‘Tell them that they are special, and they will love you forever.’

— excerpt from The Noblest Art, by Theodius Callahan.

…

Neil frowned down at his sandwich, thinking deep thoughts. Attempting to think deep thoughts. The ongoing battle between hangover and hunger had recommenced, and Neil hesitated to fuel the proverbial fire.

It was a good-looking sandwich, too. Half a rustic baguette, two thick slices of a deep red—almost purple—tomato, soft cheese, some kind of cured meat, and a bed of dark leafy greens that looked to have been salted and smothered in olive oil.

As worthy of his attention as it appeared to be, Neil had more pressing things to think about.

Namely, he was wondering just how much trouble he’d gotten himself in. Somewhere between ‘a little,’ and… where did the scale drop off, exactly? There are ‘worst-case’ scenarios, and there are scenarios so bizarre, so far beyond the realm of possibility, they don’t even bear thinking about.

The only thing he could tell for certain was that he wasn’t not in trouble. His ideal morning did not—and would never—consist of a rude awakening in a cathedral at the hands of a robed man.

Where the hell’s Amelia? he wondered, not for the first time, as he dissected his food.

He pulled off the top layer of bread, pinched a leaf between his fingers, and stared at it as though it might have held the answers to his questions.

She should have been there. He should have woken up at the crack of noon—no earlier—rolled off of her futon, thanked her for a night of mind-numbing, liver-killing distractions, and then they’d go out to some greasy diner together, miserable, but in each other's company.

He stuck the leaf in his mouth and chewed contemplatively.

Instead, he was here. Wherever ‘here’ was. Some kind of castle. Sitting at an absurdly large, unadorned wooden table, in a banquet hall with five strangers who were also performing their own little sandwich biopsies.

Argus disappeared when they arrived at the dining hall, or else he’d have already asked him. He was fast, for an old man. Hurried and harried, operating by an unseen schedule that Neil wasn’t privy to. A little like the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

The walk to the changing room made that obvious.

The staccatoed patter of a dozen bare feet on the stone floor might have been funny, if it wasn’t Neil’s feet doing the pattering. The old man had a long, sweeping stride: difficult and uncomfortable to keep up with when wearing nothing but a blanket.

The corridor they scurried down was littered with grand windows that flooded it with light and cast the pale-white stone tile beneath his feet an almost golden color. Beyond and below these windows was a labyrinthine town of clustered stone houses, divided by barely visible streets and footpaths.

Beyond the town there was a wall—made of the same white stone as everything else—and behind the wall was an ocean of grass and rolling hills and blue sky.

Wherever they were, it wasn’t near the city.

Several turns down several halls later, they were funneled into a place where they could put on clothes.

Argus directed them to a large room studded with little changing alcoves, five on each side, each with wooden double doors hiding a small bench and a bundle of plain clothes. Women went to the left, men on the right, eye contact avoided by all.

Two things about the changing room irked Neil.

The first was that it didn’t have his clothes. He’d gone to Amelia’s wearing jeans, a Nirvana t-shirt, and his college hoodie. The shirt and pants could be replaced, and the loss of the hoodie kind of stung, but his stuff should have been with his clothes.

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Grumbling, he unfurled the proffered bundle.

Thankfully, it wasn’t a set of robes. Neil didn’t know what the deal was with this place and robes, but he didn’t want to know almost as much as he didn’t want to participate.

Instead, he found the second thing he didn’t like about the changing room.

Coarse brown pants and a loose, beige, homespun cotton dressing shirt, with matching underwear. Rather than elastic as part of the underwear or buttons on the shirt, everything was tightened with cotton laces.

It was a surprisingly comfortable ensemble, even if it did make him look like Villager B at the Renaissance Fair. He assumed that’s what he looked like: the others certainly did.

And now, there he sat: clothed, like an upstanding member of society.

Neil picked up his sandwich, finally, and considered it.

The others were still picking at their food, dressed like they belonged in a commune, or recently stumbled out of a time machine.

Across the table, one of the others—the man who didn’t speak up during their impromptu wake-up call—groaned into his sandwich, bringing Neil’s thoughts to a head.

He looked at him.

Sandy blonde hair cut short and even, pale, freckled skin, eyes a hair too far apart, and eyebrows that took up the majority of the rest of his face.

His eyes might have been brown, but Neil couldn’t quite see them, because they were rolling back in his head in ecstasy.

Neil squinted at him. The man either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and groaned into another bite.

The other-other man—Neil really needed to find out these people’s names: this wasn’t the one deepthroating half a baguette—looked at the display with an expression locked between disgust and longing.

“Eat, my young friends! Eat!” Argus’s booming voice nearly shot Neil out of his chair.

He strolled into the room with the confidence of a king entering his castle.

“You’re enjoying the food, lad?” Argus said, taking his seat at the head of the table, closest to the door he entered through.

“Ish sho gooh.” The foodie said, voice muffled by a mouthful of bread and cheese.

“Good, good,” Argus nodded. “The rest of you are looking a little green, eh? You’ll find your appetites sooner or later, I’m sure. For now, is there anything else I can do for you? Wine, perhaps? Watered down, of course, it’s barely sunrise.”

“Coffee?” Asked the formerly angry woman. Her sandwich lay before her, utterly dismantled, yet uneaten. She had a tired, defeated look on her face.

“We don’t have any, I’m afraid,” Said Argus, looking wistful. “Do you not like the tea?”

Neil winced. The tea was, in his opinion, barely worthy of the name. It was like someone heard about green tea from tv, and tried to replicate it using leaves that they found on their driveway.

‘Earthy’ would be a kind word to describe it. ‘Herbal,’ maybe. ‘Terrible,’ if you weren’t trying to spare anyone’s feelings. ‘Terra-ble,’ if you wanted to be funny about it, but Neil didn’t say that out loud.

His mug—a clay thing that wouldn’t have been out of place at a Cracker Barrel gift shop, or on Etsy—sat pushed to the edge of his reach, towards the middle of the table.

“No matter.” Said Argus, waving his hand. “What else can I do for you?”

“You can tell us what we’re doing here,” Said the tall woman. “Sir.” She added, after a brief pause.

A small smile flickered across Argus’s face. The old man tugged at the lower part of his robe, straightening it.

“Well, my dear,” he leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together. “I’m sure you’ve put together the fact that you’re fairly far from home, yes?”

She nodded, and Neil found himself nodding with her. He hadn’t forgotten the view from the corridor, as brief as it was.

“How would you react,” the old man went on, speaking carefully, “if I told you that you were… further from home than one might reasonably expect?”

“I would ask how much further, and what you mean by ‘reasonably.’” She answered.

Argus nodded. “You have to understand…” he turned his gaze across the table. “Your arrival here is the result of circumstances beyond my control. Fate brought you here, not I. It is my duty—it is our duty—to ensure your safety and happiness in these dark times.”

He gestured. It was an all-encompassing, exaggerated movement: the kind a stage actor might use when addressing the crowd.

Neil stared at the old man, setting down his sandwich and tensing against his chair.

The old man licked his lips. “I would further offer you the use of my home for as long as you desire. In perpetuity, if need be.”

Neil frowned, glancing at the others sitting at the table. None looked pleased, but Argus held their attention like it was clamped in a vice.

“I only ask that—before your baser instincts get the better of you—you suspend your disbelief—your anger—and listen to an old man’s tale.”

Neil—against his baser instincts and his better judgment—listened.