CHAPTER SEVEN

They walked down the road side by side. The sun was shining. Slim Rowon sighed and smiled.

"Such a beautiful day," he said, "The world is so wondrous. One day, I walk alone, the next, I walk with a companion and one who sings."

He sang the song of the sun on his flute.

"Glorious. Every time. The mushrooms told me a great many things. They spoke well of you, Davram."

"What did they say?"

"I can't recall everything. I saw flowers, the colors new to me, with petals so numerous I could not count them all. They said that you are good. They said we would travel far and see many strange things."

"Did they tell you where we should go?"

"No. They do not deal in specifics. But I have been thinking about it. We should find someone who can read that book. And also find a map. I have searched for a map for years and there are no maps for sale, except for this one time. I happened upon a travelling hokey who had a map, but I could not afford his price and he would not budge. How's a man to travel with no map? We shall find a map, Davram. We go eastward, to Myuria."

"What is Myuria?"

"A village of commerce. We will find someone there who can read these letters and find a map."

"Is it far?"

"It is fairly far. Five days, perhaps, six. Or seven. Maybe eight."

They walked and sang. Slim Rowon taught him more songs without power. He called them songs of the folk. Davram saw and felt every singer who had written each song. Some with words, some just a melody repeated. Each was a wonderful creation.

"There are so many."

"A great many. As many songs as there are things to sing about. Songs of love. Songs of war. Songs of laughter. Songs of sorrow."

"I know sorrow."

"As do I. There is a beauty to such pain. I know of a great and sorrowful song. It is called the Stone Wall of Sweet Faron."

Slim Rowon sang the song, not with his flute, but with his voice singing the words. A song about a woman and her lover, who would meet by the stone wall in the land of Faron. It ended with the woman alone at the wall, leaving her heart under a stone, hidden and still beating with the longing for her sweet love.

Stolen story; please report.

Davram listened.

"That was wonderful," he said to Slim Rowon.

"An ancient song. The land of Faron is no longer. Yet it lives on in this tune. A good song."

"Ivishinai."

"Ivishinai."

They walked and slept under the stars each day. One night, Slim Rowon told Davram about his people.

"My people are the R'ut. We are strong and good with our swords. My father made swords. They were the strongest and sharpest swords in the kingdom. He taught me how to use the blade. We live where the snow covers the ground six moons out of seven. My grandmother learned the song of snow from a penguin, in exchange for its life. She let it live and it sang that song for her. When she found my talent with the flute she taught me the song."

"Your people are kind?"

"Yes. My people are the kindest of all the world. And we are the fiercest warriors. We love the most, fight the most, and live the most."

"Where are your people?"

"They are in R'amat."

"Is it far?"

"It is very far. A year's journey, though it has taken me four without a map. I need a map. Why is it so hard to find a map? I do not understand."

"We will find a map."

"Yes. Yes."

One day as they walked Slim Rowon stopped.

"Davram, wait."

He stood before a tall lanky plant. A sour smell wafted from the plant.

"Do you know what this is, Davram?"

"No."

"This is alberta. It is also called bertie, bertfleaf, bongos, and in some strange places it is called gordons."

"This is a special plant?"

"Yes. It is very special. You smoke it and you feel amazing. It was given to us by the great serpent. With this, food tastes better. Music is sweeter. Everything is funny. Here, we must gather all we can for our journey."

Slim Rowon used his dagger to cut down the alberta stalks. He gathered a great bale.

"There are several ways to smoke bertie. I will show you one way."

He rubbed his hands all over the bertie plants. Soon his palms were black and sticky. He sniffed at his hands and smiled. Then he rubbed his palms together furiously. The black began to roll off into a dark doughy ball.

"Look at this, Davram. This is good bertie."

He pinched the bertie and put some into his pipe.

"Let's find us a nice tree and smoke."

They found a big oak with ample shade. Davram carried the bail as Slim Rowon started a fire to light his pipe. When it was done, he breathed in the smoke deeply and handed the pipe to Davram. Davram inhaled the thick smoke. The world seemed to sigh and get more comfortable and he laughed. Slim Rowon started laughing as well and they laughed, passing the pipe back and forth.

"My mouth is so dry," Davram said.

Slim Rowon poured some beer and cooled it with a song. They drank it down thirstily.

"This tastes so good," Davram said, "And the breeze under this tree."

"Yes. Wasn't I right?"

"It is a special plant."

"I wonder how many times I've farted in my life. It must be a great number."

"Teach me another song."

"I know a good song. You'll like this."

Slim Rowon took out his flute and played a fast little tune. A small rustling came and Davram saw a small brown mouse staring at them.

"The song of the mouse," Slim Rowon whispered.

The mouse stayed still until Davram began singing and it came closer.

"It will do what you ask with some persuasion. They are useful in hunting, but you must beware of hawks in the sky."

The mouse climbed up Davram's leg and up to his head and listened to the song. The mouse stayed on his head as they passed the pipe again. Then it ran off.

"Funny little things," Slim Rowon said.

They drank and ate meat and cheese, then fell asleep against the mighty tree. Davram had a long dream full of faces he could not recognize. It was soon forgotten when he woke. They smoked and continued down the road, laughing and singing.