6 - The Ritual Complete

In the City of Yartha, the old man sang along the otherwise quiet stretch of Drift Street in the humid night. He carried himself in tilted steps across the lane, stumbling and staggering. Earlier in the day he’d come upon a bit of coin, and had spent it all that night at a tavern in the district of Ironworks. 

Crow's was his preferred drinking establishment, and it was the old grist mill turned watering hole on Locust Street which he’d come from on, but its proprietor, the titular Crow, closed up the bar at midnight like all followers of Slybbon. Varnabas hadn't felt like ending his night just yet, and even though he’d told his friend Alma that he was going back to the camp under Harpy Bridge to turn in, he’d changed his mind and wandered up to Endstown to see if he could bum a drink or two.

He'd been living under the bridge since he’d found himself without work, and after the lord of the tenement he’d stayed at on Rust Avenue had turned him out in the middle of winter, cold and drafty place that it was. Alma and Crow's generosity had helped him through the coldest nights, but when he'd smelled the first scent of wildflowers in the park, he’d been eager to regain his independence. He was almost sixty-five years old, and hadn't needed to be looked after since he’d gained his freedom as a lad, when the city had been a different place- a better one, even for the lowborn and lessers of Yartha.

"The river she is a friend of mine, her waters dark and deep," he sang in the dark. His singing voice was decent if not what it used to be, and the initial belt of verse was interrupted by coughing. "But I took a nap upon her banks and she killed me in my sleep!"

The lyrics resounded off the buildings as he came stumbling to a lane that led to the parkland, Hundred Trees- a piece of wilderness among the urban decay of the northeast quarter. It was late, hot and miserable, but Varnabas wasn't the only one wandering the streets in the dead of night. Two voices from behind him, each with varying degrees of threat within, told him to cease his singing. 

Varnabas muttered under his breath, and began to sing again, louder, choosing a stupid verse. "And though my body's blue an' bobs b'neath the branchy banks, 'twas the river that kep' that body fed and for that she has my thanks!"

"Shut that trap, you old rum-guzzlin' bastard," the voice interrupted. It was a man’s voice, deep and serious. "Before I do it." Varnabas surmised that it was the voice of a likely large fellow, and not really wanting trouble, especially at his age, he did as was asked and ceased his song without a look back. 

Just a moment later, as he made his way to take a shortcut through an alleyway, he walked directly into a young man exiting that same alley. He let out a startled noise and staggered sideways, managing to keep his balance for an impressive amount of wobbled steps before his foot snagged an errant brick and he spilled into the street.

Varnabas rolled over with a series of curses, looking up at the man he’d ran into. Tall and dressed in fine clothes, his face was boyish. He carried slung over his shoulder a knapsack that had clinked and rattled when they’d connected, as if full with bottles. The man’s robes were fine and clean. He was obviously highborn.

"My good fellow!" the man said, and rushed to his side to kneel. "I pray to all the gods that you are not hurt!"

Varnabas stood up and composed himself, fast for his age and level of inebriation. His long gray hair, bald on top, hung around his face as he stood. He brushed it behind his ear and swept at his pants as the men who’d threatened him walked by snickering. "That's what you get, you old pot-shotten' shitbag," the bigger one said.

The well-dressed man at Varnabas’ side shot his look in their direction, and his eyes became crazed. He stood on his tiptoes and pointed an erratic finger at them. "You!" he screeched. 

The man stopped and turned, his companion with him, and the fine-clothed addressor assumed a stance of haughty dominance. "Apologize to this man this instant!" the highborn demanded.

Varnabas showed his palms and backed up a step. “No need, really.”

The man's eyes, heavily browed, flared with anger. There was a jagged ‘Y’ tattooed on his forehead that went from his hairline down to the bridge of his nose. As he walked rapidly toward the highborn, paying no attention at all to him, Varnabas saw his companion glance around discreetly, assessing witnesses.

"Professor Byron Levant of the Academy of Yartha," Byron said hurriedly, his voice rising in both pitch and volume. "And who are you, other than a common brute?"

"You think I give a fuck who you are?" the stranger answered him, raising his fists.

Byron's eyes widened. "Guards! Guards! Guaaaaards!" he screamed. His piercing shriek echoed into the night as he cowered to the ground, his arms raised in a semblance of self-defense.

The man stared at him for a moment, then barked harsh laughter and spat at Byron’s cowering form. “Come on," he said to his companion, "I don't know what's wrong with folks on this side of town, but they're on one tonight.” 

The brutes walked away from Varnabas and Byron, down a street that was quickly being evacuated of people. Varnabas stood there alternating between laughter and a fit of hiccups. Finally he managed to say, "I can't believe that worked. You almost got knocked out, or worse, you highborn fool. That man was a Yarthan Raider. The Yarthanguard don’t even touch them. If I'd have known, I wouldn't have pissed in his direction, myself. Are you lost or something? You must be lost. Oh boy, that was funny."

"What a brute," Byron said, anxiously watching as the men continued down the street. “I simply cannot see a good man insulted over his art. A lover of the arts, only trying to share his gift with the low and the downtrodden. That was a lovely song. What was it called, my good man?"

Varnabas gave him a quizzical, smirking look, the smile lifted his mutton-chop sideburns slightly. "You ain't never heard 'In the Arms of the River' before?"

"I don't believe so, no." Byron said.

Varnabas leaned against a brick wall and laid his head back, his long gray hair down past his shoulders. "Well, it's got ‘bout a hundred verses, and they always seem to be a tad different depending on the singer. It's a poor folk’s song. Been around longer than anyone knows.”

"That is so very interesting. How I love to hear about the songs of the poor, so unlike the stuffy choir and chamber songs of the highborn. So full of passion and folksy whimsy. Do you have a passion for the arts, good fellow?"

Varnabas groaned. "I really don’t know what you’re implying, feller, but I've got a date with a tankard if you'll excuse me. There's bound to be guards here any minute with a yell like that, and I don't want to be around when they get here."

He started to leave as Byron stammered for something to say. “Well, well, what is your name, my good man?”

“Varnabas,” he answered. He made a few wobbled steps before he put his hands to the pockets at his sides, and turned back around to the well-dressed man. "You don't got a copper or two on you, do you? Silver, maybe?”

Byron laughed good-naturedly. "Say no more my good man", he said, and reached into his coin purse to produce a gold coin. "But why spend that good coin at some filthy hole in the wall, when my knapsack is practically bursting with fine spirits, as free as the fine city we inhabit? You see, I have cause for celebration, and I just so happened to be in search of someone to celebrate with." Byron broke out in fresh sweat as he gave a proximation of a hearty laugh. He studied Varnabas' wobbling form. The old man's eyes focused and refocused. "Shall we walk and drink, my good man?” he continued, and pulled the messenger's bag to his side. 

He lifted its flap and produced a slender, dark red ceramic bottle from among them, removed its cork and put his nose to its lip, gently swishing the liquid inside. "This is from my father's private collection. Whiskey, aged twenty five years old or some such. It has never interested me, truth be told," he said, and looked frowning at the bottle before he lifted it to his mouth and took a long series of swallows, then grimaced and made a high-pitched whistling noise as he exhaled the heat.

Varnabas doubled over with laughter. "Well, hell, pardner, I guess I'm celebrating too," he said. "Want to know what I'm celebratin'?"

Byron's childish face lit up as the liquor spread a warmth throughout him. "Whatever is it, my good man?"

"Running into Byron somethin’-or-another Levant." He winked. "I may be drunk, but I don't miss nothin'. Gods damn me, I don't miss nothin'. Where we drinking? Your place I hope, 'cause these days I live under a bridge, along with a slew of others- all out of work. They’ll expect you to share. Likely take it from you outright, if I’m bein’ honest."

"You don’t have a family? How dreadful. Where we are going is my place in a sense, yes, but it is your place as well. Tonight I shall gift to you both a home and a family. Isn’t that wonderful? It is why I celebrate tonight. This will be a place for all to gather. There are some there already. Kind followers of Hyne of Earth. It’s there on the park’s northern end, in the wedge of the Springboots, and it is there where the miracles shall begin. That is what I am celebrating. What we are celebrating, tonight, my good man."

Varnabas nodded his head. "To tell you the truth, I don’t follow any of ‘em,” he said. “Gods, that is. I don’t understand their stories or why they’re all at odds with each other, when you think they’d get more done working together, whatever it is that that gods do.” He sighed. “But as long as your thing don’t include blood oaths or craziness, I don’t see the harm in takin’ a look.” Smiling a gap-toothed grin he said, “Now, how about a nip for the path ahead?"

"Indeed," Byron answered agreeably, and handed him a bottle, a quarter full. “Of course there is more where that came from,” he told him.

***

Halfway through the journey to the cave, through the dark wilderness of Hundred Trees, Varnabas fell and skinned his arm, sat down in the dead grass and said, "I'm going back."

"Oh, how I wish for you to see it, though," Byron whined, cursing the turn of events in his head. "It is just up this hill. The first mate must see his vessel, don't you think?" He held his priceless gas lantern, the only light against the dark of the place which was not quite the city and not quite the wilds. He held it low and away from him so that the drunken man could not see the sweat pouring from his forehead, the twitch in his eye, the tremble of his lip.

He had not been the same since he had returned from the Lowlands, Magaia. He supposed no one would be. Upon his return to his own realm of existence, he’d risen from his sleep on the pedestal, again delirious, confused, and left the cave to find the moon people he had escorted there- a pair, man and woman- gone. After a feverish, brief, and ultimately half-hearted attempt to search for them around the woods of the cave, he had given up and gone back across the river to his room at Wyse Hall on the academy campus. There he had carefully transferred the parasite- the “youngling,” as Cossack had called it, to the white ceramic bottle which he now fumbled for in his bag, standing there in the underbrush with shaking hands. 

The old man sat there gently swaying and examined his bleeding arm. "Nah, I'll see it some other time," Varnabas said absently. "Sounds just plum what you're plannin' there, though. Yartha needs somethin’ like that. Towers sure as shit don’t care about us."

Byron set the lantern down and knelt beside it, opposite him. He pulled the bottle free of the canvas bag, and Varnabas waved his hand in defeat. "Oof. I'm done for the night,” he said.

"Come now," Byron urged. “One more nip. It’s not far. Someone will be up and we'll find ourselves a bite to eat.”

Sweat poured from him, even from his shaking hands, it seemed, and he had to be careful not to drop the bottle. He thought he could feel the thing moving inside, and imagined its eel-like form, its long tail trailing it like a dancer’s fan as it swam its small circles. Varnabas was too drunk and concerned about his bleeding arm to notice Byron’s growing panic. Is he on the verge of blacking out, or sobering up? Byron wondered. The alcohol was beginning to affect him as well, he was aware. I must act now. 

He pantomimed taking a clumsy drink from the white bottle with the cork still in place, and glanced sideways to Varnabas to gauge his reaction, but found he paid no attention. Byron held his breath and then passed the bottle to the old man. He prayed to Hyne that his gambit would pay off. One more stroke of luck, he thought. Just one more stroke of luck.

“Ah, what the hell,” Varnabas sighed. “It’s summer in Yartha. I ain’t in love, but half ain’t bad.” 

In one fluid motion he took and uncorked the bottle, put it to his lips, tilted it and took a drink, then immediately threw it to the ground and spurted fluid at his feet. Byron watched, stunned but not quite surprised, until the old man jumped up and began to pry at his mouth and throat, and Byron could see the thing’s tail protruding from his lips, whipping in a blind frenzy. 

The old man's eyes bulged with terror. From his gasping mouth and nose the murky water sprayed. Frantic shadows from the lantern light danced on the trees around his flailing body. Amazingly, he stood the entire time, stomping backward and forward but somehow retaining his balance. As Byron watched the thing's tail disappear into the old man's mouth, as his scrambling fingers and toothless gums worked in a desperate attempt to stop it from doing just that, Byron leapt up and cheered.

When it was over, Varnabas stood there and took a long, wheezing gasp of air. He put a hand to his stomach and began to pant, then locked eyes with Byron, who gazed back at him for only a moment before the old man turned and fled into the darkness. Byron immediately gave chase, and with his long legs covered the ground between them easily. He grabbed Varnabas around the waist with his gangly arms and they fell into the brush and struggled there for a while. After a few minutes Varnabas went limp. 

He felt for the old man’s pulse and found it. "Yes!" he shrieked into the darkened forest. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" From his kneeling position he threw his long arms into the air and shook his hands. The sleeves of his fine, clean tunic pooled at his shoulders, and all calls of the night around him ceased.