It is said that as much as the dead will find a way into the ground, so too will they find a way out again. Farmers turn up bones under the plow. Looters shove aside the lid of the crypt and scatter trucked limbs and skulls and such in their hunt for baubles. Sellup, of course, was yet to be buried, but in appearance she was quickly assuming the guise of the interred. Patchy and jellying, her lone brow a snarling fringe above murky matted eyes, various thready remnants of mucous dangling from her crusted nostrils, and already crawling with maggots that had writhed out from her ear-holes to sprinkle her shoulders or choke in the nooses of her tangled hair, she was the kind of fan to elicit a cringe and flinch from the most desperate poet (though sufficiently muted as to avoid too much offense, for we will take what we can get, don’t you know).
The curious thing, from the point of view of an artist, lies in the odd reversal a dead fan poses. For the truly adoring worshipper, a favourite artist cursed to an undying existence could well be considered a prayer answered. More songs, more epics, an unending stream of blather and ponce for all eternity! And should the poor poet fall into irreparable decay—a nose falling off, a flap of scalp sagging loose, a certain bloating of intestinal gases followed by a wheezing eruption or two, well, one must suffer for one’s art, yes?
We artists who remained, myself and Brash and indeed, even Purse Snippet, we regarded Sellup with an admixture of abhorrence and fascination. Cruel the irony that she adored a poet who was not even around.
No matter. The afternoon stretched on, and of the cloudy thoughts in this collection of cloudy minds, who could even guess? A situation can fast slide into both the absurd and the tragic, and indeed into true horror, and yet for those in its midst, senses adjust in their unceasing search for normality, and so on we go, in our assembly of proper motions, the swing of legs, the thump of heels, lids blinking over dust-stung eyes, and the breath goes in and the breath goes out.
Normal sounds comfort us. Hoofs and carriage wheels, the creak of springs and squeal of axles. Pilgrims upon the trail. Who, stumbling upon us at that moment, might spare us little more than a single disinterested glance? Walk your own neighbourhood or village street, dear friends, and as you see nothing awry grant yourself a moment and imagine all that you do not see, all that might hide behind the normal moment with its normal details. Do this and you will come to understand the poet’s game.
Thoughts to ruminate upon, perhaps, as the twenty-fourth day draws to a close.
A Recounting of the Twenty-Fourth Night
“We made good time this day,” announced our venerable host, once the evening meal was done and the picked bones flung away into the night. The fire was merry, bellies were full, and out in the dark something voiced curdling cries every now and then, enough to startle Steck Marynd and he would stroke his crossbow like a man with too many barbs on his conscience (What does that mean? Nothing. I just liked the turn of phrase).
“In fact,” Sardic Thew continued, beaming above the ruddy flames, “we may well reach the Great Descent to the Landing within a week.” He paused, and then added, “Perhaps it is at last safe to announce that our terrible ordeal is over. A few days of hunger, is that too terrible a price to pay for the end to our dread tithe among the living?”
Midge grunted. “What?”
“Well.” The host cleared his throat. “The cruel fate of these few remaining poets, I mean.”
“What about it?”
Sardic Thew waved his hands. “We can be merciful! Don’t you see?”
“What if we don’t want to be?” Tiny Chanter asked, grinning greasily (well, in truth he was most fastidious, was Tiny, but given the venal words issuing from those lips, I elected to add the grisly detail. Of course, there is nothing manipulative in this).
“But that—that—that would be—”
“Outright murder?” Apto Canavalian inquired, somewhat too lightly in my opinion.
Brash choked and spat, “It’s been that all along, Apto, though when it’s not your head on the spitting block, you just go ahead and pretend otherwise.”
“I will, thank you.”
“Just because you’re a judge—”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Apto cut in. “Not one of you here is getting my vote. All right? The truth is, there’s nothing so deflating as actually getting to know the damned poets I’m supposed to be judging. I feel like a far-sighted fool who finally gets close enough to see the whore in front of him, warts and all. The magic dies, you see. It dies like a dried up worm.”
Brash stared with eyes bulging. “You’re not going to vote for me?” He leapt to his feet. “Kill him! Kill him next! He’s no use to anyone! Kill him!”
As Brash stood trembling, one finger jabbed towards Apto Canavalian, no one spoke. Abruptly, Brash loosed a sob, wheeling, and ran off into the night.
“He won’t go far,” opined Steck. “Besides, I happen to agree with our host. The killing isn’t necessary any more. It’s over—”
“No,” said an unexpected voice, “it is not over.”
“Lady Snippet,” Steck began.
“I was promised,” she countered, hands wringing about the cup she held. “He gave me his word.”
“So I did,” said I. “Tonight, however, I mean to indulge the interests of all here, by concluding poor Calap Roud’s tale. Lady, will you abide me until the morrow?”
Her eyes were most narrow in their regard of me. “Perhaps you mean to outlast me. In consideration of that, I will now exact yet another vow from you, Avas Didion Flicker. Before we reach the Great Descent, you will satisfy me.”
“So I vow, Milady.”
Steck Marynd rose. “I know the tale you will tell tonight,” he said to me, and to the others he said, “I will find Nifty Gum and his ladies and bring them back here, for I fear they must be suffering greatly this night.”
“Sudden compassion?” said Tulgord Vise with a snort.
“The torment must end,” Steck replied. “If I am the only one here capable of possessing guilt, then so be it.” And off he went, boots crunching in the gravel.
Guilt. Such an unpleasant word, no doubt invented by some pious meddler with snout pricked to the air. Probably a virgin, too, and not by choice. A man (I assert it must have been a man, since no woman was ever so mad as to invent such a concept, and to this day for most women the whole notion of guilt is as alien to them as flicking droplets after a piss, then shivering), a man, then, likely looking on in outrage and horror (at a woman, I warrant, and given his virginal status she was either his sister or his mother), and bursting into his thoughts like flames from a brimstone, all indignation was transformed into that maelstrom of flagellation, spite, envy, malice and harsh judgement that we have come to call guilt. Of course, the accusation, once uttered, is also a declaration of sides. The accuser is a creature of impeccable virtue, a paragon of decency, honour, integrity and intransigence, unsullied and unstained since the moment of birth. Why, flames of purest white blaze from that quivering head, and some force of elevation has indeed lifted the accuser from the ground, feet alight on the air, and somewhere monstrous musicians pound drums of impending retribution. In accusing, the accuser seeks to crush the accused, who in turn has been conditioned to cringe and squirm, to holler and rage, or some frenzied cavort between the two, and misery must result. Abject self-immolation, depression, the wearing of ugliness itself. Whilst the accuser stands, observing, triumphant and quivering in the ecstasy of the righteous. It’s as good as sex (but then, what does the virgin know about sex?).
What follows? Why, not much. Usually, nothing. He dozes. She starts chopping dirty carrots or heads out and beats stained garments against a rock (said gestures having no symbolic significance whatsoever). The baby looks on, eating the cat’s tail and the cat, knowing nothing of guilt, stares with bemused regard upon the wretched family it has adopted, before realizing that once again the horrid urchin is stuffing it into its mouth, and once again it’s time to use the runt as a be
d-post. The mind is a dark realm and shadows lurk and creep behind the throne of reason, and none of us sit that throne for long in any case, so let them lurk and creep, what do we care?
“As night came to the Imass camp,” said I, “she led the Fenn warrior towards an empty hut which he was free to use as his own until such time that he chose to depart. In the chill darkness she carried a small oil lamp to guide their way, and the flame flickered in the bitter wind, and he strode behind her, his footfalls making no sound. Yet she did not need to turn around to be certain he followed, for she felt the heat of him, like a kiln at her back. He was close, closer than he need be.
“When she ducked through the entrance and then straightened his arms crept round her. She gasped at his touch and arched her back, head against his lowest rib, as his huge hands reached to find her breasts. He was rough in his need, burning with haste, and they descended to the heap of furs unmindful of the cold and damp, the musty smell of the old rushes.”
“That nastiness obsesses you!” said Arpo Relent.
“Nastiness, sir?”
“Between a man and a woman, the Unspoken, the Unrevealed, the—”
“Sex, you mean?”
Arpo glared. “Such tales are unseemly. They twist and poison the minds of listeners.” He made a fist with one gauntleted hand. “See how Calap Roud died. All it took was a hint of something—”
“I believe I was rather more direct,” I said, “although in no way specific, as I had no chance—”
“So you’ll do it now! Your mind is a filthy, rotted tumour of lasciviousness! Why, in the city of Quaint your skin would be stripped from your flesh, your weak parts chopped off—”
“Weak parts?”
Arpo gestured between his legs. “That which Whispers Evil Temptation, sir. Chopped off and sealed in a jar. Your tongue would be cut into strips and the Royal Tongs would come out—”
“A little late for those,” Apto said, “since you already chopped off the—”
“There is a Worm of Corruption, sir, that resides deep in the body, and if it is not removed before the poor victim dies, it will ride his soul into the Deathly Realm. Of course, the Worm knows when it is being hunted, and it is a master of disguise. The Search often takes days and days—”
“Because the poor man talked about fornication?”
At Apto’s query the Well Knight flinched. “I knew you were full of worms, all of you. I’m not surprised. Truly, this is a fallen company.”
“Are all poets filled with such corrupting worms?” Apto pressed.
“Of course they are and proof awaits all who succumb to their temptations! The Holy Union resides in a realm beyond words, beyond images, beyond everything!” He gestured in my direction. “These... these sullied creatures, they but revel in degraded versions, fallen mockeries. Her hand grasping his this, his finger up her that. Slavering and dripping and heaving and grunting— these are the bestial escapades of pigs and goats and dogs. And woe to the wretched fool who stirs in the midst of such breathless descriptions, for the Lady of Beneficence shall surely turn her back upon They of Rotten Thoughts—”
“Is it a pretty one?” Apto asked.
Arpo frowned. “Is what pretty?”
“The Lady’s back, sir. Curvaceous? Sweetly rounded and inviting—”
With a terrible bellow the Well Knight launched himself at Apto Canavalian. Murder was an onerous mask upon his face, his hair suddenly awry and the gold of his fittings shining with a lurid crimson sheen. Gaunteleted fingers hooked as they lashed out to clutch Apto’s rather scrawny neck.
Of course, critics are notoriously difficult to snare, even with their own words. They slip and sidle, prance and dither. So elusive are they that one suspects that they are in fact incorporeal, fey conjurations gathered up like accretions of lint and twigs, ready to burst apart at the first hint of danger. But who, pray tell, would be mad enough to create such snarky homunculi? Why, none other than artists themselves, for in the manner of grubby savages in the deep woods, we slap together our gods from whatever is at hand (mostly fluff) only to eagerly grovel at its misshapen feet (or hoofs), slavering our adoration to hide our true thoughts, which are generally venal.
Sailing over the fire, then, uttering animal roars, Arpo Relent found himself clutching thin air. His hands were still grasping and flaying when his face made contact with the boulder Apto had been leaning against. With noises that would make a potter cringe at the kiln, the Well Knight’s steely visage crumpled like sheet tin. Blood sprayed out to form a delicate crescent upon the sun-bleached stone, a glittering halo until his head slid away.
Apto Canavalian had vanished into the darkness.
We who remained sat unmoving. Arpo Relents fine boots were nicely settled in the fire, suggesting to us that he was unconscious, dead or careless. When the man’s leggings caught flame our venerable host leapt forward to drag the limbs clear, grunting as he did so, and then hastily snuffed out the smouldering cloth.
Tiny Chanter snorted and Flea and Midge did the same. From somewhere in the darkness Sellup giggled, and then coughed something up.
Sighing, Tulgord Vise rose, stepped over and crouched beside the Unwell Knight. After a moment’s examination, he said, “Alive but senseless.”
“Essentially unchanged, then,” said Apto, reappearing from the night’s inky well. “Made a mess of my rock, though.”
“Jest now,” Tulgord said. “When he comes to, you’re a dead man.”
“Who says he’ll come to at all?” the critic retorted. “Look how flat his forehead is.”
“It was that way before he hit the rock,” the Mortal Sword replied.
“Was it leaking snot, too? I think we’d have noticed. He’s in a coma and will probably die sometime in the night.”
“Pray hard it’s so,” Tulgord said, looking up with bared teeth.
Apto shrugged, but sweaty beads danced on his upper lip like happy bottle flies.
“You, Flicker,” said Tiny Chanter, “you was telling that story. Was finally starting to get interesting.”
“Sore stretched indeed,” said I, “and maiden no longer—”
“Hold on,” Tiny objected, all the flickering flames of the hearth mirrored in his ursine mien. “You can’t just skip past all that, unless you don’t want to survive the night. Disappointment’s a fatal complaint as far as I’m concerned. Disappoint me and I swear I’ll kill you, poet.”
“I’ll kill you, too,” said Midge.
“And me,” said Flea.
“What pathetic things you Chanters are,” said Purse Snippet.
Shocked visages numbering three.
Starting and blinking, Relish squinted at her siblings. “What? Someone say something?”
“I called your brothers pathetic,” explained the Lady.
“Oh.” Relish subsided once more.
Tiny jabbed a blunt finger at Purse Snippet. “You. Watch it.”
“Yeah,” said Flea. “Watch it.”
“You,” said Midge. “Yeah.”
“The most enticing lure to the imagination,” said Purse, “is that which suggests without revealing. This is the true art of the dance, after all. When I perform, I seduce, but that doesn’t mean I want to ruffle your sack, unless it’s the kind that jingles.”
“Making you a tease!” Tulgord growled. “And worse. Tell me, woman, how many murders have you left in your wake? How many broken hearts? Men surrendering to drink after years of abstinence. Imagined rivals knifing each other. How many loving families have you sundered with all that you promise only to then deny? We should never have excluded you from anything—you re the worst of the lot.”
Purse Snippet had paled at the Mortal Sword’s words.
I did speak then, as proper comportment demanded. “A coward’s ambush—shame on you, sir.”
The knight stiffened. “Tread softly now, poet. Explain yourself, if you please.”
“The tragedies whereof you speak cannot be laid at this lady
’s delicate feet. They are one and all failures of the men involved, for each has crossed the fatal line between audience and performer. Art is not exclusive in its delivery, but its magic lies in creating the illusion that it has done just that. Speaking only to you. That is art’s gift, do you understand, Knight? As such it is to be revered, not sullied. The instant the observer, in appalling self-delusion, seeks to claim for himself that which in truth belongs to everyone, he has committed the greatest crime, one of selfish arrogance, one of unrighteous possession. Before Lady Snippet’s performance, this man makes the foulest presumption. Well now, how dare he? Against such a crime it falls to the rest of her adoring audience to place themselves between that man and Lady Snippet.”
“As you are doing right now,” observed Apto Canavalian (wise in his ways this honourable, highly intelligent and oh-so-observant critic).
Modest the tilt of my head.
Visibly flustered, Tulgord Vise grunted and looked away, chewing at his beard and biting his lip, shifting in discomfort and shuffling his feet and then suddenly finding a kink in the chain of his left vambrace which he set to, humming softly to himself, all of which led me to conclude, with great acuity, that his flusterment was indeed visible.
“I still want details,” said Tiny Chanter, glaring at me in canid challenge.
“As a sweet maiden, she was of course unversed in the stanzas of amorous endeavour—”
“What?” asked Midge.
“She didn’t know anything about sex,” I re-phrased.
“Why do you do that anyway?” Apto inquired.
I took a moment to observe the miserable, vulpine excuse for humanity, and then said, “Do what?”
Crack'd Pot Trail Page 11
