I looked around the canteen again. It was all so obvious! And so stupid!
I wanted to laugh out loud and scream that I was onto all of them now. All of their bats, throwing knives, coups, face powders, and scorpions in oil.
It must have somehow manifested itself on my face, because Tabaqui suddenly threw down his fork and demanded to know why the hell was I looking so smug and stupid.
“This,” I said and stuck out my tongue at him. Just the tip. I immediately remembered how Jackal could not stand being mocked, but it was already too late.
He went livid faster than if someone had dumped boiling water on him. Coughed the half-chewed piece of food out on his plate and asked Noble to hold him as fast as he could.
“Did you see that? Did you see that feathered bastard disrespect my advanced age? Everyone see that? I’m going to see the color of his guts!”
He was saying all of this between coughing fits, but it sounded deadly serious.
Noble took the butter knife off Tabaqui and remarked that my guts being spread out on the floor of the canteen would put everybody off their food.
“He thinks that he’s received enlightenment!” Tabaqui continued through bouts of coughing, even turning slightly blue. “That he understands it now! Is there life after death, is there life on Mars, and is the Earth round! Look at him, sitting here all bloated!”
“He’s been kind of puffy ever since your speech,” Humpback said. “I guess he’s just not used to it all.”
“I’m not bloated!” I protested. “I’m not bloated, I’m not puffy, and I’d appreciate it if you all left me alone!”
“Hear, hear,” Black said from the other side of the table. “Tabaqui, why are you at his throat all of a sudden? Can’t a guy just think whatever it is he thinks in peace?”
“Peace!” Tabaqui shrieked. “Is that what you call peace now? When one of your packmates fills up with self-importance, turns into a complete bastard, and on top of that squints at you contentedly? And I’m supposed to just shut up about this? To live alongside this disgusting mug? Not likely! If he thinks he can walk around with that kind of face, he should get himself a veil. I personally am not going to let it slide!”
“Look, he’s just pissed off now,” Sphinx said. “See for yourself. And calm down, will you.”
But it took quite a while for Jackal to calm down. He would chew his food looking away and then suddenly turn around, throw me a wicked stare, and turn back. It was not at all funny, even though it seemed so to Noble.
I tried to look stone-faced while wheeling out of the canteen. I wasn’t mad at Tabaqui. Not even a bit angry. If anything, I was admiring his sharpness. Who would be happy if someone were to debunk their favorite game? Tabaqui’s reaction confirmed that I really was on to something. I just had to learn to keep it to myself.
Black patted me on the shoulder as he passed.
“Don’t let it get to you,” he said. “They’re all nuts, some more than others.”
“They’re not nuts,” I blurted out. “They’re players.”
Black gave me a surprised look.
I couldn’t understand what was more surprising to him: my words, which he didn’t understand, or my insightfulness.
They lived in filthy cages, and they ate raw eggs by sucking them out through cracked shells. Their ears were sharp and rough to the touch and their claws were like curved swords. No disease could ever befall them, except colds and scabies, from which they died . . .
. . . it shined its purple eye on me and I understood that it was her, the Great Hairy, the one who lives under the beds in the places where the dust collects, the one who turns the floorboards over in search of mold. I asked her to tell me my future, but she never did that. “There is nothing more horrible than knowing what awaits us tomorrow,” she said and gave me one of her fangs in consolation . . .
And within that castle dwelt a knight renowned throughout the land for his prowess. They called him Dragonslayer, for he had killed the last dragon, and that was no mean feat since it was very hard to find. Those who would speak ill of him maintained, however, that it wasn’t a dragon at all, just a large lizard from the Southern Realm . . .
It looks like a small black cylinder. It cannot be seen by sunlight, and it definitely cannot be seen in the dark. One can only bump into it by accident. Every night it hums softly as it steals time . . .
I was lying in the dark and listening. It was hot. My head was swimming from the cocktail, in which I could vaguely discern vodka, lemon juice, and something like pine-scented shampoo. The boombox, buried under the layers of blankets, was playing organ music. Everywhere around me were someone’s arms, legs, pillows, and bottles. It was the first time that I’d experienced the room with all the lights off. The stories kept coming. Some were interrupted just when they got going, others started instead, and then the earlier ones returned when I’d already lost the sequence of events, and the overlaying snippets wove themselves into fanciful patterns that were very hard to keep track of. I tried, though.
. . . it is the hour when the bighorns venture out on the glistening paths leading down to the water, and they bellow. Trees bend from their calls. And then the hour comes when all the fools are placed in boats and sent up the moon river. It is said that the Moon takes them. The water near the shore becomes sweet and remains sweet until sunrise. Those who catch this hour and manage to drink the water turn into fools themselves . . .
I laughed and spilled some wine on my shirt.
“Why would anyone want to drink it,” I whispered, “if it’s so dangerous?”
“There is none happier than a true fool,” the invisible storyteller said.
The voice sounded like Sphinx. But I didn’t think I was distinguishing the voices correctly. I’d drunk too much, I guessed. The glass kept refilling itself, and an empty bottle was sticking in my ribs on the right side. I couldn’t be bothered to push it away.
There aren’t too many basilisks left in the Black Forest. They have mostly gone to seed, and their gaze is rarely lethal. But if you trek farther in, where the moss covering the tree trunks glows purple, the ones you meet there are the real ones, since they’ve never seen light. That’s why no one goes there, and of those who do, few return, and of those who return, none had seen any basilisks. So how do we know that they still exist there?
Someone jostled me.
“Hey, your turn. Tell us something.”
I rubbed my face. My fingers were sticky. I licked them. The drowsy apathy was carrying me away, up the moon river. To where the bighorns were waiting.
“I can’t,” I said honestly. “I don’t know anything that’s like these stories. I’d just spoil everything.”
“Give me your glass, then.”
I thrust the glass in the direction of the voice.
“I’ll have the pine, please. But not too much. I’m already tipsy.”
I specified the pine because I saw Tabaqui splash some of the contents from the jar with the chili peppers into the other three bottles. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to survive a sampling of the resulting brew.
“There isn’t much left anyway. Don’t drop off, though. No sleeping on Fairy Tale Night. That would be bad manners.”
“Do these nights happen often?”
“Four times a year. There’s one every season. And also the Monologue Night, the Dream Night, and the Longest Night. Those are once per year. You’ve missed the first two.”
The glass returned.
“The Night of the Big Crash, when Humpback falls out of his aerie,” the voice continued to mumble indistinctly. “The Night of the Yellow Water, when Lary remembers his childhood . . . We should check in on him, by the way. He skipped two rounds already.”