the road to the wicked city - 25. the gargoyle's tale, continued

by jeremy witherington

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“wait here. a wagon will come by to pick you up,“ the woman in red had told leander. the young goatherd did not have long to wait. a wagon drawn by two hulking yaks and driven by a shapeless creature covered by a green blanket appeared on the horizon. leander stepped up boldly to meet it. “are you from the lady in red?” he shouted as soon as he thought the wagon was in hearing distance. “we are here for you,” a voice announced, though leander could not be sure if it issued from the blanketed driver or from the interior of the wagon. “get in,” the voice commanded as the wagon grew level with the boy, “and be quick about it.” leander scrambled into the back of the wagon easily enough. it was not too dark inside the wagon and he quickly noticed that it was piled with boxes and baskets and that there were three other occupants. a really old woman, almost surely a witch, huddled between two piles of boxes and paying leander no mind. a man with no face was leaning back against a bare spot on the side of the wagon. he had no eyes or nose, but a mouth in which a short pipe was clenched. despite his lack of eyes, the boy felt the man was staring at him intently. and a young girl - his own age! the first one the young goatherd had ever seen. he gaped at her in astonishment, ignoring the witch and the faceless man. “what is your name?” he asked the girl. “my name is hero,” she replied in no friendly matter. “that is a strange name for a girl.” “what do you know about names? or about girls? i am probably the first one you have ever seen.” “that may be,” leander replied with a smile. “you were a goatherd,” the girl continued. “yes, i was. and may still be, if that is what i am told to do.” the man with no face took his pipe out of his mouth and laughed. “i do not think queen jen needs you to chase any goats” said the girl. “you are to be a monkey.” “if you say so,” leander replied. he remembered the woman in red saying something about a monkey being what she wanted. “but i am the number one monkey - even though you look like a monkey and i do not. you are only to be kept in reserve in case i fail, which i will not do.” “so be it,” the boy agreed. he had no idea what the girl was talking about, but his brief lifetime of chasing after goats had left him with a philosophical cast of mind, and not inclined to argue about trifles, or that which he did not understand. “this queen jen you refer to you - is that the lady in the long red cloak?” he asked the girl. “yes, of course.” “she told me she was not a queen.” “we call her that,” said the man wth no face. “even though she does not presently have a kingdom to call her own.” he gestured with his pipe. “but have a seat, young fellow, and make yourself comfortable. we have a long journey ahead of us.” “a very long journey,” added the girl. “and you,” the faceless man addressed the girl, “a little silence would become you. you talk too much. jen can tell the boy what he is to do, if she pleases.” the girl scowled but did not reply. leander took a seat not quite directly opposite the girl. they all lapsed into silence as the wagon trudged along. night fell. 26. towards za

the road to the wicked city - 24. the gargoyle's tale

by jeremy witherington

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they entered the gates of the fantastic city. and heard laughter above them… the gargoyle looked down on the three wretched quivering schoolboys, huddled just inside the gate of the forbidden city, which they at least had had the gumption to cross. and felt the tiniest twinge of pity, remembering himself when he was just an innocent lad. for he had not always been a gargoyle, chained by a curse to a stone tower in an abandoned city in the middle of nowhere… no, he had been a goatherd, little more than a slave, a camp follower on the fringes of the mighty army of corak son of the lightning, who had been massing his followers for almost a decade for a mighty assault on the empire of… on the empire of… in his long aeons on the wall of the stone city, the gargoyle had forgotten the name of the emperor - and the name of the empire he ruled - who had been the target of the mighty corak… but he remembered being a goatherd. and little more than a slave, but a slave under the blue sky of heaven… treated like a dog and a slave, but “free” to run away if there had been anywhere to run to… free to run away across the empty desert or to the icy mountains… his master would never bother to chase after him.. most of all, free to dream… and the master’s voice, a cross between a bear’s and a dragon’s, calling him… “leander! leander! you little wretch! where are you now? “ for leander , as near as the gargoyle could remember, had been his name in those faraway days on the steppes… “i am here, master," leander replied, "what is the problem? i have my goats in a group as tight as the lock on the door to paradise. has alexander lost a goat again, and must i retrieve it?” alexander was the master’s other goatherd, a comelier youth - a much comelier youth than leander the future gargoyle - and the master’s favorite. the master came up from behind the unsuspecting leander and gave him a stout box on the ear, knocking him to the ground. leander was used to such treatment and jumped up quickly. to his astonishment, he looked up and beheld not only the scowling master standing over him with a scowl and a clenched fist, but a figure behind him… a figure clad in a long red robe, astride the tallest horse the young goatherd had ever seen. leander looked closer and his astonishment grew when he realized the rider in the red robe was a woman! a crone of about thirty years, but a woman for all that! the vast army of corak was strictly disciplined, even on its fringes, and men and women were mostly kept separate. leander had hardly ever seen a woman in his life. now the woman came closer, and leander guessed from her strange dress that she must be from one of the distant kingdoms in the ice mountains. “stand up straighter,” the master told the boy, “this woman wishes to get a better look at you. she might wish to purchase you, what do you think of that, eh?” the master turned and looked up at the woman, who had come closer and now towered over both the master and the boy on her tall steed. “i told you he was not much to look at,” the master told the woman. “yes, he looks like a monkey,” the woman replied, “but a monkey is just what i am looking for. i will take him, at the price you named.” and she tossed a coin to the master. leander wondered where he thought he would get a chance to spend it, but said nothing. the master took a step toward the boy, as if to give him one last smack, but the woman stopped him. “he is mine now, do not touch him.” the master withdrew, calling for the other goatherd. “alexander, alexander, you lazy little devil!” leander thought, perhaps he will now get the thrashings i got. he felt the woman in red looking down at him. “am i to follow you?” he asked her. “i do not know if i can keep up with your horse.” “wait here. a wagon will come by to pick you up. i think i hear it now.” leander nodded. “are you a queen?” he asked the woman. she laughed. “not yet.” 25. the gargoyle's tale, continued

the road to the wicked city - 23. kobra and irene

by jeremy witherington

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when kobra had first introduced himself to the inn, and continued to return to it, the innkeeper had supposed that he had the same object in mind as so many other wayfarers who passed through - the innkeeper’s beautiful daughter. kobra paused in his description of his youthful awakening to his destiny. he reached into his pocket for his ever present pipe and slowly filled and lit it. the innkeeper was used to such pauses from his fearful guest. and hoped that this one would stretch out long enough for him to be able to take his leave and retire for what was left of the night. “this daughter of yours,” kobra began suddenly, apparently abandoning his account of his introduction to world theology, “she must work hard, your business being so profitable, and with so many guests to attend to.” the innkeeper never knew when kobra was serious, or when he was poking fun at him. was he mocking his lack of custom, or did he really think the inn was doing such an excellent business? “she is a dutiful daughter,” the innkeeper replied cautiously, “and performs her duties as instructed.” kobra did not make any response to this, just took a puff of his pipe. “i have trained her as best i could,” the innkeeper went on. “but of course who knows what goes on inside her head, or inside any woman’s head?” “or if women even have heads,” kobra replied, and chuckled at his own little joke. “true,” the innkeeper smiled back. “she is very comely,” kobra said, through a growing haze of pipe smoke. “so i am told. of course, as her parent, i still see her as a child.” “she is beautiful enough for an empress.” “it is gracious of you to say so.” “a new day is dawning,” kobra said, “and a new empire may be on the horizon.” “one ever knows what is written in the stars,” the innkeeper replied. “summon her. summon this daughter of yours. i wish to speak to her.” “of course.” the innkeeper bowed his head slightly. “anything for such an honored guest as yourself.” “what is her name, by the way?” “irene, her name is irene.” “an excellent name for an empress. but we are wasting time. ” kobra waved his pipe at the innkeeper. “bring her to me.” “she may be asleep.” “wake her up.” * the innkeeper climbed the stairs. he felt a sense of foreboding, but also some relief that the moment he had long been expecting had finally arrived. irene was not in her room. surely she was not wandering outside in the storm? the innkeeper listened, he thought he heard her voice, coming from the top floor, where the meaner guest rooms were, and where the four travelers who had arrived earlier had been quartered. he climbed the second flight of stairs. yes, that was her voice coming from one of the rooms. was the baggage in bed with one of the guests? there was nothing for it, he would have to drag her from the guest’s embrace and bring her to kobra. as the reader knows, irene was recounting her tales within tales to the poor fool, and had reached the point where king john lancelot v beheld his offspring… it awakened the cows and goats who had been slumbering in the shadows of the hut, including one goat with more than a passing resemblance to the old one himself… with trembling hand. the innkeeper knocked on the door of the fool’s room… 24. the gargoyle's tale

the road to the wicked city - 22. the stranger's tale

by jeremy witherington

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welcome, stranger,” st christopher said. “and if you have a tale to tell, we will be happy to listen.” invited by st christopher to tell his tale - or any tale - the traveler who called himself “the stranger” complied, once he had shed his wet clothing for dry, and was seated in front of a fire in the main dining room of the saint’s inn. his audience consisted of the saintly innkeeper, his wife, mary magdalen, and the stable boy, who was known as clod in the incarnation he found himself in. paracelsus, the ostler, had retired to his bed of straw in the stable, after attending to the stranger’s horse. the rain continued to beat more furiously than ever on the roof and windows of the inn. “is there no end to these wretched traveler’s tales?,” grumbled mary magdalen under her breath, but the stranger ignored her, and the saint and the stable boy leaned forward and listened attentively as he began. once upon a time there was a king. he was called john lancelot v. he was descended from a long line of mighty kings, and wished with all his heart to be a mighty king himself, but in truth he was anything but a mighty king. in fact he was a king in aught but name, what was left of this kingdom consisting of little but his castle, a few miserable peasant huts and plots of land surrounding the castle and a veritable plague of churches and monasteries under the protection of his wife, the saintly veronica. at the time our story begins his kingdom, like many other larger and wealthier ones, was a fiefdom of the mighty emperor trag iii, the scourge of heaven and earth, who had emerged from the steppes of asia to make himself master of all known lands under the sun. having little but his dreams, john lancelot could often be seen, in fair weather and foul, wandering the rutted paths of his poor kingdom, muttering and talking to himself, and beseeching heaven with upraised eyes. john lancelot wished for much, but he had one dream which he did not think too much to ask of heaven, and that was for a son. a son who might in time find the opportunity to reverse the fallen fortunes of his line, and avenge its ever lengthening catalogue of indignities. if st veronica could not provide him with a legitimate heir, and it appeared that she could not, then surely some such specimens of rosy cheeked peasant lass as he could find in the hovels of the kingdom could produce something! the churches and monasteries which so bedeviled the unhappy monarch were overflowing with an abundance of saints and prophets who had fled their lands ahead of the rampaging and idolatrous armies of the terrible trag the conqueror. so it happened that such worthies as st jerome, st francis the lover of birds, eusebius the exegete, and the prophet ezekiel, were all attendant at the birth of a child foisted by the desperate king on a peasant girl known as fat joan, on a gray morning in a particularly dreary harvest season. i only pray, cried john lancelot, wringing his hands as the event was waited on, that it be a male child! that is all i ask! is it not little enough? and behold, the child came forth, and it was indeed a male child. the king screamed. what is that? he cried. what manner of creature is that? is it a toad? a spider? by all the pagan gods of conquering asia, what is it? come, come, sire, the prophet ezekiel expostulated, it is only a child. a rather uncomely one, to be sure, but only a human child for all that. it may well grow up to be as strong and handsome as the original sir lancelot of blessed memory, and restore all the glory of your house. what say you, brothers?, he asked, turning to jerome and francis and eusebius. throw it in the nearest well, cried john lancelot, not waiting for their reply, and if you can not throw it in a well, get it out of my sight. i will do that, sire, ezekiel replied, i will have it taken to the monastery forthwith, and given the best education in the arts and philosophies under the moon and stars. in time, with the blessing of heaven , i propose to produce such a paragon as alexander, constantine, and john the revelator could not envision - at that point the newborn let out a scream that accomplished what the king’s wailing had not - it awakened the cows and goats who had been slumbering in the shadows of the hut, including one goat with more than a passing resemblance to the old one himself… 23. kobra and irene

the road to the wicked city - 21. escape across the desert

by jeremy witherington

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suddenly rain began beating on the roof of the barn… the flowerseller turned to the mountebank and hastings the fifth form bully who, like himself, were camels. mrs white and ben jonson and herr riemann all had their backs to the camels, kneeling in front of the baby judas (baby judases?). moloch was addressing his angry words to the kneeling trio and paying scant attention to the camels. “let’s make a break for it.” the flowerseller whispered to the mountebank. and just like that, in a flash. the three camels were out the barn door and racing across the desert. the rain, which had starting beating gently on the roof of the barn, was now a furious storm. it was dark. the bright star in the sky which had led them to the barn was gone. “where are we?” the flowerseller asked the mountebank. “i don’t know,” the mountebank muttered between clenched teeth, “but wherever we are, we must not lose hope.” “that’s easy for you to say, mounty, ” said hastings, “but you got us into this mess. listening to the whimperings of your little toady, and trying to play the role of hero.” “no one asked you to come along,” the mountebank replied stiffly. “you can go back, if you like.” “go back where?” hastings retorted. “can you see any lights? we are lost, completely lost in this miserable rain-soaked wilderness.” “but, look!” exclaimed the flowerseller. “at least we are no longer camels!” and it was true - the three boys had returned to their original forms, or at east the forms they had assumed back at school. “and what good does that do us, i should like to know,” cried hastings sulkily. “at least those camel’s coats were warm, and kept out the rain.” “let us persevere,” said the mountebank. “let us make a plan and stick to it.” “but, mounty,” asked the flowerseller, “ which direction shall we take?” “any direction,” responded the mountebank, “so long as we take it.” and saying so, he struck out in a direction. “follow me!” the flowerseller and hastings followed. they marched through the rain and the wet sand for what seemed an eternity. suddenly the rain stopped. they beheld a sky filled with brightly colored stars… and a city in the distance! a city of tall buildings with even taller spires… as they came closer they saw that the buildings were decorated with fantastic statues and friezes. depicting fierce battles between all manner of creatures, most of them with little resemblance to humans, or anything dreamed by humans. and when they reached the city gates, they found them unmanned by any soldiers or constabulary. “what matter of city is this?” asked the flowerseller, “that is left thus unguarded, and open to the four winds?" "a conquered city,” answered hastings. “one conquered long ago, in the mists of forgotten glories…” “yes,” drawled monty, “ and whose conquerors have themselves been conquered… by the implacable army of time…” “but at least there are buildings,” said the flowerseller. “let us find shelter in them, before the rain comes again…” and they entered the gates of the fantastic city. and heard laughter above them… 22. the stranger's tale

the road to the wicked city - 20. the flowerseller's dream, continued

by jeremy witherington

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the castle and the school and the inn on the road to the wicked city began to fill rapidly with water… but mrs white the cook, ben jonson the school usher, and herr riemann the mathematics teacher did not seem to notice, and the flowerseller cried out to them - “look ye, good people, the world is filling with water! we shall all be drowned, unless we turn ourselves into fishes or dolphins or whales!” the trio left off their gabfest and turned to look accusingly at the flowerseller. “you wicked boy!” cried the cook. “this is all your fault, for stealing cream tarts and raspberry tarts!” “you wet little pansy” cried ben jonson, “this is your fault, for never learning to kick a ball properly!” but herr riemann was the angriest of all. white and trembling, he pointed to the flowerseller and intoned, “1 plus 1/2 plus 1/23 plus 1/234 plus 1/2345 + 1/2346 +1/234567 + 1/2345678 …!!” “where will it all end?” asked mrs white. “people, this is no time for recriminations,” the flowerseller insisted desperately, “we have to get out of here - pronto!” suddenly the water burst through the kitchen door and engulfed them… and now the flowerseller found himself crossing a dark desert under a sliver of pale moon… he was a camel, one of three, the other two being the mountebank and hastings, the fifth form bully. mrs white was riding the mountebank. ben jonson was riding hastings the fifth form bully carrying on an animated conversation with him about football and christmas puddings…. and herr riemann was riding the flowerseller, and continuing his tirade, though in a somewhat more subdued tone… “plus 1/234567892345 + 1/2345678923456 + 1/234567892345678 + 1/2345678923456789…” a bright star appeared in the sky, lighting it up… the three camels with their riders approached a crossroads marker, which was stuck in the sand even though there were no roads visible… the lettering on the marker, if it had ever existed, had worn off. “what are we to do?” asked mrs white. “follow the star!” cried ben jonson. “why?” asked herr riemann. “because it will lead us to the new born baby judas!” replied ben. the three camels left the crossroads behind and continued to follow the star, which seemed to grow brighter. finally they came to an old barn, looming dark against the sky. a hulking figure emerged from the barn to greet the travelers. it was the god moloch. “has the child judas been born?” ben jonson asked moloch. “indeed he has,” replied moloch. “and you are privileged to welcome him. enter - and behold!” the camels and riders entered the barn. they beheld the empress eugenie lying in a four poster bed . on one side of the empress lay a baby tiger - was it the same baby tiger, the flowerseller wondered, that she had carried back in the dungeon? and on the other side of the empress lay a baby leopard. behold the baby judas! cried moloch. mrs white and ben jonson and herr riemann all dismounted from their camels and fell on their knees before the empress and the two cubs. “but which is the baby judas?“ asked the flowerseller. “and where the angels? there should be angels, should there not?” “what kind of questions are those?” exclaimed moloch. “and from a camel? from a camel? can you fools not control your camels?” suddenly rain began beating on the roof of the barn… 21. escape across the desert