TMarkos
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Chapter 58 - The Word on the Street
🕑 Added 2022-04-27 16:00:09 +0000 UTCThe raven came upon the tortoise in the woods. It flew down to stand on its shell and wish it a good day. The tortoise looked up and did the same. The raven talked of simple things and the tortoise answered, and after some time they walked in silence.
Then the tortoise turned to the raven, asking if they were friends. The raven thought on this, for it knew all truths and no lies. Eventually it responded that yes, it was the tortoise’s friend.
The tortoise asked if they would always be friends, and the raven thought on this at length. There were many truths in always, and the tortoise walked in silence for a long way before the raven had its answer.
It told the tortoise that in the unwritten truths of always, they were both friends and enemies in turn, and that it could not say what tomorrow might bring without the lie of assumption.
The tortoise listened, and thanked the raven for its honesty. Then, in one swift motion, it turned its long neck back and seized the raven in its jaws. The raven cried out and struggled, but the tortoise was unyielding. It begged the tortoise to tell it why it had attacked, when they had just named themselves friends.
The tortoise said that the answer was simple - tomorrow held many uncertainties, but today the raven was within its reach.
- Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE
—
Michael strolled down the path between trees, his neck craned up to take in the flowers adorning the branches. They were in full bloom, their fragrance heady in the air; the air was alive with slowly-drifting petals and the industrious buzz of bees as they made their way through the orchard’s bounty. He paused to watch as one fat, pollen-specked bee burrowed its head deep into a flower.
Here was the genesis of a fruit, perhaps - if the flower was right, the pollen correct. He stretched out with Stanza, placing his hand against the tree, but the paths leading away from the flower were indistinct. There was the possibility of a fruit there, but the taste eluded him; too much was left to chance. The weather, the sunshine, the predations of flies and worms - a thousand factors split the outcomes between a sweet, ripe fruit and sour rot.
It was too early yet to taste what the bee had made.
“Told you before,” Jeorg grunted. “Time. For some things, there are no shortcuts, no quick paths to the correct end. To wait is a choice, often a necessary choice.”
Michael turned to look at him and did not speak for a moment, taking in the old man’s wrinkled face and flyaway strands of grey hair peeking from under his cap. He knew it was a dream the moment he saw Jeorg’s face; still, he took the moment to look at his old friend once more.
Jeorg smiled. He knew why Michael had paused, since he knew what Michael knew - since he was also Michael, in the end. Eventually, though, Michael pursed his lips. “I wish there was a way to know if the wait would be worth it,” he said. “It’s hard to stand by when inaction could lead to disaster. It’s hard to act when action could lead to the same. I would give anything to see the end of this path and know I’m not walking to-” He shook his head. “To whatever end. The fate that Saleh sees, or that Leire fears. That Luc fears.”
“Certainty is rare,” Jeorg said. “Often only a wish we choose to believe. Better to fear a fate that never comes than live blind, happy and helpless.” His face darkened, and he looked out over the orchard. “There is no safety or security but what you make. If you forget that truth, life will arrange to remind you.”
A chill wind filtered through the trees, and for a moment there were two orchards there - one lush and verdant, with the bees still bent to their labors, the other burnt and dark, and only the smell of wet ashes to disturb the air. Michael found his eyes drawn to Jeorg’s face once more, the lines etched around his eyes-
“Lordling!”
Michael blinked, then turned to find Charles standing behind him on the town’s low wall, face shaded with the last remnants of daylight. The chill wind blew with the smell of wet ashes once more, but it was an autumn wind and the ashes were the remnants of burnt outbuildings. He let his eyes stray past Charles to the north road, where crews of men still labored to pull corpses from the path.
Charles moved to stay in his view, an exasperated look on his face. “Come on,” he said. “You’re making the townsfolk nervous, perched up there like a crow.”
Indeed, Michael did sense a vague murmur of nervous tension emanating from every house and street of the town around them. Passers-by did not stare at him, but studiously avoided any eye contact while speeding their steps to move past his impromptu post. “I didn’t realize,” he admitted. “I was woolgathering.”
“Got enough for a jumper and a half by now, I’d imagine,” Charles muttered, irritably beckoning him down. “At least get something to eat. It’ll set people at ease, watching you guess which fork is appropriate for cabbage soup.”
Michael gave him a look. “Did we speak at all this morning?” he asked. “Usually when you’re this annoying I can at least remember what I did to deserve it.”
Charles’s face darkened. “You burned a few hundred soldiers from the balls on up earlier,” he said. “Or has that become old hat for you?”
“I’m not liable to forget that anytime soon,” Michael said, his levity slipping away. “I suppose I’m just surprised that you care. Those were Ardan soldiers I killed. I didn’t think that sort of thing bothered you.”
“Kill as many Ardans as you like, by all means,” Charles said. “But these people don’t know you’re useless, so when you sit around ominously staring down the horizon they get it into their heads that you’re contemplating whether or not to kill them all.” He shook his head, looking disgustedly back towards the village. “I am through explaining to people how thoroughly not-terrifying you are. Eat something, talk to them, and let them see for themselves.”
The nervous tension from the town seemed to swell in Michael’s mind; he sighed and turned back towards the airship. “Maybe I’ll just go back,” he said. “I don’t want to bother them if I’m not welcome.”
“You cannot be this thick,” Charles groaned. “You’re the one the boss brought in to save these people. It would do her no favors if they think she’s in league with foreigners and monsters both.”
“Monsters?” Michael asked.
Charles gave him a look. “From the balls up, lordling. If all people know of you is that you did a monstrous thing, then that’s what they’ll use to define you. You don’t like it? Show them something different.”
Michael nodded slowly. “That’s not bad advice,” he allowed. “I’m still not sure why you’re giving it to me.”
“Maybe I’d rather not be known as the man who came back to Daressa with a monster,” he said. “Maybe I don’t want stories to spread about the boss. Maybe I just feel generous today. Doesn’t matter what I want.” He walked to the narrow stone stair that led down from the wall, then looked back at Michael. “You’re not fighting this war alone. You want the rest of them to fight too, think about what you’re showing them.”
Charles turned and walked down the stairs; a long minute later, Michael did the same. The town drew close around him, from his lower vantage, the narrow streets darker by far in the late evening light. The few men he saw stayed well-clear of him, though it might have been the simple prudence evoked by a stranger in the dark. That was a more pleasant thought, at least.
Darkness gave way to a warm pool of light spilling from tavern windows; as with so many towns, the lone inn had been the gathering point for the resistance under Sobriquet and Clair. Now it served as the ad-hoc headquarters of the Mendiko presence in town, with soldiers standing alert outside its doors and the inside full nearly to bursting with soldiers, townspeople and ragged partisans.
Michael approached the doors; the guard eyed him for a moment before recognition bloomed in his face. He stepped aside with alacrity, his emotions blurring with more fear than Michael would have preferred - but the man was soon lost against the crowd inside, the single point turning into a tolerable bed of nails. A moment later the disorientation passed; his eyes found the counter at the back where the barkeep was lining up bowls of something hot and fragrant, pushing mugs of beer forward to anyone who could reach.
Before Charles’s voice could echo once more in his head, Michael stepped toward the food. Midway through the crowd he felt the shift, the sudden focus as eyes snapped to his face, conversations stilling in favor of silent regard. It was not totally quiet when he came face-to-face with the barkeep, but the low roar of conversation had turned to furtive whispers and uneasy rustling.
The man behind the counter was older, with thinning dark hair and lined eyes; Michael looked him in the eyes and nodded as he walked up to take a bowl and mug. “Thank you,” he said. “It smells delicious.” He turned and scanned the room, ignoring the faces pointedly not-staring at him. The tavern was laid out in the common country style, with a few long tables sporting bench seats. A few solitary tables lay empty on the far side of the room, however, so he made his way there and sat.
Palpable discomfort clogged the air, but Michael focused on the first bite of what had turned out to be a thick meat and vegetable stew. It was tender and well-spiced, and for a moment there was nothing on his mind but the heat and flavor slowly diffusing across his tongue. He sighed and dipped his spoon back in for another bite. After a few more mouthfuls he let his spoon rest in the half-full bowl and lifted his mug for a drink of beer.
When he set it back down, a young man had taken the empty seat across from him. Michael looked up. “Hello,” he said, giving the other man a polite nod. He was perhaps four or five years younger than Michael, with shaggy dark hair and ill-fitting clothes.
“You Ardan?” the young man asked.
Michael paused with his spoon still in the bowl, then let his hand drop from the handle. He sensed no anger from the man, only what might have been curiosity. “Yes,” Michael said. “That’s where I’m from, at any rate.”
The dark-haired man nodded, his brow wrinkling. “You an officer? You talk like an officer.”
“An officer?” Michael asked. He shifted his sight to look around the room, wondering if Charles was playing a prank on him; he didn’t see the artifex anywhere, though, so he returned his attention to the man. “No, I was never in the military.”
“How come you’re in Daressa, then?” he asked.
Michael tilted his head, considering how much of the lengthy answer to that question would be appropriate to share. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The young man blinked, seeming to realize where he was; Michael felt some of the familiar fear coalesce in the other’s heart. He talked like an officer, the man had said. Wealthy, educated. It wasn’t a stretch to think that an Ardan voice like his, asking questions, would raise some memories best left buried. The indecision stayed on his face for a moment - then vanished.
“Marc,” the man said.
Michael nodded. “Marc.” He extended his hand across the table. “I’m Michael.”
Marc looked down at the offered hand for a long moment before reaching his own hand to take it; his skin was dry and rough, with dirt lodged under cracked nails. Michael shook, then withdrew his hand.
“I’m here to help a friend,” Michael said. “And hopefully to right a few wrongs along the way.”
The half-answer provoked a sage nod from Marc. “Thought so,” he said. “Heard you came back with the Mockingbird. She find you in Mendian?”
Michael smiled. “She found me here, in fact. I was in prison-” He raised a hand as Marc’s eyebrows shot up. “-due to a misunderstanding. You see, I was shipwrecked here, more or less, and found myself without any shoes…”
The retelling took some time, despite being generously-abridged for brevity and sensitive details; by the time had Michael finished with a summary of their journey north through Rul and Esrou a small crowd had formed to listen.
“…and then of course we came back,” Michael concluded. “To take the fight to Saf and Ardalt, though for some reason they seem to have lost interest.” He rolled his eyes toward the tavern window, where the hulking silhouette of the grounded airship was just visible over the town walls; chuckles broke out among those listening.
“That was you what killed Sever, then?” a voice asked from behind him. “My cousin keeps telling me he ain’t dead.”
Michael twisted to look at the young woman who had spoken. “Your cousin’s right, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “Sever was injured after our fight, but as far as I’m aware he’s still alive.” A moment of disquiet passed over him as he spoke; would he have known if Sever had died while he was in Mendian? And, if so, did that mean his soul would pass along their invisible bond no matter the distance?
Was he doomed to receive these souls someday? If Friedrich was bound to him then Sofia certainly was, potentially even Saleh and Amira. Certainly he was in their thoughts enough that the possibility couldn’t be ruled out, now that they were engaged in open conflict. Leire and Sera rounded out the Eight - and Michael was plausibly bound to all of them, if he did not die first.
The horrible thought took root in his mind and grew, speeding his heart and spreading an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He tried not to let it show on his face, wrenching his focus back just as Marc leaned forward, frowning.
“Why’d you leave him alive?” he asked.
Michael pressed his lips together. Because I was afraid of gaining that soul. Because I couldn’t bear more death. Because Sera wanted him to suffer for Clair and Gerard. He looked at Marc.
“Because we had to run!” he said, forcing a grin. “We were still in the middle of the Ardan trenches, with Sibyl and who knows how many soldiers there. I was injured too, as were some of the others.”
“A shame those monsters walked away. Could have saved some trouble,” the woman behind him scoffed. “And lives.”
Michael turned to look at her again, the warmth from his meal entirely dispelled. Her point was valid; Sofia and Friedrich had gone on to inflict further misery on Daressa, and Michael had run from conflict with each. Fear had stopped him from killing Friedrich, and attacking Sofia had honestly never occurred to him. He had still hoped for reconciliation when they last met.
Should he have seen it, even then? He - ah. Michael focused on the young woman’s face, her cheeks losing color with every moment that his eyes remained fixed on her. A needle-sharp pulse of fear stirred within her, yearning to spread outward.
He smiled and nodded his head, exaggerating it a touch to make sure the woman knew he wasn’t offended by her comment. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s possible we could have saved some lives - or lost our own, and any chance of bringing Mendian into the fight.” He shrugged despite the tightness creeping through his shoulders. “We had just lost one of our own. At the time it seemed more important to save lives than take them.”
The woman flushed and looked away, shrinking back into the crowd; Michael felt a flush of relief as the tension that had built during his reverie bled away. He hung on to a small sliver of his own, though, the gnawing question of how many lives had been lost because he had indulged his fear.
“You’ll get ‘em in Leik,” Marc said confidently. “Nowhere to run from there except back across the ocean.”
Michael looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t mind if they run,” he said. “The goal is to get the War out of Daressa. Ardans in Ardalt and Safid in Saf. If they want to make it easy for us and leave without a fuss, then that’s best for everyone.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re Ardan!” another voice called out from the crowd, spurring a few murmurs of agreement. “I’m not letting those bastards slip off without a flogging. There’s too many Daressan dead to let them sail off like that.”
“I am Ardan,” Michael agreed, a slight twist of Stanza in his voice reverberating to still the growing noise of the crowd. “It’s how I know that once you send the Ardans off, they’re not coming back. Ardalt is tired of war. They’ll taste peace and demand to keep it. It may be that the men in charge will realize this too, and fight to stay here before the end.”
He shrugged. “If they do, then I’ll be right there with you to see them off by force. But I don’t think their soldiers will be so eager to die.” He looked in the direction of the man who had spoken. “And neither should you be. The Ardans aren’t the real enemy. We’ll fight them for a few weeks, perhaps months, but one way or another they’ll be back in Ardalt before long.”
Michael took a long drink of his beer, only partly to wet his tongue; letting Stanza ring out in his voice had warded off the Daressans’ ire, but he had traded it for their attention. He swallowed and set his mug down slowly, ordering his words more deliberately now.
“We’ll still be here,” he said. “With the Safid.”
He felt more than heard the nervous shift his words provoked; Michael took another moment to be sure it did not bleed into his own speech. “So, yes - you could run after the Ardans while they retreat. Make them pay for the years of hardship they’ve given you. You’ll kill some of them, and they’ll kill some of you; every bullet fired and every man lost is one that we won’t have when it comes time to face the Safid.”
Michael took another bite of his cooling stew, then another. By the time he had finished his bowl the crowd had thinned, its energy fading to a pensive throb that seemed to echo about the room. Marc stood when Michael placed his spoon in the bowl, looking down at him.
“You worried about the Safid?” he asked.
Michael looked up. “Yes. As are a lot of others. Mendian didn’t come down across the strait for the Ardans.”
“So what are we to do?” Marc asked, his fists clenching. “If a man like you is worried, what can a man like me do?”
“We’ve both got to do whatever we can,” Michael said. “Maybe you can’t stand against ensouled on the field, but I can’t be the one to build Daressa anew. That’s what will keep the Safid from coming back again in twenty years, and that’s something that only men like you can do.”
Marc’s brow furrowed; he looked as though he was about to say something more but shut his mouth and turned away, his thoughts swirling with indistinct and troubled emotion. At his departure the remainder of those listening also drifted away, their attention wandering now that the nucleus of the conversation had left.
Michael let his breath out in a rush, finally daring to let his own disquiet show on his face. Charles had been right in pointing out the misgivings growing within the Daressans, but it had been rash of Michael to follow his advice on mingling with them. There were moments when the room had teetered on a knife’s edge between anger and consideration. Next time he would find Sobriquet first and ask her advice, rather than tossing himself into a situation where a wrong phrase could turn the crowd sour. He thought he had handled it well, but-
Another man sat down across from him; Michael stilled his face and looked up - only to see that it was Luc. Relief flooded into him, followed by a slow consternation as he saw the other man’s expression.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.
Luc shook his head agitatedly, his hands tucked down below the table; Michael could see the telltale movements of his nervous fidgeting, though. “That was dangerous,” he said.
Michael blinked, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose it was,” he sighed. “I only realized it halfway through. I think it worked out for the best, though.”
“You need to be careful,” Luc said. “You’re daring the world to push back, just like the soldier up north. Just like Antolin wants.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do,” Michael said, rocking back in his chair. “Ignoring his questions would have been a different sort of dangerous, as would ignoring the tensions rising from the fight earlier.” He frowned, then leaned back forward. “Is this about me killing those men?”
Luc hesitated, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “And yes. More than anyone else here, I understand why you did that. I know what those men were - or weren’t. But even Ardans wouldn’t sacrifice their soldiers like that for nothing. They did it because you were coming, because you brought the Mendiko here. You push, they push.”
“We can’t just do nothing, Luc!” Michael snapped. He winced and leaned further in, lowering the tone of his voice. “I’m sorry, but we can’t. We have the ability to help people. I’m happy that you’ve found a way to do it without harming others in turn, but your soul is different from mine. My help comes with a certain measure of harm. I can only work to limit it, not avoid it entirely.”
Luc’s face darkened. “But you’re not limiting it,” he said. “Going out here and telling stories only feeds the flames. Why not eat on the ship with the others? They’re already spoiling for violence, why make it worse?”
Michael frowned. “Charles pointed out that I had alarmed them today, so I was trying to set them at ease. I already realized there was probably a better way to go about it. I’m not trying to stir things up, Luc, I - Ghar’s bones, I don’t know any more about war than you do, I’m just trying to get through as best I can.”
The anger on Luc’s face broke, and he slumped back against his chair. “I know,” he said morosely. “I’m sorry. All I see is the injured after the fighting, and I know the violence will grow past the point where we can keep up. Every time you do something like this it speeds the train that much faster, makes the crash that much worse.”
“I don’t know if it’s much consolation, but I don’t think either of us are as important as we’d like to believe,” Michael sighed. “I could feel it, trying to talk them down from hating the Ardans. They’re angry; they deserve to be angry. The train never had any brakes.”
“Maybe,” Luc allowed. He shook his head, then leaned forward on the table. “I feel like we’re being pushed, like events are conspiring to trap us in this rockslide that builds and builds until the whole world has come tumbling down.”
Michael snorted, a smile twisting the corners of his mouth. “I think I know what that feels like, yeah.” He raised an eyebrow at Luc and was rewarded with a tiny echo of a smile on the other man’s lips. “Listen, maybe there isn’t anything we can do - but I promise I’ll try to think things over, make sure I’m not fouling it up. I did learn something important tonight.”
“Oh?” Luc asked. “What’s that?”
“Never listen to Charles,” Michael said conspiratorially. Luc’s eyes widened, then crinkled with a burst of laughter; Michael joined in and rose to his feet, clapping Luc on the shoulder.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go back to the ship before the world decides to throw something else our way.”
Luc nodded, and together the two walked out into the night.
Comments
Blorcyn
Thank you for the reminder. I think I must have missed the colour in their appearance together, because I remember puzzling through which was Stellar and Smoke. Considering the role of Smoke presently, I'd be interested to see an allegory that touched on the difference between a hound and a wolf as applies to the Safid, and what they say about it. [EDIT to say: This isn't one of those shitty 'request not phrased as a request' entitled comments I know irritates many. More a general thought, to other commenters and yourself as a person but not as the author who's writing this continuing work. I mean -- Imagining the world and the whole text, and Smoke's importance to the Safid war effort at the moment, and his personal copy, I bet there are some interesting comments and sections that discuss the Hound and the Wolf, and my imagination naturally draws towards wondering what they would be.] The contrast of Stanza and Spark has always been really entertaining so far. Thanks for your reply. It's always really interesting to get your thoughts. Difficult to do, but you're succeeding, and they pay off. Look forward to next wednesday!
TMarkos
We got the full manifest of pre-Gharic Ardan animal associations back in chapter 44, where the epigraph laid out the opposing pairs - Sever is a boar, Sustain is the tortoise, Smoke is a black hound and Stellar is a white wolf, Sibyl and Sobriquet are the familiar Raven and Mockingbird symbolism (this is where everyone gets it) and Spark/Stanza are represented by man and his reflection. The parables are really fun to write, although the PGAM ones like this chapter are challenging because the prose is so different from everything else I do - when they're written by a character it's easy to write in their voice, but this is stilted and formalized in the manner of a story that has been passed down verbally for hundreds of years prior to being written down. I think the magic of them is the same as what makes all parables interesting - that they contain a lesson that *seems* to apply to a broad swathe of life events, an allegorical framework that you can use as a lens. Yet life is rarely as simple as a parable, so it's never something that you use directly - just a sort of representative case, like an example problem in a book that previews the actual test to come. I like any tool that gets authors and readers thinking about things in the same way, since that's often a hard task.
Blorcyn
Another wonderful opening parable. My memory isn't the best, and I know we've seen all eight parable animals, but I can't quite remember who is who. I suppose it doesn't matter. What I liked as I read through was trying to figure out what it would 'apply' to. And then later figuring out whether it should be accepted as a warning, or as a way to distance himself from Safid beliefs and philosophy. I thought at first it was going to be about the villagers turning on him, while he was with them/the Mendians, rather than hope for continuing friendship. Then I thought, ah, ok, he's winning them over, so it's about him having let Sofia and Sever go. Then he started to lose them and I thought, ah, ok no, it was the first thing. Then he talked about letting the Ardalt's retreat for the battle against the Safid tomorrow, and I thought, ooooooooh /foreshadowing/. Then Luc arrived, and I thought, *Luc*. My ultimate point is: Extremely parable-ous. I think these epigraphs serve your story and each chapter so well, and they're a relatively ... I don't want to say hackneyed, but they're a common device, a well loved device that often they're fun and open exposition or humour without too much to worry about. I have no criticisms of A Practical Guide to Evil for them, they're hilarious. I just want to emphasise how impressed I am by how you create these fantastic normal uses of epigraphs and then make them work double time to pick up slack and create a continuous tension, a building mystery that can retain tension through several new contexts. I wish I could do what you do. Do you draw insipiration from any particular places as you go?
