The Smiling Stallion Inn

by Courtney Bowen

  Chapter 21

  Lovers United

  “I want to be with you forevermore,

  And I know that you and I don’t always see

  Eye to eye, but side by side, we can be together.”

  —Love song from Mirandor

  “Lovers’ Rock,” Basha declared, clambering up onto the landmark, the first stop on his tour of the heart of Coe Baba. It had been fifteen minutes since they’d left the inn. The sun was starting to go down.

  “Doesn’t seem too impressive,” Monika said, standing on the ground with her arms wrapped around herself against the cold. “It’s just a boulder, not much taller than I am.”

  “You’ve got to understand—you’re standing up here, facing a crowd of people in the middle of the Courtship Ritual, and looking up at you is the love of your life. It can be pretty daunting,” he said, looking down at Monika with his breath puffing out. “And you’ve got to say the words that will be remembered by you both for the rest of your lives. Not to mention the fact that this is all going on record…”

  “Record?” Monika asked, looking up at him.

  “Yes, record—the town scribe is sitting over there with the mayor standing next to him writing down all of it. Every time a young man proposes to a young woman, the town scribe writes their names down on a list, sometimes adding their parents’ names in the margins, or just above their names, if necessary, to differentiate them from other people with the same name.” He’d paid attention during the Courtship Rituals for a long time, even when he was little. “See, the town keeps records of all engagements made on Lovers’ Rock to authenticate the marriage contracts drawn up for them. No marriage can take place in this town without a contract, and a marriage contract is most binding when it’s been witnessed.” He’d been thinking of what his own Courtship Ritual would be like for a long time.

  “Is it necessary?” Monika asked. “The whole Courtship Ritual and everything?”

  Basha shrugged. “It’s traditional,” he said. “And most marriages in Coe Baba have been forged within these conditions. See, it’s like the young man has to have the courage to come up here and face all these people, shouting at the top of his lungs just how he feels. And the young woman has to accept him, and what he has to offer her, in order to proceed with the engagement and marriage. No one is forced into anything.”

  “What does the marriage contract contain?” she asked. “If it’s signed before the wedding and everything? Do they have to agree to everything?” she asked, glancing around.

  “Well, I don’t know. I suppose it states what the dowry is. It’s all sealed and agreed upon before they get married. And if something goes wrong, they keep what was given to them in the engagement and what they had before marriage.”

  “So the woman has to stand close to the rock but can’t climb it,” Monika said, grasping the rock herself. She paused halfway up. “Has anyone ever said anything about—whoa!” She nearly slipped.

  “Careful, Monika!” Basha cried, bending down to offer his hand.

  “I’m all right,” she said, shaking her head. She kept climbing, grimacing as Basha helped her up to her feet at the summit. She pulled her arm away from him, and they stood there upon the rock, just beneath the outspread branches of the old birch tree Old Man sat beneath to tell his stories.

  Basha stared at her, perplexed. “Well, anyway,” he said, uncomfortable with where she was going with this, “that’s how it goes in Coe Baba. It’s been this way for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. It might not be the same in other places; I don’t know,” he said looking up at her. He wondered if she was a little taller than him or if she was just standing on a higher part of the rock.

  “I have no idea either,” Monika said. “Marriage is certainly a ceremony wherever you go, colorful and delightful or sacred and cordial, but it’s not something I’ve paid much attention to.” She slid a sideways look at Basha. “Are you interested in asking someone to marry you?”

  “Me? I don’t know,” Basha looked down now. “I had someone in mind, but she doesn’t want to get married right now.”

  “Oh,” Monika said, looking down. “Never mind then,” she said, climbing down from the rock and being a little bit more careful this time. “Show me around some…what is that place?” she asked, pointing to a hut just visible beyond a thicket of trees. The sunset behind it streaked the sky with purple and orange and magenta haze.

  “That’s Old Man’s house,” Basha said, clambering down as well. “We don’t go over there during the daytime, only at night.” His feet landed upon the ground. “Old Man is the storyteller, or katlin, of this village, and most of the schoolchildren go over there to visit him after all of their chores are done, or they’ve brought in the crops during the Havin season. He tells a story or two outside his house for about an hour, lighting a fire for all of us to sit around, and then he goes back inside and we go home. That’s the way—”

  “How long has it been this way?” Monika asked, staring at the house.

  “As far back as anyone knows.” Basha cleared his throat as he leaned against the Rock. “The oldest great-great grandfathers remember that he was old when they were young. Old Man has been around for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. It’s even in the records. We should go back now,” he said, pointing toward Coe Baba.

  Monika shuddered and turned back to the cabin. “Has no one ever thought to ask Old Man his name or who he really is, what makes him this way or whether or not he’s been the same Old Man for all of these years?”

  “Old Man is Old Man,” Basha huffed. “We don’t ask him his name.” He looked down at his feet.

  “Why not?” Monika asked.

  We should go back, he thought to himself, but he answered anyway. “There has been no proof that he changes, that he’s replaced by another old man because he stays the same,” Basha said. “I’ve seen him my whole life, growing up, and he looks the same to me as he did when I was a boy,” he said, thinking back.

  “He doesn’t change? He’s frozen in age?” Monika asked, frowning.

  “Pretty much. He doesn’t talk much about himself. I suppose he uses a bit of magic to remain exactly as he is, but he hasn’t really shown himself to be magical. He does a few tricks to keep the little children entertained during his stories, but nothing substantial. Nothing real.” He added, “Unless you count his words as magic.”

  “Words can be magic,” Monika said.

  “Well, he tells fabulous stories…” Basha smiled. “…all of them old, fantastic stories we grew up hearing, about gods and monsters, heroes and villains. After a while, he repeats himself, goes back to the beginning with a story you heard a couple of months—or even a few years—ago, but it doesn’t matter because it never gets boring. He tells each story a bit differently each time, makes them new and exciting again,” Basha said.

  “How often do you see him?”

  “He doesn’t get out much. He comes into town every now and again for food and supplies,” Basha said, remembering the time he’d entered a shop during a visit from Old Man and observed the salesperson running around the shop, grabbing things off of the shelves according to Old Man’s curt instructions. And Old Man never had to pay for his things. He just left almost as quickly as he got his things.

  Monika stared at him. “Strange,” she said. “What does he talk about when he comes to town?”

  “Stories, of course,” Basha said, smiling at her. “The sun is going down. We should head back to the inn.”

  “Yes, let’s do that,” Monika said, turning away. “You know, I had the funniest feeling we were being watched,” Monika muttered, staring back at Old Man’s hut.

  She spoke so low, Basha didn’t hear her. “Are you going to see the Oracle of Mila?”

  She paused. “Yes, I am,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, I was just wondering. Most people come here for that reason. I was just wondering, or hoping, you were different.”

  �
�I’m going to leave here as soon as I get my answer, Basha,” she said. “I came here only for that reason.”

  “I know, I just…What are you going to ask her?”

  “I’m going to ask her where I should go from here,” she told him. “I’ve been wandering for a long time, and I’m not sure I’m ready yet to go home. There is so much that needs to be done. Perhaps there is something else out there I should do before I go home.”

  “Oh, well, good luck with that,” Basha said.

  “Have you ever seen the Oracle?” Monika asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” he said. “We don’t generally believe in her, as a rule, around here.”

  “Mmm, it’s a pity. I had not heard much about her before the healer recommended I should go see her. She said the Oracle has some pretty wise advice.” By this time, they had reached the inn. “Basha, thank you for showing me around, and if I don’t see you again this evening, I want to wish you good luck, and good-bye.”

  “Are you leaving in the morning?” Basha asked.

  “I suppose. I haven’t thought much about staying, and even though I’d like to see more of Coe Baba with you as my guide, I think it’s best if I go see the Oracle as soon as possible. Snow is probably coming soon, and I wouldn’t want to be trapped here all Sna. It’s probably best that I go before it gets too cold.”

  “Right, I understand,” he said, walking ahead of her. “I’ll probably stay away from you, too. Good-bye, Monika,” he told her, “and good luck,” he muttered again.

  He didn’t see her again, and in the morning, she was gone.

  Decam seventh came about a month later, a week after Oaka’s birthday party, with Basha moping at the refreshment table. He wasn’t thinking of anyone in particular, although he half-hoped that Jawen might show up at his birthday party, and he could dance with her, though he was probably just dreaming. Several other girls came up to the refreshment table and lingered for a while, including Iibala, but he either didn’t notice them or ignored them.

  A white-haired bard, with traces of red and black locks in his hair, had been staying at the inn for a couple of weeks until the snowstorms died down. He began to strum a familiar tune on his guitar. The bards, especially in Arria, were well-known for playing coarse, comical songs that were highly popular, and everyone, especially Oaka, in the room cheered once they recognized the song…

  The wise fool, best among men,

  He walked along the road and sang,

  Til-dee-um-bum.

  A woman came ’round him with a goose on a lead,

  He grabbed her hand and danced with her,

  Til-dee-um-bum.

  The goose flapped loose, and it squawked;

  The woman cried out in despair in her waltz;

  Til-dee-um-bum.

  The goose flew up and dropped…

  All across the room, the people shouted out the last lines, Oaka the loudest of them all. He’d memorized most of these “wise fool” songs by heart, and he often laughed with Sisila over them, calling himself that man. A few moments later, they all clapped, cheered, and whistled.

  Geda came out from behind the bar, carrying a new keg of ale for the refreshment table, and set it down by Basha with a grunt before he wiped his forehead. “Those things are heavy,” he said, trying to smile. “Happy birthday, son. What are you doing over here?”

  “Nothing, Father,” Basha said, and grimaced. “I’m sorry, I know it’s a lot of trouble, but I’m not really in the mood to enjoy all this.”

  Geda shook his head. “Look, it’s all right, son, it’s just…two parties in a week, that’s a lot to handle. So, what seems to be the trouble, Basha?” he asked. “Is it about Jawen?”

  “I don’t know, I just don’t feel right,” Basha said, shaking his head. “It probably is, she…We broke up two months ago, yet I can’t get over it.”

  The bard, coming up to the refreshment table to get some ale, caught the last few words and said, “Ah, you’re just being stupidly romantic. Love really isn’t that hard; love is just as crude as my songs, and twice as messy. You get it splattered all over you. It’s disgusting.”

  “You don’t understand,” Basha said.

  “Let the man talk, Basha,” Geda said, tapping the keg of ale to drain out a pint for the bard. “Go on, sir, tell us about love,” he said, holding out the pint. “Maybe that’ll help the boy get over his lovesickness.”

  “Myself, I don’t see why regal minstrels write tragedies about love, or romance, saving damsels in distress from dragons and ogres and whatnot, when it really is the lovelorn men who need saving from themselves.” The bard accepted the pint and took a big gulp before he continued. “There’s already enough trouble in the world without dramatizing love as an absolute joy for those who achieve it and an absolute heartache for those who don’t. I’ve been through love, in and out of love, and it hasn’t changed me one bit. Love really isn’t that imperative; you don’t lose your life over love,” he said, taking another big gulp. “You might lose sleep and a lot of money, but never your life.”

  “You don’t understand me, and you don’t understand what I’ve been through, so just forget it,” Basha said, shaking his head.

  “It was worth a try.” The bard shrugged.

  “Thank you, sir, for singing your songs and telling us about love,” Geda said, holding out his hand.

  “Thank you. I’m glad to perform them. Always a pleasure, night after night, year after year, it never gets old,” the bard said, wiping the foam from his face before he shook hands with the innkeeper. “The bard songs at least always stay fresh. They never get stale, no matter how crude they get, or how many times you play them, and as for minstrel songs? They rot as soon as they are told. They never stay in fashion for very long. They are such an absolute bore.”

  “We do appreciate it, thank you. By the way, what is your name?” Geda asked.

  “It’s Paracleus, a strong name for a strong bard, and twice as manly,” he said, and turned to Basha. “Boy, I hate to admit it, but you’re just as bad as a dreary, nasally Jobe.” He laughed.

  “What in the name of Tau are you talking about?” Basha asked, lifting his head. “What is a Jobe?”

  The bard covered his mouth. “Sorry.” Paracleus tried not to laugh as he said, “It’s just something of a bard joke, nothing much in the way of real humor. Well, take care of yourself, boy.” Paracleus turned and retreated back to his spot, drinking the last bit of ale before he set down his glass and picked up his guitar, playing The Girl and her Donkey-Lover to everyone’s approval.

  Basha looked away from all the merriment, wishing he could crawl into a hole somewhere and pull it closed behind him. He couldn’t wait till the party was over.

  “I suppose I’ve humiliated you enough,” his father said. “I’ll be at the bar if you need me, and Basha, do try to enjoy yourself. Happy seventeenth birthday.”

  Basha wasn’t left alone for long, as Oaka and Sisila appeared to get a bite to eat. “Basha!” Oaka said, slapping his brother on the back. He shook his head and said, “Find a sincere girl; don’t chase the wild doe!”

  Basha rolled his eyes. “The wild doe is worth more than any other girl!” he said.

  Sisila, eating one of the appetizers, swallowed and laughed. “Though that’s rude, Basha, considering that I’m one of those other girls, I shall take no offense! You need not defend my honor, Oaka! Come on, let’s dance!”

  Oaka made a face at Basha before he clasped Sisila’s hand. She giggled and waved at Basha before following Oaka back out onto the dance floor.

  Basha sighed and finally left the refreshment table. Exiting the common room, he grabbed a coat off of a wall hook and went down to the end of the back hallway. He stepped out into the stable yard, thinking he might find some comfort attending to his horse, Talan. Instead, he halted in his steps. There, leaning against the stable wall, was Jawen. She’d come after all. She was dressed warmly, with her auburn hair tied up in a bun. Though she first s
tiffened at the sight of him, she glanced around and quickly relaxed, pushing herself away from the wall to walk over to him. There was nobody else out here, just the two of them on one of Sna’s coldest nights.

  Basha didn’t move; he didn’t want to startle her. She halted a few inches away from him. Her breath came out in a warm puff of air, which he could just barely feel.

  Jawen murmured, “Happy birthday, Basha. I hope this year will be a good one for you.”

  Their shoes crunched in the snow. “Thank you, Jawen,” Basha said. “Perhaps you could make it so. I’ve been thinking—”

  “Let’s not say anything yet that we may come to regret,” Jawen told him. “I think we should just enjoy ourselves tonight, don’t you?” She sidled up to him. “We can talk about tomorrow whenever we’ve more time, but for now, let us just enjoy the moment, and forget about everything else.” She kissed him. Basha fell for that embrace. He loved her, and she loved him.

  Then the Courtship Ritual came.

  * * * *

  “What was that?” Doomba murmured, leaning forward to open himself more to the feeling as it presented itself.

  “Pardon me, sire?” The gringok paused in its effort of cleaning the alabaster mask.

  “There is something stirring out there. It’s something youthful and vital, something I’ve never felt before.”

  “Perhaps it’s a child or youth,” the gringok murmured.

  “No, this isn’t like that,” Doomba muttered, shaking his head. “I’ve felt that presence before. Even a child, a baby, is full of remorse and sorrow, fear and anger. They are hungry and thirsty, they feel the darkness that surrounds them, and they are confused and agitated by the world around them. No—no child is as youthful and vital as this is,” Doomba said. “This thing can cut like a knife, a sword, and yet it’s full of whimsy and marvels. It’s an odd thing, whatever it is.”

  “Perhaps it will go away soon,” the gringok said.

  “Yes, it does fade away, after a while, and yet it’s still there, just out of the corner of my mind’s eye, hidden in plain sight.” Doomba frowned. “I must look into this.”