After clearing the table, Evena returned carrying a large leather book along with a quill and inkwell, which she set on the table in front of her father. Anxiety clutched Wyngalf’s overfull stomach as it occurred to him that the fishmonger was going to present him with a bill.
“So, Noninitarianism,” said Bulgar, flipping through pages of the ledger as if to find his place. “That’s a lot of gods to keep track of.”
“Only one,” said Wyngalf, lifting his glass to take a swallow of wine. Evena had produced a bottle of reasonably good white, and Wyngalf was enjoying his third glass.
Bulgar frowned and glanced at his wife, who shrugged. “I understood that you worship a pantheon of nine deities.”
Ordinarily Wyngalf would have sighed heavily and launched into a diatribe on the Essential Unity of the Blessed Noninity, but between the warmth of the house, his full stomach, and the effects of the wine, he couldn’t muster the effort. “Nine persons, one God,” he said, holding up his index finger.
“Hmm,” said Bulgar, studying a page in the book.
“What’s that?” asked Wyngalf.
“Investment ledger,” said Bulgar.
“My father keeps track of all of his investments,” said Evena, a hint of pride in her voice. “He’s invested in all the major religions.”
Wyngalf swallowed hard and then coughed several times. “He what?”
“Shandorism, the Cult of Varnoth, Followers of Grovlik, the Eupardian Pantheon…” said Bulgar, running his fingers down the page. “I had to limit my investment to the thirty major Eupardian deities. You have to draw the line somewhere.”
“Whenever a preacher comes to town,” Erdis explained, “we have him over for supper so he can tell us about his gods. We’re not religious people, but Bulgar is a very practical man.”
“I don’t like to take unnecessary risks,” said the fishmonger, still studying the page in front of him.
“My husband invests in each of the gods, depending on their influence and…” she trailed off, as if trying to remember the wording.
“Reputed authority over one’s fate in afterlife,” said Bulgar, dipping the quill in the ink. “We all want to go to heaven, after all. Your religion does teach of a glorious afterlife, does it not?”
“Of course!” exclaimed Wyngalf. “After death, those who have been filled with the Spirit of Royahim the Imbuer, the Seventh Person of the—”
“Fine, fine,” said Bulgar, jotting something in the book. “And how many followers does Nonitarianism have?”
“Um,” said Wyngalf. “A few hundred in and around Svalbraakrat.”
Bulgar paused with the quill hovering above the page, eyeing Wyngalf disapprovingly. He looked like he was about to slam the book shut and throw Wyngalf back out into the street.
“But of course we have a strong missionary presence in the north,” said Wyngalf. “And I left several months ago, so I don’t have the latest numbers….”
“An estimate is fine,” said Bulgar. “Ten thousand? A hundred thousand?”
Wyngalf nearly spit out his wine. “Closer to the first, I would guess,” he said after he’d swallowed, assuring himself that it wasn’t technically a lie. As far as he knew, there were fewer than twenty Noninitarian missionaries in total, and most of them weren’t much more charismatic or competent than Wyngalf.
“Excellent,” said Bulgar, making a note.
“My husband says that the popularity of a religion is an indication of the relative power of its deity.”
“How’s that?” asked Wyngalf, raising an eyebrow.
“A powerful god would inspire more followers than a weak one, wouldn’t he?” said Bulgar, as if he were talking to a child.
Wyngalf, as a representative of perhaps the least popular religion along the Jagged Coast, would ordinarily have taken issue with this assertion, but he wasn’t sure this was the best tactical move for him. “To be clear,” he said to Bulgar, “you’re planning on making a donation to the Noninitarian Church commensurate with the relative clout of our God?”
“An investment,” corrected Bulgar.
“So you’re going to give me money.”
“If I judge your god to be a wise investment, yes.”
“And you expect to make a return on this ‘investment?’”
“I’m not going to ask for the money back, if that’s what you’re wondering,” said Bulgar. “I expect you to use the money as your god wishes. Buy a goat to sacrifice, build a temple, whatever it is you do. My goal is to maximize the odds of me and my family prospering in the afterlife.”
Erdis and Evena smiled beatifically at him.
“But that’s not how—” Wyngalf started.
“I’m not interested in the mechanics of it,” said Bulgar. “I have no head for theology. I’m good at one thing: selling fish. I do very well at it. So I’m delegating. I give you money, you work it out with your god, goddesses or combinations thereof to get me and my family into Heaven or whatever it’s called. Got it?”
“Yes, but I can’t just—”
Bulgar held up his hand. “Understand that I’m paying you to be a steward of this money. To make decisions. The more of those decisions you involve me in, the less you are worth to me as a manager. Some preachers fail to grasp this point, and insist on explaining the fine points of their religion to me. The more religious claptrap I get stuck in my head, the less room I have for business. If I forget the going rate for dried cod because my brain is full of angels dancing on the head of a pin, I make less money. Less money means no money for you. Are you with me, Father Wyngalf?”
Wyngalf nodded. This was the first time in his recollection that getting a donation depended on him not proselytizing, and it put him in a bit of an ethical quandary. What would Bishop Frotheckle say about accepting money from a man who insisted on remaining ignorant of the sublime truths of Noninitarianism? On one hand, any donation would help the church fulfill its mission—but on the other, wouldn’t he be taking advantage of the spiritual poverty of Bulgar and his family? Wouldn’t it make a more powerful statement if Wyngalf were to refuse to take Bulgar’s money on principle? Perhaps this was a test, sent by Grimilard, the Second Person of the Noninity, to discern Wyngalf’s worthiness as a missionary. He imagined indignantly turning down Bulgar’s offer and denouncing the man’s attempt to reduce matters of eternal significance to a business transaction. He would then dramatically stomp out of the house, and Erdis and Evena would throw themselves at his feet, begging him not to go. Bulgar would repent of his wickedness, tear up his ledger, and give his entire fortune to Wyngalf. Wyngalf would use the money to build a grand cathedral in Skuldred, which would stand forever as a monument to Wyngalf’s humility and asceticism. This scenario seemed like a long shot, though.
“How much money are we talking about?” asked Wyngalf.
“Well,” said Bulgar, “as I’m sure you’re aware, at ten thousand adherents, you’re one of the smaller sects along the Jagged Coast.” Wyngalf nodded, telling himself it would be rude to correct Bulgar’s understanding of the reach of the Noninitarian faith. “And you’re monotheistic, which means that I don’t have to spread my investment among multiple deities.”
“You give polytheistic religions more money simply because they have more gods?” asked Wyngalf, puzzled.
“Of course,” said Bulgar, as if the point were self-evident. “You can’t expect a whole pantheon of gods to be satisfied with the amount I’d give to a single deity.”
“But that’s a fundamental misunderstanding of the relationship—” Wyngalf started, but he was met with a cold stare from Bulgar. He paused a moment, trying to think of how to put the point in more acceptable terms. “What I mean to say is, there are questions of the division of labor.” This earned him a broad smile from the fishmonger.
“Excellent point,” Bulgar said. “As you say, in a monotheistic scheme, the single deity is responsible for more work, and should be compensated with this in mind. But that’s no
t my responsibility.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that I’m sure that creating the cosmos was a great deal of work, but it happened before I got here. I didn’t ask for it to be created, I wasn’t consulted on the specifics, and I don’t intend to pay for it. The same goes for most of the nonsense that these gods and goddesses get up to. Screwing ducks and planting oak trees in each other and whatnot. My interest is in getting my family into heaven, so I spread my money around to all the deities I know of. I’m simply playing the odds.”
“It still seems to me,” said Wyngalf, “that you’re unfairly penalizing monotheistic religions. After all, what’s to stop me from making up five hundred deities and asking for money for each of them?”
Evena furrowed her brow, and Bulgar and Erdis stared at him in apparent horror. “Why would you do something like that?” Erdis asked, and Bulgar nodded. It was as if the idea of a religious charlatan exploiting them had never occurred to them.
“Well, I wouldn’t,” said Wyngalf. “But less scrupulous individuals…” He trailed off as the three continued to regard him with confusion. Wyngalf had encountered less extreme instances of this phenomenon in the past: certain hard-nosed businessmen (and their families, evidently) tended to develop an overly idealistic notion of the clergy as men untouched by material concerns—a romantic notion that it wasn’t in Wyngalf’s interest to correct. In any case, the only way he knew to disabuse them of this idea was to explain the Noninitarian doctrine of Essential Wretchedness, and Bulgar had explicitly forbade him to preach religious doctrine. “Never mind,” he said. “It’s an obscure point of doctrine that I’m sure you would have no interest in.”
Bulgar nodded, and his wife and daughter breathed audible sighs of relief. “Now,” said Bulgar. “I’m a little uncertain how to enter a… what did you call it? A nonity?”
“The Blessed Noninity,” said Wyngalf. “Nine Persons making up a single... you know what? Just put it down as nine gods.” If Bulgar was going to be making a donation based on a complete misunderstanding of Noninitarianism, it might as well be a misunderstanding that was beneficial to Wyngalf. And the church, of course.
“Very good,” said Bulgar. “And is one particular god in charge of eternal judgment and/or the afterlife?”
“Well,” said Wyngalf, cringing slightly at the heretical nature of the question, “Shotarr the Purifier, the Ninth Person of the Noninity, is ultimately responsible for the punishment of unbelievers, but of course his task is dependent on the functions of Xandiss the Auditor, who—”
“Team effort,” Bulgar declared, scratching a note in the ledger. “And what do you plan to do with the money I invest in your gods?”
Wyngalf frowned. “I understood that you didn’t want to be apprised of the details.”
“I’m not interested in the mechanics of how you procure eternal salvation for me and my family,” said Bulgar. “But of course I need to have some idea what you’ll do with the money, if for no other reason than I need to know how much to give you. Some gods can get by with very little, while others have very expensive tastes.”
Wyngalf nodded, once again amazed at Buglar’s naïve credulity. The man was fortunate that Wyngalf was not greedy or unscrupulous. Now that Wyngalf’s belly was full, all he really cared about was having a warm place to sleep tonight, and he had no doubt Bulgar’s hospitality would extend that far. But Bulgar clearly wanted to make a significant donation—no, investment, and Wyngalf felt something of an obligation toward the church to make the strongest case he could for that money. Wyngalf had no doubt the bishop would find a use for the money, however much it ended up being, but he didn’t think Bulgar would want to hear about the much-needed repairs to the rectory. No, Wyngalf needed to come up with something far more dramatic to loosen the fishmonger’s purse strings.
Nor was Bulgar’s fortune the only factor contributing to his desire to concoct a particularly inspiring proposal. Pretty Evena stared eagerly into Wyngalf’s eyes, obviously still hoping that he would turn out to be the far-traveling man of adventure she had made him out to be. And at this moment, Wyngalf wanted nothing more than to be that man. Not some impoverished preacher traveling from town to town, barely surviving on the pity of strangers, but a fearless adventurer, who sought out danger, vanquished monsters, and told grand tales of his heroic exploits.
If only he had met Bulgar and his family at the outset of his journey, when he was still filled with enthusiasm and big dreams. He’d have had no trouble back then spinning bold tales of what the church could accomplish with a little more money. But five months had passed since then, and he was feeling considerably less optimistic. Skuldred was the end of the line for him, and his hopes and dreams had diminished to the point that he thought no farther ahead than his next meal. He’d suggest that he needed money for a grand missionary expedition, but there was nowhere left to go. To the west was uninhabitable swamp, to the east was the Sea of Dis, and to the south was wilderness populated only by goblins, ogres and other miscreants. One might as well proselytize to the fish as to the soulless humanoids in the southern lands. As he imagined himself preaching from the bow of a ship to a rapt audience of tuna and manta rays, an idea occurred to him. Lubricated by the wine, the words left his lips before he realized what he was saying.
“An expedition,” he announced, holding up his wine glass. “To the land of Dis.”
Stunned silence followed. A silence so dense and oppressive that Wyngalf knew with absolute certainty that he had made a terrible mistake. He knew almost nothing of the land of Dis, save that it was far away across the sea. People in the towns he’d traveled through had a tendency to speak of taking on some unpleasant chore “after I return from Dis,” meaning never. As far as Wyngalf knew, no one ever actually traveled there, although he was unclear on the reasons for this. He had been entertaining a vague notion that he could use the idea of an expedition to the land of Dis as a sort of placeholder for some indeterminate future expenditure. Bulgar would give him a pouch of gold coins and he would return to the Stronghold at Svalbraakrat (after staying at a string of fancy inns on his return journey) with something to show for his year of travel. But it was clear from the reaction of Bulgar and his family that they took his pronouncement very seriously.
Bulgar leaned forward, staring at Wyngalf in amazement. “Your gods have told you to go to the land of Dis?”
Wyngalf swallowed hard. He couldn’t very well admit at this point that the notion of traveling to Dis was a mere whim. Still, there had to be some way of wriggling out of any sort of specific commitment. “Yes, well,” he said. “They expressed some general interest in the area. As for the exact details of the—”
“When did you arrive in town?” asked Bulgar.
“Just a few hours ago,” said Wyngalf, puzzled.
“Did you speak to anyone? Any fishermen or their families?”
“He was preaching in the square all day,” said Evena. “I saw him.”
Bulgar nodded thoughtfully, taking in her words.
“There are only a few who know,” said Erdis. “And most of them are at sea. There’s no way he could have talked to any of them.”
“It was meant to be!” cried Evena, leaping out of her chair to embrace her mother, who was nodding in happy bewilderment.
“How’s that?” asked Wyngalf, more confused than ever.
Bulgar solemnly closed his ledger and set it on the table. “Among my business interests are three fishing vessels,” he explained. “Occasionally I go along on fishing expeditions to oversee the operations firsthand. I happened to be on one of the ships when a sudden storm rolled in. There was no time to get to port, and we were swept out to sea by the wind and crashing waves. Those of us on board were certain the ship was going to capsize and we were all going to drown. The crew prayed to all their gods to no avail, and finally the captain announced in desperation that if any god would save them, he would take the ship on a journey across the sea to the
land of Dis to proclaim the god’s power and mercy. The sea calmed within moments, and the ship was able to return to port. But of course no one knew which god had saved them, so nothing more was said of the proposed journey.”
Another agonizing silence.
“But now we know!” Evena exclaimed at last. “Your gods saved my father’s ship!”
Wyngalf smiled weakly. “Well, let’s not jump to any conclusions,” he said. “My gods… that is, my God, has a wide variety of competing interests, and while it’s certainly possible—”
Bulgar shook his head. “No, it’s settled. Never in my thirty years of investing in religions have I seen anything like this. I’m betting everything on your nine gods, Father Wyngalf. Whatever it takes to make your expedition to Dis happen.”
“My expedition?” asked Wyngalf, barely able to speak.
“Of course!” said Bulgar. “Your own humility blinds you to the truth. Your gods have selected you to lead a missionary expedition to the land of Dis.”
Wyngalf felt the color drain from his cheeks.
“How exciting!” cried Evena. “An adventure!”
Three
Three days later Wyngalf, still clutching to a remnant of hope that that he could find some kind of loophole in his commitment, found himself losing his breakfast over the port side of a herring buss called the Erdis Evena. He’d never imagined when he suggested a voyage across the Sea of Dis that there might be a ship in Skuldred capable of making the journey. And as he wiped his chin and surveyed the half-rotted railing surrounding the deck of the Erdis Evena, he wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.
Distopia (Land of Dis) Page 2
