The Legend of El Shashi

by Marc Secchia

  Solemnly, I sold my sword. With its coin I purchased the robes and accoutrements of an athocary. I became an itinerant healer. Not for me the setting up of chambers–that mistake I had made in Gramyre Town. Never again, I vowed.

  After a time I chose to put the dust of the long leagues upon my boots, spending the coin of my penance the length and breadth of the Fiefdoms, far beyond the borders of my native Roymere.

  But mark this: how should a man choose whom to heal?

  Or where to ply one’s trade?

  For I bear witness that the Fiefdoms are many, and many more the towns within their borders, and their villages and hamlets, innumerable. Jyla’s bequest opened my eyes twofold: to the myriad faces of our human needs, and to my pitiful inadequacy in the face of them.

  Should I choose this path, I choose not that.

  Should I choose this hamlet, I leave five more in my wake.

  Who could know how best to locate the suffering, the weak, the destitute, and the dying, save Mata Herself? Who would presume to judge one worthy of succour and not another? Should I heal the pickpocket, the swindler, or the woman suffering from cataracts, who nightly beats her husband raw and bloody with switches of hand-tied darkthorn? Should I succour the rapist, the drunkard, the village layabout, or any and every manner of scoundrel that plagues the Fiefdoms?

  I had no answers to these questions.

  Truly told, even the knowledge of power must change a man. The name of El Shashi was at once a mantle, a scourge, and such a terrible burden of responsibility as I could never have imagined. It alienated me from my fellow Umarite. Without noticing it, I became a social recluse, keeping my robe closed upon my chest. I feared even a simple touch, for that was how I dispensed healing. That was how I made my diagnoses, how I transformed lives.

  My touch brought relief and hope, or despair.

  That boy-farmer of Yarabi Vale had vanished, consumed by the Wurm. I felt transient, a nomad, a wind blowing unseen, never-may-care, through the myriad affairs of men.

  When had this despicable conceit developed, that I should judge the needy? Utter presumption. Bald-faced arrogance. Mata’s sweet name, that I could excoriate it from my quoph and start afresh!

  Ay. I recall a beggar I healed of ulcerated sores upon his legs, which he displayed openly the better to solicit pity and the coin of passers-by. He spat upon me, beat me about the head with his lyrithbark cane, and called down the most dreadful curses at my importunity. How dare I rob him of his income and way of life?

  I healed a village Layik of a paralysed leg. The good woman proceeded to follow me for nigh ten leagues from village to village, begging me to become her Matabond lover. The more I refused, the more bitterly she wept and tore at her hair and cried to all comers the depths of my cold-heartedness. It culminated in the woman setting the town guard upon me for a fabricated crime–I received twenty strokes of a willow cane upon my exposed buttocks for my troubles. But I was free of her.

  My reputation, I learned, could raise false hopes. One anna I was invited to spend the cold seasons over Alldark Week amongst the Frenjj people of the south-eastern Hakooi lowlands, a land of fierce heat and nigh unbearable humidity. There, the rich, loamy soils supported two harvests an anna, and the Frenjj grew their gigantic vegetables–beets the size of a man’s head, corncobs the length of a forearm, giant kale which stood the height of a man, and much besides. The Frenjj themselves were a tall, proud people, dark of complexion and noble of brow. But along their rivers, many fell prey to a baffling malady, called ‘string-fly’ in their tongue–a kind of worm or maggot which burrows beneath the skin, and if drawn forth, resembles nothing more than a length of white thread. But over time, the tracks scar and stiffen the joints until a young man moves like his grandfather, and a woman can no longer work with her hands.

  I failed the Frenjj outright. Scar tissue was resistant to my power. It felt dead. I could not move it, remove it, nor change it. Of course there were other maladies to heal, but this matter of string-fly frustrated my every guile and I departed with the sour taste of disgrace in my mouth.

  I dared not travel further than Hakooi, for beyond the tinkling-chambers of the talented minstrels lie the dread plains of the cannibal Faloxx; but instead, turning my face northward, I passed the forested length of the Hakooi and Elbarath Fiefdoms, and travelled right up to the vast sands of desert Damantia and the wondrous mountain fastness of Mara-Kern, where they worship the great eagles and men have learned to glide upon wings on the fierce, scorching thermals that rush up past the edges of the city. It churned my stomach to see them leaping off cliffs half a league or more above the desert. I declined their enthusiastic offers to assist me in casting myself off the nearest precipice. I wish I could claim it was my own bravery–but, truly told, as thanks for healing his aged father of a severe liver infection, a young man arranged for his friends to abduct me, truss my hands, and take me for my first and only flight.

  After I had finished cursing and howling, I did thank them.

  Truly told, these and other wonders did I witness over the anna: wonders such as the sulphurous, burning pits of Sukan, which is the closest imaginable place to Nethe and the people mine the scalding calderas for gold as red as sunset; or the God-serpent of the Kren, an iridescent python of such tremendous proportions it feeds upon half-grown jatha; and when crossing the Straits of Adallan to Sulikarn, a land of teeming jungles and venomous snakes, the delightful play of sea creatures called porpoises, which sported around our boat and raised their heads from the water to gaze at us with eyes full of curiosity and intelligence.

  But life without love is an empty vessel.

  “Rubiny o’Telmak!”

  My second cry echoed most satisfyingly around the forecourt of Telmak Lodge, which, seen from the perspective of a penitent kneeling in its dusty forecourt in the early eventide, was just as I desired it. I had chosen the busiest makh of the busiest day. I scouted the location several days beforehand and kept watch upon the gates to determine that the said lady was both at home and not yet promised to another–would not blue promise-ribbons adorn the gateposts to proclaim the news to all?

  I was drawing a decent crowd.

  “Rubiny o’Telmak! I humbly crave an audience!”

  I mopped my brow. Despite it being the makh of eventide, it was early Doublesun and Belion’s heat and light reflected fearsomely off the clay-white plasterwork of Telmak Lodge. That brilliance cast deep shadows across the main entryway, where I expected Rubiny to make her appearance.

  Quite suddenly, my heart leaped like a jatha scored by the branding-iron. There! The woman herself, as striking as ever I remembered. The suns lowering behind my shoulder burnished Rubiny’s unbound hair into cascade of titian flame, wherein her eyes were as luminous as jade pearls.

  This moment I must have imagined … oh, a thousand times. The dust of four Fiefdoms’ journey suddenly became as trifling footnote upon a forgotten scrolleaf.

  I was dumbstruck.

  Rubiny dusted her floury hands upon her apron. Her cheeks were flushed. I imagined she must have been in the kitchen, perfecting the cakes and sweets for which the Lodge was famous–one of a true lady’s skills, if ulules’ moral tales are to be trusted, lay in ruling the household. For that she must know it inside and out.

  All this gushed through my mind, and out gushed my carefully prepared speech. The silence deepened.

  She, squinting against the suns’ light, said, “Why do you call my name, stranger?”

  Now her mother appeared too, and the Master Telmak in her shadow. The two women turned aside to confer in whispers. The Master stared directly at me. His eyebrows arched, and I saw the corners of his mouth tighten.

  Courage infused my backbone.

  “Honoria Telmak!” I cried, dipping my forehead to the flagstones. “I kneel before you to beg your pardon! I abase myself. Before all present, I declare that I am the most wicked and corrupt of men, who once dared slight the good name and reputation of the dau
ghter Telmak!”

  The Honoria returned my bow with a miniscule inclination of her head. “Well and fine, stranger, but that does not explain why you are wiping my courtyard with your brow, and causing this ridiculous scene.”

  I spread my hands in the full buskal of abject pleading. “Great Lady of Telmak Lodge, I beg your forbearance. On the last occasion I supped within your halls, when deep within my cups, this dung-shovelling simpleton–” deliberately borrowing Rubiny’s own words, “–did make occasion to cravenly insult the peerless daughter Telmak after she greeted me with nought but kind and gracious words.”

  “Arlak!” Rubiny squeaked. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my–”

  “Arlak Sorlakson!” the mother shrieked. “You!”

  “In apology for my boorish insults and drunken advances, I shall three times grovel in the forecourt of Telmak Lodge like the wicked wastrel I am and here declare to the heavens and before all assembled, the depths of my depravity. I plead that the daughter Telmak should grant me the slipper’s toe to kiss.”

  Slowly, holding my breath, I raised my head. Truly told, my boldness was plain for all to see! Rubiny’s eyes glistened–whether with tears or embarrassment, I could not tell. The Honoria’s face was a mask of dark fury. And the Master Telmak? He gestured with his chin. Up here.

  As I cast myself upon the topmost step, I knelt on a sharp piece of flint and hissed in pain. Rubiny’s stifled giggle fell like cool rain upon my fevered head.

  At last, after all these anna, I had done something right.

  Her slippers were informal ladies’ wear, red velveteen slip-ons with a very low heel, but the silver stitching on the seams betrayed her station. I addressed them with great fervour.

  “Rubiny o’Telmak, how I have wronged you,” I declared. There was nothing for it now but to play this scene out. “I am a worthless male who deserves nought but your scorn and contempt. I grovel–”

  “As well you should!” hissed the Honoria.

  “Rubiny o’Telmak, I brought shame on both you and this illustrious Lodge, undoubtedly the finest in the many fiefdoms of Roymere and beyond. I abused your hospitality to a guest and heaped the shame of irremediable selfishness upon my own head. I grovel before you. I pray your forgiveness.”

  I was fast running out of adjectives. Would I lie for love? Ay. But that was not my heart. I despaired. How should I better dress my stupid, stilted words …? Before I knew it, my third apology slipped out thus:

  “Rubiny o’Telmak,” I said, “I have become a fool for love. From the moment I first laid eyes on you, to this day, this love has been as immutable as Roymere’s great mountains. Truly told, you know my feelings, my beloved.” Grief, what had I done? I wanted to sink through the steps. I continued miserably, “Why else grovel, if not for love? Grant me the slipper’s toe. Please.”

  The silence became deafening. Even the clucking lyoms held their beaks.

  A tiny scraping sound. Rubiny’s slipper prodded my nose.

  Dear sweet Mata she …

  The Honoria’s outraged bray resounded throughout the courtyard as she kicked me as hard as she could, right in the ribs, down the steps and away from her daughter.

  “Rubiny!” I whispered hotly, “what are you doing here? In Mata’s name–”

  “Finding you,” she shot back.

  I slumped back on my pallet. “Ulim’s scabrous scullions, woman! Do you often scare people in night’s dead-time? In the male quarters, moreover?” In the shadows by the doorway, the large salcat which had been curled up by my feet gave me a slit-eyed stare of utter disdain, before stalking out of the door with a dismissive flick of its tail.

  “You didn’t bed down at the Lodge.”

  “And have your mother’s servants beat me raw for good measure? I hid here for good reason!”

  “So you didn’t mean it?”

  The intense rumiaflower scent of her perfume set my head a-spin. “Oh, be reasonable, woman!” But my growl failed to achieve an iota of menace. “What would the Honoria say?”

  “Don’t you mean, what hasn’t she already said about my reputation? If you only knew what I’ve endured this day, for your sake!”

  I fumbled for my sparkstone, cursing the darkness. “Worse than grovelling in the forecourt like some numbwit, and being kicked down the stairs? I think my ribs are broken.”

  There came that playful giggle again, the one that punctured my ire with sweet ease. I could not believe Rubiny had come. Did I dare hope …? “I must confess,” she whispered back, “I have never had a man declare himself a fool for my sake. Truly told, a day to remember.”

  “Fool I was,” I muttered, trimming the wick to the lowest glow I could elicit. At least the wretched woman had the sense to wear a travelling burnoose and not some fancy frock! “Fool I am. The world’s greatest fool! Your mother will kill me. Please, for the sake of all that is good in this world, you must return to Telmak Lodge.”

  Rubiny’s titian hair ensnared and winked back the small flame. In the intimate lamplight, her eyes were solemn, dark emeralds, and I wished for nought but to lose myself in them forever. In a low, steady voice she said, “Take heed, Arlak. I do not wish to speak of the Honoria, or Telmak Lodge, ever again. I’ve made my choice.”

  Truly told, my heart leaped as at the very joys of Springtide. I searched her face. “Rubiny?”

  “Arlak.” Her forefinger touched my lips. Her touch was at once fire and balm to my quoph. “Hush now. Let us speak anon. Truly told, I’ve run away without my parents blessing or knowledge, and a thousand wild jerlak would not convince me to return. Don’t frown.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Mayhap I am, but so are you.” Her lips quirked upward. “Fancy kissing my slipper’s toe? What in all the Fiefdoms made you dredge up that quaint custom?”

  I chuckled. It was starting to make sense now. “The person we are not talking about, Rubiny. Was it not you who–”

  “Not I!”

  “Gods, I wanted to strangle you!”

  “Shh.”

  I glanced at the door. “Sorry. But what happened was, the Honoria stopped me at a roadside near Elaki Fountain–anna ago, now. Made a huge kafuffle in front of a family of six. Said you were upset and I had to beg you for the slipper’s toe. The girls teased me about it for three makh solid over evensup.” I drew her hand to my chin. “Look, you wretched, wretched beauty–you left me this beastly scar.”

  Rubiny’s eyes sparkled. “My poor Arlak,” she murmured, moving her fingers aside to kiss the scar. “Ormetal is so heavy.” She nibbled her way from my chin to the corner of my lips. “I wanted nought more than to knock your daft head off. Fancy, mmm, telling me to leave you be? In front of all those people?”

  I was enjoying her sweet kisses far too much to make any rational reply.

  “I’m sure it won’t be the last time either.”

  Truly told again! I twined my fingers into her hair and set about kissing the daughter Telmak as thoroughly as she deserved. Half a span of breathless passion later, sallow lamplight spilled abruptly across our trysting-place.

  “Ha! What have we here?”

  Rubiny and I jerked apart as though burned. I, squinting, made out the housemaster and his two sons. The housemaster waved an old sword, pitted with rust, in a manner that suggested he was more familiar with a hoe. The sons held a quarterstaff each. They gaped at the dishevelled pair of us as if they had just seen Ulim’s Hunt ride past in the full panoply of its demonic glory.

  “It’s the daughter Telmak! Back, you striploose vagabond!”

  I made a habit of sleeping fully clothed on the road, using my pack for a pillow. It is harder to steal things off a man when he wears them. I had no weapons, however, save the belt-knife that every Roymerian carries. I drawled:

  “Put the sword away, old man. I’ve no desire to see you hurt.”

  “Get your hand off the knife!”

  I drew Rubiny behind me–not without protest–and added, “As a tr
ained soldier, I can tell you have no real idea how to use that.”

  “You’re no soldier.”

  “It’s the athocary’s robe, isn’t it?” I sighed. Rubiny kept bumping my back as she rearranged her apparel. “I have just returned from the border war, truly told, and have little patience for sword-waving simpletons.”

  “The border war?”

  “Hush.”

  “Hush?” snorted the housemaster. “I’ll have your hide! Stealing away the daughter Telmak indeed! Why–”

  “You cannot steal what wants to be stolen,” I pointed out, and heard Rubiny giggle behind me. Trust a woman to be overexcited by my kisses. Kissing her again, soon, was my most pressing concern–right after seeing off the housemaster and his boys.

  Waving the sword at my midriff, he scowled. “Don’t you play your fancy words with me, sonny! Now, hand her over.”

  I grabbed for my belt-knife. The housemaster belatedly lunged, missed, and stumbled to his knees. One of the boys swung wildly with his staff. He managed to strike only the overhead roof-beams, lose his balance, and fall upon his father.

  The father clutched his neck. As Rubiny gasped, I saw blood spurt upon the floor. The other son stood petrified in idiotic tableaux, holding the lantern aloft in one hand and his staff in the other.

  “Father!” they cried.

  The wound was jagged, ugly, probably ripped by the man’s own sword-tip. The son tried with terrified fingertips to press the flaps of flesh shut. Blood kept jetting out. It splattered upon his burnoose and up to his elbows in no time. I reached out with my free hand. Touching the old man, I dove into him, found the rent vein, and willed the tissue whole. The crimson spurting slowed at once to a trickle.

  “Hold still.” I smoothed the wound with my fingertips.