For a Song Pt. 03

My bones are cold. It's been a long, long time since they've been this cold. They've been colder, I suppose, but that's never a good thing to qualify. The current suffering is always the worst, because it is the one at present. Thinking on past suffering only serves to cheapen the whole history of terrible experiences.

I should have stayed at Shelby's farm another day. No one would have blamed me. I would have moved on drier, and she'd probably have another notch or two put on her bedpost. That's always a good thing to have behind you. It's good to call on those times during the bad, and our one round in the shed can only do so much. Eliza helped me through some more and a man who would only call himself Mr. Silk did even more. I miss Mr. Silk. I miss Eliza. I miss Shelby. I miss Joyce, although not in nearly the same way. It would be nice to have a weather portent in my pocket. The sky always looks the same to me.

I stop and stare at the sign once there is a tickle in my stomach. I smile and look around, although the rain hides most of it. It's leading me down to the riverbank, somewhat counterintuitively. A tree beckons to me, and I have to take a break. It will be drier under the tree and then I can gather my thoughts. I put my head down and keep moving the branches out of the way.

It was all worth it. The branches interlock and form a wonderful tent. I believe it's a weeping willow. The branches hang low and dip into the water, a few curtains now showing an engorged river. The water's going down fast, chipping away at the shore. The water's clay brown with the churning sediment. A log is carried down from somewhere upriver, twirling and swirling and bobbing. I watch it and then it goes under. I shiver and start wringing out my hair. It doesn't really help, but it does make me feel better. The rest of my outfit can't quite get the same treatment right now. Later. Not now, in a tavern, with some wine and broth and a roaring fire. I don't even particularly care for any companionship at the moment. That's a lie. I could have a friend or two along for the ride up the stairs. But warmth is first. Warmth and dryness and no more rain for a long, long time.

I take a gamble and see what the next 10 or so minutes will bring. It's not all that different, really. I see another log go under. I see a very large fish thrash in the water for a brief moment. I get a river of water dumped on my head and I guess that's a sign to move on and move forward down into town. I take my time wringing myself out a bit more though. I am still not dry enough for what I want to be.

The branches refuse to knit back together, and I am soaked once more. Bad tree, bad, bad tree. It dumps on me again and I can't get up fast enough. The mud slides out from underneath my boot and I am sent slipping into the water. I scream wordlessly and let everything frustrating out in an anguished cry. At least it's only up to my shins. That's wading territory, however unstable the rest of the riverbed is.

The mud slips into my boots, sucking on my steps and threatening to drown me. My guitar is going to need some love and care after this, along with everything else on me. Mud and reeds and river water pouring out from everything I own, wringing out my skin, my fleshy bits, my boney bits. My frustration peaks and then I have to go and do something else for it.

I move, even as the river tries to claim me. I shiver and realize that I should have been moving sooner. There is something coming from downstream that I don't want to deal with. The threat of the drowned bodies and the monster in the current does not come to mind. There is a deep, dark blue coming through the red clay-stained water. I cut to the shore, and something brushes against my shins. Not deep enough right now, but that just makes me move faster.

The current shifts and forbids me from going to the shore. Hands in the water of the water, pulling me away from the dry land. The color slips closer. I reach for the knife at my hip and that does make me feel better.

The thread I follows betrayed me. The fists close around my ankles and pull. I stab and only manage to nick my foot. A hand goes to my wrist, and I try to pull. I keep pulling and my other hand goes to my other knife. That's why I have several on me at any time.

I stab and hit something that isn't me. My wrist is free, and I have a knife. My guitar is useless, so I am not at full power. But a knife will work well enough. I sink my weight and remain steady.

The shore seems so much farther from me now. The hands are still pulling and rooting me down. I keep steady. I keep my frustration down. The color is still flowing closer. I pull. I don't break from it, and I don't know what else I can do.

It's down to a simple shuffle against the current. I am moving. The current is strong, but I am stronger. I have my march, my slow waltz to move my body. I can't see anything. The rain is heavy and cold. My hair is stuck to my forehead. And despite all this, I am still more frustrated than scared. I just want to stab something again, but the last time didn't work out the best for me. I just want to get away from the endless sea of abyss blue creeping up behind me.

The water line grows higher and the hands clamber with it. My balance is failing me, and I still feel for the threads. There is a stone, a stable patch, a bank or something under the water to at least help me be slighter above drowning. There is nothing. The thread is pulling me down and I am calm. I do not like it, I question it, I challenge it and it is still telling me that everything will probably be ok. Or at least alright in the short term. I take one last, deep, waterlogged breath and let what whatever will happen, happen.

I can't see. I can't breathe. I am being drawn down, down, down into the shifting silt of the riverbed. I pick a direction to say is up and I am completely wrong. The thread is down. The pull is up. I am soaked, my guitar is ruined and the only thing keeping my hat on my head is a hand that might not be my own. The panic starts and I can't help it. It is only natural. I am a creature of the air, of open skies, of vast fields. The muck and the river are no place for such a delicate thing.

I am there in the swirling current for an eternity and a day by my flawed reckoning. I am tossed about with no care as to what shape I should be in. My ankles are up by my ears and that's alright. Ma arms are twisted behind my back into knotted pretzels. My spin is a crescent moon threatening to snap in half. I am calm. I would take a deep breath, but that little bit of reason still there says that would be a bad idea. It is. It really is.

More hands now and I am calm. All of the hands are cool and welcoming and dark, dragging me down into the black. I'll see Cout again, in a way. He'll shake his head and tut his tongue, adding me to the final tally for the day. I'll see Eliza at least. That will be nice. She'll be sad. She'll have more nightmares, and no one will be there to soothe them.

Dark, everything is dark and there is stillness calling to me. I really should have pushed for another day with Shelby, just to try and get one last round in. No one can blame me for wanting that.

Another hand comes for me and the others don't want to share. I am pulled in something I think is down, but it must be up. And the new hand is winning. I don't know which one I want to win. It's all not up to me anymore. Higher powers engaged in a tug of war over the rightful state of the world, and I am in the middle.

The newest one wins, yanking me up and dislocating my shoulder. I like that shoulder. It was a good shoulder. And the other was having a rough time of it as well. It couldn't quite handle any of it anymore. It tumbles out and then I lose my hat. I can breathe again, and I 'm not sure that it's a good trade off.

I hear a woman sob, uncontrollably, off a bit to my right. I cough and I can't hear her for a bit.

---

I'm not out for a long time. I don't even think I'm out at all. I'm just lying down on a hard deck for a spell. We all need a good lie down where everything is simple, and no responsibilities are out there. I have a certain nobility about me in this position, with my eyes closed, pretending that the world isn't the way it is.

Somebody pokes me and I am reminded that I am lost in a delusion. The rain was doing a decent job, but I was managing. I groan and motion the intruder away. A roll over and I am on my stomach, head propped and neck straight. It's a good time. Until I am poked again.

"Are you alive," ask the poking hand. Such great concern and I don't want to seem unappreciative. It's a flaw, really. If I was a better person, I would try and rectify that.

"Of course, he's alive, Gawain," says a slightly less concerned voice, "And he's just pretending."

"I am alive," I say, "But I'm still asleep. This is all a bad dream."

"Oh, that makes sense.," says the first, "Blake, he's dreaming. He has to be asleep."

"Yeah, Blake. Don't you know anything?"

"And you have a mouth on you. Great," sighs Blake.

"Nose too. Maybe even a few eyes. Never bothered to count."

Blake grumbles and a series of heavy stomps carry him away. That's nice. I can sleep in peace now. Except this Gawain person is poking me again and refusing my self-pitying indulgence.

"Why are you poking me?" I ask, "I am asleep."

"Well," the finger says, getting dangerously close to my eye, "In my opinion, this is a bad place to sleep. You could fall right back into the river and then we'd have to fish you out again. I don't think Miss Gerardine can convince the river to give you back again."

"Shame. Do you think you could talk to the river and save me?"

"No. Not in the slightest. We have some hammocks set up below deck if you want to lay down. But we'll be at Riverbend in a few hours."

I sigh and groan and make a big to do about actually getting up. But I get there. Gawain actually helps me, although the strength behind the motion is somewhat lacking. Small hands, delicate touches, soft skin, so it is not entirely unpleasant.

The rain is a bit calmer on my savior's vessel. It's a skiff, riding the water against the current. I see the suggestion of the hands that saved me paddling along. I am on a centipede, it seems, endlessly crying and sobbing over its grand predicament. It has hands instead of feet and it is swimming. My hand goes to my head and my stomach drops. My hat is gone. I don't want my hat to be gone. It should be here, on my head, resting on my beautiful horn, protecting me from rain and sun and everything bad.

"Did you pull up a hat with me," I ask. I glance around the deck for my answer. Gawain's shaking head is enough to confirm.

They're a Kuhrk, that much I can see from where I'm at. The teeth are always a dead giveaway with the slight jut. They have a small pair going up to their lips, under a sharp nose and hidden eyes. Small, slight, deep in the folds of a robe, obscuring all other forms that I might be able to see. They barely come up to my shoulders. Honestly kind of surprised they were even able to get me up to my feet with the vast difference in forms. I'm no gargan, technically, but I am tall. Not Eliza tall, but tall.

I throw my head back and sigh, letting the rain come down my features and try to make sense of it all. It'll turn up. It'll have to turn up. I am here on a river barge, chugging along with a woman sobbing underneath my feet. Gawain shivers and I take that as a sign that none of us want to be here.

So, we carefully walk down to the lower hull. The sobbing gets louder, and I shiver. The blue-black swirl of storm clouds and flooded banks is all around me. I did not want to be here, if only because the crying is getting a bit on my nerves. It shouldn't. The crying is a requisite for who they sent to deal with the problem. It's fine. I can deal. It's better than drowning. Gawain is a helpful little thing merging into the shadows of the dim candlelight awash in an orange glow. I have a chair to get sopping wet.

Gawain produces a kettle of tea and a pair of cups. The tea is even warm. Not hot by any means, but it is better than the chill I have. It's mint, I think, and definitely lacking in honey and lemon. But it's free and I'm cold and that's enough for anything to be nice. And I have a nice companion.

"Would it be too much to ask for some biscuits or something," I say, "Maybe some finger sandwiches?"

Gawain giggles and that is a much better noise than the sobbing.

The barge keeps moving along with the current and its myriad hands in a glass smooth waltz along. I slowly drip heavy puddles on the floor and that's fine. Gawain doesn't comment on it. A sip and a hum and a nervous fidget are all I am offered.

"What were you doing in the river," they finally ask.

"Despite how it may appear, I was not in there by choice," I say, "Ducked under a tree to get out of the rain, but the tree was too close to the water. And now I'm here."

They nod and take another sip. I could really go for those sandwiches I made up in my mind. I haven't eaten anything all day. Plenty to drink, though.

A set of heavy footsteps come up from behind my partner and I sigh. It's this Mister Blake, I presume. A gargan with pale gray skin and pale lines, head almost hitting the roof. He's scowling. A lot. I don't like scowls. They very rarely show off anything good and I heard they cause premature wrinkles.

"Hate to interrupt," he starts.

"Then don't." The scowl deepens and I regret nothing at all. It was my right to interject, and I'd do it again if given the chance. Gawain giggles and that's certainly worth a bit of hatred my way.

"Miss Geraldine wants to speak with our newest guest," he growls. There's a line across his throat, shiny and tight.

"Well then," I sigh, standing and stretching, "Gawain, thank you very much for the tea. Assuming this whole affair isn't catch and release, I would love to keep talking with you."

They brighten up and the shadows grow longer, slipping in tendrils of smoke around them, hiding and bringing them down io something hidden. I can't quite make out the whole of the room anymore, but the massive slab of man in front of me turns and takes me down. Not in the fun way. I am still dripping and again, nothing fun about it. I shiver and sneeze while my new partner doesn't even offer me a hanky. I am debased down to the level of just sniffing and hoping that it doesn't come back.

"So," I say, "Which are you with?"

"Vermil," comes the gravely reply without a second to waste.

"That's a good one. I like that one. What's your weapon you made with her?"

"I made of sword of star iron and magma stone."

"Neat. I'm guessing that Gawain is Greaycrown then?"

"Yes, he is. And it is he, by the way."

"Thank you. Didn't want to make that guess and it didn't come up."

He grunts something and I interpret it as something that I did right. I stand a bit straighter and shake a bit more. There is still more water sloughing off my body. I'm surprised that there is still more there. I think it's the swirling mass of dark blue I find myself in. I find the bright burning red swirling just a bit in front of me and the light smoky gray still sipping on tea. I wish I still had tea and companionship.

Blake comes to a door too small for him and more or less the right size for me. The crying is louder here, the loudest it's ever been and ever will be. A trepidatious knock and a cleared throat and then he opens it slowly.

The light inside is under water in the wavering circles and wobbly shapes. I look down and there is no floor. There is only the river water, only the slow-moving silt and the occasional fish curious at the world not its own. Blake shows me the way and tries to coax me in as quickly as possible. I test it and it's solid, like a lake frozen over. The door closes behind me and I have my third guest in as many moments.

A woman sits bunched and hunched on the far side, still sniffling and shaking a bit. She's soaked, just in the same manner as I am, although I think that she pulls it off a bit better than I can. It hugs her for, letting me glimpse the shape of her body and the dark color of her skin. She's a sylva, from her ears, the sharp points of her ears quivering in the dank confines of the hold. Her hands are in the water, trailing the wake and then forming the same motions that are moving us forward. I dip my head as she turns and eyes me. She is crying, a stream of tears from her eyes, joining in the river and swirling the water.

"Miss Gerardine," I say with the most respect I can muster, "I believe I owe you my life, as much as that is worth."

She sniffs and sobs and composes herself to some degree. Straight spine on the back and looking at me and taking me in. It's wonderful as I gaze into the deepest parts of the sea. I am underneath the waves, watching the world carrying on the same path it does with tides turning and stars shifting. Miss Gerardine shames a bit and pats the water in front of her. She wants me to sit, it seems. A shaky breath from her and it is mostly under control. The tears are not stopping anytime soon. There hangs a small gold knot of tangled threads from her neck. I tense when I see that medallion, but it's gone in a moment. Not anything I can do about it.

"G...greetings, wayward soul," she stammers. The words don't come easy at first, but the momentum is there. It's coming down the line, emboldened by the endless current of time.

"I am Gerardine Highgate," continues my host, "and you owe me nothing other than what you choose. The Mistress of the Drowned did not see fit to grace you at this time and asked me to make sure you were rescued. If anything, give your thanks to her."

"I will. I haven't had the pleasure of communing with Soddal, but I will do my utmost to please her."

That gets a little hiccup and I think that's a good sign. She wipes away the tears and I can finally see that she has dark gray eyes, the color of storm clouds gathering. There is a bit of smile in there somewhere. That is a decided win.

"May I ask your name," she asks.

"You may. Dumile."

The smile grows a bit wider, and I do think she is something close to happy. She gestures again at the floor. I sigh inwardly and take it. I don't think I should be any closer to water. The seat is cold, but it is still better than standing. And I won't make any more puddles at least.

"Tell me, Mr. Dumile," Gerardine says, voice finally calm and slow, "Do you keep to the threads?"

"In a sense," I say, keeping it inside as much as I can, "Nothing formal as such. Never had the chance to go to any of the churches. I was born out in the frontier."

She nods and thinks a bit.

"Treblex," she says a moment later, "Very good. And the lack of formal training isn't such a black mark. A pair of fresh eyes, a lack of some of the shackles, it can be something worthwhile."

"I think I would like the access to some of the outposts, but I like sleeping out. I manage."

"One thing the formal ways give us is the notion that the threads always come into knots. And ours led here. You are here with me and thus I think that it is, for the lack of a better word, fate that you would come here."

I tense a bit more when that 'f' word comes up. I don't particularly care for it, but it is there. And I agree that it is the best word for our own little coincidences.

"I have heard that there were a few odd incidents in town," I say, "And I think I know where this is going. So, are you proposing a contract."

She laughs a little, bittersweet, although everything she does has that same tinge of sadness and melancholy. Gerardine is lost in the ever-shifting maze of sorrow. I sneeze again. It's cold.

"I suppose I am," she says, "Tying the knot, so to speak. I would like for you to join myself, Gawain and Blake in solving this conundrum. You will be compensated. Do not worry."