Wherein some are confused, and some get answers. (Ch. 8)

“Before the third sun had set on the plain of Kyip, there was a beast. Many people were greatly bothered by the beast and its ways. It seemed to them a threat and a menace. They sharpened their sticks and beat their drums, and warriors from each village under the wall of stars came to meet at the beast’s den to answer the call of the great gathering. But though the drum was beaten, and the challenge called, and the stars fell beyond the third sun, the beast was nowhere to be seen. But the men were gathered and primed, and could not so easily be dispersed. There was an elder there, at the beast’s den, one of the men of the days before the first sun. He spoke to Ghorino and begged of him to quiet the hearts of the warriors, to cool their spirits and to guide them home. Ghorino of course granted the elder’s final wish, and not the first two. The river men had taken the deserted villages, the furs and the meats and the women all. The warriors turned back at once when they heard of this. The great gathering had been dispersed, and the beast was none the wiser.”

Excerpt from Jennept’s archive of northern stories, the gathered tales of the third sun, accurate as of 527 to the sacrifice of the first Pontiac.

 

“There were times that all I wished for was to be stuck with someone else. Eva is wonderful if you ever get to know her, but even the Goddess herself would probably bore you after too long, no?”

 

Chy was nearing exhaustion with Opal’s words. He would’ve surmised it ironic should he have been listening closely to what Opal was now saying, but he neither had the capacity to properly frame it this way nor the attentiveness to absorb the meaning behind anything Opal said at this point. His ears did prick up at the mention of the Goddess, but this was only by some deeply ingrained instinct; the moment it became clear that Opal was just being glib, he let her words once again wash over him.

 

“She really knows how to get under a man’s skin, I wish I’d learned how she does it. It’s a natural talent, obviously, but she somehow… I don’t know, perfected the technique? Here, see if I can pull it off on this guard!”

 

The amount of things Chy could’ve responded with was truly enormous, including at least three incredibly low hanging fruit of simply pointing out why what Opal was doing and saying contradicted itself. Chy couldn’t be bothered, and simply slumped further into a self-pitying heap of accumulated grime. Opal took no note and called a guard over.

 

“Felton, why so glum? The boys at the Tilping table still winning your wages?”

 

The guard, whose glumness Opal had so accurately noted, was busy carving something into the wall opposite Opal’s cell. She couldn’t quite make out the shape, but her summation was that it was either vitally important or something vulgar. Perhaps both? Whatever it was, it occupied him to the point he could ignore Opal’s insistence.

 

“You see, Eva would never give up at that. She’d also never reach this point, for she’d already have him in some allure. What do you think she’d do? I think she’d play up the jealousy angle, but how? ‘Don’t let this dour preacher have me all to himself’? Think that’d stir them of their reverie?”

 

Once again, Opal was purposely laying out bait for Chy to snap at. Maybe he’d say something about how little he wanted her to himself? Maybe he’d question her summation of Eva as a master seductress? So many options, so many futures, any line would do. What absolutely wouldn’t, couldn’t do, was this lethargy, this inaction. How could she possibly react to this lack of reaction? It seemed to her a task far more difficult than escaping her cell. Chy, probably ruminating on just this fact, or perhaps some adjacent one, had reached some hitherto unseen depth of resignation. Opal ruminated on his miserable state, on the fact he hadn’t eaten in four days or drank in two. Should they have been friends, she’d have shown concern. As things stood between them, not friends but heretic and zealous prosecutor, the only thing to pass between them was a mutual quiet dread.

 

“Chy! Tell Felton he can’t keep ignoring us. Tell him something about a prophecy or some other nonsense. Give him a talking to! Slap some proper insensible awe into him!”

 

Deep down in some recess of human sociality that couldn’t be purged from his soul, Chy appreciated Opal’s insistence on prompting him. It should’ve been so easy for her to let him rot, and yet she refused to do so, for reasons he couldn’t fathom. In truth, she simply found him amusing.

 

“Chy! Don’t leave me hanging, there’s so much more to say, isn’t there? There’s so much more to criticize, isn’t there? Remember the Eiseneye prophecies?”

 

None were more surprised than Chy at the effect this desperate attempt had on him. Why was this the one thing to raise him from his despondency of mind? He had sat up but had immediately thought better of it when Opal, and surprisingly Felton too noticed his movement. And Chy couldn’t disappoint an audience, no matter how meagre. With that same deep sigh every lecturer starts the semester with, he opened what he imagined would be a fierce and fiery speech to put his one from the day of his arrival to shame.

 

“Structures aren’t the only thing to be misinterpreted, you amateur seductionist. Ever heard the story of dragons? What do you think it means?”

 

He paused his speech to give someone time to answer, then paused his thoughts to give himself time to realize what he’d done. Never had he so readily welcomed audience participation, never had he so readily given the spotlight away. It simply wasn’t how a proper sermon was given; people always wanted to interrupt in the middle to pitch in with their oh so poignant insight, never realizing that if they’d just wait a breath, they’d discover how one of the greats had already thought of the question, pondered it far deeper than they ever could, and posited a suitable answer.

 

Nevertheless, he had given up the initiative not a sentence in. What was this, a conversation? As he pondered this, he almost missed Felton’s response; he had already missed the more surprising fact that it was one of his guards engaging with his speech and had to scramble in hopes of maintaining the advantage he’d unexpectedly found himself.

 

“It’s a story about why we delegate responsibility, isn’t it? Why we have soldiers to soldier, smiths to work metal, hexmasters and farmers to work the earth. At least… that’s what I heard from the last Pontiac to be here.” Felton said. He said it with some hesitation, constantly twiddling with his thumbs or pushing his thick blonde hair around. All in all, the young man had fidgeted an impressive amount for such a short statement.

 

The answer surprised Chy about as much as the identity of the answerer, but there was something even more important to pry out of this statement. For the first time, he hadn’t missed the insinuation. Opal never got the chance to congratulate Chy on his newfound attentiveness, for she was too busy being just as attentive if not more. And so, she seized on the momentary silence, voice sweet but firm:

 

“The last time a Pontiac was here? In Tellyphill you mean? That would be… why I haven’t a clue! Has the Pontiac left her little house on a hill as we like to call it in Kadyp?”

 

Just as Chy and Felton before her, she left her words hanging juicily in the air, tempting a response from either man without even a hint of following up with some justification or elucidation. It was Felton to reply, far too swiftly for Chy to have formulated an appropriate follow up.

 

“Oh, that’s right, what would you call yourself sir preacher? I guess we just call you that, by rank. No great word to refer to you as a whole…”

 

Felton’s hesitation should’ve been obvious to all present, that being Chy, Opal, and the assorted insects and rodents to inhabit the little dungeon prison at the time. If any of them had truly stopped to think, the reason would be obvious. To their great fortune, mental faculty was unnecessary in just this case, for Felton had overcome his hesitation. He barged on to make what may confidently be called the worst decision in his life in continuing the conversation past that point.

 

“He was a Ranger. Passed by here… must’ve been last year of training? So one, nearing two years at this point? Something like that. Only stayed in Tellyphill the night, but what a night! Taught me a good deal. More truth in that one evening than years at the center…” He trailed off. The very fact he trailed off didn’t surprise any present, for his gaze had already settled somewhere far away. What could this guard have learned from the Ranger that so impressed him? What could’ve made such an impact in one night that he recalled details with clarity over a year later? Chy had the answer.

 

“Yes, a very nice piece of propaganda on the Ranger’s part. I should’ve known what that Ranger knew when he visited. That’s how to engage the people, even, no, especially of Tellyphill.” The following silence might have been misconstrued as awkward, but to so see it would be to miss the introspective nature of the moment. “I’m sorry, but I… I have absolutely no idea what either of you are ever saying. Structures? Propaganda? I’m not even sure why either of you are here…”

 

For a moment, Opal and Chy continued sitting in silence. And as if it were predetermined, as if it was part of an act, they smiled simultaneously and turned their gaze towards Felton. The effect of the two faces, no, the two presences focused on him, was distinctly unnerving; Opal’s softly full face contrasted with Chy’s pinched and hollow one, only exasperated by the weeks of confinement – together with the lifeless eyes of the two, it was as if twin demons had come to tempt Felton.

 

“Please don’t look at me like that. I’m not joking, I really don’t know why you’re here. In Tellyphill I mean. You’re important religious officials, aren’t you? Don’t tell me the shield tricked you here?” Felton felt as if he were crying into the void. In fairness, the cell was dark. Its occupants were unnerving, both in appearance and character. And Felton had been very lonely for rather a while. It was only expected that he would do something stupid.

 

But before he’d have such an opportunity, Chy had decided to once more breach the silence. “It is propaganda Felton. It’s propaganda because it’s very, very well said. It’s what some people, you included obviously, really want out of religion of any kind. You want it to hold some truth to it, beyond the holiness and beyond the ceremony. You want to believe that there’s something to be learned without needing to accept the hierarchy of prophecy, or stories, or spirits, or whatever you may worship. What you really want is - ” “Shut up! Just explain what you’re trying to say for once! I’ve listened to you two go on like this for weeks, and somehow you keep up conversations like this one for hours! How do you understand each other? What are you even saying?”

 

Chy looked at Opal once more, but she was rapt by the exchange. Only a small sly smile and a soft shake of the head indicated she’d absorbed anything of what was said. So he continued without her guidance, tempering his usual fiery attitude into something of a slow, calm drawl.

 

“I’m saying… look, you’re not really much of a believer, are you? You said something about the center? It’s not an institution of the Pontiac, is it? I wasn’t received very well here either.” Chy cast his gaze about the cell to demonstrate the validity of this point. “So, something was obviously wrong in our knowledge of Tellyphill.” Chy paused for what should’ve been dramatic effect, but then continued to pause as the blank look on Felton’s face didn’t disappear. Opal rocked back and forth with delight. Slowly, cautiously, Chy forged onwards. “You don’t know anything about Pontiac’s point, do you? Well, there’s a library there. We call it a library, though I don’t think I’ve ever read a book there. No, we get messenger pigeons from all around the plains, every day, all day. Then, twice a day, just before dawn and just past noon, we study the news that pigeons have brought us. I don’t know a fraction of a fraction of what’s brought to us every day, but I know it guides us. It’s why my mission was deemed necessary, even vital.” Felton’s look was now more puzzled than blank, which Chy took as a sign that at least something had been cleared up.

 

“He doesn’t know what your mission is, does he now?” asked Opal, innocently pleading. Chy was now in a talkative mood and began to answer. “Well, I was just going to get to that, wasn’t I? Although I’m sure I’ve alluded to it a thousand times these past weeks.” “Perhaps, but allusion and obfuscation are much more entertaining in tales when there’s some great mystery to be discovered. I hardly think that whatever your mission is has any such importance.” Chy ought to have been offended, but weeks of familiarization with Opal’s opinions on stories had made clear to him that this was her way of showing interest. Reinvigorated, he turned back to Felton, who by this point was marching up and down the little stairways that led to the corridor of their cell.

 

“I was sent on what can only be called a personal quest. With all the weight of the Pontiac behind me at that! When I was told of it, it all seemed a great and important honor.” Chy said, somewhat melancholy. Predictably at this point, Felton took the bait. “A personal quest? How can that be vital to anyone but you? What message did you receive by pigeon to warrant this?”

 

The question was earnest, so Chy dignified it with a response. Confidently now, with a swagger he had lost in the long dark days of imprisonment, he revealed the horrible truth. “I have no idea. It’s the first time I’ve been so far from Pontiac’s point in my life. And a great mess I’ve made of it at that, haven’t I?”

 

Before Felton could do anything, Opal burst out laughing. Felton thought about it for a moment, leaned his spear against the wall, and joined in. A moment later, so did Chy. They laughed until the change of the guard, and then laughed some more when they thought no one was looking.

 

“A true soldier is not just a man who kills. He is a man who can listen, to his commander, to his fellow fighting man, to the man in the street who loves him, and to the grieving widow of the enemy he has felled.” – Memories of a warring Khazar, postscript.

Sometimes one will hear the world spoken of as if it was a hellscape of hatred and wrathful judgement before us enlightened moderns came along. This is so obviously untrue it seems unclear how one would go about refuting it. Regardless, in those days there was love and understanding and laughter just as today. The most cursory of glances reveals this, but snobbish cynicism about mankind is much easier than taking such a glance.