Appo awoke reaching for his left hand. He had dreamt of it rolling away, as if it had just snapped off like a porcelain doll’s. As he came to, a deep numbing pain rose up his arm, becoming a deep itch impossible to relieve. He caressed his nub, hoping it would distract him. He had spoken to amputees who complained of such experiences. They claimed the pain would never go away.

“Just another reassuring thought.”

A long and cold night sleeping on hard sandstone did little to revitalize Appo. His soreness lingered, even if all he did was passively direct his camel. As hot as it was, he forgot how cold the desert could be at night. He suddenly envied the others, who had slept warm on the backs of their camels.

One of Isbibarra’s torches illuminated the room. The camels were still asleep, though their riders were missing. “They must be getting ready upstairs,” Appo thought. “Wonder how long I’ve been out this time?”

Upon climbing the spiral staircase, Appo found Gizzal crouched beneath one of the window slits. Isbibarra sat at the fire pit, maintaining a modest flame upon a small number of twigs. It was nighttime again. Appo had slept through the sunset.

“Keep your voice down,” said Isbibarra. He was smoking his pipe, sitting over a small pot of boiling water. “Gizzal sees others in the distance.”

“Screamers?” Appo asked.

“Doubtful,” said Gizzal, not turning from his spot. “Come here. Help settle a debate I’ve been having with this blind fool.”

Appo crouched and made his way to Gizzal. The portly man lay flat, his head peering over the edge of the window with an intense glare. Perhaps a league away, Appo could see a small cluster of five torches in the middle of a wide valley. It was impossible to tell how many were in the group.

“Doesn’t feel like raiders,” said Gizzal. “They’ve been sitting for a while. Maybe a couple of lost souls?”

Appo had no idea. “Are they looking for the tower?” he asked.

“I don’t think so... They came from the south, but turned west before settling. The tower would be impossible to miss if they knew where to look.”

“Ah… maybe desertfolk, then?”

“Possibly… I think we should go to them. They could help us.”

“Absolutely not,” said Isbibarra, speaking up. “Assume that everyone wants to kill you. We should let them pass, or we should strike first.”

“But what if circumstances have changed?” replied Gizzal. “We can’t be completely sure what is ahead of us. Besides, more people means more protection, right?”

Appo struggled with the suggestions. Returning the pendant to Zabukama was their priority, and there was no telling who was out there or how violent they were. But on the off chance that they were desertfolk, they were in the middle of a land of raiders that had become infested with screamers. They needed shelter. Being this visible was a death sentence in such a land.

“Isbibarra is right,” said Appo, after some thinking. “It’s best to stay here for now. At least until we can figure out who these people are.”

Gizzal grumbled as he slid down from his vantage point. “To think I thought you were a healer.” It was an unexpectedly terse thing to say.

“Traveling tonight would be a poor choice,” reiterated Isbibarra. “We should stay awake until they move on… Appo, you are welcome to get more rest, but if not I have prepared figweed tea. We should drink, it will help pass the time.”

“Fine,” said Gizzal. He sat down at the fire pit across from Isbibarra, pouting like an irate toddler. “As if a fucking tea party will make me forget we’re at war with the dead!”

Isbibarra lifted the pot, pouring hot water into saucers with two leaves each. “Figweed tea is prepared in many ways. Most drink it straight, as they get an instant cool relief. They rush to their joy. But when the weather is agreeable? Boil the water and put the leaves in after. Brings out the flavor. Nothing in Ostior tastes better.”

He handed the saucers to Appo and Gizzal, letting them drink. It was overwhelmingly hot at first, but its heat quickly subsided to a cool, lingering sensation. It indeed was refreshing, but the tea was so bitter Appo could only drink so much. Gizzal had no such quarrels, chugging it quickly before requesting another.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“This is very good,” said Appo.

“Indeed,” agreed Gizzal. “Does it pair with drawstring?”

Isbibarra smiled. “Most things do. Take as much as you like.”

Gizzal laughed. “I learned my lesson last time.” He took Isbibarra’s pipe, it barely touching his lips before handing it back. “You should have the rest though. I have a feeling this will be the last time we can relax for a while.”

Isbibarra nodded as he huffed his pipe. The three sat in silence, each content with watching their pathetic flame consume what few twigs remained. Despite being so close to others, no one dared to suggesting killing the fire. There would be one last night of normalcy before heading into Zabukama.

“This is a shit way to pass time,” announced Gizzal. “Anyone have a story to tell? Any tales of debauchery or adventure? I’d love to hear fanciful stories of women, though I doubt either of you could tell one the right way.”

Neither Appo or Isbibarra responded. Isbibarra appeared lost in his drawstring. Appo himself was only half listening. He found himself drifting off more often since he had awakened at the raider camp. His felt as if his mind was slower, and that it would never return.

“I’m not in the storytelling mood,” said Appo. “You have anything to share?”

Gizzal opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. “Shit, not really. You both aren’t exactly the most engaging crowd.”

Isbibarra exhaled. “‘Tuudit sykloniin.’ It is something by people used to say before going into battle. This is our last moment of reprieve. Now is the time to reflect on our lives and what we are fighting for. We will tell our stories after.”

Gizzal laughed. “I’ll pass, respectfully.” He appeared loose even after just one puff of drawstring. “Does anyone know a joke? Consider it cultural intermingling.”

Isbibarra furrowed his eyebrows. “I am not sure what is humorous about our current situation.”

“No, like… You know what a joke is, right? Mercks go to wars over trees, how do you not find that hilarious?”

Isbibarra leaned back, taking another huff from his pipe. “Millenia of war is a poor source of laughter, friend.”

Gizzal leaned forward, frustrated by the lack of progress. “Fuck it. I’ll start. This is a joke I used to share with the Heads. It goes something like this… The king of Digerraki wishes to teach his people not to eat. In his kingly wisdom, he bans food from his city. After a month, his people die of starvation. The king is understandably upset, and he visits his priest. The priest, having heard of the king’s misfortune, comforts him. ‘You have endured a great loss,’ the priest tells him. ‘It is a great loss indeed,’ replies the king. ‘Just when I taught them not to eat, they died!’”

Gizzal reared his head back in laughter. After a few seconds, he realized he was the only one laughing. “Come on! Do you two not get it?”

“Yep,” replied Appo.

“The king was very foolish,” said Isbibarra. “It was terrible leadership. And why did his people not revolt? This is a bad story.”

“Ati’s dirt, you both are dense. Urash always appreciated that joke.” Gizzal gestured to Isbibarra. “You try then. Just say something funny. Anything that would make Soturi chuckle.”

Isbibarra held his chin, rubbing the sides. “Alright. This is an old parable but I believe it is appropriate… Many centuries ago, a Keisari dreamt he was a bonsai tree. His sixty years of life became six hundred. His roots traveled deep, his trunk was strong, and his leaves were colorful and majestic. He knew not that he was once Keisari, the ruler of all Merkamensa, and he did not care. He was instead a beautiful tree, carefully cultivated by generations of care. Suddenly, he awoke and he was Keisari again. Centuries of memories faded, but he did not know what he had become. Was he Keisari, who had dreamed of becoming a bonsai? Or was he a bonsai, now dreaming of being a Keisari?”

“That’s not quite a joke,” said Gizzal. “That was more… philosophical nonsense.”

Isbibarra leaned back, unconcerned. “It is funny because the Keisari does not know what is real and what is a dream. He will spend the rest of his life questioning his reality. Just like the rest of us.”

“That’s actually interesting,” said Appo. “How often do we go around assuming what we know is certain? What may be true and obvious to us now may not, in fact, be real. Think of all the Ashfolk who believed that Malefica started the plague.”

Gizzal shook his head. “Nope I’m stopping this right now. Let me try another joke, this one is much better. Lets see, uh… A raider, a priest, and a yak walk into a brothel-”

“I do not wish to hear this one,” Isbibarra interjected. “Sounds vulgar.”

“When did you become so uptight? At least give me a chance to tell it first.”

“If you wish to share repugnant stories, save it for the other Heads. I do not wish my thoughts to be of fornication on this night.”

“Look, it doesn’t have to be about women. The brothel can be full of men if you prefer, I truly don’t care either way.”

Isbibarra’s face turned cold. He appeared both unnaturally calm and stiff, speaking slow but stern. “You speak out of turn. I did not save your life to listen to foolish riddles. Your very presence is a waste of time, and I wish I had not gone out of my way to save you.”

The coldness of Isbibarra’s remark was unexpected. Gizzal fell silent, as did Isbibarra. Both realized that they each said too much.

Appo twiddled his thumbs. He had been quiet himself for most part, but this needed to be defused. He couldn’t spend the rest of the trip with everyone at odds. What they were up against was bigger than this pettiness.

“I don’t know any jokes, but I have a story I look back upon sometimes that I think is quite funny. I once treated a man in Beyshran who had become sick with pox fever. I suspect he was a failed banker or a politician, I don’t really know. Now, for pox fever you need to rest the body. My advice was basic self care: ‘drink your water, stay in the shade, and let your body recover.’ He was down on his luck, and was concerned he couldn’t pay for my services. I told him he could pay me once he recovered, it wasn’t unheard of. After a month, I returned to check in on him. I discovered he was still very sick. I asked his wife why he was, for the fever should have passed by then. She told me that for the last month, he had done nothing but drink wine and refused to go inside. I asked ‘why would he do that? That was the opposite of what I told him,’ and she told me: ‘he has to stay like this. If he gets healthy then he’d have to pay!’”

Appo kept his gaze at the fire. The reaction was slow, but gradually the others loosened up. Gizzal chuckled, and Isbibarra huffed his pipe again before he allowed a small giggle. It was a muted reaction, but it cooled the tension.

For the first time in a long time, the three men shared a laugh.