Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

Noting at last the host of blank expressions, he said, “The significance of this-”

“Is a form of torture I will not abide,” said Tiny Chanter.

“Carrot through the eye,” said Midge. “Anyone got a carrot?”

“Eye,” said Flea.

“Anomander kills Draconus and gets the sword!” shouted Brash Phluster. “You never let me get to the funny bits-you can’t vote, it’s not fair!”

“Oh be quiet, will you?” said Tulgord Vise. “Plenty of light left this day, and we’ve plenty of cooked meat from yesterday. No, what we need is water. Sardic Thew, what chance the next spring is dry?”

The host stroked his jaw. “We’ve no more than trickles for days now, in every watering hole. I admit I am worried mightily, good sir.”

“Might have to bleed someone,” said Tiny, showing his tiny teeth again. “Who’s flush?”

His brothers laughed.

I spoke then. “Vows are as stone, each a menhir raised like a knuckled finger to the sky. The knights who hunted the Nehemoth were not alone in such cold chisel. Another traveled in the group, a strange and silent man who walked like a hunter in forestlands, yet in his face could be seen the ragged scrawl of a soldier’s cruel life, a past of friends dying in his arms, of the guilt of surviving, of teeth bared to fickle chance and a world stripped of all meaning. The gods are as nothing to a soldier, who in prayer only begs for life and righteous purpose, and both are selfish needs indeed. This is not reaching up to touch god. It is pulling the god down as if stealing a golden idol upon a mantelpiece. Begging voiced as a demand, a plea paid out as if owed, such are a soldier’s prayers.

“Faith fell beneath his marching boots long ago. He knows the curse of reconciliation and knows too its falsity, the emptiness of the ritual. He has abandoned redemption and now lives to excoriate a stain from the world. That stain being the Nehemoth. In this, perhaps, he is the noblest of them all-”

“Not true!” hissed Arpo Relent. “The Well Knight serves only the Good, the Wellness of the soul and the flesh that is its home! Not a single three-finned fish has ever passed these lips! Not a sip of wretched liquor, not a stream of noxious smoke. Vegetables are the gift of god-”

“Didn’t stop you stuffing your maw last night though, did it?”

Arpo glared at Tiny who grinned back. “Necessity-”

“Of which the hunter and soldier understood all too well,” I resumed. “Necessity indeed. The vow stands tall upon the horizon, bold in bleak skies. Even the sun’s light cringes from that dark stone. Has rock earned worship? Does a man so lose himself as to kneel before insensate stone? Does one cherish home or the walls and ceiling so enclosing? To see that vow each day, each night, season upon season, year upon year, is it any wonder that it becomes unto itself a god before the supplicant’s eyes? In making vows we chisel the visage of a master and announce our abjection as its slave.

“Yet, does not the soldier now standing unmoving behind his eyes not see and understand the dissembling demanded of him, the bending of reason, the burnishing into blindness the madness of absurd conviction? He does, and is mocked within himself, and the god of his vow is a closed fist inside iron scales and those iron scales mark the lie of his own hand, there upon the saddle horn.”

At last, Steck Marynd did twist round in his saddle. “You presume at your peril, poet.”

“As do we all,” I replied. “I tell but a tale here. The hunter’s face is not your face. The knights are not as travel here in our company. The carriage is nothing like the carriage in my tale. To noble Purse Snippet I paint a scene close enough to be familiar, indeed, comfortable, as much as such luxury can be achieved here on this fatal trail.”

“Rubbish,” said Steck. “You steal from what you see and claim it invention.”

“Indeed, by simple virtue of changing a name or two here and there, or perhaps it is enough to say that what I relate is not what you may see around you. Each listener crowds eager with an armful of details and shall fill in and buttress up as he or she sees fit.”

Apto Canavalian was frowning, as Judges are in the habit of doing when they can’t really think of anything worth thinking. He then shook his head, casting off the momentary fug, and said, “I see no real value in changing a few names and then making everyone pretend it isn’t what it obviously is. How is this invention, or even creative? Where is the imagination?”

“Buried six feet down, I should think,” said I, and smiled. “In some far off land in no way similar to any place you know, of course.”

“Then why bother with the pathetic shell-game, now you’ve shown us where the nut hides?”

“Did I really need to show you for you to know where it is?”

“No, which makes it even more ridiculous.”

“I most heartily agree, sir,” said I. “Now, if you will permit, may I continue?”

Flitting eagerness in the Judge’s eyes, as if at last he understood. It warms the soul when this is witnessed, I do assure you.

Before I could speak, however, Purse Snippet asked, “Poet, how fares their trek, these hunters and pilgrims of yours?”

“Not well. In flesh and in spirit, they are all lost. The enemy has drawn close-closer than any among them is aware-”

“What!” bellowed Tulgord Vise, wheeling his horse around and half-drawing his sword. “Do you glean too close to a secret here, Flicker? Dare not be coy with me. I kill coy people out of faint irritation, and you venture far beyond that! You sting like spider hairs in the eye! On your life, speak true!”

“Not once have I strayed from what is true, sir. Now you show us your clutter of details and would build us something monstrous! Shall I weigh upon your effort? Terrible its flaws, sir, set no hope or belief upon such a rickety frame. This tale is thin and clear as a mountain rook. Sir, the blinding mud so stirred resides behind your eyes and nowhere else.”

“You dare insult me?”

“Not at all. But may I remind you, my life is in the palm of Lady Snippet, not in yours, sir. And I am telling her a tale, and for this breath at least she withholds her judgement on its merit. In the Lady’s name, may I continue?”

“What’s all this?” Tiny demanded. “Flea?”

Flea scowled.

“Midge?”

Midge scowled, too.

The host waved his hands. “Whilst you slept-”

“While we sleep everything stops!” Tiny roared, his face the hue of masticated roses. “No votes! No decisions! No nothing!”

“Incorrect,” said Purse Snippet, and so flat and so certain her tone that the Chanters were struck dumb. “I am not chained to you,” she went on, her eyes knuckling hard as stone upon Tiny’s faltering visage. “And the blades with which you would seek to threaten me strike no fear in this breast. I have charged this poet to speak me a story, to continue what I so poorly began. If he fails in satisfying me, he dies. This is the pact and it does not concern you, nor anyone else here. Only myself and Avas Flicker.”

“And how does he fair so far, Milady?” Apto asked.

“Poorly,” she said, “but for the moment I shall abide.”

The day was most desultory, in the manner of interminable treks the world over. Heat oppressed, the ground grew harder underfoot, stones sharp stabbed beneath soles already tender with threat. The ancient pilgrim track was rutted and dusty, repository of every discarded or surrendered aspiration and ambition. To journey is to purge, as all wise ancients know, and of purging the elderly know better than most.

But what burdens could be so cast off our straining shoulders here on Cracked Pot Trail? Crushing and benumbing this weight, that our art should have purpose, but dare I hazard that those of you who are witness to this grim tale who are neither poet nor musician, not sculptor or painter, you cannot hope to imagine the sudden prickling sweat that bespeaks performance, no matter its shaping. Within the heated skull vicious thoughts ravage the softer allowances. What if my audience is composed of nothing but idiots? Raving lunatics! What if their tastes are so bad not even a starving vulture would pluck loose a single rolling eyeball? What if they hate me on sight? Look at all those faces! What do they see and what notions ply the unseen waters of their thoughts? Am I too fat, too thin, too nervous, too ugly to warrant all this attention? The composing of art is the most private of endeavours, but the performance paints the face in most dramatic hues. Does failure in one devour the other? Do I even like any of these people? What do they want with me anyway? What if-what if I just ran away? No! They’d hate me even more than they do now! Dare I speak out? Ah, these are most unwelcome streams, swirling so dark and biting. Assume the best and let the worst arrive as revelation (and, perhaps, dismay). An artist truly contemptuous of his or her audience deserves nothing but contempt in return.