For a Song Pt. 02

"Oh, she flies through the proud darkness.

Rather than the breathless vastness of the world

And yet he did not reject the light herself.

He believes she's one of a chain," I sing.

The trees bounce back the words in due time, the breeze hushing the rustle and rattle as I keep walking, guitar in hand and strumming along to the song I pluck from the world. It is a day for something like this. I spring up everywhere, like a weed, naturally, as a matter of course. Just enough cloud to offer shade, just enough shade to let it be bright and happy and alive, and a breeze soft enough so nothing grows stagnant. It is a day for moving, changing things, leaving others behind to follow their own paths, and generally, just getting along like a little dogie.

It always amazes me, the cutoff. A battle only exists so long as there are people fighting it. As long as no one is interested in dying under a banner, then it simply ceases to be. A few days from the rank and file and there is no one who even knows there is a war going on. Not sure that's a good thing. Wars tend to be somewhat of a big deal. It's also possible that my little jaunt with the lady of death was nothing more than a skirmish contained to a valley. Or not. I am not concerned with such worldly affairs. I have a song in my heart that must be shared with the world and then we'll see about lunch. I think it's lunch time. I haven't been counting my steps, so it may even be time for dinner.

It's lunch time when I come to the river by the trail side, and I think of what I might have. All in all, it comes down to a rest on the riverbank. If anything happens to come up on the bank and offer itself to me, then we'll have a grand old time. But my feet hurt, and the sun is out. I put my hat over my eyes and have myself a good long think on what to do.

I think I fall asleep. I hope I do. It would offer the most concise explanation as to why the sky is darkening in a blood orange nova as the stars start to shine. Or maybe time is a convoluted mass of whatever the fuck it wants to be and my understanding of it is lacking at best. My guitar is still there. My money is still there. My hat is slowly shuffling away, however, in small spurts of panicked movement. I sigh. I do not like the moving hat if only because I have to roll up and chase it down. It didn't go far, but still. My arms can only stretch so much.

I pick up the hat and find the legs that decided to move the damn thing for me. It's a lizard, black in the undertone, but sparkling rainbow in the scant light. It looks left, right, up and down, before turning to me with a small hop. It blinks at me with bright eyes that seem to pierce right through whatever color I land on.

"Food," she says.

"I don't have any food, Treblex," I say through a yawn, "Do you have any food?"

My wonderful guest doesn't really respond to any of that. There is no food around so she must find food. Good for her. Maybe she'll catch a large insect or a small fish or find a large berry. I'm not sure what Treblexes eat, if anything. It might just be some remaining drive of what she was before, a manifestation of an old insanity that drives the one-word bursts.

My dreams revealed to me my path. It is a simple one, really. I will have fish tonight, caught from the river. No line or tackle or bait, other than a being so much more powerful than I currently wandering for crumbs or carcasses or again, whatever Treblexes eat.

I strip. I am one with the wind in this moment and it is all I ever wanted. Just chilly enough to get the gooseflesh up, the hair rising and the blood sharp and deadly. I close my eyes and let the last bit of the sunlight warm me before wading into the river, the silt squishing beneath my feet. Cold, so incredibly cold, so wonderfully cold and sit flows between my legs. It is all washed downstream with the rest of the snow melt from the mountains. The blood, the sun I took in, the colors I wove through song and dance. The sensations my body went through all cleansed in a baptism under early evening. Treblex does her little call from the bank. Distressed, this time. My poor hat has trapped her again and they can't seem to figure how to get out. I will deal with that later.

I open my mind to the flow of the world and find the colors I want. The hat mutes the infinite rainbow from my companion on the bank. Slightly. I turn away from that particular sun and comb through the water. We are all touched in some way by the colors we weave in our wake. The grass is green. The trees carry something similar, if a bit darker and marbled. But I look for the silver blue of dancing scales in the water. I find the aura it gives off and I move, slowly, letting my own black swirl away and mix with the river water. I am a ghost, spinning the world. Treblex cries again and if they're not careful, a bird is going to come by and snatch them away. I don't want to go through a bird for my little tricks. That would be terrible, because all birds are bastards. Not a one can be trusted.

I creep until I am within striking distance. In a flash, the water parts and I am embraced by the cold swirl, my breath fading into nothing, seized in my chest. The world goes dark, and I reach for the flash of blue silver at the edges. It's in my grasp and that's its end. We move on with the world and everything grows a bit darker. Less colors in the river, less colors in the sky, but the stars and the moon finally showing up. I smile. It's a good time for fish. I hold my prize above my head as I wade back to shore. It's a catfish, I believe. The little barbels dance and bounce with its struggles. I hold it tight and heave both of our wet bodies on the shore.

"Food!" shouts Treblex from under my hat. The scurrying goes faster and faster in frantic circles trying to escape.

"Get a fire started and I might share," I say. I shift the fish and reach for a knife. One quick motion and it goes still. Treblex is still having trouble with her prison until I find it in me to open the cell. She scampers up my arm, trying to get her share before its time. I snatch and dangle her in front of my nose.

"What did I say Treblex?" I ask with a stone edge creeping in.

"Fire," she says, still trying to get at the fish.

"We start a fire. We cook the fish. And then, we eat the fish. Do you like cooked fish?

The lizard nods and I put her down. Such a handful, that one. I heard Long Walker is a bit easier to deal with. Mostly because you just don't. A smile and a wave as he passes by and that's it. Cout has a similar deal. The people who meet with him, for the most part, don't meet with him for too long before being whisked off to who knows where. No clue about the others in any grand sense. They could all show up with baskets of cookies, wine, massages whatever the follower so wished. But no, my little dumbass lizard needs food and warmth and gets stuck in my hat when I'm not looking.

And when I am not looking, Treblex has made herself useful for once and we have a small cookfire going. She's perched on a rock, eyes closed, taking in the heat and letting the light dance across her hide. It is mesmerizing, I will admit. Almost hypnotic. Red and orange seem to be the most all-consuming as of now, but I glimpse the same blue of my fingertips on there every so often. I spit the fish and let it sit. We just wait. Like my dumbass lizard, I take in the warmth of the fire, still naked, baking the heat into my muscles.

What was not washed away, slowly unwinds in the heat. The muscles unclench and uncoil from my bones. My knots are undone. I start in the dancing lights that Treblex made. She starts as the orange red, yellow swirl, lapping tongues against the sky. Treblex grows bored and makes it my blue again, dancing with my black. They are a nice golden yellow again, with the same black. Emerald green, sapphire blue, agates and violets and every other color that can come through. The lizard watches and waves and changes the colors. I am still black and blue. My horn is still the same tapered tip. The snap of the twigs prevents me from dosing into the final rest of the day. That and the scent of the fish. I believe it's done.

Still nude, I pull myself up and pick the fish apart. One piece for me. One for my guest, careful with where I put my fingers. And together, we eat in silence as the fire dies down. We get to the bones and that's all there is to do.

"Song," says Treblex.

"Only if you tell me why you showed up," I say. Gotta pull teeth with this one. She stares at me with all the hatred a lizard can muster, which can be quite a lot. But I'm not singing. My nose can take a few more chompings.

"Family," she hisses. The eyes of a million rainbows dart towards my guitar and that's all I'm going to get.

The word, though, the single word does get a bit in me scared. I like my family. I like them a lot. I don't know why this particular lizard saw fit to say that word. But she did. She upheld her end of the bargain and that's all I need. I reach over and I begin to play.

"Staring at death, I take a breath, there's nothing left.

Now close my eyes, for one last time, and say goodbye.

Lying naked while the snow falls all around me.

Drifting closer to the edge but She won't have me," I sing.

"Favorite," Treblex hums and the world hums with her.

---

The river widens and goes down into lazy flow. I do not. There is a restlessness in me that did not fade with a good night's sleep. My guitar is on my back, my rapier and my knife si5 at my hip and that is enough for any journey to be safe. Except maybe another knife or two. Or three. Always more knives. I have more belt and that means more knives.

Not even the idea of having more blades is enough to keep me grounded. I am still walking in the memory of last night's little talk with Treblex. The word she gave me didn't sit right when it first came out and I'm only thinking of what else could be wrong. She's hard to parse at the best of times. This is not that. She liked the song though. And she gave me one more word.

River.

The river is dead. It's still. It's quiet. Some imaginary line I passed in the morning that killed everything. No boats or fishers and I'm not even sensing anything in the water. Just cold, clear water so deep and dark as to rival the night sky. I shiver and move along. The midday sun can only do so much when it comes down to it. I don't like the endless water and its utter indifference.

The shacks come with the midday sun. Little fishing things, places to keep a boat dry and a head down. They all look the same and I wonder how people can tell which one is which. Might be something facing the water, but the ones on the other bank have nothing like that. So, it's all a mystery. I don't have a boat, or any plans to own a boat. Therefore, I am content to let this mystery sit and stew and remain unanswered. None of the walls have people inside, so I can't ask them.

The shacks give way to actual homes, not on the water. The other side of the path has the farms. Corn from what I can tell. Too early for anything really to show what it truly is, but corn seems right. The path has its little arches cut away, letting the river flow in and do the watering for the farmers. Laziness in its purest form, applied beautifully. If someone or something else does the work, then the person not doing the work can do more work on something else. It's a beautiful system.

A kid, Kurhk I guess from the teeth, scampers by with a gleeful look.

"Stop! Joyce!" shouts the mother.

I reach out and snatch the kid by the collar. Probably not a good idea to do that with a kid that's not mine, but there's always the chance that it is. The years don't line up quite right with the last time I was around Riverbend, but you never know. I decide that it isn't. Not enough fight in them. Struggling, sure, but just to get back to the water. I am not a factor. Fair. I am merely acting out the will of something greater than me. The mother comes huffing up to me and I was right. Kurhk. Her bottom teeth jut out in two small fangs locking in her upper lip. The eyes are big with the wrinkles of the sun on the corner. Crow's feet and laugh lines, but still young and burning the world at both ends. She takes her hands to her knees and doubles over. The basket on her back is full of weeds. I'm surprised she could move that fast with something so heavy. Farm strength always takes my breath away. That, and the fact that I can see down her shirt. Definitely a good mother from what I know.

The kid starts squirming in my grasp. I am not the mother and that must mean I am a stranger. Strangers are dangerous things. Before the whole intellectual giant of the toddler's brain puts it all together, I spin them around and let them decide that they would rather run towards home instead of the deadly, deadly water. And that is what they do.

The mother picks them up with a stern glare. And then she turns to me. The feeling of wonderful colors fills my stomach and I put on my cockiest grin. I feel that's the one that works the most often. Or at least, attracts the ones I like. She seems to respond in kind. The hips cocked, the lips are quirked, and she is looking at me without an ounce of shame.

"Thank you," she says, "this one is a troublemaker."

"I don't mind troublemakers," I say, "Just depends on the trouble."

"Well, unfortunately, this isn't the good kind. Word of warning handsome, the river's been closed to anyone not with the Weavers. Technically, this path is supposed to be blocked, but I guess whoever was supposed to do that didn't."

"Now that is interesting. Not the block part. People don't do their jobs all the time. Anything in particular happen?"

"Couple of boys drowned a few days ago. Put word into the church for someone to come down."

She rolls her eyes and keeps rolling them. She seems to like my collar bone. I don't blame her. It's a good collar bone. Hers are also fine. The kid starts squirming and that's a cue that they need more attention. Fair. Kids need attention.

"I was just about to get lunch going," she says to me, "Help me finish the weeding and you get a plate.

I think to myself about all the things I could be doing with my time. I turn back and eye the river. If a couple of boys drowned there, then I should probably deal with something a bit more inland. And my new host seems to have huge tracts of land.

---

Her name is Shelby. She gave me that much when I gave her mine. And she is a widow. That is a problem, in a bigger sense. Not that she is incapable, but a life led alone and lonely just is more difficult than one not. Some of the other farmers pitch in when they can, but they have their plots and harvests and what not. She manages. And she manages well. Young Joyce has decided that they are more content to chase butterflies and frankly, I wish I was doing the same. We could all chase butterflies around in the mud, giggling and squealing with innocent joy. And I could roll over and grope something soft and big and round and no one would care.

My basket of weeds is smaller than hers and that's fine. I had a late start. And she has more practice. And she knows which ones are weeds. I did not grow up on a farm, so I have no knack for this. I have the blood of a fisherman in my veins. I shed my shirt and let it pile up near my pack. It's a hot one today, and the looks I get seem to make it worth it. She likes my collarbone, but she also likes my back, my shoulders, the way I stand and stretch for her whenever I feel the need. I think I am making things worse for all of us. I am a distraction. Shelby is distracted. Joyce is mostly oblivious. And we are all hungry. The longer we stay out here under the sun, slowly baking down into ash, the longer it will be before we finally eat. I stretch again. Her eyes go to my stomach and then a bit lower. She works her lip and I watch her work her chest a bit. It must be sore. I don't blame her. I would hold those wonderful gems as often as I could.

I don't think we're done when she says we are, but I think that's just farm life. There is always more to do, but there is always more time to do it. Less weeds in the earth, a deep ache in our collective bellies and then we are all in agreement that there is something else we should probably do. The sun is getting high and hot and there are better places to be.

She instructs me to pull a few vegetables from the garden, something ripe and fresh. I come away with some asparagus and carrots and something similar to bok choy, if I am correct. That's enough for a salad, in my opinion. When I put them on the table, I am not corrected. If anything, she is impressed that it was chosen so well. I rinse them while she pulls some smoked sausage. Joyce isn't much help. But she tries to be. There are mismatched bowls set about and everyone gets cutlery. I get a whole knife, all to myself. Joyce and Shelby get two, plus the full spread. I believe the kid has a fondness for spoons with how many are set before them.

I chop and she chops, and we stand side by side at the counter. Her hips bump into mine and it appears I have neglected an entire watershed of her being. That is something cherish as well. There is strength in the movement too, playful and innocent. A bit more into I and I might actually be knocked down. Her eyes are brown as they flutter with complete denial.

"What's in the sausage," I ask as I sit, grateful for the service. It's all simple and rustic and pure. I don't mind. I haven't eaten all day and I am ravenous.

"Chicken, mostly," she says with a groan, "There's a hellion up the way who keeps them. Grumpy old man, but we get along. I give him some of my corn for feed and he gives me eggs and whatever he makes. It works out."

She puffs out her chest, not as a display. A soft series of pops run up her spine and she twists. That might be a bit more for me, but it still works out some of the knots.

"I know a trick for that," I say, "I can show you."

The eyes challenge me before darting to Joyce. She's happily eating her greens. She likes carrots the most. She's saving them for last it seems.

"Eat your carrots, sweetie," says Shelby, "They're good for you."

Joyce says nothing but gives her mother a terrible look. I laugh. It's the same. It's just the same thing. It's amazing. I don't know why, but I can see the future. The kid will be a terror, going through the town with whatever they get wrapped around their finger. It's still too early to tell what the Kurhk will blossom into. Hopefully they keep the name. It suits them well. I cast a glance to Shelby if assistance is needed. She shrugs. Apparently, it is, and I feel like I still have to earn my meal.

"I'll sing a song with you, if you eat your carrots," I say.

"Are you any good mister," they say. Fair question, if a little heavy on the skepticism. A demanding client, but a client all the same.

"Oh, the best. I've sang for generals, for queens, for princesses."

"Have you sung for farmers," Shelby asks.

"Those are my favorite, really. They know the best songs."

Joyce considers it and that seems to sway her. It's hard, but she gets them down. When Shelby takes my plate from me and turns away, I sneak a few from my audience. It makes it move a bit faster for everyone. That really wins her over. Those eyes they give me need work, but I was right. A killer in the making.

---

"So, I just put her down for a nap," Shelby says as she finds me outside, "Thank you for that. Finally got around to cleaning some things that need cleaning.

I tune my strings a bit, one final strum and let them all go slack. I don't want any of them warped and bent when I need it again. Good strings are hard to find, and I only have so many with me. The kid's a decent singer. Nowhere near as good as me, but they got time.