Discord | Website | Twitch
A pilgrim's final crossing 2
Septiem 7th, 1125 Dom.
Justinian reared his head up from the covers, eyes bulging. His face tightened. He jerked and vomited blue phlegm to the side of his pillow.
He looked at it gaunt eyed and laid back to his pillow, the outline of his fevered dream soaked into a silhouette on his covers.
I scratched my head and turned. The wolf howled, always at sun-down.
“I’m going to get that fucker.” I started to stand but Justinian put his hand on my knee.
“Don’t worry about it.” His fingers would trace me and go limp.
He’d smile. My heart would break.
Old Chet had left us a portion of food on account of us not going out, it was a cast iron skillet filled with the glisten of tallow-fried carrots and potatoes. Chive, garlic coming to my nose first and subtle. Peas dolloped in little crevices between the sizzling and still-roasting bone-in rib meat, golden brown and glossy and excited almost as small bits of fat jumped against the glassy caramelized surface. It was the rib meat of an animal called the Jilb, that was the local breed of elk-like specimen here. Stupid name. Next to the skillet, past the white steam that rose up to the near-vaulted roof of canvas, a little boat of sauce. Gravy, red and brown and dotted with pepper.
I wasn’t hungry. Justinian couldn’t eat even if he was.
I cut against the grain and took a bite of a ribbon of meat, nodding as I did so. “This is really good.”
The wolf howled. I swallowed.
Justinian looked up in his half-awake state, looking through a ripped and poorly sewn patch. Starlight in the giant swollen wound, a false-andromeda and false-virgo and false-capricorn coming in and out of intervals, eyes dragging behind lazy lids.
“I wanted to be a banker.” Justinian said. I sat, fork of potato halfway to my mouth. “I liked numbers. I was good with them. Then my parents died. Mother of fever, father was conscripted, and he came back in a box and with a bag of silver. Apologies from King Xerxes.” He smiled, half-crazed.
I took a wood bowl for him and spooned some vegetables in the corner of his mouth. A carrot dripped down the side of his face. I wiped him clean.
“When I die, so will the family and it would be like none of us were ever here.” He said. Not a tear, not remorse, just a blank expression as he kept his eyes up.
“Don’t talk like that, you’re going to be alright.” I said. “We’ll get to the capitol and you’ll be treated.”
He nodded but I could tell he didn’t believe a word of it, not at the time. But later. Now, as I write and reflect.
“Can I get some more water?” He asked.
“Of course.” I fumbled for the clay urn and picked it up, nothing swished or wavered about the inside and looking through the lipped top, there was nothing inside. Nothing, no water, inedible food. There was nothing here but fucking books. And not a single drop of water.
“Give me a moment.” I ran out, empty bucket in hand. The wolf (That fucking wolf!) crying into cold air. With the shackling crawl of the horses as the woke un-rested and frightened and sniffing the air as I went on towards the kitchen (or Chet’s dwellings) and walking towards him, I saw Vincent coming closer and removing his gloves as he approached with his crimson eyes downcast.
“Virgil.” He said. “We need to talk.”
“Yeah. In a bit,” I walked past him, not fast enough for him to feel offended but enough to let him know I wasn’t going to wait that long. He put his hand on my own wrist. The bucket dropped. “It’s about Justinian.”
“What is it about him then?”
“First. How do you feel?”
“I’m okay. What do you want?”
“What do you think is happening? Where do you think you’re going?
“The capitol.” I said.
“No, that’s not the place I was talking about. I wanted to ask you where you think this is all heading. You. Justinian. The fourteenth.”
“What’s this got to do with anything?”
“It’s everything.”
“I don’t follow.” I broke his grip.
“Virgil,” He sighed. “We’re a long ways to the capitol. Too long.”
I felt sweat crawl down my back, climbing down the ridges of my spine to some cold place where I shivered all over.
“I need to go get some water.” I said.
“It’ll take three more weeks. Do you know what that means?” He screamed behind me. “No one can make this call but you. No one.”
I came to the kitchen where Old Chet stationed himself and where he sat in his wheeled chair, watching with narrowed eyes at me and presumably, my shaking shadow behind.
Around him on shelves were the acidic and strong scented alcohols with vegetables and spices and fruits rolling in clouded vials and jars.
“Where’s the good water? The clean water?” I asked.
His eyes looked to the side of the shelf where a moleskin sack sat slouched with its bulging paunch and laying mouth. A roman emperor lazed in its bed. I put it over my shoulder and ran the the mouth of the sack down to the bucket where it started to fill.
“Is that for the boy?” Old Chet asked.
“Yeah. I’ve gotta be quick.”
“I bet you do.” Old Chet coughed. “I ain’t too far off mi’self.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke.”
“Did you want anything?” I turned, the sack shimmied down my body, I raised the bucket.
“You should have stayed in this kitchen.” He said. “Would’a saved yourself a lot.”
“Lot of what?”
“Would have saved you from everything.” He took a pipe from underneath his brown blanket, fumbling it into his mouth. I aligned it between his lips. The blue smoke came out of his nose and he brought his chin up to me.
“You couldn’t help it, could you?” He asked. “You got a taste of glory and it was sweet. Wasn’t it?”
His sagging fleshed hand went up the shelves, lanky and quick. A spider crawling up towards a vial of green hue.
“I just wanted to be respected.” I said.
“I should have seen it in you.” I said. “You’ve got that same look Vicentius has. That far looking stare. But his vision is sharper, he’s a Crow. You’re still just a little peep. But there’s room for more mistakes yet.”
“I need to go old man. Justinian needs me.” I turned.
He threw something at me. A bag, a bottle. That very same green bottle of orange, citrus-smelling alcohol.
“He can’t drink this.” I said.
“It’s not for him, it’s for you.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“I’ll be here.” He coughed. “Don’t know how long, but I’ll be here.”
I left before I could say anything stupid. I left with the heat still, into arid air cold and without breeze. The white smoke escaping from pursed lips a line of caravans nurturing strange dreams and their even stranger dreamers. Horses sleeping standing. Men crumpled and fallen and tired to the sides of wheels. Camp fires long smoldered, red glowing off into the war torn plains. Every spot a campsite. I looked to the bottle, the white smoke of my breath fogging the green bottle. I walked through carts. I walked through fallen oaks and a maze of tents. Past a small stream, scattering chirping grasshoppers that leapt from grass blade to grass blade.
That fucking wolf cried again.
I stopped outside Justinian’s cart. The wolf still crying, Justinian still stirring. I dropped the bucket inside the tent and to the corner, slouched in a bag, I reached for my armor and knife.
The wolf screaming now. Barking, howling loud beyond where the trees still stood. I turned fast, dropping the alcohol.
It rolled and tapped with loud tinge against the wheel of the cart. Lifting it, I pressed it against my lips and took a swig. The wolf’s cry louder, almost screeching. I tipped the bottle again, another gulp.
Might as well drink before the fight.
