The
floor was cold and rough to the touch as Ronan woke. He stared at the
hole in the roof, and a man in dark clothing prodded him with a long
stick.
“Is this some selcouth tradition of Narran—resting on a weary traveler’s firepit and his food?”
The
heat on the base of his back made him roll away, and he kept rolling
until there was no chance for the cloth to burst into flames. He climbed
up, feeling sore.
“There is no such—selcouth?”
“Peculiar,” the stranger advised, glancing over to see if the food was salvageable.
“No,
we have no peculiar traditions like that in Narran. The roof of this—”
Ronan glanced around, disoriented. “A cave? Of course—a cave. The roof
caved in on my way home.”
The man paused his digging and frowned. “Is hospitality selcouth to you?”
“No, hospitality is not selcouth to me,” Ronan said, sarcasm dripping from his lips like drool.
But
the man merely grabbed his things and snapped, “Then show me some. You
destroyed my meal, broke my shelter, and whine like a babe. You owe me.”
“I
didn’t intentionally fall through the roof,” Ronan said, eyeing the
man. He was tall, his face obscured by a beard and the shadow of his
hood.
“Yet your arse ruined my food and shattered my pan,” the man replied. “It’s not selcouth of me to ask for compensation.”
Ronan glanced down at the broken pan. “I can pay for it.”
The man shook his head, his cloak rustling. “I can’t eat a coin. I want food. And since you claim hospitality isn’t selcouth to you, prove it. Then we can part ways quickly.”
Ronan
considered it and decided to play the host. His house was close by, and
if he didn’t pay but simply shared some food, it would be a cheap price
to pay.
“Well, if that’s your promise, then sure—follow me.”
Ronan glanced around, and the man pointed past him. Following the gesture, Ronan spotted a faint light in that direction.
“Right. Follow me.”
The
cave entrance was just a few steps away, but it was low, forcing him to
bow down. Suddenly, he was shoved from behind and landed on his belly.
“What in Neurul’s name was that?” he nearly bellowed, rolling over to see the stranger gripping a snake by its neck.
“I feel you, brother. He reeks of it. But today, he’ll feed me, and you can save your poison for bigger rats.”
Ronan
scrambled out of the cave and into the sunlight. He watched as the man
set the snake on the ground, letting it slither back into the darkness.
Ronan recognized the markings—it wouldn’t have killed him, but the agony
of two weeks was nothing he desired.
“You
startled it,” the man said, offering his hand. Ronan took it and was
yanked up like a crawling weed, his feet dangling for a moment.
Ronan
brushed off the dust and grime, then glanced at the setting sun. There
was still enough light to get home without trouble, but now, in the
proper light, he was no longer certain he wanted to host the man.
Ronan
was the tallest man in town, yet the stranger towered over him like an
oak, his fingers sleek but powerful—the hands of a man who used them.
His clothes were plain: grey, black, and dirt blended them almost
invisibly against the dark entrance of the cave. The skin around his
eyes was tanned, and the rest of his face lay hidden beneath a beard,
the mouth barely visible under the heavy moustache. He did not seem
overly muscular, yet Ronan had the feeling he was strong enough to break
him if they ever came to blows.
Ronan decided that turning him away would probably lead to trouble, but at least in town, he could call for help.
“I reek of what?” Ronan said.
The ends of the moustache moved—Ronan guessed it to be a smile of sorts.
“Alchemists call it spirit of hartshorn. Rats and mice smell of it. Men too, when they squirt into their pants.”
Ronan sniffed and felt the slight wetness in his pantaloons. “Piss? I smell of piss, and snakes want to bite me?”
“They want to eat. You smell like a rat, so they act. Animals live like that.”
Ronan
wondered at what point he had soiled himself. It wasn’t much, but
enough that it bothered him now. He was sure it must have been when he
fell and lost consciousness.
“Well,
my home is close. I shall endure until then,” Ronan said and started to
walk awkwardly in the knowledge of the stain rubbing against him with
each step.
“What brings you here, in
Narran?” Ronan said, struggling to keep pace with the stranger, whose
long legs ate up the path like a ravenous goat.
“I came to see an old friend—if he’s still alive. And I travel to keep my vellichor sated.”
Ronan was silent for a while but then gave in. “You speak in riddles, like something from an old book. What does vellichor mean?”
The man made a short sound. Ronan ignored it, but it was unmistakably a laugh.
“It
is a longing for a bookshop long forgotten, filled with tomes from ages
past and mysteries lost to time. I once read a tale where Nanau the
Bard was struck with vellichor after eating a pie made in a vellum-lined pan that once held the ichor of a Braineater beast.”
Ronan almost stopped at the words but hurried after the man. “Nanau, the master of the lute?”
The man nodded. “He has many names, I hear—one for each town he’s been thrown out of.”
Ronan
began to wonder who the man really was. He was certainly not from
Narran—the odd words alone made that clear—but the way he spoke of Nanau
made it seem he actually knew the renowned bard.
“By the way, I’m Ronan,” he said.
The
man took a long look at him before answering. Then, in a sudden burst,
he declared, “You may call me Randaz—like that strip of leather the
shoemaker uses before planting the heel.”
To Ronan, it sounded as though it took effort to say the name. Whereupon, long, fanciful tales came like rain—unhindered.
“Okay,
Randaz. That’s my house there, by the orchard—and by Neurul, my apples
are the best in the region. Nay, in the nation! I was returning from
selling a barrel of them when I fell through the path,” Ronan said,
beaming with pride. He was known as Ronan the Appleman—sometimes to his
face, but mostly behind his back—and he took pride in the title.
Randaz
was silent until they reached the edge of the orchard. “You fling out
the name of Neurul as if it were chaff. People tend to be more careful
when uttering the name of the one who walks in shadows.”
Ronan
shrugged. “It’s just a name. Why would he think saying it is a bad
thing? I don’t blame him with my utterances or call for him. I praise
him, if you think about it. My apples are great, and I place them beside
his name—neither is worse for the comparison.”
He opened the gate and ushered Randaz in.
“I see. And I think he would agree,” Randaz said.
“Who would?” Ronan asked, closing the gate.
“Neurul.”
Randaz said as they entered the house.
The
man ate slowly, very deliberately, as if there was nothing else in the
world but the bread, stew, and him. Ronan had finished ages ago—both the
meal and a stack of apples—but felt it impolite to bother the man while
he was eating. Yet there was one question that needed an answer: Was
the man going to leave, or would he insist on staying the night?
“What? I didn’t say anything,” Ronan protested.
Randaz reached for something, and Ronan slid back in his chair.
“Your eyes tell me you fear me,” Randaz said. “But even more, you fear that no one here would even read an elegy for you.”
Ronan got up and walked to the fireplace where the pokers stood. “You use words that unnerve me.”
Randaz’s
hand hovered over the bread before pocketing it. “Elegy unnerves you?
Hmm. I’ve noticed people are uncomfortable with anything related to
death.”
Ronan grabbed a poker and
stirred the embers. “Who wouldn’t be? When you die, you lose
everything—your life included. People singing an elegy afterward seems
almost futile.” He watched the flames flicker. “Life is fleeting, but
memories are eternal.”
Randaz stuffed another piece of bread into his pocket. Ronan said, “What memories? I’ll be dead.”
He glanced at Ronan. “Do you know what happens after you die?”
Ronan shook his head.
“People say nobody knows—yet they still leave elegies behind, begging to be remembered.”
“That does nothing to me,” Ronan said.
Randaz
seemed to smile as he rose. “Come with me to the orchard. I have
something to show you. We can talk about elegies there—amidst your
beloved apple trees.”
Randaz walked
out. Ronan hesitated, but with Randaz already outside and the poker
still in his hand, he decided to see what the strange man was up to.
He stepped out, and Randaz began to sing—a haunting tune in a strong, clear voice. It was an elegy. A beautiful one.
As
the song progressed, Ronan realized it was about him—about his apples,
his toil. He barely noticed the poker slipping from his fingers. His
gaze fixed instead on the ladders lying on the ground beside a broken
branch—one he had planned to remove.
Even after Randaz fell silent, the elegy seemed to echo through the orchard. Ronan stared at him, understanding dawning.
“That was… my elegy? It was…”
Randaz nodded. “People will remember you well. Some won’t. But that is life.”
Ronan stammered. “Am I dead?”
Randaz nodded again and pointed toward the ladder, where Ronan saw—himself.
“Who are you?” Ronan whispered. “Dangiir?”
Randaz shook his head. “I am just an usher. I will accompany you to him… and deliver this elegy to the singer at your funeral.”
