Chapter 11 - Inquiry

“Did I make the right choice?” I kicked at the bonfire. A log was about to split in half and it collapsed the teepee at my prompting. Sparks swirled into the starry night sky.

“You did not make the wrong choice,” Marion replied. Her cloudy yellow eyes sparkled as the fire reflected in them.

“Even if it was, at least we all made the wrong choice together,” Blaize smirked and folded his arms across his belly and leaned forward onto them, large white teeth shimmering in a grin.

“I would do anything to serve under the Grand Master,” Ylysse stared blankly into the fire, shadows dancing across her mute, still face. “To serve him directly as your mentor? I Envy you,” she spat into the fire.

“I do not know,” I hung my head. “There are dozens more qualified than I. Hundreds, even. I am not a special man. I am useful here. I do good,” I studied the tip of my sabaton. They were long and pointy with a slight upward curl, as were trendy these days, but quite dented and could use reworking. Plated leather boots were coming back into fashion for their added speed as grappling started to fall out of style. A switch might instead be in order.

“The Exarch believed you would serve well,” Adrian sat tall on his stump with his hands folded in his lap, calmly following the path of the conversation. “I have Faith in his assessment. The Archbishop thought you most worthy. Enough to relieve you from his direct assignment and represent his teachings in the New World. You must Trust in their Wisdom,” his smile was placid and comforting.

“What does it matter, truly,” Tomah shrugged as he rubbed the flat end of a chewing stick against his teeth, dislodging bits of chicken from between them. “We are but pawns in the machinations of those greater than us. It matters not under whom we serve. I Respect the Archbishop and the Mind of Dain has yet to lead me astray, but if it is the desire of Fate that I serve the Great Truth in ways beyond my understanding, then I lend myself to the whims of Chaos and hope that I find joy in the storm.”

Her hair spread across my lap, skin cold, lips blue and lifeless. Lips that were once red. “I don't know guys,” I hugged my arms across my chest. “This is my responsibility here. My life's work. I cannot just abandon Ern and Grace. They lack understanding of the subtle nuance that goes into managing these people.” I rocked slowly. “How can I leave all of them behind? They need me,” my eyes darted around the circle. “Managing,” I shook my head and fixed my eyes on the fire, rocking slightly. “Here I am sounding like Ern. I can't leave. I still have so much to learn,” I breathed deeply and exhaled slowly.

“Do you know who will replace you?” Marion rested a hand on my shoulder. The contact startled me. I shook my head and sat up.

“Dilma, a hungry young Ordinary out of Glenshire, from the rural side of Dain.”

“And have you left notes?” Adrian cocked his head.

“Praise be, have I,” I chuckled. “Ern calls it my 'Master Plan.' We have been in conference for hours every day.”

“Can he handle it?” Blaize crossed his legs and leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest to match.

“He has been giving Sermon for the last few months now. Spring semester started a few weeks previous and his lectures are adequate, if a bit uninspiring,” I shrugged.

“Do you believe Dilma can help?” Tomah said in turn.

“She was quite shrewd the few times I met her at Cathedral,” I cocked my head to the side and furrowed my brow. “She bends a bit Aesthetic where I lean Existential, but her sylvan upbringing does have synergy with the industrious background of the Hardfolk here, though her pontifications on the Beauty of life may ring a bit hollow to those seeking Meaning.”

“Then why fear? The village seems in good hands,” Ylysse was unflinching.

“Grace is so young,” I started but then stopped. “Ern is naive and power hungry,” I squinted and shriveled my nose, “Or, the people, they need me,” I pulled my mouth flat into a line.

“Unconvinced,” Blaize frowned to Adrian.

“Unpersuaded,” Adrian replied, pulling the side of his mouth into his nose.

“My point is made,” Ylysse smirked.

“This is my charge, my duty,” I hung my head. “These people need me,” I stared at my toes.

“Everyone needs you, James,” Marion rested a hand on my shoulder, again. I turned my head toward her, “But there are those that can fill your shoes here, and shoes larger than yours that you may grow into elsewhere. Fortune favors the bold, and opportunity presents itself to those worthy enough to mount chase, and success to those willing to risk failure. What’s the worse that can happen?”

“I follow Al Maliq’s path,” I stared at my boots again, “and am sequestered to the Realm, excommunicated from the Church, and barred any path to Redemption, where I will be forced to run out the clock until my flesh terminates and I either assimilate as a Ghost or end my Pattern and let the years fade it from the Great Truth into an infinitesimally meaningless point of nothingness across the timeline of existence.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Blaize shrugged, “all things considered.”

“And if you are successful,” Adrian met my eyes without blinking, “you may leave an indelible mark on the grand designs of he Great Truth, and established a fixed point in time that can never be erased, adding another particle to our Time Mass and ensuring the dominance of our World Line when we reach the Promised Land and secure our place in the Pantheon amongst the other Sacred Realities, praise be.”

“Praise be,” we all replied reflexively.

Marion’s and Tomah’s cloudy eyes flashed, and a loud pinging sound came from inside my head and rung in my ear. “Six on Six,” Tomah sucked air through his teeth and clicked his tongue. “Looks like it is we who need you now, Priest,” he flared his eyebrows.

“Randoms,” Blaize spat.

“Should be fun,” Ylysse smirked.

“Fine,” I sighed. “I will join.”

“Good,” Marion touched her hand to her temple. “I knew you would come around,” her eyes flashed again, and she disappeared.

***

The upright bass was boomy and the high-hat splashy and subdued. The saxophone, reedy, the trumpet, muted. The flutist finished a slow, edgy improv, pulled the shiny gold instrument away from her lips, and leaned her face next to the silver mesh disk in front of the boxy steel microphone. “Love, makes me treat you, the way that I do. Gee baby ain’t I good to you,” she sang in a husky, throaty voice. She pulled back and played another sultry lick before leaning in, “Gee baby ain’t I good to you.”

The man at the bar was impossible not to notice. He was holding his hat in his hand, a broad brimmed ivory fedora with a black grosgrain ribbon and a long gamebird’s plume tucked in the side. It looked like pheasant or quail, brown-striped and thin. He was massive. Six and a half feet at the shoulder, at least, and just as large around, however, there was no protruding belly. Instead, two large boughs extended from his tree trunk frame, a flex a way from ripping the tightly tailored, double-breasted black pinstripe suit that boxed in his imposing physique. He had large, bejeweled gold rings on each figure, and most noticeably, a signet of the Cardinalry on the sausage that was his pinky. His head was shaved clean, his chocolate black scalp bunched up thick where it met the triangular wings of his neck, ringed in by a white Priest’s collar, off which hung a thin gold chain ornamented with the iconic Eye of Knowledge that was the emblem of the Holy See above a black shirt. His eyes were blue-white and cloudy, a faceted red jewel embedded in the space between them, all twinkling unnaturally in the dull light of the jazz club.

Next to him stood an equally noticeable man, holding his own fedora, though his was much louder, mustard yellow with a purple ribbon and a peacock feather instead. He was huge in his own right, but only came up to the chest line of his associate. His build was different, as well, more like that of an Adonis, angular and tapering and obsessed with proportion. His zoot suit was royal purple with tie and suspenders to match, and his shirt and pocket square the yellow of his hat, fitting almost too perfectly, with comically bold pleating and a perfectly posed drape. His eyes were the same cloudy blue-white, but his scalp was lighter and forehead unadorned. He was more of a rich caramel-khaki tone, his jaw and the horseshoe around his bald pate shadowed by thick black hair that could never be shorn close enough.

Both of their eyes flashed and I shook my head, breaking what must have become a long, uncomfortable stare as I drunk in their magnificent presence. They, however, continued to lock eyes with me as they returned their hats to their heads and sauntered over like liquid, feathers bobbing with each fluid step. They crossed the floor in what seemed like three steps before reaching the opposite side of the circular table I was sitting at, the candlelight dancing shadows across their angular faces, making their hulking size feel even more striking up close. I set my rocks glass down and stood, offering my hand, “Gentlemen,” I nodded.

The larger one took my hand, looking like that of a child’s in his grip, and gave me a surprisingly soft shake. The smaller shook mine next. I was about as tall as him in truth, but him probably double me in weight, and his grip was more in line with his appearance. “Fancy meeting you here,” the less-immense one replied. “I’m Standish, this is Tyson,” he thumbed over his shoulder. He took the seat in front of him, dominating the space in front of him. His friend pulled the chair next to it out far, and sat behind him, stoic and silent, elbows bowed out, fingers interlocked across his diaphragm.

I straightened my suit, light grey and slightly rumpled, white shirt and blue tie, and took off my matching trilby, setting it next to my drink. I saw back down, took a long belt off my scotch, then made eye contact with the bar tender and twirled my finger for another. Standish looked over his shoulder, then held up a hand and fingered 2 more. “How can I be of service?” I leaned back, extending my arms to keep my hands rested on the table.

“Oh, nothing in particular, just came by to say hello,” Standish turned sideways, folding his leg over his knee and resting his elbow on it, curling his hand back at the wrist.

“Normally I would assume you gangsters about to offer me a quest, but your eyes are something of a give-away,” I sat unflinching. “You two are not from around these parts.”

“Astute,” Tyson’s stone face smirked with a flash of vibrance.

“How about a game of cards?” Standish snapped and then rolled his wrist back, fanning out a manifested deck. He collapsed the fan and smoothly faced the table, hand appearing at the top of the deck in one clean motion, and began dealing out a thirteen cards in two piles. He picked up his cards and fanned them out, collapsed them, then peeled three cards off the top, a 3-4-5 of spade-high.

I picked up my own cards and sorted them out, taking my time, most of my attention looking over the top of my hand to study the two men. I pulled out a 3-4-5 diamond-high and laid it on top.

Standish pulled the corner of his lips down, raised his eyebrows, and cocked his head before waving a hand over the top of the cards, a 7-8-9 of appearing over top.

I tapped my fingers twice on the white tablecloth. “I bought you a necklace a diamond ring!” The jazz singer laid it on thick. “Love makes me treat you, the way that I do. Gee baby, ain’t I good to you?” she breathed out the last line before getting back on the flute and hamming up another solo. A lovely blonde cocktail waitress in fishnets and a corset-leotard dropped off our drinks. I held my eyes on Standish, though, and used my free hand to pick up the scotch, taking a sip off the top.

Standish dropped a pair of 6’s with a wink. I pulled out a pair of 9’s on top. He threw out a pair of Jacks, one at a time, each spinning across the white and landing perfectly on top of the pile, facing me exactly. I dropped a pair of Queens. Standish tapped the table. I slammed down a 6-7-8. Standish tapped the table again, a devious grin creeping across his face, eyes shaded by the candle. I scrunched my nose and cringed. “Maybe?” I threw out a 10. He snapped, and when I looked down, there was an king on the table. I laid down an Ace. Standish smiled, cleared his throat, and very gently and deliberately laid the 2 of Spades on top. “Oh,” I began to chuckle, “Oh hoh,” I chuckled a little louder. I smiled ear-to-ear and laid the two of diamonds over it. Standish turned sheet-white. “Got a little ahead of yourself there, Big Shoots,” I laid a king down, clearing my hand.

Tyson laughed loudly, echoing through the club and drowning out the singer. “Played,” he elbowed Standish.

“Should have baited out the low cards with a 6 then used the other for a 7-run, or left it a 6 run and killed me with trip-9's,” I smirked.

“Astute,” Standish's face grew into a broad smile as he flared his eyebrows, “a hand well-played. I am excited to have you under my tutelage.”

“I hope you understand the Great Truth better than you play cards,” I wiggled a single eyebrow.

“Smartass,” Tyson chawed the air and looked away. His speaking voice was exactly as deep as his massive size would have implied.

“If I kept my runs and trips, I would have lost anyway,” his eyes flashed briefly. “Without you making several critical mistakes, there would be no way for me to regain board control. “I played my hand optimally. The long run and trips were a cognitive trap, one you fell for. My only hope was to gamble on your lack of 2's,” Standish revealed his final cards, a pair of 3's.

“Oh,” my smile faded.

“Arrogance,” Tyson pulled his mouth into a line and shook his head.

“It's ok, Big Shoots,” Standish winked and with a snap, the cards disappeared. He leaned back into his chair and the whiskey was somehow already in his hand. He took a belt, pulled the corner of his lips down, and wobbled his head. “A bit unrefined. Toffee and hazelnut, with hints of plum and...” he trailed off, took another sip, swishing it around his mouth, and swallowed with a loud sigh. “Do I detect a slight aroma of clove?”

“Astute,” I tipped my glass toward him before taking another belt off the top, the unknown flavor my mind had infused into the mixture now unmistakably that of clove.

“I like this place,” he swirled the glass, letting the ice clink.

Tyson reached his hand to the table, the rocks glass looking like a shot in his hand. He too took a sip, dainty in size. “Beautiful,” he held the glass up to me and nodded his head down before draining the whole draught in a single swig.

“I got it off the Board as part of a Noir scenario pack,” I made eye contact with the bar tender and held up 3 fingers. “I like the atmosphere and the music. Some of the murder cases are amusing and the hit missions are pretty challenging.” A red-haired woman in a shimmering sequin dress with a slit past her hip and a back swoop just above her tailbone walked past us, giving me a thirsty eye and a hip-wiggle as she passed. “And, the women are not so bad, either.”

“You do like a redhead,” Standish bit his bottom lip and flared his eyebrows.

“Dark hair, light eyes, the paler the better, with a dust of freckles across the nose, actually,” Black hair spread across my lap. I shook my head and polished off my drink, slamming the glass down.

“Blonde, lean, muscular, tan, and gold eyes, actually,” Standish turned his head and raised an eyebrow.

“Ok, about that,” I held a finger up. The waitress dropped off a fresh glass of whiskey, “she's different.”

“The complete opposite, in fact,” Standish smirked. “In all but personality. You do have a type.”

“Ok, about that,” I hung my head and let my hand fall, grabbing my glass and knocking back half the glass. “It will not be a problem.”

“Maybe it should be a problem,” Tyson's voice startled me. He raised his eyebrows and held them there, staring into me.

“He gets it,” Standish reached his hand across his body and under his arm, palm up. Tyson reached forward and slapped it, then relocked his fingers over his stomach, right eye squinting slightly and lips pursed out. “Like my man Mr. Dale here agrees, there are some things the Realm loses in translation.”

“I have indulged in the flesh,” I scowled.

“The half a dozen others you bedded while you were Mined don't count,” he scoffed. “Ok, maybe that boy from the Level 18 block. He was a treat,” he clicked his tongue.

“I was exploring,” I shriveled my nose and refused to be embarrassed. “There is nothing wrong with enjoying all parts of the spectrum.”

“No, there isn't,” Standish pulled the corner of his lips down and nodded. “You should do more of it.”

“It complicates things,” I furrowed my brow. “I am committed to the Great Truth. My needs can be met here in the Realm. It is better than my previous excursions ever were.”

“Green,” Tyson picked up the glass off the table and cradled it in his lap, taking a much more conservative drink off it this time.

“It is the most Human thing you can do,” Standish leaned on his knees. “Your mother knew that. Red knows that.”

“Did you come here to play matchmaker?” I cocked my head to the side.

“I came to get the measure of you, Zealot,” his face darkened. “Tyson says there is greatness in you. The Archbishop insists you are special. Your history is rare, and your feats even more so. I wanted to know if you are all they make you out to be.”

“And?” I shook my head and furrowed my brow.

“I have my work cut out for me,” he smiled and with a snap of his hand, disappeared, leaving me to my scotch. The redhead looked back at me over her shoulder from the bar and winked again.

***

I labor for the Great Truth that I might learn from its history. I pulled the the handle and pushed the bellows in, blowing oxygen into the flame. The unwieldy chunk of metal started to transition from red to yellow to near-white. I dunked the tip of my wooden tongs in the bucket of water next to the forge and grabbed the blob from the licking flames. Steam hissed on the wood as flames sprung spontaneously from the drier parts. I plopped it on the mostly smooth rock anvil in front of me and very gingerly beat it into shape with the mallet I had fashioned from another hard, smooth rock lodged in a bit of wood and lashed tight.

Teach me, Mind. Let my hands be guided by the Wisdom of my elders. The ingot made a squinching sound as air escaped from the pores in the foamy hunk and welded to itself, trapping carbon in its lattice. Slowly the ingot took shape. After working it down to a dull orange, I wetted the wood of the tongs again and quickly returned the billet to the fire, covering it with a handful of charcoal. I grabbed the handle of the bellows and began pumping again. The forge crackled and sparks swirled up with each stroke.

Unlock for me the secrets held deep within the recesses of existence, Mind. I pulled the billet out once it returned to white-hot and again began to gently pound the metal into shape. My hammer blows slowly became more solid as the billet condensed, halving in size. Still a dull orange, I threw a handful of charcoal into the forge again and set the billet on the stone anvil to cool and normalize.

Help me to understand the path forward that I may bring us closer to the Promised Land. With the billet mostly cooled, I grabbed another pot and mixed up a thick slurry of limestone clay and ash and soaked some large dried leaves in the mix. I layered on some flakes and pellets of material that didn't seem too oxidized from the bloomery and wrapped the billet in the clay-and-ash soaked leaves, returning it to the fire.

Allow me to see that which is hidden from my senses, Mind, and unlock the Great Truth buried deep within. The leaf eventually smoldered off, coating the billet in a brownish grey flux. When it was back up to heat again, I pulled it out and began hammering it flat. The chunk had reduce to roughly the size of four fists. I'd use half for a better hammer, half for an axe head. But first I would need to fold it into layers several dozen times and build up a decent steel to work with. I worked it slowly into a cylinder, the clay flaking off the top as the bits of scrap welded into place. I got it into a reasonable shape by hitting it until it was smooth, then turning it slightly with the wetted tongs and beating it until it stood flat on its own. I threw it back into the heat once it stopped responding to blows from the mallet.

I toil in my workshop that I may become better. That I may unlock the true meaning of the Great Truth. Forge to anvil, I slowly worked the lump into a round bar, then flattened it square until it was about a half-meter long and several centimeters wide, too big for the hot spot in my forge to heat the entire billet. I stuck in a portion and slowly drew it out, then after it had cooled, heated the other side and drew it out to match. After several cycles I had worked the billet to a long, flat bar. I then heated it about twenty centimeters up the length and rested it on the anvil. I took a wedge-shaped I had rubbed against another stone until it was flat and sharp. I positioned it over the hot spot and cut the metal clean. I did this several more times until I had about ten small bars.

I labor because it is what makes me feel Human. I feel useful and connected to the Great Truth. Once they cooled, I stacked the bars on top of each other and again wrapped them in muddy leaves. I delicately returned it to the fire and threw the last handful of charcoal on top. The bellows pumped air into the forge with each stroke, the fresh coals crackling as they caught. I waited for the stack to become white-hot, before pulling it out gingerly. Unfortunately, the tongs must have become overheated, as a tip broke off and sent the billet stack tumbling onto the anvil, white rectangles splayed across the workshop floor.

Quickly, I twisted the tongs apart, and, a stick in each hand, very carefully recovered each bar and rested them on the anvil, fumbling to hold on to them as I delicately spread them onto the anvil. While they were still hot, I tried as best I could to re-flatten the dented and bent leaves of the stack. It would be recoverable, but with the fire out of charcoal, I would have to wait another day.

O wise Mind, I must accept my failure, for it is in the loss that I can see the workings of the Great Truth. With the bars re-flattened, pulled my legs from underneath me and sat cross-legged in front of my anvil. The fire burned hot and the hut was sweltering. Outside I could hear the sound of insects as the leaves rustled with a gentle breeze. It blew the smoke out of the chimney to the west. It had grown dark, and the last bit of light was just clinging to the blue-grey sky.

“Whelp,” I said out loud, planting my hands on my knees and pushing myself vertical. I had to crane my entire body substantially to fit in the little space. I hunched over to the entryway, pushed the wood door open, and stood erect outside. The cool air hit me with a blast, sending a chill up my neck. “Praise be,” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I shut the wood door behind me, and started up the path back to the parsonage. the smoke from the dying forge still billowing out the top of the shack, a red glow dancing in the single small window on the wall adjacent the door behind me.