They prepared a room for him, a cheap cubicle in the first floor of the local inn. The bed was too small. Look at it from the corner of your eye under the dim candle light and you could imagine it writhe with bed bugs. That pious-looking girl paid for everything—Jorge wondered where it was that a priestess lumbered around with coin. He was fed, then forced to submit to a bath from the inn’s stewardesses, which only made the entire situation more embarrassing. They reddened and averted their gaze at the sight of him naked. So Jorge relented to the brushing and soaping, reasoning that if he smelled that bad and looked this horrendous he ought to let them do their job as quickly as possible.
He was given fresh clothes. Or more accurately, hand-me-downs from the innkeeper who was a man of similar stature. He wore them underneath his scaled fur cape. The fabric felt tight against Jorge’s chest. When he resembled a citizen of the civilized world and not a caveman, he was even dragged to what he surmised was a dentist. A wiry, twitchy man poked around his mouth with a mirror on a spoon, making him gag multiple times. Words were had between the man and his assistant, and before Jorge could react, leather bindings were around his wrists. The dentist pulled the cord of the infernal machine by his side. Combustion roared, fans ventilated the exhaust. Steam hissed and concentrated at the tip of a tool the man yanked free from the engine. Jorge watched with wide eyes as the screeching drill was brought closer and closer to his mouth. The man smiled, rubbing his shoulder affectionately.
Jorge yelled like he never had. A year in the forest eating nuts, berries, and game; his mouth had become a teeming ecosystem. After a long, painful extinction however, Jorge touched his teeth with his tongue, and didn’t regret letting them do that to him. When he closed the door behind him, the priestess stood alone in an empty waiting room, ushering him to come with. He followed, feeling somewhat indebted.
He had underestimated the advancement of this culture. They seemed to have currency, technology, healthcare, and libraries. Each came with its own quirky twist. The books on the shelves rearranged themselves. When the priestess said something aloud, one of them poked their spines out to be snatched. She pointed at a chair. Jorge sat. The girl flipped to one of the first pages and pointed at the first glyph at the top.
“Eta,” she said.
Jorge gave her a weird look.
“Eta,” she repeated.
“E-eta.”
That pleased her. Her finger slid to the right.
“Beu.”
“Beu.” Jorge clued in on what he was expected to do.
At night he laid in bed beside his trusty axe. By luck the angle allowed him view of the moon through the tiny clerestory window. The celestial companion was a pearlescent orb, clean, unblemished. Not riddled with acne and liver spots like the Luna of Earth. It was obvious before, but the mind benefited from such visual minutiae; Jorge wasn’t in Kansas anymore, and no amount of heel clicking was going to send him anywhere. He had no shoes besides an old pair sandals anyhow, graciously gifted by the innkeeper as well, who seemed happy to meet a similarly bulked fellow.
As early as the sun began to rise he was woken to go to the library again, and there he would spend all day. Another girl, dressed in the dark uniform, brought food to them. She looked lithe, motive. They all did. Especially her friends on the rooftops outside the library’s wall-height windows. They ducked when they thought he might notice them. They were too slow. That explained why there seemed to be no guards accompanying the priestess, not that they were equipped to stop him if he became upset.
While he half-heartedly paid attention, he ruminated on his experiences. Magic was real here. And people became stronger if they killed. How did that work? Was one awarded the kill if the trigger of a machine that did the killing was pulled? The rules were unclear. It was a frightening thought nonetheless. Jorge imagined the consequences of introducing a young individual from Earth into such a place, how quickly their minds would start to see other human beings as power piñatas. Good thing he was so neurotypical and well-adjusted. He smirked at the self-deprecating joke.
“Please! Pay attention!”
“Sorry, go ahead,” he said.
The girl blinked, taken aback by the response. Recovering her pace, she continued with the lesson.
Come evening he returned to the inn and saw a couple servers struggle to move a crate into the kitchens. He took a minute to carry it for them. When the innkeeper returned, the servers told him what happened. Jorge was pulled into a few rounds of drinking with them after the chairs were flipped onto the tables and the counters wiped. They spoke fast, merrily, and in dialects; he couldn’t understand them. The ale was good though. And the mood alone wrestled a smile out of him. When the night was over he was charged to lift one more time, to bring the stumbling innkeeper back to his room. The man made a fist and tapped Jorge’s chest, laughing heartily before falling asleep right on top of the blankets. Jorge tucked the giant infant in and returned to his room.
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When morning came the priestess wrinkled her nose.
“Have you been drinking?”
He shrugged. Their lessons continued. This time they did not go to the library. Instead the girl took him around the town, pointing at various objects and saying their name. Carriage. Tree. Bench. Pigeon. Fruit. Stopping by a street food stall, she’d give him a coin and tilt her head towards the selection. Jorge looked uneasily at the display. The things on a stick looked appropriately exotic. He recognized what could be sweetmeats and rolls of colored starches in powdered sugar.
“A bag of this,” he said. The owner beamed and began shoveling a bagful of the candies.
“No,” June said, urging suggestively.
“…please,” Jorge added.
June nodded. They proceeded down the road. Jorge chewed his candy thoughtfully.
“Do you like it?” June asked, giving care to each syllable.
“In a way I’ve seen these before,” he said.
June was about to say something, but stopped. She seemed to be searching for the words. Jorge gave her an amused look.
“You don’t have to speak that way anymore,” he said.
“This is incredible! Where are you from? Is everyone in your family so adroit?”
“My father was a… guard. A lawman. And at one time a soldier. My mother a… mathematician. She contributed to ergodic theory before having me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is.”
“Neither do I.” He popped another roll into his mouth. “We have something like this back where I’m from. Guess I got them because they remind me of home in a roundabout way.”
“What are they called there?”
“Turkish delights.”
“What is a Turkish?”
“Something from a nation named Turkey.”
“I’ve never heard of such a place.”
“I doubt most here have.”
June took a deep breath. “Listen, there is a reason why we did this for you. We need you to-”
“Answer questions.” Jorge crumpled the empty bag and tossed it in a bin. “Sure. Take me to your leader.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for?” As they walked Jorge tilted his nose up to the air, breathing in deep the vapors of progress and civilization. He could distinguish it from the natural, forested stench. Pollution and human effluent made its presence known. It was still much better than the air on Earth. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before this world catches up.
There was something else in the wind that brought a dense furrow to his brow.
“Smell that?” He asked.
“Yes.” A pause. “Were you… running from it?”
“Yes. I lost a friend to it. The only familiar face in this land.” He wondered how long before the fiery stench would leave his nostrils and he could truly leave it all behind.
Jorge was returned to the station. The man who was leading their band of roguish parkour artists waited impatiently for him there. They made him enter a room lit by a single oil lamp, where the man stared at him for a few minutes before speaking.
“Who are you?”
“I am named Jorge.”
“Of?”
“Faett.”
“Never heard of that family.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Impressive that you managed to learn Nephila in only three days, Jorge, to the point of being able to convey sarcasm.”
“It has similar syllabic progressions to my language.”
“And what is your language?”
“English.”
“Never heard of such a language.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I’m not playing around!” Captain Yavi flipped the table between them against the wall. Jorge remained unperturbed. “You know what I think? I think you already know Nephila. I think you’re a Wolfrim spy. Seriously? You expect me to believe you learned an entire language in three days?”
“Don’t you think I’d have chosen a better cover story if that were true? I don’t even know what Wolfrim is. I’ve spent most of my existence in Heldrazi. The only reason I’m here is because of the eruption. You should thank me by the way.”
“Why the hell would I?”
“While you flimsy spider monkeys were dying to a few bandits I happened to have engaged their leader in combat. He was stronger than me. That’s why I was hurt. The reason I’m here at all tolerating your attitude is because your, what, religious liaison?—was nice enough to do all this for me.”
“She works under my authority.”
“I’ve read a few books while at the library. Her authority is parallel to yours, not intersectional.”
“Listen—”
“I’m here on good will. That cute table toss you did? Might intimidate those pissants under your command, but we both know you haven’t the steel that could cut me, and your robed clown with the voodoo hands only caught me by surprise once.”
A moment of silence. Yavi sighed, then set the table back where it belonged.
“I need to figure out what to do with you,” he said, before leaving exiting the room.
Jorge settled back into his chair. Admittedly, he was a little annoyed. The memory of the being in his dreams stayed fresh in his thoughts. The Aspect of Death, the Merchant of Souls. Like a biblical angel it had brought unwelcome tidings to him, and without the courtesy of a simple ‘Be not afraid.’ It gave him imagery of prophecy, coming death, ingrained deep in the world lines. And the only way it could be avoided was to have an unknown variable tossed into fate. Someone whose world lines did not begin here in this world. It had but one piece of advice to get him started, “Involve yourself.”
“Fucking hell,” Jorge cursed.