He Drank, and Saw the Spider

by Alex Bledsoe

  I tended to only remember my near-death experiences from back then. Cheap ale, the blur of constant battle, and the simple fact that nothing really mattered to me made the years a fog out of which only a few names, faces, and events emerged with any clarity. There was Colonel Dunson, who began as a fine battle leader but whose pride eventually drove me, and all the other good hired swords, out of his employ. The first few deserters had been tracked down and executed, as examples. That just made the rest of us do a better job covering our tracks.

  When I left Dunson, I heard about the brewing war between Mahnoma and Altura. Crazy Jerry had . . . well, gone crazy. Relations with Altura, peaceful for just under a century, had turned toxic almost overnight, though no one knew quite why. I’d flipped a coin to decide which country deserved my sword, and Altura won. So I’d gone there . . .

  . . . and couldn’t remember anything else. Except that the hostilities never materialized. What defused them was a mystery to me now, and probably was then, too.

  But that bit of advice, If you pick up a viper and it bites you, it’s not the viper’s fault, is it? was tied to that time, and this approximate place. Who had told it to me, and why? Because it had become a guiding principle of my life.

  My eyes began to close. It had been a long day, and a fairly active evening. As my brain shifted to sleep mode, two faces drifted before it. One was a beautiful girl, golden-haired and smiling. The other was a baby, scrunch-faced with infant annoyance.

  I couldn’t put names to either of them. I had no children that I knew of, certainly none I’d ever seen. And the girl could’ve been anyone from that time.

  At least I didn’t get an overwhelming sense of guilt from these half memories. That was always nice. Whoever they were, I hadn’t done anything to deliberately screw them over. Maybe I’d even helped them. But before I could think about it any deeper, I was asleep.

  Usually I’m better at picking lodging, making sure the windows face north or south, not west, and definitely not east. But I guess I was distracted the previous night, because now I found that the room faced directly into the sunrise, flooding us with blinding light and rising heat. Those are two things I really don’t enjoy waking up to, especially on vacation.

  I opened my eyes, squinting until they adjusted. Liz stood beside the table, a water basin before her. Naked to the waist, she was washing off with a rag, and the backlighting made it something worthy of a painter. I watched sparkling rivulets find their way along her skin, dripping from assorted points that held my attention. By the time I looked back at her face, she smiled in a wry, knowing way.

  “Morning,” I croaked. “How’s your head?”

  “You’ve never complained,” she said with a wink. “And I feel fine.”

  I sat up. “Even after all that ale?”

  “We sweated a lot of it out, I guess,” she said as she squeezed out the rag. “How do you feel?”

  “Okay,” I said, waiting for the sore points in my back and legs to loosen up. “Hungry and thirsty, though.”

  “You put in a solid night’s work,” she said as she turned and sauntered over, still topless, and straddled my lap, facing me. “Ready for the day shift?”

  I kissed her, then nuzzled some of those same points still wet from her washing. She sighed and ran her fingers through my tangled hair.

  I drew back and said, “What time do they stop serving breakfast downstairs?”

  “I’ll make sure you get fed.”

  “I bet you will.” And then we went back to bed for what turned out to be a fairly long time. No ropes or cross-dressing was involved, but I felt sorry for anyone in the room next to us. Unless they enjoyed eavesdropping.

  At last we got up for real, washed, dressed, and went downstairs to the tavern. Over lunch and ale, we discussed where to go next.

  “Altura,” I said.

  “Where’s that?”

  I gestured vaguely. “There’s a shared border. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Why there?”

  I wanted to tell her about the half-remembered faces, the vague sense of something significant, and the advice that had stuck with me for so long. This, however, didn’t seem to be the time. I wiped a tiny spot of gravy from her chin, licked it off my own finger, and said, “No reason. I just seem to remember going through there once, and the scenery was beautiful.”

  Liz shrugged. “Okay. Altura it is. There’s probably dozens of little spring festivals we can visit.”

  We took our time after leaving the Acheron, staying overnight in the first little town we came to. They had a festival going as well, but after checking it out for an hour or so, we returned to our room and used the music from outside as accompaniment for some more intimate activities. I’m happy to say we did a better job improvising than the musicians. When we left the next day, someone told us about a mock tournament held at another village. They had an elaborate faux siege set up around a fake castle, and participants got to join in and pretend to be warriors and knights. At Liz’s urging, I took up a wooden sword with a blade padded by leather and down feathers, and led a charge that was just barely repelled by the defenders. I “died,” cut down by more padded swords, on the fake drawbridge, mere steps from victory. Liz thought this was hysterical.

  We resumed our journey the next morning. It was a beautiful day, and the breeze was cool enough to balance the blazing sun. The road gradually rose as we passed through the forest; eventually we’d emerge from the trees onto the rolling, grass-covered hills, where shepherds replaced farmers and huntsmen.

  I stopped to relieve myself, and walked a short way into the forest. As I stood behind a tree, my eye fell on a patch of ground where the leaves had been pushed aside by something with a large, broad foot. Five claw marks indicated the front edge. I fastened my pants, frowning as something tried to come to the front of my brain.

  And like a hammer dropped on a cold toe, the events of sixteen years earlier came roaring back. Audrey. Arcite and Strato. Beatrice. Isidore.

  “Oh, shit,” I said, louder than I intended.

  “What’s wrong?” Liz called from the wagon.

  “Ah . . . nothing,” I said.

  I wasn’t keeping a secret, exactly. I just wanted time to sort through the memories and get the story in the right order. Besides, the chances that we’d end up in the exact same town, or that any of those people would still be there, or that they’d remember me if they were, were all pretty slim.

  Right?

  Right.

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  The original sign had been replaced. This one announced Mummerset in real calligraphy, and with no misspellings. The ivy-covered wall around the town looked in better shape, too, although that could just be the vagaries of memory. I recalled it as more crumbling and pitiful-looking. “Cute little town,” Liz said. “Very quiet-looking.”

  “Most people live out on their farms and sheep ranches.

  They don’t come to town unless they need something.”

  “Looks like everyone needed something today,” she observed.

  A group of young girls approached over the closest hill.

  They wore bright white kerchiefs and dresses with red skirts that fluttered in the breeze. Most of them carried distaffs, and as they talked and giggled, one arm was extended to spin off the yarn, which was in a variety of colors.

  A dozen wagons were stopped along the road, and their horses were either tied loosely or simply let go into the open fields, where they milled about munching grass with the sheep. Many of these wagons were uniquely designed so that the sides looked like ladders. I’d seen wagons like them in other hilly places, and knew they were especially good for traveling down uneven roads and across rugged terrain, since they were far more flexible than rigid wagons like the one we drove. A few people also milled about, mostly men dressed in snow- white sheepskin capes or embroidered white leather coats lined with black fur. The wind wasn’t bad now, but I could imagine it got rathe
r chilly after the sun went down. I might have to buy one of those coats myself.

  It seemed that most people were inside the town wall. A faint murmur of crowd noise reached us, growing in intensity as we neared.

  I’d told Liz the story of my previous visit, as best I remembered it. And I was honest, even about the girl. She reacted exactly as I knew she would, too: by mercilessly teasing me the rest of the way. How could I not love her?

  “Seems like a happy place,” Liz said. “So this is where you left your baby?”

  “No, I did not leave my baby here. I left a baby, that I found, with someone who could take care of her. I was a kid myself back then.”

  She leaned over and kissed my cheek above my beard.

  “Sorry, Eddie. I just think it’s funny to imagine you saddled with a baby.”

  “Hey, I like babies,” I said defensively.

  “I’ve never seen you interact with a child younger than ten.”

  “That’s because they don’t get my jokes until then,” I said with more genuine annoyance that I should’ve felt. Why did this bug me so much? The fact that Liz teased me was one of the things I normally liked best about her.

  I drove the wagon off the road, slotting it in between two others. Compared to those battered and oft-repaired vehicles, our well- worn wagon was right out of the wainwright’s shop. A cheer rose from the town as we stepped to the ground.

  “They know we’re here,” Liz said dryly.

  “I always get a welcome like that,” I said.

  We undid the horses and walked them to a long trough set against the wall. Liz noticed some flowers planted along it and said, “Oh, those are pretty, aren’t they? Wonder what they are?”

  “Striped vorrygills,” I said.

  She narrowed her eyes playfully at me. “Did your rich family teach you gardening, too?”

  “Yes, but they called it horticulture.”

  She took my nose and playfully tweaked it. “You know what they say: You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.”

  As we stood there watching the horses drink, I heard a man’s voice—harsh, arrogant, and mocking—from behind another wagon. “She was crazy,” he said. “It was like going to bed with a rabid sheepdog. She was all thrashing and snapping, even barked like a dog a couple of times.” Other male voices laughed at this.

  “Eddie,” Liz said very softly. I followed her nod, and saw a young woman huddled near a wagon’s wheel, hidden from the group of men but clearly listening. She was also silently sobbing, and I realized she must be the girl they were discussing. I looked at Liz. She nodded and went to comfort the girl. I made sure the horses were okay, then went to see the young men.

  They were three tall, sturdy farm boys, tanned and muscular, none of them over twenty. The one who’d been talking had a mop of unruly blond hair streaked from the sun. He said, “Ah, I have to get back home.”

  “Your wife got your balls in a basket?” one of his friends taunted.

  He didn’t look old enough to have a wife, but out here in the country, what else are you going to do? He said, “On a scale of one to ten, my wife is a two, and that’s only because I’ve never seen a one. She better keep her mouth shut, if she knows what’s good for her. She’s already popped out two kids, and neither one was a son. I’m only giving her one more chance.”

  “Wow, man, that’s . . . harsh,” his other friend said. He ignored the implied disapproval. “Besides, the banquet’s tomorrow, and they can’t find a damn onion in an onion field without me.” Then he noticed me, and when I said nothing challenged, “So what do you want, old man?”

  “I think the girl you’ve been talking about can hear you,” I said.

  “So?” he shot back, and his two friends laughed. “You’re being kind of mean. You made her cry.”

  “Listen, old man, get on out of here before we make you cry, okay?”

  I smiled. “I think you should apologize.”

  All three laughed.

  I took two steps into the middle of the group, grabbed the blond kid by the face and bonked his head against the stone wall hard enough to daze him and get his attention. I had my sword out and up against his nearest friend’s throat before any of them moved. I wanted them to be scared, so I wouldn’t have to hurt them. “Put your goddamn hands up where I can see them,” I snarled. To the third boy, I said, “You, too.” They did as they were told.

  “Do you know who I am?” the blond kid said, his voice growing whiny. “My father’s the biggest—”

  I held him by the front of his tunic and put the sword’s point against his belly. “You got a mouth that really needs to stop moving. You don’t speak again until I say you can. Nod if you understand me.”

  He nodded. Then I pushed him ahead of me around the wagons until we found Liz and the crying girl.

  “Eddie,” Liz said, “this is Rachel. Rachel, this is my boyfriend, Eddie.”

  “Hello,” she said, her voice raw from crying. She turned red when she saw the boy, but kept her chin high, retaining as much dignity as she could. I knew that in a small town, stories like this could ruin the girl’s life, and fought mightily to keep my temper down.

  By now a few people had emerged to see what the commotion was about. They watched in apparent great interest. One man had a tankard of ale, and sat down on a rock as if we were putting on a show just for him. I got the definite sense that this boy had had this coming for a while.

  “Nice to meet you, Rachel,” I said. “Liz, this is . . . What’s your name, punk?”

  “Gordon,” he said sullenly.

  “You’re a very rude and thoughtless young man, Gordy,”

  Liz said. “The world has enough of those. You’re really not needed.”

  He said nothing, and wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  I shook him. “Apologize to Rachel, Gordon.”

  “What the fuck for?” he muttered.

  Liz whistled through her teeth, sharp and loud. “Over here.”

  He looked up at her, contempt blazing from his eyes. “Don’t whistle at me. I’m not your fucking dog. You look more like a dog than I do.”

  “Now you’re talking to my girlfriend,” I said. “How smart do you think that is?”

  “Yeah, you’re real tough with a sword in your hand, old man,” he said, not meeting my eyes. He knew he had an audience, and was caught between the sensible idea of doing as he was told, and performing for his crowd. Moron.

  I tossed my sword to Liz, who caught it by the hilt. I released Gordon and stood in front of him. “I’m going to slap you. With my right hand. And you are not going to be fast enough to stop this old man from doing it.”

  He wasn’t.

  I grabbed him by the hair. “Call me ‘old man’ again, and I’ll knock out your front teeth. You couldn’t stop me on your best day, and this is far from that.” I pushed him over to Rachel and forced him to his knees. “Apologize to this girl.”

  “I’m sorry!” Gordon snarled through clenched jaws. “Say it like you mean it,” Liz said. “No—say it like your life depends on it.”

  “I’m sorry!” he repeated, with a hair’s more sincerity. The audience, now at least a dozen people, clapped in approval. Rachel looked down at him, her humiliation mixed with contempt. “I thought I loved you, you know that? I really did.

  Even though you’re married. But you’re just . . . just . . .”

  “An asshole,” Liz said helpfully.

  “An asshole!” Rachel cried, finding her voice. “Yes, that’s it, you’re an asshole. Fuck you! Fuck you, and you two?” She indicated his friends. “Fuck you, too! Fuck all of three of you!

  And . . . and . . . fuck you!” she ended, back at Gordon. I released Gordon with a shove that sent him sprawling.

  Our watchers applauded. Liz gave Rachel a hug, then strode over to me and took my arm. “Shall we visit the festival now?” I watched Gordon and his two friends, to see if they were at least smart enough to stay down and quiet. Th
ey were.

  “Sure,”

  I said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “I’ll take it,” she said, and kissed me. We strode out of the wagons, through the gate, and into Mummerset. As we passed, I scanned their faces of this little crowd, looking for some sign of recognition, either in them or for myself. This is supposed to be fun, I told myself yet again. Stop thinking about it like a case.

  The whole street down to the central courtyard was arched over with decorative boughs covered in flowers, no doubt brought from the forest downslope. The fallen petals, crushed into the street’s dry dirt, gave the ground spots of pastel color.

  Music, played on pipes and drums and barely audible over the sound of people rhythmically clapping, reached us from the courtyard. Liz squeezed my hand in anticipation.

  We hadn’t gone far when three teenage girls stepped out into the street. They were beautiful, although I doubted they were older than sixteen: Isidore’s age, I realized. That counted as a grown woman in the countryside, I knew, and certainly the parts of them that I could see were definitely full-grown.

  But their faces were still those of children.

  They wore solid color dresses in green, yellow, and blue, and carried baskets of flower petals that matched their clothes.

  They threw them in the air over us.

  “The warmth of spring brings life to all,” they sang in unison, “and here we answer to its call.”

  They moved aside, and a fourth girl stepped out. Her straight brown hair was woven through with ribbons, braids, and flowers.

  “Welcome, new friends,” she said with a smile. “I’m standing in for Ancillay.”

  “So you are,” I said. “Is Ancillay out sick?”

  All the girls laughed. “No,” the new one said, “Ancillay is the handmaiden of Eolomea, our goddess of the spring and fertility. She greets new souls as they arrive in this world, as I greet new souls who arrive for our festival.”

  I bowed, and Liz curtsied. I said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ancillay. I’m Mr. LaCrosse, and this is Miss DuMont.