Quest of the Five Clans

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Wherein the hero declines an invitation, accepts the One True Hat and follows a piper.

The Bird-man vanished in the night. In stories characters make these dramatic exits. I staggered off to do the same. I failed. Wherever I went, there I was. Like going mad, I cannot master the trick of simply disappearing. How pleasant it must be to exit stage, one's scene done. To rest while others nobly declaim or furiously shout, stomping and dancing what lines life has scribbled for a part.

Not that I stomped or danced. No, I limped and dodged round corners, seeking the darkest alleys. I could find no rest or refuge. I lurked in shadowed doorways, waiting for enemies who missed their cue. The theatre was not empty. The night-city hummed. Everywhere I heard distant shouts, feet running, horses clopping, doors slamming. Bells ringing, jingling, clanging alarm. Yet no actor came onstage to share the scene. Ignored, I wandered long empty streets seeking a doorstep to commandeer for night-defense. But no hole offered refuge from the hunt, no curtain proffered exit from the theatre.

At some cold hour I found myself on the Highstreet Bridge, gazing at a great fire in the east. Surely my house? What a holocaust it made. My burning books brightened full half the sky. The blaze painted entire clouds red and orange, grand mountains of purpled silk above, the sullen red of heated iron beneath. I noted softer touches too, as if the essence of Elspeth moved the fire into a gentler, kinder light. As she had done for me.

Below the bridge, rushing water caught every tone of red, becoming a river of blood to suite the visions of Dante, the thirst of Moloch. And yet, it swirled at peace with its bloody essence. It burbled happily. A quiet morning for hell. I shivered cold, stared down, watching the river run to the sea.

And yes, I knew it was dawn reddening the eastern sky. But I was feeling sad, mad and poetical. It pleased me to mistake sunrise for my burning house. Is not the world my house? Nor am I ever out of it. So take bloody dawn as model for the reality of the conflagration, Take it so for all my fellow tenants. Our house is burning down.

A watchman trotted past, scowling at my bare feet, my rags, my blood, my soot, my existence. He continued ten paces, then halted. He turned, considered, ran back.

"Aren't about to be tossing ourselves off the bridge, are we?" he demanded.

"Never occurred," I said. I searched for any cause for such an act. "I might as tactic. I've survived close fights by swimming. Astonishing that soldiers seldom learn. Sailors, even. I recall hand-to-hand once, on a bridge in France. Hopelessly outnumbered. I jumped. Five leaped after me, drowned to a man. I swam to shore and just laughed."

"Right," said the guard. "So no jumping then, till we have a nice row with France." He turned and hurried off. He disappeared like a master. He had the trick. Exit nameless guard, stage left.

Granted the words echoed, once declaimed. 'To be, or not to be.' Not that I could ever deliberately end my life. I am too aware of who I am for vanishing, for madness, for suicide. They are the same. Dramatic exits. I have spent a life-time mastering the arts of keeping myself present, sane and alive.

And yet the question echoes; for me, for the mad, the sane, joyful or despairing. All at once, like enough. 'To be, or not?

Bah. I chose to be. I only considered otherwise to be polite. The river invited so kindly, the water burbled so soft and welcoming. It offered to cool my burns, sooth all wounds, then last and best bring peace to smoke-scorched lungs. It promised to carry me far from fire and strife, swirling, circling, gently bearing me to a sea of final sleep. I pretended to weigh the offer. I turned to the sunrise, so like a burning home, a funeral pyre of books and love and life. I could think of nothing to do but laugh. To be, I told the river. It was a beautiful dawn.