“What if we don’t want to be?” Tiny Chanter asked, grinning greasily (well, in truth he was most fastidious, was Tiny, but given the venal words issuing from those lips, I elected to add the grisly detail. Of course, there is nothing manipulative in this).
“But that-that-that would be-”
“Outright murder?” Apto Canavalian inquired, somewhat too lightly in my opinion.
Brash choked and spat, “It’s been that all along, Apto, though when it’s not your head on the spitting block, you just go ahead and pretend otherwise.”
“I will, thank you.”
“Just because you’re a judge-”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Apto cut in. “Not one of you here is getting my vote. All right? The truth is, there’s nothing so deflating as actually getting to know the damned poets I’m supposed to be judging. I feel like a far-sighted fool who finally gets close enough to see the whore in front of him, warts and all. The magic dies, you see. It dies like a dried up worm.”
Brash stared with eyes bulging. “You’re not going to vote for me?” He leapt to his feet. “Kill him! Kill him next! He’s no use to anyone! Kill him!”
As Brash stood trembling, one finger jabbed towards Apto Canavalian, no one spoke. Abruptly, Brash loosed a sob, wheeling, and ran off into the night.
“He won’t go far,” opined Steck. “Besides, I happen to agree with our host. The killing isn’t necessary any more. It’s over-”
“No,” said an unexpected voice, “it is not over.”
“Lady Snippet,” Steck began.
“I was promised,” she countered, hands wringing about the cup she held. “He gave me his word.”
“So I did,” said I. “Tonight, however, I mean to indulge the interests of all here, by concluding poor Calap Roud’s tale. Lady, will you abide me until the morrow?”
Her eyes were most narrow in their regard of me. “Perhaps you mean to outlast me. In consideration of that, I will now exact yet another vow from you, Avas Didion Flicker. Before we reach the Great Descent, you will satisfy me.”
“So I vow, Milady.”
Steck Marynd rose. “I know the tale you will tell tonight,” he said to me, and to the others he said, “I will find Nifty Gum and his ladies and bring them back here, for I fear they must be suffering greatly this night.”
“Sudden compassion?” said Tulgord Vise with a snort.
“The torment must end,” Steck replied. “If I am the only one here capable of possessing guilt, then so be it.” And off he went, boots crunching in the gravel.
Guilt. Such an unpleasant word, no doubt invented by some pious meddler with snout pricked to the air. Probably a virgin, too, and not by choice. A man (I assert it must have been a man, since no woman was ever so mad as to invent such a concept, and to this day for most women the whole notion of guilt is as alien to them as flicking droplets after a piss, then shivering), a man, then, likely looking on in outrage and horror (at a woman, I warrant, and given his virginal status she was either his sister or his mother), and bursting into his thoughts like flames from a brimstone, all indignation was transformed into that maelstrom of flagellation, spite, envy, malice and harsh judgement that we have come to call guilt. Of course, the accusation, once uttered, is also a declaration of sides. The accuser is a creature of impeccable virtue, a paragon of decency, honour, integrity and intransigence, unsullied and unstained since the moment of birth. Why, flames of purest white blaze from that quivering head, and some force of elevation has indeed lifted the accuser from the ground, feet alight on the air, and somewhere monstrous musicians pound drums of impending retribution. In accusing, the accuser seeks to crush the accused, who in turn has been conditioned to cringe and squirm, to holler and rage, or some frenzied cavort between the two, and misery must result. Abject self-immolation, depression, the wearing of ugliness itself. Whilst the accuser stands, observing, triumphant and quivering in the ecstasy of the righteous. It’s as good as sex (but then, what does the virgin know about sex?).
What follows? Why, not much. Usually, nothing. He dozes. She starts chopping dirty carrots or heads out and beats stained garments against a rock (said gestures having no symbolic significance whatsoever). The baby looks on, eating the cat’s tail and the cat, knowing nothing of guilt, stares with bemused regard upon the wretched family it has adopted, before realizing that once again the horrid urchin is stuffing it into its mouth, and once again it’s time to use the runt as a bed-post. The mind is a dark realm and shadows lurk and creep behind the throne of reason, and none of us sit that throne for long in any case, so let them lurk and creep, what do we care?
“As night came to the Imass camp,” said I, “she led the Fenn warrior towards an empty hut which he was free to use as his own until such time that he chose to depart. In the chill darkness she carried a small oil lamp to guide their way, and the flame flickered in the bitter wind, and he strode behind her, his footfalls making no sound. Yet she did not need to turn around to be certain he followed, for she felt the heat of him, like a kiln at her back. He was close, closer than he need be.
“When she ducked through the entrance and then straightened his arms crept round her. She gasped at his touch and arched her back, head against his lowest rib, as his huge hands reached to find her breasts. He was rough in his need, burning with haste, and they descended to the heap of furs unmindful of the cold and damp, the musty smell of the old rushes.”
“That nastiness obsesses you!” said Arpo Relent.
“Nastiness, sir?”
“Between a man and a woman, the Unspoken, the Unrevealed, the-”
“Sex, you mean?”
Arpo glared. “Such tales are unseemly. They twist and poison the minds of listeners.” He made a fist with one gauntleted hand. “See how Calap Roud died. All it took was a hint of something-”
“I believe I was rather more direct,” I said, “although in no way specific, as I had no chance-”
“So you’ll do it now! Your mind is a filthy, rotted tumour of lasciviousness! Why, in the city of Quaint your skin would be stripped from your flesh, your weak parts chopped off-”
“Weak parts?”
Arpo gestured between his legs. “That which Whispers Evil Temptation, sir. Chopped off and sealed in a jar. Your tongue would be cut into strips and the Royal Tongs would come out-”
“A little late for those,” Apto said, “since you already chopped off the-”
“There is a Worm of Corruption, sir, that resides deep in the body, and if it is not removed before the poor victim dies, it will ride his soul into the Deathly Realm. Of course, the Worm knows when it is being hunted, and it is a master of disguise. The Search often takes days and days-”
“Because the poor man talked about fornication?”
At Apto’s query the Well Knight flinched. “I knew you were full of worms, all of you. I’m not surprised. Truly, this is a fallen company.”
“Are all poets filled with such corrupting worms?” Apto pressed.
“Of course they are and proof awaits all who succumb to their temptations! The Holy Union resides in a realm beyond words, beyond images, beyond everything!” He gestured in my direction. “These… these sullied creatures, they but revel in degraded versions, fallen mockeries. Her hand grasping his this, his finger up her that. Slavering and dripping and heaving and grunting- these are the bestial escapades of pigs and goats and dogs. And woe to the wretched fool who stirs in the midst of such breathless descriptions, for the Lady of Beneficence shall surely turn her back upon They of Rotten Thoughts-”
“Is it a pretty one?” Apto asked.
Arpo frowned. “Is what pretty?”
“The Lady’s back, sir. Curvaceous? Sweetly rounded and inviting-”
With a terrible bellow the Well Knight launched himself at Apto Canavalian. Murder was an onerous mask upon his face, his hair suddenly awry and the gold of his fittings shining with a lurid crimson sheen. Gaunteleted fingers hooked as they lashed out to clutch Apto’s rather scrawny neck.