Of course, critics are notoriously difficult to snare, even with their own words. They slip and sidle, prance and dither. So elusive are they that one suspects that they are in fact incorporeal, fey conjurations gathered up like accretions of lint and twigs, ready to burst apart at the first hint of danger. But who, pray tell, would be mad enough to create such snarky homunculi? Why, none other than artists themselves, for in the manner of grubby savages in the deep woods, we slap together our gods from whatever is at hand (mostly fluff) only to eagerly grovel at its misshapen feet (or hoofs), slavering our adoration to hide our true thoughts, which are generally venal.
Sailing over the fire, then, uttering animal roars, Arpo Relent found himself clutching thin air. His hands were still grasping and flaying when his face made contact with the boulder Apto had been leaning against. With noises that would make a potter cringe at the kiln, the Well Knight’s steely visage crumpled like sheet tin. Blood sprayed out to form a delicate crescent upon the sun-bleached stone, a glittering halo until his head slid away.
Apto Canavalian had vanished into the darkness.
We who remained sat unmoving. Arpo Relents fine boots were nicely settled in the fire, suggesting to us that he was unconscious, dead or careless. When the man’s leggings caught flame our venerable host leapt forward to drag the limbs clear, grunting as he did so, and then hastily snuffed out the smouldering cloth.
Tiny Chanter snorted and Flea and Midge did the same. From somewhere in the darkness Sellup giggled, and then coughed something up.
Sighing, Tulgord Vise rose, stepped over and crouched beside the Unwell Knight. After a moment’s examination, he said, “Alive but senseless.”
“Essentially unchanged, then,” said Apto, reappearing from the night’s inky well. “Made a mess of my rock, though.”
“Jest now,” Tulgord said. “When he comes to, you’re a dead man.”
“Who says he’ll come to at all?” the critic retorted. “Look how flat his forehead is.”
“It was that way before he hit the rock,” the Mortal Sword replied.
“Was it leaking snot, too? I think we’d have noticed. He’s in a coma and will probably die sometime in the night.”
“Pray hard it’s so,” Tulgord said, looking up with bared teeth.
Apto shrugged, but sweaty beads danced on his upper lip like happy bottle flies.
“You, Flicker,” said Tiny Chanter, “you was telling that story. Was finally starting to get interesting.”
“Sore stretched indeed,” said I, “and maiden no longer-”
“Hold on,” Tiny objected, all the flickering flames of the hearth mirrored in his ursine mien. “You can’t just skip past all that, unless you don’t want to survive the night. Disappointment’s a fatal complaint as far as I’m concerned. Disappoint me and I swear I’ll kill you, poet.”
“I’ll kill you, too,” said Midge.
“And me,” said Flea.
“What pathetic things you Chanters are,” said Purse Snippet.
Shocked visages numbering three.
Starting and blinking, Relish squinted at her siblings. “What? Someone say something?”
“I called your brothers pathetic,” explained the Lady.
“Oh.” Relish subsided once more.
Tiny jabbed a blunt finger at Purse Snippet. “You. Watch it.”
“Yeah,” said Flea. “Watch it.”
“You,” said Midge. “Yeah.”
“The most enticing lure to the imagination,” said Purse, “is that which suggests without revealing. This is the true art of the dance, after all. When I perform, I seduce, but that doesn’t mean I want to ruffle your sack, unless it’s the kind that jingles.”
“Making you a tease!” Tulgord growled. “And worse. Tell me, woman, how many murders have you left in your wake? How many broken hearts? Men surrendering to drink after years of abstinence. Imagined rivals knifing each other. How many loving families have you sundered with all that you promise only to then deny? We should never have excluded you from anything-you re the worst of the lot.”
Purse Snippet had paled at the Mortal Sword’s words.
I did speak then, as proper comportment demanded. “A coward’s ambush-shame on you, sir.”
The knight stiffened. “Tread softly now, poet. Explain yourself, if you please.”
“The tragedies whereof you speak cannot be laid at this lady’s delicate feet. They are one and all failures of the men involved, for each has crossed the fatal line between audience and performer. Art is not exclusive in its delivery, but its magic lies in creating the illusion that it has done just that. Speaking only to you. That is art’s gift, do you understand, Knight? As such it is to be revered, not sullied. The instant the observer, in appalling self-delusion, seeks to claim for himself that which in truth belongs to everyone, he has committed the greatest crime, one of selfish arrogance, one of unrighteous possession. Before Lady Snippet’s performance, this man makes the foulest presumption. Well now, how dare he? Against such a crime it falls to the rest of her adoring audience to place themselves between that man and Lady Snippet.”
“As you are doing right now,” observed Apto Canavalian (wise in his ways this honourable, highly intelligent and oh-so-observant critic).
Modest the tilt of my head.
Visibly flustered, Tulgord Vise grunted and looked away, chewing at his beard and biting his lip, shifting in discomfort and shuffling his feet and then suddenly finding a kink in the chain of his left vambrace which he set to, humming softly to himself, all of which led me to conclude, with great acuity, that his flusterment was indeed visible.
“I still want details,” said Tiny Chanter, glaring at me in canid challenge.
“As a sweet maiden, she was of course unversed in the stanzas of amorous endeavour-”
“What?” asked Midge.
“She didn’t know anything about sex,” I re-phrased.
“Why do you do that anyway?” Apto inquired.
I took a moment to observe the miserable, vulpine excuse for humanity, and then said, “Do what?”
“Complicate things.”
“Perhaps because I am a complicated sort of man.”
“But if it makes people frown or blink or otherwise stumble in confusion, what’s the point?”
“Dear me,” said I, “here you are, elected as Judge, yet you seem entirely unaware of the magical properties of language. Simplicity, I do assert, is woefully overestimated in value. Of course there are times when bluntness suits, but the value of these instances is found in the surprise they deliver, and such surprise cannot occur if they are surrounded in similitude-”
“For Hood’s sake,” rumbled Tiny, “get back to the other similitudes. The maiden knew nothing so it fell to the Fenn warrior to teach her, and that’s what I want to hear about. The world in its proper course through the heavens and whatnot.” And he shot Apto a wordless but entirely unambiguous look of warning, that in its mute bluntness succeeded in reaching the critic’s murky awareness, sufficient to spark self-preservation. In other words, the look scared him witless.
I resumed. “We shall backtrack, then, to the moment when they stood, now facing one another. He was well-versed-”
“Now it’s back to the verses again,” whined Midge.
“And though heated with desire,” I continued, “he displayed consummate skill-”
“Consummate, yeah!” and Tiny grinned his tiny grin.
From the gloom close to the wagon came Mister Must’s gravel-laden voice, “And that’s a significant detail, I’ll warrant.”
So did I twist round then to observe his ghostly visage in its ghostly cloud of rustleaf smoke, catching the knowing twinkle that might have been an eye or a tooth. Ah, thinks me, a sharp one here. Be careful now, Flicker.
“Peeling away her clothing, unmindful of the damp chilly air in the guest hut, he laid her bare, his rough fingertips so lightly brushing the pricked awakening of her skin so that she shivered again and again. Her breaths were a rush of quick waves upon a rasping beach, the tremulous water sobbing back as she gasped to his touch where it traveled in eddying swirl about her nipples.