1.7 The Great Gorge Suicide

Silven materialised in the blinding sunlight with a single question wedged in his mind: what in the world was a desert marsh?

And yet, here in front of him, there spread a desert marsh in all its weirdness. Towering dunes rose in between valleys of murky green pools. Majestic cobras slipped down to drink amidst a choir of enormous frogs wallowing in the mud. The stench of noxious gases bubbling from deep below the moss battled with the warm, empty freshness of the open sand. It was wonderful, and it didn’t make a lot of sense.

Off to Silven’s left, the flattened ridge of a low dune formed a footpath alongside a long-dry gorge. And there, curled in a protective bend of the canyon, stood the town of Desert Marsh itself. Cracked and dusty timber frames held up thick mud walls in octagonal tent-like buildings, each with a gaudy coloured pennant waving from its top. These smaller buildings crowded around the end of the footpath in twos and threes, just behind a smooth shoulder-height wall. Beyond, taller stone buildings with curious wooden spires rose in terraces lined with tangling vines and creeping willows. If anything, Desert Marsh was even more peculiar than the desert marsh.

Silven pressed a finger to his lips absent-mindedly and cursed as he felt his mouth glow and his teeth gleam. If that last wretched rodent was to be trusted, he had gained strength again somehow. Maybe he could just talk his way through life now? He forced himself towards the arched gate before he could pause to think. If he thought, he could lose any hope of finding purpose in this strange and unfamiliar land. He just had to trust that he would find some way to be at peace and find the space to take account of all that had happened since he (or she?) woke up on that dreadful slab.

The gate was guarded by tall, slender figures in striking blue robes and matching bandanas. Their tanned faces regarded the approaching warrior coldly as he smiled through immaculate teeth. “Greetings, kind sirs!”

The men stepped forward.

“Are we well today?”

They readied their spears.

“This is Desert Marsh, right?”

They thumped the shafts furiously into the ground.

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“You are the good guys, I take it?”

They answered by charging the stranger in a cloud of dust and drying lichen. “Izrin lives!” they yelled. A huge gash appeared in Silven’s chest before he could ready his sword. He staggered back and blocked the next thrust, and the next, but the onslaught was relentless. Silven cast his eyes around for some sort of deserty marshy fruit and found none. There was but one thing to do. He turned and scurried for the path, ten angry soldiers hacking at his heels in sprays of blood.

He turned on an impulse, kicked sand up into the bloodthirsty faces, and stumbled down into a boggy depression. “Rarrrwk!” said the toad in Silven’s lap. “What? Where did he go?” snapped the lead runner. Silven watched, barely breathing, as the small army lined up neatly around his position and scanned the horizon. “We lost him. Izrin ikru!” groaned the closest man in fury.

Slime churned from beneath Silven’s leg. He splashed away, terrified, as a scaly yellow something rolled above the surface and returned to its unsavoury lair. “What was that?” cried the man, now curious. Silven froze in horror as the man stepped down into the bog and passed an inch from his foot. He looked left, he looked right, and climbed away. “Pah! Movement at the last known sight of the heathen? Must be my imagination!”

Thirty seconds went by before Silven dared breathe. But in that time, a desperate plan had somehow formed from the fragments rattling around in his brain. He splashed away from the festering pool. “The scubbles are having some fun tonight!” laughed a blue warrior as he searched for footprints on his hands and knees. Silven rose and scurried between two of his comrades. Lights flashed across his vision at the triumphant cry. “There he is! Don’t let him get away! Oh, it was nothing.” Silven nearly swung around at the dismissal, but controlled the urge. Just one more push, and....

“Got him!” cried a thug not ten feet away, murder in his eyes. He raised his spear to put an end to his prey as Silven grasped the rock and flung it with all his might into the gorge across the path. It clanked to the bottom in a series of ear-shattering booms in the still of the sort-of desert. He cursed his sluggishness and raised his weapon. But his adversary was not looking.

“Down here! All hands! Tally hooooo!” shrieked the man closest to the gorge. He dropped his spear, swung his arms, and took a running leap into the sharp rocks of the river bed far below. Silven stood and watched, mouth hanging open, as the others joined the hunt and whooped in joy as they plunged. From down in the bloodied gorge, a fanfare echoed as if from a great distance. “What, again? For guided suicide?” Silven exclaimed.

"Stroooooooong!” croaked his froggy friend from his hole.

Silven began to answer, shrugged, and gathered the discarded spears. Then, he dusted himself down, folded his torn shirt and made for the town.