A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Root Two Squared
Scene One: Going Fourth
The bar filled with smoke. Half a dozen men joined the crowd waiting for the competition to begin. The poorest-dressed of them reached into his rawhide pouch and pinched a mixture of weeds and snuff. Slowly, his jaw grinding sideways with bits falling from the corner of his mouth, he began to chew. A friend of his did the same. The rest, not watching their companions but driven by some instinct to join in, pulled out their pipes. They crammed their weeds into the clay bowls and lit up. They solemnly shared a twig coal from the hearth. Soon they were billowing bigger clouds than the damp wood the bartender kept stacked around the fireplace.
Denario's plan had gone wrong. But he couldn't give up. Really, he felt, it should be working by now. He checked to see who among the newcomers had brought wine sacks with them. There were five. One of the men wore three sacks for a total of seven. The newcomers, except for two, seemed to be hired hands coming in from their day jobs. They laughed too much, punched one another, and spat gobs of chaw on the straw floor. Denario tried to ignore them. It was hard when they gave him suspicious looks.
The smallest of the men with wine skins seemed the most imposing. He had a chest like a beer barrel. Denario got the impression that the man could walk through a wall. In this flimsy place, that probably wasn't an exaggeration. He wore bits of leather armor underneath his clothes. His boots were stuffed with rags and laced expertly almost to his knees. He wore brass greaves up to his knees, too, not quite covered by the leather and rags, and vambraces from his wrists to his elbows. Strapped to his back was a short sword.
“Is this the fellow?” he gestured to Denario as he listened to one of his field hand companions. “Don't look like much.”
“'Taint,” mumbled the gangly farmer. His shirt would have been regarded as less than a rag in the wealthier Ziegeburg homes. “Ah knows him. Wee bit of a lap dog. The witch's man.”
“She's not a witch!” Denario objected. That got a laugh from everyone in range to hear.
“Can't tote a bale. Can't whittle. Can't do nought.” The hayseed spat his chaw onto the the dirt by the fire.
“I'm an accountant!”
“So you knows numbers?” The one who looked like a bandit or, more likely, a caravan guard took a step closer. “Then do you remember, say, how many arrows are shown up on the banner outside Hippogriff's pub?”
Denario closed his eyes as the image formed in his mind. It was a welcome distraction.
“Ten,” he whispered. “Seven on one side, three on the other. I don't know why.”
“They say a hippogriff was killed there, hundreds of years ago. That's the arrows it took to bring him down, seven to the right heart, three in the left.”
“Hippogriffs have two hearts?”
“So they say.” The man shrugged. He took another step closer and Denario caught a whiff of sweat, leather, oil, and road dust. The rest of the newcomers drifted off to the nearby tables to talk to their friends and, not incidentally, to place bets. This one showed a keener interest. He spit a hard weed stem and was careful not to hit Denario's foot. “Tell me, man, can you shoot?”
“I thought I could.” Denario shook his head. He shouldn't have come back to Bottoms Up. He should have run out of town and trusted his luck along the stream beds.
“It's going to be magic against you, you know.”
“I do now,” he said bitterly.
“You're thinking of running, I can tell.”
“You can?”
“Part of my job, sometimes, to know things like that. A few of the men here are waiting on it. It might be part of the fun, beating you to death. You could make it as far as the near window, I think, before the gang caught you.”
Denario glanced at the golden rectangle without a window pane. It was only there to let the smoke out, he thought. Now he felt hopeful about it.
“Don't try. There's someone waiting for you outside.”
“Oh.” He'd never make it, then.
“Better to stay and lose gracefully. Of course, everyone's making wagers. Maybe you could do a business on the side.”
“I need to win a canteen.”
“Is that all?” The man shook one of the skins that were slung over his shoulder. “Easy enough. Do well by me and I'll give you mine.”
“That sounds all right.”
“You've got a bit of confidence. Thought so. I just heard those fellows there say they want to bet on a shutout against you. I'll wager on you getting at least sixty points. Sounds safe. And they'll give me five brassers to four for it, too.”
“You're betting brassers?” It was eye-opening. Each brasser was worth three copper pennies. These poor-looking men had real money. But Denario didn't get an answer. The stranger was already walking away.
At the same time, the quartet of gamblers came in through the pub door. Behind them strode a thin man, tall enough for his curly, dark hair to be seen over their heads. He wore a wizard's robe, purple, but badly faded and stained. The afternoon sun threw shadows across the many moles on his face and made his patches of beard look like a fungus. His odd facial hair cried out for some sort of explanation. Denario got one a moment later, when the wizard stepped into full light. It was obvious he'd been burned by a magical fire.
The exposed flesh on his right side was scarred and blue. That probably explained why he couldn't shave or grow hair. His right hand was bluish, too. His fingers were long-boned and knobby. His toes were a normal, pink color, but they were notable for the way they stuck out over the edge of his sandals. Despite the wizard's thin frame, his belly looked like he'd sneaked a lump of bread dough from the kitchen. It was out of place. It almost looked as if he'd tied the drawstring of his robe under it to keep it from slipping down.
His brown eyes took in the scene and marked Denario instantly. He didn't need to be told by his gambling friends. He sneered.
“Just him?” the wizard asked his companions. Denario didn't recognize this particular wizard but he remembered the attitude. Lots of magical folk who trained in Baggi had the same contempt for ordinary people.
“Look, I told you about the side bets, right?” the blond ruffian explained.
“It's hardly worth the magic.” But as the wizard said the words, he rested his staff against the pit of his arm so he could take out a white, soft leather wrap. It looked much like Denario's, small enough to fit inside a generous pocket. “I'd better get some wine out of this.”
“Done. Oi, Kev!” The gambler turned and shouted at the barkeep. “Bring out a tankard of wine. The good stuff! Not that yellow piss you serve to ladies.”
The barman looked for a moment as if he might say something but, with a glance at the wizard, he nodded. In a little while, the half-bearded fellow had his tankard of blood red wine. His friends pushed aside some farm hands who didn't have the nerve to object and cleared three tables. The blond one, apparently the ringleader, set up some kind of betting shop at the table closest to the door while his friends propped up their boots on another. The wizard claimed the cleanest table for himself. He rested his staff against his chair. Then he laid leather wrap on the rough-cut pine surface and faced the dart board.
After he drank deeply from the wine mug, he laughed in Denario's direction.
“Scared, little man?” He took another pull of wine.
“Not of darts.” It was a lie, though. Denario's breeches were starting to cling to him, he was sweating so much. But he couldn't let his opponent know. He crossed the room and plunked down his wrap of copper-tipped darts next to the wizard's own. When he opened them, the robed man gave him a sarcastic ooh of surprise.
“My, copper! Don't they look pretty.” He put his hands on his hips.
“Yes.” Denario tried to ignore him. “I won these darts from a wizard.”
Quick as an arrow, the wizard's hand went to a sack at his side. He snatched a round bauble and, before Denario could backpedal out of his reach, pressed it against the side of Denario's head.
“Blue. A bit dark. You're hiding something. But blue.”
“What on earth are you doing?”
“You did beat a wizard at darts. That's interesting.” The bauble went back into its pouch. Denario caught a glimpse of it as it went. It was blue, as the wizard said. What did that mean? It sounded like the large bead was some sort of truth-telling device. Maybe it turned a different color for a lie. In any case, the splotchy wizard had gone pink in the cheeks. “I do hope this isn't a fair fight.”
He did something complicated with his hands.
“Hey!” Denario shouted. “This is darts, not magic.”
His voice attracted the attention of some bettors who had been standing well back. Even the wizard's friends rose.
“Have you gone daft? What are you up to, Tim?” hissed the closest.
The wizard's eyes turned black. The strange effect took place not just in the irises, which went from brown to onyx, but in the whites of the wizard's eyes, too. Those turned a glowing, near-black shade of purple. The transformation lasted only a few seconds but it made the wizard's friend change his tone.
“I mean, what are you doing, Tremelo the Magnificent? Because we're trying to get these men here to lay down their money and no one's going to do it if they think you're putting a curse on this fool. Or on his darts.”
The wizard continued to spin his hands for a few seconds.
“Nothing,” he said. His arms dropped to his sides. The dark glow in his eyes faded.
“What?”
“They're not magic. No sign of an aura.” The wizard chuckled softly. He reached for his wine mug. “Had myself worried for a moment. But no, these are regular brass bolts. No problems, uh, Will.”
“Warren,” corrected his friend.
“Go on, now, shoo.” Still chuckling, the robed man waved off all of his companions. “Ah, these farmhand rapscallions. What will they get up to next?”
“A robbery?” wondered Denario aloud. He winced when he realized that he was giving everyone bad ideas.
That only made his opponent laugh louder.
“Look, little man,” he said. He sloshed red wine on his robe as he plunked down his nearly empty mug. “Look, look. Have you ever seen darts like this?”
With that, he reached across to the folded lambskin sheath, flipped back the top flap, and opened the inside cover. What shone from the recesses were three golden darts. Even the flight feathers were cut from a golden bird, probably a phoenix.
“Watch,” he whispered. A robed sleeve flopped over the lambskin as he chose the middle bolt and lifted it by the the tip. He stroked the shaft and the flight a few times. His lips mumbled what might have been magic words or could have been, Denario admitted to himself, utter nonsense. Then the wizard added, “Come on, now, show him how it's done. Right in the center.”
He whirled and threw. Immediately, Denario could tell that Tim – or Tremelo the Magnificent, as apparently he liked to be called – was a terrible darts player. He used a kind of three-quarter swing, not an overhand, underhand, or sidearm motion. It definitely wasn't a straightforward push, which is what almost everyone else used. On top of the weird swing, he was being deliberately awful. The gold peg left his hand with a wobble, headed for the chair beneath and to the right of the cork wood, but then the magic took over. The body of the dart curved, then straightened. It arched toward the center of the board, flexed its feathers to correct its path, and swooped into the center.
“Bang!” screamed Tim. The needle tip thunked into the wood at the edge of the crudely drawn inner circle. “Ha!”
He slapped his knee and chortled. Then, grabbing his mug, he sloshed his beard and robe with the red stuff. While Tim drained his cup and bowed to some smattering of applause from the other customers, Denario decided to walk over to the board. He had nothing better to do. Anyway, he was curious. He leaned on his tiptoes to see that the magic point had sunk into the wood to the depth of forty hairs, which was as deep as Denario's brass points got on these cheap corkwood cuts. He wondered how anything made of gold managed to make itself hard enough to do this.
“More wine!” Tim roared. He waved his arms and yelled at his friends. He shook his head and called to the barkeep, too, who shouted back a few words that didn't seem polite. While everyone glared at one another, Denario put his fingers around the stem of the golden dart and tugged. It gave a faint hum that startled him. He almost dropped it when it slipped from the wood.
He cursed. The golden shaft vibrated in his open hand. He was scared to clamp down too tightly on it since it acted like it was alive. He thought it might stab him if he hurt the feathers. But as he walked and stared, he noticed that the tip wasn't made of the same metal as the body. The sharp part was brass. It was no different than the tips Denario had been using.
“Ready?” shouted the wizard. He levitated the bolt out of Denario's open palm and laughed when Denario jumped backwards from sheer surprise.
“I suppose I am,” said Denario. What else could he do? The thing hovered in the air for a moment and floated down gently into the wizard's hand.
There were shouts from the bar as another trio of farmhands wandered in. The gamblers shot out of their seats to greet them, which immediately made the newcomers suspicious. However, everyone immediately began to bellow out their own opinions and advice. That led to laughter and more bellowing, which made Denario red-faced, and the chaos led to another round of drinks. Denario's mouth was dry but he wasn't thirsty. Anyway, another customer walked in, greeted by more shouts. The wizard announced that the contest was about to begin and some of the patrons passed that on to the latest arrivals.
Denario drew sharp looks from the caravan guards. They would be sure to help the farmhands and bandits hunt him down and kill him if he tried to escape. As the short one had mentioned, they seemed to be looking forward to it.
“You said you're starting, Tim?” The blond gambler approached. He tucked his thumbs into the drawstring of his trousers and hiked them up. “Might as well You pretty near scared everyone off. They want to see the first game before they'll bet heavily.”
“I'll go first,” said Denario and the wizard at the same time. That got another laugh from the wizard, who was dripping with wine and confidence.
“Don't win by too much, hey?” The gambler tried to clap Tremelo the Magnificent on the shoulder. But something on the wizard's robe stung him or burned him so that he gave a yelp. He trotted back to his table, holding one hand with another and cursing.
“Tell you what," said the wizard. He rubbed his hands together and winked at Denario. “We'll shoot to go first.”
Chapter Two, Scene Two
Stories on life, death, enlightenment, zen buddhism, religion, philosophy, stoicism, meditation, daoism, kindness but not meekness, and samsara.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Not Even Not Zen 11: A Bandit Accountant, 1.5
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene Five: A Desperate Game
Denario had less than an hour to get out of town. No one was going to sell him a horse or supplies. But he had a plan. And for his plan to work, he needed a few idiots. This bar had them in abundance. It shouldn't be too hard to attract them, should it? Farli had thought it would be easy. There had to be seven or eight men who looked greedy enough to lose their canteens or flints to Denario. Two of them were carrying cotton bedrolls. He didn't suppose he could win one of those but if he were to have any chance at all, he would need to hurry. There was only an hour until sunset.
To begin, he played a game of darts.
He tried not to use either of his own sets. The steel tips would have been a giveaway for sure. So he went from table to table saying, 'Got darts? Got darts?' but no one would loan any to him. The fellow with chain mail under his tunic didn't even acknowledge his presence. Finally, beer in hand, Denario pulled out his copper-tipped set with the black and white feathers to play a round by himself. This board had no bulls-eye. Most dart boards in this part of the countryside didn’t have one. Players scored in the wedges only. It was different than Denario had learned in Oggli but he’d gotten used to it. He deliberately missed to the right of the 4 and 13 wedges. Then he retrieved the darts from the tree slice, spilled his beer, bought another, and played again.
He missed the edges of the 4 and 13 wedges again. This time, he thought the other customers noticed.
“Ah, this is boring!” he shouted.
He sloshed as much beer onto his shirt as he could stand. He'd seen this trick done in many a pub in the midst of many a darts tournament.
“I'd fancy a game,” said someone. Denario took a long moment to turn around. He wanted to figure out who was talking but, more importantly, he wanted to put on a show of carefully focusing his eyes, like a patient drunk.
“Who're you?” he said to a farm boy in a tan shirt. The fellow didn't look like one of the bandits. He didn't wear enough weapons, for one thing, just a hand axe. His fur-trimmed boots barely fit him, like hand-me-downs from someone smaller.
“Jake.” The boy rested his thumbs in the drawstring of his trousers. “Don't got my own darts, though.”
“That's all right. That's all right.” Denario allowed himself a smile. He hoped this was when the plan started to work for him. “You can use mine.”
They played Three Handfuls, which was the only darts game that the boy seemed to know. Denario did his best to spill his beer, knock over barstools, and generally make a drunken nuisance of himself. He remembered to aim to the right just a bit on all of his shots. The farmboy was a good sport about it. He seemed to think Denario was funny.
“I need another drink!” said Denario, after letting himself be thrashed 315 to 66. “Let’s play another. For a beer, this time!”
“All right,” said the boy. He measured Denario out of the corner of his eye. He was a sharp lad, really. He seemed to know he was being put on. “You owe me a beer for the last one, then.”
“Right! Barkeep!” He waved, a little too drunkenly. He was worried he was overacting but no one seemed to notice. “Two more over here!”
“Keep it down!” said the bartender, as if Denario were any louder than his other customers. But he brought the wretched ales. Denario had tipped him a copper and he knew it would get him good service the rest of the night, no matter how loud he was.
The second game was slower. For one, the farm boy tugged on his forelocks and concentrated. He took his time, played his best, and didn’t let the sudden changes in Denario’s skill bother him. For his part, Denario felt the touch come upon him. He could miss or make his shots as he pleased. He was careful not to be too good. He didn’t want to scare anyone off. For all he knew, this boy was the best in Bottoms Up. Certainly, he was better than most of the players in The Proud Pony. The final score, when Denario let his opponent close out with a double 15, was 215 to 185. Denario had won by too much but it couldn’t be helped. For a while, the boy had gone cold.
“Hah!” he crowed. For good measure, he added a long, chilling laugh, thumped his chest, staggered into a table, and pounded it to grab everyone’s attention. “I’m the best!”
“That was just one game,” said the boy.
“The best!” roared Denario, ignoring him. The boy had clearly come straight for the fields. He had no real money and no evil heart, either. What Denario wanted, no, needed, was someone with field equipment and a taste for wagering. It had to be someone greedy.
“I guess I owe you a beer.”
“I can lick anyone in this bar!”
A huge, bald-headed ox of a man at the end of the bar rolled his eyes. “It’s only darts, innit?” he said.
“I’ll take all comers!” said Denario. “I’ll teach you a lesson in darts. I’ll show you the art. The art of darts. The lessons are cheap, too! I'll play for a canteen of water or for a wine sack. I'll play for hard tack. Heck, I'll play you a beer a game.”
“Thirsty fellow. You want to play for wine or beer, do you?” A mean-looking fellow at one of the tables raised his eyebrow. He and his mates had been playing cards for the past hour or more. They'd been playing when Denario first stopped in. A lot of money had changed hands without really going anywhere. “Is that all?”
“Is that all? I’ll play you a copper a round. No, a copper a point!”
“A copper a point?” The man half-rose, alarmed or just too interested. A hush fell over the entire inn. For a moment, Denario was afraid he’d been reckless. The stakes were too high for these fellows.
“That would be thirty coppers for our last game!” the farm boy exclaimed. “No one’s got that!”
“Yes, yes.” He felt abashed and showed it. But he waved it off. “Within limits, within limits. We couldn’t let it get too high. I'll take a good canteen or wineskin instead.”
“Really?” said the fellow at the tables. He smiled at the other card players. “Well then, how about a limit of forty coppers?”
There were gasps. The farm boy wasn’t the only one who didn’t know how much money could change hands in a game of darts. But this fellow was all too aware. He wasn’t playing along in quite the way that Denario wanted. Maybe it was close enough, though. If these greedy men lost money to him, they might well feel they were getting off cheap if Denario took their wineskins or food instead. None of them had a bedroll but they had fine boots. It was going to be a long hike alongside the Rune Kill in just his counting-house slippers if Denario couldn't buy something better.
This green-shirted fellow had the look of a local gangster. He was shifty without being poor. He had money to play cards, plus he cheated so anyone could see him but no one dared to call him on it. He had to be bad news if even his friends were scared of him. On top of all that, he wasn’t too bright. He would have lost all his money hours ago if he hadn’t been cheating.
“Forty is most of what I’ve got on me,” said Denario. Normally, it would have been a mistake to admit to having even half that much.
The other fellow stood up. He thought he knew a Loud-Mouthed Slow-Wit when he saw one and Denario was displaying all the traits of the species: bravado, ignorance, drunkenness, and money. Forty coppers was apparently worth this fellow’s time.
“Me and my pals have got that much, easy,” he said. “We might be willing to place a wager.”
“Sure. I’ll taken you all on!”
“Oh no,” said the green shirt. “Not one of us.”
Some of the other fellows in the bar groaned. They knew what was coming. The card players shot them dirty looks.
“Everyone can see that he bet forty coppers!” the fellow shouted to the bar crowd.
“A copper a point,” clarified Denario. He was starting to get just a bit nervous. “A copper a point, up to forty.”
The gambler grinned. “I'll be right back with our magician ... I mean, our darts player.”
Chapter Two, Scene One
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene Five: A Desperate Game
Denario had less than an hour to get out of town. No one was going to sell him a horse or supplies. But he had a plan. And for his plan to work, he needed a few idiots. This bar had them in abundance. It shouldn't be too hard to attract them, should it? Farli had thought it would be easy. There had to be seven or eight men who looked greedy enough to lose their canteens or flints to Denario. Two of them were carrying cotton bedrolls. He didn't suppose he could win one of those but if he were to have any chance at all, he would need to hurry. There was only an hour until sunset.
To begin, he played a game of darts.
He tried not to use either of his own sets. The steel tips would have been a giveaway for sure. So he went from table to table saying, 'Got darts? Got darts?' but no one would loan any to him. The fellow with chain mail under his tunic didn't even acknowledge his presence. Finally, beer in hand, Denario pulled out his copper-tipped set with the black and white feathers to play a round by himself. This board had no bulls-eye. Most dart boards in this part of the countryside didn’t have one. Players scored in the wedges only. It was different than Denario had learned in Oggli but he’d gotten used to it. He deliberately missed to the right of the 4 and 13 wedges. Then he retrieved the darts from the tree slice, spilled his beer, bought another, and played again.
He missed the edges of the 4 and 13 wedges again. This time, he thought the other customers noticed.
“Ah, this is boring!” he shouted.
He sloshed as much beer onto his shirt as he could stand. He'd seen this trick done in many a pub in the midst of many a darts tournament.
“I'd fancy a game,” said someone. Denario took a long moment to turn around. He wanted to figure out who was talking but, more importantly, he wanted to put on a show of carefully focusing his eyes, like a patient drunk.
“Who're you?” he said to a farm boy in a tan shirt. The fellow didn't look like one of the bandits. He didn't wear enough weapons, for one thing, just a hand axe. His fur-trimmed boots barely fit him, like hand-me-downs from someone smaller.
“Jake.” The boy rested his thumbs in the drawstring of his trousers. “Don't got my own darts, though.”
“That's all right. That's all right.” Denario allowed himself a smile. He hoped this was when the plan started to work for him. “You can use mine.”
They played Three Handfuls, which was the only darts game that the boy seemed to know. Denario did his best to spill his beer, knock over barstools, and generally make a drunken nuisance of himself. He remembered to aim to the right just a bit on all of his shots. The farmboy was a good sport about it. He seemed to think Denario was funny.
“I need another drink!” said Denario, after letting himself be thrashed 315 to 66. “Let’s play another. For a beer, this time!”
“All right,” said the boy. He measured Denario out of the corner of his eye. He was a sharp lad, really. He seemed to know he was being put on. “You owe me a beer for the last one, then.”
“Right! Barkeep!” He waved, a little too drunkenly. He was worried he was overacting but no one seemed to notice. “Two more over here!”
“Keep it down!” said the bartender, as if Denario were any louder than his other customers. But he brought the wretched ales. Denario had tipped him a copper and he knew it would get him good service the rest of the night, no matter how loud he was.
The second game was slower. For one, the farm boy tugged on his forelocks and concentrated. He took his time, played his best, and didn’t let the sudden changes in Denario’s skill bother him. For his part, Denario felt the touch come upon him. He could miss or make his shots as he pleased. He was careful not to be too good. He didn’t want to scare anyone off. For all he knew, this boy was the best in Bottoms Up. Certainly, he was better than most of the players in The Proud Pony. The final score, when Denario let his opponent close out with a double 15, was 215 to 185. Denario had won by too much but it couldn’t be helped. For a while, the boy had gone cold.
“Hah!” he crowed. For good measure, he added a long, chilling laugh, thumped his chest, staggered into a table, and pounded it to grab everyone’s attention. “I’m the best!”
“That was just one game,” said the boy.
“The best!” roared Denario, ignoring him. The boy had clearly come straight for the fields. He had no real money and no evil heart, either. What Denario wanted, no, needed, was someone with field equipment and a taste for wagering. It had to be someone greedy.
“I guess I owe you a beer.”
“I can lick anyone in this bar!”
A huge, bald-headed ox of a man at the end of the bar rolled his eyes. “It’s only darts, innit?” he said.
“I’ll take all comers!” said Denario. “I’ll teach you a lesson in darts. I’ll show you the art. The art of darts. The lessons are cheap, too! I'll play for a canteen of water or for a wine sack. I'll play for hard tack. Heck, I'll play you a beer a game.”
“Thirsty fellow. You want to play for wine or beer, do you?” A mean-looking fellow at one of the tables raised his eyebrow. He and his mates had been playing cards for the past hour or more. They'd been playing when Denario first stopped in. A lot of money had changed hands without really going anywhere. “Is that all?”
“Is that all? I’ll play you a copper a round. No, a copper a point!”
“A copper a point?” The man half-rose, alarmed or just too interested. A hush fell over the entire inn. For a moment, Denario was afraid he’d been reckless. The stakes were too high for these fellows.
“That would be thirty coppers for our last game!” the farm boy exclaimed. “No one’s got that!”
“Yes, yes.” He felt abashed and showed it. But he waved it off. “Within limits, within limits. We couldn’t let it get too high. I'll take a good canteen or wineskin instead.”
“Really?” said the fellow at the tables. He smiled at the other card players. “Well then, how about a limit of forty coppers?”
There were gasps. The farm boy wasn’t the only one who didn’t know how much money could change hands in a game of darts. But this fellow was all too aware. He wasn’t playing along in quite the way that Denario wanted. Maybe it was close enough, though. If these greedy men lost money to him, they might well feel they were getting off cheap if Denario took their wineskins or food instead. None of them had a bedroll but they had fine boots. It was going to be a long hike alongside the Rune Kill in just his counting-house slippers if Denario couldn't buy something better.
This green-shirted fellow had the look of a local gangster. He was shifty without being poor. He had money to play cards, plus he cheated so anyone could see him but no one dared to call him on it. He had to be bad news if even his friends were scared of him. On top of all that, he wasn’t too bright. He would have lost all his money hours ago if he hadn’t been cheating.
“Forty is most of what I’ve got on me,” said Denario. Normally, it would have been a mistake to admit to having even half that much.
The other fellow stood up. He thought he knew a Loud-Mouthed Slow-Wit when he saw one and Denario was displaying all the traits of the species: bravado, ignorance, drunkenness, and money. Forty coppers was apparently worth this fellow’s time.
“Me and my pals have got that much, easy,” he said. “We might be willing to place a wager.”
“Sure. I’ll taken you all on!”
“Oh no,” said the green shirt. “Not one of us.”
Some of the other fellows in the bar groaned. They knew what was coming. The card players shot them dirty looks.
“Everyone can see that he bet forty coppers!” the fellow shouted to the bar crowd.
“A copper a point,” clarified Denario. He was starting to get just a bit nervous. “A copper a point, up to forty.”
The gambler grinned. “I'll be right back with our magician ... I mean, our darts player.”
Chapter Two, Scene One
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Not Zen 173: Anxiety
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| "panic attack," wikimedia commons |
Anxiety
The man at the podium announced another name. Willow couldn't make out the words but she knew the call had been for Missy, the girl ahead of her. It was her turn to walk up onto the stage. Sure enough, a second later Missy grunted, stood, and turned to the right.
Willow started to hyperventilate. Her chest heaved with short, shallow breaths. She summoned the will to clamp down on her body. She held motionless. Her body reacted by forcing a long, gasping breath. Her head started to pound. She squinted. She tried to make herself breathe normally or at least quietly.
They called her name. Her head nodded. Her body rose. She felt her arms shaking. Her legs wobbled under her.
Willow turned to the right and took two steps. On the second one, her knees buckled.
"Oh, good." She heard a voice, her mother's. A hand pressed to her forehead or rather, tried. There was a damp cloth between her forehead and the fingertips.
Willow kept her eyes closed. She could relax this way for a moment longer. Where was she? She'd fallen. They must have moved her while she was unconscious. But they couldn't have put her anywhere near the stage or it would be noisy. And where had her mother gotten a washcloth?
She blinked. Her mother's face blurred above her. Then it snapped into focus. Beyond the face, Willow noticed green walls and a beige ceiling. There was nowhere else with walls like this. They had to be in the room beside the stage. Stuck on the green paint were random-looking fuzzy tiles in not-quite-matching shades of speckled brown. Beneath a row of those stood the carpeted door, and odd thing for any room to have. It was closed. Another adult hovered in front of it but Willow hardly glanced to see who it was. Her gaze returned to her mother.
"I'm sorry, mom," she said. "I must be sick again or something."
"That was a panic attack," said her mother in an unreasonably cheerful voice. "It's the first time I've seen you collapse with one. You've had at least three, I'd guess."
"What?" She started to rise. Her stomach knotted with a twinge of panic at the news that she'd been found out. "Why would you think that?"
"Based on your previous sickness reports."
Willow knew there had been more. Those hadn't been discovered, at least. She relaxed back to the yoga mat that someone had rolled out for her.
"When I was around your age, I got panic attacks too," her mother said. "I didn't think they were something that could be inherited. But from what I gather of your father, he used to panic and get into fights. I used to panic and freeze up. Now, here you are. And you also panic."
She tried to picture her dad fighting with other boys. But she couldn't even picture him as a teenager. He was such a bald, pot-bellied, middle-aged man. She never even saw him out of his suit during the work week.
"Why didn't I hear this before?" she asked.
"Why didn't you mention your anxiety before?" Her mother's voice grew sharper, a bit more reproachful. "You would have heard it all then. You'd have had cause. But you didn't speak up. Instead, you lied about having stomach cramps and the flu."
She didn't have a good reply for that so she stared at the ceiling for a while. There were two specks of dust on it. Willow had always wondered how dust could get up onto ceilings.
"You're so calm, mom." Maybe she should start with a compliment.
"Well, I am now. I wasn't so much when you collapsed." Her mother let out a light, tense laugh. Her hands fluttered. "But there was a nurse here. She said she's seen this plenty of times before."
"I mean you're usually calm," Willow corrected. "I never see you panic. Daddy, too. He's brave. I've seen him talk drunks out of doing something stupid. So he's better. You're better. Will I just grow out of this?"
"No, I grew into my anxieties. They got worse and worse. Even now that I'm better, I still get hysterics on the inside. What I learned to do was cope. It helps that I've changed my way of thinking. That's most of it. My panic response has subsided. But it's still there, deep in."
"How did you fix it?"
"I had to learn to welcome it."
Willow didn't realize she was rolling her eyes until her mother did it right back to her, the way she always did.
"Yes, I know that's a tough thing to hear." Her mother's lips pressed in a grim line. Her gaze flickered to the side for a moment as she watched the other adult leave through the carpeted door. "It takes a sense of perspective on getting better to allow in all of the nervousness. But you have to. Let it fill you up."
"It's already killing me. If it fills me up, I'll be dead."
"Great. So no more embarrassment. No more anxiety."
"That all?" Willow laughed. Her elbows propped her up. "It's impossible. Is that all you do, really? You let it happen?"
"It's been a while since I had to work through this." Her mother tapped a finger against her lips as she remembered. It was a gesture that Willow had to suppose she'd also inherited. "I had a few steps that I went through. I let the bad feelings in, explored them, laughed at myself, and then thought about something else important, like a boy that I loved."
"Oh." That seemed a little too personal. Maybe there was a story behind it. "Was it dad?"
"I hadn't even met him." Her mother started to shake her head. But she stopped and smiled. It was a mischievous expression. "What makes you panic at some of these events and not others? Is it a boy?"
"I don't want to say."
"It is, isn't it?" Her mother clapped her hands like a hummingbird flapped its wings.
"I really, really don't want to say, mom." She gazed back up at the ceiling. It was a nice ceiling, very calm.
"Okay. Well, next time you talk to that boy, welcome in the panic. It's okay. So maybe you care about his opinion too much. That's fine. You care about other people's opinions too much anyway. And you can't please them all. So you might not be everything the boy wants. You should know that you can't be everything that you imagine other people want you to be. If you're trying to be perfect, you're going to be anxious all of the time."
"Jeez, mom." She let herself flop back down on the yoga mat. But it wasn't comfortable. The tile floor beneath it was hard and cold. She sat up again.
"It's okay. Enjoy your panic." Her mother stepped back to give her room. "It's your body letting you know it realizes how important the moment is to you."
"Next time, I'll try to do that." Willow nodded and rose to her feet. It took a few seconds but she discovered that her body wasn't as wobbly as she'd expected. Her right arm flexed. She massaged the muscles in it. She felt like a truck had run over her but not in a bad way. She was sore.
"Good. The next time is right now."
"Sure, mom." She adjusted her blouse.
"I mean really, right now. You're up on stage next." Her mother strode to the door with the carpet on it. She cracked it open. Noise from the stage poured in. "The nurse left to tell them. When you were passed out, I got them to agree to call your name when they could, even if it was last. The nurse went to tell them the plan is still on. They'll call you in a minute."
"Already? Mom, I don't know if I can do it."
There was a pause in the outside noise. She heard the announcer say something brief.
"Listen. They're calling your name."
"Okay, jeez." She took a step. Her mother pushed on the handle. The door swung open wide. Lights from the stage cast a golden pathway on the floor, shadows to either side.
Beyond the shadows, in another row of light, Willow saw the faces. Her gait faltered. Time slowed. She tried her best to welcome the surge of emotion. Her cheeks flushed. She caught herself tensing up for a moment but she relaxed and let it happen. As she crossed the threshold onto the stage a thrill shot through her. She could feel it down to her toes and her fingertips.
"Here goes," she whispered back to her mom. It occurred to her that someone might overhear. But there was nothing she could do about it. She tried to smile but then thought, why bother. She squared her shoulders. She marched over the stage.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Not Even Not Zen 10: A Bandit Accountant, 1.3, 1.4
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene Three: One to the N Ponies
“What are you waiting for, sir?”
The broad-shouldered, short man stood next to Denario, hands clasped behind his back as if he had been waiting there in the shadows the whole time. But the eaves under the stable house had been empty a moment ago. Startled, Denario took a hop to his left and turned to face the farrier.
Master Conli must have stepped out from a stable door. It was the only explanation.
He wore dark, green leggings and a brown, loose, burlap shirt with a lighter shirt underneath. He tied back his black hair in a knot. His bear-hide boots, matted and stained by years of tromping through manure, carried bits of straw and a reek so strong that the farrier could be detected for half a mile away on the rare occasions that he left his stable. Of course, anyone could have done the same by catching a whiff of Conli's breath. His teeth were rotting. He chewed willow bark or birch bark constantly to dull the pain, although not the smell.
“You gave me a start, Master Conli.” Denario hadn't realized it but he was getting nervous at the thought of approaching dusk. He rubbed his hands together. “I'm just waiting for the stagecoach. I heard it was leaving a bit before sunset.”
“A bit.” Conli spat shards of bark on the ground next to his stable. “Yes, you could say that if you thought that the afternoon from noon to sunset is just 'a bit.'”
“You mean the coach already left?” Denario's heart sunk. That had to be the reason he saw wheel ruts but no cart or coach.
“With four passengers and many packages, sir. Right before noon. Yes, all them passengers wanted to leave after they broke fast. They didn't want to shop no more in Ziegeburg. A bit rude, I think. But seeing as the vote was unanimous and there were no new passengers to take on, the driver packed up his lunch and decided to go. He probably figured the bandits would miss him that way and I daresay he could be right.”
Denario crouched with his hands on his knees and shuddered. He reminded himself that it was important not to panic. He wouldn't survive a trip on foot, not without better equipment. Fortunately, a stagecoach wasn't the only way to travel. Horse prices were steep but he might be able to arrange something, maybe a pony or a donkey.
“Do you have a horse I could rent?” he wondered aloud.
“Rent, sir? What's that?”
“Oh, er, buy, then. A horse I could buy. Or a mule. Anything.”
“We've got almost a dozen good horses in town. Not a one for sale, though. The only gelding not in steady use is the mayor's plugger, name of Feldi. He's the one in the barn right now.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the darkened stalls. “The mayor might sell Feldi to a friend, sir, but I knows him and he'll want a fair price.”
Denario thought about it for an instant and realized how ridiculous it would be for the mayor to sell him an escape from the mayor.
“Any draft horses?”
“I've heard tell of those but there's no such creatures around here, sir. It's oxen in these fields when it's not men. And if ye can tolerate magical beasts, there's pegasi and griffins. But it takes wizards or witches to ride those, not ordinary folk.”
“Just Feldi, then, and a few personal horses you say no one wants to sell.” He squinted over the top half of the split level door. Maybe he could make out a silhouette that was horse shaped. If it was Feldi, the gelding looked about fourteen hands tall and likely to be fast, if spoiled on oats and good hay.
“'S right.”
“And what do you reckon is a fair price for a plugger like him?”
“I've seen 'em go for as much as twelve gold, sir. Never less than four.”
“Not less than four.” Denario straightened his back. Buying a horse was beyond him. So maybe he could steal one. But that would be terrible. Besides, he had a suspicion that he couldn't do it. He didn't know the location of any horse but this one and the farrier was a tough man. Besides, with the stagecoach gone and only one horse to watch, Conli would keep a close eye on it.
“Maybe the missus could lend ye a broom,” said the farrier with a sly smile. The look Denario gave him must have been pretty desperate or angry because the Farrier glanced down to his feet for a moment, shuffled, and added, “Didn't mean nothing by it, sir. Just trying to help. I know yer with the witch woman, is all.”
“I'm going to get a few things,” said Denario. He had the inklings of a plan. He thought he might be able to get to the next town without leaving an obvious trail if he could survive. So he lied and told the farrier, “I'll be back.”
Scene Four: A Tip on Poison
With a few coppers, Denario should have been able to purchase supplies for his travels. He badly needed an extra canteen, bedding, hard tack, and jerky, at the very least. Dried apples would have been welcome. But the general store south of town was closed, as it often was, and the store at the foot of The Towers was owned by a dowager whose husband had been a distant relative of the mayor. That wide-nosed woman barred her door, crossed her arms, and refused to let him in. She was a stern woman in the best of times, with hands like knotted tree roots. Now, from her unintelligible shouts, she seemed ready to hang Denario herself. She called for her sons. Denario didn't stick around to see if they would show.
He dashed back to Pecunia's house but Pecunia had gone to visit Emmie Figgins and she wasn't expecting Denario back. It probably hadn't occurred to her that he wouldn't be able to get out of town. She'd given him the amulet for luck and everything.
He tried the south end store again out of desperation but it was still closed. That was how he found himself across the street at Bottoms Up, the worst drinking establishment for miles around. The bartender gave him a hostile look and two-thirds of a beer for a penny. Denario sipped and wondered if this awful cat water might be his last drink.
“You have darts,” he remarked as he watched a couple unshaven field hands play a game of Three Handfuls. They were using a traditional board made from the cross section of a tree. The tree rings were darkened with charcoal for better scoring.
“'Course we do,” said the barman. He pounded the hinged bar door with a fist. “Tho' ak-chewally what we has is boards. Me Jim cut 'em last week from a cork tree by the river. Ye supply th' darts, see.”
“Ah.” Either the customers stole the bar's darts or the barman didn't like to keep pointed objects around. Denario made a quick count of the nine men occupying the tables and came up with sixteen blades among them. So it wasn't a general problem with pointy-ness.
He wondered if it were true, as he'd heard for months, that some of these men were bandits. They certainly looked the part. Aside from their weapons, many wore leather jerkins that were as thick and tough as armor. A blonde, bearded fellow showed a bit of chain mail underneath his tunic just above his collarbone. He had the heaviest sword, too, and boots that fit. That put him above almost everyone else. About half of the men wore rags stuffed into their shoes. They couldn't buy boots of the right size. Yet their homemade cat-gut laces, fur patches, and tongue wedges that looked like greaves were all suspiciously competent. They might have been in the same band of thieves.
Here Denario was, in a bar in broad daylight, and it was half full of men who looked like they'd kill Denario if they knew he had a single gold piece, let alone the four golds and nine silvers he kept in his belt. At it was, a pair of well-armed characters eyed his vest and seemed to know what it meant. They exchanged knowing looks that Denario didn't enjoy.
His sense of danger gave him an inspiration. He knew where he could purchase a smidgen of protection, maybe, just possibly, if he was lucky. He hoped he could arrange it. The kind of protection he was contemplating wasn't as good as magic but, then again, maybe it was better. He slapped down another copper for the barman, who grunted in surprise. Denario ignored him and kept going through the swinging doors of Bottoms Up.
He hiked the road to the south end marketplace. He didn't think to check on whether or not he was being followed until he reached the market square. There, he turned around. The two men who had noticed his vest were standing at the foot of the slope outside Bottom's Up. He waved to them and they carefully looked away.
In the square, Denario found the vendor stalls mostly empty. The fisherman had closed up his shop. Other booths and carts were open for apples, figs, piglets and chickens. There was a rag man at one end and a tinker in the center. There weren't many customers for any of them, though, only a few middle-aged women and a scruffy-looking, gray-haired man. In addition, there was a lonely figure at the end of the east row. Denario smiled to see him. It was the gypsy poisoner. The gypsy traveled from town to town trying to sell his rat poison to farmers who already had cats. Business was poor, as usual, and he would have plenty of time to talk.
Denario paid for a half-penny apple because he might not get anything else for a while. With his late lunch in hand, he made his way to the east corner.
“What’s the best poison you’ve got?” he asked. He knew the gypsy, whose name was Farli, and Farli knew him. They'd crossed paths twenty times or so, mostly in Ziegeburg. But Farli had given up trying to sell to Denario. Accountants didn't have much call for poisons.
“For rats, I’ve got extract of appleseed,” he said. He regarded his only possible customer with suspicion. He didn't seem to like the look of the apple.
“How about for two-legged rats?” Denario took a bite.
“What? Oh.” The Gypsy Poisoner looked around. No one was paying attention. He nodded to his trailer. “Maybe extract of cherry pit? Let’s step inside.”
He led the way through the curtain to the inside of his traveling home. His quarters were as dark as an underground burrow. Denario suspected the burlap drapes would have been chopped into rags by anyone living in a respectable, mud-walled yurt. But it was hard to tell for sure because they let in so little light it was hard to see anything. They were so effective that even the street noise disappeared behind them.
“All right, then,” said the gypsy. He sat on his nightstand. “I won't ask anything but practical questions. The first one is, can you get them to drink it?”
“No, I need something that works on contact.” He didn’t want to say he needed it to battle highwaymen. For all he knew, the poisoner’s cousins were among the highwaymen he would fight. There were bound to be a few gypsies among the brigands.
“That’s different.”
“You can’t do it?” Denario turned to leave, although he hated the thought of hiking out of town without supplies or defenses.
“No, I can. But it’s different. I have a poison made from the skin of blue frogs. You don’t see any blue frogs around here, do you?”
Denario looked around him. He wondered if he was being put on. “No.”
“It’s an expensive poison. I have to go a long ways south to get it and even then, I'm not dealing with the men who make it, only merchants who buy and sell from them. The frogs live on some islands in the Complacent Sea.”
“Interesting,” said Denario, who really was trying hard to be interested. But the thought of his approaching death distracted him. He hoped he was conceiving a workable plan. “How much for enough to kill one person?”
“At least a silver. More, maybe. Two silvers, if that’s all you’re going to buy.”
“I want enough for twenty men.”
The gypsy shrugged. “I’d have to take gold. But I'd throw in some hollow-tip darts for the price.”
“A gold and eight silver.”
“That’s enough for ten men, not twenty.”
They haggled for a while and it went pretty much the way Denario had expected. He agreed to part with two gold pieces if the poison could be demonstrated. Farli, the poisoner, turned to his stack of burlap covered crates along the wall. He lifted one by its strap and set it on his small, standing-height table. When he pulled back the burlap cover, he revealed a wooden cage and, in a corner of the cage, a greyish rat.
“Do you want me to use one of the darts you're buying?” he asked.
“No.” Denario shook his head. “The pin is fine.”
As a poisoner, Farli had to keep a dozen or so rats around for precisely this purpose. He nodded and dipped his pin in a sample of the poison. Deftly, he pricked his test subject on a hind leg. In a few seconds, the rat twitched and fell over. Its paws scrambled in the air.
“It doesn't take much longer on a man.” Farli cleared his throat. “Or so I'm told.”
“But the rat is still breathing.” In fact, its lungs seemed to be moving double time but in shallow heaves that didn't seem to take in air.
“That goes on for a few minutes. What do you expect? The paralysis in the limbs is almost immediate. That's the important part. And there's no cure. Death comes when the paralysis spreads deeper and reaches the chest.”
Denario turned his back to prevent Farli from seeing that the money came from a flap inside his belt. His thumb dug out two golds. There was no way he could haggle any more over the amount, not after seeing the demonstration. Besides, Denario wanted those steel-tipped darts. The lines that defined the shafts were exponential curves, irresistibly beautiful. He already had his copper-tipped set, of course. He kept those wrapped in a soft, bleached, goatskin sleeve. He'd won them three years ago in a contest outside the Accountant's Guild hall. It had been the spring equinox and a fair had lined the streets. Wimple and Curo had waited, hands on hips, irritated by Denario and his fascination with throwing games. On the other hand, they hadn't quite had the heart to stop him. And he hadn't quite been able to stop winning. When he failed in the grand finale match, beaten by a magician, it came as a shock.
The shock lasted for a moment. But the magician's master ruled against his apprentice and awarded the darts to Denario. Wimple shook the man's hand and, as usual, said the wrong thing, that he was happy to meet an honest wizard. The wizard had been smiling until that moment. But he allowed that Wimple was probably, against the odds, an honest accountant, and Wimple didn't understand he was being insulted, so everything ended up all right.
“Farli,” said Denario. “I'm told that I'm not much good with people.”
The poisoner laughed. “You're great with math. I've overheard you working.”
“Really? Well, I only mean that I've seen you a dozen times at the least and I'm sorry that I won't get the chance to talk longer. I'm going to have to leave town by sunset.”
“It's an occupational hazard.” Farli waved away Denario's concerns with both hands. “Not for you. For me. A small percentage of my customers leave the area suddenly or have to keep secrets. And I don't ask questions.”
“Is it a hard job?”
The poisoner smiled. He walked a few paces to the left, shot his left forearm into a stack of burlap cloth, and rustled through it. His hand reappeared, this time attached to a bottle of wine.
“Come,” he said. “Most of my customers won't break bread with me. They won't share a drink.”
“Oh, I get it.” Denario would have accepted food from Farli without a thought to being poisoned. But he understood, now that he thought about it. Not everyone would feel the same way.
“You're an honest fellow, Denario. Maybe too honest.”
“You know about my problem?”
“No, no.” He chuckled as he wiped a dirty cup with his thumb, making it slightly dirtier. Then he poured his wine into it. “I only know people in a certain way. A bad way, maybe. I see dukes, kings. Oh, yes, kings have called on me. It doesn't impress my wife but, still, I enjoy the memories. A little. They never have nice requests for me, the nobility and their wives and sons. I'd have to say that noble families are the worst.”
“I'm sorry,” said Denario.
“What for? No matter the trouble you're in, be glad you're not in line to a throne. Even an earldom or a barony can be deadly.”
“I wish I had that trouble. I'm just looking for a safe road.”
“Is that all?” He pushed the cup of red wine to Denario's side of the table and proceeded to fill a second cup. “Well, your payment excepted, I don't carry much money. For me, most roads are safe. I pay the bandits a tribute, on occasion, when they catch me and remember that I'm good for it. But nothing more.”
“I'll be on foot.”
The poisoner made a sad, guttural noise. He thumped his clay wine bottle in the center of the table. With his other hand, he lifted his drink.
“Too bad,” he said. He slurped from his cup. “You missed the coach?”
“It left before noon, I'm told. I thought maybe I could catch up to it if it stays in the next town overnight.”
“No chance. If you want to try, you can take Wort Cart road. That's what the coach follows up above the flood line and between the foothills. You won't catch the coach, though. There are no stops until Angstburg and that's nearly thirty miles.”
“I can't think of what else to do.”
“If you're looking for advice, I'd say to take Brine Road. It's small but it stays close to the Rune Kill. You'll have plenty to drink. Don't be tempted by Pig Trickle Road. That trail looks like it's going to follow Trickle Creek to the river because the land is nearly level when you run into it. The bank soon rises and curls north. You'll realize then that it's taking you up into the Blue Hills. That's bandit country.”
“Bandits there. Okay, thanks for the tip.”
“Speaking of tips ...” The poisoner wandered around the inside of his trailer for a few steps. He peered under burlap sacks, peeped through his curtain, felt along the windowsill, pulled out two drawers and, finally, in an oblong box that held other boxes, he found what he was looking for. It was a flat case, about as thick as a human finger. The poisoner thrust it out at Denario. “This completes the set. You'll find that the vial of poison fits into a cleft in the wood. There are also two spare flight feathers, three steel tips, and glue for your darts.”
“Wonderful.” He accepted the cherrywood case with reluctance. This dart set was too good for him. He didn't know how they made steel but it was as expensive as silver and a lot more useful. It could cut softer metals.
He leaned against the poisoner's table and took out the steel tips. They were threaded inside to screw onto the brass shafts. He assembled his trio of darts with care and cradled them in his palm for a moment before setting them down. His gaze drifted to the vial of poison. The black drum top would load poison into the darts exactly the way Farli had said it would. A poke through the seal would fill the hollow needle and shaft.
Denario didn't try that now. The poison was too precious to test. Instead, he loaded the wooden case.
Idly, he threw the last dart into a knot of wood on the cage that had held the rat. The poisoner smiled, so Denario removed the second bolt, threw it into the knot, and followed it with the third. He'd hit three bulls-eyes.
“You're good,” grunted Farli. “You're almost starting to scare me. I don't see why you haven't made your money betting on darts.”
“I wish I could.” Denario strolled one step, crouched, and removed a dart. “Right now, I'd play for a canteen, flints, and a hand axe, if anyone would play.”
“Well, why not? Some of the men on this side of town will bet on anything. What do you have to wager?”
“My life?”
“No,” Farli held his stomach and chortled. “You’ll need something they can spend on beer.”
Chapter One, Scene Five
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Not Even Not Zen 9: A Bandit Accountant, 1.2
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene Two: Something Does Not Add Up
“But Den, darling, you were supposed to find that old John Snouter had done it,” said his fiancée. “He carried the sacks for Burgher Figgins. Everyone knows that.”
“But Pecunia, he couldn't have done it. For one thing, it wouldn't explain the bank draft that Burgher Figgins stupidly deposited in his name. Not to mention the stack of ten Muntab brass 50-piece rings that the Warter farm used for payment. Those are distinctive and they're written in the tax log, both at the farm and in the master record. Burgher has five of them on his mantle. I saw them.”
Pecunia Brightli batted her eyes. She had the deepest, sea-blue irises that Denario had ever seen and he was fascinated by them. They matched the amulet she always wore, an oval stone that hung from her pearl necklace. In the bars, Ziegeburg's local farmers had tried to tell Denario that Widow Brightli was older than she looked. When he said he didn't care, one of them called her a witch. Denario would have struck the man then but he was the size of a cow and Denario couldn't see how that would do anyone any good. So he'd settled for ignoring all those gossiping farmers because, really, it was too late. He'd already kissed her and fallen in love.
Besides, everyone knew that witches were hags, generally, with warts and bad teeth. Pecunia's skin was excellent, barely wrinkled except around her mouth and eyes. She had all her teeth. She didn't show them much, not even in a smile, but they were there. She was unsure about the subject of children and frowned at them when she saw them playing in neighbors' yards. It was the only aspect of her that gave Denario hesitation.
“I'm quite sure the mayor hinted as to how it should go.” Her tone was slightly disapproving. She pulled, with a white-gloved hand, at the golden ringlets of her hair. “Well, anyway, you've got lots of money. You can just move back to your home city, can't you? Or to another town that needs you?”
“I sent it all.”
“You spent it?” she misheard. Or perhaps Pecunia, who was on the whole much more concerned with spending than with saving, heard what she expected to hear.
“No,” said Denario patiently. “Through the bank here in Ziegberg, which has a staff magician to make transfers, I sent it all to Oggli. My journeyman partner needs it to take care of our apprentices.”
“How can you have apprentices if you're both journeymen?”
“I told you, our master died. We've picked up some of the practice. But frankly, there were more experienced accountants who moved in and stole important accounts away. They were just waiting for old Winkel to die. They hated him.”
“Oh, that's right. I thought it was a good thing because you're established. You've already got a lot of business.”
“A lot, yes, but not enough for two journeymen and five apprentices, one of whom can't really do the math. He's inattentive.”
“Well, why did your master take him on as an apprentice?”
“He was going a bit dotty toward the end. To be honest, I'm not sure he was ever all that great a judge of people. His first apprentice, years ago, stole from him and cheated him and finally raided his accounts and left. After that, Winkel didn't keep apprentices for over twenty years. He only got keen on the idea again when he couldn't lift his books off the upper shelf in his den. That's when he hired Curo.”
“So you're not the senior journeyman?”
“Oh no, I am. I thought I explained this once before. Maybe it's confusing. Winkel didn't really train Curo, you see. He didn't think Curo showed any aptitude or interest. It was only when I came along that Winkel started teaching again.”
“So he taught you first?”
“He taught only me, no one else, for years. That went on until Curo started begging me for lessons and I gave in. Once I started training Curo, Wiimple felt shamed a bit, I think. He gave in and admitted Curo to the practice, too. They never completely made up, Winkel and Curo, but they got along in a polite, distant sort of way.”
“And you left Curo with the accounts you saved from those predatory members of your guild?”
“Yes. Well, Curo couldn't have saved the accounts himself but he can run them. He's good with people. Plus he'll have help with the actual figures, which aren't complicated. But I didn't trust Curo to go out and get any new business by himself. Then there's the fact that neither of us have served out our minimum journeyman term yet. Winkel didn't register us with the guild until a few months before he died.”
His fiancée leaned back and studied him. Her perfect eyes seemed to penetrate into his soul, his past, his childhood. He felt suddenly aware that she was older than him and she knew more than she let on about accounting. She understood how the world worked. She knew the nearby towns and traveled between them unmolested, one of very few women who could. She was also the only woman in town, aside from the mayor's wife, who carried a silk handbag. A few farmwives wore packs on their back but it wasn't the same. Pecunia had style.
Years ago, she had traveled with her first husband to the really big cities like Baggi and Tortua. She'd discovered fashion. She'd learned how to deal with cosmopolitan creatures like noblemen, vampires, high priests, tax collectors, and wizards. She'd taught some of those things to Denario. But apparently, he hadn't really learned.
“You've never been that good with people, have you?” She tapped her gloved finger to her chin.
“Well, I think I'm okay. Thanks to you, I'm better.”
“Plus your master wasn't good with people.”
“He was decent. Well, in a sense he was. Well, no.” He scratched his head. “He wasn't any good with people. Not in the sense you mean. Not any good at all, really.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, long enough for Denario to grow self-conscious and stop scratching his head. A bird screeched at them from its nest in the cornice on the wall of the temple next door. Song birds, yellow and black, swirled around one another in the midday sky. It was a beautiful, late spring day. The icy breeze blew down the mountain pass and cooled the town. It was especially strong here on The Ziege, which was a rise of land that included several low hills, all of which took on a shape, as seen from above, of a goat's head. That's what the locals said, anyway. Denario wasn't sure who could possibly have seen The Ziege from above. Wizards? Gods? Anyway, Ziegeburg was centered on the right 'eye' of The Ziege. It was the highest hill near the Rune Kill stream.
The old Temple of the Goat, across the street, occupied the defensible ground. The place looked like a fort, which it once had been. Where its roof had fallen in, anyone could see there were ramparts to be used by archers defending the congregation. In the past, the entire town had been able to fit inside the building and defend itself, first from barbarians, then from the conquering troops of Muntab, then as Muntab citizens from various other invaders. All of that had happened in the distant past. No one was sure when the temple had first been constructed. It had been re-built a dozen times.
The granite blocks had fallen, only to be propped up by patchworks of shale. At some point, quartz had been cheap, probably mined from a large hill nearby named Runetop. The village built a new outer wall for their temple from the vein of quartz and it must have been beautiful, the color of milk. All but the bottom two feet lay in rubble now, the result of a long-distant siege. The survivors had rebuilt with wooden beams and bricks. The first layer of bricks was poorly baked, so they had contributed to the temple's demise. For a century, they'd formed part of the foundation but they'd crumbled.
Finally, when the Temple of the Goat had decayed beyond rebuilding, the citizens of Ziegeburg constructed a Church of the Goat opposite the original. It was done in the modern style with spires rising from the corners, a central basilica, and carved figures of arboreal vines, nymphs, and goat-headed gods around the edges.
Pecunia had inherited the house next to the church. Her place had been done in a similar, modern style, right down to the carved vines above the front door. Although it was a narrow place, it was tall. One could, without trying hard, get lost in its many rooms. There was an upper story and a basement, both rare in Ziegeburg, a town that had the word 'architecture' only because the outside world had brought it. Pecunia decorated her halls and stairs with mirrors. She filled her cabinets with glassware. Each bottle, if not empty, held a homemade concoction. That was one of the things that had impressed Denario early on, when he’d just arrived in town and met Pecunia. She spent many hours of hard work cooking, canning, and bottling.
“Pecunia,” he began. But she had come to the conclusion of her thoughts at the same time.
“So what will you do next?” she asked.
“Pecunia ... oh, right. The barman at Proud Pony thinks I should take the stagecoach out of town.” He gestured in the direction of the stables. They occupied the east side of this section of town.
“I'm sorry to say it but, from everything you've told me, I have to agree. The mayor's men will come for you tonight and I doubt I can talk them out of lynching you.”
Denario found that the idea of her even talking to a ruffian was disturbing. Pecunia was so feminine and so delicate, her conversation with anyone less than a bank clerk was unthinkable. He reached for her. Her limbs were lithe and graceful. He felt privileged to know the touch of them. His fingers grazed the lace of her sleeve. Her hand turned and caught his.
“Oh, Den,” she murmured as she squeezed his hand. She was the only person in the world who had ever called him by a nickname. He savored the sound of it on her lips before he spoke.
“Pecunia,” he breathed. “I don't know how to say this. You had wanted to be married and, well, this is sooner than planned. But we could wed in the next town, Angstburg, I think. Would you like to tour the Blue Hills with me? The coach follows the river path until those magical creatures show up where Rune Kill and Bad Kill make the Lamp Kill. We could stop at dozens of towns on the way to Oggli.”
“Most men would be concerned with escape.” Her laughter rang as clear as a bell. “Do I have that much affect on you? I'm flattered. But you have business and I mustn't be a distraction.”
“You're not coming.”
“No. It's sweet of you to offer but you're forgetting so many things. By the way, you don't have the money for two fares, do you?”
“I hadn't thought of that. Actually, I don't have money for a single fare, not all the way to Oggli. I think I could go as far as Wortsburg. That's probably it.”
“Well, you need to spend it.”
“Pecunia, I hate to ask ...”
“But you want the money you gave me.” She nodded. Her left hand dipped into her handbag.
“Well, yes, part of it. Do you have any left?”
“I've got a silver and six pence. You can have it all.”
“No, no.” He waved it off. That little an amount wouldn't help him. He was disappointed because, in Ziegeburg, that many gold pieces was more wealth than most farmers ever saw in their lives. It should have lasted Pecunia for months even with her lavish lifestyle. Apparently, she'd spent most of it in just three weeks.
“Den, darling, I'm sorry. You gave me those eight golds simply ages ago. Of course I spent it all on my cooking and my clothes. I never hold onto money for long.”
Pecunia dressed well, it was true. Today she'd chosen to wear an elaborate gown, pink and white, with cupped skirts. There were pearls in her high collar and on the top of her sleeves. Silver floral glitter adorned her satin front panel. Her bodice, cut from pink velour and trimmed with blue satin, pinched her waist and accentuated her ample bosom.
Denario ached to undo the bodice laces. But he realized what he was thinking and blushed.
“Yes?” She had caught him looking.
“I'm terribly sorry, darling.”
“Don't be. I'm flattered, I think. But you need to catch that stagecoach. Do we have time to stop into my house for a minute?”
“A minute?” Denario felt confused. “Wouldn't it take us longer?”
“Not that, silly.” She elbowed him in the ribs. “I just wanted to give you a little something, a sort of parting gift that's occurred to me.”
“Oh.” He tried not to sound disappointed.
On the second floor of her home, between two hallway mirrors, Denario waited for his fiancée to come out of her bedroom. The reflections of his face, the reflections inside the reflections, and the endless recursion of images between the mirrors made him uncomfortable for a moment or two. Then he realized, when he stepped to one side, that he could draw a line from the bottom left corner of one mirror to the mirror image of it inside the other. The same curve, extended, would continue to pass through the other, smaller corners in what seemed to be a hyperbolic path.
It reminded him of a problem he'd been working on in his idle time, a way to divide by zero.
Infinitesmals were his favorite trick for getting around the impossible, although there were other methods. All of the methods seemed to involve recursive functions in some form. He needed to approximate the solution by approaching zero, he found, rather than by actually reaching it.
As amounts of anything changed over time, the way they changed often approached a limit. It took on a function, although describing that function took a series of approximations, so that was what Denario practiced while he waited. He was measuring the mirrors with his hands and then measuring the images inside the mirrors when Pecunia came out of her room.
“Darling,” she breathed in a husky voice. “More math?”
“Well, yes, but it's magic.”
“It is?” She seemed so startled, she almost dropped what was in her hands, some kind of locket on a chain. She grasped it again, as if it had slipped, and a moment later, she laughed with relief. “Funny you should say that.”
“How funny?” he said, not sure.
“This locket,” and as she introduced it, her left hand fluttered over her heart, where she held the tiny bauble, “has a charm on it.”
“Are you sure? Did you have it verified when you bought it?” He peered closer. The engraving on the flattened cylinder reminded him of a number eight or an infinity sign but it was stylized and incomplete. It took him another moment to recognize one of the sigils he'd seen engraved on the old bricks in the Temple of the Goat. “It's beautiful. But I don't know anything about magic except that Master Winkel always advised me to get a reputable wizard to verify charms before estimating their value.”
“I'm sure that's quite wise for accounting.” Something about her tone warned him that he was saying the wrong thing but he couldn't figure out what it was. Her hands lowered to her waist. “Magic, at least some particular charms and spells, can be more common out here in the smaller towns. I suppose that makes it less valuable.”
“It would depend on what is does, wouldn't it? I mean, a life saved is the same here or in a large city.”
She brightened. With a nod, she pushed the trinket toward him. “Here.”
“Pecunia, are you sure? It looks like gold.”
“Of course it's gold. Darling, some charms don't work without the right materials. But take it. I have a lot of them. Wear this one to remember me.”
“I'll remember you regardless, Pecunia.”
“I know you will. You're young. Humor me, Den. This one is supposed to give travelers luck on the road. I always wear one or two like it when I leave town.”
“Oh, all right. It'll feel a little funny to be wearing a necklace, though.” The chain was too small to fit over his head. He tried. Then his thumbs fumbled with the clasp but it defied him until Pecunia took a section of chain away from him, unsnapped it, and nodded for him to let her put it on. He crouched and bent his neck.
“Just about right,” she announced. She tugged on the chain when she was done.
Denario tucked it beneath the collar of his accountant's vest. It hid the necklace from view. Aware that he might be doing something wrong again, perhaps rude, he looked to his fiancée for approval.
“Is it all right to wear it out of sight?” he asked.
“The locket needs to stay close to the skin.” Her voice rang with authority. A moment later, she inclined her head to one side slightly and added, “Or so I'm told.”
He put his hand on his vest, over the locket. Already, the metal felt warm. He wondered if it was an effect of the magic or if this bit of jewelry, like so many things his master had seen during their years of estate valuations, was simply a cheap imitation designed to fool innocent but well-to-do people like Pecunia.
Her blue eyes bore into his. One thing he'd learned about Pecunia was that she had a sense of certainty like no one else. It made everyone around her hesitate. But when she wanted to, she could inspire Denario with a confidence almost the match to her own.
He tingled with alarm at her intense expression. She leaned closer. The ringlets of her hair swung forward, blonde curls framing her elven face. Her jawline came nearly to a point at her chin. Her lips parted. Her gaze never wavered. She continued to stare at him with an anger or a passion that he failed to understand until she leaned a little farther and her lips touched his. Suddenly, he was drowning in her embrace.
Her mouth covered his and then covered it again as she changed positions. Her arms flailed behind his back, up between his shoulder blades. He did his best to respond but he was swarmed. He’d never seen this side of Pecunia. She was usually demure. Her previous kisses had been delicate. She had always leaned back to pull him in. This time, she pushed hard against him and knocked him into a wall. Her fingers wandered over his body as the kiss went on for a minute. Fifty-nine seconds of that minute were devoted to learning experiences for Denario.
When she was done, she stepped back and took a deep breath.
“There,” she said. “Now you'll remember me.”
Her eyeDenes, long and black, fluttered. Denario's heart did, too, or maybe that was the muscles around his diaphragm. He gasped.
“I don't want to leave,” he replied.
“Of course not.” She snapped her gloves against his chest. “That's because you're a darling. But the stagecoach is your only option. What's the schedule?”
“It rides out at sunset, apparently.”
“Have you checked?”
“No, but ... well, no. I haven't checked.”
“Run down to the stable and ask Mister Conli how much time you have. That's the first thing. I'll go see if I can talk some sense into Emmie Figgins. It's likely enough that I can, you know. She and I aren't friends but we've known each other for a long time and we aren't enemies. Often, that's enough. The problem is that Emmie doesn't have much sway over her husband nowadays. It'll take her a week or so to turn him around.”
“She can do that?”
“After she does, it should be safe for you to return. But don't try to re-enter Ziegeburg until you get a note from me, Den. I'll send it through your bank courier. Does that sound all right?”
“It sounds perfect.”
“Of course, if Jim Figgins has friends at the banks, and he does, he'll spy on any note that I send. Maybe it's best if we have a code.”
“Wouldn't he just have his friend tear up anything written in cypher?”
“Oh, no. I didn't mean anything that obvious. Look at my desk. I have pink card paper and blue paper. If I write to you on a pink card, that means it's still dangerous here. If I use a blue card, you'll know that things are patched up or settled one way or another. I suppose you've sided with old Baron Ankster. That one way things could settle. If the baron brings his men in to enforce the tax collection, you'll be fine. It doesn't seem likely, though.”
“Why not?”
“I think most of his troops are assaulting Fashnaught, wherever that is.” She snapped her gloves again.
On the way out, Pecunia led him through her kitchen, which was filled with shelves of various concoctions, all laid out in neat rows in stoppered, glass jars. The glassworks wasn't cheap, either. Among the colored potions kept in glass, she kept soups, jams, and other mixtures in clay canning pots. Some of them were quite intricate and a few weren't ordinary fired clay but carved porcelain. One or two jars, he thought, had naughty pictures engraved on them but he always felt it would be rude to look too closely. Pecunia might not realize what the fig leaves or ivy vines weren't quite covering.
She had quite a few paintings, too, on the few patches of wall that weren't covered by mirrors or shelves of glass and pottery. Some of the pictures were old and cracked, now but the rustic scenes of satyrs and nymphs, goats and sheep, mountains and sky, had a local look to them, as if they'd been painted from life around the Ziege.
Pecunia plucked a vial of purple fluid from a shelf next to the arch of her foyer.
“A gift for Emmie Figgins,” she explained.
In front of her door, almost in the street, she gave him a kiss almost as forceful as the one inside. That wasn't like her because Pecunia normally concerned herself quite a lot with what other people thought. He supposed that was why she was so much better than him at judging everyone's intentions.
“Wish me luck,” he said.
“I don't need to.” She laughed and waved. “Just keep the locket on.”
Scene Three
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene Two: Something Does Not Add Up
“But Den, darling, you were supposed to find that old John Snouter had done it,” said his fiancée. “He carried the sacks for Burgher Figgins. Everyone knows that.”
“But Pecunia, he couldn't have done it. For one thing, it wouldn't explain the bank draft that Burgher Figgins stupidly deposited in his name. Not to mention the stack of ten Muntab brass 50-piece rings that the Warter farm used for payment. Those are distinctive and they're written in the tax log, both at the farm and in the master record. Burgher has five of them on his mantle. I saw them.”
Pecunia Brightli batted her eyes. She had the deepest, sea-blue irises that Denario had ever seen and he was fascinated by them. They matched the amulet she always wore, an oval stone that hung from her pearl necklace. In the bars, Ziegeburg's local farmers had tried to tell Denario that Widow Brightli was older than she looked. When he said he didn't care, one of them called her a witch. Denario would have struck the man then but he was the size of a cow and Denario couldn't see how that would do anyone any good. So he'd settled for ignoring all those gossiping farmers because, really, it was too late. He'd already kissed her and fallen in love.
Besides, everyone knew that witches were hags, generally, with warts and bad teeth. Pecunia's skin was excellent, barely wrinkled except around her mouth and eyes. She had all her teeth. She didn't show them much, not even in a smile, but they were there. She was unsure about the subject of children and frowned at them when she saw them playing in neighbors' yards. It was the only aspect of her that gave Denario hesitation.
“I'm quite sure the mayor hinted as to how it should go.” Her tone was slightly disapproving. She pulled, with a white-gloved hand, at the golden ringlets of her hair. “Well, anyway, you've got lots of money. You can just move back to your home city, can't you? Or to another town that needs you?”
“I sent it all.”
“You spent it?” she misheard. Or perhaps Pecunia, who was on the whole much more concerned with spending than with saving, heard what she expected to hear.
“No,” said Denario patiently. “Through the bank here in Ziegberg, which has a staff magician to make transfers, I sent it all to Oggli. My journeyman partner needs it to take care of our apprentices.”
“How can you have apprentices if you're both journeymen?”
“I told you, our master died. We've picked up some of the practice. But frankly, there were more experienced accountants who moved in and stole important accounts away. They were just waiting for old Winkel to die. They hated him.”
“Oh, that's right. I thought it was a good thing because you're established. You've already got a lot of business.”
“A lot, yes, but not enough for two journeymen and five apprentices, one of whom can't really do the math. He's inattentive.”
“Well, why did your master take him on as an apprentice?”
“He was going a bit dotty toward the end. To be honest, I'm not sure he was ever all that great a judge of people. His first apprentice, years ago, stole from him and cheated him and finally raided his accounts and left. After that, Winkel didn't keep apprentices for over twenty years. He only got keen on the idea again when he couldn't lift his books off the upper shelf in his den. That's when he hired Curo.”
“So you're not the senior journeyman?”
“Oh no, I am. I thought I explained this once before. Maybe it's confusing. Winkel didn't really train Curo, you see. He didn't think Curo showed any aptitude or interest. It was only when I came along that Winkel started teaching again.”
“So he taught you first?”
“He taught only me, no one else, for years. That went on until Curo started begging me for lessons and I gave in. Once I started training Curo, Wiimple felt shamed a bit, I think. He gave in and admitted Curo to the practice, too. They never completely made up, Winkel and Curo, but they got along in a polite, distant sort of way.”
“And you left Curo with the accounts you saved from those predatory members of your guild?”
“Yes. Well, Curo couldn't have saved the accounts himself but he can run them. He's good with people. Plus he'll have help with the actual figures, which aren't complicated. But I didn't trust Curo to go out and get any new business by himself. Then there's the fact that neither of us have served out our minimum journeyman term yet. Winkel didn't register us with the guild until a few months before he died.”
His fiancée leaned back and studied him. Her perfect eyes seemed to penetrate into his soul, his past, his childhood. He felt suddenly aware that she was older than him and she knew more than she let on about accounting. She understood how the world worked. She knew the nearby towns and traveled between them unmolested, one of very few women who could. She was also the only woman in town, aside from the mayor's wife, who carried a silk handbag. A few farmwives wore packs on their back but it wasn't the same. Pecunia had style.
Years ago, she had traveled with her first husband to the really big cities like Baggi and Tortua. She'd discovered fashion. She'd learned how to deal with cosmopolitan creatures like noblemen, vampires, high priests, tax collectors, and wizards. She'd taught some of those things to Denario. But apparently, he hadn't really learned.
“You've never been that good with people, have you?” She tapped her gloved finger to her chin.
“Well, I think I'm okay. Thanks to you, I'm better.”
“Plus your master wasn't good with people.”
“He was decent. Well, in a sense he was. Well, no.” He scratched his head. “He wasn't any good with people. Not in the sense you mean. Not any good at all, really.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, long enough for Denario to grow self-conscious and stop scratching his head. A bird screeched at them from its nest in the cornice on the wall of the temple next door. Song birds, yellow and black, swirled around one another in the midday sky. It was a beautiful, late spring day. The icy breeze blew down the mountain pass and cooled the town. It was especially strong here on The Ziege, which was a rise of land that included several low hills, all of which took on a shape, as seen from above, of a goat's head. That's what the locals said, anyway. Denario wasn't sure who could possibly have seen The Ziege from above. Wizards? Gods? Anyway, Ziegeburg was centered on the right 'eye' of The Ziege. It was the highest hill near the Rune Kill stream.
The old Temple of the Goat, across the street, occupied the defensible ground. The place looked like a fort, which it once had been. Where its roof had fallen in, anyone could see there were ramparts to be used by archers defending the congregation. In the past, the entire town had been able to fit inside the building and defend itself, first from barbarians, then from the conquering troops of Muntab, then as Muntab citizens from various other invaders. All of that had happened in the distant past. No one was sure when the temple had first been constructed. It had been re-built a dozen times.
The granite blocks had fallen, only to be propped up by patchworks of shale. At some point, quartz had been cheap, probably mined from a large hill nearby named Runetop. The village built a new outer wall for their temple from the vein of quartz and it must have been beautiful, the color of milk. All but the bottom two feet lay in rubble now, the result of a long-distant siege. The survivors had rebuilt with wooden beams and bricks. The first layer of bricks was poorly baked, so they had contributed to the temple's demise. For a century, they'd formed part of the foundation but they'd crumbled.
Finally, when the Temple of the Goat had decayed beyond rebuilding, the citizens of Ziegeburg constructed a Church of the Goat opposite the original. It was done in the modern style with spires rising from the corners, a central basilica, and carved figures of arboreal vines, nymphs, and goat-headed gods around the edges.
Pecunia had inherited the house next to the church. Her place had been done in a similar, modern style, right down to the carved vines above the front door. Although it was a narrow place, it was tall. One could, without trying hard, get lost in its many rooms. There was an upper story and a basement, both rare in Ziegeburg, a town that had the word 'architecture' only because the outside world had brought it. Pecunia decorated her halls and stairs with mirrors. She filled her cabinets with glassware. Each bottle, if not empty, held a homemade concoction. That was one of the things that had impressed Denario early on, when he’d just arrived in town and met Pecunia. She spent many hours of hard work cooking, canning, and bottling.
“Pecunia,” he began. But she had come to the conclusion of her thoughts at the same time.
“So what will you do next?” she asked.
“Pecunia ... oh, right. The barman at Proud Pony thinks I should take the stagecoach out of town.” He gestured in the direction of the stables. They occupied the east side of this section of town.
“I'm sorry to say it but, from everything you've told me, I have to agree. The mayor's men will come for you tonight and I doubt I can talk them out of lynching you.”
Denario found that the idea of her even talking to a ruffian was disturbing. Pecunia was so feminine and so delicate, her conversation with anyone less than a bank clerk was unthinkable. He reached for her. Her limbs were lithe and graceful. He felt privileged to know the touch of them. His fingers grazed the lace of her sleeve. Her hand turned and caught his.
“Oh, Den,” she murmured as she squeezed his hand. She was the only person in the world who had ever called him by a nickname. He savored the sound of it on her lips before he spoke.
“Pecunia,” he breathed. “I don't know how to say this. You had wanted to be married and, well, this is sooner than planned. But we could wed in the next town, Angstburg, I think. Would you like to tour the Blue Hills with me? The coach follows the river path until those magical creatures show up where Rune Kill and Bad Kill make the Lamp Kill. We could stop at dozens of towns on the way to Oggli.”
“Most men would be concerned with escape.” Her laughter rang as clear as a bell. “Do I have that much affect on you? I'm flattered. But you have business and I mustn't be a distraction.”
“You're not coming.”
“No. It's sweet of you to offer but you're forgetting so many things. By the way, you don't have the money for two fares, do you?”
“I hadn't thought of that. Actually, I don't have money for a single fare, not all the way to Oggli. I think I could go as far as Wortsburg. That's probably it.”
“Well, you need to spend it.”
“Pecunia, I hate to ask ...”
“But you want the money you gave me.” She nodded. Her left hand dipped into her handbag.
“Well, yes, part of it. Do you have any left?”
“I've got a silver and six pence. You can have it all.”
“No, no.” He waved it off. That little an amount wouldn't help him. He was disappointed because, in Ziegeburg, that many gold pieces was more wealth than most farmers ever saw in their lives. It should have lasted Pecunia for months even with her lavish lifestyle. Apparently, she'd spent most of it in just three weeks.
“Den, darling, I'm sorry. You gave me those eight golds simply ages ago. Of course I spent it all on my cooking and my clothes. I never hold onto money for long.”
Pecunia dressed well, it was true. Today she'd chosen to wear an elaborate gown, pink and white, with cupped skirts. There were pearls in her high collar and on the top of her sleeves. Silver floral glitter adorned her satin front panel. Her bodice, cut from pink velour and trimmed with blue satin, pinched her waist and accentuated her ample bosom.
Denario ached to undo the bodice laces. But he realized what he was thinking and blushed.
“Yes?” She had caught him looking.
“I'm terribly sorry, darling.”
“Don't be. I'm flattered, I think. But you need to catch that stagecoach. Do we have time to stop into my house for a minute?”
“A minute?” Denario felt confused. “Wouldn't it take us longer?”
“Not that, silly.” She elbowed him in the ribs. “I just wanted to give you a little something, a sort of parting gift that's occurred to me.”
“Oh.” He tried not to sound disappointed.
On the second floor of her home, between two hallway mirrors, Denario waited for his fiancée to come out of her bedroom. The reflections of his face, the reflections inside the reflections, and the endless recursion of images between the mirrors made him uncomfortable for a moment or two. Then he realized, when he stepped to one side, that he could draw a line from the bottom left corner of one mirror to the mirror image of it inside the other. The same curve, extended, would continue to pass through the other, smaller corners in what seemed to be a hyperbolic path.
It reminded him of a problem he'd been working on in his idle time, a way to divide by zero.
Infinitesmals were his favorite trick for getting around the impossible, although there were other methods. All of the methods seemed to involve recursive functions in some form. He needed to approximate the solution by approaching zero, he found, rather than by actually reaching it.
As amounts of anything changed over time, the way they changed often approached a limit. It took on a function, although describing that function took a series of approximations, so that was what Denario practiced while he waited. He was measuring the mirrors with his hands and then measuring the images inside the mirrors when Pecunia came out of her room.
“Darling,” she breathed in a husky voice. “More math?”
“Well, yes, but it's magic.”
“It is?” She seemed so startled, she almost dropped what was in her hands, some kind of locket on a chain. She grasped it again, as if it had slipped, and a moment later, she laughed with relief. “Funny you should say that.”
“How funny?” he said, not sure.
“This locket,” and as she introduced it, her left hand fluttered over her heart, where she held the tiny bauble, “has a charm on it.”
“Are you sure? Did you have it verified when you bought it?” He peered closer. The engraving on the flattened cylinder reminded him of a number eight or an infinity sign but it was stylized and incomplete. It took him another moment to recognize one of the sigils he'd seen engraved on the old bricks in the Temple of the Goat. “It's beautiful. But I don't know anything about magic except that Master Winkel always advised me to get a reputable wizard to verify charms before estimating their value.”
“I'm sure that's quite wise for accounting.” Something about her tone warned him that he was saying the wrong thing but he couldn't figure out what it was. Her hands lowered to her waist. “Magic, at least some particular charms and spells, can be more common out here in the smaller towns. I suppose that makes it less valuable.”
“It would depend on what is does, wouldn't it? I mean, a life saved is the same here or in a large city.”
She brightened. With a nod, she pushed the trinket toward him. “Here.”
“Pecunia, are you sure? It looks like gold.”
“Of course it's gold. Darling, some charms don't work without the right materials. But take it. I have a lot of them. Wear this one to remember me.”
“I'll remember you regardless, Pecunia.”
“I know you will. You're young. Humor me, Den. This one is supposed to give travelers luck on the road. I always wear one or two like it when I leave town.”
“Oh, all right. It'll feel a little funny to be wearing a necklace, though.” The chain was too small to fit over his head. He tried. Then his thumbs fumbled with the clasp but it defied him until Pecunia took a section of chain away from him, unsnapped it, and nodded for him to let her put it on. He crouched and bent his neck.
“Just about right,” she announced. She tugged on the chain when she was done.
Denario tucked it beneath the collar of his accountant's vest. It hid the necklace from view. Aware that he might be doing something wrong again, perhaps rude, he looked to his fiancée for approval.
“Is it all right to wear it out of sight?” he asked.
“The locket needs to stay close to the skin.” Her voice rang with authority. A moment later, she inclined her head to one side slightly and added, “Or so I'm told.”
He put his hand on his vest, over the locket. Already, the metal felt warm. He wondered if it was an effect of the magic or if this bit of jewelry, like so many things his master had seen during their years of estate valuations, was simply a cheap imitation designed to fool innocent but well-to-do people like Pecunia.
Her blue eyes bore into his. One thing he'd learned about Pecunia was that she had a sense of certainty like no one else. It made everyone around her hesitate. But when she wanted to, she could inspire Denario with a confidence almost the match to her own.
He tingled with alarm at her intense expression. She leaned closer. The ringlets of her hair swung forward, blonde curls framing her elven face. Her jawline came nearly to a point at her chin. Her lips parted. Her gaze never wavered. She continued to stare at him with an anger or a passion that he failed to understand until she leaned a little farther and her lips touched his. Suddenly, he was drowning in her embrace.
Her mouth covered his and then covered it again as she changed positions. Her arms flailed behind his back, up between his shoulder blades. He did his best to respond but he was swarmed. He’d never seen this side of Pecunia. She was usually demure. Her previous kisses had been delicate. She had always leaned back to pull him in. This time, she pushed hard against him and knocked him into a wall. Her fingers wandered over his body as the kiss went on for a minute. Fifty-nine seconds of that minute were devoted to learning experiences for Denario.
When she was done, she stepped back and took a deep breath.
“There,” she said. “Now you'll remember me.”
Her eyeDenes, long and black, fluttered. Denario's heart did, too, or maybe that was the muscles around his diaphragm. He gasped.
“I don't want to leave,” he replied.
“Of course not.” She snapped her gloves against his chest. “That's because you're a darling. But the stagecoach is your only option. What's the schedule?”
“It rides out at sunset, apparently.”
“Have you checked?”
“No, but ... well, no. I haven't checked.”
“Run down to the stable and ask Mister Conli how much time you have. That's the first thing. I'll go see if I can talk some sense into Emmie Figgins. It's likely enough that I can, you know. She and I aren't friends but we've known each other for a long time and we aren't enemies. Often, that's enough. The problem is that Emmie doesn't have much sway over her husband nowadays. It'll take her a week or so to turn him around.”
“She can do that?”
“After she does, it should be safe for you to return. But don't try to re-enter Ziegeburg until you get a note from me, Den. I'll send it through your bank courier. Does that sound all right?”
“It sounds perfect.”
“Of course, if Jim Figgins has friends at the banks, and he does, he'll spy on any note that I send. Maybe it's best if we have a code.”
“Wouldn't he just have his friend tear up anything written in cypher?”
“Oh, no. I didn't mean anything that obvious. Look at my desk. I have pink card paper and blue paper. If I write to you on a pink card, that means it's still dangerous here. If I use a blue card, you'll know that things are patched up or settled one way or another. I suppose you've sided with old Baron Ankster. That one way things could settle. If the baron brings his men in to enforce the tax collection, you'll be fine. It doesn't seem likely, though.”
“Why not?”
“I think most of his troops are assaulting Fashnaught, wherever that is.” She snapped her gloves again.
On the way out, Pecunia led him through her kitchen, which was filled with shelves of various concoctions, all laid out in neat rows in stoppered, glass jars. The glassworks wasn't cheap, either. Among the colored potions kept in glass, she kept soups, jams, and other mixtures in clay canning pots. Some of them were quite intricate and a few weren't ordinary fired clay but carved porcelain. One or two jars, he thought, had naughty pictures engraved on them but he always felt it would be rude to look too closely. Pecunia might not realize what the fig leaves or ivy vines weren't quite covering.
She had quite a few paintings, too, on the few patches of wall that weren't covered by mirrors or shelves of glass and pottery. Some of the pictures were old and cracked, now but the rustic scenes of satyrs and nymphs, goats and sheep, mountains and sky, had a local look to them, as if they'd been painted from life around the Ziege.
Pecunia plucked a vial of purple fluid from a shelf next to the arch of her foyer.
“A gift for Emmie Figgins,” she explained.
In front of her door, almost in the street, she gave him a kiss almost as forceful as the one inside. That wasn't like her because Pecunia normally concerned herself quite a lot with what other people thought. He supposed that was why she was so much better than him at judging everyone's intentions.
“Wish me luck,” he said.
“I don't need to.” She laughed and waved. “Just keep the locket on.”
Scene Three
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Not Zen 172: Vanity
In front of the chicken coop in a wide barnyard, a rooster preened for the hens. He strutted around the edge of his territory, which was hemmed by a low, picket fence. He fluttered to the tops of fence posts and displayed his brilliant plumage for them.
For the first weeks, the hens liked it. He was a pleasant fellow to look at. He had dark, umber feathers and shiny, forest green ones, and a great red wattle. He thought himself to be most impressive. When the hens grew tired of his constant antics and called him a show-off, he puffed his chest more and cawed to them louder.
In time, he took to cleaning himself every day. He would study his image in a puddle, spread his tailfeathers, and shake his wattle.
The farmwife saw him and laughed.
"What a dandy rooster we've got," she told her husband over dinner.
"As long as he keeps off rats and cats, he's fine," the farmer replied. "And as long as the hens keep laying eggs, of course."
As the seasons passed, the rooster grew more vain. In the spring, he festooned himself with flower petals. In the summer, he wore ferns in his tail. The lead hen, who had always kept her flock virtuous and safe from foxes and cats, felt obligated to speak. It was becoming difficult to live with someone so self-centered.
"When I was young, I thought our house rule against showing off was too strict," she said. "It seemed needlessly joyless. I never understood it until I saw you."
"You're just jealous," said the rooster. For his part, he envied other animals, including the lead hen. He hoped to supplant her as leader one day.
Late in the summer, as the rooster squawked on a stump, the hens noticed a rustle in the underbrush near the fence. Soon the rooster heard it, too. He hopped down from his perch and marched over to the noise. He hoped it was a rat since they were easy for him to scare.
A strange bird's head popped up above the hedge. A moment later, the body pushed through. A peacock revealed itself between the branches. It shook off a leaf.
The peacock may have been confused by seeing a bird displaying itself as if it were mating. He fanned his tail feathers. When the hens gathered closer, curious, he began to dance for them. He put on a competitive display for his audience despite seeing that they were not peafowl. The hens were impressed. They looked from the peacock to the rooster and back. They laughed.
"That's a show you can't match!" they said.
Through the fence, the rooster challenged the wayward peacock. But the wild bird was larger than any rooster and had no fear. He continued to flaunt his azure and emerald feathers. Incensed, the rooster flew to the top of the fence and hopped down on the other side. He chased the peacock which, despite its size, didn't want to fight. When cornered, deep in the woods between co-joined tree trunks, the peacock turned to its familiar ritual of intimidation. He treated the rooster like a rival and spread his feathers. He danced forward. His great neck loomed over the smaller bird.
The rooster sprang forward in fury. He tore at the peacock's throat. In a whirl of blood and claws, the rooster slashed open the peacock. For a while, the peacock ran among the trees, trying to escape, not quite sure what had happened. The rooster followed until his opponent collapsed, fainted, and finally died.
The rooster grabbed feathers as the spoils of his battle. He grew determined that he would wear them in his tail and under his wings. Thus, he would appear more magnificent than ever. He wandered for a day and a night, lost, but he did not abandon the burden of his trophies.
At last, he heard a hen call. Unfortunately for him, it was a peahen. He was still lost.
Feeling lonely, the rooster decided that he should impress other birds. He dressed himself as completely as he could in the feathers of his fallen opponent. Then he presented himself to the peahens.
When they first met him, they were not quite sure what he was supposed to be. Was he a tiny peacock? No. When they saw through his disguise, they shook their heads.
"A rooster in borrowed feathers is a rooster still," they told him.
He followed the trio of peahens for a week. Their answer did not change.
Meanwhile, the farmer went out and bought a younger, hardier rooster. This fellow did not look as nice. His plumage was plain, brown and white. But he was strong and his leg muscles bulged under his coat of feathers.
When the old, vain rooster found his way back to the barnyard, he was thirsty and half-starved. He had not found a puddle. He had not eaten anything except a few beetles. His appearance had declined with his health. He trailed the stolen peacock feathers behind him. They weighed down his tail. He carried others in his wings, tangled and hard to remove. He'd gotten stuck in bushes along the way because of them. With all of his peacock plumage, he was no longer able to fly to the top of the fence. He had to slip into the barnyard through a gap between the fence and gate.
When the old rooster approached the hen houses, other chickens ran away. They woke the younger male. The keen fellow hopped down from his perch and strode forward to meet the invader.
After a few steps, the younger one stopped and smiled. He saw through the disguise of heavy, cumbersome feathers and bluebeard blossoms, but he pretended not to know who it was.
"The last fellow killed a peacock, the hens say," he announced so everyone in the barnyard could hear him. He resumed the advance on his trembling, tired opponent. "Now is my chance to do the same."
For the first weeks, the hens liked it. He was a pleasant fellow to look at. He had dark, umber feathers and shiny, forest green ones, and a great red wattle. He thought himself to be most impressive. When the hens grew tired of his constant antics and called him a show-off, he puffed his chest more and cawed to them louder.
In time, he took to cleaning himself every day. He would study his image in a puddle, spread his tailfeathers, and shake his wattle.
The farmwife saw him and laughed.
"What a dandy rooster we've got," she told her husband over dinner.
"As long as he keeps off rats and cats, he's fine," the farmer replied. "And as long as the hens keep laying eggs, of course."
As the seasons passed, the rooster grew more vain. In the spring, he festooned himself with flower petals. In the summer, he wore ferns in his tail. The lead hen, who had always kept her flock virtuous and safe from foxes and cats, felt obligated to speak. It was becoming difficult to live with someone so self-centered.
"When I was young, I thought our house rule against showing off was too strict," she said. "It seemed needlessly joyless. I never understood it until I saw you."
"You're just jealous," said the rooster. For his part, he envied other animals, including the lead hen. He hoped to supplant her as leader one day.
Late in the summer, as the rooster squawked on a stump, the hens noticed a rustle in the underbrush near the fence. Soon the rooster heard it, too. He hopped down from his perch and marched over to the noise. He hoped it was a rat since they were easy for him to scare.
A strange bird's head popped up above the hedge. A moment later, the body pushed through. A peacock revealed itself between the branches. It shook off a leaf.
The peacock may have been confused by seeing a bird displaying itself as if it were mating. He fanned his tail feathers. When the hens gathered closer, curious, he began to dance for them. He put on a competitive display for his audience despite seeing that they were not peafowl. The hens were impressed. They looked from the peacock to the rooster and back. They laughed.
"That's a show you can't match!" they said.
Through the fence, the rooster challenged the wayward peacock. But the wild bird was larger than any rooster and had no fear. He continued to flaunt his azure and emerald feathers. Incensed, the rooster flew to the top of the fence and hopped down on the other side. He chased the peacock which, despite its size, didn't want to fight. When cornered, deep in the woods between co-joined tree trunks, the peacock turned to its familiar ritual of intimidation. He treated the rooster like a rival and spread his feathers. He danced forward. His great neck loomed over the smaller bird.
The rooster sprang forward in fury. He tore at the peacock's throat. In a whirl of blood and claws, the rooster slashed open the peacock. For a while, the peacock ran among the trees, trying to escape, not quite sure what had happened. The rooster followed until his opponent collapsed, fainted, and finally died.
The rooster grabbed feathers as the spoils of his battle. He grew determined that he would wear them in his tail and under his wings. Thus, he would appear more magnificent than ever. He wandered for a day and a night, lost, but he did not abandon the burden of his trophies.
At last, he heard a hen call. Unfortunately for him, it was a peahen. He was still lost.
Feeling lonely, the rooster decided that he should impress other birds. He dressed himself as completely as he could in the feathers of his fallen opponent. Then he presented himself to the peahens.
When they first met him, they were not quite sure what he was supposed to be. Was he a tiny peacock? No. When they saw through his disguise, they shook their heads.
"A rooster in borrowed feathers is a rooster still," they told him.
He followed the trio of peahens for a week. Their answer did not change.
Meanwhile, the farmer went out and bought a younger, hardier rooster. This fellow did not look as nice. His plumage was plain, brown and white. But he was strong and his leg muscles bulged under his coat of feathers.
When the old, vain rooster found his way back to the barnyard, he was thirsty and half-starved. He had not found a puddle. He had not eaten anything except a few beetles. His appearance had declined with his health. He trailed the stolen peacock feathers behind him. They weighed down his tail. He carried others in his wings, tangled and hard to remove. He'd gotten stuck in bushes along the way because of them. With all of his peacock plumage, he was no longer able to fly to the top of the fence. He had to slip into the barnyard through a gap between the fence and gate.
When the old rooster approached the hen houses, other chickens ran away. They woke the younger male. The keen fellow hopped down from his perch and strode forward to meet the invader.
After a few steps, the younger one stopped and smiled. He saw through the disguise of heavy, cumbersome feathers and bluebeard blossoms, but he pretended not to know who it was.
"The last fellow killed a peacock, the hens say," he announced so everyone in the barnyard could hear him. He resumed the advance on his trembling, tired opponent. "Now is my chance to do the same."
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Not Zen 171: Results
A professor took her ethics class on a field trip across town. During the trip, she pointed out the porches at the front of old row houses. Her students wondered if they were similar to the stoa in ancient Greece where neighbors met to discuss philosophies.
"Yes," she said. "Front porches are a long-lasting idea."
"No one's using them."
"Well, we have air conditioning," said her teaching assistant. "Nowadays it's more comfortable inside."
"Things have changed," the professor agreed. "Different technologies have led us to different forms of discussion."
They talked about the past and how debates on morality once were long, methodical, and public. They argued about the old religious bans against ancient philosophies. Everyone agreed that spiritual matters needed to be discussed without recriminations. A few young men took the view that vows of poverty, like those taken by Cynics and a few Stoic philosophers, demonstrated commitment to spiritual endeavors. The professor took the contrary position that, if one felt a need to demonstrate detachment from material success in order to impress skeptics, the act became suspect. Detachment from worldly desires, to her, included a lack of desire to impress others.
When they arrived at the museum, the professor took her class on the standard tour. They stopped to examine ancient artifacts and exchange views on the cultures to which they belonged. Afterwards, they visited a famous church a block away.
Outside the church, the group of young men who had debated about vows of poverty declared that they would hike home.
"Is this wise?" asked the professor. "It will be a long, hot walk."
"It's good for us," said the most outspoken one. "Some hardship is normal. Anyway, some of us may prove resourceful and find better ways to return. We'll meet you at the college."
The professor sighed. "All right. If you're not waiting for me when I get back, I expect to see you in class tomorrow."
"Of course."
The young men started their march through the city in the peak of the afternoon. They grew overheated and impatient in a few minutes. They were not gregarious. None of them enjoyed the company of the others for long. They split into groups of two or three. Often, the groups drifted further apart. Students started to walk alone.
The outspoken one saw the situation and racked his mind to come up with a better way. He had slowed behind a pair of his friends. Each wore a light shirt with an open collar. They seemed content to stroll. They had mentioned, too, that they wanted to stop for dinner. They did not seem to be taking their temporary impoverishment seriously.
He turned a corner and picked up a leaf. A bum they'd passed on the first block of their journey had given him the idea. He pulled a comb out of his pocket. Between the leaf and comb, he could make a kazoo. That would improve upon the bum's attempt at busking, which had been merely to hum with a hand outstretched.
"Bus fare!" he shouted. He threw down a bandana and placed a quarter in it.
With the comb-and-leaf instrument, he played a tune. It was a ridiculous. The absurdity made him smile, which made passers-by grin. He danced and played the kazoo for another song, then another. An elderly woman threw down a dollar bill. A fellow in a business suit tossed down some change. In a few minutes, he had fare for the trip home.
As he picked up the money and bandana, another student watched.
The second young man had also left his group. He had no money and he'd thought he had no means to obtain any. He'd been contemplating how long the hike would take. Now he'd seen an answer to his predicament. As the first student departed, he took out his own comb.
He snatched up a scrap of paper from the curb. He threw down his hat.
He began playing even before he thought of a tune. Probably, he guessed, it didn't matter. He shuffled his feet and mimed gestures like a fool. After a minute, he felt exhausted. He started to sprinkle jokes between his musical attempts. He kept going.
His jokes seemed to make people turn away. He reached out harder. He played less on his comb. He shouted his next joke.
"You're scaring away customers!" called a shop manager behind him. She was an older woman, dark haired, who ran a laundry.
"Then just give me my bus fare." he retorted.
She folded her arms and shook her head. He turned away from her and resumed playing. He kept playing and dancing despite her protests. He reached out a hand to passers-by. The dodged around him. No one gave him money. In ten minutes, a policeman appeared on the scene.
"You're under arrest," the officer announced. "The charge is vagrancy. I've gotten two calls about you."
The officer cuffed the student on the spot. For a moment, the young man thought about resisting, maybe just running away, but he knew he didn't have the speed. Anyway, then he would get lost and he'd still need to hike across the city.
Early the next morning, the professor, her teaching assistant, and a pair of fellow students came to obtain the release of their jailed companion. The teaching assistant kept saying that she couldn't believe anyone could have such bad judgment.
"But he made the same decision that I did." From behind bars, the arrested student pointed to the other one, the fellow who had played the kazoo for his fare. "What makes my decision a bad one?"
"You could have done many things, including simply ask others for fare money." The professor shook her head sadly. "You could have explained your predicament. You could have offered to do work. You could have begged a ride. So many choices."
"You think I'm unwise because I'm unoriginal?"
"Originality is not the point." The professor nodded as the police officer handed her a release form. She signed. "You should have an idea of whether or not you can execute your decisions. This is not something that philosophy students like to hear - that in real life there is not just the decision but the deed. You must have the awareness to adjust if things go wrong. You must have the ability to reflect on yourself or you will not learn."
"My action was morally the same. It was."
"A moral decision is the beginning of wisdom. But you must go from moral decisions to moral actions."
"Yes," she said. "Front porches are a long-lasting idea."
"No one's using them."
"Well, we have air conditioning," said her teaching assistant. "Nowadays it's more comfortable inside."
"Things have changed," the professor agreed. "Different technologies have led us to different forms of discussion."
They talked about the past and how debates on morality once were long, methodical, and public. They argued about the old religious bans against ancient philosophies. Everyone agreed that spiritual matters needed to be discussed without recriminations. A few young men took the view that vows of poverty, like those taken by Cynics and a few Stoic philosophers, demonstrated commitment to spiritual endeavors. The professor took the contrary position that, if one felt a need to demonstrate detachment from material success in order to impress skeptics, the act became suspect. Detachment from worldly desires, to her, included a lack of desire to impress others.
When they arrived at the museum, the professor took her class on the standard tour. They stopped to examine ancient artifacts and exchange views on the cultures to which they belonged. Afterwards, they visited a famous church a block away.
Outside the church, the group of young men who had debated about vows of poverty declared that they would hike home.
"Is this wise?" asked the professor. "It will be a long, hot walk."
"It's good for us," said the most outspoken one. "Some hardship is normal. Anyway, some of us may prove resourceful and find better ways to return. We'll meet you at the college."
The professor sighed. "All right. If you're not waiting for me when I get back, I expect to see you in class tomorrow."
"Of course."
The young men started their march through the city in the peak of the afternoon. They grew overheated and impatient in a few minutes. They were not gregarious. None of them enjoyed the company of the others for long. They split into groups of two or three. Often, the groups drifted further apart. Students started to walk alone.
The outspoken one saw the situation and racked his mind to come up with a better way. He had slowed behind a pair of his friends. Each wore a light shirt with an open collar. They seemed content to stroll. They had mentioned, too, that they wanted to stop for dinner. They did not seem to be taking their temporary impoverishment seriously.
He turned a corner and picked up a leaf. A bum they'd passed on the first block of their journey had given him the idea. He pulled a comb out of his pocket. Between the leaf and comb, he could make a kazoo. That would improve upon the bum's attempt at busking, which had been merely to hum with a hand outstretched.
"Bus fare!" he shouted. He threw down a bandana and placed a quarter in it.
With the comb-and-leaf instrument, he played a tune. It was a ridiculous. The absurdity made him smile, which made passers-by grin. He danced and played the kazoo for another song, then another. An elderly woman threw down a dollar bill. A fellow in a business suit tossed down some change. In a few minutes, he had fare for the trip home.
As he picked up the money and bandana, another student watched.
The second young man had also left his group. He had no money and he'd thought he had no means to obtain any. He'd been contemplating how long the hike would take. Now he'd seen an answer to his predicament. As the first student departed, he took out his own comb.
He snatched up a scrap of paper from the curb. He threw down his hat.
He began playing even before he thought of a tune. Probably, he guessed, it didn't matter. He shuffled his feet and mimed gestures like a fool. After a minute, he felt exhausted. He started to sprinkle jokes between his musical attempts. He kept going.
His jokes seemed to make people turn away. He reached out harder. He played less on his comb. He shouted his next joke.
"You're scaring away customers!" called a shop manager behind him. She was an older woman, dark haired, who ran a laundry.
"Then just give me my bus fare." he retorted.
She folded her arms and shook her head. He turned away from her and resumed playing. He kept playing and dancing despite her protests. He reached out a hand to passers-by. The dodged around him. No one gave him money. In ten minutes, a policeman appeared on the scene.
"You're under arrest," the officer announced. "The charge is vagrancy. I've gotten two calls about you."
The officer cuffed the student on the spot. For a moment, the young man thought about resisting, maybe just running away, but he knew he didn't have the speed. Anyway, then he would get lost and he'd still need to hike across the city.
Early the next morning, the professor, her teaching assistant, and a pair of fellow students came to obtain the release of their jailed companion. The teaching assistant kept saying that she couldn't believe anyone could have such bad judgment.
"But he made the same decision that I did." From behind bars, the arrested student pointed to the other one, the fellow who had played the kazoo for his fare. "What makes my decision a bad one?"
"You could have done many things, including simply ask others for fare money." The professor shook her head sadly. "You could have explained your predicament. You could have offered to do work. You could have begged a ride. So many choices."
"You think I'm unwise because I'm unoriginal?"
"Originality is not the point." The professor nodded as the police officer handed her a release form. She signed. "You should have an idea of whether or not you can execute your decisions. This is not something that philosophy students like to hear - that in real life there is not just the decision but the deed. You must have the awareness to adjust if things go wrong. You must have the ability to reflect on yourself or you will not learn."
"My action was morally the same. It was."
"A moral decision is the beginning of wisdom. But you must go from moral decisions to moral actions."
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Not Zen 170: Different Grasses
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| Grasses by Natubico, Wikimedia Commons |
"Why have you stopped planting?" she asked. She strolled from the porch to the garden plot. Her father raised his hand spade and resumed digging.
"Feeling, noticing," he said. He turned up a fist-sized lump of dirt. "Just lost in thought, I suppose."
"Was it about planting the alfalfa and onion grass around the entire border of the garden?" She pushed her toe up against the edge of the turned ground. "You said they would keep away pests and then we'd eat them. Or were you thinking of something else?"
"Alfalfa grass can pick up the tastes and traits of other plants, especially other grasses."
"I've noticed."
"Plants aren't completely separate. Species aren't distinct."
"There can be a bit of blending. But not much, I think."
"When I was young, I studied myself intensely," he explained. "Like you, now. I corrected my flaws, corrected my concept of flaws, adjusted myself, and adjusted again. It was a continual process. I saw myself as a small part of a great world. The separation between my body and my mind dropped away. The separation between my body and the world dropped away."
"Kind of an achievement." She had known this from growing up with him but she enjoyed hearing hints of his youth.
He shook his head. "It was only the letting go of desires."
"You have moods but still you seem at peace nearly always. So it must have lasted."
"As I aged," he continued. "I came to realize that what I thought of as my 'self' had many aspects. My concept of the mind was limited. It always would be. My concept of the world was limited. It was a minimal insight in a sort of monkey-brain, framed by misleading perceptions. The idea of unity in the world became something else, a concession that even the best human actualizations are childish, almost innocent. Our best and worst concepts are part of nature. Our actualizations are like all things natural. They are a bit rough, a bit changing, a bit different than what they seem. My clinging to peace dropped away."
"It still fills you."
"That is natural, I think. My concepts of myself and of others dropped away. The idea of a self became useless. Sometimes I watch my limited perceptions. That is, part of me is sometimes still quite mindful. But sometimes not. There is a blending of those states."
"Why draw distinctions?” She rolled her eyes. “You are always so satisfied regardless. Why do you do anything at all?"
He laughed. His other hand found a second spade to his left. He held it out for her. She grabbed it by the handle.
"There is not really a me and there is not really an option of doing or not doing. Come on," he said as she put a knee on the ground next to him. "Let's plant the different grasses."
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Not Zen 169: Many Last Chances
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| from Wikimedia Commons by Adam Jones |
Her home wasn't fancy. She'd lived most of her life without art. Except for a few donations that lined a living room shelf, she still didn't have any. No one counted the framed drawings in multi-color crayon that she'd acquired over the years. Of those, roughly half had been made by her children, the rest by her grandchildren. They lined the back of a kitchen countertop. The two she liked best sat on either side of a photograph of her former husband.
On the morning of her birthday, she rose to prepare the kitchen for her guests. She rolled over and sat up. Her muscles felt weak but she was lighter than she used to be, so it evened out. Her feet met the floor. She shuffled to her dresser. With unsteady hands, she pulled out the middle drawer. After a moment of fumbling, she found her best blouse.
It took her longer than usual to get ready. The blouse was her problem. At the bottom, it had small buttons. At the top, it fastened with pegs and loops. She could feel that she hadn't gotten the buttons to work. After a while, she gave up, exhausted, and sat on the bed.
She sat long enough to catch her breath, then stood to try again. This time she could hardly feel the buttons, much less fit them into their buttonholes.
"Son!" she rose to shout.
Exasperated with herself, she sat back down. In a minute, her oldest child appeared at the bedroom door. Not long ago, she would have found it humiliating to need help to get dressed. Now she was merely glad that someone was here.
In the kitchen, she put her son to work for as long as she could. Unfortunately, they both needed to take breaks to sit, rest, and have tea. They didn't quite finish the preparations. Her son started playing host as soon as the guests arrived. The earliest were his wife, their kids, and their grandchild. The grandchild was a two-year-old girl who ran around the living room screaming for no reason other than she could.
Inside of an hour, the rest of the extended family had arrived, including other grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
"How suspicious," she said. Once more, she helped herself to the stool in the kitchen. Younger women had taken over the details anyway.
"What is?" asked her son.
"A lot of great-grandchildren seem to have shown up this time." She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "In fact, I think it's all of them."
"Good for them."
"Maybe." Her index finger pressed the glasses back onto her nose. She blinked and studied the young men and women laying out food on the dining table. "Good for this party you're throwing, you mean."
"What I mean is that the little ones don't see you much. You don't get around."
He'd made a similar comment yesterday when he arrived. Of course, he was the oldest and he'd already lost his younger brother. He was facing mandatory retirement soon, too. His company was forcing him out.
"You're worried that this is my last birthday, aren't you?" she said.
"Well, it could be," he allowed in a rather weak voice.
"I do feel like sort of an old beaver."
"Mom?" He looked at her as if he were wondering if her mind might not be working right. "I hope you're about to make a joke about dams or something."
"No. I mean, I feel like a wild animal that has to hunker down in the winter." Sometimes her mind wasn't quite right, she thought, but this time she knew what she meant. "I might not make it through next season."
They looked out over the kitchen, dining area, and most of the living room, all of them full of family and friends.
"I can see how you might feel that way." He nodded slowly. "But maybe you'll outlive me. I don't know. Maybe this is my last chance to see everyone but it's still not yours."
"But then I would be seeing them at your funeral."
"Probably." He smiled. He didn't seem at all upset by the idea.
"No thanks. I've had plenty of last chances." It took her a moment to compile a list in her head. Even so, she couldn't really grasp them all. There were too many and the ones at the top of her list were only examples. "I had my last chance with your father but I didn't understand it. I couldn't comprehend him dying. Before him, I had my last chance to hold your brother. Earlier I had my last talk with my mother. And with my father, of course, although he didn't want to say anything."
"Why not?"
"At the time, I was mad. Later, I understood that he was just in pain." She'd been a self-centered young woman, she thought, to have misunderstood. She'd assumed it was about her somehow. "Likely enough, the pain was all he could think about. But he still didn't want to talk about it."
"Couldn't a doctor have helped?"
"It wasn't done." She shook her head and looked on the counter for her drink. Unfortunately, she hadn't poured one for herself yet. "Anyway, I learned. I've had a lot of last chances at this point."
"Did you appreciate them?"
"Not always." She sighed and set her hands in her lap. "But it's always a last chance for something. Are you appreciating this? I mean, this moment. You organized it."
He grinned as he surveyed the family members and extended families. There were so many. Even the people who had been friends and neighbors, who weren't related, could have filled a room. A smile crept onto her face as she took in the sight of him looking over the crowd.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Not Even Not Zen 8: A Bandit Accountant, 1.1
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene One: Fired
Denario sipped a penny ale as he considered his dilemma. The mayor had refused to pay for the final installment of his audit. He had, in fact, tossed Denario out through the front door of the town hall with the help of three toughs. The accountant had shaken his fist and cried, “You can't do this!” but, in fact, it had already been done. Two of the mayor's loyal men kicked him when he tried to stand.
“Like I told you,” said the mayor. “If you're still around by nightfall, you're dead.”
Kevin, the red-haired guard with shoulders that belonged on a horse and who Denario had once liked, brushed his hands of the dust they'd accumulated in throwing him out.
“The stagecoach,” he whispered, “leaves before sunset.”
Then he kicked Denario again. The mayor stomped back into his office and the toughs watched Denario for a minute to make sure he didn't try anything stupid like re-entering the building. He hobbled away with bruises on his thighs and arms. At least they hadn't broken his fingers, he thought. He knew that these country folk in towns like Ziegeburg killed outsiders with little excuse, often in mobs at night.
As Denario drank, he wondered if he were immune to their lynchings.
Surely he had made enough friends here. He'd lived in the boarding house for nearly three months. The farmers and tradesmen seemed to like him and they didn't particularly care for Mayor Figgins. It was Figgins who'd broken the contract, not Denario, and the accountant wasn't his first victim, either. But that was Denario's real problem with leaving: the contract. He had been depending on the final installment to pay his way home.
“Bless, Denario.” A tanned, gnarled hand clapped him on the shoulder.
“Gordi.” He nodded. He'd heard the old man coming.
“I stopped work early today. Ye too, I hear. I know ye've got to skip town.”
“Well,” he began, unsure how to respond.
“'Ave ye got time for a last game of darts?”
“Of course, Gordi.” Denario downed the rest of his ale. He was good at darts. It was very nearly his only physical gift. He couldn't outrun a pregnant milkmaid. His arms could just about manage a bale of hay if the bale didn't knock him down. He could swim but he feared the water. He'd hired a man to teach him swordsmanship but the instructor had given him one lesson and returned the rest of his money with the advice, 'Don't waste your time.' Denario couldn't even hold his beer. He was a three-cup drunk.
He could throw, though. He was decent with a half-brick or anything lighter. Darts was his favorite activity – or at least his favorite of those he got to engage in regularly. He supposed he would have to say goodbye to his fiancée before he skipped town. He wasn't looking forward to the conversation and hoped she would at least try to talk him out of leaving. Sometimes he thought she was too good for him despite his coming from the big city. Most of the time, in fact.
During the Three Handfuls game with Gordi, he kept score of each dart sequence and secretly kept score of a second game in his head. For the secret game he chose Poke Jonni, which involved scoring a number immediately after the other fellow scored it. That was different from getting triplets in each number, as players did in Three Handfuls, so it kept Denario extra entertained. It was hard to win at both games at once. It was fun keeping score in both, too.
“Ah, ye win again,” said the wheel-maker at the end, as Denario sunk a triple fifteen right behind Gordi's fifteen. Denario had won both games, in fact, including the Poke Jonni in his head.
“I think you let me.” He pulled out the darts and handed them back to his friend.
“Nah, ye always win at darts. I always win me money back at cards.” It was an odd trend they'd developed and it was strange to Denario because he knew he was excellent at cards. Yet Gordi was better at certain games, especially those in which he could bluff. Also, Gordi cheated a little, probably, although Denario didn't really mind. The accountant didn't want to make his money from gambling.
“At least let me play you a game of Mad Kings to make it up.”
“My favorite.” Gordi gave him a regretful look. He'd won drinks from everyone in the bar at that game. “But no, ye have a stagecoach to catch so I hear. Can't keep ye.”
At the bar with the penny he'd won from Gordi, Denario started to panic. If a farmer had learned about Denario's troubles then the news was all over town. He checked the other faces in the Proud Pony. He knew them all, the miller's deadbeat son, the cloth merchant, the pot-bellied rancher, and they had all been watching him until the moment he turned around. Their glances shied away, a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity. Even Gordi wouldn't meet Denario's gaze as he sat next to his rancher friend.
The town of Ziegeburg was large by regional standards and it supported, barely, three drinking establishments. One was called Hippogriff's. It had gilt lined doors and sat in the center of a neighborhood referred to as The Towers. It was far too rich for Denario. Hippogriff's would admit an accountant grudgingly but it would have thrown out a wheelwright or a potter unless accompanied by a better member of local society.
That was the best place to drink. The worst was the one that occupied the southwest end of town just outside the gate. It was called Bottoms Up. The place was too cheap to have a wood floor, just straw over dirt. The Proud Pony had a dirt floor, too, but it was cleaner somehow. The barman didn't tolerate thugs or bandits. His establishment catered to the wealthier farmers and part-time tradesmen like Gordi.
Denario had no idea what went on in Hippogriff's but he was sure that the news of his disgrace had already reached all ears at the Proud Pony and Bottoms Up.
“Last beer?” muttered the barman.
“Alfie,” whispered Denario with both hands on the bar. “This is terrible. I can't leave but everyone is telling me I should. What about you? Do you think I should buy a place on the stagecoach? What happens if I miss it?"
Alfie's eyebrows rose. His lips moved but no sound came out for a while. When he finally spoke, he checked to make sure no one was too close to hear.
“If you miss that stagecoach,” he said, “walk.”
“Seriously? Won't bandits catch me on the road?”
“Maybe. Maybe they'll catch the coach, too. They sometimes do, nowadays. The roads aren't as safe as when I was a boy.” He picked up a clean mug and decided to clean it some more. He rubbed it hard with his rag. “But getting robbed is better than having the mayor's men hang you by your neck off the jailhouse at the center of town. That sort of thing scares the children. I got a little girl now who I don't want to see that.”
“Hadn't thought of it your way.” He slumped against the bar top, the image of his body dangling from a thick rope in his mind. Now he realized why those three joists jutted out from the south wall of the jail. He should have clued in when he heard someone call them the gibbet beams. “But I'm engaged to Widow Brightli, you know. And today I'm getting chased out because the mayor's brother pocketed a share of the baron's tax collection.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” said the barman with a stony face.
“It's why the mayor wants me to leave. His brother ...”
“And don't say it again.”
“Ah.” Denario nodded He sat upright. “I suppose I should have another ale, then.”
“One penny, sir.” The barman had clearly been about to give it to Denario for free but must have changed his mind when he heard the crazy notions swirling in Denario's head. There was a heavy, round copper piece pinched in Denario's fingers. He handed it over. The barman's stuck it in his pocket and grabbed a mug in his thick fingers. When he slid it, full to the brim, across the counter, he said, “I'd drink fast, sir, if I wanted a word with the Widow Brightli. And if I were in your situation, I would want that last chance, sir.”
“I need a plan,” mumbled Denario to himself.
“Kiss the widow and step on the stagecoach.” The tough man softened his tone just slightly. “That's your plan, sir.”
Scene Two
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
Scene One: Fired
Denario sipped a penny ale as he considered his dilemma. The mayor had refused to pay for the final installment of his audit. He had, in fact, tossed Denario out through the front door of the town hall with the help of three toughs. The accountant had shaken his fist and cried, “You can't do this!” but, in fact, it had already been done. Two of the mayor's loyal men kicked him when he tried to stand.
“Like I told you,” said the mayor. “If you're still around by nightfall, you're dead.”
Kevin, the red-haired guard with shoulders that belonged on a horse and who Denario had once liked, brushed his hands of the dust they'd accumulated in throwing him out.
“The stagecoach,” he whispered, “leaves before sunset.”
Then he kicked Denario again. The mayor stomped back into his office and the toughs watched Denario for a minute to make sure he didn't try anything stupid like re-entering the building. He hobbled away with bruises on his thighs and arms. At least they hadn't broken his fingers, he thought. He knew that these country folk in towns like Ziegeburg killed outsiders with little excuse, often in mobs at night.
As Denario drank, he wondered if he were immune to their lynchings.
Surely he had made enough friends here. He'd lived in the boarding house for nearly three months. The farmers and tradesmen seemed to like him and they didn't particularly care for Mayor Figgins. It was Figgins who'd broken the contract, not Denario, and the accountant wasn't his first victim, either. But that was Denario's real problem with leaving: the contract. He had been depending on the final installment to pay his way home.
“Bless, Denario.” A tanned, gnarled hand clapped him on the shoulder.
“Gordi.” He nodded. He'd heard the old man coming.
“I stopped work early today. Ye too, I hear. I know ye've got to skip town.”
“Well,” he began, unsure how to respond.
“'Ave ye got time for a last game of darts?”
“Of course, Gordi.” Denario downed the rest of his ale. He was good at darts. It was very nearly his only physical gift. He couldn't outrun a pregnant milkmaid. His arms could just about manage a bale of hay if the bale didn't knock him down. He could swim but he feared the water. He'd hired a man to teach him swordsmanship but the instructor had given him one lesson and returned the rest of his money with the advice, 'Don't waste your time.' Denario couldn't even hold his beer. He was a three-cup drunk.
He could throw, though. He was decent with a half-brick or anything lighter. Darts was his favorite activity – or at least his favorite of those he got to engage in regularly. He supposed he would have to say goodbye to his fiancée before he skipped town. He wasn't looking forward to the conversation and hoped she would at least try to talk him out of leaving. Sometimes he thought she was too good for him despite his coming from the big city. Most of the time, in fact.
During the Three Handfuls game with Gordi, he kept score of each dart sequence and secretly kept score of a second game in his head. For the secret game he chose Poke Jonni, which involved scoring a number immediately after the other fellow scored it. That was different from getting triplets in each number, as players did in Three Handfuls, so it kept Denario extra entertained. It was hard to win at both games at once. It was fun keeping score in both, too.
“Ah, ye win again,” said the wheel-maker at the end, as Denario sunk a triple fifteen right behind Gordi's fifteen. Denario had won both games, in fact, including the Poke Jonni in his head.
“I think you let me.” He pulled out the darts and handed them back to his friend.
“Nah, ye always win at darts. I always win me money back at cards.” It was an odd trend they'd developed and it was strange to Denario because he knew he was excellent at cards. Yet Gordi was better at certain games, especially those in which he could bluff. Also, Gordi cheated a little, probably, although Denario didn't really mind. The accountant didn't want to make his money from gambling.
“At least let me play you a game of Mad Kings to make it up.”
“My favorite.” Gordi gave him a regretful look. He'd won drinks from everyone in the bar at that game. “But no, ye have a stagecoach to catch so I hear. Can't keep ye.”
At the bar with the penny he'd won from Gordi, Denario started to panic. If a farmer had learned about Denario's troubles then the news was all over town. He checked the other faces in the Proud Pony. He knew them all, the miller's deadbeat son, the cloth merchant, the pot-bellied rancher, and they had all been watching him until the moment he turned around. Their glances shied away, a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity. Even Gordi wouldn't meet Denario's gaze as he sat next to his rancher friend.
The town of Ziegeburg was large by regional standards and it supported, barely, three drinking establishments. One was called Hippogriff's. It had gilt lined doors and sat in the center of a neighborhood referred to as The Towers. It was far too rich for Denario. Hippogriff's would admit an accountant grudgingly but it would have thrown out a wheelwright or a potter unless accompanied by a better member of local society.
That was the best place to drink. The worst was the one that occupied the southwest end of town just outside the gate. It was called Bottoms Up. The place was too cheap to have a wood floor, just straw over dirt. The Proud Pony had a dirt floor, too, but it was cleaner somehow. The barman didn't tolerate thugs or bandits. His establishment catered to the wealthier farmers and part-time tradesmen like Gordi.
Denario had no idea what went on in Hippogriff's but he was sure that the news of his disgrace had already reached all ears at the Proud Pony and Bottoms Up.
“Last beer?” muttered the barman.
“Alfie,” whispered Denario with both hands on the bar. “This is terrible. I can't leave but everyone is telling me I should. What about you? Do you think I should buy a place on the stagecoach? What happens if I miss it?"
Alfie's eyebrows rose. His lips moved but no sound came out for a while. When he finally spoke, he checked to make sure no one was too close to hear.
“If you miss that stagecoach,” he said, “walk.”
“Seriously? Won't bandits catch me on the road?”
“Maybe. Maybe they'll catch the coach, too. They sometimes do, nowadays. The roads aren't as safe as when I was a boy.” He picked up a clean mug and decided to clean it some more. He rubbed it hard with his rag. “But getting robbed is better than having the mayor's men hang you by your neck off the jailhouse at the center of town. That sort of thing scares the children. I got a little girl now who I don't want to see that.”
“Hadn't thought of it your way.” He slumped against the bar top, the image of his body dangling from a thick rope in his mind. Now he realized why those three joists jutted out from the south wall of the jail. He should have clued in when he heard someone call them the gibbet beams. “But I'm engaged to Widow Brightli, you know. And today I'm getting chased out because the mayor's brother pocketed a share of the baron's tax collection.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” said the barman with a stony face.
“It's why the mayor wants me to leave. His brother ...”
“And don't say it again.”
“Ah.” Denario nodded He sat upright. “I suppose I should have another ale, then.”
“One penny, sir.” The barman had clearly been about to give it to Denario for free but must have changed his mind when he heard the crazy notions swirling in Denario's head. There was a heavy, round copper piece pinched in Denario's fingers. He handed it over. The barman's stuck it in his pocket and grabbed a mug in his thick fingers. When he slid it, full to the brim, across the counter, he said, “I'd drink fast, sir, if I wanted a word with the Widow Brightli. And if I were in your situation, I would want that last chance, sir.”
“I need a plan,” mumbled Denario to himself.
“Kiss the widow and step on the stagecoach.” The tough man softened his tone just slightly. “That's your plan, sir.”
Scene Two
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