So I tracked him back to his home, a lone settlement halfway around the mountain. Careful observation over the next few days led me to conclude he was a gardener, and—remarkably—he lived alone, which was nearly unheard of. (Man is a social animal by nature, largely because the ones who like to live alone tend to get eaten. Or they used to. Now the loners just spend a lot of time on the Internet, or on remote islands with depressed pixies.)
Employing the sort of tact people back then always responded well to, I hunted and killed a wild boar and left it on his stoop late one night. And once he was done eating it—which took several days—I left him another one. When it was time to leave him a third boar, rather than run off, I sat there and waited for him to find it. This didn’t take long, as by that time he’d decided the only way to ascertain which god was being so generous to him was to stay awake and see who showed up.
His response was a bit more measured than in our last encounter. He offered me the gift of a bowl of fruit and vegetables from his garden, which was a nice gesture. I mean, it wasn’t a boar or anything, but it was nice.
Soon enough, he was building a fire for the boar, and we were eating the fruits of our combined labors and getting to know one another.
* * *
If there’s one thing I have to be thankful for, it’s that eventually people stopped coming up with new languages. It may seem like a great thing to be fluent in basically every language in the Western world, but I had to actually learn them, one at a time. (I also know some Far East tongues, but not as many, as I spent less time there.) Taking the time to learn each new language can be a real pain, and it’s even worse without someone willing to teach me. Egyptian took forever, for example, because I ended up in the Nile delta as a slave rather than a traveler, and few slave owners are interested in teaching a slave more words than it takes to communicate tasks.
It took about four months to fully master the language of my new friend, whose name was Karyos. It would have taken longer, but his tongue shared a common root with the language of the Minoans, and so while many of the descriptive words were distinctive, the structure and verb forms were very similar. Plus, we’re not talking about a huge vocabulary here.
By the year’s end, we were comparing horticultural secrets and regaling one another with tales of past glory.
Karyos came from a tribe of horsemen, a fact that I found amazing as I had never seen a tamed horse, nor was I entirely certain what a horse was. His people had journeyed a vast (by the standards of the time) distance over a long span of time, starting—based on his rough description—in a region somewhere near the Caspian Sea.
As a member of a warrior tribe—there wasn’t really any other kind—Karyos had fought in dozens of skirmishes before deciding he had enough. But rather than settle down with a woman and cope with the possibility of more battles (I can’t call a fight between fewer than fifty men a war) he took what little farming knowledge he had and exiled himself from the rest of his people. And that’s how he ended up on the side of the mountain, happily alone and leaving the fighting to the young men.
He made for a good companion, not at all minding extended silences and happy just to figure out how to grow things that tasted good. Even when I took up residence in his little home, we often went days without speaking. And other than the wild animals, we were unnoticed by the outside world. For a little while.
* * *
One afternoon while wandering through the woods a good half-day’s distance from home, I came upon an extraordinary discovery: a grapevine. Remembering well the beneficial aspects of alcoholic beverages—and being about a hundred years overdue for one—I yanked the vine at the root and ran back to the farm.
“What is that?” Karyos asked, seeing me tumble into the clearing holding up the vine as if it had been handed to me directly by a god.
“This,” I said triumphantly, “is the beginning of a remarkable thing. Do you know how to craft a pot from clay?”
“What need have I for a new pot?”
“We will need several. You will understand later. First we must plant this.”
It took a little over a year to turn the one grapevine into multiple fruit-bearing plants, and by that time we’d fashioned a dozen small clay pots along with a method to seal them with beeswax. After following the winemaking procedure laid down by the slave Argus of Minos as well as I could remember, we filled the pots, sealed them, and stored them in the corner of the building where they would hopefully remain cool and dry.
Then we waited.
By that time, Karyos was looking and acting quite old. From my perspective it was sudden, like he’d gone grey overnight. This used to happen to me all the time in the days before calendars and watches. It’s a little like those time-lapse photography films showing a flower reaching full bloom in seconds.
Politely, Karyos hadn’t asked why it was that I still looked as hale as when he’d met me. One evening, he pointed to our jars. “For which god do we make this concoction?”
The question took me by surprise; Karyos spent very little time worshipping any of his gods, or even mentioning them. I shook my head. “None. We make it to fill our own bellies. It is a drink of celebration.”
“I see,” he mused. We were in the hut, in the dark, in our own separate corners of the room. “And what is it we are celebrating?”
“Friendship?” I suggested. “Life? What would you like to celebrate?”
He sat still on his mat and considered it. “Yes,” he agreed at length. “I will celebrate life. Fitting to do so as my circle comes to close.”
“You have much left in you still, Karyos.”
The laugh that followed devolved quickly into a harsh cough I somehow never managed to notice before. “Perhaps that appears so to one fixed as the stars,” he said, once the cough subsided. “No, my very old and very young friend, I am rounding the final curve. But first, I look forward to my drink.”
* * *
I should point out that just like everything else, philosophy was something that had to evolve over time, and in Karyos’s day nobody in this part of the world—with the possible exception of the Egyptians—was talking about heaven and hell and being good in this life in order to reap the rewards in the next one. And while there may have been gods, they weren’t particularly well defined. If, for instance, something unusually lucky happened, one might declare that a god—pick one—was feeling generous that day. And if a particularly bad thing happened, a god (usually a different one) was upset about something or other. Gods, in other words, were what most of us would now call chance or luck. And in that sense they served their purpose, by making a random existence seem less random.
Having not yet come up with a concept to explain where one might go after death, Karyos’s people adopted an ingenious, if somewhat perplexing attitude that life was a circle. Not like Disney’s circle of life thing, which was really just a nice way to say, “death is normal, children, so suck it up.” The belief was, when I die, I will come back around to the beginning of this life and go through it again. They didn’t mean reincarnation, but literally reliving the same life from beginning to end in the same historical period. From a modern perspective this might sound incredibly silly, but consider the alternative of ceasing to exist entirely when you die. Nobody—including me—wanted to consider that, so outrageous alternatives were needed. And really, finding a better explanation than the cessation of existence is the basis for every religion.
I didn’t care for the whole circle idea personally, which is not to say I had anything better to work with. I was—and am—a man of my age, whatever age that happens to be. I can’t pretend I had any better ideas, in other words. But I did think it was pretty stupid, and said so a couple of times when I was sure such a declaration wouldn’t get me killed.
* * *
When one year from the day in which the jars were sealed had passed (we marked time by counting moons) I carefully unsealed one jar, prepared two bowls for Karyos an
d myself, and we sat by the fire and drank.
“What do you think?”
“It is . . . bitter,” he said.
I puckered my lips. “Yes. I may have to work on that.”
“But it fills my belly with a burn. It is pleasant.”
I raised the bowl towards him. “Have more. It will make you feel young again.”
A few hours later, we were both outrageously, stupidly drunk. I got to learn a fair sampling of songs that either came from Karyos’s own culture or he made up on the spot. At the time it didn’t really matter. I, in turn, taught him a dance I learned from a pre-Akkadian tribe that was quite remarkable when performed by a nubile moon priestess, but looked downright silly when done by a countrified old man. It was still fun.
The next day we paid dearly for it.
“Am I dying?” Karyos asked meekly as I tried to help him out of the hut before he stunk it up any further with his own vomit.
I wasn’t doing all too well myself. “No. We just need water, and rest.”
“I feel hot and cold at once, which seems not at all possible,” he groaned. “My insides wish to come out and my eyes are ready to burst forth from my skull. Are you certain this is not death?”
“I am.”
Karyos grimaced. “That is a shame. I would very much welcome death right now.”
“Forgive me. I had forgotten how important moderation was with this drink.”
“I trust you will not forget again.” Karyos then fell to his knees at the edge of our camp and vomited into the brush.
* * *
Subsequent excursions into the clay jars proved to be somewhat less painful, and soon Karyos was as enthusiastic as I was about cultivating our little vineyard. He even considered taking a jug of it to the people he’d spurned so long ago, marking the first time he had mentioned them aloud in at least a decade. So I knew I’d gained a convert.
I was off on one of my little walkabouts when things quite suddenly went horribly wrong.
Walkabout is a word I was only just recently introduced to, by Clara. I used to take nature walks over various parts of the island, and sometimes these walks took a few days despite the fact that the island isn’t really all that big. When she asked about it, I explained that it helps me sometimes to reacquaint myself with nature whenever I’m fortunate to be near some. (Not so easy anymore.) She said, oh, like a walkabout. Which I thought was a sandwich. It turns out this is a big thing in Australia—one of the few places I’ve never been.
Anyway, I’d left Karyos alone to tend to things and wandered off, promising to bring back meat if I found any.
I returned to camp five days later, in the early morning. By the light of the gradually dawning sun, I noticed a few things wrong. Most apparent was the fire. We almost never kept the fire pit smoldering for the entire evening. At worst, it should have been embers, but no; it was fully aflame. Second, there were a half-dozen large animals milling around at the edge of the clearing, eating my grapes and otherwise making themselves general nuisances in the garden. Horses, I realized. Tame ones.
We had guests.
I stepped out of the brush and walked over to the open flame, and as my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw five men lying about beside the fire. They weren’t asleep and they weren’t dead, but they were also not altogether in control of themselves. I could hear groans and the occasional light coughing; they were suffering from the after-effects of our wine.
Four of the clay jars Karyos and I had painstakingly crafted lay shattered on the ground beside the fire.
“What goes on here?” I boomed. A couple of the men moaned, but that was all I got by way of response.
Based on the clothing—chitons, leather belts, boots—they were members of the same tribe Karyos hailed from. Each had a crude iron sword at his side, which I seriously doubted any of them were in any condition to wield.
“I say, what goes on here?” I repeated, louder.
A sixth man stumbled from the hut. Standing, I could see he shared ancestral roots with my friend as well, being similarly squat and sturdy.
“Who are you?” he growled.
“I live here with my friend Karyos,” I replied angrily. “Who are you?”
He spat on the ground and staggered toward the fire. I realized with growing horror that the sword in his hand was dripping with blood. “The bastard mountain man poisoned us all!” he roared. “Look at us! We are dying!”
“What did you do to him, stranger?”
“I repaid him his treachery while still I had the strength,” the man snapped angrily. “And if he was friend to you, then you will share his fate.” He stumbled forward, sword raised, clearly still very drunk.
I was quite furious. I leaned over and took the sword of the nearest prone man and met the charging warrior’s clumsy assault with an overhand parry and a swift kick in the balls.
“Fool,” I spat as he fell to his knees. “You met an old man’s hospitality with treachery.”
“He poisoned us!” he declared again.
“You’d have been better by midday. Did he not drink with you?”
He tried climbing to his feet. “He did.”
“Then what poison do you suppose he could have used, that would not have felled him as well?”
He had no answer for this and I was in no particular mood to wait for him to think of one. I cleaved his head from his shoulders.
I stormed into the hut to see for myself the fate of my friend. True to his word, the barbarian had slain Karyos rather effectively; he’d been chopped up so thoroughly I hardly recognized him.
I . . . did not react well to this.
I have had my moments of poor anger management through history, and this was maybe one of those times when I should have taken a few breaths and counted to ten or something. Instead, I went back outside and killed each of the five prone men one at a time, slowly and with more relish than I should admit to.
By the time I was done, I was covered in blood and not feeling much better about things. I considered moving on to the horses, but they took one look at me and ran off on their own. My first opportunity to learn how to ride a horse would have to wait.
I buried what remained of Karyos in an unmarked grave at the edge of the campsite where, for all I know, he still lies. (The soldiers I left for the wolves.) It was an inadequate memorial, but we didn’t have headstones then, because unless you’re talking about merchant accounting, we barely had a written language. What we had was oral history, which was why, for centuries afterwards, I shared the story of Karyos’s death with everyone who got my wine recipe.
“BETTER THE STRANGER WITH WITS THAN A WITLESS FRIEND.”
From the archives of Silenus the Elder. Text corrected and translated by Ariadne
A long life and a good memory sometimes just means any creature comfort you want to name has a maudlin story to go with it. It’s gotten so I can hardly enjoy anything anymore. And I can still hear Karyos’s voice recommending moderation whenever I have a hangover.
It took me only an hour to polish off the Greek wine-and-water combo that Ariadne—I was assuming it was her—had been good enough to set me up with, and when I was done I called room service and got some more. The next thing I knew, two days had passed and I hadn’t left my room except to put my empties down in the hallway. Management had to send someone up to make sure I wasn’t suicidal, and also to point out that the cash deposit I’d put down on the room was no longer adequate to cover my stay. So I threw the guy another grand and sent him off.
Eventually, I passed out.
* * *
“Good to see you’re still alive,” said a man at the foot of the bed. It was late at night and I’d been asleep for either two hours or twenty-six, and I was banking on the latter. The room was pitch black, the shades drawn and the lights switched off. I couldn’t recall if I’d left it like that.
I looked toward the sound of the voice, but I had no hope of seeing who had spoken. Maybe I was imagi
ning things.
I rolled into a sitting position. “I hope you’re right. If not, the afterlife has hangovers.”
“There’s a bottle of water on the table to your right,” my visitor helpfully informed me. He had a low, gruff, but non-threatening voice that sounded not at all familiar. As dark as it was, I couldn’t tell whether he had a gun on me or not, so I assumed he did. If you ever find yourself in this situation, you should absolutely assume a gun is involved.
“Thanks.” I reached out in that direction until I came upon the bottle. “How long have you been sitting there?” I knew he was sitting because of the direction of his voice. A standing midget seemed like a bad bet.
“I dunno,” he answered. “A few hours.”
I uncapped the water and took a deep swig. “Guess you’re not here to kill me or rob me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’d be dead already. Unless you’re looking for a fight.” That would, incidentally, be incredibly stupid. I may not look like much, but you don’t want to deal with me in hand-to-hand. Just trust me; you pick up a lot of things when you live this long.
“Maybe I need you to tell me where the money is.”
“It’s under the bed,” I said helpfully.
“Okay.” A match flame erupted from his corner of the room, which ruined what meager night vision I had been working on. He lit a cigarette. “How much do you have?”
Well this was just silly. I put the water down and threw on the light switch next to the bed.
“Don’t really know,” I admitted, in regards to the money. I blinked my vision clear.
My visitor was a man of medium height and medium build, who had long, curly black hair that ran down the back of his neck and a scruffy, unshaven face with a prominent chin and a pug nose. Not what I’d call handsome. He had on black jeans and a deep blue collared shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck, with black combat boots. A tweed sports jacket was draped over the chair and I was guessing he had a tie he was supposed to be wearing in the pocket of it. Oh, and he did have a gun, but it was in a shoulder holster. I’d been holding out hope that he was just an over-enthusiastic employee taking the presumptive suicide watch on me a bit too seriously, but he didn’t look like someone who worked for a hotel; he looked like an undercover cop from a seventies TV series.
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