Hubris: Pilgrimage - 11. Eleven

The people of Timberford were huddled around the tavern. In spite of night’s encroachment their voices rang with excitement, not fear. No sooner had Crowe and Barghast broke from the line of trees, the crowd was at them, raised not in shouts of accusation but triumph.

“You did it…You defeated the beast…”

“You can heal the sick. Monad has sent you to save us from the darkness…”

“The herald is here at last.”

“Twin o’rre!” Barghast reached for him through the press of bodies but the clamor of voices and questing hands broke them apart. Crowe spun about, caught in a tide of strangers who moments ago had not known of his existence, had not cared. Now hands were reaching for his cloak, pulling for his attention. Someone wept tears of relief. Someone else played a trombone, bellowing into the air. Someone else knelt at his feet, kissing his hands the same way the lycan had on that strange night in the cave…how long ago that seemed now, even though it had only been a week…hadn’t it?...sobbing into the fold of his robes as they pleaded for a miracle.

The woman from their first night who had cried for her husband cried for Crowe now to heal him. “You healed the scientist!” Clementine declared, her face scrunched up and red as a tomato. “You made the beast go away! We saw your holy fire last night! You can heal my husband…You can heal them all…”

No, he wanted to say. I don’t know if I can. For all we know your loved ones are forever lost to the fires of Inferno. Do not go looking for miracles where there are none to find. He couldn’t find the words. They caught in his throat, choking him up. Around and around he spun, his stomach clenching into painful knots. Stop. Please just stop. Everything’s moving too fast! But it didn’t stop. If anything his world seemed to be spinning faster and faster. He clenched his eyes shut, his face screwed in a grimace. He could feel a helpless scream building in his throat, a wave of panic that could not be dodged. At any second it would explode out of him, drag him under.

A roar ripped through the crowd before he could let loose. It scattered men, women, and children in their wake. They spun out of the way, sprinting from the source of the noise in a panic. In his rush to get to Crowe, Barghast barreled past a man, shoving him roughly to the side. The man hit the ground with a grunt. Crowe didn’t realize the lycan had carried him to the tavern until his feet touched the floor. He was grateful to be away from the press of bodies. He hated himself for the way his body betrayed him. Everywhere he looked panic waited on for the perfect moment to overthrow him. Barghast faced the door, his hackles raised, his tail arched towards the ceiling. Only when the clamor of voices faded did his fur settle.

The door swung shut. Rake entered the tavern, shaking his head. He gave Crowe a rare apologetic chuckle. “Sorry about them. Sometimes it’s hard to believe I come from this brood of people. You mustn’t take it personally. They’re excited with what you managed to do.” He flashed white teeth in an impossible grin. He clapped the practitioner on the bad shoulder, making him gasp in pain. “Don’t you get it, mate? You performed a miracle.”

We’re not mates, Crowe bit back. “It was impossible to tell what they were saying with the way they all crowded around me.”

“Tannhaus is alive!” The man said this with a broad grin as if it should be a surprise to him.

It wasn’t. “I know.”

“All traces of the evil in him are gone as far as we can tell. He hasn’t been throwing up anymore of that black gunk. His eyes are blue. Ellie and I were able to feed him broth and bread. All thanks to you. The power of Monad burns in your veins…”

Crowe shook his head in protest. Rake cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand and a conspiratorial wink before he could speak. “I saw what you did. Cutting your wrist to feed him your own blood. I guess the stories are true.”

The practitioner blinked in interest. “What stories?”

Rake blinked back. “You really don’t get out much, do you? I’m talking about Monad’s herald.” The rat-faced man sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t judge you too harshly for it. Many of the stories we have are lost. Being burned out by the Theocracy. If they have their way there won’t be any stories left to tell or practitioners.” He pulled a glass and a bottle of spirits from behind the cabinet. Crowe took the opportunity to treat himself to a joint. Rake supplied him with a book of matches. Barghast stood sentry by the door, folding his arms over his chest, playing the part of bouncer. Excited whispers could be heard hissing outside the tavern. After the commotion by the well no one dared to enter the tavern but this did not stop them from eavesdropping.

“My tutor…the person who raised me…told me the stories the same as you.” Crowe took a long drag from his aether joint, studying the man before him through a screen of smoke. “I didn’t exactly have the benefit of growing up in a tight-knit village the way you did, so I only heard one version of it. The level of my ignorance astounds even myself at times.”

Rake nodded in respect. He tipped the bottle over the edge of the glass, filling it to half measure before sliding it in the practitioner’s direction. “Don’t act like you don’t need it either. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

The spirits burned Crowe’s throat going down. Tears sprung to his eyes. “Are you trying to poison me, Rake?” he asked when he had control of his vocal cords again.

“Would it work if I had?” Rake studied him closely.

“I’m not an angel, Rake. I’m not a sovereign being. I’m a practitioner the same as Cenya. Before that I was a simple farm boy who had rarely stepped foot off his farm.” Images of his old life flashed before his eyes, filling him with a familiar bitterness. “Tell me about this herald of Monad. Cenya mentioned it.”

“There’s not much to say,” Rake murmured. He tipped his head back, downing a finger of homebrewed whiskey. Whether his grimace was one of appreciation or pain was hard to say; it could have been both. “And maybe there is. Cenya is probably the best person to ask. She’s the closest thing to a book we have around here. A record of history. So much history is lost at the end of every Iteration…entire civilizations ground down to powder with only the husks of what they used to be to remain. What remains is destroyed or controlled by the Theocracy.”

Rake cleared his throat before continuing. “What I do know is through stories my mum and dad told me before bed. How near the end of each Iteration Monad sends a herald to fight in his stead. A herald who frees his people from enslavement and brings about events of great change. His arrival signals Monad’s awakening, the ending of the current Iteration, and the beginning of the next.”

A terrible thought dropped in Crowe’s gut like a heavy weight. “And Elysia, the Mother. The one who brings it all to an end and casts our Lord into the Void until the next cycle. Am I right? Is that how the story goes?”

“Something like that.”

“Then that means the herald fails.”

Rake lifted an eyebrow. “Fails?”

“His mission. To restore peace. To change the world from what it was meant to be into its true purpose.” The taste of bile rose up in the back of the practitioner’s throat. “Whatever they accomplish in the end is undone by Elysia and her endless feud with Monad. So what’s the point in doing anything at all?”

This earned him another mocking grin. “The way I see it, that's for the herald of Monad to find out.” Rake rose from his seat. “If I drink anymore of this dog piss I won’t be able to stand upright for the rest of the night.” He clapped the practitioner warmly on the shoulder. “You can talk to Tannhaus in the morning. For now I think it's best to let the man have his rest. There’s no telling what the state of his mind’s in at the moment.”

Crowe nodded in silent agreement. He could understand all too well.

That night sleep was an elusive eel that kept slipping from his grasp. He replayed the conversation in his head to block out the calls of the damned. Was it possible all this had happened in some form or another during the previous Iterations, each incident echoing the passage of another across time and space? What did it mean for his pilgrimage? What did it mean for Barghast who followed him without question?

The next morning after a meager breakfast of hot broth and stale bread, Cenya told him it was time to speak with Tannhaus. She gave the practitioner a dark look that said the inventor had rested plenty. This time she insisted on accompanying Crowe and Rake to Ellie’s. The practitioner agreed to this without thinking on the matter much. What the old woman decided to do with her life was her business; having lived longer than the trees surrounding Timberford, she'd earned that right. When they left the tavern the Okanavian surprised the sorcerer by hanging back.

“What?” Crowe winced, hating the way his voice rose in pitch. “You’re not coming with me?”

An almost apologetic smile played across the lycan's lips. He gestured to the trees with a cock of his head. There is something I must do in the woods.

You can't leave me with these people. You can't leave me in this place. He floundered on the spot, trying to push the panic back down his esophagus. “Alright,” he tried to say in a calm voice. I trust you, he did not say, could not bring himself to say. He gestured to the sky. “Just make sure you come back before dark.” Cenya and Rake stood by the well, watching from a distance. How ridiculous I must look clinging to the tunic of a lycan like a frightened teenaged girl. He looked away from Barghast before his eyes could betray him.

Of course it was too late. The stutter-step of his heart was a signal to the Okanavian; it would always reveal the truth before Crowe knew what it was. Barghast took his hand. He lifted it to his lips, planting a kiss on the knuckles. Not just a lap of a tongue; not the kiss of a beast but the kiss of a man. Now it was his turn to point up at the sky. He said something in a short burst of Okanavi that Crowe took to mean, I will be back before the sun goes down. He planted another kiss on Crowe’s flesh to seal the promise and then he was off for the trees.

Crowe did his best to put the Okanavian's absence out of his mind. You can't be together all the time. A cruel twist of fate could separate the two of you at any moment. You can't rely on his companionship. With this thought he felt himself recede back behind his ice wall where disappointment's touch could not reach him. Put all else out of your mind. The only thing that matters right now is finding out what you can about the temple.

By the time they entered Tannhaus' room he was prepared for any outcome. He reminded himself he wasn't entirely alone. Rake and Cenya were with him. Ignore the fact they are strangers. Ignore the fact that while they’d done nothing to hurt him, apart from giving him a few bowls of soup and bread, they had done nothing to help him either. What had they done to help themselves? For now he would have to take a leap of faith in the hopes their motivations were aligned.

Since their last encounter Tannhaus had bathed and changed out of his filthy rags. He sat hunched on the narrow mattress with his knees drawn in towards his chest. The tangle of russet hair formed a veil that obscured his face from view. The silence on the other side of the veil was so heavy the drop of a pin needle could break it.

Crowe stood at the left end of the line. Cenya stood in the center, her staff braced against the floor for balance with Rake taking station to her right. Though the rifle remained strapped to his shoulder Crowe had no doubt Rake would reach for it at the slightest provocation. When no one moved to break the silence the practitioner scowled at Cenya. He rolled his good arm impatiently through the air. You're the leader. This is your town. You do the talking.

Cenya cleared her throat. Her jowls quivered with anxiety, reminding Crowe of a hen. “Mr. Tannhaus.” Her voice sounded steadier than she appeared. “It’s Cenya.”

Tannhaus did not lift his head or show any sign he’d heard her.

“Tannhaus!” Cenya tried again in a louder voice. “Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

“I can hear you,” the man said in a voice so raspy it was almost unintelligible. “I’m in Timberford…I think.”

The old woman beamed. “That you are.”

Tannhaus looked up. Dark blue eyes focused intently on the old woman. “How long have I been…?” His mouth worked in search of the word. “...away?”

“Four weeks.”

A flash of shock across features shadowed by hardship and starvation. The wide eyes and pursed lips were tucked away as quickly as they appeared.

Cenya's mouth twitched with the first sign of impatience. “We are a backwoods town in hiding from a religious tyrant that wants to turn our people to ash. Since undertaking your journey to the temple we haven't had the time to reach out to anyone.”

“Of course you haven't.” The scientist's eyes darkened, flickering carelessly to the window. Crowe wondered when he'd last seen daylight.

“What matters is you're back. It's a miracle.”

It was Tannhaus' turn to grimace. “I don't believe in miracles.”

Cenya gave Crowe a helpless look. The practitioner widened his eyes at her in response. Is that all you’ve got? Keep him talking. Cenya's shoulders trembled with the escape of an indrawn breath. “What do you remember?”

“What do I remember?” Tannhaus echoed in a faraway voice. The knot of tension in his throat worked to find words. “Not much. It's all so blurry…I can remember flashes. Images and sounds mostly.” He shook his head in frustration, seizing bunches of russet hair in his fists. Crowe watched the scientist tear at himself in a fury, mumbling a jumble of words under his breath. The practitioner tried to feel pity for the man's plight. He didn't. How could he feel sorry for the son of the man who had helped to enslave his people?

The sorcerer was not the only one who struggled with dispassion. Rake took a step towards the bed, his teeth bared in a grimace. The promise of death gleamed in his eyes if Tannhaus did not yield answers. “Stop your sniveling, man! We don't have the time or the care for it. Our people are still up there with your people! At night they come down from the temple and tempt us with damnation. So you better start remembering before I send you back to your father with a bullet between the eyes!”

Tannhaus licked his cracked lips. “We reached the temple before nightfall.”

“Right after Cenya told you implicitly not to,” Rake muttered. Crowe silenced him with a glare. “I want to hear this.”

“When we arrived there was no one there. The place had been abandoned for centuries…longer.” Gregor spoke haltingly as if expelling each word was a struggle.

“Go on,” Cenya urged gently.

Tannhaus gulped. “Nothing happened the first night. We set up camp in the main chamber. I had the mind to wait until morning to begin exploring, but our linguist Lagerof was excited. She wanted to start looking at the hieroglyphs right away.”

“We told you,” Rake murmured under his breath, pacing back and forth in a barely contained fury. “We told you not to go up there and you went and did it anyway like the bloody fools you are! Without a single thought for the wrath you would bring down upon us. There is a reason why the temple has remained untouched up until now.”

Tannhaus continued his recounting as if he hadn’t heard the man speak. “Lagerof stayed up all night trying to put things together while the rest of us slept. I didn’t think anything of it at first. Once Lagerof puts her mind to something she doesn’t stop. She didn’t stop. She didn’t eat or drink or rest or do any of the things normal humans are supposed to do.”

“You didn’t stop there, did you?” Crowe demanded coldly. Rake was right. Here was a man who did not think about how his actions impacted others. Perhaps he’d never had to. You’re finding out the hard way now, aren’t you?

Tears of overwhelming emotion wet the corners of Tannhaus’ eyes. “We couldn’t stop. Once we started reading the words they burrowed into our head, pulling us deeper into…into…Lagerof was the best linguist we could hire. She’s seen more places than I have. She’s traveled all over the world. She even knows more languages than I do. It was Lagerof who discovered the hieroglyphs ”

A thought pricked at Crowe’s mind. “Lagerof can understand Okanaivan?”

The scientist nodded absently. “During our time we continued to translate the markings on the wall under Lagerof’s leadership…I’m merely the one who funded the expedition, she was the brains behind it all. We discovered a narrative that told the story of a being who has dwelled within the temple since the beginning of the Third Iteration.”

A chill raced up the practitioner’s spine. He could hear the voices of Inferno whispering inside his mind. The smell of ash burned his nose. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anymore,” said Tannhaus. “I wish I could. Maybe I’ll remember with time.”

“There is no time.” The man had put the town of Timberford under a curse that had claimed lives and still he wanted sympathy. The practitioner took a step towards the bed. “Tonight when the sun falls your people will be here. They’ll call your name and beg you to step outside the same as you did night after night. Maybe their calls will help jog your memory.”

The scientist’s eyes narrowed as if he was only just now seeing Crowe for the first time. “I remember you. I don’t know from where, but I do.”

Crowe held up his scabbed wrist in answer. “I saved you.”

Tannhaus’ face turned the color of a dark red tomato.

The practitioner tried to hide a grin of triumph and failed. “Tonight might be a little rough for you but that’s okay. Because tomorrow at first light I’m going to the temple to end this nightmare. And you’re coming with me.”