Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

Leapt past that passage? Good for you. (And I do so look forward to your collected letters of erudition, posteritally)

“Just like the dog, tally ho!” shouted Arpo Relent as the journey resumed, and then arose a milked joccling sound followed by an audible shudder and visible moan from the Very Well Knight.

We set out, in the scuff of worn boots, the clop of hoofs and the rackle of carriage wheels, leaving in our wake Nifty Gums corpse and Sellup who was now gnawing beneath the dead man’s chin, in the works a love-bite of appalling proportions.

Shall I list we who remained? Why not. In the lead Steck Marynd, behind him Tulgord Vise and then the Chanters, followed by the host and Purse Snippet, then myself flanked by Apto upon my right and Brash upon my left, and behind us of course Mister Must and the carriage of the Dantoc Calmpositis, with Arpo Relent riding his mount off to one side at the trail’s very edge.

Pilgrims one and all, and the day was bright, the vultures cooing and the bees writhing in the dust as the sun lit the landscape on fire and sweat ran in dirty streams to sting eyes and consciences both. Brash was gibbering under his breath, his gaze focused ten thousand paces ahead. Apto’s mouth was also moving, perhaps taking mental notes or setting Brash’s latest song to memory. Relish punched one of her brothers every now and then, with no obvious cause. Usually in the side of the head. Which the brothers endured with impressive indulgence, she being their little sister. Purse walked in a drugged daze which would not ebb until mid-morning, and bearing this in mind I pondered which of two tales would prove most timely at the moment, and, a decision having been reached with modest effort, I began to speak.

“The Imass woman, maiden no longer, awoke in the depths of night, in the time of the watch, which stretches cold and forlorn before the first touch of false dawn mocks the eastern sky. Shivering, she saw that her furs had been pulled aside, and of her lover no sign remained. Drawing the skins close, she drank the bitter air and with each deep breath her sleepiness grew more distant, and around her the hut breathed in its own dark pace, sighing its soot to settle upon her open eyes.

“She felt filled up, her skin tight as if someone had stuffed her as one would a carcass, to better stretch the curing hide. Her body was not quite entirely her own. She could feel the truth of this. Its privacy now a temporary condition, quick to surrender to his next touch. She was content with that, as only a young woman can be, for they are at their most generous at tender age, and it is only in the later years that the expanse contracts and borders are jealously guarded-trails carelessly trampled are by this time thoroughly mapped in her memory, after all.

“But now, this night, she is young still, and all of the world beyond this silent and unlit hut is blanketed in untouched snow, plush as a brold’s virgin fur. The time of night known as the watch is a sacred time for many, and one of great and solemn responsibility. Malign spirits are known to stir in the breaths of the sleeping, seeking a way in, and so one of the tribe must be awake in vigil, whispering wards against the swollen darkness and its many-eyed hungers.

“She could hear nothing past her steady breathing, except perhaps something in the distance, out across the bold sweep of snow and frozen ground-the soft crackle from among trees, as frost tinkled down beneath black branches. There was no wind, and somehow she could feel the pressure of the stars, as if their glittering spears could reach through the layered hides of the hut’s banked roof. And she told herself that the ancestors were protecting her with their unwavering regard, and with this thought she closed her eyes once more-”

I paused a moment, and then continued. “But then she heard a sound. A faint scrape, the patter of droplets. She gasped. ‘Beloved?’ she whispered and spirits fled in the gloom. The hut’s flap was drawn to one side, and the Fenn, crouched low to clear the doorway, edged inside. His eyes glistened as he paused.

‘“Yes,’ said he, ‘“It is I,” and then he made a soft sound, something like a laugh, she thought, though she could not be certain for it left a bitter trail. ‘I have brought meat.’ And at that she sat up. ‘You hunted for us?’ And in answer he drew closer and now she could smell charred flesh and she saw the thick strip bridging his hands. ‘A gift,’ he said, ‘for the warmth you gave me, when I needed it most. I shall not forget you, not ever.’ He presented her with the slab and she gasped again when it settled into her hands, for it was still hot, edges crisped by fire, and the fat streamed down between her fingers. Even so, something in what he had said troubled her and she felt a tightness in her throat as she said, ‘Why would you forget me, beloved? I am here and so are you, and with this food we shall all bless you and beg that you remain with us, and then we-’

“ ‘Hush,’ said he. ‘It cannot be. I must leave with the dawn. I must hold to the belief that among the tribes of the Fenn, those beyond the passes, I will find for myself a new home.’

“And now there were tears in her eyes and this he must have seen for he then said, ‘Please, eat, gain strength. I beg you.’ And she found the strength to ask, ‘Will you sit with me when I eat? For this long at least? Will you-’“

“That’s it?” demanded Relish. “She gave up that easily? I don’t believe it.”

“Her words were brave,” I replied, “even as anguish tore at her heart.”

“Well, how was I to know that?”

“By crawling into her skin, Relish,” I said most gently. “Such is the secret covenant of all stories, and songs and poems too, for that matter. With our words we wear ten thousand skins, and with our words we invite you to do the same. We do not ask for your calculation, nor your cynicism. We do not ask you how well we are doing. You either choose to be with us, word by word, in and out of each and every scene, to breathe as we breathe, to walk as we walk, but above all, Relish, we invite that you feel as we feel.”

“Unless you secretly feel nothing,” Purse Snippet said, glancing back at me and I saw dreadful accusation in her eyes-her numbness had been burnt away, making my time short indeed.

“Is this what you fear? That my invitation is a deceit? The suspicion alone belongs to a cynic, to be sure-”

“Belongs to the wounded and the scarred, I should think,” said Apto Canavalian. “Or the one whose own faith is dead.”

“In such,” said I, “no covenant is possible. Perhaps some artists do not feel what they ask others to feel, sir, but I do not count myself among those shameful and shameless wretches.”

“I see that well enough,” Apto said, nodding.

“Get back to the tale,” demanded Tiny Chanter. “She asks him to stay while she eats. Does he?”

“He does,” I replied, my eyes on Lady Snippet’s back as she strode ahead of me. “The darkness of the hut was such that she could see little more than the glint of his eyes as he watched her, and in those twin flickers she imagined all manner of things. His love for her. His grief for all that he had lost. His pride in the food he had provided, his pleasure in her own as she bit into and savored the delicious meat. She believed she saw amusement as well, and she smiled in return, but slowly her smile faded, for the glitter now seemed too cold for humour, or perhaps it was something she was not meant to see.

“When she had at last finished and was licking the grease from her fingers, he reached out and settled a hand upon her belly. ‘Two gifts,’ murmured he, ‘as you shall discover. Two.’ “

“How did he know?” demanded Relish.