Grin

Death came to me a little before noon. I know this only because it knocked on the door, I woke up, looked at the alarm clock, and was a little ticked off that I still had about ten minutes left to sleep. I threw on a pair of jeans and stumbled through the living room just to see who it was I was going to ignore. Then I looked through the peephole. I opened the door.

“Your friend has died,” it said. Then the phone rang. I walked into the kitchen and picked it up—Death inviting itself in—and listened as Nathan told me Mark was dead. I turned around and looked into this empty black hood at about the time Nathan started crying. I hung up.

Death said, “He is yours now,” and left. Just turned around, walked through my living room, out the front door, and strolled on down the street.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The whole grieving process got a monkey wrench in the gears when I went to the visitation. There was a whole room full of people, everyone either talking about unimportant things, or telling jokes about Mark. Each joke had a quiet mantra repeating like a background noise beneath it, muttered fervently like it would protect them from vampires: He would have wanted it this way.

Then I saw him, and—let me tell you—that complicated things.

Mark was walking around, grinning like a meth-head, listening to the little groups of whispering people. They kept talking, but I saw a few glance at him out of their peripheral vision, then nervously look away. After all, it’s rude to talk about someone when they’re standing right by you.

Every time Mark saw someone look away from him, he’d laugh a little. He’d walk up right behind someone and stand just over their shoulder, listening to prepared, eulogized stories about him, chuckling like every one was an inside joke that only he got. His aunt started crying, putting a hand up to her face. At first, I thought it was to compose herself, but then I saw she was trying to hide Mark, to not look at him.

Mark bent over at the waist, and I saw that his suit was cut down the back. When he smiled, I couldn’t help but wince. His makeup was atrocious. Maybe it would’ve looked better if he’d been lying down in his coffin, but up and moving around, smiling like a schizo, laughing, it looked fake and plastic and sickening. He looked right at his aunt, his face just on the other side of her hand, and said, “Now you see me, now you don’t.” He straightened, turned, walked a few steps away, then spun and yelled, “Cry about it!” Everyone flinched.

He turned back around, laughing, then saw me.

In one moment, my chest seized up, my muscles froze, and I stopped breathing. They could’ve set a plaque at my feet and put me in a display at the Smithsonian. If it’s true that a person only knows himself in the eyes of other people, I guess I didn’t like what I saw in his.

He walked up, shrugged, and put his hands in his pockets like a kid that just realized his dad was standing nearby. “Looks like I’m all yours.” He looked away, and most of his smile faded, except one corner that stayed cocked up like the hammer of a gun.

I looked around, and everyone had stopped talking. They were all looking at me. Every face had a wordless plea that was as clear to me as anything. So we left.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I took him to a restaurant. It’s an understood tradition at visitations and funerals. The waitress walked up and—I guess by how I was dressed or the look on my face—seemed like she knew where I’d been. But then she saw Mark and frowned something huge. I saw her close her eyes, lower her head, and take a deep, slow breath. I just got a glass of milk. Mark said he’d take two children, a nice house, and a pool, with a side of regret.

Things went downhill from there.

I hadn’t got through a single cigarette before he starts looking at other tables and talking to people. They were polite enough, I guess: didn’t make eye contact and kept their voices low. But some of the things he said really got to them. Deep, personal things. I mean, these words just poured out of him like he had a crack team of little imps with little typewriters hard at work.

“You don’t love your mother. Go home. Look in a mirror. Say it to yourself. ‘I don’t love my mother.’”

“You think this guy’s gonna give you what you want? Listen: five minutes of pumping and groaning isn’t gonna stop your clock from ticking. Get a dog.”

“Yes, you’ve been a bad father. No, you can’t make up for it now. She’s nineteen and doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about you, her boyfriend, or any other man.”

don’t remember sinking lower in my seat, but eventually I was eye-level with the table, and I had chain-smoked every cigarette I had. I kept thinking, Why doesn’t anyone do anything? Why doesn’t someone say something back? And the only answer I got was written on their faces: it was all true.

I mean, if a guy flat-out lies, you can call him a liar. But what do you do when a dead man starts running his mouth and yanking all your skeletons out of their closets? Sure, people got mad, but what were they going to do?

Finally, this one couple got up and left, and that broke the barrier of social propriety for everyone else. In ten minutes, the place was empty, and the waitress never got a better tip in her life. I didn’t tip because she never came back to our table.

"Why, Mark?"

"That's the big question, innit?"

"Shut up. Why do you have to be like this?"

His manic smile faded and he screwed his face up, fit to burst. He opened his eyes and looked at me. I couldn’t breathe again.

“You. Have no. Idea.” He came over the table, crawling like a clumsy spider, and grabbed me by the back of the head. I grabbed onto his wrists, but that was all I could do. “You have no idea. I’ve seen it, and it wants to be seen. Be heard! I’ve got it in my head and it wants out!”

He put his lips against the side of my head and hissed. “You get to witness. Shut up and deal. You’re a mirror: it only looks like you hold things in you, but you’re empty. You’re empty and flat.”

He let me go, sat back in his seat, and scowled like a demon.

“Stop crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

I put my hand to my face, then wiped my eyes with a napkin. He leaned forward, reached out, and tipped over my glass of milk. He looked at me and laughed until formaldehyde came out his nose. Then he left.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At the time, I didn’t feel anything at all. I sat at the table, milk running off onto my lap, and stared at where he had sat. I heard people back in the kitchen, but they never came out. I didn’t know it was possible to actively be, but I did. I just sat there… being.

Then I got sad remembering what he said about me. Then I got mad and told myself I’d prove him wrong. Then I got sad again that he was gone and I was supposed to watch him. I cried again. Then I got up, didn’t even bother to wipe off my lap, and left.

I haven’t heard from him since, and that used to really get me on edge. I kept thinking I was supposed to be with him, supposed to remember for him because I don’t think he could. But time came, and there was no arguing. It even got to the point that I used to miss Mark. I started telling people about the visitation and the restaurant. It used to completely kill a party, but the more I told it, the more people liked it. I had the trump of all Mark stories. And sometimes I sit awake at night, eyes open, and try to say those unrelenting words. I would try and speak like him, mad smile and all, yelling truths so heavy they hurt. But they never came out right, and I was left wondering what other poisonous secrets I was hiding. I needed his voice. I missed him.

Until Nathan died.

The Riddle in Wood

In Memoriam: Stephen Fulk

Kasham knew not where he found the box. He had acquired so many things that how or when or why was no longer a concern. But each hour since that ominous day, his mind grew more and more nettled. The box threatened to twist his heart in two and shatter his violent resolve.

It was as simple as poetry. The lines of its form were straight and gentle. The pine wood was light and soft, but no doubt marked from within by runes or some sigil to keep it from breaking and wear. There was no lacquer. And when shaken, something rattled within. But no lid could be discerned of its identical sides; no hinges seen, no seams in the grains of its wood. Save the mysterious rattle and its light weight, Kasham would have sworn the wood was a solid block.

Since first finding the box, since first hearing the tumble within, that sound jumbled and lodged itself in his troubled mind. Distraction of any kind would prove lethal for the demon.

Kasham was a proud Ahhazu, and a lieutenant among the Collectors. Bred to acquire wealth and goods for the war against Heaven, he held whole nations within his grasp. Any precious mineral he ate could be spat up later in perfect condition. Anything he laid his hand to would remain in his grip forever unless he willed otherwise. He could imprison a man in his mere gaze. A second-generation hellspawn -- his mother born of two Fallen -- he was awarded privileges and accommodations reserved for those of higher castes. He owned a pack of hounds that could smell and track saints from two languages away, and proved invaluable in locating relics. He commanded a family of goblins who could steal a thing both from its owner and its owner's memory. He carried a length of hemp that could bind hope, cut from Judas' own neck. And each day of his office drowned in a great multitude of thefts, kidnappings, lies, and pillagings. His will was immense and terrible, and now wholly obedient to the mystery of the box, the riddle in wood.

Two days after finding it, a fellow Ahhazu had stolen into the night with the female goblins that had, until then, served him. This she did by laying her hands upon the two eldest females; the others followed out of loyalty to their matrons. When Kasham looked up from the box to find the male goblins before him, standing with rage in their eyes, he knew the box could be the end of him.

Kasham laid a snare with his cursed rope and caught a Rabishu -- a near impossible feat -- and forced the lurking monster to take him to its lair. There Kasham found a mountain of books and papers and scrolls of every tongue and subject. Having no time to read this ocean of words, he called the remaining goblins to him. He sneered at the Rabishu and asked what it knew of puzzles. The monster, its hope bound in the coils of hemp, tried to trick itself from remembering just as it could trick itself from being seen. But Kasham ordered his servants to steal the words, the Rabishu's treasured hoard, until the creature could surely remember nothing at all. It was then the beast wept and pleaded, saying how in one of its lurkings it found a human who knew much of puzzles and boxes. The Ahhazu then told the Rabishu about the box, and the monster quickly blubbered that it had heard of this thing: a clever working that trapped first the owner's memory of its discovery, then -- slowly -- the owner. Only they who opened it in time would be granted the treasure within. Kasham and his goblins then proceeded to steal everything but the monster's name and the innate magics of its breed.

So it was that Kasham stepped into a miser's locked closet, left the house, walked across the street, and arrived at the home of Stephen, box in hand. He twisted the doorknob, opened it, and stepped inside.

"Suzanne?," called a voice from upstairs. A moment later, "Robert?"

Kasham smirked and made his way up the carpeted steps, muttering, "No. Someone else entirely."

There was a great commotion in the room before Kasham arrived at the small study, there finding the eyeless gaze of a double-barrel shotgun aimed at his torso, accompanied by the riddle "The hell do you think you're doing?!"

The demon looked from the weapon to the man who held it. He was seated, short and round, his face and voice weathered to suit his snowfall hair. His eyes were an alert, but weary, blue. He wore a plaid, buttoned t-shirt, khaki shorts, a brown leather belt and well-traveled moccasins. His reading glasses still swung like a pendulum from the hurried readying of his weapon. Kasham blinked once and captured him, as was his art as an Ahhazu.

"You can no more kill me than you can breathe, human. I, Kasham the Ahhazu of the Collectors, have imprisoned your form in my eye. You are subject to my mighty will and my dwindling patience."

The human's glasses stilled their movement on his chest.

"But hear, Stephen of the Puzzle, for I would have your counsel. Should you accept, I will only take from you the memory of this encounter. Should you refuse, I will coil you in the rope of Judas and take your hope." Kasham added as an afterthought, "And a human with no hope is an earthen vessel waiting to be broken." He relaxed his gaze upon the man. "You may speak."

Stephen frowned, the lines of his face cutting deep in loathing. He then rolled his eyes, displeasure still riding his lips as he muttered, "Sure. Fine."

The demon stepped forward, plucked the weapon from his hands, and propped it up in the corner next to a fishing pole, then released the human from the prison of his sight. Stephen slid back in his chair, warily eyeing his guest as Kasham turned his hungry gaze to the study around them.

The desk was heavily burdened by a computer and a myriad of papers that reminded him of the Rabishu's lair. The walls were adorned with framed butterflies. Windchimes hung before the open window, percussing an unrehearsed music that lilted in the cool spring air. On the bookshelves stood many tomes and pictures, and two rows of beautiful wooden puzzles. Kasham bent and studied them, his own box clutched in his iron grip. The hues of their grains varied as widely as their shape and complexity.

"I am pleased you have agreed," the demon said offhandedly. "I had feared otherwise, for you bear the name of the first Christian martyr."

"I'm not named after the saint," Stephen said, more relaxed now.

Kasham frowned at the puzzles, narrowing his eyes. "It is no matter." He straightened and turned to the human, displaying the box in front of him, held with the tips of his greedy fingers. "There is something within this. Tell me how to open it."

The human looked at the box, then back at the demon. "You can't open it?"

Kasham sneered. "I do not have time, mortal. This thing will be the ruin of me before I can master it. I would not forsake my power merely to open some magus' puzzle."

"You know," Stephen said, leaning back in his chair, "It's funny how often you guys say that." A gentle smile played over his lips.

The demon frowned in reply. "Say... what?"

"'I don't have time.' You have to admit, it's ironic. Especially if you're going to go around calling people 'mortal.'"

Kasham raised his face to the ceiling, shut his eyes tight, and bared his cruel teeth. Then he stopped. He looked at the man and revealed the confusion in his eyes. "Who else has come to you?"

Stephen chuckled and laced his fingers over his chest. "Hate to say it, but you're not the first demon I've met. Which means you might wanna start paying attention."

The Ahhazu looked at him flatly with lidded, angry eyes.

"In that box on the floor there's some puzzle pieces I made last week." He nodded toward a shoebox in the corner. "Looks about the same design: cut along the grain of the wood. If you put it together, you'll probably get a clue how to take yours apart."

The demon pursed his lips and frowned. "Hear me, Stephen of the Puzzle. If this serves only to stall me, I would have you know that my very eyes can enclose you as surely as any iron cell. Held within them, I can stop you from aging... or breathing, as you felt before."

The human scoffed and gestured at the shoebox. "Did you come here for the puzzle or not? I want you gone before Suzanne gets back from Saint Gabriel."

"You will not speak that name in my presence!"

"It's. The name. Of the school."

Kasham scowled, took a moment longer to stare down at the impetuous human, then sat on the floor and pulled the shoebox to him. Inside were small, lacquered pieces of wood. As the demon studied them, their genius became immediately apparent to his ancient mind. The individual parts were cut finely along the grain of the wood, but certain corners were straight and rigid, doubtlessly the edges of the finished result. The hard lines, like those of the mysterious box, would trick the eye into searching for more straight lines that would denote separate pieces, when such cuts actually followed the watery flow of the wood. The demon prodded at the pieces, separating those with the hard, outer lines.

As he did so, he said, "Tell me what form this is, that I may know the finished work."

"Hm? Oh. Dodecahedron. Twelve sides."

Kasham nodded to himself, having easily dissected the Grecian word. If only he could so casually take apart the box.

"There's a design on one of the faces, if that helps any. A cross."

The demon sneered at the pieces in front of him, seeing now the lines etched on a few. "It is no help at all. You are Catholic. You have a cross for every occasion."

The human snickered.

In no time at all, Kasham shaped the puzzle. Soft curves fell in place, aided by the subtle colors of the wood as well as the design on one of the faces. A cross of the pope? A Jerusalem Cross? No; not quite enough lines.

"You're pretty good at that," said Stephen.

"I am ancient, human. The mind learns to shape things easily in such time." He slid another piece into place, down now to only three left. "It is a matter of recognition. Such as seeing a man at a desk overburdened with papers: a puzzle of words and intent. Or the walls of butterflies, a metaphor of the human soul: a puzzle of a very different order." Another piece in place.

"And the fishing pole?"

"What of it?" The demon studied the two final parts, easily seeing where they go to complete the final facet of the twelve-sided puzzle, thus filling in the ornate cross etching. To fit, both had to be inserted at the same time.

"There some hidden puzzle there?"

Kasham smirked. "Nothing hidden, human. Only a matter of bait and patience." And he slid both pieces into place. And he looked at the cross. And it was the last thing he could recall before waking up in a dark, dark room with smooth, unbreakable wooden walls, the only light in which peeked through razor-thin seams that curved along the room's twelve sides.

A cross. With a brace above the arms to signify the plaque that mockingly identified the Nazarene as being of royal Hebrew blood. A brace at the bottom of the cross to symbolize the High Messengers at the feet of God. A line, slightly wider, below the brace: for the other Messengers. And another line, wider still, below that: for the humans. The Golgata cross, called also the Cross of the High Messengers... Cross of the Archangels.

Kasham screamed.

And a world away, Stephen of the Puzzle picked up the wooden shape. He placed it next to the others on his bookshelf, with the cross facet hidden as usual. He then retrieved his magic box and carried it to his front steps, his legs and arms pickled in gooseflesh at the cool spring air. The music of windchimes surrounded him. There he cast his bait back into an ocean of evils.

Disciple (pt4)

Zaji woke up to the faint rustle of cloth, like the whisper of linen over marble. He sat up slowly and was rewarded by the louder sound of creaking leather. He was cold, without his robes. But his arms and legs, strangely, were not. The chill against his bare torso invigorated him; it opened his eyes and put power behind them. He stood and turned his head to the ray of sunlight that pierced the cave's broken ceiling. In the halo of light lay the broken lantern, but off to the sides he could just make out the two monks, still sitting, levitating at the edge of the glow, facing him.

He stepped into the main part of the cave, looking from one monk to the other. Their hoods shrouded their faces, but he knew what he would see if he could: starved features, wilted eyes, tight mouths, and oceans of boundless gratitude.

When the light finally met him, he looked over the leather armor he wore. The arm pieces were fingerless gloves sewn tightly against bracers and elbow padding and buckles that wrapped his biceps. The leg pieces were full boots that encased his shins, jointed into knee padding, and buckled around his thighs. A belt was strapped around his stomach, hanging a long, black cotton cloth that reached to his knees and bore the old Thystic symbol of "Forever." Aside from the cloth and the buckles, every piece of it was stitched of a perfect, thick, black leather. The joints were well-worn and didn't creak as much as they should have. Despite the warfare this garb had doubtlessly seen, not a single ruining mark had been left on its hard leather pieces.

Zaji nodded toward the monks. They, slowly, nodded in reply and collapsed to the floor into heaps of papery flesh, molded musculature, thin bones, and tired robes.

He looked up at the sunlight spewing from the hole high above. He smiled to think he could have easily died from such a fall. The smile faded.

He thought about a nation of compromises. He thought about an Order of sycophants. He thought about home.

Zaji crouched, touched the cave floor one last time, and easily leapt up through the hole and into the day.

Disciple (pt3)

The flock of pilgrims trudged their way to the boarding house run by the monks. Once, the Order would have camped by the roadside or in the streets, humbly sheltering themselves with branches or planks of wood in honor of their mysterious and aloof warsaint. But when Zaji stepped into the house, he found four large rooms of barracks, filled to bursting with bunked cots and pilgrims lying side by side like fish ready for packing. Zaji stopped just inside the door.

Yana turned on him, Walthik stopping as well to see where she would lay down. "What is it?"

"No. Way." Zaji shook his head, looking at the rows of gray robes and sleepless pilgrims and tosses and turnings and scratches and murmurs. "I can't deal with this right now."

Yana made a face. "Don't be a baby. Just six days, then we're back on the road, then one last test."

Zaji shook his head again. "I'm going for a walk."

Walthik put his hand on Yana's shoulder. "Come on."

Zaji stepped back outside and almost ran into a lantern-bearing monk.

"Where are you going?," the monk inquired, lifting a single eyebrow as he readied the Scourge of Guilt with his gaze.

"For a walk. For a little while. I don't know." Zaji started off, averting his eyes and trying not to feel ashamed or worried that he'd be rejected for this.

"Your parents," the monk called, causing him to stop, "entrusted the Order with your safety. It would be wrong for us to let you stroll out naively into the dark at this time of night."

Zaji nodded, tasting acidic contempt on the back of his tongue. "You're right." He walked back to the monk, took the lantern from out of his hand, and walked out of Holmstead.

Once he left the city proper, the night was plenty more agreeable. Gradually, insects replaced the sounds of the streets, and the calls of night birds serenaded grassy hills instead of dusty alleys. He trudged, the weight of his disrespect hanging around his shoulders like a cloak of lead.

He thought about the Order, which was a basic foundation for every House, every province, yet chose to do nothing more than serve as babysitters for the nation's wild youth before they took up the careers they would serve for the rest of their lives. He thought of his father, and of his learning the trade of the butcher, and of negotiating with merchants for palatable prices and decent shipments that could be spiced up so nobody would taste how long the meat had been on the road. He thought about the High Council and the Houses, too rich to really be considered petty, who thought in centuries and played old games with the lives of their people. He thought about pubs that smother their patrons with enough beer and noise to convince them they are actually living life instead of life using them like pack mules.

One day, he would be back home, and he would see a table packed with pilgrims. And he would walk up to them and say "Remind me how the fourth stanza of Hsu-Hsang's Cycle goes. If you do, I'll buy you a beer. I remember it starts 'Your journey is your own. You share with no other. Your footsteps carry only you.'"

The ground gave out beneath him. He dropped, his upper body slamming viciously against the dirt as his lower half slid down the dark hole pulling the rest of him along. The lantern slipped his grasp as he reached out in the darkness, catching himself on relentlessly hard stone. The lantern burst, spewing fire in all directions, lighting his wool robe ablaze. He rolled away and tore the robe off with a frantic, panicked yank, throwing it into the pool of burning oil that massed in the middle of the cave's floor.

He dusted himself off and rubbed at the palms of his hands and at his throbbing knees.

He turned and screamed, the sound unnaturally loud in the small cave, to find two robed figures sitting quietly, gazing at him with empty eyes. He leapt back, almost fell into the puddle of blazing lantern oil, then caught his balance and backed up to the cave wall.

The firelight flickered against smooth stone walls and fell into a natural archway that led to another part of the cave. On either side of this arch sat the mummies, their leathery skin preserved by the stale, dry air. Their thick robes hung over them like spider silk, clinging to their frail, motionless forms with the kind of love and time that made even arranged marriages meaningful.

Zaji knelt, peering at the face of the closest monk, at the starved features and the wilted eyes and the pursed, tight mouth. In spite of himself, he felt peaceful looking on this vigilant corpse. He was being watched, but he was also being welcomed.

He advanced, his footfalls careful to not disturb the quiet of this place that had ruled for uncharted time. He crept to the archway and through it, where only the faintest illumination followed.

Someone wrapped their arms around him. Gently, those arms held him, and hugged him. Shyly, he put his arms around the figure as well and put his head on a leather-clad shoulder. He knew he was alone.

Disciple (pt2)

If the monks taught them anything, it was the power of guilt. Completing the tests and receiving the blessing of the Order of Tagret the Warsaint was only to be expected. Families gave up their young adults for a full year, sending them out into the world -- under the nominal supervision of the monks -- so they would learn discipline, culture, and hopefully get so sick of travel as to be content to spend the rest of their lives in their hometowns. There was always a celebration when the pilgrims returned, like an early birthday. The newly-made adult would then tell his or her pilgrimage stories, become the envy of their little siblings, and would compare with the stories of elder siblings and parents. And that was that. But the weighty anvil of shame hung over each and every pilgrim. If the monks so decided, a person could be sent back home prematurely, unblessed and unwelcome. There was no celebration for such failures. The monks used this shame as gracefully as any weapon, commanding it with only a look or tone of voice. Their entire morality and instruction was founded on a quiet repugnance that was palpable to anyone with a beating heart.

So instructed, it didn't take long for Zaji and Yana to guilt the other man -- Walthik -- into sharing his coin with them for a few beers. A loud pub, packed (as if ready to be shipped off) with sweating, fish-scented people welcomed them after a full day of pretending to be destitute. The three immediately saw about a dozen other woolen, weary pilgrims huddled uncomfortably around a single table. They went to the bar, found they only had enough for a beer each, got their drinks, and went to the table. Miraculously, room was made for them.

"And House T'vanna has locked down all the northern ports," concluded a bald pilgrim. Zaji didn't know you could ask the monks to be shaven completely.

"You don't really think the High Council will stand for that though?," asked another pilgrim, a woman whose short red hair stood out brilliant and fiery against her pale scalp.

"Like the High Council can do anything," a third pilgrim added. "Even if they wanted a fight, they wouldn't have the steel to do it."

"Wait. What?" Zaji looked from one face to another.

The third pilgrim turned toward him, causing those around him to shift position. "The army's steel is collected in the same place, right? For easy accounting?"

"Right."

"But it can't be kept at the House Rin'eth mines because they're so far away from the shipping lanes. The Council couldn't have it delivered fast enough in times of warfare."

Zaji nodded.

The pilgrim concluded, "So the next closest shipping town is..."

Yana picked up where he left off. "... Is Falom Port."

Pilgrims nodded shaven heads.

"I don't get it," Zaji said. "Where is Falom Port?"

Yana smirked at him. "In the north. House T'vanna land."

He gaped at her.

"You have got to be kidding me!," Walthik blurted. "So there's nothing the Council can do against the embargo?"

The red-haired monk answered, rubbering her hand together as she did so. "I don't think the Council has to worry about that. T'vanna hasn't made them that made. And it's no secret the Council get its stone from the north, too."

Yana nodded to Walthik after sipping her beer. "And the Council is in the middle of that big construction project. The commemorative statues."

Walthik looked around the table in disgust. "So House T'vanna's just going to extort the High-stinking-Council?!"

"I'm sure the Council's being compensated," Zaji added offhandedly. He gulped his beer thinking of rich men patting other rich men on the back, all laughing and having a good time in a big, clean city that doesn't smell like the dregs of the sea.

"But we need medicine from the north," Walthik pressed. "I mean, unless we want people dying of the wet cough just like they did forty years ago."

Yana nudged into the conversation, literally. "Maybe House Yulix will--"

"House Yulix," the red-haired pilgrim interjected, "hasn't done a damn thing in... well... as long as anyone knows."

The women locked eyes. Somehow, in defiance of all possibilities, things at the table got a lot less comfortable.

"Let me sum it up for everyone," the bald pilgrim said, his voice strong and confident, breaking the tension. He shifted toward the table fully, hands out to help him explain. "Everyone's taking care of the Council, but not each other. The Houses are playing an old, old game and none of them are stupid enough to risk everything they have just for a tiny little gain. The Houses think in centuries. And no-one... no-one was surprised when T'vanna announced the embargo. It'll take decades to clear all this up, and we're probably not going to get a shipment of medicine before then."

In a noisy, stagnant pub, the table of pilgrims fell silent.

Until a large man almost toppled over half of them. "Hey there, kids!" He was bearded, pouring sweat, and smelled like something that should be used to strip paint from the side of a house or tar the bottom of a ship. "I'll buy the drink of the pilgrim who can recite the story of Tagret the Warsaint for me!"

The pilgrims looked at each other. The bald one called back, "The whole thing?"

The burly man hiccupped and nodded, then winked at the table. "I've got a favorite part I'm listening for. If I hear it, you'll get the drink."

No doubt, this man had put his own little test to the pilgrims every year since he had gained the blessing of the Order. No doubt, the elder brothers and sisters of these same pilgrims had undergone this exact challenge and got a free drink out of it.

Yana started first. "Tagret was born in Southshire. His parents were a farmer and a potter. While on the road, he was attacked by bandits and mortally wounded. He had a vision of a dark man telling him to break the spine of the Kazz Horde. When he woke up, he met Hsu-Hsang, who had been taking care of him. He and Hsu-Hsang traveled together, met up with the army of Thyst, and defeated the Horde. Then Tagret had a dream of the dark man telling him to break the skulls of the Northwall Alliance. He left the army of Thyst, snuck into the Alliance military camp, and killed their warprince in a duel of knives. He took the warprince's armor -- except for the breastpiece because it was ruined -- and wore it and it's what's called Tagret's Skin. Uhm... and he said he didn't need the breastpiece because his heart was impenetrable." She fumbled, having lost her train of thought.

"Nope. No good." The bearded man shook his head.

The red-haired pilgrim continued, shooting Yana a wry look as she did so. "Tagret had another dream of the dark man, but killed him this time, and said his destiny was his own. He joined up with the other warsaints and fought the War of Retribution."

"Not it," said the large fisherman.

The pilgrims looked at each other, eyebrows lifted.

The bald one spoke. "Are you listening for when the demon cursed him?"

"Nope."

Zaji, thinking of the crowded, dirty town and the weeks of travel on any side of it: "When he rested here, at Holmstead, before going back to Southshire?"

"Nuh-uh."

Walthik: "That he pulled the jaw of the chief of the Kazz Horde clean off?"

"Nice, but no."

Silence.

"They say he liked the color blue," added Yana hopefully.

The large man sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. Zaji noticed two separate tables watching him expectantly, smiles riding their faces. Conclusively, the fisherman set their minds at rest. "He got crotch rot." The other fishermen burst into laughter, joined by the large man.

The pilgrims groaned. The bald one growled and yelled to be heard over the pub. "He was cursed by a demon -- named Fang-Eye -- so his children wouldn't hunt him. The curse made him impotent."

"Nope," said the chuckling man, wiping tears from his eyes. "Nope. Crotch rot."

And fresh peals of laughter filled the already crowded pub.

Disciple (pt1)

There were too many people. They cluttered his sides. They shouldered into him and sucked the fresh air greedily.

Holmstead was a port town threatening to dive right into the Violet Sea. The whole city smelled like fish, but its throngs had long grown accustomed to the stench and each other. Newcomers were not welcomed so much as advised to adjust. The dirty streets had enough people as it was, and if anyone didn't like the way things worked out in Holmstead, they were usually told to leave. Merchant caravans stretched out across the Ivory Plains to the west and the trade ship route regularly brought plenty of boats willing to take passengers.

Zaji was looking forward to leaving. He crouched at the side of the street, practically smothered by other gray-robed pilgrims, arm outstretched with his begging bowl in hand. Rows of the townsfolk strolled by, idly plopping tiny, bronze coins into each bowl. The pilgrims never even bothered to look at them.

He scratched at his ribs and sneered at the gray wool torture device. Even now, days after their last rainfall, it still stank of mud and sweat. Its wiry fibers clawed at his skin and threatened to tickle his bones. He looked to his sides and -- with a faint sense of sympathy -- saw similar looks of discomfort on the faces of the other pilgrims. At least he wasn't suffering alone.

The woman to his left nudged him with her elbow, which only made his ribs itch again. "Hey," she whispered conspiratorily, "have you seen a pub yet?"

Zaji nodded and waved vaguely with his begging bowl, the few coins in it sliding and chiming. "I think there was one about two streets that way. You going?"

She smirked at him. "Soon as I get enough for a few beers. But with the way these people are paying up, that'll be in four days."

Zaji chuckled because the act of pretending to have his monotony broken almost broke his monotony.

The pilgrim to his right craned his head around. "You going to a pub, you say?"

The woman, Yana, opened her mouth, shut it as someone dropped a coin in her bowl, then nodded.

"I'm going, too," said the man. "Gods know I could use a drink after all this." As he spoke, he leaned in, pressing his shoulder against Zaji, who had the distinct feeling of folding. No; not folding. Folding is delicate and precise. Zaji was crumpling like a wad of paper... wet, itchy paper. "Have you started memorizing the Hsu-Hsang Cycle yet?"

Yana barked a laugh. Zaji nodded, rubbing at his neck.

"Really?," asked the man, eyes wide at Zaji.

"What else am I going to do?" He ran a hand through his short, shaven hair. "I get bored when we're walking. I've seen enough trees and road. I'd go crazy on the pilgrimage if I didn't do something."

"What?," Yana coughed. "Meditating on the divine nature of the Eternal Journey of the Soul not doing it for you anymore?"

Zaji rolled his eyes. "No. Sorry. It's nice the monks want us to pretend metaphors are people, but -- in the stories -- the metaphors never get sore feet or the wet cough. The metaphors never miss sleeping in a real bed or eating real food." He got tired of talking, so he stopped.

"Well there's no way I can memorize the whole Cycle in six days," the man to his right spouted, adding a definitive nod. "Hsu-Hsang had his whole, wordy life to write it all down, and we have six days to know it all."

Yana looked up and down the line of pilgrims. She spotted one of the monks, their caretakers, who was doing his maddeningly slow stroll down the line. Waiting for him to look away, the peeked into her begging bowl, then looked back at the man on the other side of Zaji. "They did tell us a week ago to start."

"I was busy a week ago!"

Zaji and Yana immediately looked at him, disbelief pouring out of their eyes.

He sighed. "One of the pilgrims, Malep, is the son of the head of the merchant's guild in Nummeton, where I'm from. My father has a bakery and I'm already learning the business from him. Soon as we get back, Malep's going to take me on a merchant route for a week. We'll talk. And as soon as I inherit the business, I'll -- you know -- have a little something extra to talk to Malep about when we're negotiating trade." All this said while still driving his shoulder up against Zaji. "I've been buttering him up ever since."

"As long as the monks don't reject you," Yana chided.

"They're not going to reject me. The only person I've ever heard of them rejecting was a little soft in the head and the whole town told him not to go on pilgrimage anyway." He waved his own begging bowl at the monk, who had still not yet reached them. "As long as you look like you're trying, they'll bless you come winter. But it's not like you have to answer all the questions perfectly. None of them could do that."

The argument met with no disagreement.

Yana rubbed her nose. "Only two more tests. Two more journeys. Then we're done." Zaji and the man nodded solemnly, visions of home dancing in their skulls. "I can't wait to get back to Ressi-Town," she said. Then she sat bolt upright. Zaji and the man, thinking the monk had neared, did likewise, but no red-robed figured eclipsed their vision. They looked at her.

"Tagret's Rest," she murmured. She whipped her shaven head toward them both. "This is Tagret's Rest, right? This is where he came after the War of Retribution?"

They nodded.

For the first time in a long time, a pilgrim smiled. "Then there's only one more test after this one," she said, beaming.

Zaji and the man looked at each other. "She's right," Zaji said. The man grinned and nodded, sitting back again as a coin was dropped in his bowl.

"You look happy today, Yana," said the monk, his red robe immaculate in an impoverished way.

"Oh yes, master," she chirped. "I was just thinking about the fourth stanza of Hsu-Hsang's. It always makes me smile."

"It is a favorite of mine as well," the monk responded, slowly meandering past them and farther down the line of pilgrims.

The man on Zaji's right waited half a minute before turning to Yana with a twinkle in his eye. "I'll bet you all the money I have," said as he jingled his bowl, "that he has no idea what the fourth stanza is."

Yana chuckled and scratched her free arm.

Zaji sat up, craned his head, and called, "Master. I can't remember how the fourth stanza goes. I know it starts 'Your journey is your own. You share with no other. Your footsteps carry only you.' I can't remember the rest."

The monk blinked at Zaji, his face blank. "You should ask Yana," he finally said.

The monk walked on and the three squatted in silence.

"He probably knew," Yana said.

Zaji shook his head, smirking. "You lost the bet. That was the sixth stanza."

Yana sneered, leaned across Zaji, driving her elbow into his chest as she did so, and unceremoniously dumped her coins into the man's bowl.

Bright Eyes

He had watched them since their arrival in these woods. They were a quiet and gentle people whose only violent outlet seemed to be chopping down his trees. For the longest time, he had considered this an attack, but he was yet too weak to retaliate. True, true, the small clan would have to level most of the forest to do him any real harm, but pain is pain no matter what amount. Consider this the next time a sucker-fly lands on your skin and goes to work, siphoning off only a tiny droplet of blood for itself. You itch, scratch, and swat at it, do you not?

But time passed—a little slowly for him—and he gradually became aware that these people only cleared enough space to build their houses. Once the clan was settled in, an amazing thing happened. The lines between building and tree had disappeared entirely.

The trees themselves were drafted into the clan’s everyday lifestyle. Rope strung between them served a variety of uses. He had listened as amorous young men perched in branches and softly called at the upper windows of their coy idols. They lived, fed, and grew in his expanse, and he became used to the pain of their chopping. After all, winter hurt, but would never kill him. Always, he would grow back. And so when the autumn came, and the leaves fell, and the clan cut down his trees for firewood, he said nothing. He settled into his deep sleep and bid them good luck on surviving the bitter forest cold.

His sense of identity was a thing that spanned centuries. The clan, little by little, grew into the hundreds, into a tribe. And just as slowly, he had come to understand that he was a he. He had thoughts and feelings. They told him so, in a quiet way, like one whispering to a dreaming sleeper.

All this was set in stone the week the boy was lost. Tamon, it had been. Tamon was young and foolish, and set out into the forest to give his hunting father a scare. Inevitably, the young boy got lost, never once seeing his cunning, hidden father as the man waited patiently for game. The boy cried, screamed, and wept in a matter of hours. It took just as long for the one watching him to realize this was the perfect chance.

He had studied them for so long. He had learned their words and their shape. The forest is nothing if not adaptive.

A wooden frame, blood of sap, and flesh of the lightest clay. Moss would have to do for hair, but the eyes… the eyes he had no substitute for. Not as if he needed them. But his people talked so much of each others’ eyes that he felt strange trying to imitate without them. So he reached deep within himself, in a painful way that only the truly introspective can understand, and finally retrieved two bright quartz crystals from a geode.

He walked to the stream where Tamon trudged in a panic. The boy was almost fevered with worry, and kept looking up at the sky between the trees, where it grew unabashedly dark. Tamon hurried on, hoping this was the stream which led near to his tribe’s camp, the whole while unaware of the silent form stalking him, whose footsteps would never be betrayed by the complaints of twigs and sticks.

Tamon screamed when he heard “Hello.” He put his hands to his face and covered his eyes, as if this childish ward would protect him from all harm. If I can’t see it… it can’t-

“I said ‘Hello,’ little boy.”

Tamon pulled his hands down and saw the shape of a man. The shape was tall and willowy, but the voice was deep and untried. Tamon stared in silence. Surely I haven’t walked so far as to the western clan. This is a stranger’s voice.

The figure stepped forward, into a swath of light permitted by the treetops above. His skin was pale, like Tamon’s. He was barely clothed in… in bark? No, some kind of tough leather. And his hair… and his eyes! Those quartz eyes shone brilliantly in the twilight, and it was those eyes—those eyes he had sought to be so much like them—which made the boy scream and hide his own again.

“What is wrong?”

“You are a spirit-man and you will eat me!”

“I will not eat you. I have tasted of your blood before, and it is not good.”

This seemed to only make things worse. Tears trailed from the boy’s fingers.

“I will take you to your tribe.”

“I’ll not trust you, Jack o’ Bright Eyes! I’ll not trust your lies!”

The man blinked, more taken aback by the rhyme than its insult.

In the silence, Tamon composed himself. If he was to die, eaten by a spirit-man, he would know the spirit-man for what he was. Always, when he had interrogated his elders, they would say “A spirit-man eats little boys who run off… and who lie. And steal.” And he would beg them to go on, to say the thing’s shape that he may know it, to speak of its mind and its heart… this thing so similar to men but not. And they would only say “They are often bad things. But sometimes good. But even the good ones will eat the flesh of thieving boys!”

Tamon slowly lowered his hands and looked at Bright Eyes, sniffling only a little. He thought, under the circumstances, he had behaved honorably enough to pride his ancestors. And for the few hard-case dead relatives who still weren’t convinced, the boy cocked back his head and called “Eat me.”

“What? Why?”

“Go on! Do it! I’ll show you no fear.”

The spirit-man tilted his head to the side, an unconscious movement that felt too natural to be ignored. “You are strange.”

“And you are a coward!” Tamon could see them all, all of his ancestors all the way back to Red Bear, even grand-uncle Yulish who had been so cruel and picky, grinning ear-to-ear in pride.

The figure sat down on the forest soil, looking up at his accuser. “Do you want to go back to your people, or not?”

Silence. Wind tittered through branches. The nearby stream struggled to keep from chuckling.

“Yes.”

“Then follow,” Bright Eyes said as he stood. He walked a little ways into the forest, stopped, and glanced back.

Tamon stood with his arms crossed. “No tricks from you! My tribe is near the stream. We follow the stream.”

The spirit-man blinked once, twilight still finding those eyes. “This is the wrong stream.” He turned and kept walking into the forest.

Tamon turned about, looked around him for some magic landmark that had appeared out of nowhere to confirm his side of the story, and saw none. Defeated, he grudgingly followed the spirit-man deeper into the forest. He decided to follow and save his strength… just in case Jack o’ Bright Eyes decided to eat him after all.

The stream waited long enough for the boy to be out of earshot before bursting into laughter.

I Have Felt Books Breathe.

In quiet and somber halls, I have strolled like a Zen monk in kinhin, each step agonizingly slow as my sense of balance slips through equilibrium from one foot to the other, and I have heard the books whisper. They are quiet, and polite, and far too dignified to clamor for attention. They know what they are worth, and they are the world to me.

I lie. They are more worlds than can be counted. They are heroes and hero-villains; they are everyone I have ever met and multitudes I would like to. They are wild and vicious gates -- smiling like a magician or a thief -- and they are beautiful or terrifying or... or unabashedly interesting. And I have walked through many and not enough.

I have stretched out my hand in dust-laden libraries and let my fingertips lovingly feather over the spines of books, as gently as any beauty should be touched by mortal hands. They have sighed in reply, or shivered. And I have loved even the ones I have not been properly introduced to: they I have seen guiltily from afar, or noticed only in passing.

All this until I would turn a corner, or stroll -- achingly -- down an aisle, or touch just the right book; then I would hear my name whispered as if across a great divide. And I would open a gate. And I would be lost a good while in labyrinthine words and the magic of their stories.

Only there am I a hero.

Here, I am your wizard.