Chapter 4, Pig and Shovel

Seltheen looked around from the top of a lone tree while Yar saw to the mules and the wagon. She hoped he knew what to do for the poor exhausted creatures, but right now it was more important for her to watch for enemies. After about half an hour she came down having seen no sign of anyone coming. “How soon can we move?” she asked. “We can move now” responded Yar. “We just have to turn off the road and take it slowly. This meadow is deceptive; it has hard subsoil, almost as good as a road. And the plants will soon spring back, hiding our tracks from casual detection. Now you see that clump of pale pink flowers over there? With the big fleshy stems? Bring them. Bring everything, the flowers, the stems and the bulbs. I’ll make something for our bumps and bruises.” That night as she fell asleep, Seltheen mused on her people’s long habit of making neighboring populations fear them. That certainly helped soften up resistance to a raiding party. She had never considered how the practice might have negative consequences. Then it occurred to her how rare it was for single rinkers to meet those consequences. In previous generations each such journey could make a saga. Now it was becoming commonplace, ever since the rinkers had been forced to stop attacking others. Curse those nildrer!

They crossed the meadowlands without further incident.

Three days later, Seltheen finally got to do some serious hunting. Yar had made a deal with the leader of a small village. The village would give them shelter, supplies and some attention from their smith, carpenter and other local artisans. And all they had to do was kill a marauding pig. All Seltheen had to do was kill it, of course. And she was sure he had misrepresented their relationship, both personally and professionally. This was confirmed when she saw that they had been offered a single hut to sleep in.

She took out her annoyance on the pig. She killed it with a single thrust but broke her spear in the process.

She explained things to Yar. “If the carpenter and I have managed to understand each other, it will take a few days to properly prepare a new shaft. And then another day for the smith to fit my spearhead to it. Until then, we are staying, that’s all there is to it!” Expecting an argument, she folded her arms and assumed her best expression of implacability. But Yar didn’t argue. He just shrugged and said there was no hurry. Meanwhile, the villagers were scouring all of their biggest pots. There were even a couple of washtubs and a trough. Several piles of wood had been lit inside a small barn. Some were to heat the various vessels and some were for smoking. A group of adolescents was sluicing out entrails and hanging them from posts. A frail old grandfather was picking through a pile of savory greens. He muttered their convoluted names thoughtfully. A young mother wielded a scraper over a mottled hide while her children collected stiff shaggy hairs in a bag. There was a lot of pig to process.

Seltheen studied the fields surrounding the village. It was the best way to avoid looking at the villagers. More specifically, it was the best way to avoid looking at their skin, so much of which was on display. Below the waist the chuudibs wore mainly loincloths or mid thigh length skirts, or occasionally short pants. Above the waist they wore sleeveless shirts and vests. When they felt cold, they just added something heavier over all of it. Sometimes there would be more covering for protection, but it was flung away as soon as it wasn’t needed. And if it wasn’t cold and the job was really dirty then--- Oops, she suddenly realized that the ditchdiggers in the distance were working entirely naked. Well, many of the children were naked too, but that didn’t bother her because that was part of rinker custom as well. But long before adolescence every rinker child acquired a decent sense of propriety. Yar had good naturedly needled her about her attitude. Rinkers were so proud to be free of the many fears and quirks that hampered civilized folk, but they had the biggest nudity taboo of any known culture. Weren’t they proud of their hard won physiques? Seltheen refused to discuss it. It was something a stonedweller would never understand.

Spit roasted kidneys and blood fortified the stew at dinner. Definitely food for a warrior. What surprised Seltheen was the lavish praise for the scooped out slabs of bread that the meal was eaten from. Back in the Rinks baking was a function of the Unclan, the group of outcasts and unfit in each tribe who were not part of any clan but did the menial labor for all. No one would ever praise an unclanner, neither they nor their work was worthy of it. Still, she had to admit, this bread was the best she’d ever tasted.

After the edge had been taken off everyone’s appetite, the villagers looked to Yar. “Showtime!” he announced with a big grin. Or at least, that’s what she assumed he’d said. He took out his fuunok and brushed the metal strips on its face gently. He made it hum, then buzz, then ring. He began to sing strange looping tunes in the long liquid syllables of the chuudib language. A hand squeezed Seltheen’s arm. She turned, startled, and found herself facing one of the villagers. “You are the carpenter’s son, I believe”, she said. “Did you need something?” He smiled, and ran his fingers along her face. Whatever he said was outside her limited chuudib vocabulary, but his meaning was unmistakable. “Oh”, she said. “Do you know somewhere warm and dark? Lead on.”

Yar watched her go. Good to see her getting along with the natives. He studied his audience. Peasants. “Good sturdy peasant stock”, as writers and officials liked to put it when trying to flatter such people. They were in a good location, fertile, well watered, close enough to other chuudib communities to trade but not close enough to be dominated by any of them. More importantly, they were apparently far away enough from any rinker incursions to feel safe. Hmm, people who feel safe in real life tend to like danger in their stories. So, then. He accepted a fresh drink and began.

This is the story of the Traveling Shovel of Death.

A long time ago, far away in the gorvij lands, there was a storyteller. More than a storyteller, actually. She was a minstrel, a person with a lot of skill in the performing arts. None of them are as good as me, of course, but she came close, being one of the best. But even the best occasionally come up short. Not me, of course, I mean the best of the regular entertainers, other than Yar the Magnificent.

The minstrel was spinning a new tale extemporaneously. It was full of mystery and suspense and terror. She had her protagonist, a plucky farm girl not unlike some that I see here, hiding in a barn from a shadowy band of attackers. They were closing in fast. And that’s when she, the minstrel that is, suddenly ran out of ideas. She had cornered herself as well as her character. But she was a professional and kept her cool. She pretended to have a coughing fit and took a long drink to cover herself. I don’t do that. When I cough it means my throat is dry and I need a drink for real. Like, cough cough, right now. Oh thank you.

The minstrel looked around. She was outside at the time, speaking to a group of miners on a fine evening much like this one. She saw a shape in the darkness, just beyond the fire light. There was something leaning against the wall where she could have sworn there was nothing a moment ago. She strained to see what it was, realized it was a shovel. Inspiration struck! She had her protagonist find a shovel under a pile of old burlap sacks. She dragged it out and raised it just as the leader of the attackers came around the corner. She lashed out in blind panic and somehow managed to slice into the woman’s neck, killing her instantly. The others ran off, never to be seen again. At the end of the story, the protagonist flung the shovel into a river because she was horrified by what she did and didn’t want to be reminded.

I say the end of the story, but I mean the end of the story the minstrel told. Because there was another ending, what sophisticated literary types call an epilog. You see, two days later, one of the people who had been listening to that story, took the shovel that had inspired the minstrel, and bashed in the head of a neighbor he’d been feuding with for years. He was hanged for that killing. Afterwards, no one could find the shovel.

Now the number of performers in this world is relatively small, and most of us wander a lot. So we often cross each others’ paths and when we do, we swap stories. This story has spread and it seems to give rise to further inspiration. Sooner or later, every performer will tell a story in which someone gets killed with a shovel. At the same time, there are also many reports of people being killed by disappearing shovels in real life. This has led some to conclude that it is all the same shovel, manifesting itself both in the world and in people’s minds. It has come to be known as the Traveling Shovel of Death. So, if you’re a performer like me, whenever you tell this story, you always look around. Let’s do that right now, shall we? Look around you. Lo-o-ok a-a-r-rou-ou-nd! Are there any shovels in sight? No? Good.