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.