Wherein something of the future is glimpsed (Ch. 17)

 “The crone - ’Don’t pout! Do you think you’ll be coddled for who your father is? Has it crossed your feeble mind that the river and the stars care not for your blood and your fine furs?’

Ademu - ‘The thought had never occurred to me. The woods shattered for my father, and they shall shatter to bear witness to his son.’

The crone - ‘Then you are fool beyond reckoning! But go and seek the birch and the oaks. Perhaps a gnarled root shall put stop to your brash heart!’”

Excerpt from ‘Sons of the unburdened’, Assorted plays of the river tribes, Jennept’s archive of northern stories.

Opal seemed to be having a marvelous time. To Chy it seemed that Opal was perpetually incensed with a pathological love of life. Despite, or perhaps because of, his true and unwavering belief, this was most offensive to Chy. He’d assayed a broach of this topic and had been met with scorn.

They’d just crossed the city limit of Tellyphill, the dead of night and the general deadness of the city a cloak around them. High on sudden freedom and rising to his old self, Chy had determined to put Opal on the spot. As they ran breathlessly, he whispered just firmly enough to be heard above the labored pants.

“You have disregarded all that has been given to you.”

This was a classic for the preachers, as it put the subject on the spot in a vague yet firm manner. It was expected the victim would flounder, and promptly yield to a sermon on their spiritual inadequacies. But after most of two months with Opal near his only human companionship, Chy had already known it’d take more than this to make her stumble.

He was of course correct, and undoubtedly Opal would’ve given a stellar response. In their rush and in the dark though, Opal had missed the slick stones upon which Chy had danced across a small river. A loud splash was all that met Chy’s attempt at shaming Opal into a sense of normality.

He’d expected he’d have to back off anyways, as interrogating one who’d just suffered ill fortune was considered both in poor taste and somewhat a waste of time. People down on their luck tended to prefer an outside force to blame, not an investigation into their souls. Opal seemed as happy as ever though. Climbing out of the water and onto the muddy bank, covered in the assorted slimes and smells of a mucky river, Opal had been grinning. This so unnerved Chy he’d barely tried interrogating Opal at all in the three days since their escape.

This left the door open for Opal’s own obsessions. The trees were sparse, and the sky seemed bigger than usual. Chy was just starting to wonder where exactly there were going except north, and more importantly where they were going to get food. Perhaps he’d have wanted to contemplate the wispy white clouds, the seemingly uncultivated wilds so near to what once was the seat of empire. Maybe he’d have peered through the haze and seen the truth of the matter- that ruin and wreckage lay all around them; that the gravel path they now trod upon had not too long ago been an artery to connect the heart and lungs of empire to its growling stomach. As it was, he saw plains and hills that would’ve stood out to him more had he but known the look of the truly wild plains.

But of course, he never got the chance to think about any of this: Opal’s lectures seemed to be far more pressing. As they trod the path, Opal would say things that Chy found strangely fascinating. Sweating under the open sky and hoping for a cloud, Opal rattled on:

“Ghorino, despite constituting an ever-present force in northern myth and legend, seems a remarkably inconsistent character. Often a hero or villain will appeal to an aspect of Ghorino, and seldom are these aspects seen to be false. In the Eagle compendium, Bordin appeals to Ghorino’s wit. In that same scene, Meandrid appeals to Ghorino’s face.  I believe this means she’s appealing to his naivete? Strange indeed!”

They had barely been a day out of Tellyphill, and Chy was busy planning how he’d exact some revenge on the Tellyphill guard. Regardless, he’d known Opal long enough to know she’d only be driven off topic should he butt in at this stage. Who knew, perhaps she’d coherently finish a thought if he just kept his mouth shut long enough!

“That’s the least of the oddities though. It’s a real structure, unique to northern stories: ‘The appeal to Ghorino’. A character will couch some opinion or argument in faux piety. They’ll say ‘Ghorino would surely do so and so’, ‘Ghorino would surely have said so and so’ instead of stating whatever they mean to insinuate. In theory, shouldn’t this open the door for rich characterization? One character would use the phrase in genuine piety, another simply as a conversational gambit. A third would do so in mock of the first, a fourth in mock of the second, a fifth in a mockery of the phrasing altogether! Why, a well told character would be identifiable by usage of the phrase alone!”

Here she paused for dramatic effect. Chy was almost certain he knew what she would say next. A cloud passed by the sun, giving some short respite from the heat of early summer. Idly, Chy wondered as to the pilgrims making their way to the summer Prophesy. He imagined they were given shelter and succor, two amenities he’d have not objected to.

“But that is never the case. Well, I hesitate to say never, there are those rare occasions an evil merchant or foreigner uses the phrase derisively. But that’s about it! It’s strange, as if even for the purposes of vilification, swearing by Ghorino is out of bounds.”

Not quite a pause now, just a tilt of her head. Sweat matted strands of blonde across Opal’s squat face. Chy deigned to notice, and immediately decided it was a mistake. Far better to focus on the words than the spewer of said words. If he could only imagine it was a holy girl lecturing him, with her hair properly done up in those artful strands. If only, he’d have found it all so much more bearable.

Opal noted Chy’s lack of response with near disappointment. Chy wondered whether she’d ever finish a point if he just stayed quiet. Opal nearly obliged, tone unwaveringly bland. Only that usual excitement that colors an expert finally let loose to lecture shined through the haze of boredom she attempted to project.

“It’s strange for many reasons. But chief among them is that villains will often explicitly act in ways they know Ghorino dislikes. Surpassing and defying Ghorino is a common trait among villains of northern tales! And yet, they never swear by him improperly. It is strange too not the least because Ghorino is not God as the Pontificate sees it! He is merely a hero driven out of time, a man of the forests and the spirits. So why is it so taboo to swear by him improperly?”

Now her tone was openly inviting. Chy could not shake the feeling she’d cut herself short; that she’d meant to elaborate, to make some deeper point, perhaps more properly supported. A mind just slightly sharper could’ve told exactly what she wanted him to say. Chy was sharp, but not that crafty – he could merely tell she was intentionally leaving opening for an obvious question. Tragically, and intentionally, he asked a different, nearly orthogonal one.

“Is there anyone else typically sworn by in northern stories? Maybe this is just how Northerners treat swearing by name. Especially if Ghorino isn’t Divine.”

Opal could tell how Chy nearly choked on the word. She felt proud, of herself and of him, that he was no longer stopped in his tracks by the mere suggestion that divinity could exist outside the word of the Pontiac. He hurried on before he could choke on his tongue.

“I remember hearing once their warriors put much stock in the respect of their opponents. Well, this could be a similar thing. Maybe they always respect swearing by another’s name?”

Opal turned to beam at Chy. A face splitting smile along with lit eyes should’ve made her beautiful to any gazing upon her. The long familiarity between the pair made this kind of appreciation impossible for Chy. All he could see was the heathen, the threat, the menace. She seemed to him a monster out of her beloved northern tales. And yet, he found himself wishing to hear not only her response, but her approval. If not of his conclusions, then at least of his reasoning.

“A wonderful conjecture dear preacher sir!” She laughed in amusement. For reasons Chy could not pierce, that was where the conversation had ended. Not that he’d lack opportunities for similar conversations; it had occurred on only their first day out of Tellyphill.

And now on the third day, the trees were gone. The vastness of the sky above them was vaguely ominous, and the silence around them, far from being serene, whispered in mocking tones that they’d lost more than their location on the map. Chy distrusted such whisperings with vehemence, and Opal was more than willing to play along.

Try as they might though, obliviousness would produce neither food nor shelter.

“We can’t keep going north Chy. None of the needed setup for such a risky adventure for one thing. What’s more, we’re not nearly subversive enough to try for the renegade king now.”

It was midday, and heading south would get them back in the forests before nightfall. Rolling green and brown spread themselves out as if to envelop any star foolish enough to fall over those plains. The poetic soul inside of Chy tried to drink the scene in, while his conscious mind puzzled out Opal’s meaning. To the uninitiated, it’d seem she was talking nonsense. Chy knew better: she always talked in terms of setup and payoff, structures and motif.

So, when she talked about setup, she was explicitly referring to lack of narrative justification for Chy to now venture north. In terms of their actual position, she meant they’d starve to death or die of exposure in the endless expanse.

The second part was harder to parse, but Chy thought she was referring to some need to be near Tellyphill when the inevitable invasion happened. He still was not entirely clear on what that entailed.

“Subversive? The guard, the shield, whatever you want to call those ruffians running Tellyphill, they’re subversive. They’ve subverted everything good, everything that might have given them sanction to rule. In short order they’ll burn, their tomorrow turned blind.”

Opal listened, hesitant as to how to proceed. Whether Chy was trying to match her temperament, or whether this was simply how Chy had chosen to process the situation, she was not sure. They dawdled there, sweating in silence as the day dragged on. Every second, Opal grew surer and surer that Chy was on the verge of some kind of mental breakdown. But eventually he simple turned around and walked back towards the woods in silence. Gratified that her advice was heeded, Opal simply could not leave well enough alone.

“Come on Chy, you and I both know sulkiness doesn’t befit one of your station!”

She said it in a jovial tone, a touch of haughtiness thrown in to complete her imitation of Chy’s mannerisms. Chy dared not dignify the impression with a response, or the remark itself with rebuttal. Unfolding his preacher’s cap and placing it atop his head, he trudged onwards past fallow fields and deathly dry brambles. Opal looked on at the cap in some envy and took only minor comfort in her control over their small water sack. She drank somewhat more than her agreed upon ration, confident that Chy was in so strange a mood he’d not say a word. Her confidence was misplaced, as Chy turned on his heel at the sound of the cork popping, his glare ice and death and petulance all in one.

“Even in the woods we’ll be hard pressed for most everything. I can go a week without food, but can you? Whatever we’ve left that I’ve scrounged under the Guard’s nose must be almost gone.”

Opal was dismayed at the calm he portrayed. It’d be no fun at all were he to suddenly act the mature adult! Where was the fiery priest, ready to pounce on even a hint of impropriety, of heresy? Perhaps she should’ve considered dropping her own pretenses and engaged with Chy on this equal playing field. But so molded by Eva was she that a more serious approach didn’t even cross her mind. Only thought of stories and structures presented themselves to her, fitting whatever she saw into those neat boxes on which she was an authority as no other. She recognized Chy was unwilling to engage at this level of playfulness for the time being, and so bid her time.

This bidding took far longer than she’d first suspected it would. Night was falling and Chy had remained silent since. The woods presented no obvious clearing for campfire, which was just as well seeing how the summer night sweltered. Opal was almost tempted to reflect upon such mundanities as the smells and sounds of the woods, but she held her tongue. And she got what she was waiting for, though perhaps not in the way she’d expected, for Chy was not one for banalities either.

“Why are we unafraid to spend the night in the woods? Shouldn’t we be fearing for any number of wild animals and human miscreants? Shouldn’t we be fearing the Tellyphill Guard has sent out patrols to arrest two fugitives from their perverse justice?”

They sat in the trees, as Opal insisted they should. Chy had not argued the point on the first night, and he did not argue it on the fourth. Opal wondered whether it was a good idea for him to be so high up when in such a melancholy mood. She tarried too long in this wondering, as Chy went on in the dry monotone that Opal feared would permanently replace his lively anger and indignation. As he went on, he stared into the distance, an act made all the stranger by the rapidly darkening sky and the short visibility granted by the foliage.

“And why are we afraid to seek out the main road? Why don’t we head towards a village or caravan and seek sanctuary with the town Holy woman? Surely this close to Tellyphill every town has one?”

Opal could see clearly where he was going and embraced the coming argument. She embraced the knowledge she’d lose it. Little did she know Chy was setting up a far darker line of inquisition than Opal suspected.

“It simply would not fit, Chy! How many arguments did we overhear in our cell? Just think! There’s an army coming from up north. Should be almost to Kadyp, shouldn’t it? So list out the factions, just the ones in Tellyphill, and tell me if there’s room for what you’re asking for.”

The fading light barely allowed Opal to glimpse Chy’s bewilderment. This was not the line of thinking he’d been approaching. Opal’s confusion was so palpable that even Chy noticed, and responded. The lecturing tone he took fell not far from that which he’d taken when first coming to Tellyphill. Opal could not have known that it was now tinged with her manner as well.

“Foolishness and rot, those are the factions of Tellyphill. No, why would I ask we do so foolish a thing as rouse the local holy woman? Two options present themselves: our imprisonment was made as widely known as could be achieved, or our imprisonment was done in secret and haste. You’re a great teller, and you tell me you’re also a great listener. So what did you hear? Was it public or not?”

The vehemence and venom in his voice seemed familiar to Opal. She could not tell the despair at the edges from the anger in the center. But she answered honestly, nonetheless.

“I’d say it didn’t really… alright you don’t want to hear me say it doesn’t matter. I think it was public. I think we are, for whatever reason, wanted criminals. Whether they’ve chosen to frame some exact charge against us or simply as enemy agents, I truthfully cannot say.”

Chy shook his head, in what Opal thought was condescension. It was more likely exasperation.

“It’s worse than that. Don’t you see? Where are we, Opal? We’re three days’ walk from Tellyphill. I’ll concede, we’re fit, and we’re light on our feet, we’re running for our freedoms if not our lives.”

Opal snorted lightly. But only very lightly indeed.

“But we’re still only three days away. We should still be in the heart of empire! Why is there such a forest here to shield us? Shouldn’t these be suburbs? Cities? Farms at the very least, to feed the gaping maw of life that is the capital, the first city! But there’s nothing here! Just barren hills and wild forests! Why?”

The tone was that of genuine question, but he left no time for answer.

“It’s all the same thing Opal. If we truly are criminals, and if the city truly has sanctioned it, where are the patrols? Where are the travelers? Where is the clamor of wing and boot, the hounds of war and the trumpet of justice?”

Opal silently doubted such things had ever existed.

“It means… it means it’s all over. It means it’s over and we never knew it. It means… it means so much!”

There was fire in his voice once more, but only the last sputters of a choking and pathetic thing. It was not the roaring flame of one who is sure in his way. Opal remained silent.

“There’s no patrols. There was no warning. We were taken by subterfuge. The shield is… no more. Absorbed into some amalgam of dictatorship? Where is the shield of the faith, ready to stand for preachers and holy women wherever they are scorned? Where was the grand calling, to hear the promises of days to come at the great temples of the first city? Where was the spirit of the city, that eternal glowing light that permeated every crevice and emboldened every spirit to swear to the Shield, to the Pontiac? It was gone. There was none of it. And here, three days away, there is nothing. No patrols, no towns, no holy women or traders. Just quiet, and the distant echo of empire.”

Opal was unaware of how to comfort him and was not sure she wanted to do so. He sounded brokenly sad, and Opal thought she knew why. Now was the time to speak firmly. It was getting extremely hard to see indeed.

“You said it’s worse than just being wanted. Why would you think something like that? We were taken by subterfuge indeed! That doesn’t speak to being wanted criminals at all.”

“We were arrested for being enemy agents, Opal. What does that mean?”

“It means there’s an invasion. And here I was, sure you wanted to do something to stop it!”

Darkness obscured facial expression, but Opal could just make out a cold glare. She may have reflected that she wasn't being very attentive to the conversation or its tone.

“A preacher is an enemy agent. A holy man. I doubt there’s a woman of prophecy anywhere that Tellyphill rules.”

It seemed he would go on, and then it seemed he would cry. But he held his tongue, the silence stretching past minutes with no end.

Opal may have thought to know Chy’s mind. A woman of stories herself, none knew as she did the weight a good tale could have on a soul. Only this had not been a story as the northern or sea folk told them. It wasn’t the tale of characters overcoming themselves and their worlds. It was the story of a time, a story of a world, a story of a god. As if he knew that which would be chronicled on the matter, Chy did eventually speak up.

“Time is laid out as a tapestry to the Goddess. The pictures and the whole only she knows. The strands are known to the Pontiac, and the Pontiac is known to the holy women. The strands are weaved and read by the men of learning. So things go that we glimpse into eternity.”

The warmness of the summer night made the stars seem closer than usual. Opal had heard the litany Chy was now reciting a hundred times; it was the creed of the Prophet, the core belief laid out all those years ago. The story went it was the people of the first city who laid it out, though Opal had always suspected it was some theologian or other in the days of the Sebastopol schism.

“Then came today where all I glimpsed was ash. If even the first city can turn its back on the holy, who remains that cannot?”

None knew as Opal did, that there are many stories we tell ourselves. Great and small, some so small you cannot tell where one story begins and another ends. She’d told many stories in her time, stories to make elder and child weep as one. Stories to give hope, stories to impart lessons. She’d always known they were just stories and had reveled in the mechanics that made them effective on the fragile human perception.

And that night she saw dawning on Chy, a rather rare thing indeed. She saw the glass shatter, the curtain fall, the audience finally privy to the secret they should’ve known all along. Hadn’t he known it was just a story? That the first city was just a city like any other? That the Pontiac’s words would not forever be a bastion? They were just stories.

A strange thought indeed for one like Opal to have. So strange, it may be doubted that she had such thoughts at all.

But she was no simpleton, and not to glimpse these observations would’ve taken a rather simple mind.

Factions and factions within factions defined the last days of Tellyphill. What had once been the separate powers of the state, the Shield of the city, the Shield of the faith, and the Guard had all been merged and obfuscated in the century of collapse. Ordinary people are not historians and know very little of that which has passed before them. They know stories of a few key events and assume that’s where things left off. And so, that rowdy coalition of powerful men grew myriad interest groups and factions in those short years they had. It was inevitable, but it was also violently immediate.

The story of the end of empire was still being written, the collective psyche of those who came to power was not quite in line with the coming challenges. Perhaps they’d have done well enough during the collapse. They thought they’d done well enough against the Khazar. They were wrong, but they could not have known it.