Chapter 11: Spring Festival, Part II

I stood with Lucho on the balcony of that initial room in the Silver Fawn, overlooking the bazaar in all its excitement. In preparation for the week’s affairs–games, prizes, food, drink, fun, and religiosity–the last of which the most vital, Vidal and I, along with Efrain and his staff, reworked the entrance of the tavern into a walk-up counter. Beers, wines, and hard drinks, along with some slop food and bread. Nothing special, but good enough to fill bellies.

“I’m a little surprised it took this long for the original owner to bark at you, Jack.” Lucho said, breaking a stillness that had fallen over us as we, in unison, stopped our discussion on the armaments of Adorjan’s soldiers, and followed the sounds of cheering and laughter.

He was referencing the Silver Fawn’s owner, Efrain’s former boss, about which problems came only today. He thought he could stand up to my command to make the arranged changes, claiming that we should close down. “For dedication!” He said, speaking as if we should all use the time to meditate about God. Now, he meditates beneath pounds of mud and dirt behind a sewer dump.

I refrained from answering Lucho for just long enough for him to nudge me with his elbow, leaning down to peer at my face as we used the balcony’s bannister for support to see the dancers and their merrimaking troupe. A ring of jesters performed around women in vibrant pastel dresses, carrying streamers and painted rope that they twirled and connected to a central pole two assistants carried along.

They were followed by a small marching band, eliciting dancing and praise from onlookers who became entranced by the upbeat, joyous tunes they played and sang along to. I, however, didn’t recognise the lyrics, as, apparently by tradition, they were sung in Uhraan. Everything today would be in that antiquated speech.

“Oy, friend.” Lucho nudged me a second time, causing me to rise and rub roughly on my eyes, saying “Sorry.”

He laughed it off, and started back into the room, “Shall we continue, or do you want to take a break?”

“I think I need a break, this week has been getting to me–the funds aside, as great as they are with the coin we’ve been raking in, and the peace aside, as great as it is being caught in a stalemate–no…” I paused a moment to sit across from Lucho on a loveseat we’d dragged in from another room, transforming the bedroom into a workspace, “…it’s that, actually. The peace, the stalemate. I’ve felt uncomfortable since it started, like a dishevelled feeling I haven’t experienced before.”

“And yet you’re as orderly as ever, Jack. I think you’re overthinking it.” He suggested, seeming as if he wanted to go on, but we were interrupted by Vidal who joined us looking as cheery as ever.

“All this dancing and singing is getting people riled up. Our stocks have nearly emptied in preparation for the ritual.” Vidal said, looking at me.

“We should watch it unfold. Peace breaks at midnight when the ritual concludes and the revellers disperse to the taverns and alleys, and to their houses and estates to wash the night away with a whole new slew of hops and sweets.”

“Agreed.” I said to Vidal, Lucho concurred with a deep laugh and a perky smile, standing suddenly as if imbued with impetus anew, “To the games!” was his pronouncement, making haste out the door.

Vidal looked to me, whether with concern or for permission, I wasn’t sure, so I opted to make the safe assumption, and said “Go on, then.” And he did, looking nonetheless displeased. I suppose I assumed wrong.

I followed them to the streets only after collecting our notes and plans into a neat stack to hide under the bed’s sheets. We’d pushed it into the corner and stacked some chairs and baubles atop it. Perhaps, with its obvious unused look, it would be avoided, at least initially, as a hiding spot.

I had been expecting them to await me around the door, but found it rather vacant of familiar faces, save for Efrain who was busy arguing over discounts the guards seemed to expect all week. Six “No.”s and they still pitched a fit.

A quick scan of the crowd revealed my companions at a table by the gate, throwing darts at moving targets an attendant got running via a hand-crank. I looked on just long enough to watch Vidal land three bulls-eyes in a row… the crowd behind him erupting into cheers as the manager handed him an oversized, stuffed tree vaguely resembling the great sequoia.

My disinterest prompted me to attempt a gander through the passersby, weaving between clusters and stumbling inebriates to approach the tree. I neared it to find a small fence had been erected in a ring around the steps, giving those within its borders a few metres of space.

Therein a central figure stood cloaked in white with thick red stripes, and a mask made out of the skull of a large stag, with a mighty set of nine-point antlers. It seemed to be affixed to a metal helmet, as opposed to some strap, that was shielded, partly, by a wide hood.

Five others accompanied him, dressed meekly in white with a single red stripe from the neck, down the back, to the feet, in robes. They were assembling clusters of torches and moving a stone table from a large cart to the front of the tree. It was obvious, even from a distance, that the table’s top was stained with blood from, I figured, exceptional use.

Its feet were cracked and crumbling, its edges, once fine, rounded severely, and its surface was caked such a crimson as to glimmer blindingly in the light of the sun. Some three or four hundred years old, if not more… a relic of sacrifice and holiness. The cart that wheeled it here was decorated with single-antler depictions on red and white banners, along with vaguely geometric designs in random patterns preferring circles and triangles, the iconography of the of-Gods.

Four guardsmen donned in like attire to the priests stood sentinel as the table was unloaded. Wielding spears and stout shields, they stood out from the regular troop who, much to my interest, gave them a wide berth and averted gazes. The four men, in reply, kept smug visages and an eerie likeness to statues.

Once the table arrived at the base of the approximate front of the stairwell up to the great sequoia, the priest and his helpers arranged the torches on either side of it and, one noting that the sun was setting below the wall-line, set them alight. They formed two sporadic clusters like pockets of frizzled, morning hair, and stuck out weirdly–a woman beside me commented on the beauty of the whole thing.

In walking away from her I ran into Vidal and Lucho, who had been joined by a baggy-eyed María Cristina wearing a mountain of gold and silver jewellery atop fine red, embroidered robes.

I think I mumbled “My goodness…” at the sight of it, unconsciously, as I found myself doubting my own verbalism when she caught my attention with coy laughter.

“Thank you, Jack.” Was her follow-up, quick at that, perhaps in recognition of my moderately dazed composure, or in some manner of real appreciation for what she, perhaps, perceived as an intentional showing of my inner emotion.

Together, we retreated to a corner between the apothecary and our tavern, standing atop a tight storage of boxes and hay, giving us an undisruptive vantage over a growing, tightening crowd with a quick, overhanging escape into safety.

Even whilst removed by what had to be five or six metres, I could feel the heat and the anticipation, layered over intoxication and nervousness, exuding from the thicket of bodies before us. Like an ocean dumping into a ravine, every crack and every crevice was consumed as usable space for the eager, desirous, and impatient in their feeling of “need” to see the godly affairs of the great sequoia.

“This feels strange.” I said, commenting in a whisper to María Cristina, “Is it always like this?”

“Always.” She said, “They make it out like it’s a once in a lifetime thing that, if missed, is like missing out on your dreams-in spite of the fact this is a bi-annual affair.”

“They drink it up with an intensity rivalled only by their consumption of ale.” Lucho observed, speaking directly into my ear and much to my surprise, as I hadn’t expected him to be listening in, or, for that matter, leaning in quite so invasively. The look on his face was of amusement, so I took his closeness as a joke which he received mirthfully and returned to chatting with Vidal.

My eyes fell again upon the start of the show, eyeing the merry brigade from earlier who concluded their round before the priest and the great sequoia, bound together in front of the opening of the fence. They took the place of the cart as it left, and made way only for the four grim protectors who passed between them to remain as near, it seemed, as possible, that table.

“What of that?” I asked María, gesturing towards the sacrificial slab.

“Blessed by Josemaría, the founder of the of-Gods of old Veha. You don’t remember that tall statue, Jack?”

“Why should I remember it?”

She shrugged, and went on, “It was a sight for sore eyes, botched by a sculptor, but they left it up for years anyhow. Josemaría used that table for his treatises on crime and the Lord, and made waves convincing the public to respect the peerage and do right by their neighbours. He’s like a saint.”

“Like a saint?”

Again, she shrugged, saying “Had some problems, apparently. It isn’t talked about anymore… too far gone and without a record. The people around here are too busy and too bruised to care about hearsay.”

The priest began projecting, making announcements and a great many gestures around the table and the great sequoia, winning the crowd’s star-struck eyes and expressions of awe, but speaking Uhraan and thus winning my own glazed-over orbs.

As he did what he had to do, I snuck around Lucho to poke at Vidal, questioning “How are you feeling?”

“It’s all so enthralling to see this unfold in my… well… elevated? Yes, let’s call it an elevated state of affairs.”

“You may as well say Ascended, Vidal.”

“It’ll get dry if I use it all the time to talk about this sensation of flight, Jack. Do you feel that way too?”

“It goes without noticing after so many years.” I said, which seemed to disappoint Vidal, but his smile held steadfast.

“What about them, though?” He questioned, drawing my gaze across the crowd and past the priest, beyond the troupes and trees, by the rear stalls and stations on the eastern side of the square. Four figures dressed like the assassins three weeks prior, with swords on their hips.

“Swords?” I asked, lost in a well of shock, expressing my disorientation with the first word that came to mind–their weapons. Immediately, Lucho and María turned towards me and followed my gaze over the crowd and to the impending violence.

“Trouble.” Lucho spat, with a certain grimness I didn’t take him as capable of. María followed after him with as well a downtrodden tone, saying “You know, Jack, I stand corrected. Forbid me, o’ Mother, from assuming such will in a traitor.”

“What? No–no, no, no…” I felt myself beginning to break apart. My stillness, and boredom with the eve’s concluding religiosity and the sanctity of their tools and their phrases, fell and was replaced by a rolling fog that blurred my ability to remain affixed to any one thing.

“What’s going on?” Vidal asked me, tugging on my arm somewhat roughly, but Lucho spoke up before I could attempt a reply, saying “We should leave–we should go up. They’ll panic if they act.”

“Watch them, now.” María Christina commanded, letting loose a weak, limp-wristed gesture in the general direction of those all-too-familiar assassins. Her flair, the air of festivity that carried itself in her pace and clothing was lost to the dread of betrayal.

We watched one of them impale a city guard in the back, while the others overturned tables and toppled banners, causing a stir in the backline of the crowd. Subsequently, those who caused the ruckus drew little fabric things from pockets and satchels, and lobbed them up and into the crowd.

Upon their contact with the cobblestone, they exploded in plumes of white smoke and loud pops like fireworks. Presently, screaming and a rushed, mortal panic ensued.

If my vision wasn’t already damned enough, oh my vision, it fell further into an abysmal state. I struggled to accompany my companions as I witnessed them, floating as if their bodies had shattered and remained connected by threads, scaling the wall to the safety of our transformed workspace.

A red flash rounded the vague, oval border of my vision that subsequently pulsed inwards, creating shaky, shambling rings. One, two, three… one after another they pulsed and pulsed, increasing as my heart rate skyrocketed.

Eventually, I managed to get out something along the lines of “What’s happening?” as I gazed upon my hands, six, no, seven fingers that shifted and morphed into one another before separating into distinct digits again.

It was as if the world around me, and so too my body, began a trial with the cumbersome affair of breathing. As if attempting to mirror that rise-and-fall that the Human shoulders or the Human abdomen completes with every intake and exhale.

Everything was moving; everything had become as if alive. What I figure would’ve bound me to a world of confusion was stopped as I was liberated by a hand on my collar and a following forearm under my armpit.

Lucho, I recognised the green of the sleeve of his tunic. He had descended to drag me up to the balcony. There, I saw Vidal seated on the ground, clutching his head in his hands that gripped the area of his temples whilst his fingers, splayed, flexed and dug into his scalp.

María was missing, but I heard a muffled crashing behind us, in the room, and glanced for a moment to see a vase shattering on the floor, and flailing arms. Of us all, Lucho was the most collected. He stood stoically and looked down upon the running citizens with what I took to be a mixture of pity and despair, and, for the first time since my turning, I watched a kinsman cry tears of blood.

A broken contract, and soiled trust. I felt the Mother’s beating fury rage upon my thumping heart. It threatened my chest by way of my sternum, battering against my bones, screaming for freedom and vengeance. All in time.