The night passed peaceably. Mazelton felt a little odd, waking next to the river. The Roaring River really was “roaring.” It seemed to shout it’s pride and anger as it passed, whipping fallen branches down it’s course like demonic swtiches chasing wicked children. The kids would have to run fast. Or hide.

Mazelton violently shook his head. He was Mazelton! The one and only Patriarch of the Ma Clan of the Ramparts (colloquially known as the “Rampart Ma,”) and therefore he didn’t have to be afraid of any switches! In fact, it occurred to him, he didn’t have to allow any either. He wasn’t quite sure about that one- he didn’t know how to manage children without a good smack as needed. But he did know that it could be done. Theoretically. He would discuss it with Danae.

The wagon rolled up the road against the course of the river. It ran pretty straight north/south, until it hit the grand bend at Hope. The little wriggles it made along the way seemed more like opportunities for scenic river watching, or a good fishing spot. The roads were above average too- being well used. They passed a number of other settlers on the road, most pulling little carts as they moved their goods around tiny farms and settlements. Mostly grain and vegetables, this time of year, though there was a small abundance of fruit too. And one indecently sniggering farmer pulling a rattling wagon full of jars.

“Brandy.” His grin got a little wider and more laviscous when asked.

“Brandy?”

“Brandy. I grew a nice little crop of plums. Beautiful fruit, makes amazing jam and as a snack or dessert they really cannot be beat. Such a deep purple they are almost black, pop one in your mouth and feel the whole thing just dissolve into the most incredible juice and refreshment you have ever had, leaving only the stone.”

“Sounds amazing!”

“So, so good. And the little bastards rot and get eaten by insects or birds the second the very second you take your eyes off them. I hardly have the chance to harvest them before the winged menaces come and eat my crop. I have more nets, I tell you, than any three fisherfolk.”

“Ouch. The life of a farmer is not an easy one.”

“It is not. Truly it is not. But the Dusty World gave us life and it gave us these challenges too. So we must not be ungrateful.”

“Especially if you know how to brew brandy.”

“Which I do.” The laviscous grin was back. “Basically you mix the fruit, stone removed, with water and if you can afford it, a bit of sugar. Let it ferment, stirring morning and evening, making sure to keep out flies with a bit of cloth. When the bubbling stops, carefully strain it into a clean bucket and then, ho ho ho. And THEN! We boil. Carefully.”

“Carefully boil?”

“Yes. Not too hot, not too cold. You want to keep the essence of the flavor of the plums, but in order to turn it from wine to brandy, you need to evaporate out the water. The rig for doing this is a little… special, and you lose an awful lot of volume in the process. But, after double distilling the wine, you have a delicious, remarkably smooth and potent potable.”

Mazelton’s grin was nearly as obscene. “I don’t think I properly introduced myself. The name’s Mazelton, polisher by trade. I’m setting up in New Scandie. Now, as someone who struggles preserving his fruits, what would a purifying core or two be worth to you?”

“New Scandie? You aren’t Danae’s mail-order husband, are you?”

“Well. There better hadn’t be two, or things might get awkward.” Melting your co-husband into a screaming pile of cancerous ooze is a mood killer for most people, after all. And he was going to just brush past the whole mail-order thing, yes he was…

“Can’t imagine more than one husband coming by delivery to New Scandie, never mind a polisher. Congratulations and welcome to the community! We can surely use you.”

“Why, thank you! Not sure how we are going to do the marriage, I don’t know the humble or anything around here.”

“Sad story that, sad story.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the New Scandie Coven has been making due with old Shadrach, who does her best, I’m sure, but just isn’t up to the kind of pastoral work the job calls for. Not on top of keeping her own farm going, you know?”

“I suppose.”

“Yeah, even a little place like New Scandie really needs a full time Humble. Now, I did hear that a humble was moving their family over, up from Red Sand River down south a ways. But they aren’t coming up til spring. So you will probably have to make do with Shadrach, at least for a little while.”

“So what happened to the old Humble?”

“Well, that’s what makes it a sad story, and your good fortune too, I suppose. He was Danae’s first husband.”

“I… never asked in my letters. Seemed indelicate.”

“Yeah, it was about the dumbest, saddest thing. He came up from that seminary way over in Muddy Waters, all full of fire and spunk, ready to make a go of it in the New Territories. And he could preach! Boy I heard him once, and he had it. Never let a service drag on, never got long winded in a prayer, and the sermon was six minutes of the true Word to the second. The whole service was maybe an hour, and another hour for food and socializing after.”

“Nice. Yeah, the good ones keep it tight.”

“Which is why what happened was such a tragedy. He and Danae… well the Okempi are a big clan out here, so the whole mob of them were in the grove and there is Danae, fiercely looking to cut loose from them and start her own place. She had been cultivating a little patch for years, not “legal” but nobody was going to try and take it off her, if you know what I mean. Anyhow, they were in the grove, and by all accounts, young Kai just about opened the sky and invited down the heavenly fixtures with his preaching. Just set souls alight with holy fire, and being quite young and good looking, well. He knocked Danae for a loop.”

Mazelton was starting to feel a mite jealous of this “Kai,” which he knew was irrational and also knew wasn’t an emotion he would be releasing any time soon.

“Alright.”

“Yeah, so they start courting, all very cute and proper. All the old folks see how this is going to go, and after a season’s sweetness, they announced that they would be wed. Boy the looks on their faces when we told them we already had everything ready to go!”

The farmer chuckled happily, and Mazelton faked it.

“So they make their contract, we do the whole wedding, Kai buys the plot and makes it all official, and they move in. A blessed couple you know?”

Mazelton nodded.

“They were only married but a week or two when Kai decides that they ought to have fish for dinner. So he goes down to the riverbank and starts fishing. Hooks something, tries to fight with it (or so the story goes) and got pulled into the water. Now, he could swim, but-”. The two men looked across the Roaring River and shook their heads.

“Anyhow. We never did find the body.”

“Damn. That’s hard.”

“Yeah. Something about not being able to do the partition, you know? Not being able to close the cycle.”

Mazelton just nodded sympathetically.

“Whew. Well. Like I said, sad story, but your good fortune. Now, you did say you wanted to buy some brandy?”

”Yep. Truthfully, I haven’t had a real drink in almost a year, and I expect I’ll be wanting some celebratory drinks soon enough.”

”Hah! Well, I can’t give you a whole jar as a house warming present-“ Mazelton didn’t think he was being cheap, the jars were about the size of a child’s torso, “but I won’t dicker too hard over the value of your cores.”

Mazelton smiled “warmly,” and a bargan was swiftly reached. Mazelton left with one enormous clay jar of home made plum brandy, and the farmer left with a heart warm with the thought of the vengence he would wreck on the “great insect enemy” in the coming year. And the cores to bring his dream to life, naturally.

Mazelton rather looked forward to when the farmer realized that the cores both worked better than advertised, and that each tree would need several insect barrier cores to cover the whole volume of it. He could practically smell the bulk orders.

Presumably a pretty prosperous grower too, if he had enough to make brandy in any kind of volume. A possible competitor for Danae? HMMM. Prices may have to be adjusted. And, of course, if an accident were to befall the farmer, someone experienced would need to step in and take over the operations- Mazeltion’s head jerked to the side as a small tree branch poked him in the side of the head.

Duane! Betrayed at the last! The “tree branch” masquerading as his finger retracted and shook firmly at his nose. Mazelton looked wounded. Duane’s look told him that he was fooling only himself. Mazelton sniffed and turned his head. His head was poked again, and the finger wagged even more firmly. Mazelton threw up his hand.

“Fine, FINE! I was only thinking… wait, do you even know what I was thinking?”

“Murder.” Duane looked at him reproachfully.

“How do you even-?” Duane gave him a different, pitying look. “I have a scheming murder look?” Duane nodded. “I am absolutely certain that my face was perfectly still.” Duane agreed, via nod. “But I still have a scheming murder look.” Micro nod. “Admitting nothing, why not?” Duane just arched an eyebrow, sighed, and hauled the crushingly heavy jar into the wagon.

“Fine. But only since it’s you.” Duane rolled his eyes and got them moving again.

The sun was still about a figer’s width above the horizon, but as they had just about jolted their spines out of alignment with their “high speed” travel, they opted to rest early. Mazelton’s cheve looked pretty happy to quit for the day too, for all that they hadn’t really been pushing themselves. Should he make them part of his contribution to the contract? Or just have them as something apart from the marital estate? He honestly couldn’t imagine not sharing them with Danae. Which definitely wasn’t a euphemism for “making the farmer look after the animals.” Definitely.

He set up his tent with casual expertise, wondering how many times in this life he would set it up again. Not many times, surely. Maybe never again. Strange how sad that thought made him. He set his camp stool outside the flaps of his beloved tent, and watched the sun set.

His ducks were in as good shape as they were going to get. Carving wasn’t his best skill, but they looked pretty good to him. They had a lot of… sincerity, if that was the right word. He wasn’t trying to be cute, or funny, or interesting. Just… here is what I saw, and maybe you can see some of who I am in them too. It was probably good enough. Some big bastard birds flew across the sun. Mazelton tried to squint and get a good look at them, but only saw black outlines, heading up north a little ways.

Meh. Probably should get dinner going.

Did… anyone else hear unearthly music, bells and the sound of drums?

Mazelton bolted to his feet, hand on his belt knife as he looked around for the source. Duane was holding his camp axe, glaring into the woods. They couldn’t see it, but it sounded like it was coming from the south, and moving towards them. There was no good cover- Mazelton didn’t even know if there was something he should be hiding from. But the eerily wailing noise, like a flute carved from the throat of a butchered dryad, pierced his ears. The deep thump of the drums crawled in the hole made by the flutes and pounded on his nerves. And the bells, stone bells and wooden chimes hanging on the trees in hell!

Around the corner came the celebrants, short in stature, child like, save that they were in filthy grave cothes and their awful faces were covered by masks. Crude masks, shaped like animal heads, out of wood and wicker coated in mud. Painted with whitewash or reddish brown mud, or black ash. Rabbits, foxes, deer and other, stranger things, things that Mazelton couldn’t put a name to.

The marchers trod on, not acknowledging Mazelton or Duane, focusing on banging their drums and shaking the long poles decked out in an explosion of sedge grass, the bells and wooden chimes hanging below. The flute players, marching proudly in the front, had slid their instruments up under their masks. They played no agreed upon tune, but the whole of it meshed with the banging drums and ringing bells.

The procession, perhaps twenty marchers in all, marched past. Mazelton felt compelled, horribly compelled, to follow them. To see what fresh horror was hidden so close to his new home. He would burn them all to the ground. He would follow them to their nest, and draw in every scrap of heat he could reach and BURN THEM TO THE GROUND.

They marched for another ten, fifteen minutes, never acknowledging his presence. Soon they left the road and turned into the woods. Another five minutes through the woods and a clearing opened.

In the clearing was a shrine of sorts. Little huts, covered in scraps of cloth or layers of leaves. Long and boxy, arranged in a big circle. A fire was set in the circle, and the terrible celebrants circled it once, and ceased their playing.

From within the huts, an awful, avian, call emerged. The dreadful marchers beat their drums twice in reply. Another call from a different hut, this time the bells chimed twice. A third call, and the flutes answered with a long, high scream.

Then from out of the tents, shapes hopped. In the fire lit twilight, they seemed almost black, and unreasonably huge. Almost of a size with the marchers. There was an expectant silence. Then the fire illuminated a brilliant, shocking expanse of pink, as the gullets of the birds expanded, and they charged each other.

The celebrants picked up their instruments again and played, as the pink gulleted bastards charged at each other, seeming to duel one another by ramming inflated gullets at each other. The music picked up it’s tempo, the unnatural, unearthly sounds seeming to fire the savagery of the birds to new, unprecedented heights. They smashed, and smashed and smashed again, the pink sacks wobbling obscenities and taunting their rivals.

One of the birds couldn’t take it. One last desperate excange and his gullet deflated in a humiliating Paarrrppppbllll. One of the drummers giggled. Then another. Another bird lost it, and his honking flatulent deflation made the bell section lose all control, their childlike laughter spreading. Soon, even the dreadful pipers were choking and sputtering around their pipes. The music devolved into gales of laughter as one of the pipers, choking on their own spit, pulled off their rabbit masks to reveal a handsome boy of twelve.

“You have to put the mask on! That’s the rules!” Another shouted.

“I can’t, I’m laughing too hard!” The ritual was coming apart at the seams, but the celebrants didn’t seem to mind. Some took their masks off and others just turned them to the sides. About a quarter of the kids started going from bird-duel to bird duel, trying to provide theme music for the fights. The ungrateful birds made no acknowledgement, but Mazelton thought they fought a little harder.

The little huts… sure looked like wagons around a campfire, now that he thought about it. And there were a fair few birds, smaller, duller in color, that were just sort of… sitting around and watching the fights.

Mazelton couldn’t explain why, but he had an overwhelming urge to give everyone involved a thick ear. He also knew, with excruciating certainty, that if he were to visit the vengence these bird bastards so richly deserved upon them, he would live the rest of his life as a social pariah. He grabbed one of the little savages… the ADORABLE local children who’s names he would doubtless know better than his own in mere days! Grabbed them gently by the shoulder and pulled them aside.

“You do this often?”

“Yeah! Well, no. Just a few times a year. For some reason they like to nest in our campsite in the fall. It’s ok, they tend to mate up and fly further south in a few weeks.”

“And the whole musical procession?”

“It’s the rules! You have to do it.”

“I see. Thank you for telling me. Why?”

“Because those are the rules.”

Mazelton felt the madness descend upon him, and embraced it.

“Well if those are the rules, I better follow them!” He snatched up an unattended pole with bells and chimes on it, and began to dance in attendance on a particularly savage duel. He tried to time the big chimes for just before the impact, to try and get the most dramatic effect. He added a few spins, turns and hops to his performance, really lean into the whole thing. The birds were outraged by his blatent disrespect, inflated their gullets to unprecedented volume and charged each other ruthlessly. No quarter asked, and none given on the fields of honor! Not this night. Not with the ladies watching.

Mazelton felt that his greatest triumph was learning that the birds were enraged by people shoving their bums at them. Really get your hips down, bend your back and wag that tail! Naturally he taught all the children to do it too. It was a massive success. He had never seen such outraged birds.

Eventually, the winners returned in triumph to their mates, and the loosers had to slink away in shame. The kids reassembled, put their masks back on, and marched back home. Their music wasn’t any less unearthly for being done under the moonlight, but they enjoyed it. Mazelton stood by the embers of the fire, drunk on the strange joy of it all. Duane, who had quietly watched the whole show, secretly grinned, then hauled him back for dinner. It had been a busy night on an empty stomach.

Besides, Duane was looking forward to the next Caravan journey. It would be quite funny, watching them deal with the pink throat birds. While he was under his little awning. With his unshakable inner ears.

Mazelton got back to the camp and collapsed onto his stool, bonelessly looking at the ashes of the camp fire. The heat stone was for cooking, the camp fire was for sociability. How long ago had he learned that? He looked over at the wagon and thought about the huge jar of brandy in it, and the dozens, if not more than a hundred plums it represented. At the time and labor of it all.

“The Xia have a theory, they call it the Grand Illusion. The illusion is this- that money has value. Of course, they are the ones who work hardest at promoting that illusion. But really, they are the first to admit, a thing is only worth what you don’t have to do to get it. Like, you don’t have to learn how to identify good clay, learn how to make a pot, learn how to make a kiln, dig the clay, make a pot, make a kiln, cut down wood, turn it into charcoal, fire the kiln, fire the pot. You just go buy the pot off someone else, trading whatever you both agree is worth it. Money is just a proxy for time and effort.”

Duane looked over disinterestedly.

“I swapped about thirty minutes of my time and effort for an absurd amount of work from that farmer.” He grinned mischievously. “I think Danae and I are going to live a rich life together, out here in the mountains.” Mazelton started to laugh. “And the best bit is, they will thank me for being here. It will be a point of pride- New Scandie, the only Canton in the New Territory with it’s own polisher!”

Duane shook his head with a little smile.

“I think, Duane, that I might just be happy here.”