A boar had wandered into the outskirts of our part of town, to his great disappointment. He had no time to explore the wonders of the city of the King before he was delivered over to a butcher with great fanfare and on consignment. The hand of Lily’s mother was rubbing a particularly meaty part of his loin, delivering over to the house an aroma of prosperity. She, like the cook at Market Makers, had learned that there is culinary wisdom in a flask of wine, but she had learned that there is further wisdom in moderation. The proportion of onions in her recipe was a delicate female of the river valley, not a large wrestler from the mountain plateaus. Her hand also added some subtle tastes: salts, peppercorns, herbs, and a healthy broth. Robust was not something she feared, but this roast was going to stand strong in the palate alongside breads and vegetables. Lily was preparing the pears.

She had carefully carved the peel from the stone flesh, leaving a portion of the peel at the stem and at the bottom for the sake of coherence, or something to grab on to when it would be served. She placed the pears into a container, then, using the same flask of wine as for the pork, she gave the pears a wine bath, setting them aside to soak.

At that, I took a terrible risk. What possessed me I do not know to this very day. I am alive; that is enough, I suppose, but if I were ever to be entrusted with such a circumstance again, I would never ever say what I said, knowing what I know:

When Lily put the carved pears into the wine bath, that was too much for me. In a flash, the thought occurred to me how extraordinary it was that one so fair and so young should have so much in the way of culinary skills. My mind spun up, a wheel without resistance, and it wobbled right off its axle, so that it skipped an entire premise in my line of reasoning with the result that I blurted out, “When my father spoke of your wife, he never mentioned that she could cook.”

I was hoping, during the long silence that followed my blunder, that one of the fires would suddenly engulf me so that I would not have to endure the struggle to extricate myself from the vise of Lily’s father’s mind. The two foreigners stared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I stuttered, “that was horribly considerate—hardly inconsiderate. Inconsiderate. Horribly. My father had no designs on your wife that he told us of. He just talked about her when Mother was not at home.” The wheel was wobbling along down a hill, and I could never catch it now. I just stood and watched, hoping that my mouth could somehow be stopped by a signpost or a fence or a bear before anything worse happened.

“I taught her,” said Lily’s father. He stared at me. His brother also stared at me. They were sitting quite apart from each other so that they could recline and converse at the same time. Lily’s uncle was fingering one of the decorations of feathers that was near to him.

He said, “Dear brother, it is as I oft have explicated to you about Occuri. Your mind, however, bivouacs upon this perplexity. Is it fascination with the mystery you enjoy?”

“It is, brother,” Lily’s father replied, “But there is a further mystery.”

Lily’s father continued to stare at me, but his brother broke his gaze to look at his brother.

“Do tell,” he said to Lily’s father.

“This man was entranced with my daughter, yet his mouth opens to inflame jealousy in me over my beloved wife,” Lily’s father said.

I was sure I was about to die, so I felt no compunction that he had observed I was transfixed by Lily’s clothing and form and movement. These pauses in the conversation were murder, as well. Lily and her mother continued to move in the kitchen, but, somehow, they were completely silent. Where was the womanly chatter and the singing and the noise, the distracting sounds of preparation?

“Well, brother,” said Lily’s uncle, “The fruit of your mystery—”

“And his father is dead!”

Another bit of silence allowed me time to reflect on my father’s memory; I wondered in whose memory I was about to be.

“See how it grows!” Lily’s uncle declared. “Your mystery maddens you as it germinates. No,” he corrected himself, “It is propagating.”

“I’m not maddened,” retorted Lily’s father. “Perplexed, perhaps, and awed, but not maddened. I still have my wits about me, observe. I have not tried to reach this man’s father through his body.”

At that, I flushed completely cold.

“Oh, dear boy,” said Lily’s father with pity. “Don’t you understand? This conversation is transcendental. Your death is not imminent!”

He began to laugh. His brother smiled half a smile. I’m sure my visage reflected no mirth.

“My dear boy,” he continued, “you try to answer this riddle.”

He looked at me.

“You mean the riddle that I was looking at your daughter, then spoke to you a word from my dead father about your wife?” I offered.

“Yes.”

I much preferred not to speak, considering the near miss I just encountered.

“You delivered the advantage too hastily, my Brother,” said Lily’s uncle, glancing at his brother with a furrowed brow pushing his great brows down over his eyes. “Ascendancy of that nature is a useful implement for disciplining.”

“Disciplining,” mused Lily’s father. “Or torture? Have you never erred in the way this young man has, Brother?”

Lily’s uncle reclined into the feather decorations, nodding, his eyes holding me from beneath that flint bluff. He no longer scowled. He was waiting, now.

I thought of the honey and the humanity in Lily’s breath when she had grasped me a few minutes ago. Surely, I thought to myself, she is the fruit of an experience. So I said as much:

“A pomegranate,” I began, searching for a metaphor, “is produced from a flower.”

“A pomegranate?” asked Lily’s uncle. He disentangled himself from the feather decorations, leaning forward. “Please continue,” he requested, with all deference.

“A flower grows on a tree,” I searched, “which is a mystery of its own kind, but the flower cannot produce fruit without another tree. Therefore, the pomegranate, sweet as it is, is about a tree. So I thought about the tree. And I thought about other trees, I suppose. My father was another tree, once upon a time.”

For a moment I forgot about what I said because an irritation at Lily’s uncle suddenly took my thoughts. What did he mean when he said ascendancy is a useful tool for discipline? Discipline for me? No wonder so many pauses! So much was said with so few words. Well, perhaps not much was said, but much was asked, or could have been said.

“A pomegranate, brother!” declared Lily’s uncle. “Your Lily is a pomegranate to him!”

“Well,” I countered a bit, “It’s not the best metaphor. I was trying to describe a sense that Lily’s mother and Lily belong to the same nature, but the nature of Lily has a foreign influence within it.”

“Listen, Brother!” marveled Lily’s uncle. “Your Lily is a perspicacious specimen.”

“She,” bellowed Lily’s father, “is my daughter.”

“I do not think of your daughter,” I said.

“You have not,” said Lily’s uncle, “but from now on, you will.”

At that, irritation rose to ire, so I retorted, “I am not ever going to think of her, not in this way, not under these circumstances, not with my brain.”

Lily’s uncle turned to his brother, which infuriated me further; nevertheless, he was saying, “When I apprise you to maintain the advantage, you yield to a soft heart, imagining it mercy, but it is cruelty in the end.”

“You, of course,” responded his brother, “are a cat with prey, merciless altogether, and proud.”

Not with my brain, I repeated to myself: that was a show of stupidity. These two foreigners were working some sort of discovery against me, and it angered me. I was upset with myself that I could recognize that they were invading but I could not defend.

Suddenly, I said, “You keep saying ‘mystery.’ This is the mystery, that we set apart that which cannot be set apart. Lily’s mother is an experience; Lily is an experience. We are all an experience, for lack of better terms. We wander. A pomegranate likewise, grows into something which ceases to demonstrate growth, yet it is always in motion, a tree, in ways hidden and seen. How could I not remember what my father said about your wife? Why should I fear your jealousy? Why was I afraid?”

I meant to stop uttering a phrase or two sooner, but that is the way with passion: seams give way. Nevertheless, the question pressed into my mind. Why, indeed, was I afraid? And why was I afraid after I spoke? A fantastic aroma crept into our sitting place. The evening meal was nearly complete. So I continued:

“We are presently setting apart the experience of Lily from Lily herself, as though it can be done. I cannot imagine Lily without imagining the words of my father about your wife.”

And I was finished. I had caught the wheel. I managed to cease my wobbling progress before I told them how I could not imagine Lily without imagining water coursing down her arms from my mouth onto her body, or the smell of thyme, or the movement of her form in the dim light of dark evening, or the sound of her voice as she added melody to poetry, or the play in her eyes as she taught that melody to all who could hear, even the teacher of the poem, even the teller of the tale. How did she know to put pears in a wine bath?

Lily’s uncle spoke: “That’s all right, son, we had as much wine as you had beer.” Was I supposed to smile? I wasn’t sure. So I looked at him with a scowl and a smirk. He did, indeed, smile, saying, “These are the ravings of us drink-addled men, not the methodical speech of men who are actively providing. You, I am afraid, have proven yourself in the company of the drink-addled. Unfortunately, we must now impose method to your speech for provision’s sake.”

“I was trying as hard as I could,” I protested.

“Yes,” he replied, “I know. Can you use a sword?”

“Of course I can,” I said. “I was trained by the King’s Army.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I know. That is a circumstance we must mitigate forthwith. Or just flat-out undo. About how long are you able to endure without sustenance?”

“About six to eight hours,” I replied.

“Hours?” he exclaimed. Now, this I found unreasonable because he himself was certainly not one to starve, by all appearances.

“I expect to buy enough food to get me across empty spaces, use my sword to get out of tight spaces, and use my rough speech to negotiate my way out of real trouble,” I explained. “I figure that sustenance is never too far away, just so long as I keep Brother or Sister within a day’s trek.” I did not know why he was asking such direct questions, but a dark fear crept from a distant corner of my mind. I could feel my freedom slipping completely away.

“What do you want?” Lily’s father asked.

Without hesitation, I burst forth with, “I want my mother and father back.” Then I added, “I want my family back.”

“But you cannot have them back,” he said. “This is not something to want.”

“Well, then,” I declared, “I want nothing, then. I want nothing.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I know. I am about to give you something to want.”

Nothing was a perfect method imposed upon my speech, I thought, to articulate exactly my desires. I wanted nothing. I did not want to want something. I hated that I was driven around by unanswerable questions, unfathomable desires, a deep hurt, and blind instinct. Aside from those primal whips, I had no determination.

“This is going to be a great deal of work, brother,” said Lily’s uncle.

“This is not fair,” I exclaimed. “I was on my way away from here, alone, free, unafraid, but now there are two of you, older, wiser, who have, for some reason you keep to yourselves, taken me apart piece by piece. What you know about me now I did not know about myself until you asked those questions—and not just the one line of questions. I’m a man; not a fool! I can keep up with one of you, at least defensively, but not both of you pulling in different directions. This is not fair!” I could feel that I had lost control of my facial expression, and my hands moved without sense.

“No, it is not,” declared Lily’s father, lifting up his hand to indicate that I should recover my temper. “We have treated you unfairly, and I should think that neither of us would have kept our tempers were we in your place.”

Relief was instantaneous. I smiled, feeling foolish, “Please forgive me, gentlemen; you are still my elders, though you provoked me. I am a guest in your home, Mr. Fieldstone, though I do not know the nature of your invitation.”

Losing my temper was inexcusable, and I felt foolish.

Lily’s uncle took the occasion to inhale sharply and deeply, as though to stretch his lungs. He laid his hands upon his knees with a slap, then rose. “We should gather ourselves to the table,” he said, looking directly at me with a twinkle in his eye. I began to wonder what character lurked beneath those great physical features of the man.

Here was a pair: brothers absolutely, but quite the individuals, both of the same vintage, but independent flasks, men bound together by blood and spirit, yet free from each other in whole person. I was fascinated by their overlapping playing with me.

“Lily has fetched the pears from the kitchen and is presently setting them upon the table,” he said.

Lily had become more beautiful in the minutes that passed since I had last seen her. A flush had come into her face, a mosaic of rising blood, probably from constant movement in a warm kitchen coupled with an occasional taste of wine. The wine, no doubt, brought the smile into her face even broader, and her eyes even darker, even as they reflected lamp and firelight in the waning light of the day. It was impossible for me to bring my eyes away from her body; that was the worst of all. I could see in my mind’s eye last night’s odd event, that fountain of her cupped hands which I did not actually see in the darkness of night, water clinging for dear life to her flesh, trickling—she needed to cool herself, she had said—trickling all along her arms, disappearing beneath her clothing, but still moving! To where on her body did the trickle of water find its way? I spoke of fairness seconds beforehand. This was unfair, to see this young woman preparing food. Where was I supposed to look if my mind could only focus on one singular, individual event? Why did my mind wish to look further?

I began to think that embarking from my home was the worst idea conjured up by the sons of men.

Then it occurred to me—a terrible thought in the presence of all her kin—that surely her night clothes had become wet. Who can sleep in wet clothing?

And then I perished the thought, because, mercifully, Lily’s mother brought in the roast. Cress adorned the pan, and they were beginning to cook in the hot oils of the roast itself. The leaves were turning bright green before our eyes, and the aroma of them was like a fine knife, preparing the way for the much broader smells of the wild boar. A prayer invoking blessing went up from Lily’s father, then Occuri’s hand took a spoon, and with it, portioned out some of the drippings onto our plates. After that, her hand, with the same spoon, portioned out rice onto our plates. She paused for a moment while no one said a word. We just sat there, transfixed by the apparition of the meal, in all its glory, a treasure discovered. After a few moments (it didn’t matter how long; time had ceased to be effective), her hand took some leaves of the cress from the roasting pan, arranging a bed atop the mound of rice on each of our plates. When she had completed that task, she seated herself. After she had set herself in her place, Lily’s father stood up, took a knife, and began to carve meat.

The very first cut caused the patrons of this, the table of the gods, to gasp. Succulence burst from the carcass of the poor beast, running in a clear stream from the point of the breach onto the roasting pan. Steam escaped, as well, but now the flesh was sliced, upon a fork, moved from bone, and onto the bed prepared for it by Lily’s mother. I dared not touch it.

Lily’s uncle waited for his brother to complete the task of carving. This time, unlike previous meals, there was much remainder. I could taste leftovers already. He did not lift his hand to his utensils, even, but waited for his brother to sit. It finally happened. Only after Lily’s father sat and began to eat did his brother pick up his fork. When his brother picked up his fork, the entire table set itself to eating this meal. One took a fork in one hand, I observed, and a knife in another, holding steady the meat with fork in left hand, slicing a morsel—a tiny morsel—of meat with the knife in right hand. The knife continued its work to the plate, whereupon the fork held down the meat, the cress, and the rice (which had, by now, soaked in the drippings) so that, in a deft move, a twist of the wrist, really, the knife slid beneath that sustenance, serving now as a flat spoon. It became a trick in practice to move the food from one orientation to the other so that it stayed on the knife while it brought food to the mouth, but with practice it became rote. The wild boar was become completely civilized.

There followed some chit-chat, but it was light fare, not to distract from the feast.

Some other spices had made their way into the wine bath while I had been losing my temper with the elders of the goddess, the shavings of exotic nuts and something else to pull out the sweetness of those wine-soaked pears. Lily’s uncle was first to capture his, and he did so with another deft move. He reached over his plate with his left hand to grasp the pear at its stem with thumb and forefinger. With an exclamation of delight, he placed it on his plate, still holding it that way, then sliced one entire half of the pear, from stem to stern, with his knife. He released the pear, which promptly fell over into remaining drippings, at which an exclamation of pretend dismay escaped him. He released the knife, picked up his fork with his left hand, handed his right hand the fork, with which he stabbed the marble flesh which had been cut from the fruit, and finally placed that morsel into the maw which he caused to open from amidst his whiskers.

Lily’s mother looked at her husband.

“Brother!” Lily’s father exclaimed sharply, but with farcical air. “The barbarians have been teaching you well, I see!”

He continued, beginning to demonstrate: “Brother, you have correctly seized your pear, though you could have exerted some further deference to your hosts, but you failed to clear your plate, which caused the series of events which finally furrowed the brow of my dear bride.”

This was true: we were still using our bread to clean our plates. I was glad that Lily’s father pointed this out.

“Now, see here,” Lily’s father continued. “I do not grasp for my daughter’s delectable pears like an osprey for a river rat. I make an announcement, and I behave more appropriately.”

At that, he grasped a pear in the same manner as his brother. We all laughed.

“My pear is now properly imprisoned,” he said, “and my knife makes four slices, leaving a thin little box of pear goodness to eat with my hands, thus.”

And he spun the pear core around on his teeth, nibbling the remaining flesh from it.

“Finally, I eat the flesh of this wonderful treat: no falling fruit, no soaking in grease, no silliness whatsoever, a fitting reception for this fine preparation.”

“You are correct, my dear brother,” replied Lily’s uncle, his head bowed in mock shame. “The barbarians have had their way with me. It is, as you can see, near starvation upon the wilds that has actuated this unacceptable comportment. Please forgive me.”

Lily was smiling, and I think that Occuri actually chuckled, but at the moment Lily’s father opened his mouth to continue tormenting his brother, Lily’s uncle interjected: “But I also see, dear brother, that civilization has caused you great disquietude about the shape of your pear core.”

Occuri and Lily both giggled. He then recaptured his prey, spun it around and cut the pear lengthwise from stem to stern on the opposite side. “Civilization,” he added, “and such disquietude have dulled your ability to reflect with celerity on beauty.” Whereupon he raised the remainder of the pear and, behold, it was in the likeness of a butterfly.

“How did he do that?” I thought so loudly that I thought someone might hear, “How did he do that?”

With his hand he caused it to flutter on wings of shaved stone flesh, the fruit of a pear, wings held with the tenuous strands of nearly invisible tissue, and raising himself up from the bench ever so, he flew it over the table to Lily’s lips. Her eyes grew bright in delight, and from his hand she took the pear butterfly with her lips. They shone with wine-pear-nectar, glistening in flame light. She finally had to raise her hand to her lips because her smile had grown into a laughing declaration that the pear butterfly was about to escape. I cut a piece of my pear for myself as quickly as I could and tasted it.

Occuri continued to giggle at her husband’s demise.

“Oh, Little Brother,” declared Lily’s father, a smile creeping across his face in gracious defeat. And he said it with affected stress on the first syllable: LIT-tle brother, and that was all. The table of the gods was inside a house of joy. Lily’s flesh flamed further from delight, wine, spices, and fruit.

Nothing extraordinary occurred that night; I slept on my new hide laid out on the floor nearby the couch, where Lily’s uncle, my elder, slept. He had offered to switch places, but I had feigned a strong desire to sleep on my new hide. The hide was comfortable enough, but not nearly so comfortable as the couch. Lily stayed in her room the entire night.

Nevertheless, I dreamed of her, and no surprise, either, because I had images of her in my mind’s eye from the moment we left the table, as she danced through another creation of her father and composition of her mother (high praises to all of them spoken Lily’s uncle), singing another melody and moving from room to room preparing for the evening’s rest. Sleep came easily enough, and happily enough. I dreamed that my hand was exploring the folds of her clothing; the cloud of her garments would cause my hand to disappear within, even though I could still sense the fabric on my fingertips. There was no interaction; she was standing there, silently, completely still, but she was certainly not submitting, and I was never touching her directly. I never saw her face, and not too much of anything hers, only the clothing on her body.

When I awoke, I could not decide whether the dream was terribly disappointing since it lacked the presence of Lily or whether it was a good dream because it was an allegory for the mysterious nature of this woman. In either case, it was much better than the sobering view of wakefulness, Lily’s uncle in the throes of sleepfulness, gaping without snoring (thankfully), staring directly at me with closed eyelids, his face not a hand’s breadth from mine. That, indeed, was not the smell of lemon grass, honey, and spices. On the other hand, this vision of Lily’s uncle was as other-worldly as any thought or vision I had had of her. I rolled away from him onto another portion of my new hide and thought about Lily more, but my thoughts turned from her to my aching shoulder. Eventually, I managed to doze into another bout of sleep.

Rescue, my dog, had managed to make friends with Occuri while I was gone to the market; he was a good dog, after all, and he made himself comfortable wandering in and out of the house according to his whim. This morning he was kind enough to awaken me by chewing on one corner of my new hide.

“Rescue!” I scolded in my groggy state. He wagged his tail and whimpered happily. I was awake first, thanks to Rescue, dear dog. Besides, it was the King’s Day (which my father insisted to call Saturday. “Its proper name,” he said), which meant that there was no formal market. The King strictly forbade business, and he had caused many laws to be passed which regulated which kind of activity was to be considered business, like buying, selling and transporting goods, and which was to be considered human services, like restaurants, hospitals, and commuting. Naturally, restaurants needed supplies, which meant buying and selling goods, which meant transporting—once upon a time, my father told me, the King had actually forced restaurants to store the weekend’s worth of supplies on the day before Saturday so that men would not get so drunk on Saturday night because they were tired from all their labor during the day, with the result that Sunday brought smaller crowds to the Tower to hear the King lecture about himself.

Of course, within three or four years, tax revenues had dropped so precipitously that the King was forced to downsize his agencies throughout the city. My father would always chuckle at this next line: “A few months later, we went down to an enthronement renewal.” The King then miraculously changed his policy, allowing restaurants to buy and sell on Saturdays, which restored the restaurant business, which restored the transportation business, which restored the commuting business, which caused attendance at Sunday lectures with the King to swell, all of which, added together, made the King a very wealthy individual, which made him a very powerful individual, and his reputation became far flung beyond the city. This all happened in my very early childhood.

And here I was in my very early adulthood, awake on the morning of the day of rest, the King’s day, while everyone else slept. My shoulders were sore from my night on the floor. Rescue and I went out for a walk.

When we returned, we found Lily’s father and Lily’s uncle bustling about in the kitchen area while Lily and her mother were reclining at the kitchen table, talking quietly to each other, sipping on the morning herbal drink. Every now and again, Lily’s mother would chirp something at her husband, who was usually barely able to find some utensil or necessary vessel for the preparation of this meal. Breakfast was not a spectacle, as all the meals seemed, but since it was made of the bits and pieces of some previous spectacles, it was still quite delicious, especially the leftover breads, sweet, short and otherwise. The men had discovered, I learned, that old bread could be made well again if steamed and then given a gravy of honey heated in milk and butter. Fried cured pork went well with that. Lily’s uncle oversaw that part of the production. I eventually figured out that I could volunteer to help, so I managed the pantry, quickly canvassing its contents for location, then providing what things Lily’s father called for without hesitation.

It was an easy way to please the women, I found, and it was a ritual for every King’s Day. They especially looked forward to it, but we all looked forward to it because it stood the rituals of the week on end. We laughed at each other. The women were inclined to talk in deep, solemn voices, mocking the men, whereas the men feigned obsession over endless kitchen tragedies. On occasion the frivolity became raucous, and a little more than household tension was being smelted out, but not today. Today was a mellow day; everyone seemed a bit tired. We all sat in the main room after breakfast.

Lily’s uncle resumed the interrogation from last evening: “How old is Rescue?”

I thought for a moment. “Eleven or twelve.” It was hard to imagine that I had had Rescue for half my life. We talked about that for a while, Lily sharing the memory of her dog which had died some years ago. Her memory’s awareness was bound inextricably to that dog; while her entire childhood could not reasonably be said to have included her dog, her memory places her dog in the portrait somehow, like a guide moving from room to room, sometimes tail wagging, sometimes panting, or flagging. Eventually, Lily’s uncle turned the question to me again.

“Lily says that you intend to travel north. Is that so?”

“I don’t know about north, in specific,” I said. “I intend to keep the Sister to my right and the Brother to my left until I get somewhere.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, then he checked himself. “What did you say?”

“I intend to keep the Sister to my right,” I repeated, “and the Brother I intend to keep to my left until I get somewhere.”

He paused. Lily looked at him, wondering. Occuri looked at him, wondering. Lily’s father stared straight at me. I thought it best to try to say something.

“I thought that after my family died that I should leave for a while, to find something to do.”

“There’s plenty to do in the city,” said Lily’s father.

I wished that I had thought it best to say nothing. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. One foot in front of the other until I got there, that’s what was on my mind, even at that moment.

“Oh, Big Brother,” said Lily’s uncle. “My wandering has made us wealthy men.”

“You wandered with a purpose,” retorted Lily’s father.

Lily’s uncle turned his head to look at his brother, “Are you already drunk at this early hour?” That was the first time I had seen behind Lily’s uncle’s façade. “I wandered without design for almost ten years!” he said. “And besides, how does one ‘wander with a purpose’?”

Little Brother came out on top of that skirmish, a rebate on yesterday’s loss to his older brother. I could not discern which one of the two was going to prove to be my ally.

“I was more struck,” Lily’s uncle resumed, “that he calls them the Brother and the Sister.”

“Why does that strike you?” Lily’s father asked.

“Because it’s latterly nonsense,” Lily’s uncle said, “Foisted upon this population by insubstantiality which has marked the decline of this last generation.”

The names of the rivers was a recent indication that our civilization was doomed?

“These royal religions,” cried out an exasperated Lily’s uncle, “one right after another! They receive assiduously, but they are idle in bequeathal. They redesignate so that one young man rises up with one set of surface beliefs, then the next young man rises up with an entirely different set of surface beliefs; they’re nothing but lily pads in a shallow pond, these beliefs.”

Then he returned from his raving to me, and he demanded, “Why do you call the rivers Brother and Sister?”

“Well,” I began, “not that I believe in myths, but I thought that it was a quaint way to add character to muddy water.”

“You don’t believe in myths?” asked Lily’s uncle.

“Not really. We’re just mud, anyway; what difference does it make?” I said, half-believing what I was saying.

“How does the myth of Brother and Sister come to you?” he asked.

I said, “My father taught me that the son and daughter of the Almighty God provoked him to anger by not glorifying the lesser beings, that is, us men, so he cast them out of his palace onto the earth. They assumed the form of dragons of fire, intent on destroying the lesser beings, but their father trapped their heads, one of them with his right hand, and the other of them with his left foot. With his left hand, he tied together their tails, right here in the city, in fact. He raised up his hand to smite them, and they begged for mercy. He agreed not to kill them if they were to forever quench their fires.

“So here they are to this day, squirming in their beds until the end of the world, the Brother and the Sister.”

Lily’s uncle looked at me intently, asking, “Where do you think the palace of the Almighty God is?”

I thought for a moment, then said, “I suppose it must be somewhere that is not known as earth.”

“And you don’t think that this myth makes any difference?” he asked.

“Brother,” interrupted Lily’s father. “That is not a fair question. He did not say that the myth makes any difference; he said that believing in the myth does not make any difference.”

“I did say that,” I said, “but the myth doesn’t make any difference if believing in the myth does not make any difference.”

There was a stunned look on the face of Lily’s uncle.

Lily asked, “But does a myth not teach even if it is not true?”

“Many things teach,” I replied. “Where does teaching come from? Why would I believe that the palace of this myth teaches that there is a transcendental existence beyond what I can see and perceive if there really isn’t one?”

“A transcendental existence…” mused Lily’s father.

“In your mind,” asked Lily’s mother, “is there a palace?”

I looked at Occuri. I remarked to myself that this was the first time that she had spoken to me in a day or so; I couldn’t remember hearing her participate in any conversation that involved me. Then I thought to myself that this was the most extraordinary family, not for the questions, not necessarily, but for the earnestness of their relationships.

“There is a palace,” I said. “There must be.”

“Do you believe in a palace because of this myth?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“But you do not believe in the myth,” she propositioned for me.

“No,” I said. “The myth is utter nonsense.”

A smile crept across the face of Lily’s father. His eyebrows hung low over his eyes.

Suddenly, Lily’s uncle changed the subject: “Do you have any money?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “I just sold my house.”

“Where is your money?” he asked.

“Most of it is with a financier.”

“Ah, yes,” he nodded. “A very safe and wise decision. When you return from your journey, you can claim your fortune with ease and with interest.”

“Well, there’s that,” I said, “but I was more hoping to use a financier’s network beyond the city to use my money without having to carry it on my person.”

The brothers exchanged glances.

“What?” I asked.

“Haven’t you wondered who bought your house?” Lily’s uncle asked. I felt like I was being relentlessly pursued in a perverted game of tag.

“Of course I have,” I said. “But, naturally, I’m torn: do I wait to see the new owners, or do I leave town so that I don’t have to actually witness the passing away of my childhood?”

“It was wise of you,” said Lily’s uncle, “to have employed a broker.”

“I wanted nothing to do with negotiations and government inspections.”

“How much did you sell it for: 18,000 Marks, 21,000 Marks?” he asked.

“19,500.”

“Ha!” And the brothers burst into laughter. Tears came out of both their eyes. Poor Lily’s father lost his ability to breathe, his face flushed red beneath his dark skin, and he nearly fell out of his chair.

“Oh!” he said, after catching himself, and catching his breath. “Lily! You have a fine man, here, a fine negotiator, and an excellent liar. These are fine qualities in a businessman.”

“These qualities reflect a deep-seated eagerness for privacy,” said Lily’s uncle, “which is a tool for the anabasis of a family.”

“Anabasis?” asked Lily. I was glad she asked because I didn’t know either.

“Advance. Well-being. Good,” mocked her uncle.

“Why are you laughing at me?” I asked.

“Well, son,” laughed Lily’s uncle, “your broker and our broker met over lunch some time ago.”

“Indeed,” said Lily’s father, “because we wanted to purchase your property.”

Lily and her mother looked at the two men, and they were astonished. I was trying desperately to grind this information as quickly as I could. It didn’t make any sense to me whatsoever.

“And I must say,” continued Lily’s uncle, “you are a fine negotiator.”

I remembered some tough negotiations through my broker. He had expressed a willingness to sell at a lower price because of the general decline of property values in and around the city, but I had known that I had two things to my advantage: location and a willing buyer. I held the line and got my 30,000 Marks, only about ten percent less than I had publicized the price to be. I consumed much beer the night the deal closed, in celebration and in remembrance.

“You are the buyers?” I asked.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“No,” said Lily’s uncle. “We employed a buying agent through our corporation. Foreigners, as you know, are not allowed to purchase property in the city.”

“What? What’s that you say?” I asked.

“Foreigners are not allowed to own property in the city,” repeated Lily’s uncle, “but foreigners are allowed to form corporations.”

“Well that sounds like an awfully large loophole,” I remarked. I wondered what my father would have said.

“If you think about it,” Lily’s father said, “provision must be made for foreigners to carry on business; otherwise, there is no trade among the cities of the peoples, and the whole world is poorer. In fact, this provision is to the advantage of foreigners because sojourning businessmen such as we are forced to do well in our businesses in order to live with some security.”

“If your business fails, then you have no property,” I said.

“If our corporation fails,” he corrected. “And in theory, yes, we would have no property. But the process for liquidating the property of a bankrupt foreign corporation is more expensive to the government than simply taxing it as usual.”

I thought about that for a moment, then said, “That doesn’t make sense to me. How would it be more expensive to liquidate? Wouldn’t agents simply seize the assets of the corporation, then sell it?”

“At the feet of a teacher, my friend, does that actually work,” smiled Lily’s father. “In the city gates, the King has done a good job of checking his own hand in the matter.

“First of all, there is the matter of hiring the several persons to sift through market records, official records, and private contract records, to see who owes whom what. The king may have a massive bureaucracy at his fingertips, but no amount of taxation will suffice—not in these days—to pay the number of skilled personnel to do this, not if the king desires to have any treasury at all.

“Secondly, laws pile up. Lawyers compete with each other to know them. A good corporation lawyer can tie up asset seizure in the lower courts for ages. Again, this costs the King, and he may legally have no claim to any assets whatsoever, especially after costs.

“A tax-agent, on the other hand, assesses value, submits the assessment to the owners and to the King’s record-keeper, then follows up. If taxes are late, the tax goes up to cover the cost of the soldier who accompanies the tax-agent for collection purposes. If taxes remain unpaid, then the King has the right to liquidate at will. Very simple.”

“But don’t lawyers send up the same dust-storm of litigation?” I responded quickly. “How is it possible for the King to liquidate so easily in the case of taxes but not in the case of bankruptcy?”

Lily’s father replied, “Imagine that you are the King. What, then, are you counting on?”

This was a curious exercise. I worked on the problem for some long moments while Lily and her mother looked at me. I started to feel some anxiety rise in me, but I fought it so I could think.

“If I am King, I see that I do not want to involve my resources in private matters, because private matters involve many transactions—”

“If you are King,” Lily’s father interrupted, “there is no such thing as a private matter.”

I was embarrassed a little bit, and I put my head down to think some more, telling myself not to be embarrassed, not to think about them all looking at me, and, at the same time, trying to imagine myself as King.

“You are an agent of God,” added Lily’s uncle.

“If I am an agent of God, then,” I began tepidly, “bankruptcy is a matter for my people, while taxation is a matter of mine.”

“Very good!” commended Lily’s father.

“If I am King,” I said with a smile; I could feel the furrow in my brow release, “bankruptcy is a matter for my people, which I ultimately oversee with my courts, but it is theirs to execute among themselves. Failure to pay taxes is a personal affront to me, a rebellion against my authority, and I do not care if I seize those assets without due process to rightful owners.”

“And everyone knows that,” said Lily’s father.

“No law under the sun could ever mitigate that reality,” said Lily’s uncle.

“Imagine further,” continued Lily’s father. “The financier has rights to the main assets of my corporation through a collateralized loan. The manager of that financier’s accounting is going to be sure that my corporation is paying its taxes. I assure you that no reputable financier will allow even a second visit of the tax-agent.”

“There must be money involved in that for the King,” I remarked. It seemed like a fog had lifted for me in these things.

“Indeed,” said Lily’s father. “Financiers pay the King access fees to tax records.”

“I would like to have a corporation,” I said, thinking of my money.

“You,” laughed Lily’s father, “are not a foreigner!”

Lily’s uncle laughed along with his brother, saying, “You are a slave to the king; we are not.”

Anticipating my next question, Lily’s father leaned forward to answer me, saying in a low voice, “You belong to him as long as you remain in his realm. You may travel abroad, but you still belong to him, and as long as there is peace between you and the owner of whose land in which you are traveling, you are an ambassador, of sorts. If you disown your King, then you are a dead man to anyone until you find a new king. You are not, then, an ambassador, and anyone can kill you—and probably will, because you are an enemy to civilization.”

“I thought I was a free man,” I said.

“You live in freedom according to the whim of another man,” retorted Lily’s father. “As do we.”

“What do you mean?”

“We belong to another man. We swore allegiance to that man, who is an ally to your king, in the courts of your king, as an oath that we would do no harm to this kingdom while we remain here in behalf of our King. We are subject to the laws of your kingdom even while under the protection of our kingdom.”

Why had my father never explained these things to me? Did he not know? “Forgive me; I still do not understand how it is that I cannot have a corporation.”

“In the first place,” said Lily’s father, “one must purchase the right to own a corporation. You must demonstrate quite clearly what it is you intend to do, convince a bureaucrat that a subject of the king cannot do the same thing, that you will not abandon the project unwarranted, and that it is profitable, mainly to him. That requires considerable planning and execution.”

“Especially that most difficult problem of demonstrating profitability,” explained Lily’s uncle with a wink.

“In the second place, these are the laws of this kingdom: foreigners cannot own property; subjects cannot have corporations. Subjects of the king enjoy, by ideal, a security of life. You are not likely to exit the kingdom to escape your duties to your king. You must travel many miles before you escape the reaches of his agents. Therefore, you are not afforded the right to protect yourself from liabilities.”

“But foreigners…” I pitched.

“Foreigners,” he struck, “are likely to leave the kingdom. A corporation is a way to invite foreigners to not leave. A corporation is a way to create an entity for the sake of business without extending many expectations of citizenship to the human being.”

“That sounds like a lot of hokum,” I said. “That sounds like a double-standard.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Lily’s uncle. “Here is a man after my own heart!”

“That sounds like a way to create transactions to tax without providing a rationale,” I said. I could feel blood rising into my face. I continued, “I can see an opportunity to steal at so many junctures, so many places where money can remain unaccounted for. For example, you leave your corporation anyway, for whatever reason: now what?”

“Aha! Again!” cried out Lily’s uncle.

“The corporation is in default,” began Lily’s father. “The underwriting syndicate, which is usually a financier and a lawyer, now assumes ownership of the corporation.”

“subjects cannot own a corporation…” I stated.

“A registered financier has special privileges: it is not technically ownership of the corporation, but of the rights of the corporation,” explained Lily’s father.

“Semantics,” smiled Lily’s uncle.

“Say,” I said. “That brings to mind the question of a financier. He isn’t a corporation.”

“No,” said Lily’s father, “He fills an office within the Ministry of Auxiliary Function of the King, privately administered through special license obtained from the Office of Financing.”

“We call it ‘AFKing,’” said Lily’s uncle, “as a kind of joke.”

“The King does not own the corporation?” I asked.

“Not quite,” said Lily’s uncle. “And this is where cynicism and the ideal collide. It is actually greatly to one’s advantage, where everyone benefits: the financier generally sells rights to the rights of the corporation he is underwriting.”

“Rights to the rights?” I repeated.

“Rights to the rights,” he assented. “The financier pays the owner of a right a certain fixed percentage of that right. When the corporation is found to be in default, rights owners have the rights of the corporation in proportion to their ownership.”

“The second right has me confused,” I said.

“Let’s hypothesize that I have a collateralized loan of 50,000 Marks with a financier,” said Lily’s uncle. “The financier has rights to 50,000 Marks of my assets, proportionally reduced by the amount of principal repayment I submit. The financier is also charging me a rate of eight percent of that 50,000 Marks per year, figured on a monthly basis. The financier sells rights to that eight percent, on the promise that they will pay back the fee after ten years, or whatever time period they decide.

“The financier figures that he will receive between 3,000 and 3,900 in Marks for the next few years, depending on the standing of the principal. They offer for sale the right to a portion of that 50,000 Marks, in addition to a promise of a five percent return on the right. You, then, a subject, purchase 10,000 Marks of rights, expecting to receive 10,000 Marks at the end of ten years, in addition to a promise of 500 Marks per year.

“Does that make sense?” he asked.

“It does,” I said, but I was just trying to impress the women. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“If I were to abandon my corporation, owners of rights would be owners of rights to the rights—because subjects are not allowed to have corporations—first to benefit from the liquidation of assets.”

I looked over at the women. Occuri had pulled her feet up on the couch and was resting her head on her right arm, which was propped up on a pillow of the couch; Lily had put her head on her mother’s hip and was, by appearances, fast asleep. Occuri was gazing at her husband’s countenance while caressing her daughter’s hair with the fingers of her left hand. I gathered that I had failed to impress the women. Lily’s father was continuing even further into his explanation—which was very interesting, but he had lost my interest. Lily’s uncle caught my wandering mind.

“Brother!” he laughed. “I myself am overcome with torpidity.”

“Yes, well,” sighed Lily’s father. “I hadn’t yet come to explain how a subject may possess ownership of the corporation outright by declaring himself the owner of the majority of the rights of a defaulted corporation; at that point, the corporation ceases to exist as an entity—”

“Brother!” interjected his brother again. “You really must discontinue with no further intermediary of breath.”

Lily’s father scowled at his brother, then at me. He turned his head to see his bride and daughter nestled together like two pretty little grouse in a field, and his brow softened.

“Yes, well,” he sighed. “I suppose we have introduced the concept of foreignness, citizenship, the financier, the corporation, kingship, derivative investment—all that with a healthy dose of arithmetic.”

Then he added, “I could go on, Brother.”

“With utmost certainty I agree,” replied his brother. “And that is why I travel; whereas, you arrange.”

Lily’s uncle abruptly stood, approached the wall, reached out to it, and pulled a piece of it aside. I saw that the wall had had a stone taken from it to create a little hollow place. The stone had been chiseled to a very thin slab to conceal it. This was curious.

He reached into the hollow, took out an object, no doubt some sort of contraband, and turned to face me, holding the most beautiful sword I had ever seen. At once I was enamored, thrilled, and frightened. Foreigners were forbidden by law to be armed.

The copper had been polished recently, to a perfect hue of copper-color, without any patina of green or any corrosion, and in the hilt, on the very end, as a peen, was set an emerald, likewise polished to a perfect hue of green, exactly what one imagined when one thought of an emerald. Within the cross-guard was laid lapis lazuli in an intricate pattern, sending forth a blue from a very deep place, like a dark lightning. Along the fuller was engraving in a writing which I could not read, the calligraphy of a reclusive learned man, no doubt. And the sword was sharp, so sharp I thought I could hear it singing a song. Despite its fine appearance, this instrument had been used in violence. Some measure of imperfections, a pit here, a divot there, a tiny notch elsewhere, could be seen in the reflections of light it threw off, imperfections which spoke of more than wear and tear, and certainly more than public demonstrations at carnivals and fairs. Moreover, even though Lily’s uncle wielded this weapon with some ease, its balance betrayed its weight; this was a heavy sword, and it would cut swiftly, deeply and lethally. These are things I knew instinctively now.

“Of course you know,” said Lily’s uncle, “this is a long knife, not a sword.”

I stood staring at the sword with a smirk on my face. “Well, that beats me,” I said. “We all have to carry a knife, don’t we? Even if it is a knife the length of your forearm!”

“Go fetch yours,” he commanded, “so that you may show me your kingly skills.” Lily’s uncle, with that sword resting in his hand, suddenly took on the appearance of a very solid man, not quite a warrior; he was too old and, truly, too thick for that, but he looked a lot less soft.

We met in the garden out back, behind that little river (of beatific vision), in a manicured area of lawn. There were two benches wrought of metal, painted a bright red, out there beside a few oaks whose branches hung low enough to form a small, natural park area within the back garden; I had never seen this lawn before. The oaks, as I could see from my house, were beautiful enough, especially on clear days, when those pure colors, green and blue, stood against one another, dwarfing the estate of Lily’s family, which stood above the city and its tower far in the lower distance.

I raised up my sword, which was not a bad weapon, but it was unpolished (I always thought to polish it, but always tomorrow), it had some pits in it, and it was certainly not as sharp as its new opponent. He pointed his at me, right at my face, and lunged. I parried his thrust (very deftly, I might add), and feinted to chop off his head. It would have been a lethal blow.

I raised up my sword. Again, he pointed his at me, right at my face, and lunged. I parried his thrust, but this time he had not committed his balance to the thrust. After my parry, he lunged again, feinting to stab me through the chest. It would have been a lethal cut.

I raised up my sword. As usual, he pointed his at me, right at my face. I anticipated his first move by extending my arm out from my body, and I did, indeed, catch his lunge before he was ready. I made to twist his sword out from his body, but he reacted too quickly, using the energy from his initial thrust to push me aside. He feinted to cut my shoulder joint. It would have been a lethal blow.

“You are surprisingly good,” he said, “for one trained by your king; you are more adept than most you will encounter upon the highway and in the wilderness.” He turned to make a little more space between himself and me. He shouted into the tree, “A fine specimen of a young man you have found, my sweet!”

Lily twittered a bit in the doorway, where she was watching from the shadow. I blushed, I think, from pride, I think.

“Put your sword down,” he commanded. “Let us see your defense unarmed.”

While I was still placing my sword upon the ground, he began to race toward me with a roar, sword upraised. I stepped quickly to his right, then stepped forward. In any scenario, he would not likely have been able to strike me. I pivoted on my right foot, rushed at him from behind and pushed him; he did not fall, but he had lost his balance forward. Therefore, I turned and ran the opposite way toward the oaks.

“Well done!” he cried. “Never bring a fist to a sword fight!” Lily giggled.

“No, no, Lily, my sweet,” said her uncle. “He did very well. One never fights when he can instead run. That method is nearly incontrovertible for survival. This man’s instincts are made for survival.”

He wheeled, pointing his sword directly at my face, smiling, then lowering the sword, he said to me, “Is this not a reason to leave the city?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“No mind, my boy,” he said, with the same smile. “Pick up your sword again.”

I did so, and we reset our position.

“Now attack,” he commanded.

This I had never done.

“I do not know how to attack,” I said. “I was a courier, not infantry.”

A look of utter puzzlement came over his face. One eyebrow went up, and eventually a smile made its way out. He said, “So?”

“I was never given a skill to attack, only to defend. My job was to deliver communications, not engage the enemy.”

He lowered his sword and took the three steps toward me. As he had done earlier yesterday, he put his hand upon my shoulder, pulling me close to him, taking possession of me. “Oh,” he said, “this is a lacking in your otherwise fine abilities.” He paused for a moment. For some reason, I felt terrible about not knowing how to attack. “Sometimes, my dear young man, the best defense is a good attack. Come! Let us resume.”

He stepped back to his place. “I will attack,” he said. I raised my sword, and he pointed his directly at my face. He lunged in attack; I parried, but as at the last time, he merely pushed my parry aside, and I was dead.

I raised my sword again, a little frustrated. He would not, I began to realize, commit his weight so that I could throw him off-balance.

The truth was that I had never had occasion to actually kill my opponent. In the Battle for The City, I encountered enemy, but it was commended to me to spare energy for delivering communications, so I rarely engaged. When I engaged, I threw my enemy off-balance, then ran.

He lunged at me, as usual. This time I did not parry immediately, but forced him to commit his weight in my direction. Instead of parrying his sword aside, I spun mine beneath his and threw the blade upwards. When he brought his sword back down, I had shifted my weight toward him, caught his sword with mine, then pushed him backwards. I lunged. He parried and feinted to chop off my head.

I hit my hand upon the flat of my sword.

“Your footwork is good,” Lily’s uncle said. “You have a good imagination, and you are quick with your sword. I will teach you to attack. Experience will teach you the rest.”

I shook my head, looking at my sword blade still sitting in my hand.

“You are always reacting,” he said. “In battle, you will meet many with lesser skills who will overreach or lose balance; in this, reacting is going to result in your advantage. Unfortunately, you will eventually meet with someone who has greater skills than you. He will not lose his balance, and even if he does, he will be able to recover quickly enough to react, which puts you at no advantage.

“If you learn to attack,” he continued, “your enemy will be reacting to you from the inception of battle.”

He paused while I thought about this.

“Unfortunately, my son,” he said, “in order to attack you must decide in your heart that you must kill that man before he even thinks to attack.”

That was enough for me; a slew of questions were released from their pens all at once. “Just stop for a moment,” I said. “Just stop for a moment!”

Lily was looking at me. I looked back at her, biting my lip a little bit, trying to figure out which question was going to go first. This was a crucial decision because Lily’s uncle would, without a doubt, drive the conversation from that point, and the chances of a second question making an escape were small, and for a third question, nil.

“Why would you think,” I began carefully, “that I will meet many?” It was the perfect formulation, asking exactly what I wanted to ask, narrow enough to control the conversation, but broad enough to get some details. On the other hand, I was beginning to realize that perhaps I had a faulty picture of the world outside the city, in any direction. The question I was asking was really in response to several questions asked of me by Lily’s father and uncle, and by several odd statements—the very fact that I was in training for sword fighting was surreal to me; I had my sword along more for protection from wild critters, not wild men, and it was military issue, besides, not terribly valuable for money, but reliable in case of emergency. It was true that I could imagine road bandits, but the token from my financier was not negotiable by anyone other than myself. Certain identifying marks known only by me and other financiers and facsimiles of which were delivered system-wide by couriers under strictest circumstances for countersigning purposes prevented a thief from actually making use of any tokens I might have on my person. How difficult could it be to escape if I simply did everything the bandit said? Why would he do me harm that required an existential defense? Well, this practice sword fighting was beginning to cause the vision of my travels to corrupt. I returned my eyes to Lily. She was still looking at me. I began to think she understood more than I did. I felt ashamed, and I let my eyes drop. She turned into the house and disappeared from view. I felt a little pang.

“Son,” said Lily’s uncle, “you have no home; this city is no longer safe, as you know. The roads are not safe. The way north is not a road in some places. Barbarians have overrun much of the world beyond the city, and they are pressing toward the city. As soon as they can reorganize—and all they need is a leader—they will take this city.”

I felt something wash over me, cold and powerful.

“Barbarians destroy,” he continued, “but they cannot maintain. They destroy themselves. Civilized men will find new paths to avoid the barbarians while they pursue in madness; we will create new roads when barbarians pass away.”

“Well, that’s hopeful,” I said.

“True,” he said. “Unfortunately, barbarians do not just ‘pass away,’ as I put it. Instead, they have to be forcibly pushed aside, with prejudice and without mercy. With violence.”

“With warfare,” I said.

“Warfare, I suppose,” he said. “But warfare belongs to civilized men; it is a way to destroy within boundaries and limits, to engage each other for the benefit of at least one of the entities. Barbarians only know to destroy. You cannot engage barbarians on any field. You must invade their homes, if you can find them, drag them out, tear their babies from their wives, and destroy them violently.”

I thought for moment, then said, “That’s barbaric.”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “It is.”

He paused for a moment, then said, “Do you think the barbarian is a lesser being than yourself?”

I thought to myself, “One question. He controls the conversation after only one question. Did he even answer it?” And then aloud, after I searched my mind for the direction he wished to go so that I could resist it, I said, “In truth? I have no idea.” I didn’t have a picture of a barbarian in my mind with which to answer that question. So I tried to take the upper hand by saying, “I don’t suppose that the two of us are going to conquer the barbarians by ourselves, are we?”

“No,” he replied. “We will not. The king’s army will accomplish that. When do you think that your king will begin the reconquest?”

I scoffed, saying, “Only after many people in the city are dead.”

“Will you wait for that?”

Did I really believe this man’s words? I looked toward the doorway where there was no Lily. The ghost of her form appeared in my mind’s eye, standing there, looking at me. Was it true?

We were already partners, somehow, Lily’s uncle, whose name I did not know, beyond his surname, a nondescript foreign name: Fieldstone. Even my father struggled to pinpoint the provenance of Fieldstone. It was foreign; that was for sure, but it was old, and it sounded ancient.

For my father, the question was whether the name came out of a circumstance of some farming civilization, where fields had to be cleared, or whether the name came out of some grazing or merchant civilization, where fields had to be apportioned, judged by the placement and location of certain stones. He had other hypotheses, did my father: perhaps it came from a religious circumstance of a plateau-dwelling people who thought that they should stand stones up and worship them as gods. This one he dismissed because Lily’s father was so irreligious at times, almost publicly denouncing the King’s religion; perhaps it came from an entirely different meaning of the word “field,” namely that “stone” was the family’s field of expertise, that is to say, they were masons, quarrymen, or jewelers.

I never understood the passion with which my father considered such things, when it satisfied him enough to know that Lily’s father was a foreigner.

Even though many questions remained in my mind, I knew without a doubt that I was going to be traveling to the north country with Lily’s uncle. Among the answers to the questions lay a desire to provide security for Lily, a need to escape from some memories, a compulsion to partner with a man older than myself. A nice long journey would certainly provide the time necessary to disentangle all these answers so that I could join them to their questions.

For example, my relationship with Lily was, until a quantifiable number of hours ago, not much more than my observing, along with many of my peers, that she was a thing of extraordinary beauty and personable charm. In truth, even though the woman was a template for beauty and charm, she was still very young, and I imagined that either an older and more secure man would lay claim to her and she would be given to him, or that a younger man unknown to anyone would rise up, someone with far more ambition and talent than I, someone whom she would choose. At the very least, one of my peers would wrestle more anxiously for her, outsmart such as me, and win her. And then she cried, she awakened me, and she watched me fighting with a sword. She surprised me, and my wakedness was like the stirring of ashes in the morning, looking for a coal to reignite a flame. I remembered being ambitious, or having the feeling of ambition, or thinking that I should have been ambitious. It seemed that it was always a fleeting notion. I could not imagine being a thick, hard man, wielding a sword against some terrifying one of the horde in the middle of a wilderness. I could easily imagine being taken from where I was and made to go somewhere else and do something else.

After a light supper of more leftovers, we gathered together once again to continue our conversations. Lily’s uncle praised my sword techniques and general athleticism and field presence to the entire family. He boasted and I blushed at the attention.

“So this is why the whole city talks of him!” exclaimed Lily’s mother.

“Well, I don’t think that anyone really talks of me now,” I said. “It was only a small, little thing, anyway, two years ago.”

“Their talk still rings in my ears,” she replied. “Though you may have forgotten it.”

“Will you tell me,” asked Lily, “what the city said of you? What did you do?”

“I ran,” I said. And I looked down at my feet.

“Couriers do more than run,” said Lily’s uncle. “Do tell our fair Lily the eventuation of that day.”

“Can you tell it, instead?” I asked in the direction of Lily’s father.

“No,” he said.

I sighed, then said, “Let me recall the day.” How did it go? How did it all “eventuate”? How could I change the outcome?

“Well, in the end, my family survives,” I said.

“Pain,” entered Lily’s father, “is a feature of all our lives, especially when war comes from the fields to cross our thresholds.”

I looked at him, and I felt a fire kindle upward, a fire I did not want.

“But when war comes, we must fix it in our minds, in its details, especially victory,” he said further. “Even though victory comes at the cost of our families and our consciences.”

“How many more evil things are to come to you…” said Lily’s uncle. I didn’t know if he was issuing a prophetic statement or asking a rhetorical question. “Many years are waiting for you, yet you are already prepared for much more than you have already seen.”

It sounded like a prophetic statement born out of wisdom, but I was hoping that it was foolishness.

“I was the King’s courier,” I began. “Chosen because I was not old nor tall nor strong, but also because I was not too slight a figure, nor too slow of mind. It was a matter of all of us of the same general build and characteristics being lined up, numbered off, and the lots chose us. I became the King’s courier.

“Along with basic training for the army discipline, I was trained in defensive swordsmanship and endurance running. In addition, I was trained to memorize long streams of coded messages. Some of the codes I was given so that basic commands could be interpreted by me under certain circumstances. Other codes I was not given so that, if captured, I could never reveal a secret. Oh, and I forgot surveillance and reconnaissance. I was trained in those, too.”

Lily’s uncle laughed, “You had as much training as any junior officer!”

“Now, now,” cajoled Lily’s father. “It depends on the regiment. He may have had more training than a junior officer!”

I shook my head in disgust and bitterness, then continued, “So that’s the context. I’m in great shape, I have a specialized job delivering communication between the outposts and the command post, and especially between the command post and the King’s stronghold.”

“Yes,” chuckled Lily’s uncle again, “because in a skirmish or battle, an army wishes its king to be completely hidden from view.”

More bitterness made me shudder a little bit, but I continued again, looking directly at Lily. I said, “My older brother had been made a sentry south of the city, toward the harbor, along the river bank. My mother was particularly happy, I remember, because we were both away from the front lines.

“An army from a distant land, or at least led by a king from a distant land, had broken through the outer defenses of the King’s territories to the north and east of the city, so he marshaled up military forces to defend the city. He massed all the active units and all the reserve units in the general north and east portions of the city. His thought was that any king from so distant a land would try to attack the city forthwith because his armies would not have the patience to maintain discipline, not an army with the mass to conquer the city. For the most part, he was correct.

“However, as the attack approached, I made the observation, along with some of the generals with whom I was in the line of communication, that this foreign army was missing a contingent of its mass: the heavy infantry. Surely this foreign king did not make such a journey and organize such a contingent in order to bring against the city several units of light infantry, some archers, and a few other light units. My task, then, was to act as scout whenever I was in a high place of the city, with my eyes to the south. The generals sent their own ground reconnaissance, especially to the north, expecting that route to be the easier to travel undetected.

“This foreign king was a shrewd king. He massed the entirety of that light contingent against the forces of the King without leaving any reserve. They struck rapidly and with ferocity, with little organization, but occupying our main defenses and our own reserves, even in a futile effort. It was not quite a diversion, but it was certainly a feint. This was not the main attack, but we could not find the main, trained and organized fighting force of that army; when had it departed from the rest of the army? Which direction had it gone? What was its objective?

“It became apparent to me—and without my knowing it, to one of the generals—and look, I’m nothing special here. The fog of this battle was thick; anyone could have done this. It just so happened that I was the man at the place. Without my being a courier, it would have been discovered all the same.”

“That is not so certain,” said Lily’s father. “In the fog of war, character and will are tested. Not every man performs as you did.”

“Well, at any rate,” I continued, “it became apparent to me that we were dealing with a king of a talented military mind and the will to be audacious. He had correctly anticipated the King’s defensive moves and had exploited them, not because the King was stupid—”

“Ha!” cried out Lily’s uncle.

“—nor his generals,” I continued, “but because this king was better. In a flash it came to me that if it were me, if I wanted to attack the city while this feint with my light units still occupied the defensive forces as a whole, I would coordinate a special raid against the south sentry posts, which would with certainty serve as a diversionary tactic, while this heavy infantry slipped past the southern watch areas unnoticed, or at worst, slowly reported.

“Once beyond the more fortified southern areas of the city, I would swing north before the rising of the bluffs. Again, the entire city is looking eastward; once beyond the southern watch areas, I would be able to enter into the city from the west without any resistance.

“I ran from the eastern boundaries of the city straight to the western boundaries without checking the southern watch areas. I found the missing heavy infantry already conducting door-to-door clearing operations, killing everyone, even the young women, fighting without support or reserve, but without much resistance.”

“Why do you think this foreign king attacked in such a way without any warning or diplomacy at all?” asked Lily’s uncle.

“Hush,” said Occuri. “I have not heard this tale before, not like this.”

I resumed, saying, “I ran straight north where I encountered one of the generals’ couriers; he was exhausted from his searching outside the city, so we dispatched him to raise the alarm and me to run to find reserves to come to the western quarters of the city.

“Fortunately, the one general had already dispatched a fighting unit straight westward. I was pleased to discover them, and I directed them to the enemy unit. Since they were a smaller company of men, I was sent back with a message to send a larger contingent. That company was completely annihilated.”

I paused for a moment.

“Yes, my boy,” said Lily’s father, “but they slowed the advance with their sacrifice.”

“Did your father die with a weapon in his hand?” asked Lily’s uncle.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then he was likewise a hero,” he said.

I could see my father’s corpse now, sprawled face down in his own blood; a hole had been carved into his back by a spear thrust through his gut. His eyes were open. His mouth was open. Flies were alighting on them, but they did not blink or move. His right arm lay contorted, stretched both toward and away from his sword. It did not move to swat the flies. His left arm was pinned beneath his body. His body had no life in it. His sword did have blood on it.

Men and women all around were wailing throughout the neighborhood, also finding brothers, fathers, sisters, mothers and children in blood. Even so, I could not suppress the feeling that I was suddenly desolated, alone. My knees began to buckle, and no matter how hard I shook my head, I became too dizzy to stand, so I put my hand against the wall, slumped down to the floor, and heaved sobs into the ground. When I raised my head for breath, my father’s eyes were staring directly into mine. Terror had seized him, and peace did not come to him before his life ended.

His wife, my mother, was killed in the back room, also with a spear. Someone else had hacked my sister’s life from her with a sword. Everyone must have been struck within seconds of each other, first my father. Rescue was frolicking out back.

“I ran back to a commanding officer and briefed him. To his credit, he immediately dispatched a runner to inform a general. Within minutes, our best units had been taken off the feint and were sent to defend the western quarters. Of course, our remaining units were hard-pressed to win the defense of their city, but they stood their ground. The foreign king, when he must have realized that we had discovered his maneuver, called the remainder of his forces away from the city, withdrawing out of sight with our men in pursuit. He escaped with most of his remaining army; they had been trained to retreat.

“They didn’t burn nor rape; they just cut a swath of death through this broad corridor on the western edge of the city, and then they largely made their escape,” I said. “They killed as many as they could as quickly as they could, then fled.”

“Their interest,” said Lily’s uncle, “was to kill people of the king of this city.”

“I have not heard an explanation to this day that satisfies me,” I said.

“What have you heard?” asked Lily’s father.

“The public explanation is,” I said, “that there was some sort of blood revenge, a personal vendetta against the King. Innocent or guilty, that doesn’t seem like a very good reason to raise an army, train it, march from afar, attack, then have a plan of hasty retreat.”

“No,” said Lily’s father. “It is not satisfactory. The foreign king was on a conquering campaign from the east, from beyond the mountains, and from the south of that region.”

I looked at him with a blank stare, no doubt, because I did not understand his point, but I didn’t want to seem the ignoramus in front of Lily.

He sighed, then resumed, saying, “The coastlands are populated, but not centrally-organized. The highlands are not populated, but very tribally organized. A leader had organized them on the promise of conquest, and he fulfilled that promise, right up to the point of conquering this city.

“He was a military genius, and something of a political genius, but only within his own context.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“When he crossed the mountains, he pillaged and looted every village and outpost of your king, as you know. Those villages and outposts were a stabilizing feature in the producing regions of the lower hill-country of the eastern part of his kingdom.

“Even though this eastern king’s army was happy, well-fed, enriching themselves, gaining valuable experience in the full-frontal melee attack tactics, he did not think to buy local support. His skilled infantry, in particular, were notorious in cruelty, using the population as training fodder, killing leaders.

“It was a dumb move for a man who had such admirable skill in his own lands.”

“ ‘A dumb move’?” his brother mocked.

“There is no other way to put it,” Lily’s father retorted. “It was a dumb move to totally destabilize the region in this way. One may think from this that he was overconfident, but he had clearly thought of an escape route, even training his army to retreat. No, I think it was flat thoughtlessness.”

“That’s better,” said Lily’s uncle.

“Indeed,” snorted Lily’s father. “Nevertheless, he fully expected to take this city by murdering uninhibited quickly, but your act of valor ruined his plan.”

“I’ve heard that before, too,” I said, “but I don’t understand it. I merely did what I was supposed to do.”

“You were not supposed to look to the western quarters, nor were you supposed to raise an alarm in those quarters, nor were you supposed to keep running. Not many men have the will to continue apace and maintain good sense.” said Lily’s mother.

I was surprised to hear her, surprised again. Her words were so immediate when she spoke.

“You must understand further,” said Lily’s father, “that his plan was working. Your king did a very foolish thing—for which he is well-known—by massing his forces to one side of the city. It is a shame how the king of this city is…” he paused, looking for the correct expression, “…of varying character from generation to generation.”

There was a bit of silence as he and his brother enjoyed a moment of intense merriment at the expense of my sensibilities, which I shared with all my countrymen.

“The king from the east had planned properly,” said Lily’s father, “to draw attention to a large mass of fighting men while sending skilled infantry to a lightly defended section of the city. This had been a prime objective of the entire fighting force from the moment they began to navigate those mountains on their way here.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I roam,” said Lily’s uncle, “meandering from one rumor to another. Our business depends upon it. It is amazing how much fact can be squeezed from rumor, especially when more than one rumor explain the same set of circumstances.”

“Another several hundred yards,” continued Lily’s father, “of that heavy infantry’s advance into the city would have brought your king to his knees. This city would have capitulated within hours.”

I blanched.

“You do not think so?” he asked. “A populace mourning its dead is not one that thinks much on its own existence.”

This seemed true. I remembered my own inability to control grief, how physical, perceptible, tangible my feelings were. My body heaved, did not sleep, would not eat, and heaved some more.

“A sizable minority of the populace would have been ineffective as a political force of defensive will. They would have demanded terms of peace very loudly, even if peace required abject poverty at that very moment.

“Destroying the city was not an objective of this eastern king; he intended to destroy life and will.

“The fog of war, however, rolls away strangely. It was supposed to have been that communication from one side of the city to another would be very slow. Unfortunately for him, men of the city discerned his plan and had the will to confute it. Your running saved the city.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “A large number of my neighbors died with my family—” I turned to Lily to ask, “Did you know my brother was killed on his sentry duty? His throat was slit from behind by advance reconnaissance of that heavy infantry marching through the southern watch areas. I found out about it two days later.

“Besides, nothing particularly good comes to me of having the credit of this military feat of running.” I thought about making a pun there, but I was too tired to try it.

“That may be true,” said Lily’s father. “But none of the circumstances are changed. There is more to this tale; are you interested in its continuation?”

I thought that was a strange question.

“Yes, of course.”

“Upon seeing your deed,” he said, “the foreign king called for a general retreat. When rumor of his retreat made its way through the countryside ahead of his army—along his army’s path of advance—the populace staged an uprising. Without good leadership to speak good sense to them, they simply took revenge, first by stoning the stragglers and wounded, then by gradually accumulating arms in these small skirmishes.

“It was really quite something to hear: a loose-knit group of villages and outposts somehow organizes around embittered anger, then demonstrates a collective ability to attack in piecemeal, and finally so thoroughly demoralizes the eastern army that the king was forced to disband it and return home. The outraged populace had a habit of attacking rear-echelon ranks, taking arms, then attacking more forcefully, using their knowledge of the terrain to a distinct advantage.

“An army that may have the ability to sweep through the land and nearly accomplish an audacious conquest of a huge city may not have the ability to manage its way home through an angry countryside. Those people consumed them as a flame consumes a log.”

“The king who ruthlessly killed my mother and father and sister is dead?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” exclaimed Lily’s father. “He is quite safe back in his own kingdom, but he did lose control over the southern and western coastlands of his lands, and he will not be marching with an army again.”

“So this is justice from heaven?” I said. “A king murders for the sake of murder, and he returns home with all of the shame of having not murdered enough? This is justice?”

I was talking less to him or Lily or Occuri than I was to the fire or the wall or out the window. Justice from heaven…I couldn’t believe I said that, a phrase uttered tirelessly by the most tiresome people under so many circumstances that it had lost its meaning. I did believe that a cry went up from me when I found my father, even in the midst of mass grief, community pain, a cry for justice, vengeance, repayment to my very self, my life, my being, a cry that demanded an answering. Only forces faraway could draw near to this city, full of mighty people, technology, learning, wisdom, power, to give me back my father and everything he gave me that was lost when that spear went through his innards.

“Perhaps this is why I’m walking away from this city,” I said aloud.

“What’s that now?” Lily’s uncle asked.

Lily’s forehead had creased ever so slightly. Occuri actually smiled a bit.

Lily’s father spoke, “Nathet, my boy, you embody your own name.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “Two years has not taken away a certain—what does my name mean?”

“Nathet doesn’t really mean anything at all,” said Lily’s uncle, “but it resembles a word from another language—it probably came down through the ages as such—which says ‘he causes to wander,’ or ‘it is without substance.’”

“How do you know these things?” I wished I had been counting how frequently I asked that question.

“I wander,” he answered with a smile, “from language to language. Languages give me a doorway into the past. One becomes two, and two becomes three without learning a third.”

Lily stirred, “Oh, Uncle! Your riddles are too much!”

Lily’s father explained, saying, “One language we are taught by our mothers. Another language is learned. That makes two. Languages all have similarities, and a comparison and contrast of the two reveals a third language, a language that lurks beneath the sounds and clattering that runs from our lungs into our mouths and out beyond our teeth and noses.”

“A language of the heart?” I said.

“No!” cried out Lily’s uncle. “It is truly a third language, with all its own vocabulary and structure. It is never uttered, however, because to utter it makes it a second language.”

“Is it an ancient language?” I asked.

“Ah!” cried out Lily’s uncle. “Indeed, it is! And this ancient language has been forever obscured to our tongues, but,” and here he held up his right hand to his temple, with his fingers pursed, as though to point directly at the spot inside his brain where this ancient tongue was trapped, “it is ‘zip-zap-zoo’ in our minds; it speaks our first and second languages for us, even without our knowing, especially without our knowing when we do not have a second language.”

Lily’s father laughed, bellowed at his brother’s demonstration. Lily giggled at her uncle, and Occuri continued to smile a bit.

“For you,” began Lily’s uncle, undeterred, “Nathet,” and pausing for a moment while his brother recovered, “it boils over without your discipline.”

“In spite of my discipline,” I said.

“That will come with time,” he retorted, then resumed. “It boils over, causing you to speak without substance, but reflecting wandering.”

“This eastern king does have peace,” said Lily’s father. “This is a great mystery to all good people. It has always been this way. It has always been that a great king, who has charge over a mass of people, can murder and destroy—imagine if he had chosen to lay siege—bringing ruin to every individual under his sun. Then, at worst, this same man inherits wealth, pleasure, and rest to a lesser or greater degree.

“Such a man who meets a violent end befitting his rise to power and accumulation of wealth is treated as an aberration of justice, with only a few celebrating his demise.”

“This should not be true,” I said. “This is a perpetration of the most sacred order.”

“You speak of the sacred too confidently,” said Lily’s uncle.

I thought for a moment, annoyed, “Then it is a perpetration of some important order.”

“Well done!” said Lily’s uncle.

“And it is true,” said Lily’s father, “that this important order is to be considered sacred.”

I felt some minor vindication until he added, “And it is true that you speak of the sacred too confidently.

“Let us speak of sacred order that is undisturbed through all the ages, known and unknown, with certainty,” he said. “When do you desire to leave the city?”

“A few days ago,” I said. “Before I came to be a resident here, under guard, and under training.” I glanced at Lily; she was looking at me, and then she quickly looked away toward her father or her mother.

“And you desire to travel to the north country,” he continued. “Is this so?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Very good,” he said. “Then it will be so unless you reconsider.”

I paused because he was looking at me very directly, and Lily’s uncle was peering at me from beneath his massive forehead. The hour, I suddenly noticed, had grown late. And so I said, “I feel tired. Perhaps it is time to consider retiring for the evening.”

Polite chuckling emerged from the two men, and the two women stirred themselves in agreement.

We retired to our places, I again on my new hide on the floor. My shoulders were already aching from holding up a sword in mock battle; lying on the floor made them shoot pain, so I lay on my back. Never, I thought to myself, in a million years will I fall asleep lying on my back. I reached for some of the loose ends in our conversations, hoping to tie them up myself, without the interminable leading of the two Fieldstone men. Foreigners.

An army had broken through from the east two years ago. They did not destroy crops or buildings. They did murder people. They murdered brutally the leaders of the people. I had never heard this. Perhaps it was said to me, but I could not hear. Now I could hear because I was going into this country. Was it not the King’s country? Certainly! No?

An army returns through the same country, wounded. Both are wounded, both the country and the army. The people are wounded to the point of survival. They have no leaders. Ordered leadership, no. Natural leadership, perhaps. Natural leadership brings envy and unrest. Hordes follow natural leadership. The people are not merely a horde; they are a bloodthirsty horde. A natural leader gives them a sharp point. No, not a sharp point. A natural leader gives them a blunt weapon. No, not a blunt weapon. What is a weapon that tears with a powerful grip, tears flesh? Teeth. A people wounded to the point of survival sees their attacker with his back turned, unsuspecting. A natural leader gives the people a taste of blood, and they drink their own death.

This is a people dead. This is a people which did not survive its wounding. For two years this people has torn at itself, tasting blood, having now an insatiable hunger for blood, and more than blood, for fire, for everything destructive. These people have become barbarians. They had ample property, treasuries of wealth, ample stores of food; crops and buildings had been spared by this king from the east, with a far smaller population to support. They had no need for ordered leadership to live easily. And so each to his own, without allegiance to anyone or any principles. Their wrath certainly had spread beyond the countryside beneath the mountains.

These people were the King’s own people; these people are my people. These people swarm the roads and passes of all the land between the city and the North country.

And I fell asleep.