Chapter 15 Fried Chicken & Christmas

“Christmas?” Roland rose from his cushioned chair that overlooked the lake through a bay window. “Delaney, are sure? Here? They have Christmas here?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” said Delaney, nodding vigorously to each question. She let out a squeal of joy, yielding to an urge that had come over her so often since she first dipped her toe into that steaming, sudsy Tishaaran bath that Roland was beginning to worry again about her mental health. Like she had gone off the deep end on the opposite side.

She plopped onto his bed. “This is so cool!”

“Yeah,” said Roland, awkwardly. With her long hair clipped short to rid her of lice, her skin washed, and the creases of despair smoothed from her face, she bore little resemblance to the Delaney of their travels. This Delaney held her head high. She floated rather than walked, with her chin out and shoulders back. Her dark eyes sparkled like a lit fuse, and she beamed a wide, magnetic smile. She seemed utterly unaware of and unconcerned with anyone’s opinion of her.

Or at least Roland’s opinion of her. Well, no news there! Since when has a girl ever been the least bit interested in what I think?

He considered himself lucky to have gotten to know Delaney before he saw the tiniest grain of potential for attraction to her. His track record for impressing the girls he wanted to impress currently stood at zero for infinity.

He had come into physical contact with Delaney several times early in their journey without experiencing much beyond pity, morbid curiosity, and a little revulsion. As she had emerged from her larval state of wretcheness, the pity and revulsion had faded and the curiosity had shed its morbidity. Now he was very much aware of her proximity, and not just because of the lilac perfume the Tishaarans had provided. Somehow he liked it better the way it had been, even though he liked her better the way she was now. In the status ratings, she had risen far beyond him, leaving him stuck down in the losers’ bracket with Berch. He suspected he would have ranked far below Berch among the bottom feeders if the old goat hadn’t stuck his foot in it with the wolf.

“Are you sure they’re talking about Christmas?” he asked.

“Hello? Wake up call for Roland Stewart! Try to remember you’re no longer living in whatever Podunk iceberg you came from. What is your problem? You don’t freak out over all the other crazy things that happen. Your just like, "I'm Roland. I visit new worlds every summer vacation. No big deal. Why is this so hard to believe?”

Roland liked the idea of Delaney’s failing to understand him. It implied that she had at least a faint interest in trying to do so. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just that . . . well, I don’t know.”

“Oh, thanks, that explains it.”

“All right, look,” said Roland, trying to salvage his dignity. “Christmas just seems so out of place here. I mean, what’s weird is weird, and what’s normal is normal and, shoot, I don’t know. You expect things to be strange in these realms and they are and that’s just the way it is. But Christmas is too. . . too. . . it’s specific to our world, not this one.”

“Come on! Why take for granted that there should be chickens and rocks and spiders and snotty noses in this new world and then be stunned to find a Christmas as well? Why is the normal routine stuff so much easier to accept than the really good stuff? It’s like you’re sifting through a pile of gold to find grains of sand.”

“Wait a minute. Chickens? I haven’t seen so much as a chicken dropping since I got here.”

“It’s for supper tomorrow night.”

“Chicken droppings?”

She laughed and threw a pillow at him. “No! Fried chicken.”

Her bubbly spirits worked a Third Realm magic of their own, drawing Roland out of his shyness. “Really? Fried chicken and Christmas, too.”

“Well, it’s not exactly Christmas,” she finally conceded.

Roland was beginning to wonder if he could communicate anyone. Windglow took everything he said so literally. Berch never gave the slightest indication he understood Roland or even cared to. He could not begin to tell when Digtry was serious. With Delaney, the effect was more of conversational whiplash. “Correct me if I am wrong, but did I not ask you no more than a minute agoJust a minute ago I was asking if by Christmas you meant exactly Christmas and you jumped all over me for it. Now you admit it’s not exactly Christmas.

”

Delaney shrugged. “Yeah, well they call it something different. Vyarlis, I think they said.”

“So, what, do they have Christmas trees, or egg nog, or angels, or Santa Claus and elves, or presents or mistletoe?"

“Mistletoe?” she repeated, batting her dark eyelashes at him. The implication not only left Roland speechless, it temporarily destroyed all of his thought processes. “Presents, yes, they give those,” she finally went on.

“That’s it?” Roland’s brain was slowly reassembling. “They give each other presents and based on that you’re telling me it’s just like Christmas?”

“I don’t know why you’re being such a poop about it. Yes, they give presents and they have all kinds of traditions and it’s a big time of peace and love and happiness and all that. And it is the big holiday, biggest one of the year, and it’s all based on some story about God appearing in the Lower Realms. That’s close enough to Christmas for me. Besides I miss Christmas. So you and I can call it that, can’t we?”

A shared secret with Delaney? All right!

“And Berch, too. Let’s find him and go party,” she said, hopping off the bed.

So much for secrets with Delaney. “Why Berch?” Roland was about to ask. Fortunately, he held his tongue long enough to notice a shadow darkening the doorway.

“Berch is here.”

Even he looked younger and less of a slob now that he had shaved his beard and combed his hair, which, however, looked no less greasy than before.

“How’s it going?” asked Roland, trying a little too hard to be friendly. “Mind if I call you Ron?”

“Mind if I kick your ass?”

“If you two are going to try to ruin Christmas for me, I’ m out of here," announced Delaney. “I’m going to go back to myy room to grab a coat. If you’re not in a holiday mood by the time I get back, I’ll sic Puddles on you!”

She bounded out of the room, leaving the two standing awkwardly in a room suddenly bereft of oxygen. “Ho ho ho,” Roland muttered blandly, for lack of anything better to say.

“Heard they buried one of their boys a few days ago,” answered Berch, unaffected by the party mood. “From the fight with the Raxxars at Gaterock.”

Roland had heard the same. In fact, he had thought about it much of the night and was working up the courage to visit the family to express his sympathy. But he had no idea what to say to parents whose son gave his life to save theirs. He felt cursed, as though he were a walking disease.

People died because of him. First, that man on the island. How he wished he could rid himself of the memory of that murder on the river bank and the merciless eyes and hideous voice that had vowed to take such pleasure in killing him! Who knew what had happened to Cohasset and his people? Then there was that wolf, although Roland was only indirectly involved in that disaster, having brought Berch with him on his flight to Tishaara.

Now this latest fatality. He hoped Berch would have the sense not to bring it up to Delaney just when she was flying high and bursting with joy and enthusiasm. He had purposely kept the news from her for the time being. There was a time for grieving, a time for healing, and a time for laughter. Delaney did not need any more heavy stuff right now.

“Can you imagine if the Tishaarans had already pulled in their guards for the holidays when we made a dash for the Gaterock?” said Roland, trying to steer the mood back into something lighter.

Berch dismissed the notion with a bitter snort. “We could talk ‘what ifs’ til the cows come home.”

That pretty much demolished all avenues of conversation until Delaney appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a wool coat. Noting their sour expressions, she cried, ”Suck it up, you mugwallops! We're going to party whether you like it or not!”

“Taking vocabulary lessons from Puddles, I see,” answered Roland. “The sad part is I’ll have to put up with that little stinker’s guff from now on, seeing how he saved my life.” The phrase again brought to mind the Tishaaran who had given up his life for them.

Fortunately, Delaney was stuck on her subject. “I just love this time of year,” she chirped, bouncing up and down. “I love it, love it, love it!”

Berch was not impressed with her antics. “Who would have thought that grown people could act so loony over Christmas?”

“Who’s full grown?” laughed Delaney. She stuck out her tongue at him and bounded out of the room, calling, “Last one outside’s a rotten egg!”

The sun had set, and the darkness had already obliterated most of the orange tracks it had left in the clouds above the northern peaks. With the urgency of a fire brigade, Tishaarans were fixing banners over every entrance and second-story window. A woman touched a flickering wick to the first in a series of outdoor lanterns. Children raced about the streets, shouting “Blessed Vyarlis!”

Jostled in all directions by tugs and shoves, Delaney became so weak with laughter that Roland had all he could do to keep her from tripping over the swarming tots. But then she caught sight of a lone beggar scouring for scraps in a garbage in a garbage bin in an alley. The torchlight revealed scrubby, tattered clothing and boots full of holes, with badly frayed shoelaces.

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“What’s with him?” cried Delaney, outraged. “Why doesn’t he get to celebrate with everyone else?”

“He does,” insisted a girl so tiny the weight of her wool coat pinned her arms to her side. “He is just the gubbermint.”

“That’s my father,” explained an older girl, proudly “A Chamber ward. For the whole week before Vyarlis, the elected officials do all the lowest jobs. It’s a tradition. I hope they are about done, though. I would not want father to miss the soldier’s landing.”

The ruckus quieted as a horn sounded. Its deep tones swelled until an echoing fanfare rained down on the valley from the surrounding mountains joined in an echoing fanfare. “The soldiers!” cried the children. The hilarity subsided almost at once, and Roland could guess why.

The returning soldiers were missing a member. How did one celebrate the most joyful event of the year with the loss of a loved one so fresh?

The Tishaarans surged toward the beach, drawn like moths to a few widely spaced torches. The lights proved to be lanterns hung on the prows of the flat-bottomed boats. As the last of these emerged from the shadows of the flooded forest, tattered and grimy Chamber wards barreled past the crowd down the sand bank and into the water. Nearly swamping the boats with their momentum, they snatched the boats from the soldiers, who sloshed ashore into the waiting crowd.

Captain Karpellet picked up a small child and and cradled him in his arms. “Tishaarans!” he shouted. “This is the season of Vyarlis! We honor Tonnburk most by seeing that the traditions he defended still hold. We celebrate for Tonnburk and for all Tishaarans who have striven faithfully that our people might prosper. Blessed Vyarlis, Tonnburk!”

“Blessed Vyarlis, Tonnburk!” shouted the Tishaarans, recovering their enthusiasm. “Blessed Vyarlis to soldiers! Blessed Vyarlis to all.” More than one giggling child soared high into the night sky and fell into the arms of the Tishaaran guardians of their safety.

“What was that Tonnburk stuff all about?” asked Delaney

Roland shrugged, feigning ignorance. Keep her off the subject. This is not the night to get her thinking about death and loss. If the Tishaarans could celebrate wholeheartedly, then their guests should as well.

The surging sea of people marched off in rhythm to a song that even the youngest knew. The tune was simple enough that Delaney and Roland soon caught on and joined in as loudly as the rest on the chorus:

Hey ho, the night’s aglow,

To the shepherd’s fields we go!

Gather round, cares unwound,

Vyarlis now the joyful sound.

“See, they do have carols!” Delaney punching Roland in the shoulder.

He was tempted to respond: It’s a song; what makes that a carol? But at the last moment he recognized that such analysis, keen as it was, would contribute nothing to the festive nature of the evening.

The steep and winding climb up a sandy hill did not diminish the volume of the repeating chorus. They passed through a stand of mostly leafless aspen until they came within sight of a cheerfully glowing bonfire in a sheltered vale at the end of the ravine. Impatient with the adults’ pace, the children galloped ahead to the fire, shouting, “Blessed Vyarlis, shepherds!”

“See? Shepherds, too,” Delaney giggled smugly. “Just like Christmas.”

A few Tishaarans veered off into the cool night while the rest poured into the vale and nestled in blankets around the great fire. The close-clipped grass was free of dew, which allowed them to sit without getting wet.

In a matter of minutes, Roland felt toasty, and not just because of the fire. He somehow felt at home among the chattering bodies that flanked them, and among the shouting children who raced around the bonfire and leapfrogged and rolled down the grassy slopes. That sense of peace wavered only once, when the brilliant light of the flames

triggered an unsettling memory that broke through the celebratory mood.

The Cold Flames.

He had not imagined them, he was certain of that. Unless . . . well, in the whirl of cosmic magic, who could blame him if his memory had trouble distinguishing dream from reality? If not for the fact that it had lasted so long, this whole realmland experience could be a dream. Still, the memory made him uneasy.

“Why do you supposed Karpellet freaked out at the possibility that there might have been Cold Flames on the island?” he asked, leaning close to Delaney. “I wonder what-”

“Oh no you don’t!” insisted Delaney, pushing him away. “No Raxxars, no island, no Cloudmire, no flames, no nothing. If you mention any of that stuff again tonight, Roland, I’ll never forgive you. What is it with you and Birch, anyway? Do you know the meaning of the word `party?’ I'm really getting into this. You know the fire and the mood and the peace on earth and all that. Can you let me have that for one stinkin’ night. Is that too much to ask?”

The sweet, exasperated smile she shone on him quickly took the sting out of the rebuke. Roland responded with a shake of the head and a guilty smile, and congratulated himself for avoiding mention of the Tishaaran soldier’s death.

A shepherd began playing what appeared to be an oversized harmonica but sounded more like a clarinet. Its clear tones glided through the night sky like a boat on a frictionless sea, and pierced deep into his soul. The music awakened, at the same instant, a sense of deep contentment and an unquenchable longing for the distant, poorly remembered shores of home. His head swam as he lost himself in its plaintive melodies, the aroma of Delaney’s lilac perfume, and the warmth of the fire on his chilled skin. With his senses so pleasurably occupied, he found it easy to yield to her plea to set aside all cares. He would leave the puzzle of escape from the realmlands, and forget the acid-voiced maniac and the meddling spirit who seemed to have it in for him.

Still floating on the wings of his courageous showing at the Gaterock, and the proximity of Delaney’s dreamy smile, he could not help but think that his current prospects were much better than what he had left behind in the old world.

As time went on, the songs, both vocal and instrumental, grew gradually more subdued. After a hauntingly beautiful duet by two soprano sisters which rose effortlessly beyond what Roland had believed to be the limits of the human voice, an older gentleman shuffled forward, his bent frame silhouetted against the brightness of the bonfire. All sat in revered silence as he drew as near the flames as he could tolerate.

He turned to face the masses. No one made a sound.

In a soft voice, cracked and tremulous from age, yet rigid with conviction, he began to recite the story of Vyarlis:

“Once, far beyond the memory even of the depths of the ocean and the darkest reaches of the night sky, there was a time when the garden of creation sparkled with a glory that surpassed the lodestones. A time when the sun burst forth each morning as fresh as a budding blossom of the rose to shower the world in the Creator’s love and laughter. Joy raced and tumbled through the valleys and danced across the plains and leapt from the highest mountain peaks.

“All creatures, from the mightiest denizens of the spirit world to the most helpless of newborn Morps, shared the fruits of creation. All understood that they were guests in the domain of the Creator. None dreamed of laying claim to the smallest portion of the world’s treasures. All was shared, and cherished, and honored, and tended with care.

“In those days, nothing pleased the Creator more than to walk among the gardens of creation. Life radiated from the Creator as incense--life continual and ever-changing, filtering through the world on the breeze of the Creator’s passing. All living things grew strong and healthy in the Creator’s aura.

“But there came a time when the music of Creation stopped playing and silence fell over the world. Not the silence of peace nor the stillness of meditation and worship, but the silence of absence and emptiness.

“Some claim the seeds of the fall took root in the fragile soil of humanity; others blame those of the spirit world. The truth is that no one knows who was the first to yield to the temptation of ownership, who was the first to drink the intoxicating brew of power, who was the first to dream of rising above the creation and claiming the earth’s treasures for himself. But whoever first did so soon had company. For as one would stretch forth his hand in greed, others would see a gem of the Creator’s paradise taken from them, and this they could not bear. At first, the pure of heart strove only to stop the usurpers. Eventually, however, even the most devout convinced themselves that in order to preserve creation from the desecration of others they must bring it under their guardianship and hold it themselves.

“So for good reasons and bad, people yielded to the desire to acquire. This desire blossomed into competition, which finally bore the bitter fruit of conflict.

“In conflict, the more powerful bent others to their will. They began to rule as the lords of the world, exploiting the weak and subjugating all to their will. Not only the great powers, but the lesser ones acted in this manner. Each manipulated and abused those more helpless than themselves, according to their station, their skill, and their strength.

“The Creator was heartsick over the madness that seized the Earth. Mightily did the Creator strive, with all the wisdom power and love and craft that the Supreme Being possessed, to stop the madness. The Creator appealed to reason, for what they were doing was pointless and could only replace joy with misery. To loyalty and obedience, for what they were doing displeased their Creator. But this, too, failed to stem the tide.

The Creator grew grim and dark. The heavens rumbled. The foundations of the earth shook so that none could stand upright in it. The seas roared in anger. A great voice thundered throughout the lands, warning that injustice would not be allowed dominion over the garden. If the senseless desecration continued, the Almighty would have no choice but to rise up against the cancer that consumed the world, to destroy it and start fresh.

“Still, they refused to listen.

“Terrible was the anger of the Creator at the despoiling of the divine handiwork. There came a day when the skies split asunder, revealing the great fire that the Creator had kindled to consume the ruined world. And so in the millennia before the arrival of the Tishaarans to the shores of the Third Realm, before the Big Timber was yet planted, before the foundations of the great Halls of Wisdom were constructed in Orduna, the world teetered on the edge of the Great Annihilation.

“But as the Creator was about to tip the cauldron of fire to rain upon the earth, the mighty hand drew back. The Creator took one more walk upon the beloved earth. While doing so, the divine heart broke, for despite the chaos unleashed, much remained of the fruits of that long and gentle labor that the Creator could not bear to destroy. The Creator's tears quenched the fire. Seas were restrained, the earth calmed. The Creator searched desperately for another way, a way to salvage the sweet seeds of love that had been so passionately and extravagantly lavished on the world. And after much thought and agony that caused thick clouds to wreathe the earth (clouds whose remnant clings to the bogs of Cloudmire), the Creator found the answer. There was a way. A way filled with agony and sorrow, but a way that would work.

“At the rock of Vyarlis, in the midst of the land that is now called Morp, the Creator called forth all strength and cunning and will to bend the precious laws of the universe, laws dear to the Creator’s heart, which had been so painstakingly brought into being before the beginning of time. At the rock of Vyarlis, the Creator forged the realm bonds to protect the weaker powers from the ravages of the greater.

“Great was the risk taken, outlandish the concession given by the Creator took in doing so. For the creation of the realm bounds required the divine presence in the lowest of the realms, in Morp.

“And so at the moment of the forging of the bounds, the Creator of the universe stood in Morp, stripped of all powers beyond those of the simplest and dullest of creatures in all the realms. Then, still bereft of immortality, the Creator stumbled in peril through all the realms until the holy presence passed beyond the domain of the immortal powers of the Fifth Realm.

“Even today does the heartsick Creator grieve for that garden. For in choosing to save the realmlands, the Creator had to surrender all power within the realms. Nevermore would the Creator return openly in power and majesty to those places which were formerly called home. Seldom, and only under the cloak of invisibility, shielded by veils of mystery, does the Creator now walk among us and visit these gardens which formerly brought such such great delight. Only through the power of the ancient word does the Creator guide, prod, shape, and comfort creation.

“It was this sacrifice that saved the realmlands from the fires of doom. This gift of unfathomable love still protects the lower realms from the cruel and mighty powers of the higher realms. The feast of Vyarlis, which we celebrate this night, honors the Creator’s gift, a gift of love poured out beyond all measure. Treasure it, Tishaarans. Treasure it always, to the end of time.”

A long silence followed this speech, a silence that not even the youngest and most restless Tishaaran toddler dared dishonor.

At last a flute began to play. Gradually, the spell was broken. Voices began singing again, and talking, and laughing.

While others sang and played, Roland sat motionless, eyes shut, letting the sensations of the night flow over him as he thought about the story. His view of the realmlands was no longer what it had been just half an hour ago.

From the first scratch of the thornbush, the realmlands had been an utterly foreign, lawless, chaotic place. A story had changed all that, as completely as the flames in the library had changed his world, if less dramatically. A simple story had brought order and comfort back into the world. Stories were beyond powerful, he decided. A story like that was alive--a spirit the swept over the face of the earth.

Spirits speak in stories. No, they act in stories.

He shivered, but it was a tremor of joy rather than fear.

“You look cold,” said Delaney. “Want my blanket?”

“No,” said Roland, quickly, rousing himself from the trance. “I’m not cold.”

She grinned. “Liar.”

“I’m from a cold part of the world. Cold doesn’t bother me.”

Delaney still did not believe him.

“All right, I’m a little cold,” admitted Roland. “But not as cold as you. You keep it.” Of course, if you want to share. . .

Delaney smiled radiantly at him, her cheeks glowing orange in the light of the dancing flames, but she kept the blanket. “Ahem, I see you have attracted the attention of the local ladies.”

Roland looked up to see a quartet of very young girls hovering over him. All showed the characteristic transparency of thought that looked less remarkable on children than on adult Tishaarans. He squirmed under the intensity of huge, adoring eyes.

“Yeah, well I never really considered myself a babe magnet but how can you argue with this?” said Roland.

“They’re in love with you, 'cause you're so dreamy."

“Yeah, right. It just seems like this is a very easy night to fall in love.” Realizing what he had said and to whom he had said it, he cleared his throat nervously and backed away from Delaney’s delighted sigh.

“Will you watch sheep with us, Mr. Roland?” said the girls in shy unison. “We’re all supposed to help the shepherds tonight.”

“I thought the shepherds were right here tending the fire.”

“No, that is only some of them. Someone has to watch the sheep, even on Vyarlis.”

Roland hid his disappointment. He was perfectly happy where he was, sitting comfortable by Delaney’s side. Never been happier; he was sure of that. Probably would never be this happy again. But there was no way he could turn down his earnest and adoring suitors. “I would love to,” he said, rising and brushing grass off the seat of his pants. “I'm all about sheep-watching."

“Have fun,” called Delaney after him.

He turned. “Thanks. Well, Blessed Vyarlis.”

She winked at him and whispered, “Merry Christmas, Roland.”

Ah, the shared secret!

“You know, after hearing that story, I think you’re right,” he said, softly.“Merry Christmas, Delaney.”