Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

“He stood silent before her,” Calap began, “and she made gesture of welcome. ‘Great Fenn,’ said she-”

“What’s her name?” Sellup asked.

“She has no name. She is Everywoman.”

“She’s not me,” Sellup retorted.

“Just so,” Calap replied, and then resumed. “ ‘Great Fenn’ said she, ‘you come to the camp of the Ifayle Imass, the clan of the White Ferret. We invite you to be our guest for the time of your stay, however long you wish it to be. You shall be our brother.’ She did not, as you may note, speak of the dire state of her kin. She voiced no excuse or said one word to diminish his expectation. Suffering must wait in the mist, and vanish with the sun’s light, and the sun’s light is found in every stranger’s eyes-”

“That was stupid,” said Oggle Gush, her opinion rewarded with a nod from Sellup. “If she’d said ‘we’re all starving,’ why, then he’d go away.”

“If that happened,” said Apto Canavalian, “there can be no story, can there?”

“Sure there can! Tell us what she’s wearing! I want to know every detail and how she braids her hair and the paints she uses on her face and nipples. And I want to hear how she’s in charge of everything and secretly smarter than everyone else, because that’s what heroes are, smarter than everyone else. They see clearest of all! They wear Truth and Honour-isn’t that what you always say, Nifty?”

The man coughed and looked uncomfortable. “Well, not precisely. That is, I mean-what I meant is, well, complicated. That’s what I meant. Now, let Calap continue, I pray you, darling.”

“What do they look like?” Apto asked Oggle.

“What does what look like?”

“Truth and Honour. Is Truth, oh, fur-trimmed? Line stitched?

Brocaded? And what about Honour? Do you wear Honour on your feet? Well tanned? Softened with worn teeth and the gums of old women?”

“You do maybe,” Oggle retorted, “wear them, I mean,” and then she rolled her eyes and said, “Idiot.”

Calap continued, “To her words the Fenn warrior did bow, and together they walked to the circle of round-tents, where the chill winds rushed through the furs of the stretched hides. Three hunters were present, two men and another woman, and they came out to greet the stranger. They knew he would have words to speak, and they knew, as well, that he would only speak them before the fire of the chief’s hut. In good times, the arrival of a stranger leads to delight and excitement, and all, be they children or elders, yearn to hear tales of doings beyond their selves, and such tales are of course the currency a stranger pays for the hospitality of the camp.”

“Just as a modern bard travels from place to place,” commented Apto. “Poets, each of you can lay claim to an ancient tradition-”

“And for reward you kill and eat us!” snapped Brash Phluster. “Those horses-”

“Will not be sacrificed,” uttered Tulgord Vise, in a low growl of lifted hackles. “That was settled and so it remains.”

Tiny Chanter laughed with a show of his tiny teeth and said to Tulgord, “When we done ate all the artists, peacock, it’s you or your horses. Take your pick.” His brothers laughed too and their laughs were the same as Tiny’s, and at this moment the knights exchanged glances and then both looked to Steck Marynd who rode a few paces ahead, but the forester’s back stayed hunched and if his hairs prickled on his neck he made no sign.

Tiny’s threat remained, hanging like a raped woman’s blouse that none would look at, though Brash seemed pleased by it, evidently not yet thinking through Tiny’s words.

“The Chief in the camp was past his hunting years, and wisdom made bleak his eyes, for when word came to him that a Fenn had made entrance, and that he brought with him a sled on which lay a body, the Chief feared the worse. There was scant food, and the only medicines the shoulder-women still possessed-after such trying months-were those that eased hunger pangs. Yet he made welcome his round floor and soon all those still able to walk had gathered to meet the Fenn and to hear his words.”

Clearing his throat, Calap resumed. “The woman who had first greeted him, fair as the spring earth, could not but feel responsible for his presence-though she was bound to honour and so had had no choice-and so she walked close by him and stood upon his left as they waited for the Chief’s invitation to sit. Soft the strange whisperings within her, however, and these drew her yet closer, as if his need was hers, as if his straits simply awaited the strength of her own shoulders. She could not explain such feeling, and knew then that the spirits of her people had gathered close to this moment, beneath grey and lifeless skies, and the strokes upon her heart belonged to them.

“It is fell and frightening when the spirits crowd the realm of mortals, for purposes remain ever hidden and all will is as walls of sand before the tide’s creep. So, fast beat her heart, quickening her breath, and when at last a child emerged from his grandfather’s hut and gestured, she reached out and took hold of the stranger’s hand-her own like a babe’s within it, and feeling too the hard calluses and seams of strength-and he in turn looked with hooded surprise down upon her, seeing for the very first time her youth, her wan beauty, and something like pain flinched in his heavy eyes-”

“Why?” Sellup asked. “What does he know?”

“Unwelcome your chorus,” muttered Apto Canavalian.

Calap rubbed his face, as if in sudden loss. Had he forgotten the next details? Did the Reaver now stand before him, Death at home in his camp?

“Before the fire…” said I in soft murmur.

Starting, Calap nodded. “Before the fire, and with the sled left outside where the last of the dogs drew close to sniff and dip tails, the Fenn warrior made sit before the Chief. His weapons were left at the threshold, and in the heat he at last drew free of his wintry clothing, revealing a face in cast not much elder to the woman kneeling beside him. Blood and suffering are all-too-common masks among all people throughout every age. In dreams we see the hale and fortunate and imagine them some other place, yet one within reach, if only in aspiration. Closer to our lives, waking each day, we must face the scarred reality, and all too often we don our own matching masks, when bereft of privilege as most of us are.” It seemed he faltered then, as if the substance of this last aside now struck him for the first time.

Statements find meaning only in the extremity of the witness, else all falls flat and devoid of emotion, and no amount of authorial exhortation can awaken sincerity among those crouchd in strongholds of insensitivity. No poorer luck seeking to stir dead soil to life, no seed will take, no flower will grow. True indeed the dead poet’s young vision of masks of suffering and blood, but true as well-as he might have seen in his last days and nights- a growing plethora of masks of the insensate, the dead-inside, the fallow of soul, who are forever beyond reach.

Calap cleared his throat yet again. “The Chief was silent and patient. Tales will wait. First, meagre staples are shared, for to eat in company is to acknowledge the kinship of need and, indeed, of pleasure no matter how modest.” And once more he hesitated, and we all walked silent and brittle of repose.

“Too grim,” announced Tiny. “Brash Phluster, weave us another song and be quick about it.”

Calap staggered and would have fallen if not for my arm.

Brash weaved as if punched and suddenly sickly his pallor. Drawing deep, ragged breaths, he looked round wildly, as if seeking succor, but no eyes but mine would meet his and as he fixed his terror upon me I inclined my head and gave him the strength of my assurance.