The Smiling Stallion Inn

by Courtney Bowen

  Arria is a land of dark forests and lush valleys. To explore them is to know the length and breadth of Arria, for to know her is to know just who you are, where you come from, and who you’re meant to be, for Arria is in between the realms of past, present, and future, in between the realms of legend, fantasy, and reality.

  Arria means “earth,” Mother Earth, as the earth gave birth to us.

  She sings to you of her sorrows and of her joys in a language that you don’t even understand, yet you know the feeling all too well, for you’ve lived it. The past was something that she regretted and hated, for the sorrows and joys of her life were out of balance.

  Arria is a nation of humanity, for good or for evil, yet a legend in and of itself. All humans must face the music, and learn who they are, and this is one of those stories: the story of Arria, and of some of her people who lived there.

  Choirs and choruses, triumphant marchers, deadened mourners, or worshippers, they are all woeful and burdened, glad and joyful, and they all come together to sing…

  Sing away, sing away,

  Mothers of the Za Desert,

  Sing away, sing away,

  For your baby to sleep.

  Her voice lilting across time and space, she reaches you, listening intently to find the meaning of her story behind the song. With all of its heroics and tragedies, it’s the opera of her life story for that brief bright shining moment before she fades away.

  We shall begin…

  I’m thirteen years old today, and I want to write of my life so far. These words (“Arria is a land of rocky shores, myths and legends, mist and magic, mystery and music …”) are not my own, but are Old Man’s words, except for the song, (“Sing away, sing away, Mothers of the Za Desert…”), which is a Zarien lullaby.

  My name is Nisa, and I’m a protégée. That’s a fancy way of saying that you’re a student, studying to replace a master. In this case, the master is Old Man, and he’s a master of mystery, words, and…I want to say music, but he doesn’t actually sing. He just mutters, making up words to the song, and he doesn’t play a real instrument either.

  He does play with people, though.

  I’m one of those people, one of those many people he has played with over the years, sneaking by us and fooling us into thinking that he’s just some harmless old storyteller, but he’s not, not really. I first noticed him when I was young, probably seven years old.

  He’s sort of hard to spot when he doesn’t want to be seen, but he’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time. So, eventually, when I was able to concentrate hard enough, I spied him standing up in a tree or crouching down low, close to the ground, in a bush. Sometimes he goes into town, slinking along alleyways, or hiding in the corner of the common room at the local inn.

  He listens and he watches, that’s what he does, morning, afternoon, and night, except for when he’s telling stories to the children. I was one of them, until I decided to seek him out and ask if I could become just like him.

  Old Man stared at me. “Are you sure that…Nisa, is that your name?”

  “Yes, and my mother is called Brigga,” I told him. “You might remember her,” I added.

  “Of course I do. I remember every girl and boy who ever sat at the fireside,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “That’s a lot of people,” I said. “And they all grew up and died, while you stayed the same, and more people came…That’s a lot of people,” I said, looking up at him.

  “Go away. Go back to your mother, and tell her nothing about me,” Old Man said, looking away. “I don’t know why you’d ever want to be like me. Nobody should ever go through what I went through. Now be a good girl, Nisa.”

  “If I can’t be like you, then why can’t you just teach me something about what you know?” I asked.

  “I can’t do that,” Old Man said, shaking his head. “Why can’t you just listen to the stories? It’s all there anyway, everything you need to know, and everything I learned that can’t be taught,” he said.

  “Teach me how to sneak around and not be seen,” I said. “Teach me that much, and I promise I won’t ever bother you again.”

  So he did. And he saw how good of a job I did, blending in with my surroundings, that he decided to teach me a little bit more. And more. Until, at last, I knew him, and his tricks, better than anybody else did.

  And then my mother found out that I was spending time with Old Man. And she brought me to him.

  “Did you think that you could get away with it?” she asked him, pushing me forward.

  “What are you—?”

  “Taking our daughter away from me?” she exclaimed, and then she covered up her mouth as she realized what she’d just revealed to me.

  I gasped, looking up at her. She…and Old Man had been…“You’re my father?” I said to him.

  “I thought as much,” he said, gazing at Brigga. “I didn’t know for certain, though.”

  “You should have realized that after…” Brigga shook her head. “Never mind, what are you doing with her?”

  “I was only trying to teach her what she wanted to learn from me,” he said, adding, “She came to me first. I told her nothing of what I suspected.”

  “You should have told me!” I said.

  “I didn’t want you to get excited and attached to me,” he said, gazing down at me. “I’m Old Man; I don’t raise families,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that’s just the way I am. I’m not the type of person you get close to.”

  “Maybe Nisa should,” my mother said, gazing at him. “Maybe Nisa should get to know her father.”

  “What are…don’t you think you can…” Old Man cried, startled.

  “I’m her mother, and you’re her father,” Brigga said. “We should acknowledge that, Old Man. She might not have everything you have, especially in terms of longevity…” My mother took a breath. “…when she seems to age just like every other ordinary child. But I think she should understand just what might lie in store for her.” She nodded. “You take care of her, Old Man, just for a little while.”

  And so he did, for a little while. But a little while got stretched out longer than I thought it would, as I saw him almost every day. And I got involved with him, and what he had to deal with, and, more than anyone else living here today in Coe Baba, I understood him. And that was how I got involved with this story, with this adventure he led me into.

  I’m played by him, and I get to understand the mystery.

  * * * *

  A lone young woman rode her horse through the forest at a smart canter. Time was of the essence, but she didn’t want to break her neck. Sitting high up in the saddle and holding onto the reins as best she could with trembling hands, she looked straight ahead, daring to hope to see her final goal before her. She’d not stop now, not because of a little pain. Her plans, such as they were, had been put in motion a long time before now.

  Her horse plodded along in its tired old way, not even trying to speed along except at her urging, for she’d not rest, and neither would she allow the animal to rest until they had made it to town. They’d come a long way, and they were so close to the end of it all now, she’d not…

  Suddenly, she halted her horse. Stillness reigned in the forest, either from hibernation or migration, yet she looked about, shivering as she sensed something dangerous was near.

  A silent flurry of snowflakes whirled and hurtled through the air, only to land softly on the ground as they soon faded to mush. Yet something was wrong, and it was coming for her. She couldn’t shake this feeling. Perhaps she was wrong, but the snowfall obscured even further her sight, and darkness prevailed in the coming of evening. The long, skeletal branches of deciduous trees reached up toward the late-afternoon sky. Bedraggled evergreens lumped closely together blocked her view of her surroundings.

  She hadn’t known so many trees could make her feel trapped. The forest, which was the largest in the country and covered almost a quarter of it, was named after the first
goddess, Mila, who had walked out of the ocean and onto dry land after dropping from the sky with her three brother gods. She shuddered at the thought of Mila, the forest goddess, who had burned in the grip of Menthar, the fire god. No woman she knew was comfortable with that story, even though some women tried to reassure themselves it was just a story of life renewing itself, even after death. Yes, and some men took the story too seriously, deriving a sort of sick pleasure from it. They blamed what happened on Mila instead of Menthar. They took Menthar’s side, but he was to blame; the young woman was sure of it.

  Her eyes roved about but all she could see were trees, nothing else. Yet she knew something was… A whoosh upon the wind announced its coming arrival. She jerked the horse and moved her head. An arrow thudded right into the spot into the tree beside her. If she hadn’t moved her head, she’d have been killed.

  The horse shied away from the arrow thudding into the tree. No, no, no, no, she thought, not now. She couldn’t hide, she could only run. She flicked the reins, urging her horse to go on forward with her heels prodding its flanks.

  Her horse took off, and she tried her best to direct its course, zigzagging back and forth to disrupt the archer’s aim Arrow after arrow narrowly missed her. Sooner or later, she knew she’d be killed. She’d known a long while it was coming, yet she’d traveled a long way to get this far without incident. She’d just been thinking she might be able to escape.

  She realized whoever was pursuing her must be on foot, and it had to be a man from what she’d experienced so far. That thought gave her an idea.

  * * * *

  The hunter continued pursuing her. He’d been at it for a long time, ordered to do so by his master, and while it had been an odd request, he’d acquiesced.

  His master had consulted a book. “North, as far north as she can get,” he’d said. “Try somewhere near Coe Aela.” The master had stood up and paced around a little bit. “Then go farther north if that’s required. But be aware that she must be killed—whatever the cost, she must be dead,” he emphasized. “And be sure to stab her belly as an extra precaution.”

  The hunter hadn’t questioned him. He’d gone to Coe Aela as ordered and found a trace of her there. He’d continued northward, traveling toward Coe Baba and had learned the town was the farthest one could go without hitting the Black Ocean. As he drew closer to her, he thought his horse might alert her to pursuit, so he traveled swiftly through the Mila Forest on foot. He was the hunter, she the prey. She’d not get away from him.

  After finding her, he was disappointed at having missed her again with his bow, his weapon of choice. He could get the advantage on her in terms of distance, and he could fire at her without her having any or very little option to avoid him. But he’d misjudged the distance and his aim had been off because of snow blurring his vision. Shooting through the trees had ruined his angle as well, and now he’d lost the element of surprise.

  He wandered through the forest, arrow nocked against the bowstring and pointing at the ground. It was a waste of time and arrows to keep firing at nothing. He had no idea of where she was at this point. He frowned to himself, trying to track where her horse was going, but the hoof prints were getting covered up by snow. The trail was getting cold.

  He could hear nothing except the wind. Not even an animal was out in this snowy weather. He had no idea of where he was going, but he knew one thing. She’d still go to Coe Baba. There was no place else for miles around to take shelter, a necessity in her condition.

  He started heading back toward the road, or what looked like the road to him in the distance, covered up in a light layer of snow. But then he stopped a moment, falling back behind a bush as he spotted the horse standing on the road in the distance. He could see it from here, and it was riderless.

  Where was the woman? He lowered his bow and began to scan his surroundings just as he heard something behind him. Before he could turn around, a sword plunged into his back, and his nocked arrow misfired, hitting another tree as his hands slipped from the bow. She stabbed him again, and this time he realized he was dying, defeated by his prey! He never should have taken this job from one of Doomba’s minions. Work for them never ended well.

  * * * *

  She looked down at the pale, gray body bleeding out onto the snow-covered ground. More flakes were already working to cover his body. Once she’d have wept at the thought of killing another human being, but now killing came too easy. What she’d done, she’d done without so much as a pause.

  She shuddered and then looked up toward the smoke rising in the distance. “Coe Baba,” she said, trudging back to her horse, left tied to a branch overhanging the road. She was so tired, and her back hurt. What will Coe Baba be like? she wondered. Hopefully, she’d be welcomed and could finally find some rest there.

  She hated what they’d done to her, and what she’d done to herself because of their actions. Learning to use a sword was just one thing. Deceiving, lying, betraying and manipulating others, and now she was killing them. Add that to her list of crimes and transgressions in the eyes of the gods. She’d set off without much of a plan, beyond what little she knew. But she’d made it this far, and she’d go all the way through to the end.

  Her horse shied away from her and the sword she held, the smell of blood from the dying man. She didn’t blame the horse one bit. She wiped her sword on the snow and then sheathed it when it appeared to be clean. She wiped herself off as best she could, scooping up snow and patting it on her, shivering as she rubbed it into her skin. Her horse still seemed skittish, but she calmed the beast so she could mount him, an arduous endeavor in her advanced condition. Her baby kicked and she took solace in that as the horse began to move again toward the smoke rising from the town.

  * * * *

  “Welcome to the Smiling Stallion,

  Welcome to the Smiling Stallion,

  Welcome to the Smiling Stallion Inn!”

  Geda, the innkeeper, and his younger brother, Smidge, sang as they played fiddle and guitar respectively. Their friend, Hermer, played trumpet to accompany them.

  “For surely you are welcomed,

  For surely you are welcomed,

  At the Smiling Stallion Inn!”

  They finished with a flourish, and the crowd clapped and cheered, whistling for more as the band members bowed. Habala, the innkeeper’s wife, laughed with pleasure as her arms were too full to clap. Only one person had cried at the performance, the baby boy in Habala’s arms, the baby boy in whose honor this celebration was being held.

  Habala’s husband was proud a song had been written about their fine establishment, proud enough he and his band performed the song at just about every celebration held at the Smiling Stallion Inn. Of course, the Smiling Stallion Inn had been in Geda’s family for generations now, and it was a venerable institution in Coe Baba, being the only inn in town.

  The building itself wasn’t particularly old. It was built sometime around the childhood of Geda’s father after the last building burned down. Habala was glad she was part of such a heritage—and of course her son would someday inherit the title of innkeeper of the Smiling Stallion Inn—but she wished for just one night while newborn Oaka was susceptible to crying at the least disturbance—that Geda and his band would stop playing that song, which always seemed to garner raucous applause from patrons.

  Geda handed over his instrument to Smidge and then crossed the room, waving to everyone who shouted their congratulations on the birth of his son. “Thank you, everybody!” Geda shouted back at them, before he climbed up on top of a vacant table. “It’s my great honor and privilege to welcome you all to the Smiling Stallion Inn on this most joyful of occasions,” he said, smiling at Habala and their baby. Habala smiled back at him, in spite of Oaka’s tears.

  Geda was a tall, rotund man of handsome quality. Thick black hair covered his pate and oblong face. Obstinate and cynical, he could be a difficult man to deal with at times, She’d despised him when they’d first met, but she�
��d grown to love him over the years, and the way that he could make her smile at the least provocation. No other man could do that. She’d married him for that reason and many others.

  For Geda, this was the night of his greatest triumph; he had everything he’d ever wanted—an inn to call his own, a loving wife, and his newborn son, Oaka. He also considered himself rich in friends, family, and neighbors, including the richest merchant in town and his wife, Lapo, and Mawen.

  “I want you all to enjoy yourselves tonight,” Geda exclaimed, turning back to the crowd, “which is why the food and drink are free, for one night only!” Everybody cheered.

  Habala tugged Geda’s pant leg and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  He bent down, smiling at her and the baby. “Yes, I’m sure. After all, it’s for one night only, and we can sell them more tomorrow.”

  Just as beer began to run low and the late hour was making even him yawn, the front door opened and snow roared in from outside. A woman stood framed in the doorway. She staggered inside holding the hilt of a bloody sword.

  Geda stood up. “What in the name of Tau?”

  “I wish to take a room for the night,” said the woman. “For several nights, in fact,” she said, her eyes in search of the innkeeper in the midst of the assemblage. “In my pack you will find a purse with enough to pay.” She gasped, stumbling forward with her jaw and hands clenched. The people retreated from her, and she let go of the sword.

  Geda jumped down from the table as the sword clattered onto the bare wood floor. He rushed toward her before Habala could stop him. “I’m the innkeeper. Welcome to the Smiling Stallion Inn.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Geda said to the woman in a low voice once his arm around her supported her.

  The woman looked up at him. “Could you please take me up to my room?” she asked. “I feel…” Suddenly, her eyes rolled up and she began to sink to her knees. Geda barely managed to catch her.

  “Someone come help me!” he cried as he laid her out on the floor.