Ninth Beginning: Deadline Extension

It was on a sultry evening after a restful but largely nondescript day that Narnia the Wanderer contracted a mild case of death. His companions were annoyed. They would have been more sympathetic if he’d contracted a more severe case, of course. The more horrific his death, the more they would have had to talk about to their other friends. But, other than the complete cessation of breathing and blood circulation, all Narnia had to show for his demise were drippy sinuses. The resulting snuffles and sneezes were unattractive and irritating rather than harrowing.

“You know, I bet you were murdered,” said Cassandra. A lissome, dark Vampiress, Cassandra took her name seriously. She reveled in making predictions that no one believed. There was no curse involved in this, no matter how forcefully she might argue that there was. She was simply never right and everyone knew it.

“Oh, poor Narnia!” The soft, graceful fingers of the Siren, Svetlana, smoothed the Wanderer’s hair and caressed his brow. He had been besotted with the riparian temptress for months and now she was his only sympathizer.

“Oh, kiss him goodbye and have done!” said the Wizard Madmanmann. “Dead is dead and it’s time for this dead guy to move along.”

“Not if we can prove he was murdered!” Svetlana clutched at Narnia’s shoulder’s. The tall, seated Wanderer sniffed and clutched back, trying to look brave and resigned.

"Aargh! Why me? Why are you trying to drag this out? He’s dead! Gone! Finito! Pffft! His corpse should be exorcised and buried. This is a no-brainer, here. We will grieve for the dearly departed, but first he will have to depart!” The wizard was pitching a snit.

“Yeah,” said a young Werewolf named Sassurpathlac - - a name which, in his native language, meant Leg Humper. “It’s time for him to get spiritually uplifted. His sniffles are boring and he smells clammy. Let’s pop him down to the medium’s shop by Baskin-Robbins while there’s still some night left to the night.”

But Cassandra was delighted to argue against the idea. And Svetlana, though trembling with doubt because Cassandra was never right, was willing to grasp at straws. She had been coolly flattered by Narnia’s attentions and was now surprised at the sense of loss his passing would cause. The group descended into bickering.

All right!” Madmanmann bellowed. “We can ask the medium to do a reading first. But I won’t pay the extra charge. I know Svet doesn’t have it. How about it Cassandra? Money where your grotty predictions are?”

Cassandra was not pleased. It was her delight to be doubted. Proof, one way or the other, smothered doubt.

Narnia sniffled and patted his tunic, looking beseechingly at Svetlana. She reached gently into his tunic. He sighed in adoration as she pulled out three cards from an inner pocket. The symbols on the cards writhed and twisted. He folded his large hands around her small ones, as she held them, and gave a couple of cooling pats.

“Oh,” she said, “he wants me to sell his magic cards. He’ll pay for the reading himself. Oh, you dear man.” She turned to hug him and he sighed and sniffled in bliss.

“Aw, jeez!” Werewolves were obviously unimpressed by dear men. . . particularly dead ones. As the group grumbled toward Four Elements, the medium’s shop, Sassy loped off to get a banana split. He said he’d be back later. . . maybe.

The Four Elements was a dim, incense-filled room. When they rang for the medium, a voice from the shadows said, “Yes?” Everyone turned slowly to show that they were not uncool enough to be startled. A light seeped on, revealing a lounging, leering young man dressed entirely in black.

“Nick?” said Cassandra. “What are you doing here?”

“Filling in. Larry the Lame is drunk again. Normally the place would be closed but the landlord put in a little clause, last renewal. If he calls and there isn’t a prompt, sober answer, he calls me next. I come fill in. Anything I have to do to collect from old Lare is considered to be gravy.” Here Nick the Necromancer grinned demoniacally.

This is a waste of time,” Madmanmann blustered, backing toward the door. “I’ve heard of you. No way have you completed a course in spirituality.”

“Equivalency,” leered Nick. “I passed the test. Plus I have a certain, mmmm, feel for the subject. Now pay up or push off.”

“We were hoping you’d take these in trade,” Svetlana began.

“Not much of a hope, of course,” Madmanmann interrupted. “We know the fad for these things is fading.”

Svetlana passed the cards to the lounging Necromancer and patted Narnia’s arm, to reassure both of them.

“Hey, Narn, How’s it hanging?” Nick looked the cards over.

Narnia sniffed and patted Svetlana back.

Sorry to hear it. Fortunately, I’m still collecting these.” The Necromancer parked the cards in a back pocket. “So what’s the problem?”

Narnia is dead.” Svetlana’s voice was low with dread. “We were hoping to prove that he had been murdered, so that we could seek an extension. But if he wasn’t, then. . . then. . . .” Here the Siren’s voice broke. She turned and buried her face in the chest of the corpse in question. Narnia snuffled and held her close.

“All right, I admit it! I murdered him.” Cassandra gasped at Madmanmann’s confession. “Can you blame me? Well, can you? I have, after all, some sense of aesthetics! Narnia the Wanderer, he calls himself. But does he wander? No! He’s Narnia the Stationary! Or Narnia the Hoverer! The Wanderer? Please! He wanders as much as your average brick.”

The entire group stared in disbelief at the Wizard. He was not ranting. He was explaining, reasonably, why he had murdered one of them.

“Come, now. You all remember how I warned him? How I chided him for the discontinuity?”

“He used to wander,” said Nick, “before he met Svetlana. I guess you didn’t know him then.”

“No, Svetlana introduced us.”

"Oh! Now I feel terrible!” the Siren wailed. “Madmanmann killed you because of me!”

“Well, since we know that he was murdered,” said the Necromancer, “we can get on with the extension.”

“Just a moment,” Madmanmann lifted a lecturing finger. “It has not been officially determined that the deceased has been murdered.”

There were murmurs of disapproval, including a threatening sniff from Narnia.

“I will cooperate fully in this sordid little enterprise, but only if the Wanderer promises to wander. No wander, no cooperation. No cooperation, no extension. I can tie this up in technicalities for months. Are you sure the shade will linger that long? Gaagh!”

Madmanmann’s last word was forced through a throat surrounded by chilly, constricting fingers. Narnia snuffled in outrage as he lifted the Wizard by the neck and prepared to shake some sense, or at least some cooperation, into him.

“No, my sweet, think!” Svetlana plucked desperately at the Wanderer’s sleeve. “If you injure him you prejudice your case. And if you kill him, you cannot be extended. You need his life force.”

“Please?” Tears brightened the Siren’s eyes. “Is wandering so bad?”

Narnia lowered the Wizard to the ground but kept a grip with one hand. With the other he mimed drinking water.

“Yes, I know. I must stay near water. But you could wander back to me.”

“Or you could wander together,” said Cassandra, who was sulking over being right and just wanted everyone to leave. “You know, like up Putah Creek to Lake Berryessa?”

“You could check out the drowned town at the bottom of the lake.” Sassy spoke between licks as he cleaned out the bottom of his container. He and his banana split had returned in time for most of the excitement.

“Or you could go up the Sacramento and pan for gold. There must be some route that would take you to Tahoe, too,” the Necromancer added.

Narnia looked into Svetlana’s eyes. He was waiting for her answer. The Siren froze. She knew that her life was too confined. Her mother was always after her to expand her circle of friends, to get out of her little pond. But wandering? Her mother would not approve.

And it was dangerous to make two life changes together, wasn’t it? If either the relationship or the wandering didn’t work out, the failure of one would poison the chances of the other. Still, the Wanderer was devoted. And she did need to stretch her horizons.

“I promise to wander with Narnia for a year and a day,” she heard herself say. “After that, we’ll see. He can change his name, if necessary. But not to ‘the Stationary,’ that’s stupid. Perhaps ‘the Devoted’?”

Narnia released the Wizard. He and Svetlana held each other’s hands and gazed into each other’s eyes.

“Oh, please,” grumbled the Wizard, rubbing his neck. “This is saccharine. And you know you’ll hate wandering, Svet. You’ll miss us.”

The Necromancer snorted. The couple’s hands and eyes still held, undaunted. Svetlana sighed. Narnia sniffed. The Wizard flapped his hands, giving up.

“All right, all right! I’ll accept it. As irritating as he is, maybe I’ll be lucky and his natural span will elapse before the year is out.”

“Speaking of irritating,” said Nick, “we’ll just make sure you have an heir to carry the extension if you should happen to . . . pop off.”

After all the technicalities were over and everyone else had gone home in a huff, Narnia and Svetlana wandered to the gazebo in Shield’s Grove. The fork of Putah Creek that ran through the grove had been dammed at both ends, turning it into a very long pond. It was a good intermediary step between a small pond and truly running water. And the moon reflected beautifully there. Svetlana appreciated the thought.

Since he had been deprived of his voice all day, Narnia talked all night. He did his best to say thoughtful, reassuring things, although he was still mad at her friends and sometimes he had to talk about that.

Svetlana curled up on a bench with him and agreed or disagreed with him all night. By the time the moon had set, she had decided that she truly enjoyed the sound of his voice, which had a murmur like the sound of water. And if it was time for her to go out on adventures, perhaps it would be nice to have the company of someone dependable to lead her. . . or to follow.

Second Beginning: Red's Morning

Red woke up from his dream. It was not quite dawn, yet, which was just the way it should be. A good swordsman awakes at first light and begins his practice before even the farmers are awake.

As he begins his routine, swinging his sword around in loose, large arcs, switching hands, switching stance, warming up, he thinks about farmers, who aren't up yet because they're not swordsmen. He remembers that his parents had been farmers. They hadn't lived in town, but in a small sod house somewhere between Fair and Grass. He had had a sister then and he had shirked his chores.

The family hadn't gone into town much, only for the fairs, and that was business. Folks keep to themselves during business. At least folk were supposed to. Red never did. He loved the noise and the movement of the fairs. He loved the stories and the plays and the jugglers. He especially liked the sword fighting in some of the plays. No haggling. No dreary rebukes in plays. It was "foul varlet" and "have at you, then". That was so much better.

When he was six, Red had run away from his family when they left the fair early, having conducted all the business they needed. He had gone back to the fair. You would have thought he had burned down the grain tower, the way they went on. It's not like his work was all that much to miss.

But they had grabbed him back and fretted for - well at the time it felt like forever. They took him to one of the hermits. The hermit was standing on his head, which was a thing of no small interest to a boy. He stood on his head in a hut too small to lay down in, without sticking out the front door. So maybe he stood on his head always. Father said you never could tell with hermits.

So the hermit stood on his head and listened and Father slowly fished the words to explain the difficulty out of his craw. The words came reluctantly through his whiskers. Mother and Sister stood by, plainly stating by their posture that it was not the place of womenfolk to speak under these circumstances, but to stand supportively, proud of their discretion, distrustful of strangers.

The hermit listened to it all silently. And then was silent for a piece after that. Father and Mother and Sister waited patiently. Red fidgeted. Eventually, the hermit spoke, still upside down.

"There is a sage in Four Towers who has a bodyguard. The bodyguard refuses to take students. But he could teach very well. He's waiting for a student to demand to be taught and to attack him when he refuses. The student must be very patient, for the bodyguard will beat him up, not once, but many times before he relents and begins teaching."

And then the hermit gave instructions on how to get to the sage, who did not live in a tower, but in a small house with a wall and a garden.

There was a good deal of silence after that.

Finally the hermit said: "The boy has only heard stories of fighting. Perhaps it is more boring than farm chores, when it's what you do for a living, rather than what you watch on a stage."
Father had considered that for a deal of time and then had nodded. He had spent the next two weeks drilling the directions to the sage into his son. Memorization had never been Red's strong suit.

He could still remember the lesson. Down the road east to Slope. (smack) ((If he didn't answer, or if he got that bit wrong.)) Down the slope and follow the south road until the road crosses a big river with a bridge. (smack) Across the river, you'll come to the town's back, which can't be entered by strangers. (smack) Go around the town to the big gate - it's a big town and a long walk. (smack) Go in the main gate. If the guard asks you, say you have come to work for a sage. (smack) Go straight ahead. The road will be covered with bricks, like a fancy wall. (smack) There will be a water fountain in the middle of the road. Turn left there. (smack) No, the other left. (smack) Keep walking until you get to a house with a low wall around it and a garden in it and a statue in the garden of a minotaur. (smack) That's a big man with the head of a bull. (smack) Don't knock on the gate, go right in and knock on the door of the house. (smack) Tell whoever answers that you are there to learn to be a great swordsman. (smack) And don't go away until you've decided that you want to be a farmer. (smack) (Oh, sorry)

So Red had taken the two loaves of bread and the dried fruit and meat and had gone. It had been an adventure, pretending to be a swordsman attacking tall grass with a stick as he walked along. Joining the caravan in Slope. Going to the sage's house. If he forgot his instructions, all he had to do was hit himself upside the head, and he'd remember at least the next bit.
He had been a little worried that the garden wouldn't be there, what with Father never knowing with hermits, but it was. And so was the statue. And so was the front door, which was opened by a big, burly, greying man with a patch on one eye and more scars than Red had ever seen before.

Red had forgotten what to say, or maybe Father had never told him. So he skipped the asking to be taught and just attacked the man. With his stick. Which broke. He woke up in the garden. There was a much smaller, older grey man, who laughed and pointed out the weeds in the garden. When Red had proved that he knew which were weeds, the man said that if he was willing to weed the garden, he would be fed. But that he'd probably better stop irritating Urich or he might get hurt.

The garden was smaller than a farm, so Red didn't mind too much. If he didn't weed, he didn't eat, on a day-by-day basis. And no one got mad either way. So he weeded most days.

He had trouble getting Urich to teach him. Especially because he kept forgetting to ask. But Urich seemed to know. Red tried all the traps he could think of. Once, Urich told him he'd have a better chance of trapping him if he didn't try to use his sword. (Stick, but Urich said sword.)
"It's no good without a sword," Red had blurted. And Urich had smiled. He had drawn out the beating a bit that day, blocking Red's sword thrusts and flails with this hands. With His Hands! His hands must be so hard! But that distracting thought had earned him a ringing hit on his head and the lesson was over.

His hands were so hard. It was amazing. But maybe it was part of being a swordsman. So Red had hit himself in the hands with his sword. Then he had gone out to the garden to weed. Later he had noticed the bronze sword that the minotaur statue was holding. It was pointed down and Red could reach it with his hands easily. So he started hitting it, the way that Urich had hit his sword. To build up his hands. He did it every day after his beating and before the garden and sometimes after the garden, too.

One day he found Urich watching him as he hit at the statue's sword. "Where did you learn to block like that?"

Red didn't know what blocking was. "I'm doing what you did."

The next day Urich didn't come out the front door. Red heard him grunting and walked around the house to find him doing odd motions in a small clearing in the back. Red watched the stretches. He watched the warm-up with the lead sword. He watched Urich use a wooden sword to smack a big wooden pillar that he later learned was called a pell. He watched him pull a real sword and pretend to fight first one, then two and three imaginary opponents. Red was rapt. He sat very still and didn't say a word. When Urich turned to walk away, he took up the wooden sword and attacked him, as always. As always, he was beaten, and rather quickly. But Urich used a wooden sword to beat him today. Red was in heaven.

The years passed. Once he heard Urich say to Sage Turchall, "I never could have figured out how to explain what I did with a sword, not if my life depended on it. But he doesn't need to be told. He just soaks it in."

More years passed. Red got better. He got padding, so that Urich could beat him more firmly without worrying that he'd hurt him too much.

More years passed. One day Red beat Urich. Not beat him down, but beat him as if - if it had been a real sword he would have been dead. It was spooky. Urich immediately talked about when Red would be leaving. He was a swordsman, now, and to learn more he'd have to fight for real. He didn't have to leave right now. He had a year to think it over.

Slope was a good place to go, for a swordsman. Or home, if he had one.

Red thought it over and couldn't decide. So a year later he went to Slope, since it was on the way and he had to go that far. Once he got to Slope, it occurred to him that he was no longer sure where his family's farm was. He had never been far from it, except for the fair. And he had had his head full of the fair then. When he left he'd had his head filled with remembering the directions to the sage's house. This was embarrassing.

He didn't want to have to ask where his people lived. Then it occurred to him that his family had always used descriptions when speaking among themselves. Father was Father or Husband. Mother was Mother or Wife. Sister was always Sister. He could recall no other names. Unless you counted Farmer or Goodwife or Young Miss. He had been Young Mister or Lad. It didn't do to give your names to strangers.

So he couldn't even ask. This was more than embarrassing. When the caravaner asked his name, he used the name that Urich and Sage Turchall had used. He called himself Red. He mumbled it. And when the bandits came, he took out his frustration on them. Being begged by the drovers to stay in Slope helped his mood a good deal. They thought he was wonderful. And Father had said not to come back until he wanted to be a farmer. If he happened to run into them, that was fine. He could ask about his name then. He wasn't a stranger, after all, and it wouldn't hurt if he knew it.

So he pretty much cleared up the bandits in Slope and he got to meet the Sheriff for it. He asked the Sheriff about his family, but the Sheriff had come from down in the valley and didn't know. He invited him to Fair, though, in case they came back through. But they never did, or else he didn't recognize them any more.

Oh, well, thought Red as he finished his exercises and sat to watch the sun come up. Remembering never was his strong suit. Father had said that more than once. He tapped his breastplate and smiled. But now he had shiny red leather armor. That was just as good as a strong suit any day.