Chapter 3

(The Calling of Berman)

© Mark Fairchild, 2005, Lincoln, Nebraska, USA

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From there, on high, I have heard

The final sighs of ancient cities,

Asleep in ancient dreaming,

Grasping not what fire from these

Avenging fingers would be unleashing

But quiet now. . . Let us sleep . . .

-- Attributed to a Prophecy of The Neeve

Chapter Three

Big Fella prayed earnestly, “Father, Sacred and Precious is your Name.”

The prayer itself was an ancient one that was still current among several contemporary religious sects. That is why Berman chose it for the play; the audience could tell it was being mocked and just how it was being mocked. So when Beautiful Woman, who was as much Big Fella's mother as the goddess/wife of a bastard's father could be, hissed angrily "think so, do ya, 'sonny'? I think his name is Mud," the audience knew just how blasphemous it was, and just how angry she was.

Big Fella paused, to nervously look around, before he again bowed low before the alter and continued to intone his prayer, "Make Earth your Realm so all may do your Sacred Will."

"Sacred Will—in your mother's whore-house," Beautiful Woman muttered.

At that Big Fella leapt to his feet and looked warily around, angry at whoever was playing this trick on him. In the corner the audience could see his family through an open door. Meg, his wife, was sitting quietly there watching the children play.

"Ah! Heard that did you, Big Fella?" Beautiful Woman was surprised, but pleased just the same. Now she could play her game in earnest. And the audience could see it on her face.

Obviously Big Fella's family did not hear whatever he was hearing, so he knelt once more at the alter and resumed his prayer.

He continued, "Nourish us today . . ."

She too continued, mockingly, "give us some ass . . ." She projected her words quietly away from Big Fella, trying to sound like a distant echo. With each reply she caused a breeze to pick up and the candles to gutter so as to enhance the confusion in Big Fella's mind.

“Forgive us our sins . . .”

“Never,” Beautiful Woman hissed, no longer mocking, but angry, overcome by the idea of Big Fella being forgiven, or loved, or of her husband being forgiven.

“As we forgive those who sin against us.”

At that Beautiful Woman laughed, and hearing herself laugh, made her laugh even more and louder. Soon her shrieks of laughter grew insane and filled the hall and echoed out onto the lawn – in her realm. “Forgive them? How did you come up with that, you puny-headed hunk of muscle!? Oh, my hunk o' son; oh, my witless baby!”

Big Fella obviously heard that and leapt up once again, but this time he went straight to the alter where she was seated and looked behind it, hand on his dagger. He swept open the tapestry behind the alter, but finding no one there he spun around.

There in front of him was his family playing quietly on the temple floor in a corner opposite the door, but Meg was beginning to become nervous as a result of her husband's behavior.

“Ah, yes!” Beautiful Woman obviously had just hatched a new plan. “There they are. There is your cheating wife, your house whore playing with your children.

At the mention of his children, his eyes softened a bit, and simultaneously her eyes showed signs of panic; but she recovered, “oh no, not your children. They are the bastards of someone your wife was whoring with. One of the many men your wife was whoring with.” Beautiful Woman was now circling close around Big Fella, shouting in his ears, not giving him a chance to think. He lashed out at her, missing of course.

“Ah, he can even see me! At least part of him sees me.” At that she tore her top off and shook her breasts in his face and, as she circled him, began to pull off her skirt. “Who was she whoring with, Big Fella? Who are your children's father? The little piglets at their mother's side! Not your . . .”

“Cut! Cut!!” Berman yelled. The actors all stopped where they were. “What the hell is that about, Donlen?”

Donlen, the director, sighed, obviously ready for this outbreak. “It is Braegen's idea. He says it will add to the box office receipts.”

“I could not care less about box office receipts. This is not a striptease,” Berman replied. “Hell, that is just not even a tease, just a strip!"

“We all know you don't care about the receipts,” Donlen said. “At least you think you don't. Not until it comes time to buy some food for your table.” Berman scowled. “Braegen is a producer, he's only doing his job. The story is only part of the production, as he sees it.”

Berman scowled again and said “It is not about the story, Donlen. It is about artistic integrity.”

“I agree,” said Donlen. “But we don't have any art or any story if he pulls the funds.”

“He has too much invested in this to pull funds now.”

“But he has nothing invested in future productions, and he never will unless this pays off. Besides, she's trying to drive him insane, so it fits!”

Berman was flustered. “Listen, Donlen, you know very well that people come to see my plays because . . . well . . . because they are my plays. You start making them a mish-mash of Braegen and me, they will stop coming.”

“Sorry, Berman, but we don't really know that. Maybe more people will come.”

Berman sat for a moment considering this. At last he looked up and asked, “does everyone feel like this? Annie, do you feel like this?”

Beautiful Woman picked up her blouse, feeling suddenly very shy, and holding it over her chest said, “he's right, Berman; we have to eat too. And its not like this town is market friendly to actors.”

All eyes were on Berman, who sat quietly in his twelfth row seat. Finally he said, “Alright. But it is no longer my play. You can keep my name on it as playwright -- this time, for this run, but my cooperation is at an end.”

Donlen winced. “Berman, don't be like that. It is still your play.”

“Sorry, Donlen. The producer has trumped the playwright once too often.” With that Berman got up and headed for the door.

As the huge Oaken auditorium door closed the hall became darker and he became even more angry. This had happened time after time. One would think that telling a story would be a simple thing. But not, it seemed, when dealing with producers. And directors. And actors. In a marketplace. Not in a theatre-as-business world. As he walked down the hall it became more and more dark, and so did his mood. He would not revisit that theatre, or any theatre in TaegenBo, for several years, though he did not yet know this. This producer had baffled and angered him for far too long. He would not have any more of his plays prostituted by pimps like Braegen, he told himself.

***

He burst out the main door on the north side of the Theatre Annex into the cooling evening air just as a late spring cold front was beginning to pass through town. No one was on the street at that moment, except for the usual Taes.

To the undiscerning eye Taes were simply puppets – or puppets and their puppeteers. In the context of this world, however, they were much more than that. The puppets were called “Tae” and the puppeteers were called “Leae,” “Spirit-Tae,” or sometimes simply “Spirits.” Spirit-Tae were invisible, in much the same way that Kabuki puppet operators and stage hands are considered invisible on stage. Other Spirits were themselves the object of the art; their medium was their body. They were considered Oneiric Artists and by cultural convention all that was visible was their art. Their art sported many mediums, but always the artists so identified with their art that they had no life outside their art. They were very like monks or hermits in this sense. When they were not “performing” for an audience (non Spirits) they were performing for each other. In this case Oneiric Puppeteers (one class of Spirit-Tae) they were viewed as actually being their puppets. This was all cultural convention, but it was very deeply ingrained in the cultures. Many a spirit lost his, or her, track of reality and lived in a permanent psychosis as a result of this convention. It was always a good idea to be aware of what Taes were about, in case any were rabid.

Berman absent mindedly counted three Tae in sight. One of them was a dragon, while the other two were Tangle Flowers sizing each other up.

He sat down on a bench to cool off. A storm was approaching from the northwest. Looking down the street to the west he saw a deep, dark slate wall of cloud with whitish highlights moving toward town. Before long the rain would be cooling him and all of TaegenBo quite thoroughly; perhaps too thoroughly. But Berman simply did not care. His career was shot and all because he had no patience for greedy fools that could not think a thought worthy of anything more than a bodily tingle.

As he sat brooding he felt something brush his left shoulder. He tilted his head to see the dragon hovering just above his shoulder as if requesting to perch on it. It was a well made dragon. It looked quite real, eerily alive. He snarled at it and brushed it gently away; but it came right back and resumed hovering. Looking at it more closely this time Berman noticed that it had a folded piece of paper grasped in a fore claw. Its Spirit-Tae rattled the paper a bit and cocked its head.

"Oh. Alright," Berman muttered, and thrust out his shoulder for the dragon to land on. He slipped the paper from out of the dragons grasp. Exploring a pocket he found a coin with which he replaced the crumpled paper. The Tae quickly snatched it and the coin vanished into the realm of the unseen presence. The dragon, however, perched in a nearby bush watching Berman and occasionally snapping at some undetectable insect or snorting a bit of smoke.

Berman turned his attention to the paper, opened it and read, 'Please stop by tonight.' It was signed 'Chonsky.' Chonsky was Berman's step brother, who owned and operated a pub in the Arts Quarter.

Why the letter, he thought to himself. This time of day he usually went to Chonsky's pub anyway, appropriately referred to as "Chonsky's" by everyone in the Arts Quarter.

The mild mystery was enough to reversed his mood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out whatever several coins he happened on, and tossed them happily to the dragon's Spirit Tae in the bush. The dragon looked him over carefully before diving for its new fortune.

By then some of the actors were exiting the theatre. Deama altered course towards Berman as the dragon took flight to another bush.

"Greenery giving you a hard time too,' he asked.

"No, just a message," Berman said.

"What about?"

"Nothing much; Chonsky wants me to stop by..."

"Well that's where we're headed," said Deama. "Want company?"

"Only if you're not going to try to make peace between me and Braegen."

Deama fixed is eyes on Berman's and said. "You really don't think I'm that stupid do you?"

"Are you referring to your diplomatic abilities or to your personality?"

They glared at each other for about two seconds before Deama said, "Neither."

Berman smiled and said "Either." Both laughed. "No, you would not be stupid even if you agreed with him. Financially he is probably right, which is good for you. Having the goddess violently bare her breasts would no doubt muster more audience, which would mean more money in your pocket. But it is artistically tasteless in this plot. And morally questionable. We might spend all our extra money fighting off the Spirit Eaters. Or enough of them."

TaegenBo was divided into Quarters. The Learning Quarter, the Government Quarter, the Arts Quarter, the Spiritual Quarter (AKA 'the Spirit Eaters") and in one of those paradoxes that plague ancient civilizations, the Market Quarter. The Market was the fifth "quarter" which was at some point in history was the center of a circle in the city plan. Later it nibbled its way into the edges of all the quarters along the bordering boulevards. It made the greatest inroads into the Arts and Learning Quarters - the western and northern quadrants respectively.

Deama and Berman were in the Government Quarter, at the Caerlorvon Theatre, one of the smaller Royal Theatres annexed to the palace. Now they were headed towards the center of the city. Chonsky's was in the Arts Quarter. The quarter system had more to do with where people worked than where they lived, although there was a strong tendency for people to work close to home.

***

It was questionable whether Chonsky's was more art than market anyway. It was designed in such a way that although it was a pub (a large pub) it felt almost like an Arts Only Mall. Tae were thick about the place. Paintings and sculptures were plentiful and all for sale. It was large enough to have both a central public stage and an attached theatre. The structure itself was a study in architecture, and yet it seemed to remain just barely small enough to feel cozy; an architectural illusion. Chonsky had inherited it, from a friend, his mentor, who had died several year's previously. Technically, Chonsky was a Spirit-Tae and his establishment was his Tae, but as it happened he, as proprietor, was part of the Tae as well, and so was a visible and active part of it.

By the time Deama and Berman arrived they had gathered three other actors to their group and all entered in a cacophony of muttering, laughter and screeching. Berman spotted Chonsky immediately, sitting at a table near the cash drawer and kitchen entrance; his usual table, the "Owner's Table."

The group found a table near the door, which was also near a rather exotic and erotic Tae Tableau. Berman immediately excused himself so that he could sit with Chonsky.

"What's the problem,” Berman asked as he approached. “Is my tab too heavy?"

"Absolutely," Chonsky replied without missing a beat. "But aside from that I have a way that you might pay it off."

Berman paused, raised an eyebrow then settled back in his chair and said, "I could pay it off right now; but you've intrigued me too much. Go on!"

"How are things going, Berman?" Chonsky asked, as if in reply.

"Oh, I'll survive."

"No, not financially. Are you satisfied with your life here?"

"Are you talking about Braegen?" Berman would have been surprised if he were. This whole conversation was going somewhere odd.

"Not unless it has a bearing on your frame of mind," Chonsky said.

"Well, he is butchering my script, as usual. And I'll probably have to pull some stunt to get him back on track. But other than that. . . "

Chonsky sat up, took a drink and looked Berman straight in the eye, focused in a manner that was unusual for Chonsky, and more than a little unsettling for Berman. "Braegen aside, are you satisfied?"

"I don't know, Chonsky. A person can rarely be truly 'satisfied' with his life, so what do you do? You simply avoid the question whenever possible." Chonsky nodded and returned to playing some obscure game with a pile of toothpicks. "Do you have some reason that I should face this particular question at this particular time?"

Chonsky tapped hard on a toothpick that, using a strategically placed second toothpick as a fulcrum, catapulted a third toothpick towards himself. He caught it in his teeth and grinned. "Yes," he said.

Berman, exasperated, burst out, "Well out with it, man!"

"First answer the question. Are you satisfied with your life here in TaegenBo?"

"Well, let me see," Berman started to say.

"A multi-talented artist," interrupted Chonsky.

"Alright. If you say so. But this city! There is something about creating art for a market that simply changes the very nature of art. Do you know what I mean?"

"Look around you," Chonsky replied, indicating all the Tae. "In some ways I am the same as Braegen, just trying to keep my chin above water by renting out space to the Spirits.

"I have trouble being like that," Berman said. "If you are searching for something in your art, selling it is like poisoning your lover, and ignoring it for money is like cheating on her.

"There is some truth in that, but you still have to live."

"You asked the question, Chonsky. I'm just answering it."

'Gottcha."

"Braegen is butchering this play, as-is-his-wont. My paintings, drawings and sculpture are not selling very well. Yana is . . . well . . . gone but always present; so my love life is virtually nonexistent. So I guess I'd have to say 'no, I find little satisfaction in TaegenBo' – at the moment."

"I see," Chonsky mumbled.

"And yet," Berman continued, "I see nothing better elsewhere. TaegenBo has all the resources, all the venues, all the talent; its all just misused. So what else can I do but work with the imperfect lot that has been given me?"

Chonsky leaned back on his chair and as if on cue smiled slyly and said, "take a vacation."

"What? Are you serious?"

"Yes, absolutely.” His chair came upright once again and Chonsky leaned eagerly into the conversation. “Better yet, make it a sabbatical; I have a way that you can make it a working vacation."

Berman pursed his lips and poked at Chonsky's toothpicks. "I guess that would depend."

"Maybe this will help; remember Shana and Tam?"

"Of course, but we lost track of each other."

"Well they just united, last week."

"Really? Good for them." Berman was sincere.

"And they would like a union portrait. Think you are up to it?"

Berman shook his head and said, "Yes, but I assume they are some distance from TaegenBo, or you would not be probing the strength of my connections to it."

"Right. They are living in Rôgmüd."

Berman exhaled and went pale. "Rôgmüd! Of all places! Why did they go there?"

Chonsky shrugged. "Who knows; they simply did."

Berman shook his head. "But Rôgmüd, Chonsky; I can't go there."

"And why not?"

"You know damn well why not. I am in exile from there."

Chonsky smiled, kindly; he did know damn well why not. "Berman, look at me.” Berman looked. “It is a self imposed exile.” Berman looked away again. “You can go back anytime you want."

Berman shook his head slowly, entranced, but thinking it over. "That's how you see it anyway." Eventually his eyes began to glaze and he asked, "Just exactly where in Rôgmüd?"

"It is on the Borean River, near Parst. They call their home Hill House, and they tell me they have a very comfortable cottage on their grounds where you could stay as long as you liked and pursue your art as you like."

Berman laughed derisively. "With what?"

"Not all paint is bought," Chonsky said. "Some artists make their own pigments. There is land to grow plants for oil and pigment. And there is a clay pit nearby for sculpting, they tell me. And I can send you some supplies. If you turn it in to art work and send it back to me, I can try to sell it here to generate more supplies to send to you there. Seems like a nice arrangement to me."

"I cannot argue with that."

"There is one catch," said Chonsky.

"Ah ha; let's hear it."

“Well, there are one or two things more to tell you, but you should know that you will have to leave tomorrow."

"Oh, is that all?" Berman laughed, at least until he saw the serious expression on Chonsky's face.

"Bring a wardrobe for all seasons. At very least coats for autumn, winter, and spring. Then wait at the way station for the morning coach to Skaelar. Send me a letter when you get there detailing any supplies you think you might need and by when."

"Whoa now. I haven't agreed to this yet," protested Berman.

"I understand. This is just in case you do agree; this is what you will need to do, and in a very short time; so you should know about it up front."

Chonsky started to say something else, but Berman held up a hand and looked away, thinking. He leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. The proposal was very enticing. A weariness was washing over him these last few years that he could no longer shake. The idea of his own art on his own terms was so good it dripped like honey from nose to tongue. At last he looked at Chonsky and said, "Tell me one thing Chonsky; what's the big rush? Why tomorrow morning? Why now?"

"Well, there you've got me over a barrel. I cannot explain it, and certainly not in the time we have to talk about it. You will simply have to trust me for now..”

“That does bring me to the second thing, but I m not to get into that until you have decided if you will go or stay.”

"It sounds as if there is more to it than just a 'sabbatical' and a scheme to make money off my art?"

"Yes. I cannot say more."

"At least you are honest about it. It better not be some surprise party." Both laughed. "Parst, huh? Well, let me think it over. Give me at least an hour; I'm going for a walk."

"Fine by me, I'm just the messenger."

“Which makes me wonder who's message it is.”

Chonsky said, “take a walk. Think about the proposal, and gauge how much you oul miss you old haunts here in TaegenBo.

* * *

When Berman got outside the storm still had not hit. Not a good sign; it was stalled and building in strength. He walked around the Arts and Learning Quarters, then up towards the palace. These were his haunts. They had been for nearly ten years. How much of all this had shaped him, for better or for worse? What could he embrace and take with him, what would he have to embrace and leave behind? And what could he reject?

But then, it was to be a 'vacation.' Or more like a sabbatical - subtle difference of substance; but either way, he would probably return. 'Probably.' Why had he come up with that particular word? Maybe he needed out of TaegenBo more than he realized.

He looked up at the palace, Olenan 's residence. At times one fancied one could see Olenan 's face high in the Central Tower looking out on his domain. At times it was comforting. At times it fell into the spectrum from creepy to downright terrifying. He shivered involuntarily. The man had vision, but no one knew clearly of what it consisted. More than once he had taken out his wrath over some self perceived wrong on the residents of TaegenBo. And more than once he had donated utterly unexpected and highly non-trivial contributions to the cultural and social elements of the city. He was, in short, an enigma. Did this argue for or against staying in TaegenBo?

Against, he decided. It was Spring, and while most sane people were planning gardens, Olenan was more than likely planning wars. That was when he tended to get crotchety; and that was when Taegenites paid for their ruler's sins: in wealth, health and blood.

But to return to Rôgmüd and the memories it held was not very nice to contemplate either. He had spent years escaping that world, even though he had never set foot in it. Yana was insane, it turned out, when she made him heir to Rôgmüd in one of their flights of fancy. And he had never been able to cope with her madness. His exile was, in fact, from Yana who had disappeared anyway. So really it was from the memory of her. But that was all embedded in the symbol of Rôgmüd.

Probably the best thing to do would be to face the fears; go to Rôgmüd and see it for what it really was rather than the fantasy Yana had implanted in his mind.

Perhaps it was a good time for a vacation anyway, he decided. Perhaps it was the best time. If, that is, he could convince someone he trusted to look after his interests in TaegenBo.

Back at the Pub Chonsky beamed. "I'd love to! And don't worry, I can hold my own against Braegen. Look around you; I am the living, breathing patron-almost-saint of the Spirits and their Tae here about. If he gets too stubborn, he will find more than nightmares in his head while he sleeps!"

Berman could not help but burst out in a belly laugh. He knew his brother and of what he was capable. Well, at least one goddess would demand a bit of dignity while he was gone.

But his laughter was tinged with tears of memories and fear. Things he had now to prepare to face.

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----- In Progress Below ----

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* * *

Chonsky' face said it all. It said, 'what did you decide?' so Berman answered, saying, “I'll go.”

“Now that you have made your choice,” said Chonsky, suddenly very serious. A look of great sadness forced its way into his features. “I can answer a bit of the question concerning 'why now.' I need to answer it, and you need to hear it.”

Berman looked at him with unabashed curiosity. “By all means, do tell.”

Chonsky lifted his notebook and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Actually, you must read it. You must know that whether you chose to stay or go, this night will be somewhat . . . dicey. And very seriously so. In fact, if you had chosen to stay, it might well have become even more dicey, painful, and probably mortally so.”

“Alright. Sounds nice. ... So what means 'dicey'?”

“Dicey,” Chonsky replied, “as in Olenan at his worst; as in you must be very careful now and follow all instructions without question . . . if you want to live through the night . . . if you want me to live through the night, or week, or month. I will still be here after you have gone, and Olenan might not like that.”

Berman took a moment to grasp what had been said. Finally he said, simply, “What!”

“This is a letter that I was to deliver to you, to convince you to go if were overly reluctant to take this sabbatical. And to explain, or begin an explanation, of what is going on.” Berman looked at the paper under Chonsky's palm with an expression of mixed curiosity and confusion. “Now that you have decided to go, you need to be aware of the letter's contents in order to best prepare for what awaits between here, right now, and Hill House.” Then he handed the letter to Berman, holding back it at the last minute to fix his eyes on Berman's eyes. “It is from Fliven.”

Berman's entire body went weak.

Fliven was Chonsky's younger brother, and Berman's other step brother. Fliven had left home, on his own, when he was 18 years of age. Little more was ever heard of him again. It was said he had traveled north and then had entered the Matsone region, a vast region that surrounded the Tryth, into and beyond which lay a legendary Abyss, which none could ever pass. It was, effectively, the edge of the world for the people of the Five Kingdoms of the Tryth.. To enter the Matsone was to either die or escape into the abyss that lay beyond. Or so the legends had it. More sophisticated minds believed that other realms lay beyond, but it was not worth the risk of trying to pass through the Matsone, which was inhabited by the Thimüdian people. They were an insane and murderous people in an insane, murderous culture where only Chaos and Anarchy reigned, who jealously guarded their borders. It was no myth. He had spoken with people who had crossed into it, and even traveled inside of it. Trythian guards constantly watched the entire boarder lest some small incursion led to invasion.

No one knew what would have drawn Fliven into someplace as deadly and hopeless as the Matsone. But given that he did go there, he had long ago been given up for dead.

Yet here, now, was a letter from him. Maybe he had never gone there. Or maybe he had and had at long last managed to escape. Without a doubt this caught Berman's curiosity. He took the letter and read:

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My dearest brother, Berman:

Seven long years ago we last spoke, that evening before I left to visit Ariel and Corvan. I arrived at their Gold-Red Pasture on the River Tala.

Now it is rumored that I am dead. The rumor caught up with me at the same time as did news of you.

More importantly, I found it. The land of milk and honey, streets paved with gold, elixir of youth, and all the rest: Prosher. It is no myth, legend, or idle dream.

As regards my death, I will prove to you this night that I live, but that is all. From that point on you will never know more of me unless you choose to, or we need you to. I guarantee you will find Prosher too, if you try—but, again, only if you choose to. The choice is not so obvious as it may seem. That is for much later.

If you do so choose, you will have to follow these instructions closely. Bear in mind that this will be a commitment of trust on your part. The cloak and dagger is real too. Trust me when I say: do not plan to see Taeg again. Ever. You will have to go where you do not want to go, and trust that in time you will be led to Prosher.

So think about it.

Whether you have decided to go or stay bring this letter to Dragon Claw's Green Door, where I will meet you. Hand me this letter and say only, “yes,” and follow me in silence, or “no,” and depart in silence. The silence is necessary; MY LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. Do not bring anything with you except this letter, and show it to no one. The existence of Prosher is no secret to your “king.” In his eyes, Prosher is a grave threat, and so we are at war—rather he is at war. I would be silenced immediately, and eternally, if the wrong people found me here.

I look forward to seeing you, and hope to talk with you at greater length in the morning, outside of TaegenBo and Taeg.

Your brother, and friend in trust,

Fliven

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Berman looked up and scanned the pub, half expecting to see Fliven watching him. But he was not there.