"Finderu lives up at The Godforsaken City, far as I know. With Ghirardelli, the Swamp Hag."

"Do they live together?"

"No. The old hag lives in the swamp. Finderu has a castle or fortress or something he lives in. He heads some coven up their for witches."

"The Guild of Wizardry?"

"Yeah. That. Witches are all coming through here. They have little pow wows, casting spells and curses on the locals. Folks ‘round here are scared shitless of Finderu and his witches. Won't surprise me none if they what caused this here storm."

"This, here, storm, as you put it, is a hurricane, and no witchcraft caused it, however, given the type of magic Finderu does, he could have put a spell on your village so that you didn't see it coming."

"Yeah? You think so?"

"Well, considering this is a port full of sailors and fishermen, who usually are pretty good at seeing big storms before they get here, does it not seem logical. Something stopped you all from seeing it?"

"Yeah." The man turned to his friends. "The old Arab's got a point."

"Arab?" Quaraun puzzled over the term. "Why do you call me this?"

"Ain't you one of them Arabians?"

"No. What makes you say that?"

"The get-up you are wearing. Seen drawings of men dressed like you in The Arabian Nights."

"Ah! I see. No. I'm Persian."

"What's the difference?"

"Well, quite a lot, but I suppose not enough for you to understand."

"Yeah, well, all you towel heads are alike."

"Towel head?" Quaraun had encountered this term before and it never came from the mouth of anyone good. He was uncertain how to respond t this, so he said nothing further.

Looking around the room, Quaraun was now paying closer attention to how these people wear dressed.

Mostly in black, brown, grey, or midnight blue.

The men wore hats.

The women wore white bonnets.

Quakers.

Puritans.

In New England.

Just outside of Boston.

The fishermen and sailors dressed in hemp and worn rags.

Field hands and harvesters fared no better.

Peasants.

Serfs.

Something of that nature.

These were poor people.

Uneducated.

Superstitious.

And lead by religion crazed men who waved Heinrich Kramer's Malleus Maleficarum higher over their heads, they waved their beloved Bibles.

This was no place for a magic caster.

Especially not a necromancer like Quaraun, who practices blood magic, summoned demons, raised the dead, and devoured souls.

Quaraun fell silent as the men took to talking of how they would kill Ghirardelli, the Swamp Hag and Finderu the sorcerer.

The conversation soon turned to plotting an ambush to capture and torture to death every mage that made his or her way to Finderu's place. The hostility with which these men described what they were going to do to every mage they encountered was deeply unsettling for Quaraun.

Quaraun slipped away from this group, before they realized he was himself a wizard whom had once been a member of Finderu's Guild of Wizardry.

The Humans in this place were ready to tear any mage they saw limb from limb. And Quaraun, with his fear of water, did not relish the thought of being dragged down to the river and drowned, as they were now suggested they would do to the next mage they saw.

The witch hunting craze that was winding into a frenzy in the pub of this inn was utterly terrifying for Quaraun, as he was what they would classify as a witch.

Quaraun looked back at the bar where he had left the innkeeper standing, then looked back up at the ceiling, contemplating the four rooms with their ten beds each ad hay on the floor for more lodgers. He was still thinking about why he had come in here: to rent a room for the night.

But now Quaraun reconsidered that option. This place did not seem to be as safe as it had at first appeared. While the building's structure appeared strong and study enough to withstand the hurricane, the people inside were angry and far more dangerous than the hurricane outside.

Quaraun slowly made his way through the crowd, cautiously stopping and listening for any hint of Ghirardelli's location.

Or more importantly, Finderu's location.

But it appeared no one knew for certain exactly where she lived. All anyone seemed to be certain of was that the biggest thunderstorm anyone had ever seen, was tearing apart the coastline as it ripped its way North, and witches and witchcraft caused this storm, therefore Ghirardelli must die, because who else around here was a witch?

Utter nonsense.

That's all any of it was.

Complete and utter nonsense.

No one here knew what a hurricane was.

Everyone here was blaming witches for something no witch could do. The villagers were mad with fear and beyond listening to reason. They were obsessed with the idea of witches to blame.

Even though they believed that, it didn't change the facts. The sky was grey with ominous clouds. Rain fell hard in sheets over the forest around them. Even from miles away, everyone could see the massive waves coming their way as they crashed into shoreline. It looked like an approaching tidal wave.

Convinced that this crowd was nothing more than delusional fear mongers looking for blood, Quaraun decided he would get no useful information about Ghirardelli's whereabouts here. And so Quaraun squeezed between the witch crazed bigots, and made his way to the front bar where the innkeeper stood serving drinks.

Quaraun settled down at the bar and ordered a bottle of brilliant, emerald green absinthe.

"You don't get many hurricanes up here, do you?" Quaraun asked the innkeeper.

"Nope."

"Do you know what a hurricane is?"

"Big tornado, out at sea."

"I'm surprised."

"By what?"

"That anyone around here has an education. You don't seem to be as hysterical and superstitious as everyone else."

"I run a business. Have to keep a level head to deal with this lot."

"Yes. I could imagine. What's this witch they are all talking about?"

"Ghirardelli? Local legend. An old woman who lives out in the marsh somewhere. Makes herbal potions for heal fevers and warts. That sort of thing."

"Have you ever seen her?"

"Yeah. She comes into town a few times a year. Folk around here make up stories about witches and demons, because it makes them feel justified in bullying old women. It's those stupid preachers what put those ideas in their heads."

"So you don't believe she caused the storm?"

"Hell, no! Of course not. She's just an old woman who folk make up stories about, because spreading rumours and lies about people who are different is easier than taking the time to get to know them."

"Do people here not know about weather systems?"

"What's that?"

"Never mind."

Quaraun listened around the room some more.

"The people around here really believe in witches, don't they?" Asked the dismayed Elf.

"Yep."

"Is that not a silly superstition?"

"Well, not many schools up here. This ain't Boston, you know?"

"No. I know. But is Boston any better?"

"Well, they did have the Salem witch trails down there, didn't they?"

"Yes, that's what worries me," the woefully worried, world-weary little Elf said skittishly.

"Why's it worry you?"

"They went after Tibuta."

"What's a Tibuta?"

"Who. Tibuta was a woman who took care of a minister's children. And the children called her a witch. That's what started the whole thing. But I knew Tibuta, and she was just a kindly old woman who took care of children for wealthy men too incompetent to raise their children themselves. I saw the trails happen, and they were no trails. Just a bunch of hysterical ministers, with their hysterical followers, pointing fingers based on skin colour, race, and how one dressed. Tibuta was black. Only black woman in Falmouth. And we are less 2 days walk outside of Falmouth here."

"So why's that worry you?"

"I'm a foreigner. How long do you think it'll take them to call ME a witch, just because I'm from the Middle East?"

"True. Folk like you probably shouldn't tarry around these parts long."

"Those people are looking to burn a witch. I don't think they'll care too much who they burn, either."

"You still thinking of renting a room?"

"With this lot? I'm not sure."

"Well, I wouldn't blame ya iffy you waited out the storm elsewhere."

"I might do that. I don't relish being hung in a tree."

"Those ministers over there are right good at working folks ‘round here into a frenzy. You think they are bad now? Wait'll they was listening to that book reading for a few hours, then see how bad it gets."

Quaraun looked up at the ceiling, seeking to determine how big the building was. After a few moments, he turned back to the innkeeper.

"How many rooms are upstairs?" Quaraun asked the man.

"Four on each floor."

"And there are three floors?"

"There are."

"That's twelve rooms."

"It is."

"But only four bedrooms for rent?"

"Yes."

"And all sleep at least ten people?"

"Yes."

"No private rooms?"

"No."

"But you have extra rooms," the uneasy Elf Necromancer pointed out. "Besides the four for rent, I mean."

"Yes."

"What are those rooms?"

"Ones on the first floor are this room you are in, the scullery behind me, and two rooms for my household. The chambers on the second floor are bedrooms for rent. You rent the bed, not the room."

"And the third floor?"

"Those are for clients."

"Clients?"

"Clients."

"Could I rent one of those?"

"Are you a client?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Than you can not."

"How does one become a client?"

"Why don't you just rent a bed for the night, like every other traveller does?"

"Do I LOOK like every other traveller?" Asked the unusually elegant silk merchant. "I'm an Elf. Or did you not notice that?"

The innkeeper stepped backward and stared at Quaraun, studying him up and down, scrutinizing every inch of him, with an expression that suggested he had not, until just now, noticed how Quaraun was dressed or that Quaraun was not Human.

"No," the man shook his head as he spoke. "No, you certainly don't look like no traveller I've ever seen before. You from Morocco or something?"

"Morocco?"

"Yep. You look like you from Morocco."

"What makes you say that?"

"Looks like Moroccan robes, all striped in silk, you are wearing there."

"Do they have striped silk in Morocco?"

"Don't they?"

"I don't know."

"You ain't from Morocco?"

"No," Quaraun shook his head as he spoke. "I'm not. That's in Africa. You're a long way away from Africa. Do you know Morocco here?"

"Aye. Seen pictures of it before."

"Really?"

"Ah-yep."

"Where?"

"In a book."

"I'm surprised anyone in this area is smart enough to know what a book is, let alone have one."

"Yep. Used to be a man 'round here with books."

"But not any more?"

"Nope."

"What happened to him?"

"Don't know."

"Oh."

"When I was a boy, there was a learned man in town who had a lot of books. Couldn't read the words none, but they had a lot of pictures. One was a travel book. Showed lots of drawings of people showing how they dressed, all exotic, like you, what kinds of food they ate, exotic culture traditions, and the places, you know, the buildings and architecture and stuff, and also the strange plants and animals. He would read the words to me and tell me about the places. He'd visited ‘em. Always wanted to go see those places. Morocco, Egypt, Persia, Babylon, Baghdad, Bangladesh. But it costs money to travel and one gots to work to feed his family, you know?"

"I am from Persia."

"Are you?"

"Yes," the resplendently elegant silk merchant answered. "I am a Di'Jinn."

"So, you're like one of those Arabs, then, right?"

"No."

"Same difference though, yes?"

"Not exactly, no, but, uhm, well, it's similar, I suppose you could say. No. I'm not Arabian, though I suppose in your mind everyone from the Mediterranean is Arabian? You don't know enough about our cultures to know they are different."

"So you're saying you're from Arabia, but you ain't an Arab?"

"No. I'm from Ivujivik."

"Where's that?"

"Ivujivik is in Quebec."

"Canada?

"Yes."

"So you're one of them Frenchies?"

"French and no, I'm not French. I already told you. I'm an Elf."

"Ooooh."

"You don't know what an Elf is, do you?"

"Elves is like Vikings, right? It's why you got eyes like you do."

"How are my eyes different?"

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"They is blue. Never see no one with blue eyes ‘round these parts here."

"No, I suppose not," the cerulean eyed little jelly brained silk peddler said as he looked around, noticing that everyone had brown eyes. "Also, you meant Scandinavian."

"What's that?"

"Viking is the Scandinavian word for pirate. A Viking is a sailor turned rouge, like most pirates. Scandinavia is the region."

"Ooooh. Right. So, if you're one of them Vikings, why are you dressed up like an Arab?"

"I'm not a Viking. I'm an Elf. And it's Persian, not Arabian. I'm dressed like a Persian."

"Same diff."

"No, it's not the same thing. . . I am an Elf. I was born in Ivujivik, but after my mother died, a Di'Jinn priest, who took me back to his home in Persia adopted me. I was only three years old when my mother died, so I was raised my whole life as a Persian, with the Di'Jinn."

"And the Di'Jinn are who?"

"Many Humans call them The Magi or Wisemen. Perhaps you know them by that name instead?"

"You mean, like The Three Wise Men, what gave baby Jesus gifts on Christmas?"

"Yes. Exactly them. They were looking for The Chosen One. And they were still looking for The Chosen One when I was born. I'm possessed by an alien JellyFish, that arrived on Earth via a spaceship that fell out of a portal, and landed in the Hudson Bay, crawled out of the ocean, and up the nose of the first life form it saw. A little 3-year-old Elf boy."

"Did you now? So you're saying you are a JellyFish, living in someone's nose?"

"Yes," the little jelly brained Elf answered. "That's exactly what I am."

"Riiiight. This ain't your first drink tonight, is it?"

As it was clear, the innkeeper thought Quaraun was drunk, Quaraun saw no reason to not continue.

"Yes. The Di'Jinn have based their entire religion on looking for Thullid possessed babies. And as they know the Thullid to be aliens who arrive here on ships from other solar systems, they are always looking for and following fallen stars, shooting stars, comets, just any star that moves."

"The wise men from Gospel of Luke?"

"Yes. They were searching for the mother ship, and god. They thought it was Jesus in Bethlehem, but that star was just a comet, and not a Thullid ship, so they left, but they made such a fuss about the baby before they left, that every Human in the area assumed the child to be the Messiah from the Hebrew Torah, so a bunch of witch haters got together and murdered him in a bloody Necromancy sacrifice, then resurrected him as a Lich."

"Murdered who?"

"Jesus. They hung him on a cross for 3 days. And once he'd become a Lich, hoards of Humans started following him, assuming him to be God or the Son of God and thus Christianity rose up."

"So you're saying Jesus is a Lich?"

"Yes. He was. He is. He stills roams the Earth today, that's why so many Christians claim to have seen him. I am soul bound to a Lich."

"Soul bound?"

"Yes."

"Like spirit wivery?"

"What?"

"Spirit wivery."

"I heard you. What is spirit wivery?"

"Men hoard up women, have weird witchcraft orgies and then say their wives are their slaves for eternity in the Celestial Kingdom, after the Second Coming of Christ?"

"You mean Mormon? I know a Mormon. Odd fellow."

"No. Not the Mormons. They broke off of ‘em though."

"Broke off of who?"

"The Cochranites."

"Cochranites?"

"Yes, follow that Jacob Cochran around. Seventy-three of the women in his church have married him so far. Spirit binding rituals. They claim Jesus is a corpse running around in Peru. Spirit wives are a big thing with them. Every one bind souls to every one else."

"Have they now?"

"Ahyah. They live out on the Heath Road. Just off the Flag Pond Road. Out near where that Swamp Hag supposed to be. She lives near the Cascades. Lucy Mack over there," he pointed to a woman sitting at a far table. "She wanted to marry him too, but her father had himself a right fit over it. They live up on York Hill."

"In Pepper Valley?"

"Ahyee. The Macs is moving to Vermont after the storm. Bought themselves a sheep farm."

"The Cochranites are polygamists, then?"

"Yep."

"You don't see polygamy often in America."

"Nope. Ain't your people polygamists?"

"Elves?"

"Arabs."

"I told you, I'm not Arabian."

"Oh, yeah. You did. I forgot."

"My people are polygamist though. I had two spouses at the same time."

"Will they be needing a room too?"

"No. No. They both died many years ago. That's why I'm here, in fact. I'm searching for the man responsible. I heard Finderu lives in the area."

"So, you're not a Cochranite."

"No. I'm not a Cochranite."

"Don't they believe Jesus is a corpse walking around in South America?"

"I don't know. I'm not familiar with any Cochranites. I never heard of them before. I don't know what they believe. Though if they do believe Jesus is a Lich, they may just be the one religion that has Jesus right."

"So, you are saying Jesus wasn't The Chosen One?"

"No. I'm The Chosen One. The baby with a Thullid in his brain. The Elder Brain reborn. The Sacred Pink JellyFish. It's why the Wise Men carried off me and not Jesus. They left him laying in a manger. Poor baby. Left in a dirty feed trough, to be fed to pigs. What a horrible thing to do to a baby."

"Aye-yep. Nothing filthier than a pig sty's manger. You like babies?"

"I love babies. I have a clutch of eggs I'm waiting to hatch."

"You. . . what?"

"Do you realize I remember the world before the Christian religion was even invented?"

"Really?"

"Yes. You Humans didn't start worshipping baby Jesus until over a thousand years after he had died. But all that is beside the point."

"And the point is?"

"The point is, not everyone in many layered long stripped robes is Arabian. Some are Jewish, some are Islamic, some are Romanian, some are Persian. . ."

"Like you?"

"Like me. And I am not a female."

"Didn't say you was."

"Yes. I had noticed that. It puzzled me that you didn't mention it. That's why I brought it up."

"Eh?"

"Ninety-nine per cent of every American Human I meet thinks I'm a man in a dress."

"Do they?"

"Yes. It's really annoying."

"I should think it would be."

"They can not comprehend that there are places where men dress like I do. It is so tiring. Every time I walk into an American village, I am bombarded with teasing and taunting and bullying and being hit and pushed around and rocks thrown at me, because they say men like me can not be around because the Bible says this or the Bible says that. And do you know what?"

"No. What?"

"I've read the Bible."

"Have you now?"

"Yes." Quaraun nodded his head as he spoke. "Every word of it several times. And you know what?"

"No. Tell me."

"Half the stuff they say is in it, isn't in it at all. It's just some bigoted, racist ass shit their minister or pastor or preacher SAID was in the Bible, because he knew his followers were too damned stupid the read the damned book for themselves, so would follow him like brain dead sheep. It's so annoying."

"Churches?"

"No. Well, yes, they're annoying too, but no. Americans. You Humans. You really are an evil lot, when you get right down to it. All you do bicker and fight and beat up everything that is different from you. Which is why I find you, you, personally, to be so odd."

"Me?"

"Yes. You. You haven't started screaming and yelling, calling me a man in a dress, and waving Bible verses condemning me as evil, in my face, and I've been standing here in your inn, talking to you, for nearly an hour."

"Well, it's not polite to bully people."

"But bullying people is the Christian thing to do, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"I've never met a Christian who didn't bully me yet."

"Well, some people is just ignorant."

"But. . . you do not see how I dress as odd?"

"No. Should I?"

"No. You shouldn't. You're not a Christian, are you?"

"Nope. Does that make a difference?"

"It shouldn't, but it does. You are not judgmental and cruel."

"Meaning?"

"It's just that I so seldom come across anyone in the Americas who doesn't act offended and unnerved by my style of attire. And I rarely encounter Christians who are not quick to try to rape me. When I find someone who does neither, I am left to assume they are neither Christian nor American."

"Your clothes bothers people?"

"Usually, yes."

"Well, your dress certainly ain't normal."

"No. Not your normal at least."

"Are there different types of normal?"

"Yes. What is normal for me is strange for you, but what is normal for you is strange for me. What you call exotic is perfectly normal. And what you call normal, I see as exotic."

"So you think us in our homespun and hemp is exotic and you in your bright blinding pink silk wraps is normal?"

"Yes."

The innkeeper started laughing.

"I see nothing funny about it," Quaraun said.

"You are very serious."

"I'm an Elf."

"So?"

"Elves are always serious," the jelly brained Elf said very gravely. "We never make jokes."

"Why not?"

"Jokes are evil."

"Are they?"

"Yes!"

"How you figure?"

"Jokes are a form of lies. Lies are evil. Evil is as evil does. We Elves abhor evil."

"Okay."

"Usually they say I am dressed as a woman and call me a prostitute, and say I don't look like a man. I get beat up by you Americans on grounds of being ‘a man in a dress' all the time. It's rather annoying that no one identifies me as dressed as a different culture, not a different gender."

"Ah! Well, they just stupid people is all. They don't know other cultures exist. They think every ones same as them. But me, I know different. See? I know the world is full of exotic places with exotic cultures who wear exotic things, see? So, I look at you and I do not see a dress. I see an Arab from Morocco all dressed in striped silks."

"Arabians don't come from Morocco and I'm not. . . uhm. . . I'm from Iran, Persia. I'm not Arabian or Moroccan."

"Well, same difference."

"No." Quaraun frowned. "Where I am from is 10,227 miles away from Morocco."

"Is it?"

"Yes. It took me four years to walk from Persia to Morocco."

"You been there?"

"Yes," the elderly Elf answered. "I have."

"Why did you do that?"

"I'm walking my way around the world."

"Really? What for?"

"No reason in particular? My family died. It upset me. So I started walking. And walking. And I just kept walking. And now, it's been so many years, that I don't know how to stop, so I just keep doing it."

"So, you're a tramp, like a beggar?"

"Oh, no. Quite the contrary. I'm very wealthy. My uncle was a king. So, technically, I'm a prince. I have plenty of money. I don't need to beg and I can pay for whatever I need when I need it, and right now I need a place to spend the night."

"Ah, yes. You came in here asking for a bed to sleep in."

"No. I don't want a bed to sleep on. I want a private room where I can meditate undisturbed. Could I rent one of your client rooms?"

"You'd have to be a client."

"How does one become a client?"

The man stared blankly at Quaraun for several seconds before responding.

"You don't know what a client is, do you?"

"No. Should I?"

"You look rather old to be a client."

"I look old?"

"You ARE old, aren't you?"

"I am, but I was not aware I was starting to look old."

"What I mean is, you seem to be elderly and clients are usually rather young."

"Ageism?"

The man pointed across the room to four women, then spoke very slowly, almost whispering: "We have four prostitutes. The four rooms on the third floor belong to them. If you wanted to be one of their clients, well. . . you DO know what a prostitute is, don't you?"

"Oh yes. I've been mistaken by one by enough jackass white American Christians."

Quaraun stared at the four women, who were dressed somewhat fancy, or at least fancier than the rest of the crowd, and sitting together chatting. After a few moments of thought, he got up and made his way to them. But first, stopped at Lucy Mac's table.

"You shouldn't be here," Quaraun said to the woman.

"Our house is right on the river," Lucy Mac replied. "It's not safe there."

"No. That's not what I meant. Something has changed. I changed history somehow. You were supposed to go to Vermont twenty years ago. You had a son, who killed 13 sheep on the farm, and then an angry mob chased you to New York. You lived in Palmyra after that. Your son talked to . . . well, he said they were angels. He started a church. It's very big. Has a huge impact on the world a few hundred years from now. If you are still here in Maine and your name is still Mac, in 1846, than, something has gone very wrong with history."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have me mixed up with someone else. I have no son."

"That is very troubling. I wonder what it was, I could have changed to cause this to happen?"

Quaraun left Lucy Mac, worried about the changes of this timeline and wondering if he should try to fix whatever he had changed which had caused this. But, just now the biggest hurricane in the history of planet Earth was bearing down on Saco Bay and he had other things to worry about.

"I have an interesting proposition for you ladies," Quaraun said to the four women, when he finally arrived at their table.

"What? Let me guess. You want all four of us at once?" The chubbiest girl asked. "That cost extra."

"That is not what I meant. Wait? Do you do that?"

"Freakish things cost extra too."

"No. Could you please let me explain?" Quaraun pulled a chair away from one of the other tables and sat down at the whore's table. "I want to rent your room, not you."

The four girls exchanged glances, then looked at Quaraun like he was crazy.

"What do you want our rooms for?"

"Not all of them. I just want one."

"Sure. Whatever. Just one. But for what?"

"I like my privacy. Is there something wrong with that?"

"I guess not. But it's still a strange request."

"Is it?"

"Yes. You are odd," the first woman said.

"Yes. Very odd," agreed the second woman.

"How is it an odd request?"

"How isn't it? Why can't you just rent a bed like everyone else?"

"Your village doesn't have a proper inn or boarding house or, well, this is the only place I can find that will rent rooms to travellers."

"But that doesn't answer my question."

"Doesn't it?"

"No. It doesn't. Not in the slightest."

"I'm looking for a private room where I can rest without being disturbed. But here, it's renting one bed in a room with ten beds and, I'm. . . I'm not very sociable. . . and. . . I. . . I'd rather not sleep with, well, uhm. . . to put it bluntly, commoners and poor people have a tendency to rob people like me and I feel safer, if I'm not sleeping in a room full of thugs. This IS Old Orchard Beach, after all. Scum dive honky tonk of Maine."

"So, you're a wealthy snob who doesn't enjoy being around us poor folk?"

"No, that didn't come out right."

"That's what you said."

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"It's not poor people I dislike. It's men."

"Men? You don't like men?"

"Christians mostly. Especially the American ones. White ones most of all."

"Why?"

"I don't like being raped," the elderly silk merchant said bluntly.

"Raped?"

"Rich or poor, in fact rich are worse than poor for that sort of thing. You see, I used to sleep in places like this, but I was attacked and, rather than help me, the others in the room joined in helping the rapists rape me and now, I seem to have developed a fear of sleeping in the company of . . . well. . . men."

"Rapists?"

"Yes. They raped me. Several times. It's the way I dress, they. . . they don't understand my culture. American men, they see how I dress and say I look like a woman, they say I'm wearing a dress so, I must want to be treated like a woman. Thing is, where I come from, all males dress like this. This is normal for my people. But, it's happened at more than dozen villages now, you Mainers are sex crazed imbeciles and I've developed a fear of boarding in rooms with other men. I'd like either a room by myself or with women."

"Why don't you just change the way your dress?"

"I shouldn't have to change who I am to visit America. If you came to Persia, I would not ask you to stop dressing like a whore and dress like me to fit in with my people. What is it with you Americans and you insistence that everyone change who they are to become duplicates of you?"

"If you don't like Americans, then why are you here?"

Quaraun sighed.

He hated talking to females.

He also hated talking to Humans.

He especially hated talking to female Humans.

He struggled to understand the arrogant Human hatred for all things not themselves, and they struggled to understand his not wanting to become like them. Females took it a step further by seething an arrogant hatred for men, as well.

Quaraun felt particularly uncomfortable around these four female Humans.

"I enjoy visiting other places and experiencing other cultures. I have never seen such violence, such racism, such bigotry, such hatred for everyone, and such sex crazed rampant rapism as I have encountered here in America. You are a cold, cruel, bitter people full of animosity and hate, who rape everything you don't kill."

"Well, yeah, that sounds like a lot of men. Gotta push their weight around. Put us women folk in their place. You should join up with the women's suffragette."

"Woman's suffragette?" This new word surprised the old albino Moon Elf. "What is that?"

"Women's rights. We fight for the right to vote. We have a mind, don't we? Are we not intelligent, just like men?"

"In my experience, most women are more intelligent than men."

"See?" One woman turned to address another of them. "What did I tell ya. You get a man with an education and he'll agree we women are smart. It ain't all men who hate us."

"American men are cruel," Quaraun stated bluntly.

"Aren't they though?"

"I came here, to your country, to learn from your people. To make friends. But it has met me with nothing but violence and suspicion and hatred. Your men all act like I'm an evil villain because I don't look like you, don't dress like you. I don't understand it."

"They treat us women the same way."

"Yes. They say that too. When they attack me. They say I'm dressed like a woman, so I deserve to be treated like a woman."

"See? What'd I tell you. Men are women hating bullies."

"Men are evil. My family died. Men. It was men who did it. And evil man, I've been trying to find for years, orchestrated the whole thing. Kept his hands free of blood so he could proclaim his innocence. Hired thugs to carry out his plots."

"Your family died?"

"Yes."

"That must have upset you. No wonder you hate men. I would too, bastards out of Hell, that's what men are."

"Yes. It upset me. So I started walking. And walking. And I just kept walking. And now, it's been so many years, that I don't know how to stop, so I just keep doing it. And one day I was in a port. I got on a ship and it brought me here to America. If I had known before I came here how evil and hate filled your men were, I never would have come to this country. Your men here are downright evil."

"Yeah, every woman in America thinks the same way. Men are fuck faced bastards."

Just then, a group of drunk men tumbled their way to the table and began pawing at the four women and Quaraun as well.

"Get away from me!" Quaraun said angrily, as he shoved the man aside. Then he turned to address the women: "I'm sorry I bothered you. It seems you'll be busy tonight and I won't be able to rent one of your rooms. Here."

Quaraun handed the four women each ten gold coins. It was enough money to feed every person in the building for the rest of their lives.

"Lock yourselves in your rooms and don't let any of these men touch you. You don't belong in a place like this. Take the gold, use it to help other women. You fight for your rights. Don't let men push you around."

Quaraun stood up and turned to leave, then stopped and said:

"I came in here to get out of the rain. I've a tent, I normally camp out in that, but it is raining and windy and cold. But I'd rather be cold and wet than beaten bloody and molested by your degenerate, sex crazed American men. I feel safer weathering the storm, even though I already know what's going to happen. I'm sorry. Run. No one gets out of this village alive tonight. The Great Gale of 1846 is going to go down in history as the biggest Hurricane the world has ever seen, 10,000 people are going to be dead in this town by morning. I'm probably going to regret doing this, because I know it is going to change history, but get out of here. Go inland further. Try to get as close to Bangor as you can. Bangor isn't going to get hit hardly at all."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm a time traveller. I'm from the future. No one in Saco Bay will live through the night. You aren't far enough inland here."

"You're serious aren't you?"

"I am. You need to get out of here."

"Are you leaving?"

"Yes. I have to find shelter for the night. I know how this week ends. I know where it is safe and where it is not. I've lived through it enough times now. Pepperell Mill will survive the storm. Do you know where that is?"

"Yeah. We work there."

"Yes. I know. That is a pity. Take the fastest horses you can find and get out of here. If you can't reach Bangor, head to Biddeford, the factory, the section with the smoke stack will still be standing 200 years from now. You'll be safe there. I'm heading that way myself."

"You going back out in the storm?"

"Yes."

"Biddeford's fourteen miles from here."

"Well, than I best get going. I'll feel safer in Pepper Valley in tent by the mill, than I do spending the night here with rapist Christians and witch hating murderous Christians. I must constantly remind myself that I am in America, the most vile, immoral, degenerated, hostile races of Humans to ever exist. I do not feel safe in your country at all. Your men are pure evil. I wish you luck with your suffragette. Oh, and avoid Dr. Bean. He hates the women vote movement. He's going to kill a lot of you at a rally in four years. They won't find your bodies for another hundred years, when they drain the swamps to build the Saco Police Department Maybe we can change that part of history."

Quaraun left the building and trudged through the wet, muddy streets, until he made his way back out of the village. He continued walking until he came to a meadow.

"Tall wet grass. Damn."