Greatshadow (26 page)

The forest-pygmies seemed especially wary of Aurora. None dared look directly at her, though behind her there was a crowd of small green people pointing and gawking.

“The blue tint of your skin makes them think you’re some sort of oddly sized river-pygmy,” Grandfather said. “The river-pygmies work with the slavers, so they’re wary.”

Aurora took a seat near the edge of the netting, looking out over the lush forest. She didn’t seem bothered by the sagging floor or the drop off. “Since I left the north, I’ve gotten used to people being cautious around me,” she said. “At home, I was a runt and a weakling. If not for being born with the mark of a shaman, I doubt they would have fed me as a child.”

Zetetic stayed as close to the center of the floor as possible. I remembered his reaction when he’d first arrived in the cave. Apparently, No-Face wasn’t alone in his acrophobia. Yet, though Zetetic clung to the woven floor with white knuckles, his voice was curiously enthusiastic as he said, “Mr. Merchant, I’ve read everything you ever wrote about the Vanished Kingdom. The world lost quite a scholar when you vanished.”

Father Ver glowered as Zetetic spoke, ready to pounce if the Deceiver attempted anything. Reeker also kept his gaze fixed on the man, no doubt intent not to be taken by surprise again.

My grandfather seemed unaware of the tension in the air. He dismissed Zetetic’s compliment with a shrug. “The world lost nothing. I’ve come to understand that scholarship has very little to do with actual knowledge. In the world I grew up in, knowledge was something found chiefly in books. It was information that gets passed on as scribbled marks on paper. When I first started exploring this land, I wrote down everything I learned, because that seemed like a validation. It was as if nothing I was doing mattered until I committed it to paper.”

“It’s the echo of the divine that makes you feel this,” said Lord Tower. He had never actually landed on the platform; instead, he was hovering a few inches above the netting, perhaps worried about adding his weight to the already strained vines. “When we write, we imitate, in our own pale way, the original act of creation.”

Grandfather chuckled. “You’re my guests, so I’ll say this as respectfully as possible: books aren’t real. I mean, yes, books as physical objects exist, but they contain no reality or truth within them.”

“Have a care,” said Father Ver. “Your words venture dangerously close to the heresy of the Deceivers.”

“No,” said Grandfather. “The Deceivers think that everything is a lie. Reality itself is a fiction, which clever men are free to rewrite.”

“Actually—” said Zetetic.

Grandfather kept talking, ignoring the interruption. “The Deceivers are wrong, as is the Church of the Book. Neither accept the obvious truth: the only thing that defines the world is the world itself. Reality is the tree we sit in; it’s the sun on your face, the evening breeze, the bitter burst of jawa fruit on the tongue. The things we write in books are only daydreams and memories, mental constructs pleasant and useful, but not real. By the time a man writes of an experience, that experience is forever gone. The past vaporizes behind us; the future is devoured voraciously by the present. It is only in the now that we are alive. The physical world surrounding us is the only truth.” He looked out over the green mountain, toward the azure sea. “It is... enough.”

“Bah,” said Father Ver with a dismissive wave. “These are the pointless musings of the spiritually weak. The here-and-now is but a trap; the pleasure of the moment seduces men from contemplation of larger truths. Feeble-minded youth sometimes fall prey to the desire to glamorize the now, but I’m disappointed a man of your advanced age has made this error. Look around you, old man. You live in a bug-infested tree, among primitives who don’t even know how to make clothing. Without accepting a greater spiritual truth, man can be nothing more than another beast.”

Grandfather smiled as he looked at the leaves above him. He lifted up his skinny arm and snatched a bright green katydid from the nearest branch. The insect was perfectly blended with its surroundings, but my grandfather seemed to have spotted it effortlessly. “You call them bugs,” he said. He popped the leggy creature into his mouth and crunched down. “We call them snacks.”

During this philosophical debate, a stream of pygmy women had been flowing onto the vine platform across the rope bridges, carrying dark green leaves the size of dinner trays. And, dinner trays were precisely what they were. A buffet was laid out on the floor; bright blue jawa fruit adorned one leaf, plump white maggots writhed on another. There were speckled eggs the size of grapes, dark red snails the size of oranges, and at least a dozen kinds of nuts, half of which I didn’t recognize. One leaf held what looked like raw meat, chopped and ground to a paste. Nothing looked cooked.

“There’s no formality here. Dig in,” said Grandfather, snatching up a snail and a jawa fruit. “Since we live in trees, we don’t built fires.” He squeezed the fruit and the bright blue juice sluiced through his fingers and into the snail shell. “Fortunately, jawa juice is acidic enough that it effectively cooks most meat. Your
civilized
guts won’t suffer.”

Father Ver looked aghast as Grandfather sucked the snail out of its shell, giving it a tug as the last of the meat fought to hold onto its casing. The coil of pale flesh smacked into his lips before it disappeared into his mouth. Grandfather lay back on the floor-net, looking up at the sun-dappled branches. “Eat meat while it still has life in it. Keep fruit in your belly and sun on your skin. Sleep when you are tired and drink when you are thirsty. This is all a man needs to enjoy a long life.”

“There are elderly among the civilized as well,” said Father Ver. “Your recipe for life will not keep you alive a single day longer than the span the Divine Author has recorded for you in the book.”

Grandfather scratched the dark green pubic hair around his gourd, seemingly unconcerned that anyone was watching. “You are free to think what you wish. I wouldn’t trade my life for the wealth of a king. I live in the eternal moment, while a civilized man worries only about tomorrow, or longs for yesterday.”

While Grandfather and the Truthspeaker sparred, Menagerie dug into the food with gusto, not bothering with the fruits, just tearing into the raw meat directly. Reeker was more dainty, picking through the nuts and berries and less wriggly-looking insects. He carried a leaf full of food over to No-Face, who squeezed the fruits and bugs into a colorful mush, which he slurped loudly from his palm into a fold beneath his face-flap.

The Deceiver went straight for the nastiest looking dish, a sort of chopped spider salad laced with bright green chilies. He washed it down with a freshly opened coconut, the pale milk spilling down the corners of his damaged mouth.

“Doesn’t the spice hurt the cuts in your mouth?” Reeker asked, still keeping a close eye on the man.

Zetetic shrugged. “I’ve learned to enjoy pain. Plus, I’ve always had a sense of adventure in my diet. In my travels, I’ve been delighted by the different attitudes regarding what one is supposed to put in one’s mouth. One man’s spoiled milk is another man’s cheese. Some men hunt with dogs, others eat them in stews. What half the world believes is true about food, the other half thinks is false. It’s left me with an open mind and a daring stomach. I’ll put anything in my mouth at least once.”

Neither Lord Tower nor Father Ver made any move toward the dishes.

“Aren’t you hungry?” asked Grandfather.

“We have our own provisions,” Tower answered. “It would be a sin for me to partake in this food. Your people live in such poverty.”

Infidel’s eyes kept flickering toward the buffet. All the earlier excitement had probably built up her appetite, but she did an admirable job of just standing at attention, her face devoid of obvious longing.

“I assume you’ll see she gets fed later,” I said to Relic, who had a fistful of maggots.

Of course,
he answered, as he shoved one of the plump larvae into the shadows beneath his hood.
We have all the details planned out. You need not worry for her comfort.

Meanwhile, Grandfather had responded to Lord Tower. “Poverty? What poverty? None among us are hungry. We all have a safe place to sleep in the company of our family. There is not a single physical need we go without.”

“You dwell in spiritual poverty, separated from the Church,” said Father Ver.

Zetetic said, with a mouthful of spiders, “Why do you have to be such a jerk, Ver? Show a little graciousness for a fellow who’s giving us a roof to sleep under.” He glanced up at the leaves. “So to speak.”

“I’m not bothered by his attitude,” said Grandfather, as Father Ver eyed the Deceiver with a murderous gaze. “It’s nice to be reminded of all I left behind. Which I suppose leads to the question, why are you here? You didn’t come looking for me. You’re too heavily armed for tomb raiding. Are you going after Greatshadow?”

“Yes,” said Lord Tower. “King Brightmoon has decided to rid the world of his tyranny.”

“I don’t think tyranny is the word you’re looking for,” said Grandfather.

“I chose the word with precision,” said Tower. “The dragon has crushed every attempt to colonize this island. He’s shown nothing but hatred toward humanity. We must destroy him now, before he one day destroys the world.”

Grandfather smiled softly. He said, “If he hates humanity so much, why does our tribe live in peace in his very shadow? Presumably, he could kill us at any time. He could daily scour the slopes of this island with lava. Nothing at all could grow here. It would be as dead as the Silver Isle.”

“You know nothing of the Silver Isle, sir,” said Tower. “I’ve flown from shore to shore; there is no inch of it I have not witnessed. It’s a lovely, green land, an emerald jewel amid the vast dark sea.”

“Green, yes,” said Grandfather. “Green with crops and orchards, grape arbors and olive groves. The hills are lush with grass, planted so that cattle may graze. Well-tended oak trees still decorate the gardens of wealthy men. But, at no point when you flew over the island did you find a forest, or any wild thing. Men murdered the Silver Isle, then decorated the corpse with flowers. It doesn’t compare to the untamed beauty of the Isle of Fire.”

“We are of a different opinion,” said Tower.

“Again, I must disagree. I have an opinion. You have narrow-minded dogma.” Grandfather paused for a second to squeeze jawa juice into a second snail. “Greatshadow is no tyrant. Is the sun a tyrant when drought kills crops in the field? Is the stream a tyrant when it overruns its banks and floods a village? Greatshadow is merely an aspect of nature, the embodiment of fire. You civilized men need fire to cook your meals and forge your swords. You bring it into your homes to survive the winter, and your fields would be unmanageable if you didn’t burn them at the start of each planting season. To wage war against the natural world is madness.”

“Nonsense,” said Lord Tower, speaking calmly. Unlike Father Ver, he didn’t seem angered by Grandfather’s bluntness. “It isn’t waging war against a stream to build a dam to control flooding. We do not wound the earth by digging into it with plows. As you must know, there was once a primal dragon of the forest. The church defeated him after a long struggle, banishing his spirit. Yet, all around you is evidence that trees have endured. We didn’t wage war against the forest; we waged war against an unholy spirit that had laid an unjust claim to an elemental force. The same is true of Greatshadow. When he is gone, we will still have flames in our foundries and candles in our homes. They will simply be free of his all-watching eye.”

“You’re not the first to come this way, you know,” said Grandfather. “Every generation sends a team of men against the beast. Every generation fails.”

“You’ve met previous parties?” Zetetic asked. “Do you know the fate of the Castlebridge expedition?”

Grandfather nodded. “I believe you are referring to the two hundred soldiers who hacked their way up the mountain almost twenty years ago.”

Zetetic nodded. “My father was with the expedition. We know the Wanderers delivered them safely to landfall. After this, they simply vanished from the face of the earth.”

“Into the face of the earth is more accurate,” said Grandfather. “Their ashes are no doubt well-mingled with the soil by now. Lava-pygmies witnessed it all. Greatshadow sent out his avatars as they were halfway up the slope. All flesh was burned away. The armor they wore turned to slag amid a field of blackened glass. It was a horrible scar upon the earth for all of a month; the jungle has long since swallowed all evidence of their passing.”

“He attacked Commonground with two of these avatars,” said Menagerie. “They were enough to get the job done, but I still wonder, does he have limits? Could he have created a dozen if he wished? If he animates these forms with his spirit, does his spirit weaken as he divides himself? No magic comes without a price. Blood magic costs a man his humanity, dream magic withers men’s souls, the Deceivers pay for their powers with their sanity.” Zetetic opened his mouth to dispute this, but Menagerie finished by saying, “Elemental magic can’t be an exception. The dragon must have some weakness.”

“True,” said Grandfather. “For the primal dragons, the price they pay for their elemental magic seems to be their sense of identity. A dragon’s mind is no more infinite than a man’s mind. Rott, the primal dragon of decay, spread his essence so thinly that he hasn’t been seen to manifest himself in a body for centuries. No one knows if he even remembers that he was once a dragon. However, Greatshadow has avoided this fate. He maintains his original body, feasting, sleeping, and fornicating; his sense of identity is in no real danger.”