The Fire and the Fog

by David Alloggia

  ‘I’m an Artist. I draw things; and when I want to, I can turn those drawings into reality. You’re a Musician. Someday when you play, you’ll be able to change the weather, and change people’s feelings. As an Artist, I create. As a Musician, you change. There are also Writers, who control, but we don’t need to get into them right now.’

  Dan’r was seated across from Gel while he spoke, once again drawing something in charcoal on a sheet of paper. He rarely looked at Gel when he spoke.

  ‘For whatever reason, here, on this continent, I have yet to hear of anyone with any of these Arts. You’re the first. Where I come from, there are hundreds at any time. I may seem powerful to you, but…well…I’m only a middling Artist. The size and complexity of my creations are not terribly impressive. But I can still create.’

  Gel sat and watched silently as Dan’r continued his explanation, occasionally pausing his speech to rub at his charcoal with a thumb, or sharpen the edge. The entire dialogue was awkward, stilted, just as all Dan’r’s interactions had been. Gel was no better, but it felt like anytime he spoke with Dan’r, he was speaking with someone who had never really spoken to anyone before, or at least hadn’t in a very long time.

  ‘Where I come from, every child is tested. On their 16th birthday, a Watcher shows up and tests the child in all three disciplines. Normally they do entire villages at a time, for simplicity’s sake, but…if a child passes any of the tests, they are assigned a permanent Watcher, and sent to one of the schools. The Watchers stay with them, until they die, making sure they don’t misuse their gift.’

  ‘Where’s your Watcher?’ Gel cut in.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dan’r said, taking a moment to think, to remember. Gel thought he saw a pained glimmer cross through Dan’r’s eyes, but it was gone before he could be sure. ‘He jumped after me years ago, into the ocean. I never saw him again. That doesn’t matter though. What is important is that the Watchers exist to make sure we don’t abuse the powers we have. You don’t have one. So I’m going to do it instead.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I’m going to watch you, to make sure you don’t do anything…stupid. I’m also going to try to teach you.’

  ‘What are you going to teach me? I thought you said you couldn’t teach me to play.’

  ‘And I can’t. But I can teach you some of the basics, and anything else I think you should know. Starting with this’ Dan’r said, pushing one hand behind him to stand and shaking out the piece of parchment he had been working on.

  Gel tried to pay attention again as Dan’r threw the parchment to the ground at his feet with a wide, sweeping gesture, but once again the air shimmered and Gel found he couldn’t focus. When the shimmering stopped, Gel saw an assortment of weapons lying on the ground at Dan’r’s feet.

  He also saw Dan’r breathing heavily, his chest heaving in and out, and his hands on his knees as if to hold himself up.

  ‘That’s…about as many as I can do at a time’ Dan’r said as he straightened, and shook out his hands.

  On the ground Gel saw two light leather bucklers and two wooden practice swords.

  ‘You’re going to teach me how to fight?’ he asked excitedly.

  ‘We’ll practice for a few hours each morning’ Dan’r said, bending down to pick up a sword and shield, ‘If you want revenge so badly, you’ll have to learn how to take it.’

  Gel hurried over to the weapons while Dan’r strapped a buckler to his left arm and twirled the wooden sword once or twice, to get the feel of it.

  Eager, Gel strapped the second buckler to his left arm, picked up the second wooden sword, and frowned as it shifted in his grip. He swung it down through the air once, experimentally, and it was all he could do to keep a hold. With his missing fingers…

  ***

  ‘I don’t know if I can…’ Gel started, looking angrily at his mangled hand.

  ‘Look, we’ll start slow. Just do what you can. I’m going to attack you now, just…try to protect yourself.’ Dan’r said as he advanced slowly, his sword hand raised high above his head.

  He swung, slowly, arcing the sword down from right to left towards Gel, who lifted his left arm with the buckler and awkwardly fended off the strike.

  ‘Good’ Dan’r said as he brought his sword back up, making a slow, low cut at Gel’s midsection. Gel twisted awkwardly and parried the second strike with his buckler as well.

  ‘Right, try to hit me now,’ Dan’r said after Gel parried three more slow strikes with his buckler.

  ‘I can’t!’ Gel said, angrily, ‘I can’t hold the stupid sword.’

  ‘At least try once before you give up’ Dan’r said, taking a low stance with his buckler held forward. ‘Just swing.’

  ‘Fine’ Gel said, frustrated, as he swung at Dan’r’s buckler. The wooden sword felt awkward, heavy, in Gel’s hand, and as soon as it struck Dan’r’s leather buckler, Gel lost his grip again.

  ‘See?’ Gel yelled angrily, turning and kicking at the sword as it fell to the ground, ‘I can’t do anything!’

  ‘Calm down, Gel, just…let me think for a minute.’

  ‘I’m not going to calm down! I can’t even swing a sword. I’m useless now!’ Gel yelled again, tearing the buckler from his arm and throwing it away from the small camp.

  ‘Gel, just…pack the bags, and get ready to leave. I’ve got an idea’ Dan’r said, sitting himself down and starting to sketch again.

  Gel muttered, but with little choice, he did as he was told. It didn’t take him long to pack up the small camp, as neither he nor Dan’r had much in the way of possessions. Still, by the time Gel finished packing and turned to Dan’r, Dan’r was standing, shaking out a piece of parchment in front of him, the air around his hands shimmering.

  Gel stood, staring, wondering what would appear this time. It was strange, each time, watching something appear out of nowhere. It didn’t make sense. Still, Gel shook his head, furrowed his eyes and forehead as he tried to make out something, anything, through the shimmering air around Dan’r’s hands. His head started to hurt, and he blinked quickly to try to dispel the pain, and then there was Dan’r, standing with a bow and a quiver of arrows in his hands.

  ‘Okay, you’re right,’ Dan’r started, ‘you might not be able to fight with a sword. Still, no reason we can’t teach you to shoot.’ Dan’r said, holding the bow and quiver towards Gel.

  Gel looked at the bow for a second, then shrugged and walked to grab it. Dan’r might be right. Gel couldn’t think of a reason he couldn’t use a bow.

  ***

  They walked all day, with a break at noon. While they walked, Dan’r talked about life in Alta; about magic, about the different countries, about how different Dohm was, and his ideas on why that must be. About how the church of Ragn stifled, limited creativity, limited art, just like the Ghastians did at home. About how wrong it was.

  Gel, for the most part, ignored him. As they walked, he practiced with his new bow. He would stop, take aim, and launch an arrow a few dozen paces ahead, watching the curve of the arrow as it flew. He had wondered why the arrow wobbled in midair, but Dan’r hadn’t known. Gel would then catch up with Dan’r, and they would walk in the direction of his shot, where he would search frantically for the arrow. He only lost three the first day.

  It was simple, but still fun somehow. He only needed three fingers to draw back the bow, and his fingers were already calloused from years of playing lute, so they didn’t even hurt much.

  That night when they made camp, Gel played again, this time keeping the notes tight and fierce, close together, and fast. He was trying to race the fire that Dan’r had started. Or he was trying to feed it, to make it grow larger, Gel wasn’t entirely sure. He liked the tune though; liked how the base was the same always, but the rest of the song shifted and changed seemingly at random, starting and stopping like the tongues of flame the fire sent out; reaching out to the sky, seeing how far, how free they could get, before swiftly dissipating back i
nto the white center of the fire.

  The notes that drifted through the dark finally stopped when Gel put down his lute, echoing only briefly through the night before disappearing entirely. But in Gel’s head as he lay down to sleep…the notes continued. Those notes, and many others. Ideas of what he could compose on; on the winds and the seasons, the heavens and the elements; they haunted his sleep like good dreams, and then just like dreams, they disappeared when he awoke the next morning. The notes, the timing and the phrasing, the very construction of the songs he had woven in the dark just before sleep, they all disappeared with the dawn. But just like dreams, they left him a feeling, a vague memory of what the songs should sound like.

  Gel promised himself on waking that soon he would write them down; soon he would make the ideas in his head real.

  ***

  Gel had just let another arrow loose into the sky, watching as its wobbly parabola drew it in a dark line across the blue, sunny sky.

  ‘Where does it come from?’ he asked as the arrow lazily reached the apex of its flight, watched as it slowly decided to come back down to earth.

  They had been walking all morning in silence. Dan’r had been able to make a bow, but had no insights on how to use one, so Gel was left to his own experimenting. And Dan’r was left to his own musings. He had been walking along, seemingly lost in how bright and, well, beautiful, the day was, when Gel’s question snapped him out of his peaceful reverie.

  ‘What?’ he asked, shaking his head briefly, drawing Gel’s question up from half heard memory, ‘where does what come from? Gravity?’ he guessed, watching as another of Gel’s arrows sped towards the ground.

  ‘No, magic; well, gravity too, but…magic. Where does it come from?’ Gel’s gaze was fixed on where his arrow had fallen, and he didn’t look in Dan’r’s direction as he responded. He had lost a few arrows already that morning, and was determined to not lose anymore.

  ‘Oh. I….I don’t know.’ Dan’r answered, rubbing his hand through his hair, as if that might help him gain previously unknown insight. ‘I mean, there are theories and stories in Alta, but…I never really listened to them. It just always has been. It’s there, and some people can do it and most others can’t. What more needs to be known?’

  Gel stopped briefly and plucked the arrow from where it had skewered the ground as Dan’r fought with his brain to find more words.

  ‘Until recently, I couldn’t even, well, couldn’t do Art. Not all the time anyway. I mean I could, but sometimes when I would try, nothing would happen.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Do you answer everything with another question?’

  ‘Only if my first question isn’t answered’ Gel replied glibly as he drew another shaft as far back as he could and released the arrow into the sky. Sometimes the bow-string slapped back against Gel’s left arm, and it stung, but Gel was learning to hold the bow at an angle, with a slight bend in his left elbow. It made his shots less powerful, but also less painful. He wondered absently in the space between his question and Dan’r’s answer if he could make some kind of guard for his arm, so he could use his full power.

  ‘Well, it’s happened other times too, but…if I’m drunk, and I draw badly, then…then nothing happens. It’s easier to make small things; the bow wasn’t very hard. But, say, a fireball, or food, or drink, those are a bit harder to make…ironic that I can’t be drunk if I want to make myself alcohol. Unfortunate too.’

  ‘So you have no idea why magic happens?’

  ‘Well…’ Dan’r said, rubbing his head again as Gel smirked.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, boy,’ Dan’r said, grinning as he did so Gel would know he meant no offense. ‘Best stop firing those arrows around though. We should be getting close to Ehyet. Wouldn’t want to skewer some unfortunate farmer.’

  ‘You just don’t want to make me anymore’ Gel shrugged mockingly, and put away his bow while looking for the last arrow he’d fired, his spirit somewhat dampened. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see anyone else. Dan’r was one thing, at least he was now, but…how would he deal with a village going about its business, everyone alive, and happy.

  The day suddenly didn’t seem nearly as beautiful as it once had.

  ***

  The constant jostling and steady squeak of the wagon, the heat of the sun beating down, the birds and small wildlife that darted through the tall grass on either side of the road, all the sounds that made up the day, they all disappeared when Erris started to read. They were still there, somewhere, and maybe in the very back of her mind she knew she was hearing something, knew she was sitting on a wagon, rolling slowly down a lonely dirt road, lost, and going who knew where. But in the foreground, all she knew was that she had a book to read.

  It had always been that way. Even at home, before…before everything…she would disappear, would hide somewhere reading, without noticing her parents or siblings calling her, or the time of the day, or the weather. She wouldn’t notice until she fell asleep reading, or until someone came and wrestled whatever world she had dived into from her hands.

  And that happened with dry historical treatises, religious texts, and childish fantasies alike. Every book she cracked back the spine on, every word of every line she read, they were new worlds, worlds where the flora, the fauna, the earth and the sky, where everything was carved in the black and white majesty of the printed word.

  Now, for example, now she was reading something truly interesting. She had never encountered a book like it before, and the small, distant part of her that noticed things like time and birds and hunger and thirst, that tiny part felt a small pang of disappointment that the old man had kept it from her for so long. It was a small book, one of the too-tiny collection the old man had given her, had told her to keep hidden.

  The book was not a story, or a historical account, or a religious or educational treatise; it was not normal. It was a group of essays, with thoughts and opinions laid out right on the page, rather than hidden behind allegory and innuendo.

  The first of the essays she read through did have a religious spin on it. It talked of the shift in power in the church, the steady rise of the military arm of Ragn, and the downsides that came with it. More military meant more soldiers, which meant fewer youths learning trades or helping on farms, more weapons meant less funding for communities, less money going to rural churches. It didn’t go quite as far as saying the church was a problem, but it suggested it strongly.

  The essay also noted how, as the Churches military increased, so too did its more aggressive policies; the war against Riin to the south, against Heyle to the north…even the alternating, manipulative supports of Dhome and Dheme, forcing them to fight against each other more and more frequently.

  As boring as the subject seemed, Erris had never read anything like it. Directly criticizing the Church? If you criticized the church, you criticized Ragn, as the church was his arm on earth. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it blasphemy?

  But if it was, why couldn’t she stop reading?

  Still, the essay had brought up good points. Erris found herself turning the pages quickly, wondering with each turn what new ideas might be set free.

  As it was, Erris barely noticed when the sound from Marmot’s hooves changed from the soft clod of horseshoe on dirt, to the sharp, staccato ring of metal on stone.

  It wasn’t until a voice somewhere in front of her yelled ‘Halt!’, that she even realized her surroundings had changed. Looking up, she saw the entrance to a small village; tall, narrow houses with smokestacks, ringed by a low wall, the road through barricaded with boxes and barrels and other objects, guarded by two men in uniform.

  The men wore red church uniforms, and had long rifles slung over their shoulders, swords belted at their hips. One of them was climbing over the barricade in the road, while the other pointed at her and yelled.

  ‘Halt! Stop! Stop or we’ll be forced to shoot!’

  Erris froze.

  II

  The town ahead of th
em was small, judging by the rooftops that were visible. Maybe…maybe fifty houses, Gel thought; smaller than home had been anyway, before it burnt to the ground. Still, it looked much the same. Just outside of the town, the dirt road he and Dan’r had been walking along had changed to large cobblestones, worn and rounded from decades of travelers walking over them. They had left the road then, where it turned to cobblestone, and had headed for the town through the rolling grass hills that surrounded it, the rooftops slowly rising out of the distance, forming houses.

  The houses too reminded Gel of home; tall, narrow houses, with narrow windows and steep, tiled roofs; silent smokestacks all in a line on either side of the road. Around the city was a low, four foot wall made of stacked stones. It wouldn’t stop runaway sheep, much less raiders on horseback, but it was still there. Gel supposed the town was far enough away from any border to feel the need for a real wall.

  ‘It looks like home’ Gel said as they reached the wall to the north of the town. Dan’r ducked low behind it, and Gel followed suit.

  ‘Why are we hiding?” Gel asked, just as Dan’r motioned for Gel to get down, put two fingers to his lips for quiet.

  ‘Stay here, I’m going to look around’ Dan’r said quietly, then he jumped the low wall, and disappeared amongst the houses.

  Gel turned and sat with his back against the cool wall, instantly frustrated at being left behind.

  ***

  Dan’r had vague memories of passing by the town earlier; vague, drunken memories of barricades, and villagers threatening him, turning him away. The memories were hazy, seen through a mist of exhaustion and alcohol that took an unseemly amount of concentration to overcome, but they were still there. It was like trying to make out objects in a pitch black room. With enough concentration and effort, you’d eventually see outlines. But it would take a while.