The Fool's Story

The next day, when the rain subsided, we prepared to leave quickly. The Knight, after his own restless sleep, was in no mood to stay and urged us onward. While everyone was packing up, the Wizard poked around the perimeter of the room. In one wall, he found a basin that filled itself with water when he pressed a button above it. It was greenish brown at first but soon became clear as glass. “I guess we found the water beneath the desert,” he said, emptying his canteen of rainwater and filling it anew. “Tastes better. I wonder if all of the houses have such devices installed.”

“Stop meddling with things,” said the Knight.

“I had a dream,” said the Wizard, “that each house had such a basin. And beneath each house, I dreamed, there was once a cellar that grows mushrooms. I dreamed that the people who lived here wanted for nothing, because they had food, water, and shelter.”

“Come back to check for mushroom cellars on the next pilgrimage,” said the Knight, shoving open the door. “Come on.”

We climbed out of the sandy crater and left behind the unintentional archaeological discovery, seeming so small in the ravine compared to the sprawling urban monstrosity I had seen in my dreams. Leaving the weirdness behind would have been a relief if the black clouds had dissipated. But they remained, thick and low, pressing down on us with mystic weight. I thought of them as a metaphor for the uneasy but stable tension that had fallen upon us. Lilly and Gwen weren’t exactly on speaking terms, but Lilly seemed to have accepted the Hunter’s theory that Father Ori was the prime suspect in Madam Bela’s murder. Gwen had fallen into a dark silence, no more humming under her breath. Without complaint, she allowed herself to be accompanied everywhere by Madam Du Vreil, including on calls of nature and into her sleeping bag. Presumably the Mourner didn’t need to sleep and simply lay there with the knife, ominously spooning with the Singer. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep like that if it were me.

The next night, after a day’s travel through a gloomy desert, my feelings woke me. They were a depressing echo of the same feelings that had plagued me since the beginning of the trip: that everyone here was so much more interesting than I was. Now that three of my fellow pilgrims had turned out to be members of the Five, and Lilly the daughter of one, it had been revealed that the magnitude of my boringness was larger than I’d first assumed. What did it take, I wondered, to be born interesting? What had I done in a past life to deserve being born just… Nial?

> Dear Human, I have taken the liberty of redacting several pages of Nial waxing lyrical about his own feelings of boringness. I hope the above paragraph suffices.

I left my sleeping bag in the middle of the night and was about to go around a dune to relieve myself. The Hunter had told us all to do this kind of thing in pairs, so I was pleasantly surprised to find that the Fool was also awake, sitting up and gazing at the low clouds that flickered with near constant internal lightning. In the flickering night, I motioned for the man to follow and was happy to find the Fool coming along with a friendly grin.

“Umm, don’t watch,” I said, finding a good spot to poop. I had brought along a few sheets of writing paper to clean up afterward. The rain had dissolved the softer paper that Sir Mau had purchased from the nomads for this purpose. This had resulted in my own papers being used at an alarming rate for the wiping of pilgrim butts. It was the main reason anyone had talked to me since leaving the ancient city. “Hey, Nial, can I have some paper?” was something practically everyone except Madam Du Vreil (who neither ate nor pooped apparently) had said to me at least once. The Fool had said it with hand gestures that were surprisingly easy to understand. To the Fool’s miming of writing on paper and then wiping his ass, the Wizard had roared with laughter. “Nial,” the Wizard had said. “You like metaphors right? Shitting on paper! What a fantastic metaphor for bad writing! You should write that one down.” This had gotten a chuckle out of everyone, even the Singer.

Presently, the Fool looked elsewhere while I did my business. After the Wizard’s joke earlier, I couldn’t help but wonder if, in the grand scheme of things, my shit stains were any better than my pen marks. But I didn’t have much time to ponder the metaphor because when I pulled up my pants, I noticed that the Fool was holding a knife in my direction.

I panicked, but upon closer inspection, the Fool wasn’t holding it aggressively. He was squeezing it between two fingers and grunting as he gestured with it.

“You want me to take it?” I hissed. I thought about calling for help. The Wizard’s snores could be heard from the far side of the dune.

The Fool took my hand gently in his, reminding me just how big the man was. Then he placed the knife pommel into my hand. It was the Hunter’s. Sharpened to perfection, it looked identical to the dagger that she had given the Mourner to help keep the Singer in line.

The Fool didn’t let go of my hand, though. He closed his eyes and suddenly I found my mind filling with pictures. I saw the Hunter taking off her boots before climbing into her sleeping bag. I saw her take the dagger out of her boot sheath and slide it under the rolled up shirt she was using as a pillow.

I opened my eyes and realized I was on the ground. The Fool was slowly lowering me into a seated position.

Through the dizziness, I said, “Did you just… make me see that?”

The Fool nodded enthusiastically and closed his eyes again. I saw, from the Fool’s perspective: The Fool getting into his own sleeping bag and pretending to sleep while watching the Hunter through slitted eyelids until her breathing grew slow. Then the Fool sat up and began to gesture with his hands, moving them in the air in an intricate dance lit by the rumbling clouds above. Then, suddenly the knife was there in the Fool’s hands.

I opened my eyes. The Fool was looking at me expectantly.

“You…” I said. “Stole it from her?”

The Fool looked intently at my lips. Then he nodded vigorously as understanding dawned on me.

I tried to give it back to the Fool. “I don’t want it,” I whispered.

But the Fool refused to take it, putting his hands in the air and shaking his head. The more I tried to insist, the more vigorously the Fool shook his head, beginning to grow distressed and to grunt in a way that made me worry that people would come investigate. It wouldn’t be good to be caught holding a stolen knife.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The question, really, was whether to keep it, bury it, or give it back to the Hunter. As I was pondering how to return the knife without making it seem like I had been the one who took it, the Fool touched me on the shoulder. The pictures came: I saw Father Ori with a sword stabbing the Hunter’s sleeping bag, killing her silently while she slept. I saw Father Ori moving to do the same to Lilly. Then I saw myself (from the Fool’s perspective, which was disorienting) launching at the shimmering mass that held the sword, stabbing the Morl until he fell to the sand beside Lilly. I saw Lilly waking up, gasping, and then throwing herself into my arms, covering me with kisses.

When I opened my eyes, I said, “Is that the real future? Or are you just… conjecturing?”

The Fool didn’t understand. I tried several more times but could not figure out how to get the Fool to tell me whether his magical gifts included prophecy or whether he was just paranoid. Just to see what the Fool would do, I slipped the knife into my boot.

The Fool broke into a huge grin then reached into his own boot and pulled out another knife. Crap, I thought. “You took two of her knives? I hope you left Du Vreil’s alone.” The Fool seemed to understand and nodded dismissively. I tried to argue, but the Fool replied with a barrage of images involving various scenarios in which Father Ori attacked the camp and either I or the Fool heroically defended everyone with our matching knives. After the sequence was over, I looked into the Fool’s eyes and saw genuine fear. His eyes pleaded with me.

“I can’t,” I said, taking the knife out of my boot. But when I looked at the knife I gasped and dropped it because it was invisible. It thudded to the sand and left a knife-shaped print. “Did you do that?”

The Fool grinned and showed off his own knife, which was now also invisible. The Fool proved it was there by pressing the invisible blade against the skin of his cheek, making an impression there. The knife-shaped impression was clearly visible above the Fool’s blond beard, catching flickering shadows cast by the clouds above.

I picked up the invisible knife, weighing it in my hand. The Fool bounced up and down, looking pleased with himself.

“Did you do this?” I whispered, pointing at the invisible knife.

The Fool made a series of motions with his hands—motions that looked like sign language, but which resulted in the knife reappearing in my hand. It glinted in the moonlight. “Neat trick,” I breathed—hiding my jealousy. How many gifts can one man have? In answer, the Fool made another complex series of motions. The knife winked out of existence again. The Fool covered his eyes and grinned. Then, he put a finger over his lips.

I put the invisible knife into my boot. “Thank you,” I said, figuring I could always give it back to the Hunter tomorrow and explain what had happened.

The Fool seemed to read my mind because the moment the thought crossed it, he grew agitated. He touched my shoulder and I saw the Hunter using the knife to kill Lilly in her sleep, followed by the rest of the pilgrims one by one. After she’d killed them all, the shimmering morl appeared out of the night, took her into his arms and kissed her beneath the flickering clouds.

My eyes shot open. “No!” I hissed. “There’s no way they’re working together.” But I realized I actually had no idea. As the Hunter had said herself: No one on this trip was what they seem. “Fine,” I finally said. The Hunter probably had loads more knives, not to mention an undead corpse she could command. It was probably wise to have an ace up my own sleeve, so to speak. The moment I made this decision, the Fool trundled away with a satisfied grin.

That night, I dreamed, and in the first few moments, I realized it was no ordinary dream. The Fool was telling me his story, his way of saying thank you, perhaps.

***

Color!

The woman with violet eyes stretched. Her dress rippled, a noiseless waterfall of ruby cloth. Her smile was white—a bright flash. And when she spoke, with her hands, her fingernails were painted gold. I dreamed about you, Catherine said with her hands. Do you dream, Jonny?

Jonny grinned, copying her smile. He couldn’t always understand her. But her golden fingernails were mesmerizing. He wanted to touch them. I dream. He signed back. The woman sat at a desk near a window. The draperies were swept open—letting an ocean of light fill the room. Her fingernails really sparkled. What do you dream about?

Jonny had to think. The street, he said.

Memories from before you came to work for me? she said.

Before I loved you, he said.

She laughed. What do you love about me?

Your fingers, he joked.

Suddenly, she was sad—as she often was. Her flashing smile disappeared. And Jonny felt his own smile disappear too. In moments like this, she often faded into silence, staring out the window at the sea past the Davenport docks. But this time, she started crying. She cried a lot these days. Jonny never knew what to say when she cried, but he had learned that she usually didn’t want him to say anything.

Do you think I’m beautiful? she signed.

The most beautiful, said Jonny, nodding vigorously.

And kind?

The most kind, he said.

Beautiful and kind enough that you’ll remember me after I’m gone? she said.

Jonny cast about in his mind for something he could be certain he would never forget. It didn’t take long. Yesterday, Cook Meechup, who thought Jonny was stupid, had asked him to mind the roasting pheasant, making him swear three times that he wouldn’t forget, that he would stay right in front of the oven for the next thirty minutes. And Jonny hadn’t forgotten, but he had let the birds burn anyway because Meechup wasn’t a nice person. And when Meechup had returned, he had hit Jonny with a spoon until Lady Catherine had happened to walk by. Jonny remembered that quite well—how Lady Catherine had slapped the cook and snatched the spoon away. Then, she had struck Meechup with it, over and over until the cook had run away, into the cellar. I’ll remember how you hit Meechup.

A glimmer of a smile returned. Her lipstick glistened. For ever and ever, you’ll remember? As other thoughts fade, that memory will remain?

I’ll try to remember everything, he said. But he knew that memory, even for him, was a fickle thing. The street, where he had grown up, was getting hard to recall. Except in dreams. I’ll dream about it forever and ever.

She smiled at that. Will you promise not to be sad when I’m gone? It will be so much easier if I know you won’t be sad.

I’ll try really hard, said Jonny, tears in his eyes.

***

The river of color swept me downstream. Bright shades of green, yellow, and red hurt my eyes. I found myself suddenly swirling in an eddy of gray. The change shocked me, and it pulled me under.

***

The sky was so gray that Jonny couldn’t look at it. The tombstones were the same color as the sky. The mist that drifted over the cemetery was an ocean of gray. Lady Catherine’s face—in her gray casket—was lifeless. Her cheeks weren’t rosy. Her lipstick was gone. Her eye makeup was gone. Her fingernails were gray too. Amidst the absence of color, Jonny sat in his chair, shifting back and forth, trying to read the lips of the gray robed man who was praying over Miss Catherine’s body. Jonny had once seen a kitten in the streets. It had been kicked—just as Jonny himself had often been kicked. But the difference was that the kitten had not survived.

As a boy, he had picked up that kitten—a colorful calico—and carried it with him wherever he went. It had been soft and still, which had calmed Jonny. He had seen other kittens moving—some very fast—much faster than people. But this one didn’t, which had confused him at the time. Eventually, a gang of kids had taken the kitten away from him and struck him with sticks. While one kid stuffed the kitten into a drain, the others had held Jonny back. Jonny was bigger than them, but there were too many. He never saw the kitten again—even though Jonny had stayed by the gutter for weeks, placing food out for it. But then the gutter had begun to smell bad, and Jonny had left.

Jonny shot to his feet when the priest started to lower Catherine’s box into the ground. Hands grabbed him, holding him back. No. No. No. Not yet. He tried to sign. But the arms held him tight. He cried as someone with a shovel began to pour dirt into the hole—on top of Lady Catherine. Tears made his world swim—flickers of gray.

***

I felt heavy and filled with sorrow when I finally woke in my own sleeping bag. When morning came and allowed meager sunlight through the clouds, I heard the inevitable words, “Hey! Where’s my knife?” I broke out in a cold sweat and hoped the moisture on my forehead would look like raindrops.