“Does he also tell you that animals are filthy creatures?” Ehomba asked the question before Simna could catch the gist of it and stop him.
The swordsman was needlessly concerned. Another of the villagers answered freely and without hesitation. “Of course! Whenever we are unsure about anything, we put our faith in the teachings of Tragg and they tell us what to do.”
“And these teachings,” Ehomba inquired, “they are never wrong?”
“Never,” declared several of the men and two of the women in concert.
“But I thought you said that Netherbrae was as one with the Thinking Kingdoms. If you rely on the teachings of Tragg to tell you what to do, then that means you are not thinking about what to do. You are substituting belief for thought.”
Leaning close to his friend, Simna whispered urgently, “I’ve been around a lot, bruther, and based on my experience and travels, I’m telling you it’d be best to drop this line of conversation right now.”
“Why?” Ehomba countered innocently. “These are thinking people, inhabitants of one of the Thinking Kingdoms. People who think are not bothered by questions.” Raising his voice, he inquired loudly, “Are you?”
“Not at all, friend, not at all!” declared the villager seated across the table from the herdsman. “Belief does not replace thought. It complements it.” Grinning broadly, he added, “We think about what we believe in.”
“And we believe what we think.” Having had a good deal to drink, the woman who concluded the tenet broke out giggling. Her friend quickly joined in, and once again merriment was general around the table.
Ehomba started to say something else, but this time Simna was in his face before the words had time to emerge. “Hoy, bruther, if you’ve no concern for your own well-being, then have a care for mine, would you? No more of this. A change of subject to something innocuous is in order.”
“I—oh, very well.” Observing the strain in the swordsman’s expression, Ehomba decided to forgo the questions that were piling up inside him—for now. He replaced his intended words with the contents of the ceramic tumbler that had been set out before him.
Someone was speaking from atop a chair near the rear entrance. Ehomba recognized him as the general manager of the inn. Not the owner—that was a title reserved for the husband of the woman they had first met. The speaker had a prominent belly and cleverly coifed mustache that wrapped around much of his jowly face. A logger he was not.
“Friends, visitors! You’ve seen it before, watched it and wondered, and now tonight, we once more bring it before you to embellish your enjoyment of the evening and the solidarity of our precious community.” Pivoting carefully on the slightly shaky chair, he gestured grandly toward the back door. It was particularly wide and tall, with an interesting arched lintel. A sense of anticipation blanketed the crowd. By mutual silent agreement all conversation was muted.
“I give you,” the general manager proclaimed, “the nightmare!”
Cheers and whoops of expectation rose from the crowd, an atavistic howl that rattled the walls of the tavern. By dint of their early arrival and fortuitous seating, Ehomba and his companions had an unobstructed view of the arched doorway. Now they looked on in silence as the doors were flung wide.
Though the cage rolled easily on four thick wheels, it still took the combined exertions of four strong men to pull and push it into the tavern. The spokes of the wheels, the hubs, and the cage itself were decorated with etchings of mystic signs and mysterious figures. Even the bars and the massive padlock were made of wood, lovingly polished to reveal a fine, dark grain. Despite the height of the arched double doorway, the top of the cage barely cleared the twenty-foot-high opening.
Standing inside the cage and gripping two of the bars was a ten-foot-tall something.
It was as massive as it was tall, and Ehomba estimated its weight as equal to that of any three large men. It was hard to tell for sure because the creature was covered entirely in long, thick strands of dark gray hair streaked with black. The skull was more human than simian, and the black eyes that glared out from beneath massive, bony brows were full of rage. The nose was not as flat as an ape’s, but not as forwardly pronounced as a human’s. Through the waving, gesticulating arms of the crowd the herdsman thought he could make out five fingers on each hand and as many toes on each foot.
Not an ape, then, but not a member of the family of man, either. Something in between, or an offshoot unknown to the people of Naumkib. The more it roared and rattled the tree-sized wooden bars of its rolling cage, the more the crowd jeered and hooted.
Yelling an unimaginative and slightly obscene insult, someone in the throng stood up and threw the remnants of a warm meat pie at the cage. Passing through the bars, it struck the nightmare just above its right eye. Wincing, it turned to roar at its assailant. The laughter this induced caused food to come flying from all directions: pies, half-finished legs of meat, vegetables, gnawed rolls greasy with butter. At first the creature withstood the barrage and continued to bellow defiance at its captors. But gradually its roars and howls died down. Assaulted by food and taunts from every direction, it eventually retreated to the middle of its cage. There it sat, hunched over and no longer trying to deflect the edible missiles, doing its best to ignore the onslaught.
“Make it get up and bellow again!” someone yelled laughingly.
“Somebody get a long stick and poke it!” suggested another.
Ultimately the mob grew bored. Evidently this was not the first time they had amused themselves at the pitiful creature’s expense. Ignoring the cage and its lone occupant in their midst, they returned to their banqueting, trading jokes and gossip and casual conversation as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. Simna and Knucker slipped back into the easy camaraderie tendered by the citizens of Netherbrae more comfortably than did Ehomba.
“That’s a beast and a half.” The swordsman tore into a hunk of fresh, heavily seeded bread. “Where’d you capture it?”
A woman seated across and slightly down the table from him replied. Not because it was her place, but because all the men within range of the swordsman’s question had their mouths full of food.
“It was taken in the forest far from here, where the Hrugar Mountains begin to climb toward the sky.” She sipped daintily at her tumbler. “Not far from the lowest slopes of Mount Scathe. It took two parties of men to bring it down with ropes, and three to haul it back to Netherbrae on a makeshift sled.”
“An impressive feat.” Ehomba spoke quietly, as always. “What was it doing?”
She blinked at him, her eyes still lively but her tone momentarily confused. “Doing?”
“When it was captured. Who was it attacking, or threatening?”
The husky man seated next to her cleared his throat and replied before she could respond. “It wasn’t attacking or threatening anyone, friend. I know—I was there.” He grinned proudly. “I was one of the woodcutters who brought it down. Such strength! It fought us like a mad thing, which of course is what it is. A savage, unclean beast.”
Ehomba considered. “But surely the forest is full of animals. Why take this one from where it was living and bring it all the way back to Netherbrae?”
“Because it’s not useful.” Another man spoke up. “The wapiti and the rabbit, the birds and the rodents, are all useful, all nutritious.” With a piece of pork he gestured in the direction of the now silent cage. The slice of meat flapped loosely in his hand. “Just by looking at this thing you can tell it’s no good to eat.”
The herdsman nodded understandingly. “Then why go to the trouble of bringing it all the way back here?”
Several of the diners exchanged looks of incomprehension. “Why, because its presence was defiling our forest!” another woman declared. Her explanation was seconded by numerous murmurs from those seated nearby.
The oldest man at the table spoke up. “The teachings of Tragg tell us that the forest and everything in it belongs to us, the pe
ople of Netherbrae. We have followed those teachings and they have been good to us. Tragg is much pleased. The trees are ours to cut down, the nuts and berries ours to gather, the animals ours to eat. Anything not of use must be given a use, or eliminated.” A chorus of exuberant “Aye!” s rose from his fellow citizens.
“You have seen how clean our community is. That is because we are careful to get rid of everything that is not useful.”
“Very interesting,” Ehomba admitted. “What about us?”
Next to him Simna paused in midbite. Knucker’s eyes began to dart and his fingers to fidget. But the silence that enveloped their table lasted barely a second or two before the old man responded.
“Visitors bring stories of other lands, new knowledge, and amusing tales. These things are useful. We look forward to them because we do not travel ourselves.” Looking around the table, he grinned and nodded. “Why should we? Who would ever want to leave Netherbrae?”
This time assent was not only general but loud, amounting to cheering more than mere agreement. Ehomba thought some of it might have been a little forced, but in the general melee of good humor it was hard to tell for certain.
“If the beast is of no use, why do you keep him around?”
“Of no use?” Rising from his seat, a slim young man hefted a small bowl of table scraps. “Watch this!” Drawing back his arm, he threw it at the cage. It described a graceful arc before striking the massive, hairy back right between the shoulders and bouncing off. The cowed creature shuffled forward an inch or so, looking neither up nor around.
Sitting down, the young man laughed heartily. His companions at the table laughed with him.
“It amuses us.” The words of the woman who had first spoken broke through the general jocularity. “By letting children throw things at it, their fear of the beasts that inhabit the deep forest is lessened. And in this we feel we are truly heeding the word of Tragg, and not straying from the example he long ago set for us Himself.”
Someone passed the herdsman a plate full of fat pulled from various meats. “Here, friend. Wouldn’t you like to have a go yourself?”
A softly smiling Ehomba declined politely. “Your offer is generous, and in the deep spirit of friendship we have already come to admire here in Netherbrae, but since I am not a true follower of Tragg and am sadly ignorant of so much of his teaching, I feel it would be presumptuous of me to participate in one of his ceremonies. Better not to waste it.”
“Who said anything about wasting it?” To the accompaniment of encouraging hoots and hollers, one of the other women seated at the table rose and threw the plate. Her arm was not as strong or her aim as accurate as that of the young man who had preceded her. To much good-natured merriment, the plate fell short and clanged off the floor of the cage. But she was applauded for her effort.
His face an unreadable mask, Ehomba rose from the bench. “We do not know how to thank you enough for this wonderful evening, and for the hospitality all of you have shown us. But we are tired from our long walk today, and must be on our way tomorrow. So I think we will turn in.”
“Tired?” Raising his recently refilled tumbler, a gleeful Simna saluted their new friends and surroundings. “Who’s tired?”
Glaring down, the herdsman put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. A surprisingly heavy hand. “Tomorrow we must start across the Hrugar Mountains. We will need our rest.”
“Hoy, bruther, and I’ll get mine.” The terse-voiced swordsman brusquely shook off the long-fingered hand. “I’m your friend and confidant, Etjole. Not one of your village adolescents.”
Next to him, a determined Knucker raised his own drinking utensil. “I’m not tired, either. I can’t remember the last night I had such a good time!” Hesitantly, he sipped from his cup. When no one objected, he sipped harder.
“Same here.” Simna smiled up at the dour-faced herdsman. “You’re so concerned, bruther, use some of your sorceral skills. Sleep for the three of us!”
“Perhaps I will.” Disappointed in his companions, Ehomba rose and headed for the entrance to the tavern that led to the inn’s outer office and the front door, leaving his friends to their elective dissolution.
Across the table, two men leaned forward, inquisitive uncertainty on their faces. “Is your traveling companion truly a sorcerer?”
Simna took a slug from his tumbler, ignoring the fact that Knucker was once more imbibing steadily. Furthermore, the little man gave no indication of stopping or slowing down. But the swordsman was feeling too content to notice, or to object.
“I’m convinced of it, but if so he’s the strangest one imaginable. Insists he’s nothing but a herder of cattle and sheep, refuses to use magic even to save his own life. Depends on alchemy he insists arises not from any skills of his own, but from that bequeathed to him by old women and such of his village.” The swordsman looked in the direction of the main portal but Ehomba had already disappeared, on his way to rejoin the fourth member of their party in the stables around back.
“I’ve seen much of the world in my travelings and met many strange folk, but by Giskret’s Loom, he’s for surely the most peculiar and mysterious of the lot.” Silent for a moment after concluding his explanation, he shrugged and downed the contents of his tumbler. Accompanied by smiles and laughter, it was quickly refilled.
“He didn’t look like much of a sorcerer to me,” declared one of the men.
“You’d far sooner convince me that someone that odd-looking dotes on the droppings of cows!” quipped another. General jollity followed this jest.
Simna knew the not-so-veiled insult to his friend should have bothered him. But he was having too good a time, and the middling attractive woman at the far end of the table was eyeing him with more than casual curiosity. So he thrust the abrasive comment aside and smiled back at her. He’d always been good at ignoring that which distressed him, especially when it came at the ultimate expense of others.
Alongside him, a happy Knucker held out his tumbler to be refilled. Within that sturdy container many things could be drowned—including promises made.
XVIII
Nothing moved in the dark depths of the tavern. The still air stank of stale beer and spilled wine, but it was not silent. Gruntings and snortings that would have been at home in any sty rose from the dozen or so intoxicated bodies that lay sprawled on the floor and, in one case, across a table from which plates and other dinner debris had been solicitously removed. All of the unconscious were male. For a woman to have been left in such circumstances would have gone against the teachings of Tragg. Under the Traggian codex, men and women had clearly defined roles. Public inebriation was not an option available to representatives of the female gender.
When the managers of the inn had finally called a halt to the communal townsparty, the majority of revelers had contentedly tottered or been carried off to their homes. Only the most severe celebrants were left behind to sleep off the aftereffects of the festivities safely. As for the managers themselves, they and their assistants had long since finished cleaning up what they could and had retired to their own rooms.
Amidst the general silence and intermittent snoring, one figure moved. It did not rise from the floor or tables, but instead entered through the front portal. This was not locked and stood open to the outside. No one locked their doors in Netherbrae. There was no need for anyone to do so. The adherents of Traggism had complete faith in one another. They had to; otherwise the entire system would collapse upon the fragility of its own moral underpinnings.
Picking his way among the tables and benches, Ehomba occasionally had to step over or around a somnolent villager. Making less noise than a moth, he approached the motionless cage. It remained where it had been left, in the middle of the tavern, its sole occupant squatting in the center of the caged floor, hunched over and still. Piles of food dimpled the interior and clung stubbornly to the wooden bars.
The herdsman halted a few feet from the rear of the wheeled cage. For several
moments he simply stood there, contemplating the massive, hirsute back of the imprisoned creature. Then he said, in a soft but carrying whisper, “Hello.”
The nightmare did not move, did not react.
“I am sorry for the way you were treated. It was a saddening display. It is at such times that I feel closer to the apes. There are people whose sense of self-worth is so poor that the only way they can feel better is to degrade and humiliate something else. Preferably something that cannot fight back. I just wanted to tell you that before I left here, so that you would know there are human beings who do not think that way.” His encouraging smile was a splash of whiteness in the dim light. “It is too bad you cannot understand what I am saying, but I wanted to say it anyway. I had to say it.” His business in Netherbrae concluded, he turned to leave.
A voice, deep and hesitant, halted him in the darkness. “I can understand.”
Turning back to the cage, Ehomba walked rapidly but silently around to the other side. From beneath the jutting escarpment of bone that was the creature’s brow, dark eyes peered out at the herdsman. One finger traced tiny, idle circles in the pile of slowly decaying food that littered the floor of the cage.
“I had a feeling. I was not sure, but the feeling was there.” The herdsman nodded ever so slightly. “It was something in your eyes.”
A soft grunt emerged from between the bars. “You not from this place.”
“No.” Taking a chance, trusting his instincts, Ehomba moved a little closer to the enclosure. “I am from the south. Farther to the south than you can probably imagine.”
“I from north. Not so far north.”
“We were told how you came to be here.” With little else to offer the caged creature, the herdsman proffered another smile. “I did not enjoy the telling of it, just as I do not enjoy seeing anyone being forced to endure such conditions. But there was nothing I could do. My friends and I are strangers here. We are few; the villagers are many.”
Into the Thinking Kingdoms: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 2 Page 26
