A World Without Heroes
Page 39
“When the boat started swinging in to shore, a bunch of us assumed we would be saved whether we liked it or not. A few kept playing, but most of us, myself included, began stripping away our bindings. We had lashed ourselves in place, you see, so we could keep playing through the rough water. By the time we collided with the bank, even the few folks still playing were having second thoughts. Our chance to survive was so near. I jumped to shore the same instant the line was severed, and found myself alone, the sole defector, watching my comrades float away.”
Tark sniffed and ran the back of his hand across his nostrils. “By that time everyone thought they would be saved. I saw it in their eyes. Because of that hope of survival they experienced true terror as they reembarked toward the falls. Most couldn’t play their instruments, either out of fear or because they had unlashed themselves and toppled over.”
His voice became painfully intense. “What should have been a proud occasion of willful self-sacrifice degenerated into a pathetic farce where a raft full of cowering musicians plunged frantically to their deaths. Gelpha got off a blast on the clarinet. And some brave soul crashed the cymbals.”
Jason felt a growing sense of horror, each word of Tark’s like a punch to his gut. He’d only tried to help, and he’d caused so much suffering. How could he ever make up for it?
Tears leaked down Tark’s face. He took a hasty sip of chowder.
“That was my responsibility. I was to crash the cymbals at the end of the finale. Not only did I fail, but some poor terrified soul covered my mistake.”
He sobbed, banging a fist against the table. Then he wiped his nose against his shoulder. It took a moment before he went on.
“Afterward people acted like they were glad to see me, happy I had cheated death. But it was an act. Soon I understood the incident had branded me a coward and a mutineer. So I left. There was no place for the Giddy One among those people. I considered returning to the mines. I was an able miner once. But I felt too low even for that. You see, no hero appeared after my friends plunged off the falls. The prophecy went unfulfilled. And for the rest of my days I’ll be burdened with the knowledge that it was my fault. Nobody will ever know whether the prophecy could have come true, because I abandoned the sacrifice. The Giddy Nine were supposed to go over those falls. Instead, eight frightened musicians plunged to their deaths, leaving one wretched craven behind.”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Rachel consoled.
“Right,” Tark huffed in disgust. “I should congratulate myself for betraying my friends and protecting the emperor. Suicide has tempted me. But I resolved that since I was not man enough to lose my life among friends, I don’t deserve to be coward enough to take my life on my own. So now I am a wanderer. A vagabond whose sousalax rests upon the ocean floor, probably inhabited by a giant transient crab.”
“That’s—it’s awful,” Jason said. He opened his mouth to form some further expression of sympathy, but he couldn’t speak through the knot in his stomach. Could he possibly be the hero these musicians had summoned? Galloran had made it sound like anyone, even some kid from the suburbs, could become a hero. Hearing in detail the sacrifice these nine people had made just to bring a hero to Lyrian was overwhelming. It filled Jason with a sudden, intense desire to actually be the hero they needed. But was he capable of that?
“I wish I could find the lowlife who shot that arrow,” Tark grated, fists clenched. “He’s the one who ruined our sacrifice. Without his interference I would have remained true to our cause. Paying him back is my sole remaining purpose.”
Rachel and Jason exchanged an uncomfortable glance.
“What does he look like?” Jason asked.
Tark eyed him. “By the description I got, he looks a bit like you. Tall. Sandy hair.”
Tark snorted, finished his chowder, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Until the day I die I’ll be watching for him.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t target the poor guy who shot the arrow,” Rachel blurted out.
“Why not?” Tark barked.
“He was probably just trying to help,” Rachel said weakly.
Jason bowed his head. “I think we all know who the real villain is,” he muttered.
Tark eyed Jason narrowly. “Maldor,” he mouthed, considering the idea.
“If you want to lose your life doing something useful, go after him,” Jason said, keeping his voice low. “That would be the best way to honor the sacrifice your friends made. Who knows? Maybe you are the hero they were trying to summon.”
Tark sat up straighter, eyes clearing. “I think you’re onto something. What could be more fitting?” He pulled a heavy, saw-toothed knife from his waistband and stuck it fiercely into the tabletop.
Jason stared at the imposing blade in silence.
Tark stood up, stroking his chin. “Mark my words: I may not have died, but my life ended on those falls, so I have nothing to fear. Like a ghost I will stalk Maldor and his minions.” He furtively glanced to see if anyone had overheard him. “Keep this conversation between the three of us. We never met. Good luck to you, friend Jason.” He slapped Jason on the shoulder. “You have revived me.”
Tark sheathed his knife and marched to the door. He tumbled out with help from the square-faced man.
Jason and Rachel each picked up another puckerly. As Jason sipped the squirming flesh, he thought about the heavy knife. Up until a minute ago it had been destined to slit his throat. He hoped Tark’s resolve held. Although he was haunted by Tark’s story of those final moments at the waterfall, he wasn’t ready to die to make amends.
Jason finished his share of the puckerlies, and Rachel did likewise. They grew on him more with each he ate. After his last swallow he leaned back, satisfied, relishing the filmy residue lining his mouth. A truly delightful aftertaste.
The barmaid came back.
“What do I owe?” Jason inquired.
“Four drooma.”
Jason pulled a bronze pellet from his pouch. “What’s this worth?”
“Five,” she said, as if she suspected he was teasing her.
“Here you go. Keep the change.”
She stared at him.
“What?” Jason asked.
A smile spread across her face. “Thank you very much.” She sounded so sincere, Jason decided that people in Hippoland must be lousy tippers. Immediately she went over to Kerny, talking excitedly and glancing toward Jason.
Tark sniffed and ran the back of his hand across his nostrils. “By that time everyone thought they would be saved. I saw it in their eyes. Because of that hope of survival they experienced true terror as they reembarked toward the falls. Most couldn’t play their instruments, either out of fear or because they had unlashed themselves and toppled over.”
His voice became painfully intense. “What should have been a proud occasion of willful self-sacrifice degenerated into a pathetic farce where a raft full of cowering musicians plunged frantically to their deaths. Gelpha got off a blast on the clarinet. And some brave soul crashed the cymbals.”
Jason felt a growing sense of horror, each word of Tark’s like a punch to his gut. He’d only tried to help, and he’d caused so much suffering. How could he ever make up for it?
Tears leaked down Tark’s face. He took a hasty sip of chowder.
“That was my responsibility. I was to crash the cymbals at the end of the finale. Not only did I fail, but some poor terrified soul covered my mistake.”
He sobbed, banging a fist against the table. Then he wiped his nose against his shoulder. It took a moment before he went on.
“Afterward people acted like they were glad to see me, happy I had cheated death. But it was an act. Soon I understood the incident had branded me a coward and a mutineer. So I left. There was no place for the Giddy One among those people. I considered returning to the mines. I was an able miner once. But I felt too low even for that. You see, no hero appeared after my friends plunged off the falls. The prophecy went unfulfilled. And for the rest of my days I’ll be burdened with the knowledge that it was my fault. Nobody will ever know whether the prophecy could have come true, because I abandoned the sacrifice. The Giddy Nine were supposed to go over those falls. Instead, eight frightened musicians plunged to their deaths, leaving one wretched craven behind.”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Rachel consoled.
“Right,” Tark huffed in disgust. “I should congratulate myself for betraying my friends and protecting the emperor. Suicide has tempted me. But I resolved that since I was not man enough to lose my life among friends, I don’t deserve to be coward enough to take my life on my own. So now I am a wanderer. A vagabond whose sousalax rests upon the ocean floor, probably inhabited by a giant transient crab.”
“That’s—it’s awful,” Jason said. He opened his mouth to form some further expression of sympathy, but he couldn’t speak through the knot in his stomach. Could he possibly be the hero these musicians had summoned? Galloran had made it sound like anyone, even some kid from the suburbs, could become a hero. Hearing in detail the sacrifice these nine people had made just to bring a hero to Lyrian was overwhelming. It filled Jason with a sudden, intense desire to actually be the hero they needed. But was he capable of that?
“I wish I could find the lowlife who shot that arrow,” Tark grated, fists clenched. “He’s the one who ruined our sacrifice. Without his interference I would have remained true to our cause. Paying him back is my sole remaining purpose.”
Rachel and Jason exchanged an uncomfortable glance.
“What does he look like?” Jason asked.
Tark eyed him. “By the description I got, he looks a bit like you. Tall. Sandy hair.”
Tark snorted, finished his chowder, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Until the day I die I’ll be watching for him.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t target the poor guy who shot the arrow,” Rachel blurted out.
“Why not?” Tark barked.
“He was probably just trying to help,” Rachel said weakly.
Jason bowed his head. “I think we all know who the real villain is,” he muttered.
Tark eyed Jason narrowly. “Maldor,” he mouthed, considering the idea.
“If you want to lose your life doing something useful, go after him,” Jason said, keeping his voice low. “That would be the best way to honor the sacrifice your friends made. Who knows? Maybe you are the hero they were trying to summon.”
Tark sat up straighter, eyes clearing. “I think you’re onto something. What could be more fitting?” He pulled a heavy, saw-toothed knife from his waistband and stuck it fiercely into the tabletop.
Jason stared at the imposing blade in silence.
Tark stood up, stroking his chin. “Mark my words: I may not have died, but my life ended on those falls, so I have nothing to fear. Like a ghost I will stalk Maldor and his minions.” He furtively glanced to see if anyone had overheard him. “Keep this conversation between the three of us. We never met. Good luck to you, friend Jason.” He slapped Jason on the shoulder. “You have revived me.”
Tark sheathed his knife and marched to the door. He tumbled out with help from the square-faced man.
Jason and Rachel each picked up another puckerly. As Jason sipped the squirming flesh, he thought about the heavy knife. Up until a minute ago it had been destined to slit his throat. He hoped Tark’s resolve held. Although he was haunted by Tark’s story of those final moments at the waterfall, he wasn’t ready to die to make amends.
Jason finished his share of the puckerlies, and Rachel did likewise. They grew on him more with each he ate. After his last swallow he leaned back, satisfied, relishing the filmy residue lining his mouth. A truly delightful aftertaste.
The barmaid came back.
“What do I owe?” Jason inquired.
“Four drooma.”
Jason pulled a bronze pellet from his pouch. “What’s this worth?”
“Five,” she said, as if she suspected he was teasing her.
“Here you go. Keep the change.”
She stared at him.
“What?” Jason asked.
A smile spread across her face. “Thank you very much.” She sounded so sincere, Jason decided that people in Hippoland must be lousy tippers. Immediately she went over to Kerny, talking excitedly and glancing toward Jason.
