The Woad to Wuin, Page 3

  This is actually rather beside the point, but I thought I’d make the observation: Have you ever noticed that, after someone has died, those who survived him suddenly become self-proclaimed experts on what the deceased would have liked to see? “Poor John would have liked an oaken coffin.” “Ah yes, Timothy, he would have wanted me to have his favorite sword with the perfect balance.” “Definitely, poor Brian, he would have liked nothing better than for us all to get drunk, steal his body, quarter it, and deliver it to four syphilitic prostitutes at each corner of the kingdom, because that was just the kind of joke-enjoying jackanapes that Brian always was, and it would have given him a right good giggle.”

  As for me, I never presume to postulate what the dearly departed would have wanted because I am quite reasonably sure that, in the final analysis, they all would have wanted the same thing … namely, to keep on living. What happens to me while I’m alive is of the utmost importance. What happens to me after I’m deceased, I absolutely could not give a damn about. And I very much suspect that every dead person out there would concur. I don’t see much leeway. If there’s an afterlife, then the departed are either too busy romping through heaven’s grove or suffering eternal torment to care about what’s going on in the world left behind, and if there is no afterlife, then obviously the entire thing is moot. “So and So would want it that way.” The amount of hubris such a comment requires is truly staggering, but still everyone says it and everyone does it. And yet those same individuals would look down their noses at me just because I’m rude enough to want to postpone, for as long as possible, that inevitable time when my survivors will have the opportunity to say, “Let’s sever his head and use it for a quick game of Kickabout, because Apropos would have wanted it that way.”

  Pardon my written wanderings. Although I am writing of the days of my youth, I am rather somewhat older now … a staggering circumstance considering I never thought I would last this long, or at all. The mornings are much hotter and the nights much colder these days, and my attentions prone to occasional waywardness. I would be most obliged if you would forgive an old reprobate his shortcomings.

  So … as I made my way back to the cave over many days, I continued to ponder my odd situation. Truly, it was a curiosity. There were those who would have craved adventure in their lives, but wound up living and dying in relative quiet. I, on the other hand, who would not mind in the least being left alone, invariably found myself in a world of trouble sooner or later. Life, it seems, does love its little ironies … or perversions, as the case may be.

  When I drew within range of the cave, I tried to get a feeling whether Sharee was still there, or if she had set out on her own. I also noticed, as I drew closer, that the sky in the area was darkening. This struck me as not the best omen in the world, for Sharee was a weatherweaver, and yes, it was possible that the approaching inclement weather was simply a normal happenstance. However it was also possible that she was in a foul mood, and that mood was being reflected in the skies above. I don’t wish to sound self-centered or self-absorbed. After all, here I was commenting on the unwarranted hubris of others but a short time ago, and yet I now write of how I was concerned that the weather itself related to me. That would seem utterly ridiculous if there were not a better than even chance of it being true in this instance.

  In case I have not mentioned this before, I have this annoying habit of being right considerably more often than I am wrong, particularly when it comes to surmising potential catastrophes rolling in my direction. But by that point I was bone-weary, footsore, and more than willing to risk whatever anger the young enchantress might have had brewing within her than having to face yet another evening on my own.

  To this day, I question why I bothered. I must have had some reason that I sought her company. I could have gone off about my business, never seen her again. Perhaps it was that she was simply someone to talk to, and I—like most creatures—sought the company of others. Or it’s more likely that by keeping someone around with whom I could converse, I could spend that much less time dwelling upon my own thoughts. The more time I spent with others, the less time I needed to spend with myself.

  As it turned out, the decision was taken out of my hands.

  I approached the cave, drawing my cloak more tightly around me as the weather kicked up fiercely. “Sharee!” I called her name, trying to shout above the harsh winds that enveloped me.

  If there was one thing that was highly attuned within me, it was a sense of imminent danger. As a result, I was already in motion when the lightning bolt struck the tree that was a mere foot to my left. It was a thin tree, and the lightning split the trunk as I scrambled about on the dirt, trying to get away. For an instant I thought that it was purely coincidental, and then I realized the foolishness of that notion. When one associates with a weatherweaver, and when one has even the slightest reason to think that the weaver might be put out for some reason, any bolt of lightning is automatically suspicious … particularly one that misses you by as narrow a margin as that one had.

  The air itself smelled burnt, and the hair was raised in my nostrils and on the back of my neck. Remembering that lightning tends to strike higher points, I elected to remain flat on my belly as I called out, “Sharee! Are you in there? Did you do that?”

  At first there was no movement, and then slowly I saw her shadow approaching the front of the cave. She appeared then, and it seemed as if shadows were stretching from her, consuming the entirety of the entrance. Even though it was midday, the sky surrounding us was black as pitch. The winds were blowing the clouds about fiercely. I fancied I could see images in the clouds, dragons and ogres and monsters of all shape and stripe. Every single one of them seemed irritated with me.

  “Sharee—?” I prompted.

  “Of course I did that,” she said impatiently.

  “Do we have a problem?”

  “A problem?!” She seemed dumbfounded that I could not comprehend what it was that she was so angry about. “You have the temerity to ask me that? Do you think I’m a fool? Do you think me oblivious?”

  “I confess to some ignorance on my part,” I admitted. “I’m not sure exactly why you would be—”

  “You had your way with me, you pig!”

  “Ah. That,” I said slowly.

  “Yes, that! What did you think I was upset about?” Her hands started to quiver and crackle with barely contained fury. Even though the lines in the air that weavers draw together to create their spells remained largely invisible to me, I could still perceive that she was gathering threads together to mount some new attack.

  Suddenly I felt a bit ill-used. “Excuse me!” I called out, and I even stood, pushing myself to standing using my staff. This was potentially a suicidal move, but I believed that if I didn’t show strength, I was likely a goner anyway. “Excuse me. But it’s not as if you gave me a good deal of choice, you know!” She flushed furiously, which didn’t stop me from speaking. “I had my way with you? It seemed from my position—namely horizontal—that you were far more intent in having your way with me. You didn’t care in the least about my feelings.”

  Apparently that was the wrong approach to take, because clouds rushed together abruptly, and I barely had any warning before the air was alive once again with lightning. I whirled, my lame right leg almost collapsing beneath me, only my staff providing support as the air crackled and exploded with heat and light. When it subsided, I blinked furiously against it to recapture my sight. The first thing I noticed as the flash blinding began to fade was that the trailing corner of my cloak was blackened. That’s how near a thing it had been.

  “Your feelings? Your feelings?” she raged. “You don’t have any feelings, you heartless monster! That you would go to such lengths … that you would seek out some sort of charm or spell to seduce me—”

  “Is that what you think happened?” I said incredulously. “Believe it or not, Sharee, not everything in the world that occurs is about you. Yes, yes, there was ensorc
ellment, I won’t lie to you about that. But it was not as you describe it.”

  “Oh?” She did not sound particularly inclined to believe me. “Then describe to me what did happen, then. Tell me the truth of it.”

  I opened my mouth, and then closed it without a sound emerging.

  I didn’t want to tell her. Really, can you blame me? The entire affair was possibly the single most humiliating that I had ever experienced. I couldn’t even figure out where to start, because there really wasn’t much of any starting place that would make me look good, and she’d want to know the details, and gods, the conclusion of the whole business …

  “No answer. Lying bastard. Can’t even come up with an acceptable mendacity? You’re losing your touch, Apropos. The simple fact is that you use people. That’s what you do. It is your gift. You use them for whatever purpose it pleases you, and then you discard them while laughing up your sleeve at your superiority.”

  I said nothing. There was nothing I could say. It was too ridiculous, too humiliating. I suppose I should not have cared what Sharee thought of me, but unfortunately, I did. And I realized in that moment that I would rather have her think me a bastard, a manipulator, a cretin … anything other than an object of utter, degrading ridicule. A miserable fool who was helpless as he was used by a plethora of women and then engaged in an adventure so farcical that he’d almost had to part company with his manhood in order to conclude it.

  There was silence then save for the rumbling of thunder, which was still near enough and sufficiently threatening to keep me all too aware of my vulnerability. Then I heard her say, “Go away. Go away before I kill you where you stand.”

  Well, with an invitation like that, I didn’t have to be told twice. I turned and went off into the woods without another word.

  Several weeks later curiosity overtook my better instinct, and I made my way back to the cave. She was gone. There was no sign that the cave was inhabited, or indeed ever had been.

  I did not know where she had got to, and I suppose I should have considered myself lucky to be quit of her.

  I wasn’t. Despite the relief I should have felt, instead I was filled with regret that this state of affairs had arisen to drive us apart in such a manner, and—even though I had been ill-used, even though I was merely a victim of circumstance and falsely accused—well, Sharee and I had been through a bit together. I had risked myself to save her on one occasion, and she in turn had made sacrifices in order to rescue me on another. The truth was that I was saddened our time together ended in such a manner, and wished that somehow there might be some way that I could make things right.

  A general rule of thumb that I shall impart to you herewith: When it comes to the affairs of wizards, never wish that you could have prolonged exposure to them rather than counting your lucky stars when they depart your life. For sure as hell the gods will hear you and take perverse pleasure in granting your request … as they did with me.

  Chapter 2

  Fear and Loathing at Bugger Hall

  It’s always being “written” somewhere. Have you noticed that?

  Any number of times in my somewhat tortured and torturous career—the details of which I have been endeavoring to chronicle in an honest fashion, which would certainly serve as contrast to how I lived most of my life—I encountered situations or scenarios that had been “foreseen” by someone. Sometimes they existed woven into tapestries by Farweavers: magi whose special gift was to pictorialize the future. More often, they were written down as vague predictions of things to come. Sometimes they were in free verse, other times they rhymed, but there was a particular and peculiar consistency to them in that they were of absolutely no use ahead of time. Only afterward, once lives had been lost, blood had been spilled, screams of torture had been unleashed to the heavens … only then could one look back and say, “Ahhhh … all right. That’s what it meant.”

  I have never, ever understood the mindset of prognosticators who felt compelled to engage in such foolishness. If they truly have the foreknowledge to perceive that which is going to happen, why can they not simply tell us in clear, coherent manner just what it is that’s going to occur? Why must they hang shadows and riddles upon it? What sort of perverse pleasure do they derive tormenting people who—as of the time of their predictions—likely are not even yet born? “When the rising sun of the eighth house is nigh, then will the high tower collapse upon the running river.” Hell, half the time you don’t even know for certain if they’re even referring to you at all.

  The only explanation upon which I have been able to settle is that forecasters and Farweavers walk a fine line between one of the oldest disputes between man and his gods.

  On the one hand, we humans tell ourselves that we are blessed with free will. We make our decisions and live or die by them. When faced with forks of destiny, it is we and we alone who decide which road to walk.

  On the other hand, whenever anything goes wrong, we cross our arms, rest our hands upon opposite shoulders and—lacking any better explanation to the contrary—shake our heads and sigh, “It’s the will of the gods.” “The gods wished it so.” “The gods move in mysterious ways.”

  Of course they move in mysterious ways. They have to keep it mysterious, because if they tried to explain it, anyone with the education of a pustule would be able to say, “But that makes no sense at all!” To which the gods would stammer and hem and haw and have to admit that not only are they not remotely omnipotent, but they in fact have less of a clue how the universe really works than any of us do.

  One simply cannot have it both ways. We cannot tell ourselves that we are the choosers of our own destiny if we simultaneously ascribe to all-powerful beings the options of diverting those paths anytime they choose. If that is the universe in which we live, then one has to wonder what the point of anything is. It makes no sense to strive for heroic ideals or endeavor to pursue some sort of unique path to glory if the gods can impose their own agenda at any time.

  The entire question also sends one into spirals of quandary about such things as predestination. If it is possible to predict some things in detail, then we must further assume that it is possible to predict all things. Should that be the case, then absolutely nothing that we do matters, because it’s already been decided somehow, somewhere, that we’re going to do it or not do it. Don’t feel like getting out of bed one morning? It matters not; it is written that you won’t. Your mate looked at you cross-eyed and so you felt like killing her? Might as well. The law doesn’t matter, because higher laws—the laws of gods—dictate whether you will or not.

  In short, if you analyze the relationships of gods to men, you are forced to one of two conclusions:

  There are gods, in which case the aspirations of men don’t matter. So why bother?

  There are no gods, in which case we are alone in the universe, there is neither heaven nor hell, and this miserable endless hardship of a life is all we get with no hope of eternal reward for the pure and eternal damnation for the wicked. So why bother?

  As you might surmise, I am simply endless fun at parties and other such gatherings.

  Believe it or not, all of the foregoing will actually turn out to be pertinent to matters as they will turn out in this narrative. First, though, it becomes necessary to explain to you how I came to be the owner of Bugger Hall.

  With Sharee gone, I once again took up residence in the cave, and for quite some time I lived out my pleasant fantasy of being left alone. I stayed in the forest, foraged for what I needed, and every so often if I desired a change of pace, I would rob someone. I am no highwayman; although I did learn the trade, I have no stomach to accost wayward travelers and attempt to relieve them of their possessions. I hardly strike a frightening figure; even if I wore as terrifying a mask as I could obtain for effect, I’m still clearly lame of leg, and a limping master criminal simply does not have the desired effect upon potential victims. I could have rigged traps, but the Tucker Forest has no reputation for be
ing haunted (unlike the Elderwoods of my youth), so such endeavors might well have prompted my victims to search the woods and perhaps turn me up.

  So instead I simply went for the line of least resistance. The forest was quite large, not really passable in one day except if riding the fleetest of horses. So when travelers would camp for the night and fall asleep, I would sneak upon them and help myself to their riches, and occasionally a flagon of wine or whatever drink they had upon them in a skin. By the time they awoke hours later, I was long gone. And since I would always drop pebbles and such into coin purses to replace the weight, the chances were that most of them did not even know they’d been robbed until it was too late and they were long out of the forest. I would then bring the coins back to the cave and bury them, safe from prying eyes.

  So between the occasional forays into thievery and the search for game in order to keep my belly full, the time passed in a most uneventful fashion. I could not have been happier … save for those times when I was insanely bored.

  How typical of the human animal, is it not? To obtain a desired goal, and then to become annoyed with it once it is in your possession. Yes indeed, a pretty enigmatic and contradictory bunch, we humans.

  Months went by in this manner, one season rolling into another. The cave was nicely cool during the summer months, but in the winter I nearly froze there, and one evening when the cold simply became too intolerable, I set out through the forest just so the movement would keep me warm.

  By this point enough time had passed that I was utterly convinced the soldiers of King Runcible would either never find me, or else weren’t actually looking for me in the first place. Thus emboldened, I set out. Once getting to the main road, I headed west this time. I had no idea what lay in that direction, but I knew that going east had the potential for disaster. For all I knew, all the women with whom I’d been involved, the young and the old, the glorious and the wretched castoffs, all of them might well be waiting for me. They would all be sharing Sharee’s opinion of me and would probably beat me to death with shovels if given the opportunity.