiled and hung the garland she was
holding on Sarim's neck.
"With this garland I pledge my life and love to you," Anna
responded. Sarim took her face in his hands and kissed her. Anna felt
his gentle touch and kiss vibrate through her entire body. All she
wanted now was to be alone with him.
Cheers accompanied the young couple as Sarim led Anna away from the
altar. As they walked towards their new home, Sarim spoke softly. "I
cannot wait for you to meet my parents. We'll be leaving day after
tomorrow with Ezra's caravan."
"So soon?" Anna said, surprised, and stopped for a moment.
"I've talked it over with Jerel," Sarim answered. "That way, we'll
be back before the harvest."
"Straight," Anna replied, "But ..."
"But," Sarim interrupted her. "Tonight I have something else in
mind." He picked her up and carried her into their house.
The journey to Tench had been slow. It had taken them almost two
months to reach their destination, stopping to trade with villagers
along the way. When they finally reached Sarim's family, they received
an overwhelming welcome. Friends and neighbors alike arrived to
celebrate Sarim's and Ezra's safe return. Within a bell of their
arrival, Anna had been introduced to everyone. Soon she was looking for
a place to rest, exhaustion displayed on her face.
Sarim noticed her distress and intervened. "Mother, father, it has
been a long trip for us and Anna hasn't been feeling well the last few
days. I think she could use some rest. We both could use some rest. Our
friends will understand. I'm sure Ezra has business to discuss with you,
father."
Thankful for his assistance, Anna followed Sarim's lead into the
house. She noticed the rather spacious room had a large fireplace with a
kettle hanging over it. An odd smell emanated from it. She placed a hand
over her nose.
"You'll get used to it. My mother keeps a brew going at all times.
We'll have some in the morning," Sarim chuckled, noticing her gesture.
"My parents' room is to the right; next to it is the room in which my
father keeps his scrolls." He pointed to a small space partially hidden
by a curtain. "Ezra and I shared a room. Tonight, he's going to stay
with the wagon. Now the room is ours," Sarim said as he opened the door
to a small room. Anna took a look around. It had a small window, a bed
with clean linen, a chair, a large trunk, and a table with a few scrolls
on top.
"And tomorrow I'll have a surprise for you," Sarim whispered in her
ear, barely containing his excitement.
"What is it?" Anna inquired, her curiosity spiked. Sarim just
smiled, helped her out of her dress, picked her up, and laid her gently
on the bed.
"Tomorrow!" He pulled the covers over her and kissed her good
night.
The next morning, Anna woke up feeling sick. She had slept well
enough, yet the moment she sat up to get out of bed a wave of nausea hit
her. She took in a deep breath and fought the urge to vomit.
Concentrating hard not to heave, she dressed and left the room to step
outside, hoping some fresh air would help.
"Good morning, Anna. You're up early. Did you sleep well?"
Anna turned and saw her father-in-law sitting at a table covered
with scrolls.
"Yes, thank you," she replied. "I was just about to step outside
for a moment."
"May I accompany you?" he asked, getting up.
Anna managed a smile. "Yes, please." She waited until her
father-in-law reached her. He walked slowly, using a walking stick to
support his weight. His right leg seemed to hurt.
"I injured my leg in a hunting accident," he said before Anna could
ask. She acknowledged his comment with a nod, fighting another wave of
queasiness. It seemed like an eternity until he opened the door and the
two stepped outside.
"This is the best time of the day," he said without looking at
Anna. "I like to see the sun come up over these trees." He pointed in
the direction of a group of a dozen tall birch trees and several
saplings. "There is a tree for every girl and woman in the family.
Something one of my ancestors started."
"What a lovely tradition," Anna remarked. "But why only for the
women?"
"Did Sarim tell you about the curse on the women in our family?"
"He might have," Anna responded slowly, not remembering having
heard about a curse, but not wanting to appear ignorant. "I don't
remember. Would you tell me about it?"
"I will tell you the story, but first, would you go inside and get
us each a mug with brew from the kettle over the fire? My wife makes
this brew for breakfast every day. It's quite sustaining."
Anna did as she was asked. The smell of the brew sent another wave
of nausea. Returning with two mugs of brew, she handed one to her
father-in-law and followed his invitation to sit next to him on a bench
next to the house. "Drink! It will bring some color to your cheeks."
Obediently, Anna took a sip then another. The brew tasted somewhat
bitter yet was sweet. Much to her surprise, her nausea subsided.
"The curse is an old one, that is, if it is even a curse and not
just circumstances and coincidences. If I were to believe my brother
Drew, our entire family is affected." He took a sip from his mug.
"What happened?" Anna wanted to know.
"This all happened about five or six generations ago. Zenia, the
sister of a direct ancestor of mine, drew the wrath of a mage when she
married another man. The mage put a curse on her that supposedly
followed her descendants. As far as I remember, only the women were
affected."
"What kind of curse did the mage put on Zenia?"
"Hold on, child. It has been so long and my memory is not the best
anymore." He turned and looked directly at Anna. "It is best you learn
everything. Do you know how to read?"
"I do not read well. My lessons ended when my guardian died many
years ago."
"You had a guardian? What happened to your parents?"
"I never knew my father," Anna admitted. "And I don't remember much
of my mother. She died when I was little. Tobias, he was my guardian,
took me in after my mother's death and made sure I was well. He died
many years ago. His friends Zarit and Jerel took me in afterwards. They
are the parents I remember and love."
"What do you remember of your mother?"
"Not much. She had hair the same color as mine. She was very pretty
and loved me."
"How old were you when she died?"
"I don't know. I was little then. We traveled a lot. My mother died
not long after we moved into a small village somewhere near the
northwest end of the Darst Range." Anna shuttered briefly. More memories
surfaced than she cared to remember and was willing to share. She closed
her eyes for a moment trying to forget the last image of her mother.
"What else do you remember?" His voice was harsh and forceful. Anna
felt his questions were more an inquisition than general interest and
hesitated.
"Talk child! I need to know!" He grabbed her arm and held it tight.
Anna winced.
"Please," she pleaded. "Let go of my arm. I will tell you, but let
go. You are hurting me!"
He let go of her arm. Anna rubbed the sore site and then blurted
out. "I was only a little girl." Tears welling up in her eyes, she
continued. "Mother was in stocks. I don't know why. She sent me to our
house and told me to wait there, but she never came. And then men came
and burned the house and I ran." Anna's voice had gotten softer. As she
spoke the whole array of memories long buried resurfaced. Suddenly, she
remembered every detail. That night her mother had picked her up and ran
to try and save them. They had sought shelter under a tree and her
mother had left her there. Anna remembered she had managed to find her
way back to the village. She had discovered her mother in stocks and
attempted to cut her loose. In the end, her mother had sent her away
with the warning to hide from the villagers.
All the pain and agony over her inability to save her mother and
the subsequent loss resurfaced in Anna. Crying, she ran towards the
birch trees. Not knowing where to go from there, she stopped and leaned
against one of the trees, sobbing.
"Anna," Sarim called softly. She felt his hand on her shoulder.
Anna turned and placed her head on his shoulder, calming herself in his
presence.
"What happened?" Sarim inquired as he helped her dry her tears.
"Please, can we talk about it later? I don't feel good." Anna felt
the blood drain from her face. Suddenly, the day's light turned into
darkness.
Anna woke and found herself in Sarim's room, a cold cloth on her
forehead. His mother was sitting by her side.
"Feeling any better?" she asked and Anna nodded.
"How did I get here?" Anna asked confused to be inside.
"Sarim carried you. He caught you just in time. I will let him know
you are awake again." She got up and walked to the door. Turning, she
looked at Anna. "Do not try to get up."
"But --" Anna began, but was interrupted.
"No arguing. I will bring you some soup."
Anna watched her disappear through the doorway and tried to sit up.
Darkness encompassed her again.
Anna woke to the sound of loud, angry voices outside. It took her a
few moments to realize that she heard Sarim and his father arguing.
"Father, this cannot be," she heard Sarim say. "She cannot be Meg's
daughter. You said yourself that she ran away and no one heard from her
again. For all we know she may have gone to Magnus or even further away
and is happily married with lots of children."
"Do not be blinded by love, my son! You just read through the
scroll yourself. Every time you returned from Dargon the past few years
you complained that Drew was not letting up, insisting that Meg had been
survived by a daughter named Anna, and that the girl was being raised by
a man."
"What makes you think that Anna is who *you* think she is?"
"Do you not see it? The resemblance to Zenia in the painting, the
painting you keep wrapped up in your room? The red hair and green eyes?
And remember I knew Meg when she was young. My parents raised her after
her mother died. Anna looks quite a bit like Meg and she lost her
mother, too, when she was young! Drew said he had found out that Meg was
killed."
"Drew also said that he thought her daughter had died."
"But that is where you are wrong. Drew said he had talked to her
guardian and told him the story of our family."
"Then Anna should know the family history. Before you spoke to her,
she probably never heard the name Zenia."
"Son, do you realize the chance you are taking by marrying her? If
there is anything to this curse then ..."
"*If* there is anything to this curse," Sarim interrupted his
father. "You said it yourself. If! I for one do not believe in it."
Sarim's voice sounded bitter. "If there is anything to this curse,
father, then it will end with Anna and me. She will die, I will die, and
if we have a daughter she will not survive either. The curse will be
broken! That should make everyone very happy."
Anna had heard enough. She pulled the blanket over her head and
curled up. Her father-in-law was right. She was Meg's daughter and there
was a curse on her. Little bits of memory fell into place as she
remembered the day men came to Tobias' cabin and took her forcefully.
The man who had rescued her called himself Drew Molag. Until this day,
Anna had not put any thought to the fact that her last name was now
Molag as well. Slowly, she put all the pieces together and understood
the consequences.
"Oh Stevene, is there anything I can do?" Anna prayed silently.
"Give me strength to do the right thing." She forced herself out of bed,
straightened her dress, and was about to leave the room when Sarim
entered.
"What are you doing up, my love?" He sounded concerned.
"I am fine now. I ..." Anna stopped uncertain if she should
continue.
"Yes? What is it?"
"I ..." She swallowed hard. "I heard you and your father arguing.
Sarim, what if there is a curse on me? I ..."
"Anna," he pulled her close. "I do not believe in this curse. It is
just an old family tale. I am sure my uncle greatly exaggerated and my
father is beginning to believe it in his old age."
"Would you show me the picture your father was talking about?" Anna
asked, suppressing tears welling up in her eyes. Sarim opened the trunk
and pulled out a well-wrapped package. Carefully he took the cloth away
and held up a picture. The paint was old and peeling off in several
places. It was a portrait of a young woman with red hair and green eyes.
"Who is she?" Anna wanted to know.
"That is Zenia, one of my ancestor's sisters. She is the one said
to be cursed when she refused to marry a mage. I never believed that
story, but one of my uncles thinks she is the reason why none of the
girls in our family lived."
"Did you have a sister?"
"I had a younger sister. When we were little we would climb trees
and my sister insisted she could climb higher than anyone else. One day
she slipped and fell off the tree. It was an accident."
Anna noticed the sadness in his eyes and kissed him softly. "I am
sorry. Did your uncle have any daughters?"
"He had several daughters. None of them are alive though. Some died
in accidents and two of them died of illnesses."
"What a tragedy." Anna spoke softly. "What happened to Zenia?"
"According to my uncle, she had a daughter. It's all written in a
scroll my father keeps. He knows the story and can tell it much better
than I ever could." Sarim paused for a moment, looked from the painting
to Anna and back to the painting. "You know, you look a little like
her." He placed a kiss on each of her eyes. "Same green eyes and red
hair."
"But Sarim, speaking with your father made me remember. And you
should know this." Anna pulled away from Sarim and gestured for him to
sit down. He pulled the chair up to sit down and Anna seated herself on
the bed. Without being interrupted she told him all she remembered of
her mother, her childhood, and how she came to live with Zarit and
Jerel. "Do you still think there is no curse?"
"What you have been through is more than anyone should have to
endure. But I still do not believe in a curse and neither should you."
He got up and left the room.
Anna could not shake the feeling that there was something he had
not told her. She felt confused and sad. Her mother-in-law brought a
bowl of soup and left the room without saying a word. Anna's mood didn't
improve. Feeling like an outcast, she lay on the bed and brooded over
her situation. Thinking about her nausea, she counted back the days
since she last had to deny Sarim his right as a husband. With a smile on
her face, she placed one hand on her abdomen. "I will keep you safe
little one."
========================================================================
