Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

“Know what?” asked Brash Phluster.

“That she was pregnant, Relish? He knew and so too did she, for there was a new voice inside her, deep and soft, the tinkle of frost in a windless night.”

“What then?” demanded Tiny.

“A moment, if you please. Purse Snippet, may I spin you a few lines of my tale for you?”

She looked back at me, frowning. “Now?”

“Yes, Lady, now.”

She nodded.

“The brothers were very quick to act, and before a breath was let loose from their glowing sister, why, the man she had loved the night before was lying dead. In her soul a ragged wind whipped up a swirl of ashes and cinders, and she almost stumbled, and the tiny voice inside her-so precious, so new-now wailed piteously for the father it had lost so cruelly-”

Tiny bellowed and spun to Relish, who shrank back.

“Hold!” I cried, and an array of sibling faces swung snarling my way. “Beneath that tiny cry she found a sudden fury rising within her. And she vowed that when her child was born she would tell it the truth. She would again and again jab a sharp-nailed finger at her passing brothers and say to her sweet wide-eyed boy or girl: ‘There! There is one of the men who murdered your father! Your vile, despicable, treacherous uncles! Do you see them! They sought to protect me-so they said, but they failed, and what did they then do, my child? They killed your father!’ No, there would be no smiling uncles for that lone child, no tossing upon the saddle of a thigh, no squeals, no indulgent spoiling, no afternoons at the fishing hole, or wrestling bears or spitting boars with sticks. That child would know only hatred for those uncles, and a vow would find shape deep within it, a kin-slaying vow, a family-destroying vow. Blood in the future. Blood!”

All had halted. All were staring at me.

“She would,” I continued with a voice of gravel and sharp stones. “She… could. If they would not leave her be. If they dogged her day after day. Her virginity was now gone. They had nothing left in her to protect. Unless, perhaps… an innocent child. But even then-she would decide when and how much. She was now in charge, not them. She was, and this was the sudden, blinding truth that seared through her mind at that instant: she was free.”

And then I fell silent.

Tiny gaped, at me and then at Relish. “But you said Callap-”

“I lied,” replied Relish, crossing her arms and happily proving that she was not as witless as I had first imagined.

“But then you’re not-”

“No, I’m not.”

“And you’re-”

“I am.”

“The voice-”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll tell it-”

“If you leave me to live my life? Nothing.”

“But-”

Her eyes flashed and she advanced on him. “Everything. The truth! Hate’s seed-to become a mighty tree of death! Your death, Tiny! And yours, Midge! And yours, Flea!”

Tiny stepped back.

Midge stepped back.

Flea stepped back.

“Are we understood?” demanded Relish.

Three mute nods.

She whirled then and shot me a look of eternal gratitude or eternal resentment-I couldn’t tell which and really, did it matter?

Did I then catch a wondering smile from Purse Snippet? I cannot be certain, for she quickly turned away.

As we resumed our journey Apto snorted under his breath. “Flick goes the first knife this day. Well done, oh, very well done.”

The first. Yes, but only the first.

A voice from back down the trail made us turn. “Look everybody! I brought Nifty’s head!”

There is a deftness that comes of desperation, but having never experienced desperation, I know nothing of it. The same woeful ignorance on my part can be said for the savage wall that rises like a curse between an artist and inspiration, or the torture of sudden doubt that can see scrolls heaped on the fire. The arrow of my intent is well trued. It sings unerringly to its target, even when that target lies beyond the horizon’s swollen-breasted curve. You do not believe me? Too bad.

I imagine such flaws in my character are unusual, perhaps even rare enough to warrant a ponder or two, but to be honest, I can’t be bothered, and if I must shoulder through jostling crowds of skepticism, suspicion and outright disbelief, then ‘ware my spiked armour, for my path is ever sure and I will not be turned aside. Even when it takes me off the cliff’s edge, I shall spare you all one last knowing nod. As is only fair.

Is this to also claim that I have lived a life without error? Ah, but recall the beginning of this tale, and find therein my answer to that. Errors salt the earth and patched, sodden and tangled is my garden, dear friends, riotous in mischance at every crook and bend. This being said, I find my confidence unsullied nonetheless, and indeed so replete my aplomb that one cannot help but see in the wild swirling cloak of my wake the sparkle and shock of my assured stride. Nary a tremulous step, do you see?

Not yet? Then bear witness, if you will, to the harrowed closing of this most truthful tale.

“I can’t see where we’re going. Someone make this horse walk backwards. A new decree, where are the priests? Those purple-lipped perverts fiddling under their robes-oh, damn me! Now I know what they were up to!”

Once more we walked Cracked Pot Trail, and somewhere in the distance awaited the Great Descent to the river and its ferry landing. By day’s close, or so our increasingly agitated host had proclaimed. An end to this nightmare-the fevered hope was bright in Brash Phluster’s eyes, and even Apto Canavalian’s stride was a stitch quicker.

Still the heat tormented. Our water was almost gone, the pieces of Callap Roud bubbling in our bellies, and our dastardly deeds clung to our shoulders with talon and fang. It did not help that Sellup was scooping out handfuls of Nifty’s brain and making yummy sounds as she slopped the goo into her mouth.

Tulgord Vise, glancing back and taking note of this detail, twisted round to glare at Tiny Chanter. “By the Blessed Mounds, do something about her or I will.”

“No. She’s growing on me, isn’t she, Flea?”

“She is. Midge?”

“She-”

“Stop that too!”

The three brothers laughed, and Relish did, as well, stirring in me a few curdles of unease, especially the way she now walked, bold, swaggering the way curvy women did, her head held high and all those black tresses drifting around like ghostly serpents with glinting tongues testing the air. Why, I realized with a start, she really thought she was pregnant. All the signs were there.

Now, as any mother would tell you, pregnancy and freedom do not belong in the same sentence, except one indicating the loss of the latter with the closing pangs of the former. That being said, I’m no mother, nor was I in any way inclined to disavow Relish Chanter of whatever comforting notions she happened to hold at the time, and was this not considerate of me?

“Look at me! I’m Nifty Gum the famous poet!” Sellup had jammed her hand up inside the head and was moving the jaw up and down, making the teeth clack. “I say poet things! All the time! I have a new poem for everybody. Want to hear? It’s called The Lay of the Eggs! Ha ha, get it? A poem about eggs! I’m famous and everything and my brains taste like cheese!”

“Stop that,” Tulgord Vise said in a dangerous growl, one hand finding the grip of his sword.

“I have found ruts,” announced Steck Marynd from up ahead, reining in and leaning hard over his saddle as he squinted at the ground. “Carriage ruts, and heavy ones too.”

Tulgord rode up. “How long ago?” he demanded.

“A day, maybe less!”

“We’ll catch them at the ferry! At last!”

“Could be any carriage, couldn’t it?” so queried Apto Canavalian, earning vicious stares from Tulgord and the Chanter brothers. “I mean,” he stumbled on, “might not be those Nehemoth at all, right? Another pilgrim train, or-”