Fallaces sunt rerum species.
The appearances of things are deceptive.
* * *
A savage’s life is most precarious. Most children born to Saxon mothers succumb to illness or want before they take their first step. Few Germans live to see their grandchildren, but those who do have a fair chance of reaching sixty. Some even make it to ninety, an achievement almost unheard of, even among the Romans.
The longevity of the German has much to do with his habitat. As a creature of the woodlands, he must be always alert, physically fit, and able to adapt to the vagaries of the wild. And so it was with Merthen, whose life in the forest had exposed him to nature’s harshest schooling.
Like the savages, he had learned how to survive, and did so to a very great age. Indeed, most of the merchants in
Thus, no one in the marketplace took much notice when Merthen rested on a crate by the docks. He bit into his apple and watched the clouds dissipate over
* * *
And then, there was silence. A Carthaginian freighter anchored by the shoals stood still. Even its sails were motionless, like a ship in a cathedral mosaic showing Jonah being cast overboard.
Merthen observed Mister Hopcyn, the rag-and-bone-man, standing as if frozen, not even blinking. Even more unusual was the cracked frying pan Mister Hopcyn had just tossed into to his barrow. This piece of wrought iron refuse was now hanging in mid-air, not moving in any direction.
Merthen could not hear the crash of the waves, because the waves had ceased to crash. There was no wind, no motion of any stripe. As far as Merthen could tell, the only object in the universe which still possessed mobility was he himself. Was this some kind of dream?
A bird erupted in song. “Sita Ram Ram Ram,” it sang, “Jay Jay, Sita Ram Ram Ram.”
From behind the harbor master’s house, a finch-sized songbird with a pink-orange belly flew through the stillness. It was a
The bird perched on the head of Merthen’s walking stick. She clasped her claws into the tip of the wooden swan’s beak.
“The boy,” she said, “tell me about the boy.”
Merthen did not try to shoo her away. Instead he jiggled the eighteen wooden beads on his bracelet. “Stay calm,” he muttered to himself. “All dharmas are marked with emptiness.”
She bowed, or came as close to it as her bird knees would allow. “Permit me to introduce myself, I am Lady Gopi from
He breathed in. He permitted his eyelids to slide shut. When he reopened them, the bird was still there. “I am not a wizard,” he said, but he did not say it to her. Rather he declared it as a kind of verbal reminder designed to keep himself on course. “And, you are not a bird. This is a hallucination.”
She hopped onto his shoulder. “Have you ever had a hallucination like this before?”
He had, but he was not about to tell her. Over the years, he had trained his mind to deal with his untrustworthy perceptions. There was no point in arguing with the beings that arose from his warped imagination. No matter how he reasoned with them, they always claimed to be real. The proper course of action was to ignore them. Eventually, they would dissolve back into nothingness.
The bird chirped, “The gods just have a few questions, Lord Wizard.”
Merthen snorted. “The gods? What rot.”
As a youth, Merthen had been taught to associate polytheism with Huns, Germans, and other smelly brutes. But once he set eyes on the deity-packed temples of the
Lady Gopi jumped onto a hitching post. “It shall not take long.”
“
“I could ask you the same thing,” she said, batting her eyes. “You are quite fortunate. When the gods try most men, they rarely conduct such a thorough investigation. Now then, about the boy.”
Merthen scratched at his tonsure-like bald spot. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I suggest you return to that god-filled fairytale-land from which you emanate, and inform your employers that I do not care if they damn me. I should think they would wait till I was moldering in the grave before passing judgment on me.”
“Not really. From their perspective, time does not work that way.”
“Well in that case, you shall have to enlighten me. Tell me, little squab, how does time work?”
* * *
Gopi did not answer. Instead Merlin’s ears were jolted by the crash of a pan landing in Mister Hopcyn’s cart. A briny gust blew in from across the
Merthen used to feel tremendous shame that he suffered from delusions. But as he grew older, he became somewhat grateful that had survived so long despite his madness. At least he was not some senile old codger who could only see faces from his past. Given Merthen’s personal history, such an illness would be more vicious than any torture the king’s men could devise.
But these were dark thoughts, nothing but rumination. Merthen was aware that they, like the talking animals, were not to be believed. He breathed in, and compiled a mental listing of all those things for which he should be thankful: his good health, his education, the cool crisp air of his mountain home.
His positive contemplation was broken by a jovial voice.
“Well look what we have here!” it said with a Frankish accent thick as butter sauce with capers. “By
This hearty hail issued forth from a raven-haired hunchback with one gray eye and one black. The stoop-shouldered fellow wore a yard-long stocking cap of red velvet, draped off to the left. Merthen followed its tassel down past the hunchback’s twisted arm to a shriveled leg, tipped with a toeless foot.
The hunchback said, “It is none other than I, Thumbs.” He gave a deep bow, well beyond the bounds of good taste. “I say, you look well, Ambrosius. We thought you were dead, old chum, but here you are tight as a tympanum.”
Seeing Thumbs harkened Merthen back to when he performed sleight-of-hand in the squares of
“I am afraid, Sir,” said Merthen, “that you have mistaken me for another. I am Merthen the Clerk, not Ambrosius the Wizard.”
“Nice try,” said Thumbs. “You are still wearing that girlish cravat. Besides, if you did not know it was me, why did you check my gimpy leg?”
Merthen tugged on the orange kerchief around his neck. He wore it out of dedication, a reminder of the monastic life he was forced to leave. If that piece of silk cost him a certain level of anonymity, so be it.
“What are you doing here?” said Merthen. “Did you run out of purses to snatch in
Thumbs exhaled. “Actually, I came into a modest windfall and determined it was due time I toured your sunny island. So, what brings you to this fine market? Still captivating the crowds with your stinging bowl?”
“Nowadays, I grow apples and bunnies.” Merthen patted the bundle of rabbit pelts on his lap. “And I clerk a bit.”
Thumbs chuckled. “What a waste of talent. You should come back to the continent. Did you hear? King Syagrius sent a petition to Emperor Zeno in
“What, again? Since when is Syagrius a king? Last I heard, he was still calling himself governor.”
“He goes back and forth. Do you recall little Morgan, the beer wench with the wicked hind end? She was always fascinated with your shows.”
“The redhead? I thought her name was Faye.”
“Aye, that was her. She has become Syagrius’s personal chambermaid, so to speak.” Thumbs elbowed him in the ribs. “You know the Romans still talk about you. Remember that trick you did with the glass? How did you burn that paper?”
Merthen felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Mister Bedwyr the clothier, with a bolt of cambric under his arm. He aimed it at Thumbs. “Is this man with you?”
Merthen bowed. “Not really, no.”
In one swift action, Bedwyr dropped the fabric and pulled out his linen shears. He pressed them against Thumb’s neck. “Give me the thread!”
Thumbs swallowed hard.
Merthen considered making up a cockamamie story that would inspire the clothier to slash Thumbs to bits. But there would be no justice in that, and far too much blood. Instead, Merthen asked, “What did he take from you, Bedwyr?”
“A spool of silk. He was chatting it up with my wife. Once he left, the thread was gone.”
Merthen motioned toward the shears with his walking stick. “Those are exceedingly sharp. I suggest you empty your pockets.”
“Oh, I see,” said Thumbs, “blame the cripple.” He tipped open his purse and emptied its contents: a dozen coins and a bent silver pin. “Is this how you treat all your visitors?” He removed his cloak and shook it. Out fell a few chunks of hard tack and a sketch of a naked woman. She was licking a sweet plum.
“The hat,” said Bedwyr. “Take it off.”
Thumbs shook his claw-like hand. “No!”
Bedwyr yanked the cap off, exposing Thumbs’s left ear, a pink oval hole with a half-inch long spike of skin above it. Bedwyr stepped back.
Through clenched teeth, the red-faced Thumbs muttered, “Satisfied?”
Merthen retrieved the hat from the ground, genuinely surprised that Thumbs had not nicked the thread. “It appears he is innocent, or at least less guilty than usual.”
Bedwyr shook his makeshift dagger and scowled. “There is a Visigoth ship leaving at sun-up. Be on it.” He rolled up his fabric and marched away.
Merthen handed over the hat. “You know they burn Hebrews here. If the knight constable learns you are a son of David, you shall find a spike up your colon before you can say Ave Maria.”
Thumbs twisted his chin around, unimpressed. “That was just my stage persona. Besides, I only claimed to be half Jewish.” He unrolled a loose flap of skin that covered where his collarbone met his hump. From underneath it, he retrieved a spool of purple thread.
Merthen snapped it out of Thumb’s’ one good hand. “I shall tell Mister Bedwyr that I found this lying about. The ship you will be boarding tomorrow is moored at Saint Catherine’s dock.”
Thumbs crouched low to gather his belongings. “You know old man, spending time with you Welschmann is making me think it might be nice to be cooped up on a ship full of Germans.” He stood up. “If it is not too much bother, could you provide me with a place to bunk tonight?”
“I live up in the hills. You are much too lame to make the trip, and I am much too feeble to carry you. Go sleep on the Visigoth’s ship.”
“A barn would do. Might you have any friends who would take in a renter?”
“A few,” said Merthen. “But if I directed you to them, they would no longer be my friends. You steal in your sleep, Thumbs.” A misty rain began to fall. Merthen slipped his hood over his head. “Now, if you were my friend, I would strongly recommend that you locate a vessel pointed west and board it. You need to go home, and so do I.”
“But you cannot just leave me here alone?”
Merthen wrapped his fingers around his walking stick. “Solitude can be an edification. I would like to say go in peace, Thumbs, but we both know you are far too lubricious for that. Instead I will simply say, find a boat and watch your back.” He walked away.
From up north there was a lone clap of thunder. Thumbs scooted off to the whitesmith’s stall. It had a roof.
Merthen plodded up the road. Above him the grey clouds glided by, until they came to a dead stop. The scant raindrops that were falling ceased to descend any further. Just as before, there was no wind, no sound, no movement.
* * *
Using her blunt black beak, Lady Gopi tugged on one of the long white hairs that sprouted from Merthen’s earlobe. Her claws clung onto his collar. “If I may ask,” she said, “when did you get so grumpy?”
Merthen rubbed his tired eyes. “Back again? I must be going potty. Did I eat a bad mushroom?”
Gopi asked, “What did the rats signify? The ones in you saw in your vision last week. Why were they in four pairs?”
“So… the talking bird wants to know about the spinning rats? How about this: you flitter off and ask the Goddess Athena about the rodents. Given her reputation for intellectual agility, I think she should be able to figure it out.”
The bird shimmied her tail. “I am not one of your visions,” she said.
“Well, in that case, let us examine your line of inquiry. If as you claim, Bright-eyed Athena is so bright-eyed, why is daughter of Zeus even bothering to pose the question? What could a simpleton such as I possibly tell the goddess of wisdom that she does not already know?”
“You raise a valid point. I will have to discuss this with my patron.” Gopi flapped her wings and took to the air. “Good day, Wizard Merlin.” She glided over the eastern highlands, deftly avoiding the glass-like drops of water that were, by all appearances, refusing to submit to the pull of Mother Earth.
Merthen pounded his staff onto the muddy turf. “Mer-then!” he cried, “My name is Mer-then, you bloody half-pint pigeon!”
No comments:
Post a Comment