James Maxey - Greatshadow

Zetetic stayed as close to the center of the floor as possible. I remembered his reaction when he’d first arrived in the cave. Apparently, No-Face wasn’t alone in his acrophobia. Yet, though Zetetic clung to the woven floor with white knuckles, his voice was curiously enthusiastic as he said, “Mr. Merchant, I’ve read everything you ever wrote about the Vanished Kingdom. The world lost quite a scholar when you vanished.”

Father Ver glowered as Zetetic spoke, ready to pounce if the Deceiver attempted anything. Reeker also kept his gaze fixed on the man, no doubt intent not to be taken by surprise again.

My grandfather seemed unaware of the tension in the air. He dismissed Zetetic’s compliment with a shrug. “The world lost nothing. I’ve come to understand that scholarship has very little to do with actual knowledge. In the world I grew up in, knowledge was something found chiefly in books. It was information that gets passed on as scribbled marks on paper. When I first started exploring this land, I wrote down everything I learned, because that seemed like a validation. It was as if nothing I was doing mattered until I committed it to paper.”

“It’s the echo of the divine that makes you feel this,” said Lord Tower. He had never actually landed on the platform; instead, he was hovering a few inches above the netting, perhaps worried about adding his weight to the already strained vines. “When we write, we imitate, in our own pale way, the original act of creation.”

Grandfather chuckled. “You’re my guests, so I’ll say this as respectfully as possible: books aren’t real. I mean, yes, books as physical objects exist, but they contain no reality or truth within them.”

“Have a care,” said Father Ver. “Your words venture dangerously close to the heresy of the Deceivers.”

“No,” said Grandfather. “The Deceivers think that everything is a lie. Reality itself is a fiction, which clever men are free to rewrite.”

“Actually-” said Zetetic.

Grandfather kept talking, ignoring the interruption. “The Deceivers are wrong, as is the Church of the Book. Neither accept the obvious truth: the only thing that defines the world is the world itself. Reality is the tree we sit in; it’s the sun on your face, the evening breeze, the bitter burst of jawa fruit on the tongue. The things we write in books are only daydreams and memories, mental constructs pleasant and useful, but not real. By the time a man writes of an experience, that experience is forever gone. The past vaporizes behind us; the future is devoured voraciously by the present. It is only in the now that we are alive. The physical world surrounding us is the only truth.” He looked out over the green mountain, toward the azure sea. “It is… enough.”

“Bah,” said Father Ver with a dismissive wave. “These are the pointless musings of the spiritually weak. The here-and-now is but a trap; the pleasure of the moment seduces men from contemplation of larger truths. Feeble-minded youth sometimes fall prey to the desire to glamorize the now, but I’m disappointed a man of your advanced age has made this error. Look around you, old man. You live in a bug-infested tree, among primitives who don’t even know how to make clothing. Without accepting a greater spiritual truth, man can be nothing more than another beast.”

Grandfather smiled as he looked at the leaves above him. He lifted up his skinny arm and snatched a bright green katydid from the nearest branch. The insect was perfectly blended with its surroundings, but my grandfather seemed to have spotted it effortlessly. “You call them bugs,” he said. He popped the leggy creature into his mouth and crunched down. “We call them snacks.”

During this philosophical debate, a stream of pygmy women had been flowing onto the vine platform across the rope bridges, carrying dark green leaves the size of dinner trays. And, dinner trays were precisely what they were. A buffet was laid out on the floor; bright blue jawa fruit adorned one leaf, plump white maggots writhed on another. There were speckled eggs the size of grapes, dark red snails the size of oranges, and at least a dozen kinds of nuts, half of which I didn’t recognize. One leaf held what looked like raw meat, chopped and ground to a paste. Nothing looked cooked.

“There’s no formality here. Dig in,” said Grandfather, snatching up a snail and a jawa fruit. “Since we live in trees, we don’t built fires.” He squeezed the fruit and the bright blue juice sluiced through his fingers and into the snail shell. “Fortunately, jawa juice is acidic enough that it effectively cooks most meat. Your civilized guts won’t suffer.”

Father Ver looked aghast as Grandfather sucked the snail out of its shell, giving it a tug as the last of the meat fought to hold onto its casing. The coil of pale flesh smacked into his lips before it disappeared into his mouth. Grandfather lay back on the floor-net, looking up at the sun-dappled branches. “Eat meat while it still has life in it. Keep fruit in your belly and sun on your skin. Sleep when you are tired and drink when you are thirsty. This is all a man needs to enjoy a long life.”

“There are elderly among the civilized as well,” said Father Ver. “Your recipe for life will not keep you alive a single day longer than the span the Divine Author has recorded for you in the book.”

Grandfather scratched the dark green pubic hair around his gourd, seemingly unconcerned that anyone was watching. “You are free to think what you wish. I wouldn’t trade my life for the wealth of a king. I live in the eternal moment, while a civilized man worries only about tomorrow, or longs for yesterday.”

While Grandfather and the Truthspeaker sparred, Menagerie dug into the food with gusto, not bothering with the fruits, just tearing into the raw meat directly. Reeker was more dainty, picking through the nuts and berries and less wriggly-looking insects. He carried a leaf full of food over to No-Face, who squeezed the fruits and bugs into a colorful mush, which he slurped loudly from his palm into a fold beneath his face-flap.

The Deceiver went straight for the nastiest looking dish, a sort of chopped spider salad laced with bright green chilies. He washed it down with a freshly opened coconut, the pale milk spilling down the corners of his damaged mouth.

“Doesn’t the spice hurt the cuts in your mouth?” Reeker asked, still keeping a close eye on the man.

Zetetic shrugged. “I’ve learned to enjoy pain. Plus, I’ve always had a sense of adventure in my diet. In my travels, I’ve been delighted by the different attitudes regarding what one is supposed to put in one’s mouth. One man’s spoiled milk is another man’s cheese. Some men hunt with dogs, others eat them in stews. What half the world believes is true about food, the other half thinks is false. It’s left me with an open mind and a daring stomach. I’ll put anything in my mouth at least once.”

Neither Lord Tower nor Father Ver made any move toward the dishes.

“Aren’t you hungry?” asked Grandfather.

“We have our own provisions,” Tower answered. “It would be a sin for me to partake in this food. Your people live in such poverty.”

Infidel’s eyes kept flickering toward the buffet. All the earlier excitement had probably built up her appetite, but she did an admirable job of just standing at attention, her face devoid of obvious longing.

“I assume you’ll see she gets fed later,” I said to Relic, who had a fistful of maggots.

Of course, he answered, as he shoved one of the plump larvae into the shadows beneath his hood. We have all the details planned out. You need not worry for her comfort.

Meanwhile, Grandfather had responded to Lord Tower. “Poverty? What poverty? None among us are hungry. We all have a safe place to sleep in the company of our family. There is not a single physical need we go without.”