Chapter 4: To Change a Mind

Drifter dozed off beside the fire, once the night got late. It was a foolish thing to do, sleeping out in the open beside a light source. Even if there had not been any other person for miles around, there were still Rabiters to deal with. Drifter knew better and would not usually have made such a mistake. But the reluctance he felt to leave had turned into a lassitude which he could not escape. Watching the twigs burn to coals he had simply closed his eyes once and not open them again until early in the gray morning.

It was a noise which made him open them again. A sound of gravel popping, the stealthy fall of feet on the ground. Drifter jerked awake and found himself staring at the end of an improvised spear pointed at his chest. It was tipped in broken glass and had a metal pole as a haft. Following the haft upwards, he met a bizarre face.

It was made up of the shade of a lamp drawn low over the head, a pair of swim goggles much greened and blurred by time, and finished by a hard mask of metal across the jaw. A pair of wires had been fastened hanging down on the sides of the lampshade, supporting the skulls of mice like earrings. Behind the greenish plastic of the goggles was what looked like a pair of cracked sunglasses, completely concealing the wearer’s eyes and adding the the bug-like affect of the whole.

The spear menaced, poking close without puncturing. Drifter was about to throw himself to the side when there was another noise to either side of him and two more of the beings stepped out, each with their own, personal variations to the headgear. The rest of their clothes were a matching mess of rags, tennis shoes and recycled junk. Each of the newcomers also carried a spear with glass tips.

They hemmed Drifter in before he could move, threatening with the sharp shards of glass on all sides. The first one, in front of him, poked the spear forward until it touched the cloth of his military top.

Drifter slowly raised his hands up just above the end of the spear to show that he was unarmed.

The leader of his captors spoke in a husky, grating voice that could have been either male or female, worn to almost nothing. “Food. Where is your food?”

The others picked it up in the same tone. “Food…food!”

Without warning Drifter made his move. One hand came down and twisted the spear away from his chest, while he sprang up from the ground, pushing off with the other palm. Shoving the leader away with the haft of the weapon, he whirled and swiped the second spear away with a kick of his foot. But while he was doing this the third somehow tangled its weapon between his legs, so that when he turned to deal with it he stumbled to the side instead. The other two jumped on him, all three piling on to bring him down. Sitting on his chest and holding his arms down, they jabbed at his throat and shoulders with the spears so that he felt tiny prickles all over the exposed skin.

“Give us food or we eat you!”

Panting, Drifter realized there was only one thing to do. He pursed his lips up and let out a long, eerie whistle.

The attacking beings all paused, jerking their heads up and gazing around in fear. The gray twilight of dawn hung over the ruined city, damp cold seeping upwards through the ground. Drifter could feel it coming through his cloak, trying to sap his vital warmth.

“What did ya’ do?” The leader of his captors demanded, pressing the blade of the glass spear against his throat so that he could hardly breath without cutting himself. “What did ya’ do, huh?”

“Called; 'dinner time’,” Drifter managed to rasp out.

There was a canine howl from behind a block of stone nearby. Thumping feet and loud panting was heard approaching from all sides. A group of large dog-like shapes burst out of the shadows, skidding to a stop around the captive and his odd captors. Huge eyes that gleamed red or yellow stared. Clawed, webbed feet scuffed the ground. The Chardogs began circling like wolves coming in for the kill.

“Hunters!” The leader of the attacking beings shrieked, leaping from Drifter’s chest. The other two let go as well, following their leader’s example. With grunts and cries of fear they backed up, staring in terror as the Chardogs closed in. Drifter sat up, rubbing his chest and throat. The leader had not been heavy, being starved into a stick-like figure, but having it there had been uncomfortable nonetheless. There was a fine line of blood on his throat where a jab had gone too far.

“Wait,’ Drifter commanded, and the dogs stood still, hackles raised.

Pointing at the leader, Drifter added, “that one. Let the others go.”

“No, no, we let you--aghh!”

The leader was pounced on by all of the Chardogs at once. Rags and bits of junk flew through the air as he was lost to sight in the mass. The other beings fled for their lives.

Drifter pressed his hands to the side of his hood and looked away, muttering darkly, “that will keep them from bothering me again.”

Soon the dogs fell to snarling and snapping among themselves, still arguing in their own way as they dragged the kill off to their dens. Drifter stood up without watching them, straightening his cloak and shirt. Moving over to the car, he lay a hand on the door. But as soon as he touched it a strange sense of hesitation came over him again.

“I have to get to the Academy sector and find Dick.” Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the edge of the roof. Still, he did not feel like leaving for his intended destination. Instead, he felt a draw to...

“That woman.” He straightened up, eyes flashing. “She is a witch after all. I should have known, since she can prophecy.”

With a sudden decision, he jerked the door open and got in. A moment later he was driving towards the Workman’s library.

It did not take long for him to reach it. The broken glass in the gravel glittered just as it had the day before. The doors hung open and an air that was silently forlorn sat over the building. His car crunched to a halt before he shut off the engine. Pocketing the keys, he walked up to the steps leading to the doors. The porch was shadowed, early-morning light streaming sideways past it in the dust of his coming.

She would know he was coming. Or at least, that someone in a car had pulled up outside. And there were not many of those left in the world.

Feeling as if he were about to go into battle, Drifter walked up the hard stone steps and went through the rickety door. Directly inside was a wide hall, showcasing scorched pictures in tarnished frames. The carpet on the floor had been burnt for a certain length, before the fire fizzled out and left the rest to be chewed by mice. Not far past this cutoff point was a wooden desk, one leg crooked. The bones of a human hand lay on the floor a few feet from it, blackened and gnawed but still in place.

Beyond the desk the library opened out into tall metal shelves which had once held books. Some of them still did, the spines stiff and bleached with age. Other books had fallen into heaps of dust or been burnt by falling debris from the open dome above. A circle of light beamed down in an opening between shelves, where couches and chairs had once stood.

Drifter walked into this, before flinching into the shadows. Following them around the edge of the room, he came to where a set of brass plated steps had been leaned against the book case. Below it a three-legged stool stood, having survived the disaster. It was backed up against the shelf behind it. Loran sat on the stool, robe flowing around her as she held a book open in her lap. One finger rested against her chin as she raised her eyes slowly to look at him. There was no surprise on her pale face, no emotion at all.

“Did you change your mind?”

“No.” Drifter gave her a flat look. “You changed it.”

Loran returned a long, curious stare. “How did I do that?”

“You tell me. You’re the sorceress.”

She stood up, pushing back her hood and placing the book carefully on the shelf before saying anything in reply. When she spoke it was in a brisk, dismissive tone. “Come now, if you’ve had a change of heart don’t blame it on ‘magic’ or anything I could hold over you. You’re subconscious is guiding you to make a new decision, tha--”

Drifter moved so quickly that even a person prepared for it would have had a hard time stopping him. Loran was unprepared, face partially turned away to look at the shelf of books. He grasped her by one arm and jerked her closer, looking into her dark eyes with his light ones.

“You see these marks on my throat? The only thing that was going to change what’s left of my heart was a glass-tipped spear pointed at it this morning. Other spears made those marks. It wasn’t because I am naturally stupid or was absent-minded, either. I don’t have time for playing games. Your spell almost got me killed.”

For once the woman seemed a little surprised. She pulled out of his grip when he slackened it a fraction, and looked him up and down with something other than coolness on her face.

“How would a spell to change your mind almost get you killed?”

Drifter made a gesture of disdain. “I guess you wouldn’t understand. Sheltered living is all you have known. But a person needs all of their mind to stay alive, out there. Lose even a fraction of it and you’ve lost yourself.”

He shrugged, glancing behind him towards where the door stood. “Just take the spell off and I’ll leave.”

Loran narrowed her eyes, arms crossed on her chest. “But I still wish to get to the Academy sector. I have offered you every sort of payment I have. Is it so hard to accept a companion for a few days?”

It had been many days since Drifter had experienced an argument of this solid type. He seemed taken aback by it, though he only showed it by a tilt of his head and a sideways stare.

After a minute he said more softly, “why do you wish to get there so badly?”

Loran held herself in cold silence for a moment, before suddenly bowing her head. “Forgive me. I did not mean to harm you. It is no true spell I put on you. I don’t have the power for that, or else you would never have left until you agreed. Just a compulsion… you don’t understand my power, do you?”

Drifter shook his head once. “I don’t need to. The world has gone insane; that you should speak prophecies and cast spells is no stranger than many things I have seen. Even things that I have become, myself… But I do want to know why you want to go to the Academy sector.”

“I told you before.” The woman gestured at the books with a graceful sweep of her arm. “I am trying to solve a mystery. The mystery of the phantoms, relics and Greenspark fire. There is knowledge that I need in the libraries.”

There was a long moment of silence before Drifter returned, “there is only going to be one way to solve the mystery, that I can think of. I suppose you could say that I am on the same quest as you. Very well, you may come with me.”

He held up a hand. “But. You will do as I do, go where I go and judge nothing.”

Bowing her head again, Loran nodded agreement.

“And you will take your own path as soon as we reach the Academy sector.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Drifter shrugged uncomfortably. “Just take the spell off and pack your things.”

Loran looked up with a gleam in her dark eyes. “The compulsion ended as soon as you came here. I will show you where my cache of supplies is and you may take whatever you want as your own, before we pack the rest for traveling provisions.”

Loran led the way back through the library, to the entrance hall. There she raised a tile in the floor, one which looked much like all the others. But, underneath it a hollow had been made in the foundation, larger than the tile would have seemed to indicate. It was big enough to contain multiple packs of food and bottles of water, all wrapped up in separate bundles of white cloth tied in black yarn. Drifter refused to inspect the goods or take anything for himself. Instead, he picked a few of the packs up and carried them out, stowing them in the back of the car, before returning for more. Together they hauled all of the bundles out, which seemed to Drifter to be a wealth of supplies. Even the fabric they were wrapped in was worth much, being clean, unworn and strong.

The back shelf in the car was fairly packed with them when they were done, all sitting on top of Drifter’s own rag-tag goods.

“I hope no one sees through the windows too clearly.” Drifter waved at the pale cloth inside. “A large enough gang would mob the car and tear us apart to get at those.”

Once everything was stowed, they were ready to go. Feeling the pressure of his self imposed mission lessen a little now that they were on their way, Drifter slid into the left-hand seat. Loran settled herself beside him, purple robe flowing almost to the floor of the car. She gazed out at the Workman’s library as they backed away from it. Drifter pointed them down the main road.

“Ready?”

Loran gave him a cool look. “You’re in charge, now.”

The dark gray car rolled away with the quiet rumble of engine noises.

---

As the day passed in driving, hardly a word exchanged between the driver and passenger. Loran rode with an unfazed calm, rarely moving even her hand or foot to a new position. Often, her head was turned so that she could look out of the side window, dark eyes searching the landscape as they passed it. Or perhaps looking inwards to some hidden realm of mystic thought; Drifter could not tell.

For his part, he did what was necessary to keep the car going and watch for trouble. He was not a restless man, but the demands of driving did not allow him to sit perfectly still. And always, his light-colored eyes swept the landscape of broken and burnt ruins around them.

Midday they stopped briefly, having hit a dead-end road. It was a cul-de-sac between marbled palaces, the way ahead blocked by the face of one structure that had fallen across the street. Gilded blocks of stone were piled across the pavement, intermixed with snapped-off pillars and the rags of what had been inside. The clean-picked bones of a human arm protruded from underneath one of the heavier blocks. An inhabitant crushed under the weight of his own grandeur.

To either side the less blighted buildings looked at their brother with empty eyes, devoid of pity. The tears of glass which dripped from open windows were only for their own pain.

Drifter stopped for a few minutes when they hit the dead end, allowing Loran to eat something while he scouted among the broken structures. In one of them he found a cupboard against the wall, with patterns of grape leaves carved into it. The latch was locked, but it only took a sharp twist of his knife for the wood to give way. Inside was a bottle of deep red wine, sitting beside a collection of delicate goblets. Three of them were fractured, having fallen over sideways against the wall from vibrations. The other six stood gleaming proudly, untouched by human hands for years.

Drifter took a pair of glasses down and wiped the dust from them, carrying them and the bottle back to the car. Loran was eating bread and cheese in neat nibbles. Even when she ate it was not with an excess of movement. Each time she bit, a piece of food moved a fraction closer towards her, arm poised a few inches in between.

Setting a glass on the driver’s seat, Drifter stood in the open doorway and filled it.

“Have a drink. We surpass the kings of old, because we can throw away the glasses when once used. They’ll never be used again, though the world spin for a million years.”

Loran gave him an odd look. “Does one become better by wasting more?”

“Following fashions is supposed to make you better,” Drifter returned ironically, “waste is the fashion of the world at the moment.”

He gestured at the buildings around them, waiting for the woman to pick up her glass before sitting down where the cup had stood. He didn’t pour himself any wine, corking the bottle with a blow and tucking it between bundles in the back for later. He put his glass safely there as well, before starting the car again.

When Loran had finished her drink she moved as if to set the cup on the bundles, but he took it and tossed it out of the window. It shattered into glittering bits on the pavement. When it had gone by he gave her a hard look.

“I told you. You must do as I do while on this trip. It’s the only way I’ll take you.”

They drove on again until darkness was settling over the world. The car had moved away from the Falel sector of industry and into a section of upscale residence. Blasted parks, crushed palaces and statues missing arms or faces surrounded them on all sides. When the night was getting late, Drifter parked between an avenue of columns, the standings ones topped with spikes of alabaster in the shapes of reaching flames. Round, blue pebbles had once been set into the sides of the pillars, but now the stones all lay about on the ground.

When he turned off the headlights and flicked the interior light on, Loran’s face became reflected in the glass of her window. It hovered there like a pale ghost surrounded by purple shadows, before she turned towards him.

“Are you going to eat something now?”

It had strangely rankled her that he would not take lunch earlier in the day. Neither would he eat later, in the orange sunset when she had her supper. He looked at her sideways for a moment before nodding once.

“Give me something.”

“What do you want?”

“Food, woman. They’re your bundles. Give me what you will.”

Loran did not argue. While she picked out his dinner from the traveling rations he took the wine glass and filled it from the bottle. What was left in the bottle he set beside him on the floor by his feet. Once he was given his dinner he gestured at the glove compartment.

“Open it and take out the book inside.”

After raising one fine eyebrow at him, Loran complied. She looked at the stout little book and read the faded title.

“World Dictionary.”

“I need you to test me. Find a random word and ask the meaning.”

“An odd amusement for someone who lives alone. Being wordy.”

“Just because the world has gone to ruin doesn’t mean we should neglect a good education, does it? Find a word.”

Still appearing bemused, Loran opened the book with her fine fingers and looked down the page.

“Helical.”

Drifter shrugged. “Of or pertaining to, or in the form of, a helix. In the shape of a coil. Pick something more difficult.”

She scanned down the page, flipped ahead a space, then spoke again. “Stultify.”

“Meanings,” Drifter leaned back on the chair, taking a sip of wine. “One; To make foolish; to make a fool of; as, to stultify one by imposition. To regard as a fool. Two, law; To allege or prove to be of unsound mind, so that the performance of some act may be avoided.”

Loran’s eyes slid over to him to make sure that he was not reading over her shoulder. But his eyes were half-closed, the edge of his blue-gray hood blocking his gaze in her direction. The wine glass sparkled in his hand, held delicately between roughened fingers. His expression was one of concentrated abstraction.

“Well?” He asked.

“Almost perfect, word for word. You only missed that it says 'To regard as a fool, or as foolish.’ How many words have you memorized?”

“Most the dictionary. I’m going through it a second time now, to embed the meanings better. Any past S and I might not get them as thoroughly. Try me.”

Loran flipped even further ahead and continued to quiz him. A few of the words he did not return the meanings of, just as they were written down. One he did not recall the meaning of at all. This seemed to frustrate him and he had her stop the game.

Loran did not think it was surprising that he had missed a single word out of a dozen from the whole dictionary. In fact, she was more astonished that he could remember all of the others. She did not show it in expression or tone of voice, but her gaze held a reconsidering gleam.

“You started memorizing those directly after the disaster?”

Drifter opened the window to send his glass spinning into darkness. “When a bomb goes off, every tiny crack in the window in front of you is impressed on your mind forever.”

He paused before turning towards her, adding, “that’s when I learned words the quickest. Ever since, I’ve just been keeping it up. But, enough of this. You should get some rest.”

Reaching down, he picked up the bottle of wine and took it outside, disappearing into the dark. Loran settled herself across the chair, turning off the interior light. Wondering when Drifter would sleep, while she was always there, she wrapped her robe tightly around herself to ward of the cold of night time.

Out in the dark, Drifter found a place to sit and bathe his old wound with the wine. It had not healed past scarring over in the last years, no matter what he put on it. The wine kept it from getting worse.

---

In the morning they had not driven far when there was a blasting noise from the front of the car, followed by a series of rubbery thumps as the wheel turned. Drifter slowed it to a halt, jumping out to look towards the tire.

“Flat.” Kicking at the dust on the street, he turned up several rusty nails and a few shards of glass. “Not surprising.”

Loran got out and moved around to his side with a concerned expression on her face. “Will we be able to continue in the car?”

With a shrug, he leaned back into the vehicle and began digging through his ragged supplies under the white bundles. Taking out one packet, he unrolled it to reveal a sort of patch kit, including various pieces of rubber, a tube of some sort of glue, sandpaper and a few hook, and needle, shaped instruments.

“I’ll patch it. It will take a few minutes. Do as you like.”

Moving a few steps away, Loran muttered to herself, “for a man who knows a dictionary of words, you use a small amount of them in speech.”

She set herself the task of standing guard, while Drifter found his bottle-jack and a brick to use with it, jacking up the front of the car until the wheel could spin freely. He worked efficiently, his hands always sure and swift. Loran was gazing between pillars next to a ruined building when she saw a small movement. Concentrating on it, she soon spotted a small figure coming into view, followed by a second, larger one and then a third of mediocre size.

“Drifter,” she warned.

He looked up and they watched in silence as three children trooped out between the pillars, each carrying a bowl in their hands. All of them had burn scars on their arms and legs, clearly visible, as their ragged cloths did not cover more than was strictly necessary. One of them wore a cape of flapping, dirty-white fabric. It appeared to have once been a curtain from a fine bedroom chamber.

As they neared, the kids began to chant, their voices echoing eerily through the broken city.

“Some like it hot, some like it cold, some have it in a pot, nine days old!”

There was a small pause, before they continued with another rendition, slightly altered,

“Some don’t get it hot, some don’t get it cold, some don’t get it in a pot, nine days old!”

They proceeded to chant and walk in step until they were not far from the car and the two grown spectators beside it. Then, the children all arranged themselves in a semi-circle and sat down on the ground with a thumping suddenness. Bowing their heads over the bowls, they held them out without looking at the spectators at all.

“Beggars,” Drifter explained, leaning back over his work. “Harmless monks of a minute size.”

“Are we going to give them something? They look starved.”

“If you wish. They’re your supplies.”

“So you’ve said.” Loran moved to the car and opened the door. Taking out a bundle, she untied it and removed sticks of dried meat, a loaf of bread and a bar of chocolate. Adding three bottles of water to the mix, she went over to the waiting children. They did not move as she apportioned the meal out equally between them. But when she was done they all arose at once, bowing to her deeply over the bowls.

“Thank you.”

“Bless you, kind lady.”

“Many thanks.”

Turning about, they carried the bowls away, holding them above their heads in triumph, singing a new variation of their song.

“We have it hot, we have it cold, we’ll have it in the pot, nine days old!”

“No one takes care of them.” Loran remarked, clutching her robe in one hand as she watched them go. “Yet, I would guess that the youngest is little more than eight and the eldest fourteen.”

“No one hurts them, either.” Drifter gave her a thoughtful look. “Strange, I’ve met a few bands like that. Children so resigned to their fate that they make an ascetic life for themselves, living on prayer and other people’s mercy. Every other survivor will be the target of gangs, aggression and thievery. Even the worst leave the beggar children alone, through superstitious fear.”

“The Lord watches the helpless.” Loran decided.

Drifter gave one of his small, grim smiles. “So, that’s why I’ve always had ill fortune. Because I can change a tire and hunt for myself.”

Loran showed him a heatless, exasperated look but said nothing.

Once the tire was patched and replaced, the jack put away, they continued on their course westward.