Anaboraxus I: III

By Norman X. Scozzafova

Anaboraxus stumbled into becoming a wizard without previously knowing of their existence. After helping them in a fight against their age-old enemies, he takes a small group out to set up a new community beyond their cave.

Once that task has been set to rights, he works toward his goal of creating an improved method of schooling.

New enemies drive him out and he goes west to find his future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martian Publishing
• Release date: Oct 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463980583

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

the Farm

And it fluttered higher up the hill.

His feet slipped in the wet grass, his grasping hand coming within a beru's length of the colorful web of insect wings. The boy recovered the missed step and lunged.

Panting, his arms extended beyond his red-capped head, he lay in triumph where he fell, the emerald blades giving up their green moisture to his dry summer clothing. Cupped inside his small hands the fluttering continued, tickling his palms and painting them a pale, powdery yellow. Slowly, to elbows first… then to knees, he climbed to his feet.

Below, where the green carpet of the hill gave up its conquests to the plowed fields, his father took a moment from the harvest-boon to wave, signifying his observation of the chase. The boy beamed and returned the gesture – a cupped, two-handed wave – then returned to his more personal business.

Close to his widened eyes, his fingers uncurled slightly, anticipating the flurry of wings from within the fleshy trap. He reached in, feeling cautiously so as not to injure the creature, until his fingertips closed on the bad head – that second, antennaeless lump on the butterfly's neck – and pinched it carefully off.

The fingers of the prison opened. The butterfly, unhurt, continued unencumbered on its path over the hill, against a southering wind.

****

Congratulations, son. Stanila leaned on his staff amidst the darda-melons and watched the boy rubbing the purplish-brown goo into his palms. And now, you'll have another year of good luck!

The youth displayed his discolored hands. Yes, I guess so, but why should it matter if I squeeze the juice of the bad head onto my hands? How could that possibly change my luck?

I'm not sure if it helps, son, but it is an old, very old superstition. And you know the saying: 'The old things are the best'.

Well... yes.

Stanila laughed. A disbeliever, eh? He put his arm around the lad's shoulders and began walking toward home, retracing his steps between the rows of melons. I do recall once hearing that since the bad head does no good for the butterfly, it must be bad... filled with evil. And if you cover your hands with that evil before your birthday, the rest of the year will find your hands filled with good. Like they say: 'Opposites attract'. He patted his vest pockets, searching for his tobacco.

His father seemed to have an ancient saying for everything, he mused. From across the fields, a voice fought through the wind and the singing of the client-harvesters.

Father, I think Borab is calling.

Eh? The elder stopped his search and looked toward the small beckoning figure near the house. Ah, but that'd be the call for midday's, don't you suppose? Let's surprise them with your catch, eh? He signaled to the foreman to allow the others to break for meal as well. Then, arms about each other, father and son departed the darda-melons, then crossed the fields of chalik, wheat, barnum, oats, and gortbeets, past the family herb garden, to the modest multifamily dwelling.

Within were the smoke and bustle congruent to the preparation of a large meal, with the noise and collisions accompanying too many bodies-in-motion in such confined quarters.

Better go freshen up a' table, son, Stanila patted his shoulder and eased his weary frame into the intricately hand carved chair at the head of the table.

Not so fast, sir! The trim, tawny haired mistress of the house approached, hands on hips. And do you think you need not freshen up a' table just because your hands are dirtier than the rest, and your brow more caked with sweat? Nay, sir, those battle honors do not credit my house!

Stanila leapt to his feet. A thousand pardons, your highness. He bowed deeply. I shall ready the situation most immediate. I shall... no! He only just ducked the snapping towel and darted for the door, his wife's supple wrist playing a smart tattoo upon the seat of his breeches with the fabric.

After his departure, Well, don't just stand there! She motioned to the others. If everything is not completely ready when he returns, I shall be the one chased by the towel.

And the room was once again set into motion, the table set with platters and forks, cups and napkins, all with a minimum of collision. And everyone was settled into their places before either father or Anaboraxus, the youngest of his children, returned a' table. Thereupon the blessing was delayed a moment longer while he made the round of the table showing off his prized hands.

****

During the meal, Anaboraxus was set to thinking: Fifteen I become. The thought dazed him. At long last, entering his manhood! Its arrival seemed to waken something deep within him – what exactly, he could not guess. And that thought caused him to look again at his palms.

Funny thing, that old superstition. But next year his hands would remain untarnished. He would be too old for childish things then; why, he'd be sixteen, and learning a trade. His trade, whatever that might turn out to be. He turned and stole a glance at his father, joking expansively with Teritha, Borab's wife heavy with child. Father did not notice the look, nor had mother. Nor Borab, sister Katia, Tomkin or his bride Mili, as all were bending an ear toward father's jesting. Anaboraxus did not care to listen, for it was usually something beyond his years and comprehension. Around the table laughter rose, Teritha turned crimson, Mili seemed to stare intently at her plate, and mother scowled at father, poking him playfully in the ribs with a comment no one heard but father. He doubled over with even harder laughter and nearly fell from his chair.

So it went. But some things he had heard and understood; lying in bed late at night, hours after he should normally be sleeping soundly. Those quiet concerned talks between his parents; all the words had not been clear, but enough had creeped ever so slowly, ragged and worn, through the cracks around his bedroom door and, muffled though they were, burned in his ears. What were they to do about Anaboraxus?

The question haunted the remainder of his day.

****

Goodnights had been said. Borab and Tomkin departed with their wives to their separate apartments, Matigra was busy with Katia's packing, and Anaboraxus was off to bed. Stanila tilted his chair, putting a foot on the table, and removed tobacco and pipe from his vest pocket. It was well-stoked, and he was surrounded by pale blue smoke when Matigra returned.

And how is it with Katia, dear?

She brushed his foot off the table with the crumbs. As well as it can be, seeing's she'll be wed within the fortnight. She shook her head almost sadly and took a damp cloth to the table. She's excited – of course! – and a trifle scared. Not about leaving home, mind you; scared about her new family.

Still, it is hard to let her go, eh? He set his pipe on the wet table and took her into his lap. Be comforted, Mati. This is what we have worked years for, raising and training five dirty-faced, wet-diapered scamps. There, there. He held her close, patting her back softly.

Shortly, dabbing at her eyes with the damp cloth, she stood again. But you are right of course, Stan. We've been far luckier than most, only losing three in childhood. And soon enough we'll have more grandchildren running about under foot. She laughed and returned to wiping the table. And then we'll probably rue the day we gave birth to our first.

That's more like my old girl. His fond pat on her posterior was quickly withdrawn, stinging smartly from the snap of the damp cloth. He wiped it on his shirt.

And that's just like my old boy. 'Old girl' indeed!

Puffing his pipe back to life, he placed his boots on the edge of the table again with a chuckle. Ah, but it is comforting to see all five children so healthy, educated, and going to proper places in this world. His feet were wiped from the table again. He righted himself. Yes, indeed. Makes one proud.

After hanging the cloth, she took a seat next to him. Yes, but is it best for little Braxus? This is the only place he's ever known.

Now, dear, we've been through this before. The farm will just not stand up to much more subdivision; for Braxus, perhaps... but what of his children? Or Borab's? Tomkin's? No, there is just not enough to go that far. And he's a bright inquisitive lad; it'll be just the sort of thing for him. And he might be able to get a piece of land much larger than this one, in a few years.

But it's so far.

"There are ships, Mati. And with the income they will be providing, why, in just a few short years he should be able to pay for our passage, or at least come home to visit.

'Hail the great metal smith to the High Court!' we will have to shout, and put out all of our finery as for a visiting potentate. He smiled at the thought of his son... Yes, we could have a regular to-do about the entire affair.

She put her hand on his and pressed gently. Yes, it will probably be all right, I suppose. But when must he go? And when do we tell him?

I think tomorrow.

~~~~

CHAPTER TWO

Lumbar City

It was five-hour sun on the first moon after harvest-end, when the two carriages of singing men and women, boys and girls rolled past the roadstone marking the city limits in its bold characters:

LUMBAR

inhabitants – 567

seat of the Lumartium Hundreds

consel – Dejon

Most of the family had not been to Lumbar since the previous summer, though Borab, the two younger women, and Borab's three girls had been there with their mother as recently as mid-harvest. It was a great occasion and a splendid celebration for all: Anaboraxus was bound for great and glorious Vriamidon!

But the sight of a singing carriage was not unusual for Lumbar this time of year, for during the seven hour ride from their farm, their two wagons had been joined by or passed by many others, as well as many afoot, heading for the harvest markets in Lumbar; them and the accompanying festivities. And though the sign indicated a population of only five hundreds, sixty and seven, this week would find Lumbar bulging to over five thousand.

All but a few persons, and the necessary consular patrols of the roadways, in the vastness of all the Lumartium Hundreds gathered yearly for such celebration that neither the accompanying tax-collections (biannually) nor election campaigning (quadrannually) could detract in the slightest degree. And this year the gaiety was not to be disturbed by either.

Shortly after their entry into the swarms of merriment, the red and gold, multi-plumed carriage of the consel neared and a jovial Dejon bade them stop.

Greetings, Dejon!

Welcome, Stanila, old friend. Matigra, dear cousin! He leaned out the small window in the carriage door. Long has it been since you have bothered your consciences to pay a visit to old friends. Dejon laughed, his long slender arm emerging from the carriage to shake an ebony cane accusingly in his friend's face.

Me? Why, I do when the chance arrives, but had you not promised in highsummer to come and visit our home before the harvest?

Dejon toyed sheepishly with the end of his cane. Stan, I'm afraid you have me to the wall. That promise I regrettably had to forego... Business, y'know. Hello there, Welin, Gamoral! Hello! He answered other greetings, then turned back. And speaking of business, I do have to be getting back to my official duties, but I do expect you to pass your stay at my home. That is, he looked to Matigra, unless other arrangements have been made.

Stanila turned to his wife, who nodded at her cousin.

We had thought, Stanila spoke to the consel, of encumbering my relations with our numerous and unruly presence, but those arrangements can be quickly reversed.

Good, very good. I shall see you there before eight-hour. I'll send word ahead for Alma to expect you. He rapped his cane against the upper railing of the carriage to signal his driver. Make yourselves at home and I shall be done with these duties soon enough to have some wine and a game of Deforis before supper. The carriage pulled away, parting the flood of wagons pouring into town.

Stanila gave a tug on the reins and the four, matched chestnut mares grudgingly returned to task, hauling the festive group through the center of town, followed by Borab's wagon.

At market square the crowds were thicker, noisier, and by several degrees more infected with liquid spirits. This large cobble-stone area, the site of the spring contests and the summer rites, was never more the scene of wild abandon than at harvest-end. Wealthy rubbed elbows with the meager, drinking from the same kegs, eating the same confections from the wandering vendors swarming through the throng in the square on this best-of-all-possible selling days.

Brightly colored banners from window and pole ringing the square fought vigilantly to hold their own against the shattered rainbow of the crowd, accosting the visual senses with the predominant browns and earthy reds, giving way to a scattering of blues, greens, purples, and an occasional enticing flash of gold. Here and there the lifeless gray of a religious muted the struggling colors and their wearers, offering the incantations for the Ritual of Abundance Everlasting to those not already too inebriated to answer the laconic lines with the appropriate humming cant, quietly lost except for the lip movements against the din of bawdy jokes and dubious tales of adventure by those boisterous many not caring who nearby might take offense.

But who could take time for offense? The gods in their mercy had been extremely favorable for another harvest and should not mind a few small sacrileges of merriment that harvest-end brings into the usually solemn streets of Lumbar.

****

Take your carriage, sir?

Braxus looked down to see the semi-clean face of a livery boy – Dalthon's Stables, by his colors – and about the same age as himself; and already plying a trade. His father spoke to the stableboy and the carriage was soon being turned and led to the right, skirting the bulk of commotion in the square. The noise, smells, and colors mingled: crescendoed and fell, rose again – like some unnatural lullabies, each assaulting one sense alone, and overwhelming it.

Caught up in the fantasy, Anaboraxus was flying high on a multicolored cloud of fleecy sound, watching a golden sunset; pausing in a wishful daydream:

Vriamidon! A real city, not like Lumbar. This small market town could never compare to the size or glory of Vriamidon, capital of the Koria League... chief city of not just one nation, but twelve nations joined together! His mind spun trying to picture the teeming masses of people sure to be found there, daily! What would a harvest-fest there be like?!

Alas! Having never even been to Jamnistan – and that only the metropolis of Wamsha District, not even the kingdom – with its fifteen thousands, he found it impossible to visualize the capital with over two-hundred thousands. And at Harvest... perhaps even a million!

And there, in the midst of that swarming mass of bodies, would he soon be, working with the tools of fine artistry, weaving fantasies into brass, silver, gold. And perhaps sculpting, and a little magic with the brush. And after many hours of hard, yet loving crafting, he would present his works to the High-King himself!

His hand unconsciously tightened on his letters of apprenticeship.

The High-King himself! To stand before such a man and have him admire your works; hear him praise you, reward you, in effect placing you on a pedestal above himself for all to admire! What a thought!

Yes, your Majesty, he would bow, this was inspired by the sight of you sitting in judgment... and this by the image of you charging into battle. And the drapes would be pulled back from the two golden statues to the 'oohs' and 'ahs' of the court.

The High-King would step back in awe. Master Anaboraxus, I am truly speechless. The great man's hand would grasp his shoulder. This work is even finer than the tableware you crafted for my service last year. For this I must give you the hand of my daughter and one-fifth part of...

Lightning seemed to split the statues.

Anaboraxus! You haven't heard a word I've spoken!

The two puzzled brown eyes turned to his mother, standing beside the carriage. He blinked. The Palace of the High-King was gone.

Pink, in gradually deepening shades, crept across his face as he realized he had daydreamed the entire way. And now everyone else was out of the wagons. What is it, mother?

A sigh of exasperation. I was saying that you ought to run along with your sisters. Father and I have to explain to your uncle Amjak that we will be staying instead at the Conselate.

Yes, mother. Climbing down, he noticed Isdania, his eldest and most favorite sister, with Katia at the stable's entrance. Someone must have had time to get her while he was daydreaming the day away.

She held out a hand for him to take. Come along, you little scamp! Caught daydreaming again, were you? She laughed and pulled him close. The scent of jasmine, her favorite herb – and it always reminded him of her – filled his every pore as they hugged. Hurry, now, the others are far ahead of us.

She pulled him along into the sea of color in the square.

***

I see you have your birth-prize again. Kerixanthor turned over the purplish hands of the boy, chuckling to himself. I remember doing the same thing every year when I was a lad. But never did it bring me the luck it has so quickly brought to you, eh? He winked at Matigra. And this is your last year for it, no?

Yes, sir. Anaboraxus retrieved his hands, received a fatherly pat on the head. He liked uncle 'Xanthor – actually a cousin of his mother's, as well as Dejon's – but even here in the brightly painted and carpeted warmth of the Conselate parlor, the old man was seemingly gray; a parlor of death seemed to hang around him.

Old? Anaboraxus reminded himself that the man was not yet forty, though he appeared closer to twice that. Sailing was certainly a hard life, he supposed, but what thrilling tales his uncle told!

Across the highly polished table of some foreign design, sat his mother half-smiling to herself. Probably remembering when 'Xanthor was a frail and sickly lad chasing all day for the purple to stain his hands. Many times she had said that he reminded her most of this burly man when he was young. Would he too have such fine adventures?

Ah, my lad, Kerixanthor sat down his ale, would but that I had this opportunity. I myself would take you for apprentice, teach you the ropes of a ship; her quirks, her fast rhythm. Why, that is the life for a man hungering for adventures, not some fine and delicate work with the hands. He manipulated his fingers in a rather satiric demonstration.

His wife slapped his beefy shoulder. And what is wrong with work for the hands, you big bull? You with the massive hands! Do you not like the embroidery and the...?

Now, dear, 'Xanthor shied away from her continued assault. I meant nothing of the sort. But that is just women's work and...

As she chased him about the room, Anaboraxus tried to remember Brenila, uncle's first wife and mother of his two children. The only image to present itself was of a drab and dour woman, scowling. Continuously scowling. But Teritha, aunt and namesake of Borab's wife, was younger, handsomer, and far more playful, as least as far as his memory would serve.

But the chase had finished with 'Xanthor's capitulation, as always, and he sat at his ale to refresh himself from the exertion. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leaned toward the lad. Braxus, don't ever marry a woman who moves like that unless you are fit enough to outrun her. He ducked to flinch a blow that never came. Aunt Teritha was laughing too.

Take your own advice, old man. She poked him in the massive part of his chest.

Why, I'm still in fit shape. Like this summer when I was caught in that squall off Transpar. It was...

Anaboraxus settled himself comfortably on a stool and listened intently to the tale, punctuated with gasps, and an occasional chuckle, from the women present. An idea crept into his mind, waiting patiently to be voiced when the telling was done.

When the tale was done, the ale's turn came.

Uncle 'Xanthor?

Yes, lad? He sat down the cup.

Why don't you sail me to Vriamidon?

Instantly the room seemed to darken. His uncle, so robust a moment before, turned gray again and appeared to shrivel. His mother bit off a rebuke. The boy was stunned. He had broken the merry mood, but how?

Sorry, Braxus, he spoke sadly to his cup, but I... I don't sail... not to Vriami-... The sentence died in the middle of the room. 'Xanthor seemed to retreat beneath the surface of the ale in his cup.

Because he makes only several trips a year, Teritha answered for her silent husband, and then only short cargo-runs to Winshern. She ruffled 'Xanthor's hair and kissed his ear. His color heightened and he seemed to return at least halfway to the room.

What a fool I am, thought Anaboraxus, suddenly remembering a conversation of several years ago (which he should not have overheard – as usual). During a voyage to Vriamidon, some six years before, 'Xanthor was taking his wife to a new home in Harlingam, the port city of Vriamidon. The children had been left at Lumbar with Dejon until they were settled in the new house. A sudden storm had come up. 'Xanthor had taken Brenila into his massive arms as a tremendous wave broke over the railings. When the wave had vanished, so had Brenila. It was the only loss on the vessel.

The broken man had sold the new holdings in the west and returned to Lumbar and a life of drink. Two years later, Teritha brought him out of his stupor, then as now, and saw to it that he made no more lengthy journeys – and none whatsoever to the west.

****

The sun was lowering as Borab and his Teritha, Tomkin and Mili, returned noisily from a day's frolic in the square. The earlier gloom had dissipated and Kerixanthor jovially plied the gossip from them.

The door opened again. Anaboraxus saw that it was his two sisters: Isdania with her husband of two years, Hagorn, a wealthy and robust local merchant, and Katia with her beau, Farnth, son of a former consel. Greetings were exchanged, turning immediately to good-byes as Kerixanthor rose and took his wife's hand.

We hate to leave, but we must go round up our two errant charltids before they are locked up in the jailhouse for some reasonably justifiable cause. Everyone crowded to the door to see them off and 'Xanthor took Anaboraxus' hand. You'll do fine in Vriamidon, son. I have every faith in you. And should you wish to say farewell to your cousins – who have yet to show up – come to our room this evening. We're staying at the Blue Foxtail on the east road.

Aunt Teritha added, Yes, if they had known you were going to be leaving us for such a long time, I am sure they would have come by, but you know how children are.

Thank you both.

'Xanthor laughed to see the lad's gloom abate somewhat. We'll see you after dinner then, all right?

Yes, sir.

There's a good lad! 'Bye now!

Further greetings and good-byes were met in the courtyard, for his father arrived with Dejon as the couple were departing. Soon the house was topsy-turvy in the bustle to create the first feast of harvest-end.

A more splendid feast, Anaboraxus could not recall. And the toasting! – Dejon had presented him with his very own cup and poured the first draft himself – toasting the fruitful harvest, the fair weather, the gods for luck, as well as good fortune for him in Vriamidon.

With each toasting, he sipped lightly, hoping to make the one cup last the whole meal. Those reaching their majority were introduced to such beverage but were not supposed to get drunk so soon thereafter – but standard practice required someone to try and bring on the first hangover.

Ah, the rites of passage!

After the meal, red and gold liveried servants cleared the table while the chief butler lit the multitude of candles in the parlor for the women to retire for after dinner talk and knitting or embroidery.

Then the candles in the hall were lit, as the last rosy gleam vanished from the intricately carved cross-beams overhead. The wine was poured, pipes lit, and the servants withdrew to the full light of the kitchen beyond.

The men pulled up chairs closer to Dejon as he pulled out a well-worn pack of Deforis cards and began shuffling.

Swimming away from the room, Anaboraxus realized there was indeed another world beyond the surface of the ale; a world of unfulfilled dreams, a world as dark as the ale which embodied it... a world in which a sailor could see his wife drown again and again, a world of summoning faces... And instantly the face of Eclodania had appeared. He smiled back at her, the motion reflected in the broad silver rim, but not disturbing the image.

Had she really not known about his imminent departure? Or had she merely gotten caught up in the festivities as her father suggested? Bubbles silently broke the surface of the ale, like someone or some dream so quietly drowning on the bottom.

An ebony cane tapped his knee. Startled, he almost fell off his chair.

Huh? I mean, yes, sir?

Dejon chuckled. Just checking to see if you were still awake. No, actually, I was asking if you would like some wine?

Oh. Anaboraxus hastily, and rather guiltily, downed the remainder of his ale, wiped his mouth on his wrist. He looked up blankly to see the four men at the table laughing hysterically.

Stanila wiped his eyes. Sorry, son. Didn't know you were such a well-seasoned drinker. But you can daydream all the way to Vriamidon. Why not join us at Deforis? We can manage a five-way.

No, thank you. Actually, I've got to go visit uncle 'Xanthor.

Stanila stood. I'll come with you, I missed him this afternoon.

Not so fast! Dejon barred his way with the now infamous ebony cane. Seven games straight you've won! And now? Now, you wish to vanish. Why, I'll have you up on charges of magicking and witchcraft! He chuckled. At least give me the chance to win back a few of those silver coins, eh? It was your suggestion!

Stanila laughed and sat. So be it, so be it. Braxus, tell your uncle that I send my regards, but that I'm being held captive by the ruthless consel. He leered at his host. Tell them I shall try to escape and see them on the morrow.

Dejon went to summon a servant to take Braxus to the Blue Foxtail. The lad hugged his father quickly and left.

My, my, but that boy is a dreamer. The consel settled himself again. Now, Stan, deal the... Stanila? What is the matter?

Stanila put a handkerchief to his eyes. The room was quiet as a tomb. You know, he blow his nose and tucked the cloth into a pocket, that's the first time he's hugged me in years.

All eyes turned to look at the door.

~~~~

CHAPTER THREE

the Poet Band

Golden rafters stretched the length of the ceiling – pale beige actually, with a few stained remembrances of oil lamps. It was a dream room of a Palace of the Gods set in the clouds. One could almost hear their merriment as they gathered around to make feast; one could almost smell...

Anaboraxus came fully awake at the smell of breakfast cooking on the fire somewhere in the realm below. He was in bed, not some magical land; in the Conselate, not the Palace of the Gods. Still, the shafts of dawn through the small square upper windows of his room did seem to be made of gold, holding up the roof above him – if he squinted his eyes, it took on that unreal look and he could drift into dreams again.

It seemed that sort of day: to be filled with dreams. Where the past and the future meet with... with last night.

Eyes closed, he conjured up the memory of last night; in part to assure himself that it was real, and not a part of the palace in the cloudy realm. The servant had walked him to the Blue Foxtail and waited outside for him.

Teritha, exhausted from the day's visiting and shopping, had already gone to bed. 'Xanthor had just finished tucking in his ten-year-old, Exivola. They exchanged pleasantries and sat in the anteroom. 'Xanthor yawned broadly.

Really! I do not know what is keeping the lass, but I really should be getting to sleep myself. He pointed in the direction of the stables. She and Exivola had only just returned from a late ride to one of those evening shows. Exivola came directly in while she was to put the mounts away; brush them and feed them. Don't know what's taking her so long. He stood again. After you say farewell, would you tell her to get back here straight-away?

And with that, he had been escorted to the door and took his leave of his still-yawning uncle. Through the near-darkness, he then proceeded around back of the Blue Foxtail to their stables.

At this late hour, no one else was about and he could hear her crying from the doorway. He came upon her quietly, sitting in the hay, face buried in hands. She was thinking he had already left for Vriamidon – without telling her good-bye.

He smiled to himself, reliving that wondrous surprise on her face as she looked up and was instantly in his arms, hugging him tightly and, yes, crying harder still; happy or sad, it was the easiest form of release.

And then, completely unanticipated, she gave him a quick, relieved kiss on the cheek. They both stopped. She drew back a little. They stared into each others' face and then slowly came together again for a very slow kiss of an entirely different nature. Even their posture changed, their bodies pressing together in a manner completely new to him.

And then, everything changed. It seemed the universe could never go back the way it had been. Everything seemed brighter, warmer…

He marveled at the magic in such a simple thing: a kiss. He had witnessed such many times past but had never anticipated how it could change one.

Deep inside, now, there was that warmth again – the exact location eluded him – deep within his breast. A cool wind blew up his spine, tickling and warming him further. Never had he felt anything as soft, nor as smooth and warm, as her skin on that night long ago: last night.

But that white creamy skin was far away now, and getting farther away by the moment. He chased after the memory again until he could again feel her burning form pressed against his with the weight of a million generations, matching the quickness of his breath as the world exploded... And that explosion spread into the peaceful darkness of space.

He opened his eyes. What a dream; what an imagination! What reality!, for it had not been a dream. He still felt that newness inside. It meant Eclodania – his Dani – was right: they now belonged to each other. And he would save his earnings and send for her as soon as possible. Perhaps they would be married in the presence of the High-King himself!

Somehow, without thinking, he had thrown off the covers and risen. His mind seemed to laugh at him as he tried to remember standing, but could not. He began to dress rapidly: time to fill his growling belly.

Yes, he would send for her.

****

The rest of the family were seated with Dejon in the parlor making plans for the next few days' activities. They had been up for hours, giving up the vigil for sleepy-head some time ago and eating without him. Warm greetings met him as he poked his head through the archway from the entry hall.

He was pointing to a pile of baggage by the entryway. Why are my bags already packed? And down stairs? He asked no one in particular.

My boy! Dejon stood and spread his arms. Today is the day for sweet departures! Today will find your joyous wishes fulfilled! Today the merriment...

What he means, Stanila cut him off and went to his son, is that we have found someone passing through, bound for the western lands, willing to add one more to their party.

And so soon, too, added Dejon, beaming.

The boy motioned to the bags. But I thought I'd be here through the festival. Surely they don't plan on leaving so soon...?

We had thought so, too, son. Father put his hands on both the lad's shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. We did not anticipate anyone leaving before the end of this week...

Dejon added quickly, Nor could we find anyone traveling that far westward!

Father continued, ...but as it seems this group has other harvest festivals to visit, they cannot remain the entire time at this one. So you will have to be ready by the four-hour sun if you are to get started for Vriamidon.

Stunned, Anaboraxus asked, mechanically, with little real interest, Who is it?

It is the band of poets performing in the square even now, as we speak, Dejon answered. I heard of their approach and invited them perform here on their way and perhaps gain a few more coins than they might otherwise procure. But like most entertainers, the crowd may delight in their wares for a short time, but require something more sustaining after a period. He laughed. And it may prove to be a most instructive and entertaining journey for you, my boy, as they are known to be great travelers with many a story to tell for those with inquisitive minds as yours.

Anaboraxus was getting over the shock. He knew this because his head was spinning less slowly than a minute before. He even managed a weak smile.

There! Stanila pounded him on the back and turned to his wife. Did I not tell you he would be well-pleased? And surprised as well.

Everyone gathered round while Stanila sat his son in a chair. Dejon signaled a servant to bring in the lad's breakfast. Stanila sat on the edge of the table next to Anaboraxus.

And these fellows are sure to have a most interesting journey for you. Aren't poets and such always getting called on to perform for the court of king and lord as they pass through the various realms, and they...

Stan, let the boy eat. Matigra pulled her excited husband from the table.

Feeling some of the excitement entering his blood, Anaboraxus ate in silence and journeyed through the mysterious land of fried eggs and baked fruit strips, battled the monsters from the land of beef-mash, ravaging the kingdom of oven-fresh bread armed with only a single pat of butter; thinking all the while that leaving early would only bring his happy reunion with Dani that much sooner. Thus sustained, he sailed the creamy sea from rim to silver rim... a face other than his own reflecting from the surface to give him strength to continue, till the rim on the far side reflected him a much older man, with mustache of white.

A wipe of the sleeve and the mark of age was gone. One final stroke with the last piece of bread and the remainders of the mysterious lands were captured, then devoured by the ogre-king.

He quickly swallowed the last of the milk and rushed outside.

****

The last of the fairer sex had finished dressing and arrived at the carriage as Anaboraxus came running down the front steps of the Conselate. Each swiftly found a seat, and as swiftly the carriage departed; bound for the poets' camp on the far side of town, in a vale by the River Ralmed. It seemed to the departee but the blinking of an eye before they arrived, causing him to wonder if he had dozed again – so soon after waking? – or was time itself somehow trying to rush him headlong into this adventure? The thought dis-eased him. A part of him wanted to stop and think about this a bit more before rushing off.

But perhaps it was only his secret hope that they could have stopped in town to say good-bye to Dani. Just one more embrace... one more kiss… Definitely, one more of those kisses!

Surprise! She and her family were here too! – and time continued its nudging.

He stepped from the carriage to a whirlwind of introductions, good-byes, and a blur of faces. All except Dani.

'Xanthor raised his eyebrows at their parting kiss, but Teritha nudged him and smiled. The uncle winked when 'Braxus looked his way.

Time nudged again. He found himself seated on a weather-worn wagon seat beside a smallish man. He twisted about on the seat, acquiring an unpleasant splinter in the process, to look back on his past. He waved to the receding faces... waving as they diminished, until a turn in the road stole them at last from his view. Time ebbed, its clutches releasing him at last. He turned slowly, and carefully, on the seat to watch the road ahead; his road, now.

Presently, he shook his head and shoulders, to shake off the melancholy, and turned to the rustically robed, unkempt older man beside him.

My name is Anaboraxus, what's yours?

The poet jerked away in mock surprise, making sure he did not pull the reins in so doing. Ah, so it speaks after all! The lamb of disquiet awakens again to the world. He righted himself, chuckling, then tapped the boy's knee. Now, I surpose thet th'multitude o' fermalty has plumb erased me name forom yer mind. He cackled with glee at the boy's confused stare. But I suppose I will have to talk more normal, until you can get the ear for our 'nairthen dilect'.

Anaboraxus nodded. Thank you, I didn't quite...

But, the other continued, I don't mind that you should have forgotten my name, as we had all decided to introduce ourselves to your parents and all by our god-given names; like mine: Gerralid. Ugh! He leaned over the side and spat in the roadway. I don't think even half the boys here know that. Here we generally go by our self-made names. I am called 'Smoke', or 'the Smoke', if you prefer.

'The Smoke'? Braxus wrinkled his nose. What sort of name is that for a man?

Smoke looked sidelong at him, then cleared his throat. In rhythm to the creaking of the wagon wheels, he spoke in a rich baritone:

"'Tis known that fire consumes the host

"And leaves its mark in veils of smoke

"That disappear as though some ghost

Had taken flight to Hollyhoke.

He looked sidelong at the man, more confused, then turned back to watch the road unfold his future before him.

~~~~

CHAPTER FOUR

On the Road

The crowd began to get quiet again. The Smoke stepped forward and cleared his throat loudly. To one side, 'Braxus sat watching the Hook make his rounds through the crowd, laughing, joking, wishing well, and passing a hat. He smiled to himself and wondered if the coins would flow better after the Smoke performed.

But enough thoughts, the Smoke was speaking.

... on my own creation, performed here for the very first time. It is called 'the Revenge of Kergithor' and deals with... But the story tells that well enough for itself. His eyes closed.

"One day a fair young princess, with hair of rosy dawn

Went out to meet her true love, a reeve of Cassilaun;

She rode up to a hillside, he rode to meet her there,

To lie with her in green grass, to touch her shiny hair;

But while they lay there laughing, a witch from foreign land

Sat quietly a' watching and laid her wicked plans.

For a witch of Khabboreine thinks not of kind deeds

And young men are enslaved to deliver her needs.

Tho' safe in lovers' plans made, the two awaited death

At hands of cruel demons, who came with baited breath;

The witch came o'er the crest then, the girl cried out in fear,

And wind carried the scream to four knights a' riding near;

The lover stood as stone as the witch removed his sword

And turned on knights arriving, to give them their reward.

For the knights of Hampol were the bravest of men -

And the witch's ill-spawned drove the sword in again.

The knights and princess lay there on green grass turned to red,

And found soon by poor peasants who buried all five dead;

The word came unto Kergithor, grief of daughter's fate

Enflamed him for revenge upon those who evil sate;

He called his wise men to him and word to Muur went fast

For aid against those demons, to make this death their last.

For the Wizards of Muur are the greatest of folk

And their watchers informed of the witches' approach.

The witches spied the watchers and planned how they would fight;

Their cauldrons foamed while wizards read tomes throughout the night;

The dawn, a rosy silence, cast shadows longing west,

Two forces great assembled, prepared now for the test;

The sky grew dark as death rot, and lightning split the stain,

And morning filled with screaming til just one force remained.

When two great forces meet, only one can endure;

Such were Kergithor's heroes, the Wizards of Muur."

Eyes still closed, the Smoke bowed deeply, and the crowd stomped their feet on the ground. The Vault, the Cape, the Veil, and Cold Fish joined him on the platform and the stamping was joined with whistles and a few shouts.

The performance was over. Anaboraxus watched the crowd break apart and leave the area in small groups, talking among themselves about the poetry; the Hook still captured a few for a last word and a copper or two.

Soon, as the sun reached for midday, only the band of seven plus one remained in the town square.

Well, Cape, the Smoke lit his pipe, what sort of donations did we receive?

The Cape sat on the tail of a wagon and set his cap in his lap and began to count the coins people had deposited in his cap on the stage during the performance. Seven coppers and two silvers, Smoke. Not too bad for a town this size.

Smoke nodded. No, not bad at all. The people of Kalipsfar cannot be called miserly, by any means. And you, Hook. What sort of donations did you acquire?

The skinny young man doffed his cap and counted quickly. Ten coppers.

And what other donations? asked the Pale, anxiously.

Hook began removing another collection from both sleeves and the folds of his clothing. Anaboraxus thought he might have liked this non-poet member of the band were he not so conceited. He claimed to be the world's greatest master of the fine art of relieving others of unnecessary burdens.

Four rings – one of silver – three fine knives, a necklace, four silken handkerchiefs, six silver coins...

Some burdens, thought Anaboraxus. The man was nothing but a pickpocket. Why would the poets allow him to travel along with them? But the answer to that question was obvious in the hungry anticipation on the faces of the group. He had an uneasy feeling about this. Perhaps the family should not have been so hasty in selecting his transport.

... a gold coin, and, the master held up his last item, a key.

The Smoke blew a large smoke-ring and pointed with the stem of his pipe. And would our young partner have any idea as to what this particular key might offer passage into?

Hook tossed it up and caught it. This key, he held it up again and walked among them to afford all a closer view of its importance as he continued, this small piece of worked metal will open the large, bolted, oaken door of the Steward's storehouse.

The Veil clapped. And please, o great and mighty one, tell me, if you will, how it is that the Steward shall not miss this most precious key before we may have the chance to make good use of it?

Anaboraxus had noticed an air of hostility existed between these two, and wondered where it might lead them.

The Smoke smiled to himself. Hook sneered at the Veil.

Do not mock me, you voiceless one. Think that I would take this key, again he held it up for all to marvel at, without first being certain that a similar one would not be used to lock me up? Think you that I would endanger my friends? That I would endanger even you? Think you that I might...

Veil lunged at the skinny youth and Hook swung at the advancing form, but neither force met its target: Smoke's leg suddenly appeared before Veil's feet and down he went into the dust. Cold Fish took Hook's backward swing a little further backward and he, too, fell to the ground.

A roar of laughter erupted from the rest of the band. The adversaries glared at each other.

The Steward is leaving town forthwith, Hook screamed at Veil. I heard him say his carriage was waiting. Only then did I take the key. His eyes widened and he began searching the ground for the key, loosened from his hand by the fall.

Everyone laughed even harder. All but Hook and Veil. Laughing so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks, Anaboraxus wondered again where this might lead them.

****

He was awakened in the night by the sounds of unpracticed stealth. Several of the group were being led back to the village by the Hook, armed with the key. As the noise of their departure diminished, he lay his head back down and pondered.

The altercation between the two men earlier had been so hilarious that he could not help but laugh even though he thought nothing funny of the situation. If one had their head on the block and the executioner tripped and fell and looked a fool, would the prisoner laugh? Could anything be that funny?

Now he had trouble getting back to sleep, worried over the situation in which he found himself. He had gotten rather attached to the members of the band and even considered that sort of life for himself: traveling free and easy on the roadways, telling tales in each town and being paid for his efforts. It was not the grand life style his parents had in mind for him in the capital, but it was more to his sensibilities. And the pay was not all that poor. Seventeen coppers and two silvers for an hours work in a town of that size. Surely that would be enough funds to keep the group fed and happy for a week or more and a lot of their sustenance came from the land and sleeping out of doors. Seventeen coppers and two silvers should last them perhaps a month.

Why then the need to steal as well? What would they need all the extra wealth for? Certainly not for new clothing and wagons!

Perhaps he should leave the group and go his own way? Certainly there were others traveling westward – perhaps even to Vriamidon itself – who might welcome a young man such as himself. He could do the onerous tasks for them and pay his way. He was not averse to hard work having grown up on a farm.

Perhaps he should mention his concerns to the Smoke. If this was their way of normal operation, though, he was sure nothing could come of it except their possible distrust of his presence.

It was while he was considering the best way to approach the subject that sleep overtook him again.

~~~~

CHAPTER FIVE

the Path Less Traveled

Time to get a move on, youngster. The Hook nudged him with a toe.

Anaboraxus sat up and rubbed his eyes to see the group putting the last of their belongings into the wagon atop a pile that seemed larger than it had appeared the day before. He did not need to ask why, nor was he interested in knowing what.

The Smoke extended a small bundle to him. Since you slept while we broke fast I set aside some for you. But you'll have to eat while we travel. He winked and pointed upward. We bain barnin' deloit, ya'knoo. He cackled at the perplexed look on the young man's face. You'll best get used to the 'nairthen dilect' soon, son, as in some parts hereabouts that's all you'll be hearing.

Yes, sir. He reached for the bundle, but it was drawn back.

Now, don't you be a 'sirring' me. I thought we was friends. He winked.

Sorry, Smoke. I guess I forgot myself. He rose from his blanket.

That's better, lad.

He took the offering from the older man's hand and stuck it in a pocket. The blanket he rolled up so he could sit on – no splinters today, he hoped – and climbed up in the wagon seat.

The Veil climbed up next to him and took the reins. He clucked at the horses and snapped the reins to get them rolling.

Isn't Smoke supposed to drive the wagon?

No, son, not all the time. We always take turns at it, y'see now. He spat over the edge. Normally we have two ride in rotation but since you came along it was decided that you would ride every day and only one of us would ride. He spat again. Don't concern yourself about it though, that was paid for when we took you.

Paid for?

The Veil turned to stare. Certainly 'paid for'. What did you expect, someone to take you for a two week travel over a great distance, supply you with food and shelter jus' outta the goodness of their hearts? He spat again. You ha' some pretty strange notions about people, y'do. A momentary pause, and he spat again.

He had caught rides down to Lumbar City before and no one had ever charged him for it. True, it was not that great a distance and lodging was not required, but all had shared food with him without charge. He shrugged. Perhaps it was the mentality of a people closer to the growing of food to not be so stingy with it. Those who only had it through purchase were probably less generous with it.

The ride was mostly in silence, punctuated every minute or so by the Veil spitting. Anaboraxus was certain he had never known anyone that full of liquid that they could keep spitting for hours without taking a refill.

Other than that steady demarcation of time, there was no interaction. Anaboraxus could think of nothing to say to the man and the Veil seemed to dislike him for some reason. So he watched the road ahead while steadily rocking in the seat. Padded this time by his blanket, he felt not the slightest fear of splinters when he turned around to see where the other members of the band were.

Most were in small clusters, walking in tandem behind the wagon and discussing subjects of interest. The Hook was regaling his group with some exploit that showed in the rapt attention of his listeners. The two other groups were talking more quietly, about what he could not tell, and the Smoke walked closer to the side on the wagon and alone.

He turned back to watch the road but checked back occasionally to find the membership of the groups may have changed slightly but the Smoke still walked alone.

I'm still a little cramped from sleeping, he announced after a time. I think I need to stretch my legs a little. He looked at the Veil.

A grunt without turning. Soocher self.

He waited a moment to see if the Veil would stop the wagon for him to dismount. Realizing that was not the case, he shrugged and climbed off. He hit the ground and his legs buckled and he took a roll in the dusty road, much to the delight of several members.

Shoulda matched your stride to the speed of the wagon. The Smoke stopped to help him up.

Thanks. He dusted himself off as best he could. The Pale rushed past him after the wagon and tripped over something in the road: his blanket. It must have been more attached to his hindside than to the seat.

He rose with a curse to the laughter of the group and continued to the front of the wagon, taking the seat vacated next to the Veil with a triumphant whoop.

The Smoke shook his head. His turn was next and it may be forfeit for taking a short ride now. You, of course, may return to the wagon seat anytime you like. He pointed at the twisted blanket in the road. Now you'd best put your weapon away before you fell any more giants. He grinned.

He brushed it off and ran forward to put it in the back of the wagon before falling into step next to the Smoke.

Tired on riding, were ye?

Yes, I thought I needed to stretch my legs some. And, he paused to form his words, I wanted to ask you some things about your band.

Oh, so now it's my band, is it? Like I have any control over this motley assemblage. So what is it you wanted to know?

Well, I heard this called a 'poet band' but not everyone here is a poet. I was wondering why?

The Smoke stared ahead in the distance. Son, we are all travelers through life and though we get many choices along the road, we cannot always choose those who travel with us. He shook his head and turned. But, in answer to your question, you are among us and not a poet either. Some of these men have joined our little company for a time even though they are not of our craft. It delights us and broadens our experience to have others among us.

After considering the answer for a moment, he responded in a lowered voice. Even to the likes of the Hook?

The older man's slumped shoulders slumped even further. Oh, well, yes, as to that… A heavy sigh as he stared ahead again. As a young man I had ambition as well as talent. In my home district – a long, long way from here to the south – all spoke…

South? I thought you…

A laugh. My 'nairthen dilect' fooled you, no? Told you I had a way with words. Anyway, they too were amazed at my way with words. So it was decided by the people thereabouts that I should be sent to the Emperor himself to employ my talents. Another sigh.

"I was pleased with the effort and pleased as well with the prospects of the high and lofty life in the capital. The village was pleased that their esteem in the Imperial Court would be raised to a new level with such a prodigy there to remind the Emperor of what district produced him.

Everything seemed to have been set up by the gods and I was soon before the Court in my best attire… he glanced down, "not like these sad rags I wear nowadays, no the finest clothing the village could afford – nothing was too good.

And there I was at the Court, before the Emperor himself, during the annual festival. I gave him my best stuff, pronounced with such fire and passion, he waved his arms about to demonstrate, many were cowed before the thunder of my words.

He discontinued his reminiscence for awhile, struggling with some demon inside him, coming to grips with the fickle ways of the gods. Though the applause was deafeningly and the response was hopeful, the Emperor chose others who had done as well. I was told he thought I carried the performance through with bombast rather than content and suggested I become an actor on the stage.

Oh, that's horrible!

The Smoke glanced sidewise and sighed again. I thought so too. Imagine, me: an actor! I was so very full of myself that I went to the market and publicly displayed my poetic gifts in an effort to prove the Emperor wrong.

And what happened? he asked in the extended silence.

They loved me. They cheered me and carried me on their shoulders and showered me in coins. His smile as quickly faded. The Imperial Court responded saying that since they so loved me in the marketplace, perhaps I should remain there.

Oh!

Yes, and there I have remained. He seemed to grow a bit larger with that prideful statement. And I have done fairly well there.

The lad thought a moment. But what has that to do with the Hook?

Oh, yes… He deflated again. After several years, I realized that I would have to start preparing for my future. I began to set aside a little bit here and there – all of us did – but highwaymen have descended on us a couple of times and cleaned us out. Other times have found drought or famine has constricted the pocketbooks of the locals. He shrugged. It has not been easy to plan or save for the time when I shall no longer be able to live on the road like this. If I even survive. He looked at Anaboraxus. Life on the road is not entirely safe, not even in the heartland of the Empire. Or, I should say, especially not as one nears the capital. I should imagine thieves have found easier pickings with all the comings and goings of the big city.

So the Hook is your retirement plan?

The Smoke winced. "Look at me, lad. I am not getting any younger. And I am almost of an age to live on the resources of my children – had I any – but I am still having to earn my daily sustenance. If I had some wealth, I could probably get a house and a wife and either have some children or